So here is my Masterlist, if you wanted to use it and make it easier for yourself! I’ll be updating it whenever I can, so keep any eye out if you would like to.
SUPERNATURAL:
Baby Doesn't Like Me- Dean x Reader
Hair care- Castiel x Reader
Teach Me- Castiel x Reader
Right Here, Right Now- Dean x Reader
Lie With Me- Castiel x Reader
Apple Pie, and Honey- Dean x Reader
Unknown Love- Dean x Reader
The Decision- Dean x Reader
Believe- Castiel x Reader
Really Home- Castiel x Reader
Drowsy Affection- Castiel x Reader
When You're Asleep- Dean x Reader
Delicate & Pure- Dean x Reader
I'll See You In Hell- Dean x Reader
When I met You- Dean x Reader
On Me- Sam x Reader
They're Happy- Kevin x Reader
She's Grown Now- Jack x Reader
I'M OK NOW- Jack x Reader
Sleepless Nights- Jack x Reader
I Messed Up- Castiel x Reader
Kiss You Forever- Dean x Reader
Not In The Same Way- Dean x Reader
Safe Again- Sam x Reader
I Regret You- Dean x Raeder
I Love You Dean- Dean x Reader
Dorothea- Dean x Reader
Floury Kisses- Castiel x Reader
Bar Brawls and Healing Hands- Castiel x Reader
Tickles and Freckles- Dean x Reader
to cut or not to cut-Sam x Reader
3 Times, 4 times- Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader
3 Times, 4 Times Pt. 2- Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader
3 Times, 4 Times Pt.3- Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader
3 Times, 4 Times Pt. 4-Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader
3 Times, 4 Times Pt.5-Dean x Reader, Sam x Reader
Not You, Not Now- Dean x Reader
My Shy Girl- Dean x Reader
Might Last Longer- Dean x Reader
Three Chair Confessional- Dean x Reader
Lost Without You- Dean x Reader
Chatterbox- Dean x Reader
5SOS:
Candy Land- Calum x Reader
MARVEL:
Her Cowardice- Bucky Barnes x Reader
Her Cowardice Pt.2 - Bucky Barnes x Reader
She Was Scared -Bucky Barnes x Reader
WIshes and goodnight kisses- Bucky Barnes x Reader
Who could stay? - Steve Rogers x Reader
Records- Bucky Barnes x Raeder
Not mine to love-Bucky Barnes x Reader
Not mine to love Pt. 2- Bucky Barnes x Reader
Vormir-Peter Parker x Reader
ABOUT YOU?-CATWS Cast X Platonic Reader
First Kiss-Peter Parker x Reader
One Day Closer- Bucky Barnes x Reader
Out of the City- 40's Bucky Barnes x Reader
If He Loved me- Bucky Barnes x Reader
Pity- Loki Laufeyson x Reader
Believe in You- Bucky Barnes x Reader
Eavesdrop-Bucky Barnes x Reader
The Garden- Loki Laufeyson x Reader
I Just Love You- Bucky Barnes x Reader
1,2,3 Kisses-Steven Grant x Reader Marc's version
Baking Scares-Steven Grant x Reader
Too late-Marc Spector x Reader
What You Mean to Me-Steven Grant x Reader
Hidden Ring-Steven Grant x Reader
Loving Marc Spector-Marc Spector x Reader part 2
Potion-Bob Reynolds x Reader
Leave the door open-Bob Reynolds x Raeder
Knock Off Stars and Stripes-Bucky Barnes x Reader
Pedro Pascal Characters:
Beautiful- Din Djarin x Raeder
Easier than paying- Javier Pena x Reader
Whiskey & Wine- Javier Pena x Reader
Stranger Things:
Bambie- Eddie Munson x Reader
Falling Slowly- Steve Harrington x Reader pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5
You knew it! My new original song “I Knew It, I Knew You” for Disney and Pixar’s Toy Story 5 will be yours on June 5th. I’ve always dreamed of getting to write for these characters who I’ve adored since I was a 5 year old kid watching the first Toy Story movie. I fell instantly in love with Toy Story 5 when I was lucky enough to see it in its early stages, and I wrote this song as soon as I got home from the screening. Sometimes you just know, right?
You can pre-order now exclusively on my site and catch Toy Story 5 in theaters June 19th ☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️
In the shadow of loss, you shut yourself away, certain nothing could reach you again. But one boy’s stubborn letters begin to chip through the grief, sparking laughter where there was none. What starts as jokes slowly turns into something you never expected - something worth holding onto.
Warnings: angst, happy ending
———————————————————————
The kitchen at Grimmauld Place always seemed too big for two people.
It had been designed for gatherings - long benches stretching end to end, enough cutlery and crockery for a whole household. Now it was only you and Remus, sitting opposite each other, the candlelight flickering across tired faces and empty space.
The clatter of your fork against the plate was too loud, echoing through the cavernous silence. Each scrape of cutlery was a reminder of the absence pressing in on you. Normally, Sirius would have been here - laughing too loudly, making a terrible toast, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. His voice would have filled every corner, chased away every shadow.
But he wasn’t here.
You stared down at your plate, not tasting a single bite. The roast potatoes, crisp at the edges, should have been delicious, but your mouth was ash. Even the gravy turned sour on your tongue.
If I eat, it means I’m alive. If I eat, it means life is still moving forward. But Sirius’s life isn’t moving forward. It stopped that night.
Your chest ached, but you kept chewing, kept swallowing. If you focused on the mechanics of eating - fork, bite, chew, swallow - you didn’t have to think about anything else.
You hadn’t gotten the chance to live with your father for long, instead being raised by Remus while Sirius was in Azkaban, serving time for a crime he’d never committed. But that didn’t mean Sirius was any less your father. You’d moved in with him at Grimmauld Place as soon as you’d been able to. It hadn’t taken long to acclimatise and fall into an easy relationship with your father. The two do you were more alike than you could have ever imagined. And though Remus was as good as your dad as well, it didn’t take away from the loss.
Remus sat across from you, his own food barely touched. He looked older than he had just a few weeks ago, shoulders hunched, eyes ringed with exhaustion. His hands wrapped around his mug of tea like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.
Once or twice he cleared his throat softly. “Did you get enough potatoes?” he asked in that careful, too-gentle tone.
You nodded without looking at him.
“Would you like some more tea?”
A shake of your head.
The silence that followed stretched long and taut. It wasn’t hostile. It was worse than that. It was heavy, suffocating, a silence born from everything left unsaid.
Remus studied you with quiet eyes, and you could feel it even without looking up. He wanted to say something. Something about Sirius, maybe, or about how you were holding up. But if he spoke it, it would make it real. And you weren’t ready for that. Not yet.
So you said nothing.
You speared another potato, even though your stomach turned at the thought of swallowing it.
If I keep quiet, maybe it won’t be true. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and hear his voice downstairs. Maybe he’ll stride in with that maddening grin and say it was all some kind of mistake. He’s not gone. He can’t be gone.
Your hand tightened around your fork until your knuckles ached.
The kitchen clock ticked, slow and steady, mocking your denial with every passing second.
When you couldn’t bear another bite, you pushed your plate away. The scrape of china against wood was so loud that you winced.
Remus’s gaze flickered to the motion, but he didn’t comment. He set his mug down, the soft clink loud in the silence. His voice, when he spoke again, was quiet. “You don’t have to talk. Not until you’re ready.”
Your throat burned. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you might scream.
So you sat there, surrounded by ghosts, clinging to silence like it was the only thing keeping you from unraveling completely.
———————————————————————
It started small, like an itch under your skin you couldn’t scratch.
You had been pacing the halls for days now, aimless and restless, unable to settle anywhere. Every corner of Grimmauld Place felt suffocating, as if the walls themselves were pressing closer and closer. The house creaked with the weight of memories, old voices that lingered even when the rooms were empty. It smelled of dust and damp and something darker, like grief had soaked into the stone.
Everywhere you turned, there were reminders of the family you despised. The heavy velvet curtains embroidered with the Black family crest, looming like funeral shrouds. The sneering portraits of ancestors who looked down their noses at you with disdain, as though you were the one who had ruined their legacy. The oppressive, ink-stained family tree wallpaper in the drawing room, a monument to bloodlines and cruelty.
Bellatrix’s name burned at you from that wall every time you passed it. The ink seemed darker, more vivid than the rest, as though she had scrawled it herself in her twisted laughter.
Bellatrix. Your aunt. Sirius’s cousin.
The woman who had smiled when she cast the spell. Who had laughed when your world cracked in two.
The fury came fast, choking. One moment you were standing in the hall, staring at the tapestry. The next, your hands were tearing at the wallpaper with wild desperation. The paper ripped beneath your fingers with a satisfying shriek, shreds fluttering to the ground like dead leaves.
“Fuck you!” Your voice cracked, raw and trembling. “All of you!”
You clawed harder, ripping names from the wall, tearing through ink and history. Faces disappeared in shreds of parchment, whole branches of the tree collapsing in a storm of torn fragments. You wanted it gone. All of it, every reminder that Sirius had ever been tied to them.
The curtains were next. You tore them from the rods with shaking hands, coughing as years of dust burst into the air. The fabric was heavy, suffocating, but you dragged it down anyway, throwing it across the floor like a corpse.
The portraits mocked you, sneering as though they were alive. Your hands found the nearest frame, lifting it with a strength born of fury, and smashed it against the floor. The glass shattered, shards flying across the hall.
It wasn’t enough. You grabbed another. And another. The sound of breaking glass echoed through the empty house, loud and violent, a counterpoint to the silent grief that had been strangling you for days.
This is what you’ve done to us, Bellatrix. This is what you’ve taken.
You wanted her to hear you. You wanted her to feel it.
But when you turned back toward the wall, your gaze caught on a face you hadn’t destroyed yet.
Sirius.
His name burned from the tapestry, half-scorched, the edges fraying from where others had tried to erase it long ago. But his hair still lingered there, facial features snuffed out by Walburga. But you imagined if it hadn’t, he’d be smirking as if he’d just gotten away with something mischievous.
Your breath caught. The fury drained from your arms, leaving you weak, trembling.
“Dad…” The name broke from your lips like a prayer.
Your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the floor, your fingers pressed against the place where his name was inked. The paper was rough beneath your skin, but you clung to it anyway, as if holding on could bring him back.
The sobs tore free before you could stop them. They ripped through you, raw and guttural, shaking your whole body. You wept like you had on the night of the battle, when the veil had swallowed him whole. Loud, desperate, aching sobs that felt like they’d never end.
You curled on the floor among the broken glass, the torn paper, the heavy curtains, choking on grief until you couldn’t breathe.
It was there that Remus found you.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t scold you for the wreckage, didn’t ask why you had done it. He just lowered himself onto the floor beside you, his knees creaking from the movement, and gathered you into his arms.
At first you resisted, still choking on your rage, fists clenched against his robes. But he held you tighter, his steady presence grounding you in a way nothing else could. His hand moved gently against your back, slow and rhythmic, like you were a child again.
“It’s all right,” he murmured eventually, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “Let it out.”
And so you did. You cried until your body ached, until the tears blurred everything, until the wreckage around you faded into nothing but noise. You cried because Sirius was gone, because Bellatrix was still alive, because it wasn’t fair.
You cried until the storm of your anger finally left you empty, hollow, and trembling in Remus’s arms.
———————————————————————
The smell of fresh paint filled the room, sharp and biting in your nose, but it was somehow comforting. You had stripped the drawing room walls bare, scrubbed the floors, and scraped off every trace of Black family pomp and cruelty. You were painting everything - soft cream over the oppressive grey, warm golds where the sun caught the walls, pale greens along the trim.
Sirius hated this place. He’d always complained about the darkness, the gloom, the oppressive weight of his family history. But that’s exactly why you were doing it. You would make Grimmauld Place a home he would have loved. A place you could have loved together.
Your brush moved slowly at first, deliberate strokes, careful not to miss a spot. You could almost imagine Sirius beside you, leaning lazily against the wall, smirking, and saying something like, “You’re taking this way too seriously, you know.” You bit back a smile and shook your head. He’d have done exactly the same thing, you thought. Making jokes while you did all the work.
You opened a window to let the sharp smell of paint out. The sunlight fell across the floor in a warm strip, and the soft breeze made the freshly painted walls gleam.
An owl flew in as though it had been waiting for this exact moment. Its wings brushed the edge of the window, feathers scattering tiny motes of dust into the sunlight, and it landed gracefully on the newly sanded windowsill.
You froze. Owls didn’t typically visit you. This one had a crisp white envelope tied to its leg, addressed neatly in messy, unmistakable handwriting, was your name.
Your hands trembled slightly as you untied the letter. You didn’t recognise the handwriting at first, but the slight chaos in the loops - almost like it had been written in a rush - felt oddly familiar. You slit the envelope carefully, though not carefully enough to stop your heart from pounding.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment, the words scrawled in red ink, “Why don’t mummies take vacations? Because they’re afraid they’ll relax and unwind.”
You blinked, staring at it. A spark of incredulous amusement flared through the haze of exhaustion and grief.
Fred Weasley, you realized, and the corners of your lips twitched upward despite yourself.
For a moment, you just stared at the words. The joke was silly, stupidly so. But the absurdity of it made something in your chest shift, loosen ever so slightly. For the first time in weeks, you could breathe a little differently.
You pressed the letter to your chest, inhaling the faint smell of parchment and ink. You imagined him, probably grinning like a fool, sitting somewhere at the Burrow - or maybe even in the field behind the crooked building - thinking that this small, ridiculous joke might make a difference.
For a long moment, you felt guilty for laughing at something so trivial when Sirius was gone. But you couldn’t stop yourself. A laugh, soft and unsteady, escaped your lips.
It was small. But it was yours.
You folded the letter carefully, tucking it into the pocket of your apron. You returned to painting, your brush gliding over the walls more smoothly now, as though the act of creation was slightly lighter, slightly more bearable. For the first time in weeks, the heavy, suffocating weight of Grimmauld Place didn’t feel like it was crushing you entirely.
You didn’t know if it would last, or if this feeling was only temporary. But at that moment, as the sun streamed through the open window and the scent of paint mingled with the cool summer breeze, you felt something fragile and unexpected. The first flicker of happiness creeping back in.
Fred Weasley had just thrown a small lifeline into your world. And you weren’t ready to let go of it.
———————————————————————
The second letter came with dawn the next day. You were still stiff from yesterday’s painting, muscles sore and back aching from hauling furniture and scraping off years of grime. You opened the window again, letting the breeze drift through, carrying the faint scent of paint and dust away.
A familiar flutter of wings caught your attention. An owl perched gracefully on the windowsill, envelope tied neatly to its leg. Your stomach twisted, a mixture of curiosity and irritation. You weren’t ready to be cheered up.
You untied it and read the single line, “What do you call a wizard who falls down the stairs? A tumble-dore.”
You stared at it for a moment, then snorted despite yourself. The joke was absurd, childish even, but you felt the barest hint of a smile tug at your lips.
You were no stranger to Fred Weasley’s sense of humour. In fact, the first noise you’d ever heard him utter was a laugh.
You were fourteen, stepping onto the train for the first time after transferring from your home schooling under Lupin’s careful watch. He would be starting to teach there and so naturally you would enrol to join him. The Hogwarts Express seemed impossibly large, crowded with chattering students, luggage stacked haphazardly. You felt tiny, out of place, and unbearably shy.
Then you heard laughter. Loud, boisterous, impossible to ignore. You turned, and there they were. Fred and George Weasley, grinning broadly, leaning against a carriage door.
“Hey, you look new,” Fred had said, his grin mischievous. “Don’t just stand there. Come sit with us!”
George had nodded in agreement, waving you toward them. Tentatively, you stepped inside, and in that cramped, cheerful carriage filled with sweets and warmth, you felt for the first time that Hogwarts might not be so terrifying.
Fred had offered you some Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, laughing when you squealed at a rotten egg flavor. “See? I told you it was a gamble,” he’d said, teasing.
It was the beginning of a friendship that would become your lifeline in so many ways.
You folded the letter without replying.
The next morning, like clockwork, another owl arrived. “Why did the student eat his homework? Because the professor said it was a piece of cake.”
You allowed yourself a quiet giggle this time, brushing stray strands of hair from your face.
It had always been that way. Even when the last thing you wanted to do was laugh, Fred had managed to pull the sound from your lips. In fact, that was what you liked most about him, even before you’d become friends.
That, and the fact he was relentlessly stubborn. You’d tried to deny him at least five times when he offered to help show you around the castle when you’d first arrived. Of course, he’d ended up following you until you gave in.
You had been wandering the corridors, lost for the third time that morning, textbooks clutched in your arms, feeling invisible and awkward.
Fred appeared from around a corner, grinning. “Lost again?” he asked. And without waiting for your answer for a fifth time, he grabbed your hand and started marching through the castle, explaining every corridor, every classroom, every trapdoor shortcut the twins knew.
“See?” he said, pausing as you finally caught your breath. “Piece of cake. Hogwarts isn’t so bad once you’ve got a tour guide.”
You had laughed that day. He had made the impossible feel simple. That was Fred. Always able to make you feel lighter, safer, seen.
The letters continued like clockwork.
On Thursday it was “Why don’t ghosts like the rain? It dampens their spirits.”
You laughed aloud that time, shaking your head.
On Friday, it was, “What did the spell say to the wand? You complete me.”
Something in your chest shifted. It was still a joke, yes, still silly - but you noticed a warmth creeping in that had nothing to do with laughter.
It was a warmth you’d only just started to feel in those days spent practicing spells in the room of requirement. In the weeks before that night in the department of mysteries.
The Room of Requirement was alive with energy that afternoon, buzzing with the sound of spells ricocheting and laughter echoing off its enchanted walls. Candles floated overhead, their flames flickering as students paired off to practice disarming charms. The atmosphere was warm and electric. Part classroom, part rebellion.
You stood opposite Fred, wand raised, trying your best to keep your focus. He was grinning at you, of course - he always was - but that afternoon there was a spark in his eyes that made your stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Ready to lose, Black?” Fred asked, his voice carrying just enough for George, practicing nearby, to roll his eyes.
You narrowed your gaze, steadying your wand. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s about to end up flat on his back.”
“Careful,” he teased, lowering his voice, “say things like that and people might get the wrong idea.”
Heat prickled at the back of your neck. You scoffed, trying to shake it off. “In your dreams, Weasley.”
His grin only widened. “Every night.”
Before you could retort, he shouted, “Expelliarmus!” The spell shot from his wand in a flash of red, and you yelped, ducking just in time. The charm whizzed past your ear, fizzling out harmlessly.
“You’re supposed to block it,” he laughed, spinning his wand between his fingers like it was a toy. “This isn’t dodgeball.”
“Don’t be smug,” you snapped, raising your wand again. “Protego!” Your shield charm flared into existence just as Fred fired off another disarming spell. The red light slammed into your shield and dissolved, leaving only the faint hum of magic.
He raised his brows. “Not bad.”
“Better than you expected?” you shot back.
Fred tilted his head, eyes glinting in that way that made your heart skip, though you refused to admit it. “You’ve been spending too much time around me, clearly. All that brilliance is rubbing off.”
You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved despite yourself. “Rubbish.”
He lunged forward suddenly, wand raised. “Expelliarmus!”
You barely had time to think before you countered, “Stupefy!” The two spells collided mid-air, bursting into a shower of sparks that lit the room. Gasps and laughter erupted from the other DA members, who had stopped to watch.
“Show-off,” you muttered, brushing hair from your face as he walked toward you.
“Pot, kettle,” Fred said easily, and his eyes flicked over you in a way that made you feel suddenly aware of how close you were standing. The air between you felt charged, as though the spell collision hadn’t dissipated but settled between you instead.
Your pulse raced, but you tried to mask it with bravado. “Want to call it a draw?”
Fred leaned in slightly, his grin turning softer, more deliberate. “Only if you admit I went easy on you.”
You scoffed, but your throat was dry. “Keep dreaming.”
He chuckled and stepped back, giving you space, though his gaze lingered on you longer than usual. You told yourself it was nothing. Fred was always cheeky, always playful. This was just Fred being Fred.
But as you turned back to practicing, wand raised and cheeks flushed, you couldn’t shake the strange flutter in your chest. For the first time, you wondered if maybe there was something else beneath the jokes and the banter.
On Saturday came another. “Are you a basilisk? Because you make my heart stop every time I look at you.”
You had frozen upon reading that one at the breakfast table, staring at the words. Something in you softened completely. Maybe it was the timing, maybe it was the memories, maybe it was the slow accumulation of him showing he cared about you and was thinking of you, day after day.
You picked up a quill and parchment. The words came trembling at first, unsure:
“Alright, you. You’re relentless, you know that? One of these days your jokes are going to get me in trouble.”
You hesitated, biting your lip, then added a small flourish:
“But…thanks. I think. For making me smile.”
You folded the letter, addressed it, and sent it back with his owl with a small, tentative hope.
When you exhaled, you realised something startling. You were looking forward to the next letter. Not just for the jokes, but for Fred himself. For the warmth of his presence that had seeped into your life without you even noticing.
Grief was still there, heavy and raw, but now there was something else. A connection that had started with laughter and that was slowly - gently - helping you breathe again.
———————————————————————
The next morning, you were already awake when the sharp tap-tap-tap of claws on glass startled you. The pale morning light spilled across your room, catching on the paintbrushes you had abandoned on the desk, the open tin of white paint still half-full. You rubbed sleep from your eyes, heart racing with something that felt dangerously close to anticipation.
Sure enough, the tawny owl was perched on the sill, Fred’s familiar messy scrawl visible through the folded parchment tied to its leg.
You hesitated only a second before you crossed the room, opening the window. The owl swooped in, landing heavily on the back of your chair. You untied the letter, fingers trembling slightly, and unrolled it.
“Merlin’s beard, you wrote back. I thought I was going to have to keep sending jokes into the void until at least one grey hair came in before you caved, Black. My brother said I was mad, but I told him I knew you’d write. Eventually. You can’t resist me forever.
Anyway, since you’ve officially broken your silence, I’ll reward you with today’s joke.
Why would Mad-Eye Moody be a bad professor? Because he can’t control his pupils!
I can practically hear you groaning from here. Tell me, what have you been up to at Grimmauld Place?
Yours in unquestionable humour,
Fred”
You found yourself smiling. Not just a twitch of your lips, but a real smile, the kind you hadn’t felt tug at your face in what felt like centuries. You pressed the parchment against your chest, fighting the sudden sting in your eyes.
Before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed quill and parchment.
“If you must know, Grimmauld Place has been receiving a makeover. I got rid of the wallpaper, painted over everything. Sirius hated it here, so I thought…maybe I could make it into something he would have loved. It still feels heavy sometimes, but opening windows helps. And letters like yours help too (don’t let that go to your head).
And for the record, the joke was terrible. Painfully terrible. You should be locked in Azkaban for it. But don’t stop.
From someone who is regretting writing back already”
The owl carried it off, and that night, when another letter arrived, you didn’t hesitate. You crossed over to the window and let the owl in, stroking its feathers as you untied the parchment and began reading.
“You’re regretting it? Ouch. And here I thought we were finally getting somewhere. Don’t worry, I’ll win you over eventually. I’m very persistent.
Also, Azkaban? That’s harsh. But fine, since you asked for more suffering, just wait for tomorrow’s joke.
I spent the day testing fireworks with George. Nearly blew the back wall off our house. Would’ve been worth it though, it was spectacular. What about you? Tell me something, anything. I miss hearing about your day.
From Fred”
You sat at your desk long after reading that one, chewing your lip. He wanted to know about your day. Just your day. It shouldn’t have felt so important, but it did.
So you wrote back. And the next morning, his owl returned with a reply and another joke, just as heinous as the last.
“What is the biggest problem at Hogwarts? Spelling errors. Brilliant, I know. Try not to swoon.”
Days blurred together like that. Letters exchanged in secret rhythm, his ink-stained words chasing away the silence of Grimmauld Place.
“Today I cleaned out the library. Found a cursed book that nearly took my hand off. Don’t laugh.”
“Nearly lost your hand? Now that’s just careless, Black. You know, if you need protection, I’m available. I’m very good at warding off cursed books. Comes with the territory of being devastatingly handsome.”
“Your ego is insufferable. How do people put up with you?”
“They don’t. That’s why I need you to. Besides, you laugh at my jokes, even if you pretend you don’t. Which reminds me…
Why did the witch always carry a pencil?Because she wanted to draw her wand.
I’ll be here all week.”
Slowly, his letters grew longer, less about jokes and more about him. About how starting the shop was going, about the customers, about his family. He told you about Ron and Hermione bickering, about Molly fussing, about Ginny sneaking out for late-night broom rides. He wrote about George. How how he sometimes stayed up late, tinkering with new product designs.
And you told him about you. About the dust that never seemed to leave Grimmauld Place. About Lupin, who made you tea in the mornings and left you space when you couldn’t breathe. About the way the house still whispered with old ghosts, but how painting over the walls made them quieter.
The jokes were still there, but now they were woven between confessions, the kind of things you’d only ever whispered to a best friend in the dark.
“You know, if I were there, I’d repaint the walls with you. I’d make you laugh so much you’d get paint all over your nose. Maybe I’ll do that anyway, next time I see you. Consider yourself warned.
Oh, and what do you call a famous wizard? A spell-ebrity.
You’re smiling right now. Don’t lie.”
And damn him, you were. Every single time.
But what you weren’t expecting - what you weren’t prepared for - was how the letters started to make you feel. How your heart would leap at the sight of the owl, how you found yourself reading his words three, four times, tracing the ink as if the warmth of his hand still lingered there.
One evening, you sat by the kitchen table, rereading one of Fred’s letters. He’d signed off, as always, with a joke. “Why are graveyards always overcrowded? Because people are dying to get in.”
Instead of sadness, you laughed heartily to yourself. Remus looked up from his tea, startled, then smiled softly at you.
“You sound like him when you laugh,” he murmured.
The words hit you like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. You pressed Fred’s letter to your chest, eyes wet but smiling. For the first time since the Department of Mysteries, you thought about Sirius in a way other than just gone. You knew Sirius wouldn’t want you to drown in grief forever. He’d want you to live. To laugh. To love.
And Fred Weasley - stubborn, loud, ridiculous Fred - was slowly teaching you how.
———————————————————————
The owl came as always. Dependable as the sunrise, as the paint-stained walls you’d begun to soften into something resembling a home. You didn’t even bother pretending anymore. You were at the window before the tap of claws could sound, parchment untied with eager fingers.
This letter was different.
“You’ll be pleased to know today’s joke is very topical. Ready?
Are you a lumos spell? Because you light up even the darkest places.
Go on, tell me you didn’t blush. You know I won’t believe you.
Anyway, the shop’s chaos today. A little kid bought one of our Peruvian Instant Darkness Powders and set it off right in the middle of the till queue. George nearly choked on a licorice wand laughing while I was stuck refunding half the line. I think you would’ve loved it. Or at least laughed at me while pretending to be sympathetic.
Merlin, I wish you’d been there.
From Fred”
You read it twice. Three times. The joke was cheesy - painfully cheesy - but your chest felt warm in a way you couldn’t brush off. You ran your fingers over the words ‘you light up even the darkest places’, and swallowed hard.
The ache of grief was chased away from your ribcage. There was something else there to replace it, fluttering.
Your reply was scribbled and sent quickly, almost before you thought it through.
“That joke was ridiculous. Absolutely unforgivable. But it certainly didn’t make me blush. Not even a little. At least, I’d never admit it.
And yes, I probably would’ve laughed at you stuck in a queue of angry customers. But I also would’ve helped. Probably. After I was done laughing.
Grimmauld Place is quieter today. I finished painting the drawing room - white walls, wide windows, everything Sirius said this house could never be. For once, it doesn’t feel like it’s swallowing me whole. It feels almost…peaceful.
It’s strange, Fred. You write and it feels like the walls get lighter too.”
You didn’t expect him to answer the next morning with something that made your throat tight.
“Peaceful sounds good. That’s what he would’ve wanted, you know. And I like to think maybe you don’t even need the windows or paint, maybe you just need more of me.
Say, are you a portkey? Because whenever I’m around you, I’m transported to paradise.
Don’t roll your eyes. You love it. Admit it.”
You pressed the parchment to your lips before you realized what you were doing, startled by your own instinct. Your cheeks burned.
The letters became yours and his. Not just words on paper, but conversations that pulled you through the long, hollow days.
“What did you eat today? And don’t say ‘nothing’. You always forget. I’ll owl you some chocolate frogs if I have to. Don’t test me.”
“Bossy. But fine, I had toast. And tea Lupin forced on me. He hovers, you’d laugh.”
“Tell him I said thank you for looking after you until I can.
Oh, and are you an invisibility cloak? Because I’d feel safe with you wrapped around me.
I know, too much. But maybe it’s also a little too true.”
“Stop. You can’t just write things like that in the middle of a joke. It’s unfair. And distracting.”
“Distracting in a good way?”
“…Maybe.”
You caught yourself waiting by the window each morning, heart thrumming in nervous anticipation. The grief hadn’t gone completely - maybe it never would - but Fred’s words slipped into the cracks, stitching warmth where everything had been hollow.
And when his latest parchment arrived, sealed messily with wax, you noticed something else. He’d stopped signing with “from Fred.”
Now it was just, Yours.
———————————————————————
The owl came later than usual that evening. You had nearly given up waiting, pacing your newly furnished bedroom, when the faint flutter of wings cut through the silence. You were at the window in seconds, heart quickening as if it already knew.
The parchment was thicker than normal, the scrawl a little more rushed, blotches of ink along the margin. Fred’s handwriting carried an urgency tonight.
“I’ve been trying to think of a joke all day, but none of them are good enough. Nothing feels good enough, really. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to be funny right now. I want to be honest.
I miss you. Not just your letters, not just your handwriting or your clever comebacks. I miss you. The way your laugh sounds when you try to smother it, the way you tilt your head when you’re pretending not to smile at me, the way we fit into each other’s orbit like it’s nothing.
Letters are good, but they’re not enough. I want to see you. Properly. I want to be there, even if it’s only for a night. Say the word, and I’ll come. Doesn’t matter how late, doesn’t matter how impossible. Just say it.
Your joke of the day (because I can’t stop myself): Why don’t we ever tell secrets on brooms? Because they tend to fly around.
Consider this a secret I don’t want flying anywhere but to you. I really miss you, more than I can say in ink.
Yours, always”
You sat on the edge of your bed, letter trembling in your hands. The words blurred slightly, tears stinging, but not the sharp kind you’d grown used to since that night at the Department of Mysteries. These were softer, almost dangerous, like hope.
You pulled parchment toward you, quill ready before you had fully decided what to say. The words spilled anyway.
“I miss you too. More than I thought I would, more than I want to admit. Your letters are the brightest part of my days, but you’re right, they’re not enough anymore. Not when I know you’re out there and I’m here and the house still echoes with ghosts that don’t know how to leave me alone.
Come. One night. Maybe if you’re here, it will finally feel alive.
I’ll leave the door unlocked. Midnight tomorrow, if you feel like taking a flight. And if you don’t bring a joke with you, I’ll be very disappointed.
Yours”
———————————————————————
You didn’t sleep that night, not really. You sat by the window with your heart in your throat, the house far too still around you. Every creak in the old pipes made you jump, every flutter of wind had you glancing at the sky.
Midnight crept closer with unbearable slowness, and with every minute you realised more fully what you’d done. You’d invited Fred into Sirius’s house, into the place where you had been hiding and hurting. You wanted him here, wanted him close.
And the truth of it was undeniable now. This wasn’t just friendship anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.
You sat at your window, candle guttering low, nerves wound so tight you could barely sit still. Midnight had come and gone by five minutes, then ten. You drummed your fingers against the desk, staring into the shadows of the street. Had he changed his mind? Had something happened?
The sharp click of the front door latch echoed through the still house. Your heart leapt into your throat. He’d come. He’d actually come.
Slipping from your chair, you padded down the creaking staircase, keeping to the shadows like a thief. The house was silent, suffocating, every sound magnified. As you reached the bottom, a figure moved through the darkened hallway, tall, hooded.
A grin tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “You actually came?” you hissed, giddy, excitement flooding your veins. But the figure froze. Too stiff. Too still.
Something in your gut lurched. You raised your wand. “Lumos.”
The soft glow lit up a heart-shaped face framed by pink hair, eyes wide in surprise.
“Tonks?” Your voice cracked. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”
She blinked at you, then tilted her head. “Better question, who are you waiting for in the middle of the night?”
Before you could scramble for an answer, a voice drifted down the staircase above.
“What’s going on?” You glanced up, wandlight catching on Remus’s tired, lined face as he descended, pulling on a shabby robe.
You looked at him, then back at Tonks. The puzzle pieces clicked all at once. Your mouth fell open. “Oh.” You smirked, lowering your wand. “Oh.”
Remus flushed scarlet under the dim light, frozen halfway down the stairs. Tonks looked about as guilty as you had ever seen her. And before either could say a word, another set of footsteps padded into the hall. You froze.
Fred.
He stopped dead just inside the door, hair windswept, jacket crooked, a sheepish smile flickering across his face as his eyes darted from Tonks, to Remus, to you.
“I, uh…didn’t know this was a party?” His voice was high, almost squeaky, like a deer caught in wandlight.
The silence was deafening.
Tonks’s eyes widened as she glanced between you and Fred. “Oh.”
Remus’s brow furrowed. “Oh.”
All four of you just stood there, frozen in varying shades of horror.
Finally, you crossed your arms and met Remus’s gaze, arching a brow. “I’ll drop it if you do.”
Tonks jumped in immediately, tugging on Remus’s sleeve before he could sputter out a lecture. “Deal.” She shot you a quick, conspiratorial wink before all but dragging him up the stairs, ignoring his half-formed protest.
The moment they disappeared, the silence that settled was thicker than before.
Fred turned to you slowly, confusion still clouding his face. “What…? What just happened?”
“Later,” you whispered, grabbing his arm. “Come on.”
You tugged him up the stairs before anyone else could reappear, pulling him through the door of your room and shutting it firmly behind you.
For a long moment, you both just stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other as though neither of you could believe it was real.
And then you broke at the same time, crossing the small space in two strides, arms wrapping around one another in a fierce, desperate hug.
His scent hit you first. Smoke, fireworks, a faint hint of peppermint. Your face pressed into the crook of his neck, his chin against your hair, his hands fisting in the back of your shirt like he was terrified you’d slip away.
“I missed your face,” he mumbled into your hair, his voice thick. “Merlin, I’ve missed your face so bloody much.”
You laughed, shaky, blinking back tears as you pulled back just enough to look at him. “You’re even better in person than in ink. Though I’m still annoyed you kept those jokes coming like clockwork.”
His grin tilted, softer than you’d ever seen it. “Annoyed, huh? Funny, I thought they were your lifeline.”
You opened your mouth, ready to retort, but faltered. He was right. They had been. His letters had pulled you out of the silence, had painted light into the walls of this place when nothing else could.
“They were,” you admitted, your voice small. “You were.”
His eyes softened, some of the mischief slipping away, replaced by something warmer, deeper. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, and your breath caught.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Say things like that and I might think you’ve gone and fallen for me.”
“Maybe I have,” you whispered, surprising even yourself.
For once, Fred Weasley was speechless. His hand lingered against your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “Finally,” He sighed and then, before either of you could overthink it, his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was urgent and clumsy and perfect, his lips tasting faintly of sugar quills. Your hands tangled in his hair, his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, anchoring you.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours, his grin returning with familiar mischief.
“Joke of the day,” he whispered, voice husky. “Are you an accio charm? Because you’ve got me completely drawn to you.”
You laughed, the sound breaking through the tension like sunlight, and for the first time in weeks, the darkness in your chest eased.
You and Fred Weasley had been together for years. Your lives were so well meshed, it was almost impossible to tell where he ended and where you began. So when you arrive back at the apartment you two share, the last thing you expect him to say is ‘we need to talk’.
Warnings: angst, happy-ending
———————————————————————
The flat smelled like burnt sugar and cedarwood. Familiar. Warm. Lived-in. The orange glow of a lone enchanted lamp flickered weakly in the corner of the sitting room, its flame occasionally dimming as though it, too, felt the weight pressing against the walls. Outside, the rain whispered against the windows, a gentle, rhythmic hush that felt too soft for what was coming.
Fred stood near the kitchen counter, his back to her, one hand braced against the edge of the wood like it was the only thing holding him up. His other hand kept flexing and curling, fingers twitching as though itching to cast a spell or break something. He hadn’t said much since she’d come home. No kiss. No joke. Just a barely-there glance.
She stood in the doorway, still holding the paper bag of takeaway she’d picked up on the way home. Fish and chips, their usual. The bottom was going damp from the oil, her knuckles whitening around the handle. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t come to meet her. Why the flat was so quiet. Why Fred looked like he was standing inside some invisible storm. But she could tell something was off.
“Fred?” she said, her voice too gentle. Like it would shatter if it met resistance.
He turned slowly, but not all the way. Just enough to look at her over his shoulder. His face was unreadable, jaw tight, mouth flat. Even his freckles seemed subdued in the low light. “We need to talk.”
She blinked. Her heart stuttered, faltered. “Okay…” she said cautiously, setting the bag down on the counter and moving closer. “Is it…is something wrong with George?”
“No. He’s fine.” He still wouldn’t look at her properly. Just kept staring past her, at the floor, or maybe at the wall beyond her shoulder.
“Okay,” she repeated, trying to keep her tone light, coaxing. “Then what is it?”
He finally turned to face her, and that’s when she knew. Something awful was coming. She knew his expressions like she knew the back of her hand. Had kissed every smile, laughed into every smirk, and memorized the curve of every dimple. But this face? This wasn’t one she recognised.
“I think we should…take a break,” he said, voice flat. Detached.
She laughed. It was quick, sharp, and automatic. “A break from what? Fish and chips? I thought this was your favourite.”
He didn’t smile at her joke. The silence that fell between them was loud. She could hear the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall, the low creak of floorboards as one of them shifted their weight. Her heart beat like a drum in her ears.
“No,” she said, suddenly still. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked, stepping away from the counter.
“Say things you don’t mean. Fred, if this is about the shop, or the war, or whatever you’re dealing with, just talk to me about it. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m not saying it to hurt you,” he said, but his voice was tighter now, strained. “I’m saying it because it’s true. My feelings have…changed.”
She recoiled like he’d slapped her. “Bullshit.”
Fred blinked, caught off guard. He almost flinched.
“You love me. Don’t pretend you don’t. You’ve never been able to lie to me, Freddie.”
He ran a hand through his hair and looked away. His shoulders were tense, bunched high around his neck. He didn’t answer.
She stepped forward, close enough to touch him. Her hand hovered, fingertips just inches from his chest, but she couldn’t bring herself to close the distance. He looked like he’d shatter. Or maybe she would.
“Is this because of what you’re about to do?” she asked softly. “Because I know.”
He looked at her then, sharply. “You what?”
“I know what you’re planning. Going on the run. The secret radio broadcasts you’ve been fiddling with when you think I’m asleep. I’m not an idiot, Fred. I know you. And I’m coming with you.”
“No,” he said instantly. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“You’re not,” he snapped. “You’re not coming.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need you safe!” he shouted suddenly. The walls seemed to echo with it. The rain outside went quiet for a moment, like the world had paused to listen.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising and falling fast. “Then just say that,” she whispered. “Say you love me but you’re scared. Don’t lie to me to try and push me away.”
He looked at her like he was drowning. Chest heaving. Hands shaking. His mouth opened, then closed again. The fight in his shoulders collapsed.
“I—” he started, voice breaking. “If you go with me, I won’t be able to protect you. I’ll be distracted. I’ll worry. And that’s dangerous. You don’t understand. I love you too much to lose you.”
“But not enough to not let me go,” she added.
Fred exhaled shakily. His jaw tensed. “I do love you,” he grits out. “More than anything. That’s why I’m doing this.”
She stepped forward, eyes flashing. “Don’t. You don’t have to lie to push me away like I’m some helpless—”
“I’m not lying,” he snapped. Too quickly, too sharp.
She closed the gap between them in two fast steps. “Yes, you are. You’re a shite liar, Fred Weasley. You’re trying to make me hate you so I don’t follow you.”
His breath stuttered as her face inched closer, challenging him. Her voice softened, eyes locking on his. “But I’m not going to hate you. I’ll just hate being without you.”
Fred’s jaw twitched. He couldn’t look her in the eye anymore. Her hands reached up, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.
“We’re partners, Freddie.” she whispered. “You and me against everything.”
The air seemed to rush from her lungs at once. And then he was in her arms. Or maybe she was in his. She couldn’t remember who moved first. They kissed like it was the last breath before drowning. Frantic. Desperate. Her hands were in his hair. His arms around her back. They stumbled toward the bedroom. It wasn’t soft. It was devastating.
Their mouths crashed together again and again. Her hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, and Fred let out a groan like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He grabbed her waist, backing them into the wall, kissing her like he was starving and she was the only thing that could ever satiate the hunger.
But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
She broke the kiss just long enough to gasp against his lips, “Tell me you don’t love me.”
Fred’s forehead rested against hers. His voice was wrecked with emotion, chest heaving. “Don’t make me lie again.”
She kissed him harder this time, hands slipping under his shirt, palms pressing to his chest like trying to memorize the feeling of his heartbeat against her palm. He gripped her hips, fingertips leaving a trail of bruises like he was afraid she’d vanish. But still he murmured between kisses, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I do,” she rasped. “I’m asking you to let me love you. Even if it’s dangerous.”
He shook his head, desperate, lips grazing her jaw. “You could die. You’ll follow me and—”
“I’d never leave you.”
Those words shattered him to splinters. He lifted her suddenly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively. They stumbled toward their bedroom, colliding with the edge of the sofa, knocking over a chair. Fred cursed under his breath, laughing brokenly into her neck.
“I’m a right bastard for this,” he confessed. “I should’ve stayed cold. I should’ve let you hate me.”
Her hands were in his hair now, tugging as her lips brush his ear. “Too late.”
He kicked the bedroom door open blindly with his foot, guiding her through the frame without ever pulling away. They crashed into the edge of the bed, falling with a gasp and a tangle of limbs and desperation.
Clothes begin to peel away like secrets. His shirt, her sweater. Her hands dragged down his belt as he kissed her feverish skin like it was the last time he’d ever be allowed to.
His mouth found hers again, slower this time, more reverent, as his hands framed her face like he was memorising every detail.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into her skin, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”
She cupped his jaw gently, her thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone. He kissed her again before he could say something he’d regret. It was urgent, frantic, but laced with sorrow. With love. With the kind of longing that only came with knowing the clock was ticking.
———————————————————————
The room was still, dim, and warm with the ghosts of the night before.
She stirred under the tangled covers, her arm reaching instinctively toward the familiar dip in the mattress where Fred always slept. Her fingers brushed only cool linen.
She blinked, disoriented for a moment, the pale light filtering through the half-closed curtains casting a soft grey wash over the room. Morning, but early. The kind of hour where dreams clung too tightly to the edges of reality. Her hand slid across the sheets again.
Nothing but a cold expanse of sheets was there to greet her wandering fingertips.
“Fred?” she murmured, voice rough from sleep and something deeper. Her heart fluttered, unsure.
There was no answer.
She sat up slowly, the sheet slipping from her chest and pooling at her waist. A chill crept over her bare skin. A quiet unease settled into her bones. Something was off.
The apartment - the place that had been theirs for so long - was too quiet. No clatter from the kitchen, no half-muttered curses over burnt toast. No footsteps. No kettle. No Fred.
She rose from the bed, pulling a blanket around her shoulders, and stepped onto the cool wood floor. Her feet moved on their own, down the narrow hallway.
The bathroom door hung open. The mirror was clear. No fog, no damp towel, no half-used shaving cream. Empty.
Her chest tightened. She padded into the kitchen, heart pounding harder with each step. It was clean. Unusually clean. No half-drunk tea, no crumbs, no trace of him having been there at all. Their abandoned fish and chip dinner from last night was still siting exactly where she’s left it. Cold on the counter.
She turned slowly, eyes flicking toward the coat rack. His coat - the brown one with the crooked stitching on the sleeve - was missing. The space beneath the bench by the door, where his boots always waited, was empty. Gone.
Her stomach dropped. Her hands trembled as she turned back down the hall, stepping quickly now, ignoring the sharp ache in her knees as she crashed back into the bedroom. She opened his drawer only to find it was half-empty. Most of his things were missing. The wand holster that usually lay tossed beside the bed was gone too.
Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to warn her.
“No,” she said aloud, voice cracking.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress, eyes wide and stinging. “No, Fred, please—”
She pressed her face into the sheets. They smelled like him. Like cinnamon and firework powder, like skin and home and warmth.
A sob ripped out of her before she could stop it. It came from deep inside, raw and choked and broken. She curled in tighter, fists twisting the blankets, teeth clenched to try and stop the sound but failing miserably.
He had left.
He’d held her like she was all he had left in the world, kissed her like he couldn’t breathe without her, and then left.
Her mind spiralled, replaying how he’d kissed her against the wall, how he’d let her fight for him, how he’d finally given in and made love to her like he meant it. Like she was enough.
He’d let her believe she’d won. And then he’d slipped away. Silent. Cowardly. Or was it brave?
The tears came harder now, thick and hot, rolling over her cheeks as she let herself collapse onto the bed. Her face buried in the pillow that still held the indent of his head, her hands clutching the cooling warmth where his body had lain only hours ago.
He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t say goodbye. He hadn’t even looked her in the eyes and told her the truth.
Because she would have stopped him. She would have followed. And he knew it. So he broke her instead.
She shook, breath hiccuping through sobs she couldn’t control anymore. Her chest ached in a way she didn’t have words for. Something hollow and sharp all at once, like a cracked ribbed cage barely holding in the ruin of her heart.
The light crept brighter through the window, illuminating the half-empty room.
The silence pressed in.
Fred was gone.
And she was alone.
———————————————————————
The jumper was too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands and the hem hitting nearly to her knees. But it was his, and it still smelled like him.
Smoke and sugar. That faint trace of fireworks and the piney scent of the forest behind the Burrow. It had faded over time, but she pressed her face into the wool anyway, hoping the memory of him would cling longer if she just held still enough.
The bed was too big without him. Always had been. The left side remained untouched, the pillow still fluffed, a silent monument to where he should have been.
She lay curled on her side, knees tucked to her chest, one arm curled beneath the jumper and the other resting over the battered wireless radio on the nightstand. Her fingers ghosted over the knobs, tuning slowly. Carefully. As if she’d done this a hundred times before. Because she had.
The static crackled softly, gentle white noise hissing through the speakers as she adjusted the dial. A sliver of some old warbled melody flickered into being. The end of a big band waltz. She turned past it. Another station boasted the distant echo of a WWN talk show, too cheery, too alive. Her wrist paused, fingers twitching.
She tapped the radio gently. Her wand, always within reach, slipped into her hand with muscle memory. She brought the tip to the side of the dial and whispered, just barely audible, “Albus.”
The word lingered in the air like a prayer. The static hiccuped - once, twice - then resumed its soft hiss.
No signal. No voice. No update. Not tonight.
Her chest tightened, but she didn’t sigh. Sighing meant admitting it was hopeless. Sighing meant moving on. So instead, she stayed still. Listened. Waited. Just in case.
Because sometimes, rarely, the radio crackled to life. And for five, ten, twenty minutes, Fred’s voice would filter through the static, joking too loudly, sometimes with Lee, sometimes alone. Their secret pirate transmission. For anyone who was listening. For her, if she could find it in time.
She hadn’t heard him in two weeks.
Her eyes burned, but she blinked the tears back and buried her face deeper into the sleeve of his jumper. Then a knock came alive at the bedroom door.
Her whole body tensed, instinctively shrinking deeper under the covers. She didn’t move.
The knock came again. Harder this time. More insistent.
She stared at the radio. Don’t go away, she thought. Please. Just one word tonight. One breath. Something.
The knock stopped. A beat passed. Then the door creaked open anyway.
“Don’t ignore me, you antisocial lump,” Angelina Johnson’s voice rang through the quiet.
She didn’t look up. Footsteps padded across the carpet, stopping beside the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as Angelina placed a tray down. A single plate with a slice of toast, scrambled eggs, and a mug of tea, still steaming.
“I brought you food. Eat it.”
“Not hungry,” she mumbled, eyes still fixed on the radio, her wand tapping gently against its side. “Go away.”
“Right,” Angelina said flatly. “Because wasting away under a jumper like a ghost is so helpful. You’ve gotta eat. That’s non-negotiable.”
The bed dipped again as Angelina sat beside her. The radio kept hissing. Angelina didn’t flinch at the static. She knew the ritual. She’d walked in on it enough times.
“I tried the password,” she said quietly. “There’s nothing new. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I tried too. You should still eat.”
Her stomach turned at the thought. But Angelina didn’t relent. She didn’t yell, didn’t plead. She just sat there. Her silence heavier than most people’s words. Admittedly, Angelina’s company had been a great comfort over the past months. In Angie, she’d found strength and comfort, and understanding. George had left her too, in the middle of the night with no warning. Both brothers were gone. Angelina and George might not have been together as long as she and Fred had, but they still loved each other deeply. Only, Angelina seemed to turn to keeping herself busy to avoid the loneliness and sorrow that crept in.
Eventually, she rolled onto her back and pulled herself up to sit, her limbs sluggish and heavy like she was moving through wet cement. Angelina handed her the toast. No fuss. Just held it out until she took it.
She bit into it mechanically. Chewed. Swallowed. Sipped the tea. Let the warmth linger in her throat a second longer than necessary.
Angelina smiled, soft and satisfied like someone who’d just won a quiet battle. But the peace was brief.
“You need fresh air,” she said, gently but firmly. “Just a walk. Around the block. We don’t have to talk. We can come right back—”
“No. I’m not leaving.”
“Babe, you can’t—”
She shoved the tray away, not hard, but with finality. “I said no, Angelina. What if the radio comes on while we’re gone?”
She turned back to the radio, hand trembling now as she picked up her wand again. She tapped the side once more. “…Albus.”
The same static greeted her.
Angelina stood, her expression unreadable. Her voice was soft as she gathered the tray. “You’re not the only one who misses them, you know.”
“I know,” she said.
But her voice cracked on the second word. Angelina lingered at the door for a moment. Her eyes softened, but she didn’t argue again.“I’ll be in the spare room if you need me.”
The door shut with a quiet click. The silence returned.
She curled back into herself, wrapped in wool - in memories. Her wand still rested on the radio, her thumb running over the wood like a rosary.
One more try. “Albus.”
Nothing but static. But she waited anyway.
———————————————————————
The morning light didn’t reach their bedroom the same way anymore.
It used to pour through the window in warm golden streaks, catching on the dust motes in the air and warming the floorboards beneath her bare feet. Now it felt colder, thinner. Pale and disinterested, like even the sun had begun to forget the shape of his body in the bed they used to share.
She stood at the edge of the room in her underwear, arms folded tight over her chest as she stared at the open dresser.
Most of the drawers were empty now. She’d steadily worked through all of his clothes until the smell of fireworks and candy had faded from each piece. But one drawer had remained mostly untouched.
She’d been rationing it. Wearing Fred’s things in secret rotations. A T-shirt here. The flannel he always wore while tinkering in the shop. The socks she used to tease him about when he wouldn’t admit they were actually George’s. But now, even those were losing his scent.
She pulled open the last drawer, slow and deliberate, half-expecting to find it empty too.
But there, shoved to the back beneath a pair of mismatched wool socks and a faded Quidditch jersey, was an old jumper she instantly recognised.
It was the burnt orange one, pilling at the sleeves, neck slightly stretched, with a frayed patch on the right elbow from where he’d snagged it climbing the orchard fence. He used to wear it constantly that summer before sixth year. The summer they stayed at the Burrow together.
She reached out and touched the jumper with careful fingers, like she was afraid it might dissolve if she held it too tightly. As she lifted it from the drawer, the weight of the memory struck her with unexpected force.
She closed her eyes. And when she opened them, it was like she was seventeen again.
The field behind the Burrow buzzed with late-summer crickets, and the grass, still warm from the day’s heat, tickled her ankles as she crept barefoot through the tall stalks.
“Fred, where are we going?” she whispered, laughing breathlessly as he pulled her hand through the darkness.
“You’ll see,” he whispered back, glancing over his shoulder with that glint in his eye that meant trouble.
He wore that orange jumper. The one she always teased him about. The color clashed horribly with his hair, but he’d insisted it was “bold, not bad,” and she couldn’t argue when it smelled like him and felt like home when he hugged her in it.
They broke through the edge of the field and came out into a small clearing. The stars above were spread out like a quilt. Endless and soft and shimmering. Fred let go of her hand only to drop a blanket down onto the grass.
“Ta-da,” he grinned, flopping down. “Best view in all of Ottery St Catchpole.”
She sat beside him, still catching her breath. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” He gasped, hand over heart. “I drag you out here, impending a probably punishment for breaching Mum’s curfew, risk getting hexed by gnomes, and you give me ‘not bad’?”
She laughed, eyes glittering. “Alright, it’s beautiful.”
They lay down beside each other, arms touching, eyes fixed on the sky. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The sounds of the night wrapped around them like a lullaby. Wind rustling the trees, the hoot of an owl somewhere near the garden, and the distant creak of the Burrow settling into sleep.
He shifted slightly, turning to look at her. “Do you ever think about next year?” he asked softly. “Everything changing?”
She blinked, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. “All the time.”
“George and I…we might not be going back. We’ve got plans. The shop, a flat in Diagon Alley…Mum’s going to lose her mind.”
She smiled faintly. “I bet Filch’ll be glad you two won’t be running around Hogwarts.”
He laughed, but it faded quickly. “And you’ll still be there. Without me.”
Her throat tightened. “You’ll visit. On Hogsmead weekends. And you’ll write to me.”
“Not the same.”
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not.”
He reached over, brushing a piece of hair from her face. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
“I won’t be,” she said. “I’ll have the others. Angelina. Ginny. School.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “That’s not what I meant.”
She turned her head, meeting his eyes. There was something raw there. Something wide open and unguarded.
“I don’t want to be without you,” he said again, “because…I love you.”
It was so simple. So honest, and the first time he’s said it. She stared at him, the weight of the words settling around her like stardust. She’d imagined hearing them. Had whispered them in her head so many times. But this wasn’t in her imagination. This was real. Her Fred. In an orange jumper. Lying in a field with his heart in his hands.
“I love you too,” she whispered, voice trembling.
He smiled brightly, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. Then he kissed her. And the stars kept spinning above them, but it felt like they’d frozen in time.
The jumper was still in her hands. The same one he’d worn that night. She lifted it slowly, pressing it to her face. It smelled like old woodsmoke.
And something sweeter. The cologne he wore back then, before the war, before things got complicated. It was faint now, but still there, woven deep into the fabric. She held it to her face and broke.
The sob crawled up from her ribs, raw and unsteady. Her shoulders shook, hands fisting in the wool, her body curling over like the grief might split her in two. But she didn’t let go. She couldn’t.
Because for a moment, just a moment, it was like he was there again. Lying beside her in the dark, whispering I love you beneath the stars.
———————————————————————
The crooked silhouette of the Burrow stood in front of her like a memory too bright to look at directly. Leaning slightly to the left, held together by magic and love, it had always looked like it might collapse under its own weight, and yet somehow, it never had. Just like Molly, and Arthur. Just like all of them.
She stood at the gate, her wand-hand trembling slightly at her side, the fingers of her other hand curled around the thin strap of her worn bag. Her boots were caked with the dry dust of May, the remnants of the battle still embedded in every seam. She hadn’t worn anything fancy. Just jeans and a jumper that used to belong to her father. She’d long since run out of clothes that smelled like Fred. It had been over a year, after all, since she’d last seen him. A year of flying under the radar. A year of living with Angelina. A year of not knowing when life would return to normal, or if it ever would.
An anxious knot tightened in her chest as she stood there. This was a terrible idea.
Molly’s owl had come two days after the last funeral. Not Fred’s, thank Merlin. But others. So many others. The names she didn’t even know she’d memorised: Colin Creevey. Lavender Brown. Remus. Tonks. Some gone in fire, some in flash, some in silence.
But Fred had lived. He was home. That was the line she couldn’t stop returning to. He was alive.
And she was angry.
The kind of anger that fermented in the gut, bitter and slow. Not the firestorm rage that burned hot and fast. No, this was the cold, aching anger that came from months of waiting. From empty beds and unanswered letters. From the nights she’d fallen asleep to static on the radio, whispering passwords into darkness just to hear his voice. And when she’d needed him most, when the world had been ending, he hadn’t been there. Not for her.
She raised her hand and knocked once before she could change her mind. The door flung open faster than expected.
Ginny launched forward and wrapped her in a fierce hug, nearly knocking her off the step. “You came!”
She managed a breathless smile, gripping Ginny just as tightly. “Molly invited me. I…I didn’t want to be rude.”
“You’re family,” Ginny said fiercely. “It would be rude if didn’t come.”
From behind Ginny, others followed. George clapped her on the back like no time had passed, Percy gave her a solemn nod that meant more than a thousand words. Ron and Harry smiled and called her name like they hadn’t just survived a war. Hermione hugged her too tightly. Angelina, who was already there, gave her a look of quiet understanding.
And then there was Fred.
He stood near the far corner, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t moved. His hair looked longer, as if he hadn’t had time or inclination to cut it. There was a shadow under his eyes that hadn’t been there before, or maybe she just hadn’t seen it. Maybe she’d refused to look.
She caught his eye, just for a second, and it sent a jolt like a bit of lightning through her core. Neither of them smiled. The silence between them felt like its own kind of spell. A barrier. A wound. She looked away first.
“Molly,” she said, her voice cracking just slightly, “can I help with the table?”
“Of course, dear,” Molly said, bustling over and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve already set out the plates, but the glasses and napkins are still in the cupboard.”
She nodded gratefully, stepping past Fred without a word, her shoulder brushing the doorway. She didn’t look back.
———————————————————————
Dinner at the Burrow had never been quiet. Even in the worst of times, this place had a pulse, a rhythm. Like a heartbeat too stubborn to stop. Laughter still lived in the walls, soaked into the wood of the kitchen table, and even if it was quieter tonight, even if there was something unspoken tugging between the adults and the younger faces alike, there was still warmth. Still food.
Molly had made shepherd’s pie, roasted pumpkin, and steamed greens. There were platters of rolls charmed to stay warm and a pot of treacle tart just waiting for dessert. It smelled like comfort. It smelled like home. But she couldn’t taste any of it.
Fred sat across the table from her, two seats down, beside George. He hadn’t spoken to her. Not once.Every time she looked up, he was already looking at her. He wasn’t smiling.
She turned instead to Angelina, seated beside her, and managed a whisper. “I can’t do this.”
Angelina squeezed her knee under the table. “You can. And you’re going to. Eat your bloody pie.”
It was the only thing that made her smile all night.
The tension between her and Fred was palpable, like the moment before a wand duel when your fingers flex just slightly, your heart hammering, your eyes locked on someone who could destroy you. She kept catching herself tracing the rim of her goblet, shredding her napkin with slow fingers. Every nerve in her body told her to look at him again. To yell. To cry. But she didn’t.
Instead, she listened as Harry tried to explain Muggle car maintenance to Arthur, who was eating it up with wide-eyed curiosity. George cracked a joke that made Hermione groan. Ginny kicked Ron under the table.
And she smiled at all the right times. Laughed when expected. But her eyes kept sliding back to Fred. He was quieter than she remembered. That unsettled her more than anything.
She wondered if he was still angry. If he thought she had moved on. If he’d ever meant it, when he’d said his feelings had changed. When he’d said goodbye. When he’d left her, sleeping and trusting and in love.
When the meal finally ended and plates began vanishing with quick cleaning charms, she stood quietly and slipped out of the room. No one stopped her when she climbed up to Ginny’s room and pretended to go to bed.
———————————————————————
Slowly, one by one, Ginny, Angelina and Hermione had joined her. All three had since drifted off to sleep. But she was still wide awake, eyes screwed shut as a flow of memories played before her eyelids. There was no way she’d be getting a wink of sleep here. Not when she knew Fred was in the room below her. Not when she knew the trek to it so well. When she’d made that journey many a night before.
Letting out an exhausted and irritated breath, she climbed out of the makeshift bedding on the floor. Stepping lightly over the creaking floorboards, she made her way out into the hall and then descended down the staircase. Her eyes were instantly drawn to Fred and George’s shut bedroom door. Her stomach flipped but she forced herself to walk past it and continued to the ground floor of the house.
The living room was empty now, chairs pushed back and a few half-empty wine goblets left on the mantle. The fire had burned low, casting orange light against the walls. She padded into the kitchen.
She opened a cupboard, pulled out her favourite mug - the blue one with the tiny chip near the handle - and filled it with water, whispering a quiet charm to warm it. Her hands trembled as she added a spoonful of honey and a crushed bit of dried chamomile from Molly’s neatly labeled jars.
The tea leaves hadn’t even begun to diffuse when the floorboards behind her creaked again. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She recognised the weight of those footsteps. The lanky gait.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Fred asked quietly.
Her breath hitched but she still didn’t turn. “No,” she said. “Too many ghosts in this house.”
Fred didn’t reply for a long moment. Then he stepped closer, but not too close. “Thanks for coming,” he said.
“I didn’t come for you.”
“I know.”
Another defeaning silence rose quickly. Then she turned, ever so slowly, and looked at him fully for the first time in nearly a year.
He hadn’t changed that much. Still lanky, still handsome in that infuriatingly charming way. His jaw was sharper, though. He looked like someone who had learned to live on half-slept nights and hard decisions. There was an ache in her chest at the sight of him. One she hadn’t felt since the day he left.
“You didn’t write,” she whispered.
“I couldn’t.”
“You didn’t have to lie to me, Fred.”
He swallowed, looking away, his voice tight. “I did. If I hadn’t, you would’ve come with me. I wasn’t going to risk anything happening to you.”
“I should have come with you,” she snapped, stepping closer now, tears welling. “We promised each other—”
“I kept you safe,” he said, voice harsh. “That was the promise I kept.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She clenched her fists. “And what about me?” she asked. “I didn’t want to be kept safe. I wanted to be with you. And you left me. For a whole year!”
He looked at her now, and in his eyes, she saw every sleepless night, every regret, every almost. “I know,” he said. “And I’ve thought about it every single day.”
“You think I haven’t?” She blurted. “Do you think a day went by when my thoughts weren’t consumed by you? When I wasn’t worrying about where you were. What you were doing. If you were even still alive out there.”
“Better than having to be there,” he insisted. “Better than having to worry about me while being hunted by snatchers and dueling with death eaters.”
She had no response for that. The mug in her hand had gone cold, tea forgotten the moment he entered the room. Fred stood there, blocking the doorway like the ghost of every memory she’d fought to survive. He still looked at her like she was something he’d dreamed up. Like she might vanish again if he blinked too long.
“It’s still hard for me to believe this is real. That it’s not a dream and you’re really here,” he murmured, as if the words had to be tested aloud to be believed.
Again, she didn’t answer. Just stared at him. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the ceramic mug as if it were the only thing anchoring her.
Fred stepped closer, slowly, eyes flicking from her face to the chipped rim of the cup in her hands. “I thought about this moment so many times,” he said quietly, almost like he was ashamed of it. “What I’d say. What you’d say. Whether you’d slap me or hex me or just walk away.”
“You forgot the part where I say nothing at all,” she said, voice tight. “Where I just sit at dinner like a guest and not the woman who lived with you. Loved you. Waited for you.”
He flinched. “You’re not just a guest.”
“Felt like one.”
“I did it to keep you safe—”
“Oh don’t you dare,” she snapped, stepping toward him, placing the mug down hard on the countertop with a dull thud. “Don’t you dare keep pulling the noble sacrifice card. I fought. I was there. At the Battle of Hogwarts. You weren’t there keeping me safe, Fred. I handled it on my own. No, this whole mess is because you were to afraid to keep me close, so you pushed me away.”
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Maybe you’re right. I didn’t handle it the way I should have. But you have to understand, I couldn’t watch you die.”
“And I couldn’t watch you walk away. But I had to.”
There was a pause, long and aching. Then he stepped in close, so close she could feel the heat of him, the familiar smell of something smoky and warm that always clung to his shirts. “I missed you every single day.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I’m still mad at you.”
“Good,” he said. “Because that means you still feel something for me. And I’m still in love with you.”
Her mouth found his before her brain could catch up. The mug was left abandoned on the counter, forgotten like everything else except the way his hands curled around her waist and hers fisted in the collar of his old shirt.
They crashed together like magnets snapping back into place. It was urgent, desperate, and breathless. He kissed her like he was trying to make up for every second they’d lost, mouth moving hungrily over hers, fingers tracing her jaw, her neck, her back. She moaned softly into his mouth as he walked her backward, bumping into the pantry door, then the edge of the bench, sending a jar of sugar nearly tumbling.
“Fred! Fred, we can’t. Not here,” she gasped against his lips, pushing lightly against his chest even as her hands tugged him closer. “Your family’s upstairs.”
He smirked into her skin as he kissed down her neck. “Didn’t stop you last time,” he muttered.
She pulled back just enough to raise a brow. “What are you—?”
But she knew exactly what he was talking about. That very same summer before sixth year. The whole house was sleeping. She’d been tiptoeing down for a drink, only to find him already in the kitchen, shirtless and smiling in the golden candlelight. They’d kissed in front of the pantry, just like this. Hands roaming. His mouth hot and reckless against her throat. They’d nearly been caught when the stairs creaked and Molly stirred. She’d giggled into his chest, both of them ducking behind the table, biting back laughter and hunger alike.
“I cannot believe you remember that,” she whispered, breath shaky, face hot.
“Could never forget it,” he said, pressing her up against the cupboard again, voice low and rough. “Especially the part where you said, and I quote, ‘if we get caught, I’ll tell them you seduced me.’”
She laughed, short and breathy, even as her nails dragged lightly down his chest. “Sounds like something you’d do.”
“Merlin, I missed that laugh,” he murmured before capturing her mouth again.
Clothes began to shift and fall between kisses. Her shirt lifted over her head, his hands slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans. He touched her like he’d been starved for the feel of her skin, like memorising her all over again was the only way he’d survive.
She pulled back only when her knees hit the cupboard door behind her, breath ragged. “Fred, we can’t—”
“I need you,” he said simply. “Not just tonight. Not just here.” His lips ghosted over her collarbone, his hands stilling just beneath the hem of her top. “I need you back in my life. Every damn day.”
She searched his face, stunned by the ache in his eyes. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I do,” he whispered.
Then, he dropped to one knee. Her pulse stuttered. “What—”
“I’m not joking.” His voice dropped to something tender. “I’ve had the ring since before I left.”
He pulled back just slightly and reached into his pocket, fingers trembling just a little. Her eyes welled up as he held out a small, well-worn box. It was scuffed from being carried everywhere for months. He opened it, revealing a ring so beautiful and perfect that it made her breath catch in her throat.
“You were going to propose before? Before everything?”
He nodded, throat tight. “I wanted to. I had this whole plan. Candles. Music. Something sappy. But then the war got worse, and I couldn’t risk you following me. I thought I’d lose you.”
“You nearly did,” she whispered.
“But I didn’t,” he said, stepping closer. “You’re still here. Still mad at me. Still perfect. I know I don’t deserve it, but I love you. I’ve always loved you. I don’t have a fancy set up. I don’t have a speech. I don’t even really have a job anymore unless we can get the shop up and running again.” He laughed, dry and nervous, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “But I have a whole future in my head. One where we don’t let the world get between us again. One where we do things right.”
She stared at the ring, then at him. Then laughed, watery and disbelieving. “What am I meant to tell people when they ask how you proposed?”
Fred smirked and pulled her into his arms again. “Tell them it was during the most passionate night of our lives. In my mum’s kitchen. While half-dressed and furious.”
She stared, heart racing, hands trembling. A choked sob bubbled from her throat, even through the tears burning behind her eyes. “You want that to be the story?”
“Best proposal story ever,” he grinned, rising to his feet again and kissing her softly. “Unless you’d rather tell them it happened under the stars. Or on a broomstick. Or in front of a bloody hippogriff. We’ve got options. I’ll do it again, and again, until I get it right.”
She shook her head, pulling him in again, her lips brushing his. “You’re an absolute buffoon, Fred Weasley.”
“I am,” he murmured. “But you’ve never let that stop you before.”
She pressed her forehead to his, voice thick and trembling, but certain. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
———————————————————————
The scent of sizzling bacon and freshly baked bread drifted up the stairs, sunlight spilling through the curtains in lazy golden streaks. She stretched beneath the duvet, sore in a lovely, familiar way, and for the first time in what felt like ages, her body didn’t ache from sadness or tension. It just ached from being alive and in love.
She padded barefoot down the stairs, wearing an oversized jumper - Fred’s, again, obviously - and soft flannel pyjama shorts. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, and she hadn’t bothered with much more than washing her face and brushing her teeth. The usual morning chaos echoed from the kitchen: George arguing with Ron over toast, plates clinking, Ginny muttering something about Harry drinking all the pumpkin juice.
But the moment she walked in, the noise dulled. Everyone turned. She blinked tiredly. “Morning.”
No one responded right away. Fred, standing at the end of the table putting down a tray of pancakes, looked up the moment he heard her voice. His entire expression softened into something that made her stomach do that awful, fluttering thing it always had when he looked at her like that. As if she’d just walked into a room and turned on all the lights.
Without a word, he crossed the kitchen, placed a steaming mug of tea in front of her, and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her forehead. “Just how you like it,” he murmured.
She smiled into her cup as she cradled it, eyes fluttering closed for a second.
“What on Earth,” Percy muttered, a bewildered expression taking over his features.
“Were you two not at war last night?” Ron asked, halfway through a mouthful of toast.
Arthur glanced between them, bemused. “Did I miss something?”
She tilted her head, smirking over her mug. Fred looked far too smug as he sat beside her, arm casually draping along the back of her chair like they hadn’t spent the previous day avoiding eye contact at this very same table.
And then Ginny gasped loudly. “Oh my Godric! Is that a ring on your finger?!”
All eyes dropped to her left hand, which was still curled around the tea mug. The delicate gold band sparkled like it knew exactly what it was doing. She looked at Fred. He looked at her. They exchanged a shared, secretive smile.
Then she raised her eyebrows, teasing. “So…do you want to tell them, or should I?”
Fred turned to the stunned table with a wicked grin. “We’re engaged.”
The reaction was instantaneous. Ginny shrieked. Hermione let out a dramatic “What?!”Ron dropped his toast. Arthur’s mouth fell open in genuine surprise. And Molly…Well Molly burst into tears and screamed in delight. “OH, MY STARS!”
Chairs scraped back so fast it was a wonder no one toppled over. In seconds, she was being swept from her seat, hugged, kissed, and congratulated in loud, overlapping bursts of joy.
Fred was pulled from one sibling to the next, everyone clapping him on the back and demanding to know when, how, where.
Molly cupped her hands over her mouth, eyes watering. “I knew it! I knew it! Oh, sweetheart, welcome to the family!”
“I thought I was always part of the family,” she laughed as Molly crushed her into a hug.
“Yes, but now it’s official,” Molly cried. “Oh, look at that ring! Fred Gideon Weasley, I swear, you’re lucky she said yes after all you put her through!”
He smirked from over her shoulder, and as the Burrow filled with laughter, joy, and the sound of everyone trying to talk over each other, she looked around the table and felt something settle in her chest. Life was finally as it should be. As it had been once, long ago.
Fred caught her gaze from across the room. Lifted his brow. Gave her that crooked smile that still made her knees go weak. She smiled back.
Molly was already rattling off plans for an engagement dinner, Ginny cooing over the ring, and Arthur trying to discreetly ask Fred about the proposal while still grinning ear to ear.
Fred had just managed to wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back to his side, beaming proudly, when George leaned lazily against the counter with a very smug expression and said, loud enough to cut through the noise, “Well I already knew. Hard to miss, considering I couldn’t even sneak downstairs for a glass of water last night without nearly being deafened by the sound of impending nuptials happening in the bloody kitchen.”
Percy choked on his tea.
Ginny squealed in horror. “GEORGE!”
“Merlin’s beard!” Arthur gasped, looking everywhere except at the couple.
Molly looked like she might faint. “In my kitchen?!”
Fred clapped a hand over his face, muttering, “You were supposed to be asleep.”
“I was!” George shot back. “Until I woke up to the sound of the spatula drawer being assaulted.”
“Fred!” Molly shrieked.
“It was a passionate moment!” he defended, turning pink.
“It was also a health code violation!” George yelled, waving his arms dramatically.
She was blushing so hard she nearly dropped her tea, clinging to Fred’s jumper for balance as he groaned into her shoulder.
“Worst part is,” George added, “now every time I try to make a sandwich in the middle of the night, I’ll have to ask myself, Has this counter been—”
“GEORGE!” came the collective scream from the entire table. But George only grinned wider, completely unbothered.
“I’m just saying,” he muttered, lifting his hands innocently, “some of us didn’t need a formal announcement.”
Fred shook his head, pulling her closer with a groan. “Welcome to the family, love. Hope you like oversharing.”
She just buried her face in his chest, laughing, the ring on her finger catching the light as Fred pressed another kiss to her hair.
And amid the chaos, the teasing, and the scandalised gasps echoing through the Burrow, she had never felt more loved, or more at home. It was going to be chaos. It was going to be messy. But it was them. And it was perfect.
———————————————————————
Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray @billieeilishkisser
CW: everyone is free to read regardless if you haven't watched the north water, long distance/separation, emotional turmoil, trauma, past injuries, short and sweet comfort fic
The pitter-patter of rain tapped the windows as you worked on your latest crochet project. The calm of the moment did little to soothe your nerves after Patrick's announcement of going away overseas during dinnertime.
Truthfully, you were angry.
You had spent so much time caring for him and being there for him during his night terrors and restless nights, only for him to go back out there where it was dangerous. In a remote, desolate area with little to no hope for communication from the outside world— where there was no comfort, no safety, just the cold.
You remembered when he came back from his last trip. He came back wounded, bruised, littered in scars and clung to you like a lifeline.
You hadn't really acknowledged him since last night, and ignored his advancements to hold you in bed. He pressed up against you anyway, as if afraid to let your warmth go.
The following morning, he left the bed before you did and quietly murmured about collecting something at the clinic.
You squeezed your eyes shut even though you were awake, pretending sleep might erase what had settled heavy in your chest. From the other room you could hear water running and the scrape of fabric as he changed into his daywear.
But before he leaves, he presses a gentle kiss to your temple, his beard tickling your skin. His fingers lingered on your arm, soft and gentle, as if he wasn't so ready to let go yet. You make no move to reciprocate.
In the quiet mornings, you would always kiss him goodbye before he went off on an errand, fix his tie, help him into his jacket. Although never saying it, it was something he deeply appreciated. But today, that sweet routine had slipped.
And just like that, the warmth on your side was gone and the trace of his touch faded.
This was how it was going to be everyday for months, you thought. Where he wasn't going to be around to hold you, to love you.
It was nearly evening by the time he came back, and you were almost done with what you were making for him. It was a balaclava, meant to keep him warm where he was going. Despite your conflicting feelings over his trip to the arctic, you found that it was partly your duty to keep him warm in the cold anyway.
But every stitch felt heavier than the last, because you hated it- hated how something you made with so much care, was going to keep him warm while the cold took him farther from you than ever before.
You heard him before you saw him, the sound of the rain from the outside became muffled with a close of the door.
He sets his brief case down on the floor, shrugged off his brown coat and puts it on a clothing rack next to the front door. He was slightly dripping from the rain and his damp hair looked like it had been combed through with his fingers multiple times.
Usually, you'd call for him wherever you were in the house. Or if he's lucky, he'd get a sweet kiss straight out the door. But he was met with only silence and the rain tapping against the window panes.
He rounded the corner to find you situated in the living room, not even sparing a glance at him. You could feel his gaze burning through your skull.
He stares at you from across the room, begging to get your attention without saying anything, watching your every move as you worked tentatively on the balaclava.
"I'm home, love." He finally cuts the silence, and you finally glance up at him. His heartbeat quickened at the mere glance but it only lasted for a moment, before you looked back down at your lap again. Your fingers trembled in the next stitch.
He breathes in— frustrated, and strides towards you from across the room. He looms over you at first, but seeing as you make no care for it, he kneels down in front of you.
"I know you're angry." He starts softly, holding onto your warm face tenderly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. His touch was cold from the rain. You resisted to lean into him.
"I have to go. You know that." He places his hand above your working hand to stop you from continuing.
"No, you don't have to go." Your voice was strained— it was the first time you've spoken since last night.
Tears welled up your eyes as you finally looked up at him. He was still handsome as ever yet breaking your heart every chance he could get. "You could stay with me, we could-"
"I would." He gently cuts you off, "If only it were my heart- I'd stay."
"Then stay." You choked, wrapping your fingers around his wrist on your cheek.
He moves his thumb to move under your eyes, brushing the tears away. He gives you a look but you couldn't quite see with the tears blurring your sight. "I have to go. But I will come back. I can promise you that."
"Do you not love me?" You quivered, your hand rising to rub the tears out of your eyes.
"I do." He replies almost immediately, cradling your face.
He swipes his lips once with his tongue, painfully watching your pitiful expression. "I love you. Deeply."
He pauses, and then continues in a lower, steadier voice.
"I can't guarantee I'll come back the same man. But I promise I will come back the same man who loves you, with everything he's got." He leans forwards and rests his forehead on yours.
"I hate you." You choked out a response, managing to bubble out a strained laugh. He's making you feel so mushy in spite of all things.
"I love you." He repeats, rubbing your hands gently.
Then he kisses your tears, and then your lips. It was a reassurance, to let you know he'll come back- quieting your cries and for a short lived moment, you almost forgot why you were crying so much.
In the turbulence of the sea, he keeps a picture of you close to his chest when he sleeps. It was a portrait of you, in one of your best outfits with a beautiful smile he couldn't quite shake off his mind.
His fingers would tremble as he grazed the traces of your face, as if trying to squeeze warmth out of the paper. But it was nothing that could compare to the real you.
He reads your letters to him like it were a holy verse, memorising every little mannerism and detail in your handwriting, taking in the faint perfume that was spritzed onto the paper.
Bringing out the balaclava, he brushes over the individual stitches you made and wraps it around his hands to keep warm. The golden wedding band on his finger gleamed over the light of the dancing fire of the candles every so often.
It was a constant reminder that he was going back home to you. In your arms, where he's safe and warm.
I'll See You In Hell pt. 2 - Dean Winchester x Reader
word count: 11,177
warnings: angst, violence, poor action scene writing skills, death
summary: the aftereffects of part 1 , what happens ten months after the reader finds her ex, Dean, at her sister's apartment.
As you drove away, you realized that you had nowhere to call home anymore. You couldn’t go to Bobby’s, you couldn’t go back to your sister. You couldn’t go to Sam. You were alone, completely and utterly alone. The world felt like it had stopped turning, but it seemed that with every passing second you got dizzier. Something had snapped in you, something had shifted, like an earthquake hit, and now your heart was on a fault line.
You cracked your windows and tried to breathe but it felt like you couldn’t. You barely even realized that you were speeding down a long empty stretch of road. Not having any idea how you got there, or where you were. Realizing tears were still streaming down your face, you pulled over as the street was getting blurry and your head was getting dizzy. All of a sudden you felt your stomach lurch. You jumped out of the car and ended up throwing up on the side of the road. Your knees buckled, and you fell to the ground once again.
You sobbed and breathed heavily, trying to catch your breath. Nothing seemed to be helping, not the wind, nor the feeling of the solid ground beneath you. You couldn’t seem to center yourself. You just kept thinking back on what happened. Not knowing how they could do that to you. Your sister, and the only man you wanted to spend forever with. Both betrayed you; you couldn’t believe that they could live with themselves.
You didn’t know how long you had been sitting on the side of the road, but what broke you from your exhausted daze was the feeling of raindrops. You could finally take a deep breath as you shakily stood again. Standing there as the rain continued to come down on you, it didn’t faze you when thunder crashed around you. Something caused you to stand there for a while, just let nature take its course around you.
After a while, you knew it was time to go. You got into your car and noticed that your phone was ringing. It showed that Sam was calling you, and so you didn’t answer it. You had texts and voicemails, and missed calls from Sam, Dean, your sister, and even a text from Bobby.
Bobby: Please, come home kid.
You tossed your phone into the passenger seat and pulled back onto the road, not knowing where you were going but driving until you couldn’t anymore. (Or until you decided it was time to change into dry clothes.)
10 months later
You had kept your promise to yourself. You hadn't spoken to or seen any of them for 10 months. Deleting their numbers and blocking them seemed like the best option. The one person you couldn’t seem to do that to was Bobby. He was like a father to you, and though you haven’t seen or spoken to him, he’s still important to you.
You’d get texts from him now and again, but would never answer. The only way that he knows you’re ok is because he can see that you’ve read the messages.
You had just worked on a case in Pennsylvania. It wasn’t anything too difficult, just a ghost. Nothing you couldn’t handle on your own. The story was difficult to stomach. A young girl had found her boyfriend cheating on her with a good friend of hers. She was so distraught that as she was driving home, she wasn't watching the road very well. She ended up speeding through a rail into a lake. Sadly, she couldn’t get out of the car, and she passed away. Scared, hurt, and alone.
It felt really close to your heart because of what happened months prior. You knew she felt betrayed, and you understood the pain she was feeling because you still felt it today.
To cope, you took on more cases than you’ve ever done by yourself. You threw yourself headfirst into the worst situations and didn’t have a care in the world.
It’s almost as if nothing felt real, but at the same time, it all felt too real.
You were sitting in a shitty motel room, researching your next hunt. Thinking about how much different it would be if things had been different. But you couldn’t change anything now. What’s done is done. It was over, and you’d have to live with that. You tried not to wonder what they were doing, but sometimes you just couldn’t help it.
---
“Bobby, has she answered you at all?” Dean questioned once again. “No, she hasn’t, Dean. and if she did, I doubt I’d tell you,” Bobby answered bluntly. Dean's brows furrowed, and he rubbed his temples in frustration.
“Honestly, Bobby? I just want to know she’s alright,” Dean shot back. “I’m sure she’s fine; she can take care of herself,” Bobby stated. “Dean, you need to stop this. She wants nothing to do with you, or (y/s/n). Just accept that,” Sam stepped in.
Dean glared over at him. “Do you think I care when she’s out there by herself?” Dean sneered. “You should. I mean, after what you did, I wouldn’t want anything to do with you either. Hell, I’m still pissed at you for what you did,” Sam told him with a shrug.
“I know ok, I know what we did was wrong. I hate myself for it every day. I feel like a piece of shit,” Dean sighed and ran his hands over his face.
“You are,” said Bobby.
“I know,” Dean responded and sank onto the couch with his head in his hands.
He felt his phone vibrate and reached for it. He saw that it was your sister calling him, and he answered it. “Have you heard anything yet?” she asked softly. “Nothing yet,” Dean said. “Any idea where she is?” she questioned. “None, I’ll tell you if anything happens,” he said and hung up the phone.
After everything happened, Dean and (y/s/n) broke up and only kept in contact for you. She calls once in a while to see if there’s any news on you, and there never is.
“Could we track her phone at least, see where she is?” Dean asked. “I could, but I won’t,” Bobby told him. “Fine then, I will,” Dean said and went to get Sam’s laptop.
He did his best to find you, but could only come up with empty leads and dead ends. It was true what you said. When you didn’t want to be found, you wouldn’t be.
“Damn it!” He cursed and slammed the laptop shut in frustration. “Where is she?” he muttered to himself. “Just give it up, Dean, you won’t find her,” Sam said and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
---
It was morning now, and you were getting ready to leave the motel to go to your next location, which just so happened to be South Dakota. It would take about three days to get there. You were ready for the journey, deciding to drive 9 hours one day, 9 again the next, and 3 more on the third day.
You knew you’d be close to Bobby, but had to keep from seeing him. You had to hold to your word. You’d never go back again, and that was what you wanted.
3 days later
You once again got another text from Bobby as you pulled into the motel in South Dakota.
It read
“Tell me you’re ok- D”
Your breath got caught in your throat as you read what was sent to you. You left it on read and did your best to calm down before exiting your car. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. It was almost a sinking feeling that he would even try to reach out after everything.
Something seemed different as you stepped out of the car; it felt like something was about to end. You know that feeling you get when you know someone isn't going to make it? That feeling when everything familiar makes you sick. When you feel just completely mortal.
That's what you felt.
Yet, you didn't let your fear stop you from getting the hunt done. You grabbed your duffel bag, walked into the check-in area, and got yourself a room.
Just as you were stepping out, you bumped into someone.
“Oh shit, I'm sorry I didn't see you there,” you said and looked up to see an old friend of yours and the boys. “No worries, I wasn't looking either,” he said as he turned to smile at you.
“Jason?” You questioned. His eyes lit up in recognition. “(Y/n), holy crap, it's been years! How are you? Where are the guys?” He questioned excitedly. Your heart dropped a bit at the mention of them.
But you had to stay strong.
“I know, it's so good to see you again! I'm doing ok. The boys and I actually don't hunt together anymore. Dean and I broke up, so we don't talk or see each other anymore,” you explained. Jason's face fell, and he sighed.
“Wow, I um, I had no clue. I'm so sorry about that,” he said, and before he could say anything else, you gave a soft smile. “It's ok, you don't have to say anything else. It was really good to see you, Jason, ” you said, and hugged him and kissed his cheek.
He smiled sadly and nodded his head. “You too, hopefully, I'll be seeing you again soon,” he said, and you waved as you walked out the door and to your room.
You got to your room and settled in. You sat on the bed with your laptop and sighed. That feeling you had earlier came back, and you felt sick to your stomach.
You did your best to shake it off and tried to focus your attention on the case.
“It's alright (y/n), you're ok. Everything is ok, just focus,” you softly spoke to yourself and took a deep breath.
You eventually calmed down and were able to get some research done.
From what you had gathered, it was a demon. You knew all too well how to spot a demon, and its handy work. You’re not sure why it’s here, but if you were successful, you would soon know. It was difficult not having the boys with you; you missed hunting with them and having someone to bounce theories off of, but that’s just not how it was anymore.
---
Out of nowhere, Dean felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and he reached for it. He sighed when he saw that it wasn’t you. He knew that you had blocked him, but he just hoped that one day you’d come around again.
He noticed the text was from an old hunting friend, Jason. His brow furrowed as he read the text.
Jason: Hey Dean, did you know that (y/n)’s in South Dakota? I just ran into her at a motel about an hour away from Bobby’s place.
Dean’s eyes lit up, and he immediately texted back.
Dean: I had no idea. We haven’t spoken in a while. What motel is it?
Jason: It’s a shitty motel six in Fulton. Why?
Dean: Thanks, man, nice talking to you.
Dean ended the conversation and stood up to find Sam and Bobby.
He darted into the next room and saw Bobby and Sam talking about a new case they were thinking about heading to soon.
“She’s in Fulton. She’s an hour away in a shitty motel six,” Dean blurted out quickly. His eyes were wide, and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously.
“Dean, what the hell? How do you even know that?” Sam asked incredulously.
“I got a text from Jason, he just talked to her. We have to go, we have to go get her,” Dean stated insistently.
“You’re not going anywhere, Dean. She doesn’t want to see you. She made that very clear. She would be pissed if you just showed up there,” Bobby looked at him like he was crazy.
“Really, Dean, even if we did go down there, she’d just tell you to go away,” said Sam.
“I don’t care, I need to see her. I need to know she’s alright,” Dean spoke with urgency.
“Jason would have told you if something didn’t seem right. I’m sure she’s fine,” Sam tried again to get his brother to understand that he shouldn’t do this.
Dean ran a hand through his short hair in frustration and sighed heavily. “Fine,” he huffed and exited the room. Sam and Bobby sighed and looked at each other with relief in their eyes.
“He’s got to get it through his head that she doesn’t want to see him again,” Sam shook his head. “He’s too guilty,” Sam spoke again. “I think he still loves her,” Bobby told Sam. The younger Winchester looked over at Bobby in surprise.
“Are you serious, Bobby? He broke her heart and then dated her sister, breaking her heart even further,” Sam said in shock.
“When you know you know Sammy,” Bobby said and patted Sam on the shoulder.
Meanwhile, Dean was pacing outside, doing his best to clear his head. He needed to ground himself, but something felt wrong. He had the feeling that something bad was about to happen. He just couldn’t shake the thought. It was almost unbearable.
He quickly walked back into the living room, where Bobby and Sam were talking.
“Something’s wrong. I can feel it,” Dean stated. Sam and Bobby sigh. “What do you mean?” asked Sam. “Something doesn’t feel right with (y/n). I think something bad is going to happen,” Dean told them. “Dean, you just want to go see her, that’s all,” Bobby said, trying to dismiss it. “No, I know when something doesn’t feel right, and right now it doesn’t. I’m going to check on her, and I don’t give a damn if neither of you comes with me,” Dean declared with conviction.
Sam had a look of concern in his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” Sam said and reached to grab his jacket. “Damn it,” sighed Bobby as he gave in and grabbed his jacket as well. Dean gave an appreciative nod before they all headed out the door to the Impala.
---
You sighed and decided you would go get some food at a diner you passed by on the way to the motel. You grabbed everything you needed and headed out to the car. You once again felt that feeling in the pit of your stomach. You felt unnerved, like something just wasn’t right. You always used to trust your gut when something was telling you to leave, but lately, you didn’t care. You didn’t care if you were put in danger; it didn’t matter as much because you had no one to be careful for anymore. It was just you.
You once again brushed off the feeling and got into your car. Turning up your music, you took off down the road. Once you got to the diner, you got settled into your booth alone, trying to decide what you wanted to eat. You eventually opted for breakfast for dinner, of course. (y/f/b) was something you tended to get most of the time. It was such a comfort food for you.
As you told the waitress what you wanted, you felt someone watching you, and it made you tense up a bit. You smiled and thanked the young girl as she walked away to place your order. You knew that feeling of being watched all too well. You were no stranger to feeling like you were being hunted, and that’s the exact feeling you were getting.
You took a glance at your surroundings and caught someone’s eye as they continued to look at you.
The man smiled at you, but you didn’t smile back. You glared harshly back at him, hoping he’d get the hint and stop staring at you. Something didn’t seem right about the man, and it made your stomach turn. Because usually the feelings you get about someone are true. You knew that he was not what he seemed to be. He’s playing a part, and not very well in your opinion.
You sat there and ate your food as calmly as you could, keeping an eye on him just to see if he was still looking your way. You didn’t want to make a scene, so you didn’t get up and leave until you were done with your meal. You thanked the waitress one more time before paying and walking out to your car.
---
The drive took about 45 minutes with Dean driving as fast as he could. They reached the motel six, and your car was nowhere in sight. Dean quickly exited the car to ask the front desk if you had booked a room.
Sam and Bobby were hot on his trail.
“Has Taylor Carson booked a room here by any chance?” Dean asked impatiently. The person behind the desk shakes his head. “No,” he stated blankly. Dean's brows furrowed confused seeing as that was the name on the card you always used. “What the fuck?” he sighed and ran a hand down his face. They heard a car pull up to the motel and ran back outside.
It was you, it was actually you. Dean took a deep breath and walked over to your car as you were getting out.
You locked the doors and looked up just to see the one person you swore to never see again. Your heart immediately plummeted. He tried to give you a small smile, but you just stood there in shock, finally seeing that Sam and Bobby were with him as well.
Once you got your bearings back, you felt a wave of rage come over you but you needed to keep as calm as possible. Because if you let your anger get the best of you, you knew you’d march right up to him and punch him in his pretty face.
“(y/n), you’re ok,” Dean sounded relieved.
Your brows scrunched. “Oh, am I?” you questioned angrily. “Because from what I know about my own feelings, I’m far from ok. I told you I never wanted to see you again! How the hell did you find me?!” you raised your voice. The boys cringed and Bobby just sighed, he knew this would happen.
“I know ok, I know you don’t want to see me, but I have a bad feeling,” Dean tried to keep calm.
“You didn’t answer my damn question, Winchester. How the hell did you find me?!” you yelled again.
Dean sighed, “Jason told me,” he admitted to you, and you shut your eyes tightly. You ran your hand through your hair and let out a frustrated cry through gritted teeth.
“You know what? I don’t care, you need to leave now,” you said and stormed to your room. Dean caught up to you and stood in front of the door. You immediately pulled the gun you kept on you and pointed it at him.
“Woah! What are you doing (y/n)?!” Sam yelled and ran over to you. He gently tugged you away from his brother. Your gun was still raised, not sparing a glance at the youngest brother. Focusing solely on Dean, your voice didn’t waver.
“Leave, or I swear to god, I’ll shoot you,” you stated in the calmest voice they’d ever heard you speak.
“No, I’m not leaving until you let me talk to you. If not me, then Sam or Bobby. Please,” Dean pleaded with you. Your finger lingered on the hammer as you looked into his eyes. You sighed before lowering the gun.
“Sam, Bobby. Explain,” you said and looked directly at them.
“The only reason we’re out here is that Dean has a gut feeling that something is going to happen to you.” Sam began. You were already rolling your eyes.
“Yeah, that makes no sense because I would assume he wouldn’t care unless it was my sister.” Your voice was cutting.
You could see out of the corner of your eye, Dean wincing.
“You know that’s bullshit (y/n). You know I care, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care for you.” Dean’s voice was almost as sharp as yours was. Almost.
“I don’t know, Dean, you seemed to care more about her than you did me 10 months ago. But let me guess, that’s over now, so you can care about me again,” you mock him.
His jaw clenches, and you can see his posture tense. “Don’t you dare say that. I have always cared for you. I have always loved you.” As those words slipped from his mouth, your breath caught in your throat.
You looked him dead in the eyes. “You said that and slept with my sister. You said that and went behind my back to date my sister. Don’t you ever say you have always loved me after all you did to me.”
You were barely holding yourself together as you spoke.
Dean’s heart cracked again; it broke just a little more at the thought of hurting you so badly to the point you didn’t believe he ever loved you.
Sam and Bobby stood there speechless. It was almost as though they witnessed a death.
“I-I know I messed up, ok. I know what I did was wrong, and I see that now. I’m so sorry, we both are. I do lo-” you cut him off.
“I’m done listening.” Your voice was shaking, and they saw how hard you were trying to steel yourself. “Leave. Now,” they could all tell you didn’t want them there.
Before Dean could say anything else, you pushed past him to unlock your door and slam it closed behind you.
“(Y/N), please. Sweetheart, just let us help you, and after that, you’ll never have to see me again. I swear.” Dean tried one more time but got no response.
You heard him through the door, and you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You let yourself cry, for the first time in so long, for the first time after holding it all in in hopes of making it go away, you cried.
You cried for everything and everyone you lost in such a short time. You cried out of grief for a love you thought would last forever. You cried for your old self, and you cried for the little girl who lost her forever.
As Sam came to pull Dean back to the car, he could hear your cries, and his heart seemed to stop for a beat.
“Get in the car, Dean, we’re leaving.” He said and gave his brother a light shove towards the Impala.
“We can’t just leave her here alone. We can’t. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to her.” Dean's voice was wracked with fear, and Sam could feel it radiate off of him.
“Son, I think you’ve done enough,” Bobby spoke up. He had been quiet the whole time, and after seeing how broken you really were, he had no intention of being kind to that boy right now.
They forced Dean into the back seat and began the drive back to Bobby’s.
“We have to go back there right now.” Dean did his best to keep himself calm, but he was having a very hard time.
“Dean, I said you’ve done enough. Do you not see you’ve broken her enough already? If anyone is going to go back and help her, it’s going to be either Sam or me.” Bobby spat.
Dean's eyes went wide, but quickly narrowed in frustration.
“I know what I’ve done. I know what it did to her, but something worse is going to happen if I don’t help her.” Dean barked back.
“Then I’ll go back.” Bobby began to raise his voice.
“I need to do something to tell her that I care. To show her that I love her.” The tone of voice Dean spoke in was rarely heard. It was broken and scared.
“Dean, I don’t think she wants or cares to be helped by you. It won’t fix anything,” Sam spoke to him calmly, trying his best to get his brother to see reason.
“I can’t just sit here.” The elder Winchester’s voice cracked.
“I’ll go back,” Bobby said with assurance. “She’ll be ok, kid.” Bobby’s tone softened as he took a glance at Dean in the rear-view mirror.
Dean went completely silent now, having so many thoughts but nothing left to say.
-
You weren’t sure how long you sat there crying, but when you looked out the window, the sun was obscured by dense clouds.
You were so caught up in seeing him again and hearing him say that he loved you; you didn’t register why he had come here.
He had a bad feeling. Dean got a bad feeling about you and came to find you.
You had ignored it for a while since you got here, but as you gave it thought, you began to see you had the same feeling.
That man at the diner, and the clouds blowing in on the sunniest day you’ve seen in forever. The way they showed up to warn you about a feeling. Just a little feeling.
You shook your head. You could handle it; whatever came your way, you would deal with it.
“You’re being silly, he just got into your head. Nothing bad will happen,” you tried your best to convince yourself to push aside the gnawing feeling.
Little did you know that outside your door was the demon you had been looking for-The same demon from the diner.
He was keeping an eye on you, knowing who you were and how many of his friends you killed. He wasn’t just after a good hunter; he was after the one person he knew could help end it all.
You could feel the fear begin to seep into your heart. The room began to feel as if the walls were closing in, but you had to keep yourself calm.
Alarm bells were going off in your head as the sound of knocking on your door seemed to crack in the quiet.
You didn’t realize how long you held your breath as you reached for your gun. You felt your breathing slowly becoming heavy. You tiptoed towards the door with your gun raised and your hand steady.
You had been training all your life for these situations but never had you felt this way before.
Something about the air felt charged when all of a sudden a voice broke through the quiet.
“(Y/N), it’s me. It’s Bobby. I know you don’t want to see any of us, but we’re worried about you.” The voice of the man you considered a father rang in your ears.
You stilled completely as you took in his voice, doing your best to decipher if it was actually him but much to your displeasure you knew you had to test it for yourself.
With holy water in hand and a silver blade tucked in your belt you open the door gun still aimed.
The door flung open and Bobby stood there with his hands up as he saw you standing there fully armed.
“What do you really want?” your voice was so cold it almost stung the man.
“I’m here to help, I swear,” Bobby spoke as if trying not to spook a frightened animal.
You stepped aside and let him in with your gun still raised. “Prove it.” Your voice is again harsh.
Going to do as instructed, he took a step forward and got a splash of Holy water to the face. It did nothing but make him wince at the sudden feeling. You grabbed your knife and reached for his arm, sliding the silver blade across his skin. It did nothing but make him bleed.
The pounding in your heart almost settled.
“What was the first thing I told you when you took me in?” you asked a question only he would know the answer to.
You could feel your throat tightening and fought the tears that threatened to pool.
“You asked if I would take care of you. You asked me if you were safe now, and I said I’d always keep you safe.” Bobby had tears in his eyes.
You dropped the blade and gun on the bed and wrapped your arms around him.
His arms held you tighter than he ever had. “I missed you (Y/N).” his voice shook.
“I missed you, too, Bobby. I’m sorry I left. I just couldn’t stand to see him again. Being around you and Sam hurt too much.” Bobby could hear your breath catch.
“I understand, kid, I’m just glad you’re ok,” he said and wiped a tear off your cheek.
“Why did you come back?” you asked him with furrowed brows.
“Dean was in pieces worrying about you. He has a bad feeling about you doing this hunt. I had to come back and check on you.” Bobby brought his name up with caution.
A pit began to form even further in your chest as you heard Bobby mention it again. Now you just feel that you couldn’t ignore it.
A heavy sigh left you as your head dropped. Bobby looked at you with concern.
“What’s wrong?” He asked you softly.
“Bobby, from the minute I got here, I’ve felt this looming sense of dread. This pit is forming in my stomach. I wasn’t too worried about it until you all showed up.” The feeling you had was a fear you'd never felt before.
Bobby could see it, your posture, your eyes, the way your voice held a barely there tremble.
“What are you hunting?” He asked cautiously.
“A demon.” It came out breathlessly.
He nodded his head and did his best to calm himself down. His usual calm demeanor had begun to falter.
“I think he followed me, Bobby.” Your voice was quiet. Almost as if the demon was listening.
“Followed you? His brows furrowed in confusion.
“I think I saw him at the diner earlier. There was this man who never seemed to take his eyes off of me.” You revealed it to him.
Bobby looked taken aback at your confession.
“You're sure?” He questioned.
“I'm sure.”
---
Dean had been pacing the floor for so long that you would've thought his steps wore down the wood.
Sam looked at him with an annoyed expression.
“Dean, I'm sure she's fine. Bobby will take care of her. Plus she can take care of herself. We all know that.” Sam tried his best not to get frustrated with his older brother.
Dean ran his hands through his hair. Sam had been able to feel the anxiety roll off of him in waves.
“Sammy. She hates me, and won't let me near her. I can't even protect her when I know something is going to go wrong. You don't understand what that's like.” Dean opened up to his brother.
“I'm not trying to hurt you Dean, but would you ever want to see her again if she did the same thing to you?” Sam asked.
Dean sighed in frustration and sat down on the couch with his head in his hands. The more he thought about it, the more it sunk in. He was realizing that he never fully processed what happened. What he did.
Dean's heart felt like it could collapse. His breath caught in his throat. He thought about the look on your face when he opened the door. The way he heard your heart shatter on the floor. He remembers the way he felt.
He remembers the fear, and the guilt. He remembers the shock and the shame. The way he held your sister as she cried, and the way you seemed to wince when he did. He could never forget the gut wrenching feeling as you pointed out his shirt on your sister. The shirt that was once yours more so than his.
He felt like he could throw up at the memories. The way you set down the ring he gave you with shaking hands. Dean didn't even realize he was crying.
He couldn't imagine how you were feeling. The betrayal, the humiliation they put you through. That he put you through.
You gave them more grace than they deserved after what they did to you.
Sam looked at his brother and felt a pang of sympathy for him as he almost sobbed into his hands. He could tell that Dean just now seemed to realize what happened and the damage he inflicted on your already wounded heart.
“You should've seen her face Sammy. She looked like a piece of her had just died. I can't believe how I could've ever done that to her.” Dean spoke. It was like he was confessing to a murder.
“The worst part is a piece of me still loved her, and I did it anyway. I still love her, but she thinks I never loved her at all. I've loved her since the moment I met her, and I'll love her until the day I die. And she'll never trust me again. And it's all my fault.” Dean looked over at Sam and saw him with tears in his eyes.
“You're right she won't ever trust you again. And it is your fault. But I know now you loved her, you always loved her.” Sam told him and stood up.
“I know you want to help her Dean, but you need to trust her. Trust her and Bobby.” Sam did his best to calm his brother.
---
“So, you think it's here?” Bobby asked.
“When you and the boys showed up earlier the sun was crystal clear. The sky was cloudless and blue. Do you see what it's like now?” You pointed it out to him.
Bobby's gaze turned to the window and saw the sky was black, the wind gamed and it had begun to rain.
“Are you sure this is just a demon?” He asked carefully.
“All signs pointed to a demon, Bobby. Cattle mutilation, lightning storms, all of it.” You informed him.
All of a sudden a scream tore through the silence. Your heart dropped and you barely spared a glance at Bobby before grabbing your gun and running out the door.
“(Y/n)! You heard Bobby shout as you ran out into the storm. He ran out after you, and saw you run into the room a few doors away from yours.
The second you stepped into the room your foot slid. You looked down at the floor to see blood. Immediately your eyes shot up, and you saw the same man from the diner. His face was splattered with red, and a smile was plastered on his lips.
“Hey honey, good to see you again.” His voice was low and thick with satisfaction.
“Who are you?” Your voice was filled with disdain as you looked at the thing in front of you.
“I think, what am I, is the more important question.” He sneered.
“You're a demon, it's not hard to tell. You don't blend very well.” You bit back.
Bobby came sprinting in behind you.
He gasped as he looked around the room. You saw the blood upon entry but paid no mind to the rest, doing your best to focus on the evil in front of you.
“Ah yes, do you like my work? I do believe it's some of my best. Very black dahlia-esque isn't it?” He admired his work.
You took this time to look around the room. Blood seeped into the carpet, into the bed sheets, and stained the wall.. There was a man's body on the floor, throat slashed and glassy eyes still open.
You looked at the bed and there was the woman you heard scream.
Her throat was also slashed and a smile carved on her face. As he said it was very black dahlia-esque.
You felt your stomach lurch. But you steadied yourself.
“What did these people do to deserve this?” You barked.
The demon laughed, “Absolutely nothing. I just wanted to show off for you.” His smile was wicked.
“What do you mean show off for us?” Bobby asked and took a step forward now right next to you.
The demon sighed, “Not you for you. For her.”
He pointed his bloody finger at you.
Your breath hitched and the color drained from your face. That earlier dread washed over you again.
“Why?” Bobby asked.
“Because, I've been dying to speak with her.” He said and took a step forward.
You aimed your gun at him and just as you went to pull the trigger you were slammed into the wall. Bobby quickly fired a shot at him and he dodged just in time. He flicked his wrist and Bobby flew into a wall. With him knocked out you knew you had to act fast.
You got up as fast as you could and ran at him. You both toppled to the floor and scrambled for power. You had finally pinned him down holding an angel blade to his throat.
“I don't want to hear what you have to say.” You growled as the blade pressed down harder, already slicing the skin.
He just laughed. “I don't believe you have a choice.” He grinned before tossing you backward with the tilt of his head.
Your head hit the door frame and the last thing you saw was him walking towards you.
---
“Bobby said he would call when he got settled. It's been three hours. It only takes 1 to get there.” Dean voiced his anxiety one more time.
“I'm sure they're just catching up or doing research.” Sam told him.
“He always calls, Sammy. Always.” Dean grew upset.
Right on cue Sam's phone rang on the table.
Dean quickly reached for it and answered the call from Bobby.
“Bobby, what the hell?” Dean asked in frustration. “Why didn't you call?” He rushed out.
“Well, I'm calling now. Now shut up and listen to me.” Dean could hear the fear in his voice.
“It's (Y/n). He took her.” Bobby broke the news to Dean.
“I knew it! I knew something bad was going to happen. I should've been there!” Dean shouted.
Sam's eyes went wide and his face went pale.
“Where is she, Bobby?” Dean's tone was sharp.
Sam's whole body went cold. He never thought this would happen.
Dean grabbed his jacket and ran out the door. Sam trailed seconds behind and barely got into the car before his brother tore out of the driveway.
“What the hell happened Dean? Where is she?” Sam asked. He did his best to keep calm.
“If you had all listened to me, she would be safe right now. She would be safe and with us.” Dean gritted his teeth. He was practically seething.
“Dean, no one knew she would be taken.” Sam responded defensively.
“No, but I knew something was wrong. I knew it and no one cared!” Dean's voice rose.
“We cared! That's why Bobby went back to help her!” Sam spat back at him.
“Yeah well it should've been me. I could've protected her, Sammy!” The car went silent after his outburst.
“It should've been me.” His voice was softer, more defeated.
“We'll find her and she's gonna be fine.” Sam tried to reassure him.
The rest of the car ride was silent.
By the time they pulled up to the motel, the storm was even worse. Dean slammed the door shut and went to find Bobby. Sam hot on his heels.
“Bobby!” Dean called out. Bobby exited the room you were taken from. Sam and Dean quickly made their way towards him.
The second Dean stepped into the room his heart dropped. The scene was terrifying even more so knowing that the thing that had done this had you.
Sam's eyes went wide as he stepped into the room after Dean.
“What the hell?” Sam whispered to himself.
“Dean I-” Bobby never got to finish before the older boy turned to look at him.
The look on Dean's face was one of utter despair and seething rage. Sam's breath hitched, and Bobby did his best to remain unfazed.
Sam had never in his life seen his brother like this. So close to the edge.
“I told you both. I told you I needed to be here but you didn't let me. This is on you. If she dies it's on you.” Dean's rage was pointed like a pistol at Bobby and his brother.
No one seemed to know what to say to that.
So Dean spoke up again.
“We're going to find her right now. Or so help me God I will never let you forget.” His voice was stone cold.
He pushed past Bobby and Sam, and went into your room.
Dean immediately noticed the state of the room. It seemed to be in half disarray. One side of the bed was un-made because you always loved to research in bed and the other was almost pristine.
Your duffle bag sat on the small table. Despite being a hunter you always tried to make the place feel like home: but he didn't feel that anymore.
Everything felt cold, untouched, and as if a light went out. It wasn't home, it was a musty motel room.
Dean's heart clenched at seeing what had happened to you. Just from the state of your room he could tell that your spark had died. That warmth you always seemed to emanate was gone. It really was like a piece of you was gone.
The only thing that made it feel like you were there was the faint smell of your perfume. God, he had missed that smell. God, he missed you.
---
You woke up slowly. Your eyes barely wanted to open, your body felt like it was frozen.
The only way you could tell you were truly alive was the thud in your chest.
You soon gathered enough strength to lift your head, and the first thing you saw was an empty room. Barren besides some chains hanging from the wall in front of you.
Everything came back to you all at once, your heart thudding louder.
“Bobby…” you whispered.
“Bobby, are you here?” you asked a little louder this time.
“Don't be silly. I didn't want him. It's just you and me sweetheart.” The demon laughed as he stepped up behind you.
His hands landed on your shoulders and you flinched.
He huffed a laugh and moved to step in front of you.
“I can call you sweetheart, can't I?” He mocked you.
You glared at him, your jaw tight and your eyes as cold as you could make them.
“Or is Dean the only one who can call you that?” He smirked seeing he struck a nerve.
“No one calls me sweetheart.” You growled.
“Ah, I hit a sore spot did I? Well, all the better for me.” He took a step closer, taking out a knife he had hidden in his belt.
“You took everything from me.” His voice had dropped as he held the blade to the corner of your mouth.
“Did I?” You questioned, a smile curling your own lips.
“Of course you don't remember them. My family, you killed them all.” It was his turn to snarl. He pressed the knife harder against your face.
“So you decided to kill me? That's a fantastic idea. I've got nothing left to lose.” You told him and his smile returned.
“Well, it's good to know that you're as miserable as me.” He removed the blade from your face and sliced your arm instead.
You grimaced and did your best to steel yourself for what's to come.
“I'm going to have so much fun.”
---
Dean, Bobby and Sam all sat in your room. Frantically searching for a way to find you.
They couldn't track your phone knowing it had failed when they tried a few days prior.
“Did the demon say his name? Sam asked Bobby.
“No he didn't, and I assume he did that so I couldn't tell you.” The sigh that escaped Bobby was unsettled.
Meanwhile Dean had found your journal. He didn't want to snoop but he knew you wrote down all the cases you'd worked. The names of all the monsters if you got them.
There had to be something. There just had to be.
“Is there anything he said that you can remember?” Dean asked and looked up from the book.
“There are a few things I remember. It felt like he had been following her for a while. He was saying that he wanted to show off for her with the murders.” Bobby did his best to recall what the demon had said.
“He said he had been dying to speak to her.” Bobby almost shuddered at the thought.
Dean looked at him in confusion. “What the hell?” His voice was gruff, and low. Almost as if he was talking to himself.
“Why would he follow her? What does she have that he wants?” Sam pondered out loud.
“We have to find out now before he does what he did to those people with her.” Dean said and got back to flipping through the book.
It was as if he was searching for any case that would warrant a demon stalking you.
Dean's breath hitched as he found a case you had worked about 3 months ago.
It was a demon case. There were multiple in one place, almost like a family.
You had found them, and to your knowledge at the time, killed them all.
He felt his heart wrench thinking of you taking on 4 demons by yourself. Seemingly not caring what would happen to you.
About a month ago he found that you discovered there was one who escaped. One demon left alive. He could tell just by the way you wrote that it made you tense.
He knew you well enough to see that by the way you wrote you were nervous. And that made him nervous.
“Guys, I think I found something.” Dean spoke up. Sam and Bobby quickly shifted their attention to him.
“What is it? Bobby breathed out.
“She worked a demon case a few months back, and there were multiple demons in this one town.” Dean took a breath.
“She thought she had killed them all, but she just found out that there is one she didn't know survived.” The information settled into the space.
They could feel a sense of frenzied dread hang over them.
“It has got to be it. You said he wanted to show off for her, didn't you?” Dean asked.
“That's exactly what he said.” Bobby confirmed.
“It says here, ‘ it was almost like they were showing off. Putting their victims on display.’ It's him I know it is.” The eldest Winchester felt like he could barely breathe.
“Does it say the name?” Sam asked quietly, almost afraid to know the answer.
“Yeah it does.” Dean paused.
“His name is Elias, she said he has been around for hundreds of years. She said his family was made up of souls that he had sprung from the furthest reaches of hell.” The room went cold at the thought of a demon having that much sway.
“What the hell kind of demon does that?” Sam's eyes filled with worry.
“One with a hell of a plan.” Dean shook his head.
---
You weren't sure how much time had passed.
You could feel the blood dripping down your face. Running into your mouth, the bitter, metallic taste settling onto your tongue.
Elias looked at you and smiled.
“You do remember me don't you Sweetheart?” He taunted you again with the pet name.
“I do, and I can't wait to kill you.” You smiled brightly at him.
“Just like I killed your family.” It was your turn to be smug.
You could see the immediate change in his demeanor. The smile dropped from his face, and his jaw tensed.
You let out a tired chuckle. “I'm glad you're as miserable as I am.” You repeated his words.
“You think you're so funny. How would you feel if I murdered everyone you loved?” His voice was low, almost seething.
“How would you feel if they were ripped from you with no warning?” He spat at you.
“I've felt it. My mother, my father, my sister and the love of my life were murdered.” You said and felt your chest tighten.
Elias looked at you in confusion.
“You do know Dean Winchester is alive, and you were speaking to him today. And your sister lives 5 hours away.” He talked down to you.
“They may still be living but they're dead to me.” You gritted your teeth.
“So you wouldn't care if I went out there and gutted them?” He breathed against your ear.
You steeled yourself and turned to face him.
“You could try, but they'd kill you before you could say a word.” you snapped.
“I have an idea. Let's bring Dean here and he can be a trial run before I hunt down your sister. How does that sound?” He cupped your cheek in his hand.
“Try it, asshole.”
---
As the boys were doing their best to find you, Dean felt a wave of suspicion. He felt as if something had changed.
The second he opened his mouth to say something his phone went off.
He stared at the number in disbelief before answering it.
“(Y/n)...” his voice was breathless.
“Where the hell are you?” Dean questioned, from the way he spoke you would've thought he ran a marathon.
His fists clenched and unclenched as he waited for your sweet voice to come through. Hoping with everything that you were ok.
“Hiya, Dean. I thought you'd appreciate seeing her caller ID come back up on your phone.”
Dean could hear his smirk through the phone.
“You still look at that picture of her don't you? You stare, and stare and rip yourself apart for what you did.” The tone he used was wicked. It was eerie and so full of joy.
Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“You put her on the god damn line right now, or I swear to God you'll burn in hell.” Dean felt like he could barely breathe.
“I don't think she wants to talk to you right now. She's not very happy with you after all you've done.” He talked to Dean like he was a child.
“I don't care. Just put her on the phone.” Elias could tell from the way Dean spoke to him that he was seething.
“Now, Dean, don't be that way. We respect boundaries here. So if you really want to talk to her, you should come see her. Maybe you'll change her mind.” He chuckled.
“Where?” Dean barked, getting sick of the taunting.
“I'll send you the address. Hope to see you soon, and come alone.” Elias immediately hung up.
Sam steps outside to check on his brother, and sees him standing there in the rain.
His hand rubbed over his face, and Sam could see the tension in his shoulders.
“Dean, are you ok?” Sam raised his voice to speak over the rain.
His older brother turned to look at him and stormed past him into the room.
Sam followed and shut the door.
“Dean, what's wrong with you, boy?” Bobby questioned in half frustration.
“He called me. Elias called from her phone, and he sent me an address.” Dean informed them both.
Sam's heart leapt into his throat and his fear skyrocketed.
“Is she ok? Did you get to talk to her?!” Sam frantically questioned his brother.
“What did he want?” Bobby asked over top of Sam.
“No. He didn't let me speak to her. But he said to come alone so that's what I'm going to do.”
Dean revealed.
“No way in hell you're going alone, Dean!” Sam shouted at his brother.
“Yes. I am. I'm gonna go get her, and bring her home.” His voice was determined.
Sam and Bobby could see his eyes filled with conviction.
“No. We're all going and that's final.” Bobby said and began getting ready to leave.
Dean's patience ran thin about 5 seconds into Bobby and Sam gathering their things. He grabbed the keys to the Impala and rushed out the door. He didn't care if he had no backup, he just needed to bring you home.
Sam and Bobby dropped everything and ran out the door.
“Dean!” Sam screamed.
“Damn it, Dean!” Bobby shouted despite him already tearing out of the parking lot.
---
“Well, I have good news for you (Y/n). Loverboy is coming to your “rescue”.” He laughed.
He turned to look at you with a smile. He was met with your sneer.
He squatted in front of you just to be eye to eye.
“What a surprise, he still cares.” He gripped your chin between his forefinger and thumb.
Your eyes darkened. The slight change in your demeanor had his lips curl even wider.
“Oh… you know that's not true don't you? He's just doing this because his guilt would destroy him. It would eat him alive if he let you die.” He patted your cheek in mock sympathy.
In a way, you wished you would die in front of him and he would live the rest of his life guilt ridden and sick.
You knew Dean was too stubborn not to come get you. You knew that he would've dropped everything and ran out the door because that's how he had always been. He would do that for anyone in trouble, and right now you just happened to be “anyone”.
“Tell me, what was it like seeing Dean and your sister together? Do you think Dean thought of you or ever almost said your name?”
Elias tapped his chin in thought.
“Hmm or maybe all he could think of was how much better she was.” He grinned like a Cheshire.
You felt like you could throw up. Everything he was saying forced the wound open even more than it had been. And it wasn't even fully healed yet.
He could see the shift in you. He held your head in place to keep you looking at him, and so you did the first thing that came to your mind.
You spat in his face. He didn't yell at you or get angry. He wiped the spit from his face and patted your cheek.
“Don't worry Sweetheart, you didn't hurt my feelings.” His voice was soft and deadly calm.
“I just wondered what would make you look even more of a bitch.” you did your best not to sound tired.
“Takes one to know one.”
He ran a hand through your hair before yanking your head back. Elias looked down at you as you grit your teeth.
The knife came back up to your throat.
“You're lucky I want Dean to watch you die. Or I would kill you now.” He sneered.
“Lucky me.” You managed to get out.
He let go of your hair and this time decided to use the blade on your face. Just below your eye he slid the razor sharp edge against your skin.
You did your best not to let any fear show through, but it seemed to slip.
He laughed and tsked. Wagging his finger at you.
“Don't worry you'll get to smile soon too.”
---
He drove as fast as he could with rain coming down as hard as it was.
Dean didn't believe in God, but at that moment he prayed. He begged and pleaded to get to you in time. He prayed that he wasn't too late. He couldn't be. He wouldn't be or he would never forgive himself.
The address he was sent was about 10 miles out of the city.
He pulled onto a dirt road, and despite the mud he went through and how it was caking Baby's wheels he pushed forward.
The sight of the cabin came into his view and stopped the car, grabbing what he needed before going to find you.
He cased the building first, just to be sure there was no one else around.
He walked past a window, and glimpsed inside. The sight he saw made his stomach flip. It was you, tied to a chair, soaked from the rain and bloody.
The demon stepped forward and whispered something in your ear before stabbing the knife into your shoulder
Dean had to hold back from bursting through the window at the sound of your scream.
His heart twisted in his chest and all he wanted was to end this demon.
He entered through the backdoor of the house.
“Did you ever think that Dean and your sister talked about starting a family? You know just like he talked about with you? She would've made an exceptional mom. You on the other hand, you'd be a mess.”
Dean heard the things he said to you and he could barely control himself.
The grimace on your face was so pained. Dean couldn't tell what hurt more, the words or the injuries.
---
“I don't think I'd let my entire family be slaughtered. So I think you may be projecting.” You bit back. Still so scrappy despite being tortured.
Elias then gripped your hand that lay flat on the arm of the chair and bent your wrist back until a snap resounded.
Doing your best to hold in another scream, your eyes screwed shut and despite best efforts you let out a choked sob.
You were only human and Elias knew that he could use that to his advantage.
“Now, now, honey. Don't cry.” His voice was mockingly gentle.
“Fuck you.” You sneered at him. The tears mixed with the blood that fell from under your eye. You did your best not to wince.
“Flattery will get you nowhere.” He chuckled.
“I've gotten bored of knives, let's do something fun!” Elias smiled.
You rolled your eyes.
He grabbed a lighter from his pocket, and flicked it open. The flame ignited and he tauntingly waved it in front of your face.
The heat was barely enough to warm your skin.
Still your heart raced again. Not knowing where he was going to place it.
He waved it past the cut under your eye and you did your best to steel yourself.
Elias caught the glint of fear in your eyes. He brought the flame back over your wound and you felt it begin to singe the dried blood. The flame was so close to your eye you thought your lashes would burn off.
The pain and inevitable fear was getting to the point where your stomach felt sick. You felt like you were going to throw up.
As Elias brought the flame closer, the door then burst open.
The light flickered out and snapped closed. Dean stood there rain soaked and irate.
You almost felt your heart leap as you looked at him. But that sense of safety dropped out from beneath you.
You were now forced into a situation that was once only words.
This was the part where you died. Your story would end right there. Tied to a chair bloody and broken.
“Dean! You're here just in time, wouldn't want you to miss the carving!” Elias’ smile was wicked.
Dean snarled. “You so much as glance at her again and I'll kill you.”
The look on Dean's face was one so drenched in rage it almost scared you. You had never seen him that angry in your life.
“That's no way to greet someone Dean. Have you no manners?” Elias flicked his wrist and Dean went flying into a wall.
As Elias was distracted with Dean. You tried your best to wiggle your good wrist loose so you could untie your other hand.
The pain in your shoulder was intense and the skin under your eye was bloody and burned. The feeling was overwhelming.
Elias strode slowly across the room towards the older Winchester.
Dean scurried back onto his feet, the demon knife securely in his hand.
“Oh, you seem to have come prepared. Who gave you that?” Elias spoke in a tone that was grave and mocking.
Dean ignored his comments and lunged at Elias. He caught him on the arm with the blade and the demon growled before bringing his fist up to swing at Dean.
His fist connected with nothing as Dean dodged his hit. Elias quickly spun around but before he could swing again Dean took his shot.
Elias stumbled backwards, though he recovered quickly. Immediately returning to the fight.
You looked on as Dean kept coming at Elias with all he had. As it was going on you were still doing your best to wriggle out of the ties.
You were finally able to get your hand free to untie the other one. You then leaned down to untie your ankles.
As soon as you were free you jumped into action. Despite your injuries you fought as hard as you could.
You quickly swept Elias’ legs from under him and he fell to the floor. As fast as you could you kept him pinned to the floor and Dean tossed you the knife. You caught it and raised it over your head to bring it down on Elias.
Before you could, Elias got his arm loose and brought his hand up to shield him. The knife pierced through his hand and he screamed out. While you were in shock Elias took the opportunity to throw you off of him.
He ripped the knife from his hand, before you or Dean could act Elias pinned you to the floor and drove the knife through your sternum.
The only thing you could hear was Dean's scream and Elias laughing. The breath had seemed to get caught in your throat. No sound came from you. You looked down to see the knife standing straight out of your chest, and a wave of nausea quickly swept over you.
The rest happened in a blur. Dean tore the demon off of you. Armed with nothing but his gun and holy water now. Seeing as the knife was embedded in your chest.
You knew that the only way to kill him was to use the knife. So with everything you had left in you, you gripped the blade and pulled it from its place.
You groaned, gritting your teeth to keep from screaming. As soon as the blade was out you could feel the blood quickly seeping from the wound.
But with all you had in you, you stumbled toward Elias who was now on top of Dean. You, with all your strength ripped him off of him, and as he stood now in front of you you raised the blade and lodged it into his chest.
Elias fell dead within seconds and as soon as he hit the floor your legs gave out.
Dean quickly rushed toward you, and lifted you into his arms.
“God, Sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.” His voice was uneven and filled with fear.
“Dean, calm down. Don't cry.” Your tone was harsh.
“You don't have to pretend anymore. Please don't. I don't want to be lied to because you feel guilty.” Tears came to your eyes, and your breathing was labored now.
Dean's heart clenched and his eyes screwed shut.
“Will you please stop? I know I messed up, but I don't care about her. I love you and I always have. You're all I've ever wanted, and I did what I did because I needed someone. Someone who remotely felt like you.” Dean did his best to explain.
A sob escaped you and you reached up to pull him close. He folded himself around you as you sobbed.
“I hate you so much. I hate you and I hate her. Why would you do that, I was right there. I was waiting.” Your voice was raw and strained.
Your cries became harder to let out. The blood continuing to run.
“I'm sorry Sweetheart. I know you hate me, I know you do. I hate me too, but I love you.”
He did his best to put pressure on your wound.
He sounded like he was gonna break in half.
“You and I both know it's too late for that now.” Your voice was getting weaker.
All of a sudden a car pulled up, Bobby and Sam jumped out and ran over to you.
Bobby stopped Sam in his place as he went to kneel next to you. Sam looked back at Bobby with anger and confusion.
“Let him talk.” Bobby sneered.
“It's too late for a lot of things. So let's focus on now.” You spoke again.
“You're gonna be ok D,” you said and let your fingers trace his face for the last time.
Dean looked up at Bobby and Sam now. He nodded towards them and they kneeled beside you.
“We love you (y/n), we're here. We're all here.” Bobby took a hold of your hand and Sam stroked your hair.
“Thanks for looking after me guys. I'll see you later.” you said. They all knew you hated to say goodbye.
“We'll see you in heaven, sweetheart.” Dean said and kissed your forehead just as your last breath left you.
Dean sat there on the floor with you for longer than reasonable.
He held you close and kissed your head, telling you the things he never got to say.
Telling you about how he did want a family with you, and how you would have been an amazing mother.
Dean winchester was irreparably crushed. He knew that for as long as he lived he would hate himself for this. He may have anger towards Bobby and his brother, but he would always blame himself.
Something that scared him the most was having to tell your sister. Having to tell her that you died, and her knowing that the last time she saw you was the day they broke you. She never got to say that she loves you and finally hear it back.
Before wrapping your body, he took his ring and placed it on your finger again. Just so hopefully you would know a piece of him went with you. Just so you weren't alone.
Bobby was never the same after that. After all of those years caring for you like a father, he lost you for good in the blink of an eye. He would never get a response if he texted you. He would never know you were safe by the way you left him on read when you were too hurt to come home. You would never answer, and you would never come home.
-----
Thank you so much for reading and still caring about this story! I love you all so much!
I'LL SEE YOU IN HELLP PT. 2 IS STILL COMING! I SWEAR!
It's been kind of busy on my side. My dad got into a car accident and fractured his back and I've been working. It's still on it's way though! It's almost done!
Hey guys! I'm still working on I'll See You In Hell Pt.2 I have about 9,000 words now! Hopefully it should be done soon! I'll give you a little snippet!
Here is the first part I'll See You In Hell Pt. 1
---
As you drove away, you realized that you had nowhere to call home anymore. You couldn’t go to Bobby’s, you couldn’t go back to your sister. You couldn’t go to Sam. You were alone, completely and utterly alone. The world felt like it had stopped turning, but it seemed that with every passing second you got dizzier. Something had snapped in you, something had shifted, like an earthquake hit, and now your heart was on a fault line.
You cracked your windows and tried to breathe but it felt like you couldn’t. You barely even realized that you were speeding down a long empty stretch of road. Not having any idea how you got there, or where you were. Realizing tears were still streaming down your face, you pulled over as the street was getting blurry and your head was getting dizzy. All of a sudden you felt your stomach lurch. You jumped out of the car and ended up throwing up on the side of the road. Your knees buckled, and you fell to the ground once again.
You sobbed and breathed heavily, trying to catch your breath. Nothing seemed to be helping, not the wind, nor the feeling of the solid ground beneath you. You couldn’t seem to center yourself. You just kept thinking back on what happened. Not knowing how they could do that to you. Your sister, and the only man you wanted to spend forever with. Both betrayed you, you couldn’t believe that they could live with themselves.
You didn’t know how long you had been sitting on the side of the road, but what broke you from your exhausted daze was the feeling of raindrops. You could finally take a deep breath as you shakily stood again. Standing there as the rain continued to come down on you, it didn’t faze you when thunder crashed around you. Something caused you to stand there for a while, just let nature take its course around you.
After a while, you knew it was time to go. You got into your car and noticed that your phone was ringing. It showed that Sam was calling you, and so you didn’t answer it. You had texts and voicemails, and missed calls from Sam, Dean, your sister, and even a text from Bobby.
Bobby: Please, come home kid.
You tossed your phone into the passenger seat and pulled back onto the road, not knowing where you were going but driving until you couldn’t anymore. (Or until you decided it was time to change into dry clothes.)
Are you still writing a part 2 to "I'll see you in Hell"? Hoping Reader finds love in someone else and Dean regrets ever breaking up with her and for dating her sister?
It has been years and I am so sorry for that. A lot of things happened very fast, and I had to take a break from writing. But I'm back and I will say it is getting done, hopefully it'll be posted in the next few weeks!
Summary: Reader makes a call on an unusual Wendigo hunt that lands her with a grave injury. In fear of disappointing the boys, she keeps her wound hidden and faces the consequences.
You were currently in the woods, your flare gun clutched tightly in your hand and your flashlight in the other. The boys were behind you as you walked ahead. You were hunting a Wendigo, and so you knew you had to be careful. You were light on your feet, and so you were usually better when it came to hunting them. It was much colder than you anticipated, so you were freezing therfore you weren’t as aware as you should be.
You suddenly stopped when you didn’t hear the boys behind you anymore, and you took a look around, and you had no idea where you were. It turned out you had just been walking, with absolutely no direction, and you had strayed from the boys. The cold really was one of the things that screwed you up on hunts.
You didn’t want to yell, and so you turned around and tried to retrace the steps you didn’t remember taking. The brown and dead, almost gray-colored leaves were brittle beneath your feet. You could see your breath billow like fog, and your heartbeat was pounding, trying to circulate blood through your cold limbs.
As you walked, you tried to recount anything remotely familiar, whether it be a distinct tree you had come across or even just a fallen tree branch. Still, you didn’t seem to be anywhere close to finding the boys. You had to face it, you were utterly lost. You tried to pull out your phone and maybe call them, albeit very unlikely to work. You reached for your phone just to find a barren back pocket; all of your pockets were empty except for the lint in the very bottom.
“Shit,” you cursed under your breath. An abrupt snapping of twigs sounded from behind you. You stopped and held your breath; that’s when you heard it, so vividly. Dean’s voice echoed around you, and fear planted itself in your heart. You knew what was going on, so you gripped your flare gun tightly, trying to shake off the freeze you felt.
“(Y/n)!! Help me, please!” you heard his voice yell again, but you knew all too well that it wasn’t Dean.
You felt a sharp breeze pass by, and it swirled around you in one big circular motion. You had no clue where this thing was, so you, being as agile as you were, began to sprint. You made it past it, but you knew it wasn’t because you outran it. It was because it let you pass it that’s when you saw it. You saw the two flashlights and ran as fast as you could, jumping over rocks and any other obstacles in your path. You were close enough to see their heads turn at the sound of the crunching leaves. Dean ran towards you, and you made it to him. His arms wrapped around you for only seconds before you heard it call again.
Its voice was broken and low, almost like someone who hadn’t spoken for hours on end finally said something.
“Somebody, please, help me, please!! I know you’re there, I see you, please!” you heard before the scream was cut off in the middle of this “man’s” plea.
You gripped onto Dean’s arm. You weren’t usually scared, but something about this time had you horrified. Your stomach twisted in knots, and your breath was caught in your throat. Tears welled in your eyes. You didn’t understand what was happening; you just felt something was off, like when you feel someone following you, but this time, you didn’t know if it was following you. You had no idea where it was; it didn’t feel normal. This wasn’t a normal Wendigo hunt; you felt as though you were not backed into a corner but trapped in a ring. That’s when you realized it, that feeling you had, it was the Wendigo stalking you, but it couldn’t be in two places at once. There were two.
“Dean, Sam…” you spoke shakily.
You felt like your legs were going to give out. “There are two,” you breathed out, with your heart beating in your throat, and your limbs slacking just a bit.
It was like when you knew something bad was going to happen, it was like the feeling you got when standing on the edge of a cliff. It felt like you were falling, but you planted firmly on the ground.
“What?” Sam turned towards you with wide eyes.
“They don’t stick together (y/n),” Dean told you, trying to calm you a bit.
“Damn it, boys. I can feel it, there are two. One chased me back here, and the other must have been following you. They led us here; they knew that we would feel safer together. They did this because we won’t know where they both are at once.” You explained to them while gripping Dean tighter.
To prove your point heard wind rushing past you all in opposite directions. “Son of a bitch…” Dean cursed.
You knew you were the one who would be more likely to evade them, so you made an abrupt decision. “Boys go. Now.” You said and pushed Dean away from you.
“What? No.” Dean protested, reaching out to grab you, but you moved away.
“Go hide, the sun is almost up, ok. Just trust me. Please,” you pleaded with them to go.
Dean’s eyes were wild with fear. “No, I’m not leaving you here,” he said.
You looked to Sam for help, and he understood. He didn’t want to leave you, but he trusted you. He grabbed Dean’s arm.
“Dean, we have to go now,” he said to his brother.
You looked around quickly with fear coursing through you like adrenaline. You saw an opening in the trees and took off. Dean yelled after you, but you knew you couldn’t look back. Your legs were wobbly, and your head was spinning, but you knew you had to keep going. It was the boys’ best chance to kill one of them. You could hear one of them racing after you, you could see it speed ahead, but no matter what, you had to keep running. Get as far away from them as you can, no matter what happened to you. Those boys had to be safe; you wouldn’t let them get hurt.
The rustling had stopped, and that meant you would stop as well. It was like you were at sea, and the waves were rocking the small sailboat you were in. You were unsteady and felt like you could throw up from how hard you were pushing yourself. It’s like you had been tossed overboard and you kept swallowing seawater. You were disoriented, but you had to get yourself back to the shore, or you knew you wouldn’t make it.
You had stood there for minutes, you didn’t know how long, but you knew it was more than a few. You knew it wasn’t gone because you could feel it watching you, like when a tiger stalked its prey, ready to pounce at any second. You had to be ready, and so you stood your ground, ready to keep running if you had to, or ready to fight if that’s what it came down to.
The twigs and branches you had been running through had scratched your legs and arms, leaving a few cuts on your face as well.
The anticipation was killing you. Everything was completely dead silent, no leaves rustling, no owls singing their lullabies, no crickets chirping. Nothing, you couldn’t even hear the wind through the trees. You didn’t even want to breathe in fear of making a noise.
You swore you could feel it breathing down your neck, you thought it could hear your heart pounding against your ribcage. The silence was violent. It made you sick.
After what felt like hours of waiting and silence, you heard movement behind you, and you knew you needed to make quick work if you wanted to kill it. You spun on your heel and shot the flare. You saw it standing perfectly in front of you when you took the shot, but it moved just in time. You felt your legs give out, and you were falling to the ground. In not even a second, you saw trees flying by you. Everything was blurred; it was greens, grays, and browns meshed together, almost so blurred that everything looked pitch black.
You were moving so quickly, you didn’t have the breath to scream. The next thing you knew, you were surrounded by rock and dirt. You knew right then that you were in a cave somewhere. You felt yourself being strung up, and you heard screams from next to you. Those screams were the last thing you heard; you couldn’t feel anything. You opened your eyes just to come face-to-face with this thing. It raised its arm back and let its claws dig into you. You let out a blood-curdling scream; it almost sounded like it was on a loop from how much it echoed off the walls.
You could feel the blood dripping, and you could hear it hit the floor. The creature then walked away, hearing something from a different area of the cold, dark, carved-out piece of the mountainside. You looked over to the right and almost threw up from what you saw. There was a girl about 16, whom you could right away tell was Stacy Birch, the young girl you were looking for. Her face was spattered with blood, and her hair matted with dirt and sweat. Her body looked like it had been hung up out in the woods for wild animals to eat away at it. There was flesh hanging from the bone. The bones were still connected by the sinew, and you could see one of her shoes on the floor while the other still fit around her foot on the leg that was completely torn apart. It was horrifying, one of the worst things you’d ever seen, and you had seen a lot.
You could feel tears falling onto your cheeks, stinging the small lacerations the branches made. From down the damp, stony corridor, you could see two figures running towards you. They got closer, and you could tell that it was Sam and Dean; more tears fell knowing that they were ok.
Dean got to you first and immediately began working on getting you down. Your wrists were bruised and bloody from holding your weight, and your shoulders were sore from being stretched. Blood still steadily dripped from the gashes that spread from the top of your right ribcage to your left hip.
“Hurry, it ’s-it’s going to come back,” you breathed out in fear.
“No, no Sweetheart neither of them will. We got them. You’re ok. C’mon,” he reassured you before lifting you into his arms.
“D…” you said and looked up at him.
He just hummed silently, telling you to continue. “I’m sorry for going off like that, I just knew we couldn’t take on two, it would’ve been easier to take them out separately,” you said.
You were beginning to become more aware. Yes, you were losing blood, but you had to stay awake and look ok. You didn’t want them knowing how bad it really was. “It was a dumb move. You could’ve died.”
He looked down at you, and you could see the fear still ever-present in his green eyes. “Really (y/n), I know what you were doing, but you should’ve-” Sam didn’t get to finish because his brother interrupted.
“You don’t get to talk, Sam, you let her go off!” Dean raised his voice at his younger brother. Sam sighed in annoyance.
“I’m just as upset as you are, Dean. She’s my best friend.” Sam spat back at Dean.
Dean was about to fire back, but you interrupted. “Boys, shut up. Ok, it was my fault, I own up to that ok,” you said.
You struggled against Dean bit until he let you down.
“Stop fighting. You know I hate it,” you scolded them before walking ahead of them. They made sure you were in very close proximity, but they let you walk.
The feeling of Dean staring at you was burning into your back.
You did your best to get your breathing under control and move fluidly so as not to make them worry.
It was obvious that they knew you weren’t doing alright, but they didn’t know the extent, and you planned to keep it that way.
“Sweetheart, slow down!” you heard Dean call out to you. You shook your head, gritting your teeth before plastering on a smile.
“Why don’t you two hurry up. I’d like to get back to the motel and into a hot shower,” you retorted.
The boys looked at each other as soon as you turned away, and shared concerned glances.
You make it to the car first, heaving a sigh as you let yourself rest against it. You took a deep breath and cringed, but when you heard the crunching of leaves behind you, you stood up straight. “Alright, boys, another hunt down,” you smiled.
You knew everyone felt like shit because you couldn’t bring Stacy back to her family. The sight still stuck with you and made you sick. Dean looked you up and down.
“Sweetheart, let me fix you up,” he told you.
You pushed his hands away, though determined to keep him away. “I’m fine, it’s not that bad, honestly. See, I’m standing, I’m not about to pass out. I’m ok, Dean, I promise,” you say and squeeze his hand.
“Really (Y/N), I think it’s best if we at least take a look,” Sam spoke up, doing his best not to sound pushy.
“You guys, I am just fine, ok. It’s not all my blood.” The tone of your voice was an attempt at sounding untroubled.
Dean hated to let you have your way when it came to patching you up, but he knew the battles he could win, and this wasn’t one of them.
“Get in then. Let’s get back to the motel and clean up, get some rest,” he sighed and opened the door for you, kissing your head as you got in.
When you sat back, you could feel the gashes pull a bit more. The blood flow wasn’t rapid, but you could feel it getting to you. You tried your best not to get blood all over the seats, but it was beginning to get difficult for you to keep your eyes open. Finally, you arrived at the motel, and you got out as quickly as you could, wanting to get into the bathroom before either of the boys.
“Damn, roadrunner, slow down,” Dean said. Glaring at him, you spoke up.
“I need to pee, Dean, just give me the damn key.” he looked at you in surprise at your tone.
He handed you the key, and you swiftly unlocked the door and hurried into the bathroom. You flicked on the dingy light, which flickered briefly before illuminating the grime. The shower had a dirty curtain, and the pipes under the sink were rusty. It almost reminded you of a gas station bathroom. You lifted your shirt to finally assess the damage. The gashes were deep but looked almost perfectly placed, deep, but shallow enough for you to last for a while.
You could barely even see the color of your skin; it was like someone had painted you red, it had stained your jeans and your hands.
“Fuck… I can’t let them see this,” you spoke quietly to yourself.
Holding yourself up with your slick hands gripping the edge of the sink as tightly as you could. You looked in the mirror one more time before carefully trying to take your shirt off without hurting yourself further. As you tried to free yourself of your tight clothing, things began to get more blurry by the second. The next thing you know, your hands slip from the fake porcelain, and you're falling to the floor.
---
The boys follow behind you and close the door behind them. Dean’s gaze lands on the key sitting on the table. It was covered in blood, and there was a bloody handprint on the bathroom door as well.
“(y/n)!” Dean calls before practically running to the bathroom door. He didn’t receive an answer, and so he began to knock on the door and yell. “Damn it, (y/n). Answer me!” He yelled.
Still, no answer, and Sam looked at him with worry scrawled across his features. He pushed Dean out of the way and tried the handle. Seeing as Dean was about to kick down the door, he thought it would be better to just try the knob. Sam threw the door open to see you slumped against the wall. Dean pushed his brother out of the way and threw himself onto the floor next to you.
He lifted your shirt and saw how badly you were hurt.
“Shit, Sam, get Cas down here now!” he yelled at his brother.
“Cas! Cas, get down here now!” Sam yelled as Dean stayed by your side.
Dean grabbed towels and pressed them down on your abdomen, trying to stop it from bleeding anymore. “Sweetheart, please. Wake up, please.” Dean pleaded with your unconscious body.
He could feel you begin to go limp, and he began to cry out to Castiel as well.
“Damn it, Castiel! She’s dying. Please!” Dean yelled out in a broken voice. The pain on his face was evident, and his tears had cut through the dirt on his cheek.
“Baby, please. Not you, not now.” Sam heard his brothers pleading, and his heart thundered in his chest as he gave into the thought that he might lose his best friend
A flutter of wings sounded, and Dean’s head snapped up to see Castiel standing there.
“What happened to her?” Cas demanded to know.
He quickly strode to your side, his movements causing his trenchcoat to float slightly behind him. He immediately knelt to see you covered in crimson, and the iron smell of blood flowed through the small, grimy room. Castiel felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of you.
He never thought he’d see the day you were lying in Dean’s arms on the verge of death.
“A Wendigo…” Sam breathed out as he watched intently as Cas placed his hand over your wounds.
Dean held your hand tightly and held his cries back as he waited. The blue glow was strong as Castiel let his grace work to heal you. Both Sam and Dean could see the strain on Cas’ features, the look he had was one of focus. You could see how much grace he was having to use to heal you, and that was the scary thing, knowing that without Cas, you would’ve bled out on the bathroom floor of a motel.
The glow faded, and Castiel fell back with a heavy breath. His back rested against the tub, and his head hung low. They could see that it took a lot out of him to fix you up. Dean picked you up gently and brought you back into the room. He set you down carefully on the bed, not caring if he got blood anywhere. He walked back to the bathroom to see Sam helping Cas back up and onto his feet. Dean sighed heavily and took a step forward, pulling Cas into a hug.
“Thank you, Cas. She would’ve died, we would’ve lost her. I would’ve lost her. Thank you.” Dean spoke in a broken voice. Cas hugged back, still not exactly knowing how to respond to the affection.
“You’re welcome, Dean. I’m glad I got here in time, I never would’ve forgiven myself if I didn’t make it,” he expressed to the boys. Sam placed his arm around Cas as well, thanking him.
Cas stayed there with them until you woke up.
Opening your eyes, the light caused you to cringe, but when you opened them fully, Dean was sitting next to you. He looked down at you and let out a sigh of relief, pulling you up and bringing you close to him. You screwed your eyes shut, expecting a wave of pain, but you felt nothing. Nothing hurt. You pulled back and looked down at yourself to see that your wounds were gone. No scars were left, not a single cut was left on you. You looked up and saw Cas at the end of the bed, and you let out a breath of disbelief and shock.
“You saved my life, Cas. I don’t know how to thank you.” Your voice was scratchy.
“Just seeing you breathing is enough for me,” he told you with a nod and small smile.
Dean was now sitting behind you with his arms around your waist and his forehead resting on your shoulder. Taking a deep breath, you let yourself smile and relax into him.
Sam looked at you with tears in his eyes.
“Oh, Sam, don’t cry. I’m ok now, I’m alive, and you’re gonna be stuck with me for a long time, I promise.” You smiled playfully at him.
The youngest Winchester chuckled and youlet out a soft laugh too.
“You better keep that promise,” his voice held relief, and you sighed.
“I will,” you assured him.
Cas and Sam glanced at each other and agreed it was time to give you a moment with Dean.
The door softly clicked shut behind them, and you turned to look at your boyfriend.
“Dean,” your voice was soft.
You could see how tense he was.
“Look at me, D.” The words were gentle but firm.
He hesitantly lifted his head to look at you. You could see the tear stains on his face, and your heart broke knowing you were the cause.
Your eyes softened as you placed a hand on his cheek.
“What the hell was that?” He asked, his tone was harsh.
You weren’t fazed by it because you knew he was just concerned. He was confused as to why you didn’t tell him or let him help.
“You almost died. You almost bled out on the bathroom floor of a motel. What were you thinking, not letting me help you? Why didn’t you tell me?” His questions came one after another.
“I hate to worry you, I just didn’t want to disappoint you,” you admitted to him.
He looked at you with hurt in his green eyes.
“How could you ever disappoint me (Y/N)?” He asked you and held your face in his hands
“Going out there by myself and getting hurt because of a stupid move I pulled.” Your confession was quiet, and you felt tears prick your eyes.
“I’m not disappointed. I mean, you got the worrying part right, but I’m not disappointed at all. I just love you so much,” he said. The pad of his thumb stroked your cheek. You nodded your head, letting a few tears fall.
“I love you too, Dean.” You said and leaned in to rest your forehead against his.
He took a deep breath and pulled you into his arms. Immediately, you clung to him, letting your head rest in the crook of his neck. Finally safe with the person you called home.
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 1.8k words, Steve is an adorable loser for his gf <3
summary: Everyone loves Steve's girlfriend, but he just wants a little bit of your attention for himself. Is that so bad?
It starts, as many things do, with Dustin Henderson.
You’re curled on the corner of Steve’s couch, your legs tucked under his thigh while he flicks through TV channels. The doorbell rings, and before Steve can even mutter “I’m not home,” the door swings open.
“Hey, is she— oh, there you are!” Dustin beams, dropping his backpack with a thud. "Hi!"
"Hi," you say back, grinning up at him, happy to see him.
He mirrors your smile. “Okay, so I need a second opinion on the naming convention for my new campaign NPC. ‘Zargoth the Destroyer’ or ‘Lord Malador of the Shadowed Vale’?"
"Hmmm, I like Zargoth better. It's more intimidating. Plus, short and sweet, you know what I mean?"
Steve stares, remote dangling from his fingers. “Henderson. My house. A ‘hello’ would be nice. An appointment would be better.”
Dustin waves a dismissive hand. “Hi, Steve. This is important.” He plops down on the floor in front of you, effectively blocking Steve from your line of sight.
It doesn’t stop there.
Two days later, you’re helping Steve sort a mountain of mismatched socks that have just come out of the laundry. Weirdly, it's somewhat of a bonding experience, doing laundry together.
Robin lets herself in, her eyes landing on you like a spotlight.
"Oh, thank God you're here," she breathes.
"Where else would I be?" you joke.
She plops down on the bed, messing up Steve's organised sock piles. He sighs.
“My date with Vickie. At Enzo’s. It’s tomorrow. It’s a real, sit-down, checkered-tablecloth kinda date."
You put down the polka dot socks you were holding to beam at her. "That's amazing, Robin! I know how much you were looking forward to that."
"It is amazing! But it's also a crisis!" She grabs your shoulders, her eyes wide. “What do I wear? Do I go cute? Do I go cool? Do I try for both and risk looking like I’m trying too hard? And my hair— can you braid it?"
Steve holds up two socks that are clearly not a match—one black, one navy. "Hello? We're doing laundry. We were in the zone."
Robin spares him a haphazard glance. "This is important, Dingus." She turns back to you. "Please, I need you. I'm vibrating."
You can't help but laugh. "Okay, okay. I like your outfit now. It's chic, but doesn't look like you're trying too hard. And I can totally braid your hair, but I think it might look better down? Light makeup I can help you with, maybe a little eyeliner on your waterline. I have one I think'd suit you, it's in the bathroom."
Robin tugs on your hand, pulling you up to stand. "You're a genius."
Steve watches, helpless, as you're swept upstairs in a whirlwind of pre-date panic, then back down at his socks. "They're both dark," he mumbles to himself.
The true test of his patience comes during a Friday night movie marathon in the Wheeler’s basement. You’re on the floor, leaned back comfortably between Steve’s knees, his fingers in your hair, scratching absently at your scalp. It’s perfect. It’s your spot.
The movie plays, and Steve is content, his world pleasantly narrowed to the familiar weight of you against him and the scent of your shampoo.
Then, Lucas slides over from his spot next to Mike. He looks desperate. "Hey," he whispers, his voice strained. "I need help. It's an emergency."
You tilt your head back to look up at Steve with an apologetic smile before turning your full attention to Lucas. "What's wrong?"
"I pointed out a zit on Max's face," he confesses in a horrified rush. "I wasn't trying to be mean! I just noticed it! I said, 'Is that a new zit?' and she... she hasn't spoken to me in two hours. She's just been giving me this death glare. What do I do? Do I apologise? Do I ignore it? Do I buy her nail polish? Is nail polish even an apology gift?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, but your eyes are sympathetic. "Oh, Lucas. Okay. First, do not buy her nail polish. That implies you're paying way too much attention to her appearance, which is the problem. Buy her new skateboard bearings, she mentioned she needed some. And definitely apologize. Say, 'I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.' Keep it simple."
Lucas nods frantically, absorbing the instructions like they're a military briefing. "Got it. Thanks." He scuttles back to his spot, already planning his approach.
Steve’s hand has stilled in your hair. You feel him take a slow, deep breath behind you.
Before you can settle back against him, you catch Max’s eye from across the room. She gestures subtly with her head towards Lucas and rolls her eyes, but you see the hurt in them.
You give her a small smile in acknowledgement. Mouth, 'he's sorry. He'll make it up to you.'
Then, Dustin’s head appears, blocking the TV. “Okay, one more question about the D&D character convention. If a—”
But Steve has had enough.
He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is a low, soft murmur, tinged with a vulnerability that makes your heart clutch. “Hey, angel... can we get out of here?”
You twist to look up at him. In the flickering blue light of the TV, his expression isn’t annoyed. It’s wistful. A little tired.
“Yeah,” you whisper back instantly, without hesitation. “Of course.”
You gently extract yourself from his hold and stand up, reaching for your jacket. "We're gonna head out," you announce.
A chorus of groans erupts.
“What? Now?” Dustin whines.
"Yeah, I had a question to ask you!" Mike exclaims. "It's, like, life or death. I think the Chief's gonna kill me if I go see El again—"
“You can’t leave, I haven’t executed the apology protocol yet!” Lucas whisper-yells, panicked.
Steve opens his mouth, a familiar, defensive retort about how you’re not a UN negotiator clearly forming. But you step in before he can.
You smile, soft but firm, and slip your hand into Steve’s. “You guys’ll be fine,” you say, your tone gentle but leaving no room for debate. You turn your smile up to Steve, eyes warm. You give his hand a little squeeze. “I want some alone time with my boyfriend.”
The groans taper into scattered laughs. Max sends you a not very discreet thumbs up.
Steve looks down at you, warmth pooling in his chest. He gives you this look of such pure, dazed adoration it makes your heart skip. He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts your joined hands and presses a firm, grateful kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.
“You heard the lady,” he says to the room, his voice light and full of happy energy. “We’re off-duty. Emergencies will have to wait.”
He leads you up the basement stairs, the sounds of the movie and the kids’ renewed bickering fading behind you.
The second the Wheeler’s front door clicks shut, sealing you both in the cool, quiet dark of the porch, Steve stops. He turns, and in the soft glow of the porch light, his expression is completely unguarded—all soft eyes and a tender, wobbly smile.
“C’mere, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He wraps his arms around you and sways gently on the spot, his cheek resting against your hair.
“My sweet, perfect girl,” he coos, the words a warm rumble against your temple. "You were so patient with them, solving everyone’s problems.”
He pulls back just far enough to cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones with a reverence that makes you feel dizzy.
He’s beaming at you, his eyes shining with so much affection it’s almost overwhelming. He leans in and peppers a flurry of soft, quick kisses all over your face—your forehead, your nose, each eyelid, your cheeks—murmuring between each one.
"My smart girl... giving everyone life advice... always being so kind and helpful and perfect..."
He finally lands on your lips, kissing you slow and deep, a kiss that tastes like gratitude and awe. When he breaks away, he’s breathless, his forehead resting against yours.
“I’m gonna melt into a puddle right here on Mrs. Wheeler’s porch,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with feeling. "The way you handle them all, and then you just… you turn those big, beautiful eyes on me and say that? In front of everyone?” He lets out a shaky laugh, his nose nuzzling against yours. “I’m done for. Completely done for.”
He hugs you again, squeezing you tight and lifting you just an inch off the ground. “C’mon, my love,” he says, "let's go to my place. I just want to look at you for a while. Is that okay? I just wanna hold my girl and look at her.”
You laugh, the sound full of softness and affection for your sweet, adorable boyfriend. "It's more than okay. Take me home, please, baby. I'm all yours."
A soft, almost wounded sound escapes him and he hugs you impossibly tighter for a second, his face buried in your neck. "Oh, my heart. You're gonna kill me. You're so perfect."
Steve finally lets you go, but only to take your hand, lacing your fingers together in a grip that feels reverent. He leads you to the car, opening the passenger door for you with a soft, "In you go, gorgeous."
The drive to his house is quiet, but the silence is thick with a new, syrupy sweetness. He keeps your hand in his lap, his thumb stroking incessantly over your knuckles when he's not changing gears.
"Just look at you," he murmurs at one red light, his free hand reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're so beautiful. I can't believe you're mine."
"I am," you remind him softly, leaning into his touch.
"I know," he breathes, like it's the greatest mystery and miracle of his life at the same time, somehow. "I know, baby. And I'm never letting go."
Once home, he doesn't even turn on the main lights. He guides you to the living room couch by the faint glow from the kitchen. He sits down and pulls you into his lap, arranging you so you're sideways, your legs draped over his, your head tucked perfectly under his chin. He wraps both arms around you, letting out a long, contented sigh.
"Here we go," he whispers, his lips against your hair. "Right where I wanted you all night. Just my girl and me."
You hum, a soft, contented sound as you melt into his warmth, all the busy energy of the night finally draining away.
Steve presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "You must be so tired, sweet thing," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble in his chest. "Taking care of everyone all the time." His hand rubs slow, comforting circles on your back. "My sweet, exhausted angel."
He leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "But you know what?"
"Hmm?"
He tightens his arms around you. "It's okay," he murmurs. "You can help whoever you want, baby. 'Cos when you're done taking care of everyone else..." He presses a fond kiss into your hair. "I'll be right here taking care of you."
Summary: Eddie's version of A Kiss x3. Three different kisses for three different scenarios.
1.
You were sitting at your spot in the woods behind the school, waiting for your boyfriend to arrive. Sitting on top of the old wooden picnic table, your nose was buried in “Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption”. You were reading it for what seemed like the millionth time, and still, it had the same effect as when you read it for the first time.
You didn’t hear the leaves crunching as Eddie walked over to you. “Babe?” he asked, and you jumped a bit, not noticing he was there. “Crap, you scared me,” you said letting out a breathless chuckle. He smiled at you, “Sorry, Sweetheart,” he said, and sat on the bench in front of you. “You’re reading it again?” he asked in amusement. “What do you expect of me?” you asked and placed a hand over your heart dramatically. “Nothing more,” he said as you smiled down at him.
Marking your place you set the book down. “Do you remember the day I gave that to you?” he asked and you nodded your head. “I do,” you said. “It was the same day you asked me to be your girlfriend,” you said and grabbed the hands that were placed on your knees. “Yeah it was one of the best days of my life,” he said and leaned forward to place a kiss on your knee. “Can I be honest with you?” you asked him. He looked at you with furrowed brows, he didn’t show it but he was a bit worried. “Of course, you can always be honest with me. I’d prefer it actually,” he said with a huff of a laugh.
“I love you,” you told him.
His eyes went wide and he could’ve sworn his heart stopped. You looked at him nervously, scared that you had said it too early. “I’m sorry-I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it ok,” you said and began to move but he stopped you. “Hey, hey, hey, baby stop,” he said and held you in place. He knelt on the bench and gripped your face in his hands. You looked at him with a doe-eyed gaze. He could see the fear in your eyes and he knew he needed to say something.
He licked his lips trying to find the words to say. “Listen to me,” he said and let his thumbs smooth along your cheeks. You softly nodded. “I have loved you long before I knew what being in love was,” he said and you teared up. “And I’ll love you long after we’re gone,” he told you and you sniffled. He swiped the tears away from your cheeks, and kissed your forehead. “That’s not fair, you said it better than me,” you spoke quietly and he chuckled.
“Maybe I love you more,” he teased. “No way Munson, I’d write you thousands and millions of poems and novels, and play writes, and sonnets, and letters of how much I love you and I’d still not be able to tell you how much you mean to me,” you said and he smiled brightly at you. “That’s not fair, you said it better than me,” he teased. You swatted his shoulder.
“Can I say it?” you asked softly as he moved to place his hands on your waist. He nodded his head with a silly grin. “I love you Eddie,” you said and reached forward to wrap your arms around his neck. “I love you too, (y/n),” he said before leaning in and kissing you. He whispered soft I love yous between kisses and you couldn’t help but smile as his kisses managed to find their way all across your face.
2.
“Eds,” you said with a big smile. He looked over at you, “Yeah,” you walked over to him where he sat on the bed. Looking up at you he raised his brow. “Would you dance with me?” you asked and held your hand out to him. He chuckled and gave you a smile.
“I’m pretty busy actually,” he said and you knew that he meant he was working on some new songs. “Ok,” you said and pouted a bit as you flopped down next to him and he laughed. Your face was smooshed against the pillow, “How about this, I’ll dance with you when I finish this next verse,” he said and you smiled up at him. “Really?” you asked excitedly. “Yeah, really,” he said and leaned down to kiss your head.
You close your eyes and let out a contented hum as you nuzzled into his pillow. He smiled down at you and looked back down at his notebook. He began to hum a tune and your mind became foggier as he carried on. You instinctually reached your hand out to grasp at any part of him that you could, only coming across the fabric of his loose shirt. He looked down and laughed softly before running a hand through your hair.
Eddie had finished writing the verse about 30 minutes ago and decided to just let you sleep for a while. Lying next to you, and quietly holding a one-sided conversation. You slowly drifted closer to him in your unconscious state. He chuckled when you mumbled his name sleepily and watched as your eyes fluttered open.
“Hey Sweetheart,” he said and traced your cheek with his fingertip. “Hi, Eds,” you said and rubbed the sleep from your bleary eyes. “Did you sleep well?” he asked and you nodded.
“How long have I been asleep?” you asked and grabbed his hand and held it to your cheek.
“About 30 minutes,” he said and your eyes widened a bit.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep, we were supposed to dance,” you pouted slightly. “We can still dance, baby,” he said.
“You want to?” you asked him. “‘Course I do,” he told you and you smiled. “Ok, c’mon,” you said and began to sit up.
Before you were off the bed you felt yourself being picked up. You squealed and Eddie laughed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. He held you bridal style and placed a kiss on your forehead.
“I could’ve gotten up,” you laughed. “Well, I didn’t want you to,” he said and you looked at him with a raised brow. “And why is that?” you asked softly. “Because I don’t need your legs to be tired before we dance,” he said and you laughed.
“Oh, that’s a valid reason,” you joked and he nodded. “I know,” he said and you chuckled.
He set you down, music had been playing all day and so it was already on. He placed his hands on your hips and you wrapped yours around his neck. You started swaying to the music and you chuckled. He looked down at you with a raised brow. “What’s funny?” he asked. “Slow dancing to rock music,” you said and rested your head on his shoulder. He smiled and pressed a kiss to your head. “Will you always slow dance to rock music with me?” you asked and peered up at him. He raised one hand and swiped his fingers over your cheek. “Always,” he said and you smiled before moving a bit closer. He held you tighter. “Can I have a kiss, Eds?” you said and pulled back to look at him.
“Of course, you can, Sweetheart,” he told you and leaned down to press his lips to yours. You gently placed your hands on his cheeks. He smiled against your lips before pulling away. “One more?” you asked with a soft smile. He chuckled and leaned back in to place a soft kiss on your lips one more time.
3.
You sat in on the new campaign that Eddie had created and it was going great. Watching the boys play was something that had always brought you joy, ever since you started dating Eddie, he let you watch their games. You had come to love the boys so much and they loved you too, you were practically family now. The game had been going on for a long time and you were getting sleepy. Long days had been coming quite frequently in the most recent weeks. Today had been one of those long days and your eyes were heavy before long.
Before you knew it you were being tapped on the shoulder, and your eyes were fluttering open. You smiled when you felt your boyfriend’s hand being placed on your cheek. His cold rings were a telltale sign that it was him.
“Hello, my love,” you said and reached up to wrap your hand around his wrist. He smiled right back at you. “Hey, Sweetheart,” he responded and kissed your forehead. “Game’s over,” he mumbled into your hairline before placing one more lingering kiss there.
“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” you quickly said as you sat up. Your brows furrowed in disappointment that you missed the session.
“Hey, hey, no it’s ok. There’s always next time, now c’mon how about we get home huh?” he asked and you sighed softly before nodding.
“Alright, I’ll help you clean up,” you told him and stood from your spot. “I already did, no worries babe,” he said and grabbed your bag for you before slinging it over his shoulder. You let your shoulders sag, “What? Eddie,” you whined. “It’s ok babe, it was an easy clean up,” he pressed a kiss to the back of your head. “I wanted to help you,” you said and looked back at him with a pout. “Well you can help me next time alright?” he asked and you nodded your head. “Ok,” you let out a huff of air before letting your boyfriend guide you out the door.
“I won't fall asleep next time, Eds I promise.” You said and reached to grab his hand. He looked down at you just to see you already gazing up at him. Seconds later, his hand dropped yours. Sadness flooded through, for about 5 seconds; his arm then wrapped around your shoulder tugging you against him. Eddie turned to face you.
“I don't need you to promise me anything. I just want you well rested and comfortable.” He told you sincerely.
Your expression seemed to grow softer at his words. “I know how important this is to you and I hope you know I support you.” Your voice was as sweet as the way you looked at him and his heart melted.
He placed a hand on your cheek, his rings cold just like before, but the warmth of him so close soothed away the chill. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist as he leaned closer. Both of your noses barely touching, his breath warm on your lips. The anticipation of a first kiss never left no matter how many times his lips met yours.
Eyes fluttered closed and his lips pressed to yours.
Once.
Twice.
You began to pull away, but he just couldn’t seem to let you go, and he went back in for another kiss. You smiled into it, and he did too.
“I fall more in love with you everyday. Did you know that?” The words rolled so effortlessly off his tongue.
sit next to me (please) [eddie munson x fem!reader]
you've always hated touch, avoided it ardently - until he came along.
warnings: use of she/her pronouns for reader, touch-avoidant reader, lots of yearning, talk of personal boundaries, readers becomes touch-starved for one (1) man, consumption of alcohol and weed, very slow burn.
word count: 11.2k+
a/n: this was originally titled "would that i" and i believe that i wrote it while listening to the hozier song, craving some super soft eddie all those moons ago. sorry that i tried to bury this one in the graveyard, y'all. i self-projected like all hell onto this reader as well lmao
dividers by @saradika-graphics
How one person can be such a walking contradiction, no one knows.
There is a softness to you. It bleeds out of you, endless and endearing to all those around you. The way you’ll converse with friends with shining eyes, the way you close doors with care, the way you treat your favorite novel like a newborn babe. With both all the inanimate and animate objects around you, your touch is ever warm, ever tender. Like the sweep of a thin curtain sheet in a summer's breeze, or plush grass beneath calves in a verdant spring. Your touch is something to experience, and that was where the dichotomy came into play.
Your touch was deeply sought after, and was a rarity all on its own.
You were amongst the softest people in your friend group, and yet, rarely did you find yourself to be particularly physical. Your petal affections were usually restricted to affirmative words and acts of kindness. Your friends knew that if they needed words of encouragement, you should be the first person they ran to. If they needed a hug, however, you were not.
It’s not because you were cruel or against the displays of physicality. You were just awkward with them. You would turn frigid over the brush of another’s skin against your own. You’d tried to change over the years, offering more goodbye hugs, more spontaneous playing with Nancy’s hair or high fives exchanged with Steve when you kicked one of the younger boys’ asses at the arcade. You tried. But it was hard — something had rooted itself in you long ago that continued to choke you and limit just how much you could handle when it came to another’s touch.
When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust.
Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you.
The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.
They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness.
Until Eddie.
The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.
And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life.
That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.
He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.
Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-
“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.”
He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached.
You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable.
You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings.
But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.
Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.
No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them.
The second time, it stung even more.
Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass.
But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.
You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.
You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.
Everyone but you.
When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.
He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly.
That’s it. That’s all.
Fuck.
“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you.
He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.”
If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.
When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair.
You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained.
You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.
“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.
No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t.
It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied.
You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.
You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.
You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling?
The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble.
Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap.
After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.
Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up.
You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched.
“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?”
Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.
Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?”
The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.
Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!”
“Do not!”
“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.”
“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?”
“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.”
“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?”
Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut.
You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.
“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.”
“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”
Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”
“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”
You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.
The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.
You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!
“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.”
To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them.
You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.
Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them.
“I need your help.”
Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen.
“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“
“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.”
Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“
You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.
“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?”
This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.
“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”
Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in.
“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.”
“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“
“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”
There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom.
“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“
“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.”
There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?”
You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers.
You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?”
“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?”
It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”
“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.”
The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him.
And so you do.
Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group.
All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.
By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.
“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him.
You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.”
A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.
The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie.
The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.
The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had.
During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you.
You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.
“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks.
“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?”
You nod.
There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch.
Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.
Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.
You pray to God her plan works.
“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”
He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically.
You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.
Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.
He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats.
Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.
“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked.
You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-
You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.”
And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss.
Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.
You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue.
“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”
And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly.
Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.
“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?”
He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-
“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.”
It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.”
For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning.
“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues.
“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.”
“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.”
“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.
He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.”
On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.
“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable.
Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!”
Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.
If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection?
“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed.
The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.
You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his.
You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity.
Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan.
“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you.
Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.”
Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile.
If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.
“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction.
Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud.
But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad.
You try not to think of it too hard.
You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.
You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.
This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too.
To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.
You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation.
God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks.
What if he doesn’t want that?
The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.
“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.”
She doesn’t even have to say your name.
Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“
“Oh, I know she would have.”
Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.
“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.
“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”
Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”
“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?”
Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?”
It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.
It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.
“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”
“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.
Don’t blow this, Dingus.
“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”
“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“
“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”
He’s not convinced.
So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.”
A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you.
“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?”
Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.”
“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.
“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.”
They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them.
The house is a ghost town from above.
“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.”
Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.
You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you.
“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs.
When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.
“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.
He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.”
You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?”
“You have no clue.”
A warning glare comes from Robin.
Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory.
When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.
Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.
He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.
Whatever Robin had said was working.
“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you.
Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight.
It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin.
When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.
When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.
You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?”
Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.
You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.
Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?”
“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.
Warmth. Tender. Softness.
Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.
“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.
Robin.
She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.
“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.”
A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head.
“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.”
“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.
A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside.
And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn.
“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.
He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.
“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him.
That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days.
Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.
You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled.
“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?”
Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down.
Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room.
They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.
“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.
You felt his breath on your ear. A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact.
“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.”
“Very.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.”
“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.
You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.
“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.
“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.”
“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.”
You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.”
“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.”
You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.
A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb.
“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.
Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.
“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“
“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.
Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”
Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.
The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you.
You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night.
They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.
The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.
Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.
And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.
“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?”
He doesn’t have to ask you twice.
You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes.
“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.
You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.
“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.”
“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.
“It is some big secret?”
“Nope.”
“Hmph.”
This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter.
“What?”
His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.”
For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold.
It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored.
“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault.
You produce his lighter like magic.
“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.”
“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.”
In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.
“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.
“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.
You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking.
You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did-“
“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.
Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.
“Ask away, sweetheart.”
A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?”
He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be.
It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though.
“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I guess,” he repeats.
Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do.
When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary.
For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that.
“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”
The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.
“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you.
“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.”
Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.
Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more.
“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”
Another crack.
“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”
A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.
“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”
“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.”
One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter.
You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite.
“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?”
He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down.
It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana.
One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment.
Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.
His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.
His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you.
He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment.
It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you.
He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?”
A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.
“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.”
“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?”
You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.
“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.”
You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember.
“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?”
“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.”
“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.”
You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.”
“Oh, have I?”
His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other.
Tonight all these lives converge here
The mosaics of laughter and cocktails of tears
Where fraternal souls sing identical things
And it’s beautiful
It’s rapturous.
It is frightening.
____
I can’t tell you how proud I am to share this with you, an album that just feels so right. A forever thank you goes out to my mentors and friends Max and Shellback for helping me paint this self portrait.
If you thought the big show was wild, perhaps you should come and take a look behind the curtain…
The Life of a Showgirl is out now.
https://taylor.lnk.to/TSTheLifeofaShowgirl
Album Producers: Max Martin, Shellback and Taylor Swift
