@tropevarietyhour (The Lies We Tell) Day 4: Were You Ever Going to Tell Me?
@fandombingo (The Blooming Hour): Choosing to Keep The Illness
@julybreakbingo: Having feelings for someone but not telling them because they like that person being with another
Tim is not a coward. This is something Kon has always known, even back when they used to butt heads all the time. Tim has always been sure of himself: his purpose, his methods, his strengths and weaknesses. Kon never thought… well, he never pictured Tim, his Robin, as someone who doubted his place as a vigilante or questioned his place in his family and teams. To Kon, Tim has always been the reliable leader, someone to go to for answers and help; brave and fearless against all odds, a backup plan always in his pocket.
So to see Tim pale in the hospital bed, breathing weakly as the heart monitor beeped in the otherwise silent room, Kon still couldn’t believe it. Because why did Tim keep his condition a secret? Kon loves Tim, always has. And he thought Tim knew, the way Tim knows everything about everyone.
But Tim didn’t know, because he thought Kon should be with Cassie — even though the Kryptonian has always had his eyes for Robin — and now here they are. And Kon can’t even shout at him for being stupid and clueless. Robin is not a coward, Kon wants to remind Tim, wants to shake his shoulders and demand an explanation.
Instead, he grips Tim’s limp hand, head lowering as he brings it to his lips. He can feel Tim’s pulse through the thin skin, hear the sluggish way the heart fights to keep Tim alive. “Were you ever going to tell me?” His eyes mist as tears trail down his cheeks, his breath hitching when Tim doesn’t respond.
He presses a kiss against a faint scar, right between Tim’s knuckles where he scraped it on a brick wall chasing after a rogue. There are many scars on Tim from over the years, but this takes the cake over everything Tim has explained. “Rao, Tim, why did you keep quiet about this?”
Bruce goes to Smallville to attend an opera, accidentally finds his soulmate.
///
Medallion.
A medallion is a round metal disc which some people wear as an ornament, especially on a chain round their neck.
Words: 1,290
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Scars, Courting Rituals, No Dynamic Clark Kent, Omega Bruce Wayne, Crush at First Sight, Pre-Relationship, Not Beta Read, Not Edited, Awkward Flirting, Jewelry
@fandombingo The Blooming Hour Bingo — Lovers with matching scar patterns
@multifandom-flash Soulmates — As you come of age, your soulmate's name appears on your wrist
@superbateveryweek Superbat For All Seasons Bingo — Opera
Summary: You Lie in Order to Keep Crowley from saving you. [WC 1.2K] [Ao3]
Warnings: no use of "y/n", hurt,hurt/comfort, angst
Pairing: Crowley x Reader
Fandom: Supernatural
A/N: look at me participating in more stuff! written for @fandombingo & their The Blooming Hour Prompt Challenge the prompt for this one was "Pretending Not To Love Them So They'll Survive"
The first time you lie to him, it tastes like soot in your mouth. “I don’t love you.” The words fall between you like something dead, something that should’ve meant more—something that did mean more, once.
Crowley goes still. Not the theatrical stillness he uses when he’s plotting or posturing. No, this is quieter. Dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with hellfire and everything to do with the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to peel the truth out of your skin. “…Say that again,” he murmurs.
You don’t hesitate. You can’t. “I don’t love you.” You can barely keep your gaze on him.
There’s a flicker of something raw beneath his usual smirk. Hurt. Real, sharp, human hurt. It vanishes almost immediately, swallowed by the King of Hell persona like it never existed. “Right,” he says lightly, too lightly. “Course you don’t. Silly me.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. You hate that you know the difference. You hate that you’re the cause of it.
—
You’d seen the contract. Not yours. His. A blade pressed to the throat of a demon king, written in blood and binding magic so old it made your teeth ache just looking at it. Your name woven into every line. Your life, your soul, your breath—the price.
If the human is loved… she is leverage. If she is leverage… she is expendable.
They weren’t bluffing. You’ve hunted long enough to recognize a real threat when it stares you down. So you did the only thing you could. You made yourself worthless.
—
Crowley doesn’t touch you after that. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t look at you the same. And God, that might be the worst part. Because you’d braced for anger. For retaliation. For sharp words and sharper smiles. That would’ve been easier—something to fight, something to push back against.
But this? This quiet distance? This polite indifference? It guts you.
“Careful, darling,” he says one night when you nearly walk into him. His voice is smooth again, detached. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”
You swallow hard. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want that.” Your chest feels like it’s collapsing inward.
He nods, stepping around you without another glance. Like you’re nothing. Like you meant it.
—
It works. That’s the worst, most twisted part. The demons stop watching you so closely. The whispers fade. The threat loosens its grip, just enough for you to breathe again.
You should feel relieved. Safe. Instead, you feel like you’re dying in slow motion. Because Crowley believes you. Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? You said it. Twice.
And Crowley—King of Hell, master of deals, professional skeptic—has always, always believed actions over words.
And now? Your actions scream indifference. You don’t reach for him. You don’t argue like you used to. You don’t care. So he stops caring too.
Until the night everything goes wrong. You should’ve known they wouldn’t let it go completely. Deals like that don’t disappear—they wait.
The trap snaps shut fast. Too fast. You’re on your knees before you even register what’s happening, something sharp and burning digging into your ribs, sigils flaring bright beneath you.
A voice hisses, “He doesn’t love you anymore, does he?”
You don’t answer. You don’t need to. That was the point.
Crowley arrives in a storm of smoke and fury. “Touch her again,” he says, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll personally see to it that Hell forgets your name ever existed.”
They laugh. Actually laugh. Because they think they’ve won. “She’s not leverage anymore,” one of them sneers. “You made that quite clear.”
Crowley’s jaw tightens. For a split second—just a split second—you see it again. That flicker. That crack. “Yeah,” he says coldly. “I did.”
Your heart drops. Of course. Of course he would play along. Of course he’d protect himself. This is what you wanted. This is what you needed. So why does it feel like your lungs are caving in?
“Kill her, then,” Crowley adds, almost bored. “Means nothing to me.”
The words hit harder than the blade. You force your face blank. Good. Good. This is working. You’re safe.
The moment the demon turns toward you, Crowley moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s not strategy. It’s instinct. Violent. Immediate. Feral. He tears through them like a man possessed, magic cracking the air, red smoke and screams filling the room until there’s nothing left but silence and the sound of your own ragged breathing. And him. Standing over you. Shaking.
“You absolute—” His voice breaks, and he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his face. “You said—”
“I lied.”
The truth slips out before you can stop it. Because you can’t do this anymore. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when he came anyway. Not when he chose you anyway.
Crowley goes very still. “…What?”
“I lied,” you repeat, softer now. “I had to.”
His eyes narrow, searching, calculating—but there’s something frantic underneath it now. “Start talking.”
So you do. You tell him everything. The contract. The threats. The way your name was written like a death sentence tied to his heart. You tell him you thought if you broke it—if you broke him—you could keep him safe.
You expect anger. Rage. Something explosive.
Instead, he laughs. Sharp. Disbelieving. A little hysterical. “You thought pushing me away would keep me out of it?” he snaps. “Sweetheart, I’m the bloody King of Hell. There is no ‘out of it.’”
“I was trying to protect you!”
“And I was trying to protect you!”
The words collide between you, loud and messy and real.
Silence follows. Heavy. Breathing. Close.
“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to rip something like that away and call it protection.”
Your throat tightens. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Ask,” he shoots back. “Fight. Trust me, for once.”
“I do trust you.”
“Funny way of showing it.”
You flinch. That lands.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to outrun something clawing at his chest.
Then he stops. Looks at you. Really looks this time. “…Say it again,” he says, quieter now. Not a command. Not quite a plea. Something in between.
Your heart stutters. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “Don’t push it.”
A beat.
Then, softer, he says,. “The truth. This time.”
You step closer, despite everything, despite the fear still clinging to your bones. “I love you.” No hesitation. No lie. Just truth. Raw and terrifying and yours.
Crowley closes his eyes for a second like it physically hits him. When he opens them again, the walls are gone. “…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thought you might.” And then he’s pulling you into him—fierce, almost desperate, like he’s making up for every second he thought he’d lost you. “You ever pull something like that again,” he mutters into your temple, voice rough, “I’ll drag you to Hell myself just so I can keep an eye on you.”
You huff a weak laugh against his chest. “That’s your version of romantic?”
“Don’t mock the classics, darling.”
But his grip tightens. Just a little. Like he’s still afraid you might disappear if he lets go.
[Square 1] If It Helps || Summary: you're in pain, and Castiel tries to help you, no matter hat it hurts him immensely as well. [Castiel x Reader]
[Square 2] Swelling Bruises || Summary: every time you lie, a painful bruises swells somewhere on your body. You refuse to tell Crowley who cursed you. [Crowley x Reader]
[Square 3] No Marks Left || Summary: When Loki sees bruises and marks all over your body, he demands a name. [Loki x Reader]
[Square 4] Flowers in Hell || Summary: You spend hundreds of years running away from Lucifer, hoping and praying (haha!) that he'd never once find you. So you set up shop in some nowhere-ville. [Lucifer x Reader]
[Square 5] Stronger Than You Know || Summary: you've always been a lot stronger than people take you for and you're tired of people doubting you. [Crowley x reader]
[Square 6] Where The Flowers Bleed || Summary: You have plans that you hope Crowley doesn't stop [Crowley x reader]
[Square 7] Never This Again || Summary: he was acting different than he normally was. It wasn't for a while until you discovered everything. [Loki x Reader]
[Square 8] Red Strings Pulling Unto Us || Summary: you're staring at yourself one day only to come face to face with the strings of your fate... and all the secrets of before. [Castiel x Reader]
[Square 9] Faceless Within My Soul || Summary: You couldn't see faces, only auras and emotions. So when a stranger comes along, you begin to get familiar with his emotions in a way you'd never imagined.
Summary: You couldn't see faces, only auras and emotions. So when a stranger comes along, you begin to get familiar with his emotions in a way you'd never imagined. [WC 852] [ao3]
Warnings: no use of "y/n", reader cannot see faces, hint of love
Pairing: Castiel x Reader
Fandom: Supernatural
A/N: look at me participating in more stuff! written for @fandombingo & their The Blooming Hour Prompt Challenge the prompt for this one was "You Can See Emotions But Not Faces". This was my last fill for this card. I will be writing prompts for another of their cards v soon, stay tuned!
You’ve never seen a face in your life. Not your own. Not your parents’. Not the strangers brushing past you on the street. Just… color. Emotion bleeds off people in shifting, living hues—auras that curl and flicker like smoke. Joy is warm gold, grief a deep, suffocating blue. Fear trembles in sharp, fractured violet. It’s how you navigate the world. It’s how you survive. It's all you've ever known in your life.
You meet him on a night that smells like rain and iron.
Everyone else in the gas station glows with the usual chaos—irritation, boredom, exhaustion—but then he walks in, and the entire room… stills.
Not physically. Emotionally. Where others are storms, he is, nothing. A hollow. A void so complete it makes your chest tighten.
You turn toward him instinctively, squinting at the absence where a person should be.
“…Hello,” he says.
His voice is steady. Measured. Almost curious.
You swallow. “That’s… unsettling.”
A pause.
“I’ve been told that before.”
—
You see him again. And again. He starts appearing like a pattern you can’t quite break—always quiet, always watching. And always, always that impossible emptiness where feeling should be.
Until one day it changes.
—
You’re sitting on the hood of your car, tracing the faint flicker of your own emotions reflected in the windshield, when he approaches.
“I believe I am… improving,” he says.
You look up. And freeze. Because for the first time, there’s something there. Faint. Barely there. But real. A dim, flickering blue—uncertain and fragile—clinging to him like it doesn’t quite know how to exist yet.
Your breath catches. “…What is that?”
He tilts his head. “What is what?”
“You—there’s—” You slide off the hood, stepping closer without thinking. “You have something now.”
His brow furrows, though you can’t see it—you feel the shift, the slight ripple in that fragile color. “Something?” he echoes.
“Emotion,” you whisper. “You didn’t before.”
Silence stretches between you.
Then, quietly, he says, “I have been learning.”
—
It becomes your thing. You describe what he can’t perceive. “Right now you’re… kind of gray,” you tell him once, pacing slowly around him. “But not empty-gray. More like—like a sky before a storm. Heavy. Thinking too much.”
“I see,” he says. He doesn’t.
Another time, you laugh softly. “That’s new. There’s gold—just a little. You’re… happy.”
“I am not familiar with that sensation,” he admits.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”
The problem is, you don’t know what he looks like. Not his eyes. Not his smile. Not the way his expression might soften when he listens to you ramble. You know everyone else by their faces eventually—voices, posture, habits—but him? He’s just that shifting, growing constellation of feeling.
And somehow… That’s worse. It's so much worse to you. Because you’re starting to memorize him in a way that feels too intimate. Too permanent.
—
One night, his colors surge. Violent. Chaotic. A storm of deep reds and fractured blacks that make you stumble back.
“Castiel—?”
“I have made a mistake,” he says, voice tight.
You don’t understand the details—hunters, angels, something gone wrong—but you feel it. The guilt clawing through him, the grief pressing down like a crushing weight.
You step forward anyway. “Hey—hey, look at me.”
“I am.”
“No, I mean—” You hesitate, then laugh weakly. “Okay, bad choice of words.”
A flicker—something softer tries to break through the storm.
You reach out, hands hovering before finally settling against his coat. “I don’t need to see your face,” you say quietly. “I know you.”
The red fractures. The black recedes. And there it is again—that fragile, impossible blue.
“But I do not know you,” he says.
You blink. “What?”
“I cannot see what you feel.”
Your throat tightens. “…Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”
He studies you—or at least, you think he does. “I would like to.”
You shake your head. “Trust me, you don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s messy,” you say with a hollow laugh. “Because half the time I don’t even understand it myself.”
A pause.
Then, softer he says, “I believe I would like to try.”
It hits you then. Hard. Because everyone you’ve ever known has been readable. Predictable. Their emotions laid bare whether they liked it or not. But him? He had been nothing. And now he’s choosing to feel. Choosing to be known.
You step closer again, your voice quieter now. “You’re… blue,” you tell him. “But warmer than before. There’s—there’s gold in it, too.”
“What does that mean?”
You hesitate. Because you’ve seen this color before. You’ve felt it curling in your own chest, impossible and terrifying and inevitable. “…It means you care,” you say finally.
Silence.
“That is… acceptable.”
You huff out a soft laugh. “High praise, Cas.”
Your hand finds his again. And even without a face— Even without eyes or smiles or anything solid to hold onto— You know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, exactly how he feels about you.
And maybe… Just maybe, that is enough for you. Yeah, that's enough.
Summary: you're staring at yourself one day only to come face to face with the strings of your fate... and all the secrets of before. [WC 1.3K] [ao3]
Warnings: Angst, no use of "y/n", falling in love again, discovering timelines
Fandom: SPN
Pairing:Castiel x Reader (GN?)
A/N: written for @fandombingo "Red String Stitched into Your Skin" filling my eighth square.
You don’t notice it all at once. It starts as an itch. Low, persistent, just beneath your collarbone—like a tag scratching at your skin from a shirt or a healing cut pulling tight when you move the wrong way. You ignore it for hours. Then a day. Then two. Until you finally stand in front of your mirror, tug your shirt down, and look.
At first, it doesn’t register. It’s too thin. Too precise. A single red line, barely thicker than a thread, embedded just beneath your skin. Not sitting on top of it—not a scratch, not a scar. Inside.
You frown, leaning closer. “…What the hell?” The line shifts.
You jerk back so hard you hit the sink behind you. Because it moves. Not like a muscle twitch. Not like your pulse. It slides—slow, deliberate—like something is pulling it from the inside. Your fingers press against it before you can stop yourself.
It burns. Not surface pain. It's almost like something deeper, like the heat is travelling along your veins, threading through you, curling around your ribs.
You gasp and yank your hand away. “Nope. Nope—nope, that’s not normal—”
“You are correct.”
You spin around. He’s just… there. No door opening. No footsteps. No warning. A man in a trench coat standing in your apartment like he belongs there. Still. Silent. Watching you like he’s been waiting. Your heart slams against your ribs. “Who the hell are you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes—too blue, too intense—flick down to your chest. To the thread. “It has manifested,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“Okay, that’s not an answer—”
“It is not supposed to.”
You stare at him. Every instinct you have is screaming that something is wrong. But something else—something quieter, deeper—feels… Relieved. Like you’ve been waiting for him without knowing why.
“Get out,” you say, even though your voice doesn’t quite hold the strength you want it to.
He doesn’t move. “I cannot.”
“Yeah, you can,” you snap, backing toward the door anyway. “Try really hard.”
His gaze lifts to yours, steady. Unblinking. “If I leave,” he says, “the tether will continue to tighten without my awareness.”
“…The what?”
He steps closer. And the thread reacts. It pulls. Hard.
You gasp, hand flying to your chest as that deep, burning sensation flares again—stronger this time, sharper, like something is being drawn tight inside you. “Stop—!”
He freezes instantly.
The pain eases, but it doesn’t disappear. It lingers, throbbing faintly beneath your skin.
Your breath comes uneven.
“What did you just do to me?”
“I did nothing,” he says again, but this time there’s something heavier behind it. “It is responding to proximity.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It is meant to inform you.”
You could hardly stop the eye roll. “Oh, great. I feel super informed right now.”
He studies you for a long moment. Like he’s trying to decide how much you can handle. Or how much he can bear to say.
“It is a bond,” he finally says. “A tether between two beings.”
Your stomach twists. “Like… soulmates?”
His expression flickers. “No.” The way he says it—too quick, too sharp—tells you everything you need to know.
Your gaze drops back to the thread. It’s longer now. You swear it is. It trails further down your chest than it did before, curling faintly toward your ribs like it’s searching for something. Or someone.
“…Why is it inside me?” you whisper.
“Because that is where I placed it.”
The room goes very, very still.
Your head snaps up. “You—what?”
Regret. It flashes across his face so quickly you almost miss it. “I did not intend for it to take root this way.”
“You put something inside me and didn’t think that might be important to mention first?”
“It was not supposed to remain.”
Your pulse pounds. “Start explaining. Now.”
He exhales—unnecessarily, you realize. A habit, maybe. Something learned. “It was a failsafe,” he says. “A way to find you again.”
Your breath catches. “Again?”
The thread pulses. Hard. And suddenly your world fractures. You’re not in your apartment. You’re somewhere vast. Endless. Light—blinding, golden, alive—stretching in every direction. Wings. Wings. Not yours—his. And you—You’re standing in front of him, unafraid, your hand pressed to his chest like it belongs there.
“You found me,” you’re saying—no, you’ve already said it.
“I always do,” he answers.
You rip back into your body with a gasp. Your knees nearly give out. He’s there before you hit the ground. Hands on your arms—steady, grounding. Careful. Always, always careful.
“…That wasn’t a dream,” you whisper.
“No.”
Your fingers curl into his coat without thinking. “Then what was it?”
He hesitates. And that hesitation is worse than anything he could say. “A memory,” he admits.
Your chest aches. “That’s not possible.”
“It is.”
“I’ve never met you before.”
“Yes,” he says quietly. “You have.”
The thread tightens again. Not painful this time—just present. Like it’s listening.
“How many times?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer.
Your grip tightens on him. “How many times, Castiel?” You don’t know how you know his name.
His eyes close briefly. “Enough,” he says, “that I should have stopped trying.”
Your heart stutters. “But you didn’t.”
“No.”
Silence stretches between you. Heavy. Full.
“…Why?”
His gaze lifts to yours again. And this time— There’s no distance in it. No angelic detachment. No carefully held restraint. Just something raw. Something devastatingly human.
“Because you keep dying,” he says.
The words hit like a blade.
“In every iteration where this bond forms,” he continues, voice quieter now, like speaking it aloud might make it worse, “you are drawn to me. And because of that… you are seen.”
“Seen by what?”
“Everything that wishes to destroy me.”
The thread burns. Not hot—cold this time. Like dread.
“So you marked me?”
“I hid you,” he corrects. “Or I tried to.”
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. “But it didn’t work.”
His silence says everything.
“And now?” you whisper.
Castiel’s hand shifts until it covers the thread beneath your skin. You feel it instantly. Warmth. Pressure. Connection. “Now it has anchored,” he says.
Your breath catches. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, “that I will not lose you without knowing exactly when it happens.”
That should terrify you. It doesn’t.
Because the way he says it, It doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a promise.
“…And if it happens again?”
His hand tightens—just slightly. “Then I will be there,” he says.
Your eyes search his. “And what? Watch?”
Something breaks. You see it happen.
“No,” he says, and there is nothing angelic in his voice now—only something fierce. Something desperate. “I will change it.”
The thread pulses. Bright. Alive.
You swallow hard. “Even if you’re not supposed to?”
He steps closer. Close enough that your breath mingles. Close enough that the thread goes still. Like it’s finally found what it’s been reaching for. “I have already defied Heaven for less,” he says quietly.
Your heart pounds. Because you realize something then— Something terrifying. This isn’t the beginning. It never was. It’s just the first time you’re remembering it. “Then don’t break it,” you whisper.
His expression falters.
“Stay.”
For a moment, he looks like he might refuse. Like he might do the “right” thing. The safe thing. The thing that saves you. But instead his forehead rests against yours.
And the thread— finally— stops pulling.
“…Just this once,” he murmurs.
But you both know better. Because somewhere, deep beneath your skin— the thread isn’t warning you anymore. It’s remembering, too.
Summary: he was acting different than he normally was. It wasn't for a while until you discovered everything. [WC 790] [ao3]
Warnings: Angst, no use of "y/n", falling in love again, discovering timelines
Fandom: Marvel/MCU
Pairing: Loki x Reader (GN?)
A/N: written for @fandombingo & their The Blooming Hour Prompt Challenge the prompt for this one: "falling in love with the same person even though you shouldn't be able to" filling my seventh square.
You know something is wrong the moment you see him smile. Not the sharp, mocking smirk everyone else fears. No, this one is softer. Warmer. Like it belongs to a version of him that doesn’t exist. And it’s directed at you.
“You’re staring,” Loki says, tilting his head, green eyes glinting.
You blink, forcing your expression back into something neutral. “You’re different today.”
“Aren’t we all?” he hums.
But that’s the thing. He’s not supposed to be.
It starts small. A feeling you can’t explain—like déjà vu that lingers too long. The way your chest tightens when he walks into a room. The way your body reacts before your mind can catch up.
And then there are the moments.
His hand brushing yours and suddenly your breath catches like it means something. His voice low at your ear and your pulse stutters like you’ve heard him say your name that way a hundred times before.
It doesn’t make sense. Because this Loki—this version of him—has barely tolerated you until recently.
And yet…“Have we met before?” you ask one night, the question slipping out before you can stop it.
He stills. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough that you notice. “That,” he says slowly, “is a very dangerous question.”
The truth doesn’t come all at once. It comes in fragments.
Dreams that don’t feel like dreams— You and him, standing on a cliff under a sky that isn’t Earth’s. His hand in yours. A promise whispered against your lips.
Memories that aren’t yours— Him bleeding. You screaming his name. The world ending anyway.
You wake up gasping, heart racing, his name already on your lips before you even realize it.
“You remember, don’t you?” you whisper one day. You’ve cornered him in a quiet hallway, your hands trembling, your entire body buzzing with the weight of something you can’t fully grasp.
Loki looks at you for a long moment. And then—finally—he drops the act.
“I was hoping,” he says softly, “that you wouldn’t.”
Your stomach drops. “Wouldn’t what?”
“Fall in love with me again.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
“Again?”
He laughs—but it’s not mocking this time. It’s hollow. Tired. “Different timeline. Different choices. Different ending.” His eyes lock onto yours, something ancient and aching in them. “Same result.”
Your head spins. “That’s not possible—”
“And yet here we are.”
He tells you just enough to hurt. That in another version of everything—another thread of reality—you and him found each other. That you weren’t supposed to matter to him. But you did. That he tried to walk away. Tried to spare you.
“But you,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice breaking just slightly, “have always had a habit of choosing me.”
Your chest aches like it’s being pulled apart. “And what happened?”
Loki hesitates.
That’s all the answer you need.
“So this time,” he says, forcing his usual smirk back into place, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “we do things differently.”
“Differently how?”
“I don’t let it happen.”
You should agree. You should nod, walk away, pretend this strange, impossible pull between you doesn’t exist. But instead, you step closer. “Too late.”
His breath catches.
“You think you can just decide that?” he asks, voice low, almost desperate.
“I didn’t decide anything,” you whisper. “It just… happened.”
“Exactly,” he snaps, frustration cracking through. “That’s the problem.”
Because it keeps happening. No matter the timeline. No matter the version of him. No matter the version of you.
You find each other. You fall.
And apparently— You break.
“Then tell me not to,” you say, your voice shaking now. “Tell me to walk away and mean it.”
Loki steps closer until there’s barely any space left between you. His hand lifts and he hesitates like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how this ends. “Walk away,” he says. But his fingers curl into your sleeve. Not letting go.
“You’re not even trying,” you breathe.
“I am trying,” he whispers, and it sounds like it’s tearing him apart. “This is me trying.”
Your heart pounds. Because you realize something then—something worse than all of it. It’s not just you. It’s not just some lingering echo or broken memory. He feels it too. Every time.
“So what happens now?” you ask.
Loki looks at you like he already knows. Like he’s already lived this moment. Like he’s already lost you.
“We pretend,” he says quietly, “that this is the one time we get it right.”
And the terrifying thing is you believe him. Even knowing how it ends. Even knowing it’s doomed. Even knowing that somewhere, in some version of everything…you’ve already loved him enough to ruin the world.
Summary: You have plans that you hope Crowley doesn't stop [WC 1K] [ao3]
Warnings: Angst, no use of "y/n", suicide attempt, hurt/comfort, mention of a gun briefly
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Crowley x Reader (GN?)
A/N: written for @fandombingo & their The Blooming Hour Prompt Challenge the prompt for this one: "They Don't Know You're Doing It" filling my Sixth square.
He notices the first thing because it’s wrong. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… wrong. Crowley stands in the doorway of your room, eyes sweeping over the space with the kind of sharp, calculating awareness that built empires and burned them down just as easily.
Something’s missing.
It takes him a second to place it. Your mirror. It’s turned to the wall. “…what a strange little habit,” he mutters, stepping inside. He doesn’t touch anything at first. He rarely does. Prefers observation. Control. Let the details come to him.
But then his gaze catches on something small—paper, half-tucked beneath a book. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he weren’t already looking. Crowley picks it up. It’s your handwriting. Of course it is.
Short. Crooked. Like you weren’t trying to make it neat.
I’m sorry.
His expression doesn’t change. Not immediately.He flips the paper over. Nothing else. No explanation, no context—just two words sitting there like they’ve been abandoned.
He exhales through his nose. “Sorry for what, exactly?”
He sets it down. Except now he’s looking harder.
There are more. Not all together. Not obvious. You were never careless. One tucked into a book you hadn’t finished. Another folded into a jacket pocket you hadn’t worn in weeks. One sitting in the trash, crumpled like you changed your mind halfway through writing it.
Each one a fragment.
You’ll be better off—
It’s not your fault—
I tried—
Crowley reads every single one. Slowly. Carefully. Like if he goes too fast, he’ll miss something important. At first, there’s irritation. Then confusion. Then there's something colder. Something creeping in beneath his ribs, sharp and unfamiliar. “No,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he can physically dislodge the thought. “No, no, no. You wouldn’t be that stupid.”
But the evidence is in his hands. In your words. In the way everything suddenly feels… final. Crowley straightens abruptly. And vanishes.
—
He finds you too quickly. That’s what unsettles him the most. Like some part of him already knew exactly where to look. The room is dim. Quiet.
You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, something clutched loosely in your hands. You don’t notice him at first.
Why would you?
You look… distant. Far away. Like you’ve already left, and your body just hasn’t caught up yet.
Crowley’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a blade. “Planning on explaining this little melodrama, or shall I start guessing?”
You flinch. Your head snaps up, eyes wide—caught. For a second, neither of you speak. Then you try to recover. Of course you do. “It’s nothing,” you say quickly, too quickly. “Just—just a bad day. I’m fine.”
Crowley laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Ah yes,” he says, stepping closer, eyes flicking to your hands and back to your face. “Because I always leave apology notes scattered about when I’m having a bad day.”
Your grip tightens slightly on the metal. Subtle. But he sees it. He always sees everything. “Give it to me,” he says, holding out his hand.
You hesitate.
That’s all it takes. In an instant, he’s in front of you, prying it from your fingers—not rough, but firm. Controlled. His jaw tightens as he looks down at it. Then back at you. “…really?”
The word is quiet. Dangerously so.
“I wasn’t—” you start, but it falls apart halfway through. “I didn’t— I mean, I wasn’t going to—”
“Don’t,” Crowley snaps, sharper than you’ve ever heard him. “Don’t you dare lie to me right now.”
You fall silent.
And that’s when he sees it. Not the object in your hands. Not the notes. You. The exhaustion etched into your face. The hollow look in your eyes. The way you’re sitting like it took everything just to stay upright. Like you’re already halfway gone.
Crowley swallows. Hard. “…how long?” he asks, quieter now.
You don’t answer.
“How long have you been thinking like this?” he presses.
“…a while.” It barely comes out.
Something in his chest twists—violent and sudden. “And you thought,” he continues, voice tightening, “that the best course of action was to leave a few cryptic little notes and then what? Slip away without so much as a proper goodbye?”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” you admit.
There it is. Simple. Honest. Devastating.
Crowley goes very, very still. “…didn’t think I’d—” He lets out a sharp, disbelieving breath, dragging a hand down his face. “You really are a bloody idiot, you know that?”
You flinch.
But there’s no heat behind it. Not really. He steps closer again, slower this time. More careful. “You think I didn’t notice?” he mutters. “The way you’ve been quieter. The way you avoid looking at yourself. The way you’ve been…” He trails off, jaw clenching. “Fading.”
Your eyes sting. “I didn’t want to be a problem.”
“Oh, congratulations,” Crowley snaps softly. “You’ve managed to become a much bigger one.”
You let out a shaky breath, looking away. “I just— I thought maybe if I wasn’t here—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” It’s not loud. But it lands.
You freeze.
Crowley crouches in front of you now, forcing himself into your line of sight. “For someone who claims to be observant, you’ve missed something rather crucial,” he says, voice lower, steadier. “You don’t get to decide your worth based on how quietly you can disappear.”
Your throat tightens. “I’m tired,” you whisper.
And that, that breaks through all of it. The sarcasm. The anger. The sharp edges he hides behind.
Crowley exhales slowly, something softer slipping into his expression. “…I know,” he says, quieter than you’ve ever heard him. “But this—” he gestures vaguely, meaning everything, “—this isn’t rest. It’s just… ending the chance for anything to get better.”
Your eyes drop to your hands. “I don’t think it will.”
Crowley tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Then allow me to be selfish for once,” he says. “Stay. Prove me wrong. Annoy me for another century or two.”
A weak, broken laugh escapes you.
Hesitantly, he reaches out then gently takes your hands. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there. Soft, and quiet. “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds, more quietly. “Contrary to popular belief, I can be… tolerable company in a crisis.”
You sniff, shaking your head slightly. “That’s a stretch.”
“Careful,” he mutters. “I might take offence and leave you to your own devices.”
Your grip tightens on his hands. “Don’t.” It’s immediate. Instinctive.
Crowley’s expression softens—just a fraction. “…not going anywhere,” he says.
