Rick hadn’t said much since everyone sat down for dinner. He mostly nursed his beer and eyed you with suspicion, his lasagna long since finished as he had practically inhaled it. Most of dinner was about Summer’s TikToks, Jerry’s beekeeping, and Morty’s crush. Anger took a backseat, for now, as you watched the family around the table that your Rick had voluntarily abandoned…They were a beautiful family, a little difunctional, but full of love nonetheless. You were looking down at your lasagne wondering how/why he would give up such a thing. How it didn’t even seem to phase him. Maybe you should’ve seen this coming. He had been honest with you when he said you were replaceable. He had abandoned his own family, why wouldn’t he do it to you? You let out a sigh of resignation and set down your fork in favor of the generous pour of wine Beth had given you. You see Rick out of the corner of your eye and decide that you need a bigger gulp.
“A-*aauurp*-lright. You’ve eaten our food and had your- drank our wine.” He leaned back in his chair, one hand holding his beer, but the other sliding into his coat, most-likely a hand on a gun. “Why are you here?”
“Well it’s not by choice.” You downed the rest of your glass and Beth was quick to refill it for you. Bless her heart. Rick narrowed his eyes at you. You turn so you can give him your full attention and take one more long sip from your drink. “Is ‘most Rick’s are assholes’ a good enough answer?”
“No.” He deadpanned.
“Yes.” His family answered at the same time in unison. You gave him a smirk and shot them a glare, grumbled, then turned his attention back to you. You let out a sigh then set your glass down. There’s no avoiding it.
“He cheated on me. We fought about it. He threw me through that portal.” You gestured towards the living room. “And now I’m here.”
“You were dating a Rick?” Morty asked with surprise.
“Why?” You couldn’t help but laugh at Jerry’s reaction. Disgust and confusion on his face.
“Why didn’t he- why would he portal you here and not your own universe?” Crap. You’d have to answer this carefully. You look back to him and shrug.
“I haven’t been to my own universe in a long time. Rick and I had been traveling around together. I guess he didn’t care where I ended up.” You swirled the wine in your glass then took another sip. “It’s not like there’s anything left for me there.” He’s quiet for a moment then Beth reaches across the table to rest her hand on yours.
“Well, you’re welcome to stay here until you figure things out.”
“Sweetie, we-we don’t even know if she’s telling the truth!”
“I believe her.”
“Y-yeah! Me-me too!”
“Not you too Summer. And of-of course you believe her M-*uurrup*orty.”
“If Rick doesn’t want her here, then all the more reason for her to stay.”
“Fuck you Jerry!”
“Looks like you’re out-voted.” Beth smiled sweetly.
“Yeah, grandpa Rick. Besides, you, like, cheated on her. You owe her.”
“It wasn’t even me! It was a version of me!”
“So?”
“Ugh, fine!” He slammed down his empty bottle then shoved away from the table and made his way to the garage. When he got to the door, he whipped around to point at you. “Stay out of my garage.” You gave him a nod then he disappeared into the garage, slamming the door behind him.
*A few hours later…*
The Smith family had set you up on the futon in Jerry’s man cave for the time being. Beth and Summer gave you some of their clothes and Summer offered to go with you to the mall tomorrow to get a few more outfits. You had finished making your bed and putting on your pajamas, a pair of shorts and matching babydoll top (courtesy of Summer), and decided to make your way down the kitchen for a glass of water. You had to shuffle through a few cabinets to find the glasses, and of course they were on the tallest shelf.
“Dammit.” You pushed up onto your toes, hips digging into the counter, but your fingertips just barely touched the edge of the glass. You froze when you heard the distinct sound of the unscrewing of a flask.
“Need some- want some help?” Rick. You sighed and hung your head.
“Yes, please.” You were about to go back down to your feet when you felt him, right behind you. If you tried to shift back flat on your feet you’d be in an even more compromising position.
“She has manners.” He breathes into your ear, almost sounding pleased. Then shifts back a bit to hand you the glass. Only enough for you to get back on your feet and barely turn around without bumping into him. When you faced him, he was already looking down, studying you.
“Thanks.” You slip to the side to get some water from the fridge. While it’s filling up, you look to him. He’s still watching you, leaned back on the counter now, taking a sip from his flask. You cleared your throat then head out of the kitchen. “Night.” You mumbled then head to bed. That was…weird.
When you woke up the next morning, you were hoping yesterday had been some kind of super realistic nightmare, but no, it had been all too real. You had a restless sleep and woke up early with a groan.
“Fuck you, Rick.” You mumble to yourself, feeling that familiar tingle in the back of your eyes. You blinked a few times to hold back the tears and it worked, for now. You thought maybe, just maybe, that he would come and get you, apologize for being an ass and take you back home, but that was too much to ask of him. You had to stop kidding yourself. This had been a long time coming. You had known that. The only thing to do now is move on. You stood and reached up to a big stretch when the door opened abruptly. You startled with a jump and reached for your gun that was on the end table.
“Relax, Laura Croft.” Rick stood in the doorway. “You’re gon-*aauuhp*-na earn your keep. Come on.” He walked back out the door to, presumably, head downstairs.
“Laura Croft?”
Part III
Thanks for reading Part 2! If you’d like more parts please like & comment <3 (lmk if you want to be in a tag list)
Summary: betrayed by Rick Prime, you end up shoved into C-137’s life
wc: 1.1k
“Oh my goooooood! Do you ever stop nagging?”
“Nagging? NAGGING?” You were fuming. You don’t think you’ve ever been as angry as you were in this moment. “Y-you fucked some alien bitch in OUR bed! Again!” You slammed your fist on the desk, rattling the stray bottles and pens strewn about.
“Jesus! When did you get so needy?!” He lets out a groan and leans back in his chair, running a had down his face.
“What the fuck Rick?? Do you- do you even-UGH!” You stomped over to his chair and whipped his chair around to face you. His eyes narrowed at you and his hands clenched on the armrests. His eyes flickered to the single angry tear making its way down your cheek before they met your eyes again.
“Tread lightly, sweetie.”
“I thought you-” your voice quieted and your gaze flitted away to the floor.
“What? That I loved you? Don’t be- don’t kid yourself, y/n.” Your eyes met his once again, the fire reignited. “I’m Rick Fucking Sanchez. The only person I need is myself. You were just a nice cunt to pass the time. N-now, you’re just fucking annoying.” You felt the pop as your nails stab through the leather chair he sat in. The silence in the base was deafening. The shit you had done for him. The people you’d killed. It all meant nothing. The silence was broken when he abruptly stood up and reached for a pistol holstered at his side. You went to take a step back but he grabbed your arm in a tight grip. “To tell the truth, I was going to get rid of you soon anyway. Maybe I’ll find a version of you that shuts the fuck up!”
“Then do it. Kill me, Rick.” You stood your ground, head held high to meet his gaze in defiance. “And don’t bother finding another one of me. It was rare enough that even one of me could love a heartless bastard like you.” He stared down at you for a moment before pulling the trigger. It had been the portal gun he grabbed and shot behind you. The green illuminated his eyes in a menacing way as he leaned in closer. You thought for a moment he was going to kiss you. That maybe there was a flicker of emotion. Then he shoved you back, hard enough that you fell through the portal and onto your ass. You heard a few voices and a muttering of ‘what the fuck’. When you looked back up again, the portal closed and you were effectively cut off. So, you did the only thing any rational person in this situation would do. Screamed. A frustrated, angry, heartbroken wail tore through you. When you were finished you took a deep breath and took in your surroundings. That motherfucker. He had dropped you right into another Rick’s living room.
“A-are y-you okay?” Morty was on your right offering you a hand up when his Rick yanked him back by the scruff of his shirt.
“Get back, Morty! W-we don’t know what- who she is or w-where she came from!” He leveled his sci-fi pistol at you. You looked down the barrel then up to the man holding it. He looked like your Rick, of course he did, but he was older. There was something in his eyes that set him apart from the other versions of himself you had met.
“Oh jeez, come on Rick.”
“No, you ‘come on’ Morty! L-look at her. Sh-she-she’s armed to the teeth! Y-you think she just got put- got dropped here by accident?”
“N-no, but-”
“Dad…” your eyes didn’t leave his as his daughter, Beth, spoke. “Maybe you should at least hear her out.”
“Yeah, Grandpa Rick. Clearly, whichever Rick threw her through that portal wasn’t exactly friendly.”
“She looks nice.”
“No one cares what you think, Jerr*rrup*ry.”
“Here, sweetie.” Beth had appeared at your side, resting a hand gently on your back.
“W-what- Beth!” You turned your attention to her then back to her father. You were still coming down from the utter fury you had just been feeling and the fear immediately after. When you fell through that portal, you fully thought it was going to be to the blender dimension. You’d seen Rick use that trick before and it was brutal.
“Relax, dad.” She offered you a hand and you took it to slowly stand to your feet next to her. “If she was here to attack us, I’m sure she would’ve done it by now.”
“Y-yeah, Rick, mom has a- has a good point- oof.” Rick dropped Morty on his ass and stalked towards you, gun now pointed right at your ribs. You stood your ground, but you were barely holding it together at this point. He had really tossed you here like trash. Expecting another version of himself to kill you off for him. By the look in this Rick’s eyes, it was still a possibility.
“Who are- what dimension are you from?” If you told him what he was actually asking, which Rick had done this, you’d for sure be executed on the spot. Prime didn’t exactly make a lot of friends when he erased Diane from existence. Luckily for you, he asked what dimension you were from, not what Rick had just dumped you unceremoniously into his living room.
“C-076.” That Rick had been a jerk too and even more verbally abusive to his grandson. He didn’t like that you were tutoring his Morty and taking away from his adventure time with him, so he had portaled you out from under your feet during one of your sessions. Prime had found you in some other dimension on a completely different planet trying to figure out how to get home.
“Hm.” Rick grumbled as he assessed you. You couldn’t really blame him. You were fully armed; twin pistols in harness holsters, a gnarly knife strapped to your belt at your back, and a handful of techy-looking grenades at the side of it. He tucked his gun away in favor of his flask. He took a long swig then belched.
“Dad!”
“Gross, Grandpa Rick.”
“So, what?” He ignored them and spoke straight to you. “What’d you- why did your Rick send you here?” You reach your hand up and he stiffens.
“I’ll need some of this if you want the answer to that.” He regards you for a moment then hands the flask over, a little reluctant, but curious enough to still give it to you. You take it from him and take two big gulps. He makes a dumbfounded face at the fact that you didn’t cough up a lung.
“Whoa…” Summer makes an impressed sound.
“How…about you join us for dinner? We have wine.” You hand Rick back his flask and turn your attention to Beth.
“That would be great, thank you.”
Part II
If you liked this chapter and would like to see more parts, please like/let me know in the comments. (lmk if you wanna be in a tag list)
SUMMARY: You and Rick crash into an uncharted libido-enhancing planet.
⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ navigation portal
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT
WARNINGS/TAGS: Language, Smut, Ship Crash, Blood/Gore, Graphic Wounds, Sexual Tension, Aphrodisiacs/Implied Alien Drugs, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Fingering, Sexual Intercourse (P in V), First Time (with Rick), Rick Sanchez Full Emotional Spectrum, You Know Nothing Rick Sanchez, We Should've Stayed In That Cave Rick Sanchez
A/N: Kicking my feet I might turn this one into a series lemme know what y'all think!!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ🛸༄˖°.
“God damn it,” Rick hissed into the steering wheel. The ship lurched like a drunk washing machine, the hull clattering. Gravity tilted—hard—and you slammed sideways into the passenger door. Metal met shoulder with a hollow thud, air leaving your lungs in a thin, startled gasp.
“What happened?” you snapped into focus, heart tripping against your throat. “Is it the bearings again?”
“Atmosphere,” Rick grumbled, wedged between the console and his ego. He reached for the sun visor terminal, lab coat pulling taut across his shoulders. The plastic edge clicked beneath his fingertips. Red light spilled over his knuckles: Terminal Offline.
“We’re gonna have to land,” he muttered, jaw set. His grip wrenched the steering column down and the ship pitched under his force. “Do me a favor and scan this planet. Quick.”
Your wrist terminal flickered to life in a wash of blue light. The hologram spilled between you: a terra map of an orb turning slow, continents like bruises under clouds. Mountain chains spidered outward, their cave systems glimmering with faint, unregistered heat signatures.
You swiped through the interface, thumb brushing a static pulse. “Breathable air,” you reported. “Zephyrax-934. Uncharted—at least by my logs.” A pause, “I haven’t been here… have you?”
The ship bucked dangerously close to the planet’s orbit, cutting through pockets of lilac haze with each bout of intergalactic turbulence. Thrusters sputtered as the hull shook itself apart, each inch of descent a staccato beat of metal fatigue and atmospheric friction. Rick leveraged harder on the pedal, syncing his rhythm to the planet’s magnetic pull, attempting to brake in tune with the planet’s currents.
Squinting through static, he side-eyed the hologram with narrowed eyes, “934, huh? Maybe. I don’t remember.”
“Yeah, uh, let me see if there’s anything we can—“ Your words fractured as the next shudder rippled like an electromagnetic current. The ship spun sideways. In the same blink the ship’s airbags deployed, exploding from their casings and slamming your right arm against the door’s interior panel. Your terminal cracked like a glow stick. Chemical heat soaked your forearm, saturating like wildfire.
As more of his computer systems started faltering, Rick’s AI ruptured through fragmented responses, its voice glitching in loops while sparks chewed through the console: Warning—impact sequence—containment—override—
You caught the blinding spark of an exposed motherboard, arcing, alive. Heat flamed up your arm, a warning, a promise. “Fuck!” you spat through disheveled hair.
Steering through pockets of resistance that felt less like air and more like water, his knuckles drained bloodless as he fought the wheel.
Rick cursed back from behind the haze, muffled by outdated deployment bags. “Shit, shit, SHIT.”
In your effort to reach his damn portal gun, which was inconveniently out of sight, you slammed your free arm down on one of the airbags. Stupidly determined, you wrestled against the bloated air discovering the safety measure proved to be more hassle than help. Trapped like a mosquito in amber, movement was impossible. Why on EARTH did this idiot still have Takata airbags?
You couldn’t see him through the mess, but if your view was gone, his had to be worse. If Rick was as pinned as you were, then you were both going down with this heap of junk towards an unseen end.
A dying animal thrashing against the jowls of gravity, you prayed the emergency landing systems were still breathing code. If anything else, you’d settle for a merciful crash. Friction whistled a banshee’s cry. The chorus of system failure alerts and a screaming engine bled with your silent pleas. Relentless notes that sung, ‘this is it.’
The plunge was nothing near compassionate. Impact split the windshield in a web of light, glass spidering outward before it gave in like a black hole.
Shards and clots of alien grit ripped through the airbags, carving streaks of heat across your skin. Gravel scattered through the cabin. A horizontal hail shredding fabric, skin, anything that yielded.
Silence arrived still and sharp, threaded with the crackle of smoking circuitry. The lights on the dash blinked once, maybe twice, then dimmed to nothing.
The air felt alive, vibrating, as though the planet itself had exhaled into the ship.
Rick was a vague outline through the haze, slumped but moving. You caught the faint drag of his voice, cursing under his breath alongside the red glow of the ship’s failure. And with it, you nodded into a soundless dark.
—
His frame arched ice stiff over the pile of rubble that had slammed through the windshield and swathed the front seats.
“God dammit,” Rick rasped. The sound barely rose over the dying hum of the engine. “You just had to pass out now, huh? Great timing. Stellar.” He yanked at a loose strap, trying to free himself.
Cursing his ship to whatever hell was closest, he glanced toward you. Wilted, limp, blood winding along your arm where glass had kissed bone. His stomach twisted, violent and unwelcome.
Rick’s fingers hovered before they landed at your neck, “Don’t—” he murmured, pressing two digits to your throat, finding a pulse that stuttered under his touch. Weak, but there.
He exhaled, too shaky for his own comfort. “I’m not dragging your ass through customs,” Rick stated somewhere between resentful and relieved.
He gritted his teeth, scowling as he fingered the lining of his jacket. The motion was all impulse. Something to do with his hands while his brain refused to stop screaming. Searching for something: his flask, his nerve, maybe both. An ampoule.
Rick snapped the tiny glass vial between his teeth, spat the nub at his boots, and shoved it through the mess of hair blocking your features. His fingers snagged strands like a rough hand on velvet.
A sweep of ammonia snapped through the air, jumpstarting your current. Your head jerked back against the mangled headrest, breath catching on instinct.
Satisfied you weren’t dead, Rick shifted his attention towards the wreckage and unburying the center console. Aggravated, he sunk his nails into the cool, freshly unearthed dirt.
Each movement coalesced clouds of dust that hung chalky in the ship’s interior. Thick as it flirted with ammonia and unstable tech.
Clumps of dirt spilled out the cuffs of his oil streaked lab coat as he moved. He coughed a slurry of rough curses as flakes of glass bit his fingertips, caking crimson as blood coagulated with the dirt underneath them. When he finally reached the black-box, he pried it free from the wreckage like it owed him answers. A sound that was half relief, half fury.
Processing the damage, you blinked with haste as you de-shelled your forearm terminal. It came apart in two warped halves. Circuit-kissed skin welded to its interior. You sucked a sharp breath through your teeth. The damage was nothing short of apparent. Threads of melted tech begged to remain fused, seared to the flesh that remained intact. Patterns of charred lines and half-formed wire imprints ran along your wrist like veins that didn’t belong to you. The brand twitched, angry at its introduction to open air. A lattice of heat pulsed in rhythm with every shaky breath you dared take.
Muscles stiffly tenderized, pain lanced through your neck as you twisted a glare at Rick. Any answer that might explain why you were both bruised, bloodied, and trapped felt light years away.
There was no tell that he heard your silent plea. He stayed focused on his work.
You could see each tremor of his hands, each clench of his jaw, yet he still choreographed the board with wild precision, a master of control.
Petitioning eyes won you a once-over skim. ”What?” he snapped. Briefly, like the swish of a cat's tail, his focus barely grazed you. Incredulously infuriating.
Areas of the ship that had curled to the earth continued to splinter electricity. “We gotta get out of here,” you managed.
“Not until I sync this data,” Rick's breath mixed with the tang of burnt tech.
A scoff scraped your throat, “Sync to what? All our tech is destroyed!”
He halted his movements and slammed the lid, tripping his temper, “Our tech? None of this is even remotely yours.”
You flashed your raging forearm like it was obvious, “And look where that got us! We crashed. What part of that isn't clear?”
“Oh, I don’t know… maybe because this black-box is the only thing that’s keeping us from completely disappearing into the void?” He jerked back from the console, sparks snaking around his fingers. “And you think whining helps? Every second you’re sputtering, we lose another fragment!”
You jutted your chin towards the back viewport, where the terrain of Zephyrax-934 sprawled beyond. “We’re blind here! We need to figure out this planet before it figures us out!”
“What do you think I'm trying to do, here?" He didn’t even look up, fingers caressing the terminal like it was the only living thing besides himself that mattered, “And how exactly do you propose we move? The hull’s barely holding together, the atmosphere’s fucked, and you want a leisurely stroll?”
Coiled like chilled syrup clinging to a metal straw, you had no answer for him.
“Should’ve let you nap a bit longer. Would’ve spared me your commentary," he added.
You flinched at the snap in his voice, “Good to know you’d rather scrape my corpse than listen to reason.”
He jerked a cable from the box, sparks flaring. “We’re in this mess because you didn’t read the goddamn briefings before we crashed!”
“We barely had time to stabilize the entry!”
“You lost any bet we had when you spent invaluable time on footnotes while the ship was literally falling apart!” Rick feral, continued to maul your spirit's flesh like a starved dog, “Logs wouldn’t have kept us from crashing, but maybe—just maybe—they’d have given us a clue before we slammed into this mess!”
A hysterical cackle. “Footnotes? I read as much as you did on this place before your ship slit my wrist!”
Rick seethed, inhaling the remaining ammonia and smoke.
“You’re missing the bigger picture,” you pleaded, begging him to comprehend the potential dangers awaiting.
“The bigger picture? The bigger picture is survival, is this,” he pounded code, “You think I care about your panic?”
You kept your voice low and sharp. “If we don’t step out and actually look around, we’re not surviving at all.”
He finally turned, eyes flashing, jaw tight. “If you touch anything before I finish syncing, you're done," he threatened. “Move, you're dead to me," a half-empty bluff.
Though the dust from initial impact had settled, the air remained thick with unspoken friction. Dust drifted lazily across the beaten dash, but the tension refused to lift; you remained still, every muscle weeping, hoping the data Rick clung to could somehow wrest sense from this wreck.
You ghosted the pieces of terminal still stuck in your arm, gently picking away the foreign elements. Every millimeter of touch fought your nervous system as you meticulously pinched away the remains. Your wrist birthed streams each pull, and your fingers were quick to slick in your own blood, making the task near impossible.
Wafts of copper sliced through the air. Rick’s eyes flicked to your forearm, a grimace crossing his face as he allowed the gravity of your predicament to lure him down to a simmer, “Not that I’m checking, but… yeah, that’s bad.”
You huffed. Your forearm wept platelets, plasma. All your body’s defenses spilling out with eerie determination.
“Don’t move it,” he cautioned.
“So now you care,” you scoffed. “I’m fine, I’ll fix it.”
“You’re bleeding out,” Rick warned flatly. “Want to die here? Quit fucking with it.”
He was right. You vowed not to admit it and continued to peck regardless. The excavation was nearly finished. Sharp inhales and off-beat breaths.
Nowhere near subtle, he snuffed you out like a cigarette, “You sound like you’re getting fucked.”
“What?” you stared, stunned. Disbelief just short the pace of a hare.
“Pathetic,” he added, like diagnosing an illness.
“You think I sound pathetic?” Incomprehensible annoyance and disbelief knotted amongst the words.
Rick continued like he was discussing nothing short of science, “You do.”
Fury and shock pulled your expression taut. A psychotic grin.
His eyes flicked up, briefly unreadable. “You sound human. Same thing," Rick flattened. “Quit fucking with your arm,” he repeated.
An annoyed scientist interrupted. Rick yanked on a loose strap hanging over the dash, opting to slice a spot frayed from impact. He tossed it to your lap like an arrest warrant.
You begrudgingly surrendered to his orders, tightening the makeshift tourniquet with clenched teeth. “Where’s your portal gun?”
“Gone. Broken. Take your pick.” Rick stole a look of the expansive forest behind him. The light had dimmed to a blue-hour haze. He palmed the back of his neck and sighed, “I haven't been here but I know planets in the Vireon galaxy typically aren’t...that bad.”
Suspicion gripped you, “that bad?” ‘That bad' could mean a hundred different things in Rick's dictionary. Sentient vines that squeezed you to suffocation, locals with a penchant for sadistic abduction.
Your silence eventually lured an answer out of him when the black-box’s terminal faintly glowed green. “It’s an aphrodisiac planet,” he finished casually.
“Oh, this is rich.” The annoyance festering in you rolled to a boil, “Is that why you don’t want to go out there? Scared you're gonna fuck ferns till your balls get poison ivy?”
Rick exhaled through his nose and shoved the black-box away for good, satisfied with the knowledge his upload had completed. “I transferred our coordinates to the the sub-basement servers. Drones’ll pick up the rest,” Rick explained. Task marked off his mental list, his tone was already somewhere else. Clinical, methodical. He cut the last of his harness straps, a sharp snappunctuating his detachment.
“What makes this place oysters and saffron?” You pushed his knowledge.
“Atmosphere,” Rick bit out. His hands clamped down to your hips, unwarranted contact firing frayed nerves throughout your spine. Heat through blood and dust, and for a blink it felt less like help, more like possession. With one flick of the blade, he sliced through your blood-stuck harness. Movements brisk, brutal. His fingers pressed along your thighs to clear the straps with haste, the gesture mechanical yet too human. “Get out."
You tried the passenger door; it held firm, dented in place. Shoving proved futile, jarring your sore shoulder. The back hatch was your one salvation—the only portion of Rick’s ship that remained seemingly untouched by collision. Rick caught your eye and tilted his chin toward it, a silent order. The two of you maneuvered through the wreck, stepping out the hatch. Dimming sun soaked through lilac blue haze. The air outside felt heavier, like it had been waiting.
Thick and floral, like breathing through heated nectar each inhale. A film of metallic dust glinted against the half-dead sun. Dust motes drifted upwards instead of down as if gravity hadn’t quite yet decided what to cling to. Somewhere beyond the trees, a low thrumming pulse rose steady and alive, like the planet itself had a heartbeat. Rick’s boots crunched beside you, grounding the impossible.
“How long?” you spoke, tugging absently with the tourniquet that bit your forearm numb. The strap marked the divide just beneath your elbow.
Rick stood a careful distance away, eyes narrowed toward the wreck and the alien ridgeline beyond. He peered onwards taking in the surrounding terrain. You’d crashed along one of Zephyrax’s expansive mountain ranges. Slopes razored high and the faint shimmer of fog rolled between peaks.
“Not sure,” he admitted, something unreadable in his tone.
“Okay,” you acknowledged. “Your trunk—is that scanner still in there?”
“Should be.”
You followed him. Rick braced a boot against the trunk and pried until the latch gave. Inside, the scanner lay among shards of glass and coiled wire, its display flickered weakly next to the trashed portal gun. A fraction of closure.
He paid no mind to the loss. You watched as he calibrated the scanner with a few practiced taps. The scanner rippled, sending a wave of cerulean light over the soil. Data strings crawled across its surface: Atmosphere stable, Flora composition unknown.
“Still functional,” he said, almost to himself. Rick squinted at the readings, “Alright, plants first. If this place really is what I think it is, we’re walking through a hormone factory.”
The word hormone hung in the air, heavier than it should’ve been. Your arm throbbed, pulse syncing with the scanner’s faint hum.
He whispered an annoyance. “You’re useless if you bleed out,” he said, already reaching for what tools had survived the crash.
Rick’s medkit was mostly a graveyard. Half the contents caked with ash, the other half fused from heat. One item clung to life: a single vial of antiseptic, the glass miraculously intact. He held it up to the light, gave a terse nod.
“Lucky you,” he grumbled, uncorking it with his teeth. The liquid inside smelled faintly of iron and citrus. Sharp, searing, clean. His fingers snapped a command your way, ‘Come here.’ The sting hit before you could brace.
You hissed through clenched teeth, pulling back. A dab of antiseptic stained the dirt dark, interrupted by the jerk, “What about your hands?” Rick’s fingertips were twitching fire, raw from impact and subsequent actions that followed.
“Hold still,” he chided, and tugged your arm carelessly. A shot of fire. His voice had lost its bite, replaced with tired precision. The liquid met your wound with a hiss, pain blooming electric before dulling to warmth. Rick tore a strip from his lab coat, twisting the fabric into a makeshift bandage.
The contact was rough, but his thumb brushed once over the bandage’s edge, accidental, maybe. As his hands pressed against your arm, something beneath the surface began to shimmer. Microscopic spores in the atmosphere clung to the burn and began to crystallize, forming a temporary seal. Natural bio-tech. Unsettlingly, beautifully iridescent.
Rick froze just long enough to notice. “Well, congratulations. The planet just gave you a skin graft.”
As he knotted the final strip, the air around your arm glimmered faintly. Rick caught it in the corner of his eye, expression tightening. “Don’t move,” he warned, eyes narrowing on the faint glow. “This planet doesn’t do favors for free.”
As he spoke more spores gathered, fizzing with microscopic motion against his fingertips. They stitched over his wounds with slow, pulsing warmth, leaving faint, honey-colored scars that shimmered like wet resin.
A strange sweetness in the air. It didn’t feel like healing. It felt like being claimed.
Rick flexed his fingers, testing each joint like a mechanic checking a freshly rebuilt engine. “Well…that’s new. Hands work. Great. Yeah…we’re both in deep shit now.”
You thumbed your forearm. The pain had settled to a the ache of a dull bruise.
Rick continued testing his restored fingers, muttering something about, “We’ll pay for this later.”
You smirked through your own bruises. “Oh, I’m sure we will.”
He shot a sideways glance at you, lips twitching. “You’re enjoying that too much.”
And just like that, the crash, the pain, the weird planet—all of it faded into a thread of something sharper, warmer, closer, suspended between the two of you.
Whatever price the planet wanted would have to wait. “Plants,” you reminded him.
A brief pause, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way the glow of the setting sun highlighted the ridge of his brow. Nestling lavender-blue across his frame. “Yeah. Yeah, plants,” he agreed.
—
Rick hoisted the scanner, brushing aside the low-hanging silica canopy leaves. The trees offered cover, but the air hummed with something heavy, something sticky, that made your pulse tighten in your chest. Both of you moved with caution, aware that every inhaled breath carried a subtle insistence. Aphrodisiac, yes, only dangerous if you gave in.
“Scanner’s picking up something,” Rick murmured, tapping the interface. A faint glow vibrated over a cluster of luminescent root tubers. ‘Sensory enhancement warning,’ it read in stark red letters. You shot him a glare.
“We know,” you snapped, voice thick. “We don’t need the scanner to tell us this planet's spiked with libido.”
Rick grunted, brows furrowed, ignoring the heat creeping through his chest. “Yeah, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His fingers lightly caressed a root; the scanner hissed a caution, but his thumb hovered over the edible tuber anyway.
You moved beside him, hands flexing against the rough bark of a nearby tree, heart thudding not entirely from fear. The hum in the air nudged awareness, sharpening every sense. You tried to focus on the task: Find something to eat. Stay functional. Survive.
But as your fingers unearthed a root and brushed against its faintly glowing surface, a heat spread along your forearms, a beat that traveled up your neck and settled low in your abdomen.
Rick’s eyes met yours, sharp, testing, tense. “You feel that?”
“Don’t,” you snapped, trying to shove the awareness down. The sweet, earthy alive, made it impossible to ignore. The world softened: the sweep of his sleeve against your arm, the low hum of the planet, the scent of sap and soil mixing with the air around you.
He groaned, exasperated and aware. “We need to eat something or we’re gonna pass out before the drones find us.”
You hesitated, fingers grazing the soft, glowing tuber. Eyes flicked up to his. Every sense screamed don’t, yet survival was survival. He nodded.
Finally, you dug in, chewing slowly, aware of the heat creeping further, the pulse under your skin synchronizing with his proximity. Rick followed suit, tasting the nectar ridden sap of a nearby bulb with a finger.
The scanner warned again. ‘Sensory amplification: high,’ but the warning felt both too urgent and absurd. You could feel the planet nudging, prodding, teasing, threading its effects into every breath, every trail of movement between you. Every step you took was measured, every inhale thick with pollen and pheromone-laden spores.
Somewhere under the haze, you both realized: it was impossible not to notice each other here.
Rick crouched a few paces away, the scanner resting against his thigh, smirk still lingering like he knew exactly what was happening. “Careful,” he said simply, as though the air wasn’t conspiring against you.
“We need to separate.” You stepped back, chest tight as you lengthened the distance. The heat radiating from his body impossibly palpable.
Zephyrax didn’t cooperate. The air itself pressed warmth against your skin, willing you back to the orbit of Rick’s aura.
He slyly smirked. “Having trouble?” he lazily teased, stating observations like this was just another day in a lab rather than crawling through a hormone-soaked alien forest.
You shot him a glare, adjusting your grip on the root tuber, “I’m fine.”
“Mm,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Sure you are.” There was amusement in his tone, but not ridicule. More a low, sly acknowledgment that he knew you weren’t entirely in control.
“Can you fuck off?" The words struck like flint.
The closer you got to edible roots or bulbs, the sharper the pull, subtle as a whisper, undeniable as your own heartbeat. Impossible to tell if they had adverse effects without help, Rick, of course, knew, and still kept the scanner just out of reach, gatekeeping survival like a game.
Smug as he leisurely strolled through the forest. His admiration for the planet was legitimate. Gaze devouring everything in his path as his head filled with theory, logging for future calculations.
It was all too much.
A reach for the scanner ended with Rick trapping your wrist between the device and his firm hand. “Whoa,” he said, mock-stern, smirk tugging at his lips. “Look at you," he hummed, “glowing, shaking.”
“Just tell me what’s edible,” you managed.
“All of it,” he replied too easily.
“You know what I mean.”
The heat of his hand, the pull of breath, the hum of the scanner. You squirmed, frustrated, aware of every spark in your fingertips, every inch of contact radiating through the thin fabric of your sleeve. “Shut up,” you spat, but your voice quivered, betraying more than you wanted.
“Not happening,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly over your pulse. “Way too fun to watch.”
You twisted slightly, straining against his grip, eyes narrowing. “Why aren’t you feeling it?” Your voice was sharp, tinged with disbelief and heat, every syllable carrying the pull of the planet.
Rick didn’t release your wrist, only shifted his weight slightly, smirk still teasing. “Feeling what?” he asked, feigning innocence as his fingers held firm.
“The planet!” you hissed, tugging his grasp. “It’s messing with me, and you—” you glanced at his hands, then his chest, “you’re just… fine!”
He let out a low, amused hum. “Mm, yeah… I feel it,” he admitted finally, voice quiet, deliberate. “But I’ve been around a few planets that thought they could push people around. Doesn’t mean I let them.” He rubbed small, calculated circles across the surface of your skin, stirring more of your nerves. Nebulae in miniature.
You groaned, exasperated, “So you’re just… enjoying watching me squirm?”
Rick’s smirk widened. “Part of it? Sure. But mostly? I’m just curious how long you can fight it. And honestly,” He leaned just enough for the light from the scanner to catch the edges of his grin. “I like the view.”
You blinked, caught between indignation, awareness of the pull in your abdomen, and the subtle, dangerous thrill of being pinned there. Wrist in his grip, pulse hammering. “You love this, don’t you?” you shot, not sure if you were accusing him or the planet. Probably both.
He exhaled a low curse, the fight bleeding out of his smirk. “You make everything complicated,” he muttered, and before you could fire back, he leaned in. The kiss landed at your temple, rough-edged and fleeting, as if he regretted it the instant it happened but not enough to pull away.
You blinked, stunned, face flushed faster than you could smother it. “Was that—did you just—?”
The moment slipped past like static. Neither of you spoke. The forest exhaled around you, encouraging a venture deeper into the grove.
The air thickened, sweet with resin and static, every breeze deliberate. Controlled by the planet’s force.
His jaw locked; you could see the muscle twitch there. One hand stayed suspended in the air, hovering near you like it hadn’t gotten the memo to retreat. Then he shoved it through his hair instead, rough, forcing the motion casual.
His hands weren’t steady. Neither were yours.
“Rick,” you spoke softly, reaching to guide his gaze back to yours.
He fought within himself, stiff, opting to leave your palm lingering on air. “Focus,” he muttered, voice frayed at the edges. “It’s getting dark.”
A beat passed. “Caves,” Rick said, tone clipped and mechanical. “By the wreck. We can wait it out there.”
You nodded. Warm, dry, probably less persuasive than the forest. The caves by the ridge were likely the safest bet to wait out the night.
You followed Rick back the way you came.
As the two of you trekked out of the forest, the planet’s pressure lessened like a fading nicotine buzz.
By the time the two of you reached the wreck, the sun had folded behind Zephyrax’s peaks. The world dimmed to deep violet. A little ways beyond, the mountain curved inward, revealing a narrow recess of obsidian stone. Rick ducked first, scanner flickering across the interior, pathing amongst the rocks.
“This’ll do,” he observed. Inside the small alcove were trellises of vines thick with foliage, dimly glowing berries. The faint light illuminated a blanket of moss that sporadically carpeted the rocky floor. A stones throw deeper revealed puddles of liquid contained in rocky crevices: a collection of puddles.
The air grew thinner, colder. Aubergine moonlight weaving through the cave’s mouth like strands of silver thread. You looked almost luminescent under the cave’s strange glow. Translucent light followed like a halo, as though the planet itself adored you.
Rick’s gaze snagged on that glimmer, on the way the glow pooled in your hair, your lashes, the hollow of your collarbones. It made him still in a way he hated.
Rick shook his head, unfooled by the planet’s clear lure. It was too good to be true.
“We do need water,” you prioritized. “We should at least scan it.”
Rick crouched near one of the pools, the scanner hummed low as it analyzed the sample. The water shimmered faintly underneath the hologram. Too crystalline, too still. The reading pulsed across the display: ‘Bioreactive compounds detected.’
“Yeah,” he confirmed, leaning back on his heels. “Figures. Even the water here’s trying to flirt.”
“So it’s just roofied, basically,” you reasoned, squatting beside him at the puddle. Your reflection glowed like ionwine.
“Non-lethal,” he replied, eyes flicking to you before back to the screen. “But don’t drink too much.”
“Same to you.”
Rick slipped a hand in his breast pocket, conjuring his kryptonite. He thumbed the cap of his flask, tipped its remaining contents down his throat. “I’m covered.”
You dipped a finger into the pool. Ripples danced outwards, a honeycomb pattern. “We’re drinking this whether you like it or not,” you warned.
He snorted, “Yeah? You planning to waterboard me with it?”
“Rick,” you sighed. “We're not dying of dehydration. Plus," you nudged his shoulder, “first wave wasn't so bad.”
“Uh-huh,” he rolled his eyes and dipped the empty flask into the pool. The liquid generously sloshed itself into its metal confines. Rick tipped the flask to his lips and sipped, rested elbows on his knees for a beat longer, and passed the flask your way.
The metal was cool against your palms. And the water took easily. A strange warmth licked through your chest. Drinking starlight.
His gaze traced the line of your throat. Rick’s eyes lingered, amused and sharp, "Hmm. Yep. Definitely doing something.”
Something indeed. “How deep you think this cave goes?” The mossy area looked to descend further than you initially expected. The vines along the obsidian raveled to dark, impenetrable depths.
The cave hummed around the exchange, air gently thinning into something cooler, cleaner. Rick leaned back against the wall, squinting at shadows that no longer looked so threatening. “Looks deep enough to hide a few mistakes,” he mused.
A quiet descended. A shared breath caught in the shift of temperature. The chill kissed your skin, and for the first time, his warmth nearby felt less like arrogance and more like relief.
The temperature dropped another degree, breath visible. Rick glanced your way. Exhaling realization through his nose. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, and I’m sober.”
A shiver trailed up your arms. Rick noticed; of course he did. He sighed, peeling off his lab coat with the exaggerated suffering of a man doing something charitable against his will.
“Don’t read into this,” he muttered, tossing it over your shoulders.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, though your smirk betrayed you.
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“So are you.”
Rick shifted beside you, a quiet rustle of fabric. “Move over,” he said, low, reluctant. “Before one of us freezes or starts hallucinating.”
You obeyed, the space between you closing until the planet’s eerie bruised glow spilled across both your faces. The coat rustled softly as he adjusted it. Rick’s shoulder pressed against yours, solid and electric. His warmth seeped through layers of exhaustion and restraint.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you whispered, the words misting across the coat’s overlap like incense. You leaned in despite yourself, and he didn’t move away.
“See?” he muttered. “Efficient use of body heat. Totally scientific.” The faint scent of his flask lingered. Metallic sweetness, sharp and smoky, and something else ozone-laced.
“Uh-huh,” you said. “Real selfless of you.”
“It’s science, not seduction."
“Seduction is science," you countered.
“Can’t argue with that,” he mused. The rumble of his voice shivered faintly through the small space between you.
You turned, barely. The world felt softened at the edges, and he was the only thing that stayed sharp. The low light turned him half-real. The cave’s light painted his skin in shifting blues and violets. Jaw sharp beneath faint stubble, lips slack with thought. His focus lingered forward, gripping the flask like it was a tether.
“I think this planet wants us to fuck,” you breathed.
“It does,” he factually agreed, voice sandpaper soft. His eyes remained fixed ahead, “Question is, do you want to? Or is that just your neurochemistry talking?”
“I want to—us to,” your confidence faded. For a fleeting second, you wondered if the pull in your chest was just the planet or him.
Rick’s eyes traced you like a formula he didn’t want to solve too fast. “You think it’s just the planet?” he asked, quieter now. “All this?”
For once, the question didn’t sound like a challenge. It sounded like a confession.
You swallowed. “You’re asking like you don’t already know the answer.”
Rick’s mouth twitched between a smirk and something softer. “Maybe I wanna hear you say it.”
“Why?” you challenged, voice breaking at the edges.
“Because,” he said, leaning closer, breath ghosting your cheek, “if you do, I can stop pretending I don’t.” The tangy salt of his skin, the faintest hint of the flask’s burn still clung to his breath.
The silence stretched, thick and humming. You could feel the planet pressing against your ribs, begging confession.
You didn’t look at him when you spoke. “Yes.”
The word fell heavy. Too human, too simple.
Rick’s breath caught between restraint and ruin. “You certain?”
“Pretty sure.”
Rick leaned closer, voice low. “Then the planet’s got nothin’ on you.”
The distance between you collapsed without warning. His knuckles grazed your collarbone, unintentional almost. His pulse jumped beneath his skin. Rick wasn’t touching you so much as orbiting you, drawn too close to resist, too aware to commit. Yet.
Your breaths tangled and hitched. You could feel him watching the line of your throat, the way it fluttered when you swallowed. The planet’s hum echoed in both of you.
He exhaled, low and unsteady.
He reached first—rough palm to your jaw, and moved to cup the back of your head, pulling you in until the world narrowed. He leaned in slowly, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.
The first kiss was quiet, reverent, before it deepened, heat spilling between your teeth like starlight melting into dark water.
Every nerve came alive at once. The second kiss wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t rushed either; it was searching, the kind that came after too long pretending not to care.
You tasted him: smoke, flask-burn, the faint metallic ghost of ozone.
Your hands found his chest, his pulse thrumming hard against your palms. The air thickened, laced with the scent of moss and static. His teeth caught your lip, just enough to drag a sound from you that wasn’t entirely yours.
You moved without thinking, closing the distance until your knees bracketed his. The movement sent pebbles skittering across the cave floor; his hand shot out to steady you, splayed at your hip. Rick shoved the tangled lab coat aside.
The rough sound in his throat wasn’t quite a laugh as his back retreated into the moss-laden stone, adjusting to your shifting position.
Rick didn’t move, didn’t have to. The gravity between you was it’s own equation.
Both hands found your hips, thumbs notched against the curve, anchoring you on his thigh as though the ground itself might give way. Your heat was palpable against his leg. Agonizingly electric. Aware.
You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer. Rick groaned through hot breath as you settled into a straddle. Somewhere in the distance, the flora pulsed with light, each glow stuttering in rhythm. The cave’s temperature shifted with rising intensity. Wet against the skin: Zephyrax’s applause swelling, adoration or warning, it was hard to tell.
You took a moment to lean back and sweep the hair out of your eyes, and with it the sheen of sweat developing along your hairline. The faint tremor of effort.
Imperfect symmetry, hard to look away, Rick took in the sight of you. His gaze tracked you, something volatile sparking behind it. Adoration or anticipation, he couldn’t tell. Just knew you’d bypassed every firewall he’d thought would keep you theoretical.
You met his eyes with flushed cheeks. “You’re staring,” a small laugh.
“Calculating,” he corrected. His fingers flexed once, twice, grounding you where fabric met skin as if he needed the contact to prove you were real.
He countered the pause with pressure, stiffening his thigh against your core. He didn’t move much, just enough to tip your axis in his favor. Your center of gravity was no longer yours alone.
Rick curled his thumbs beneath your waistband, brushing the thin fabric beneath it. He felt the drag of fibers, the microscopic grip where the threads met flesh. He noted the texture like data, tried to file it away, but the sensory feedback lingered.
A single nod, as if the air itself might break if you spoke. Unspoken permission, quiet allowance was enough for him.
He moved over you quick, coaxing fabric down your hips to heap at your boots. Rick’s fingers lingered at your laces, feeling the friction of worn fibers. The motion was thoughtless, practiced but slower this time. Leather creaked as Rick hooked his thumbs behind the heels, adversely tugging you closer as he worked to free your feet.
The strange relief of it, muscles easing where they’d been braced too long. Even the smallest shift felt amplified here, the planet listening through every fiber.
Air slid through the weave of your sock, cool against the air. Rick’s fingers closed around your ankle. His fingers found the ridge of bone, the hollow just above it. He worked small circles into the tension, slow enough it looked like thought. Small rotations, assessing. Absently cataloguing the ache from travel.
One by one he freed your legs, moving quick, and with them his undershirt. He tugged the hem loose, movements economical, no flourish. For a heartbeat he kneeled there, shoulders easing a quiet breath that folded the air flat again. A sculpture half-finished, mortal and divine.
Rick unhooked the buckle of his belt with a sharp flick. Unspooling tension. His hands hovered at the zipper for a heartbeat too long, knuckles pale with thought. He let his pants fall neatly, a sense of ownership over the space around him, as if he was marking the boundary he was quickly crossing. Like he’d done it a thousand times before, because he had—just not with you.
It was then you caught the strain visualized between his legs. Fabric taut.
Pinpricks of anticipation pounded your temples in small, insistent blurs. Rick ran his hands underneath your shirt. The cloth muffled everything but the smooth caress of skin. Palms glided until they met curved wire, slotted in the crook of his thumb and pointer finger.
The tremor, the sudden stillness of it all, felt electric as the temperature.
Your shirt made a quiet flutter as it fell, the kind of sound that barely reached the air but somehow broke the stillness. Rick faltered forward, finding your lips, bracing his weight atop your chest. Your mouth opened under his, clinging to his atmosphere. Softness carried pressure, a quiet insistence that clawed at your ribs, tightened in your gut. His hands found your arms, your waist, grounding, guiding as his mouth moved to the curve of your neck.
Rick slid his fingers underneath the band of cloth that clung at your hips, coiling them one measure tighter in his grasp, as he pressed his length against your center, eliciting a moan.
He slid a palm over you, narrowed eyes catching each flutter in your expression. His digits teased, flexing lightly in a torturous, repetitive motion.
The cloth yielded under his touch, alive with residual warmth. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. Each ridge, each thread. Tiny topographies of distraction. He flexed his hand, pretending it was curiosity, not the pulse it triggered. Rougher under his touch than he expected, heat trapped in a dampening weave.
The experiment became worship: pressure calibrated, movement deliberate, breath gone quiet. Everything but taking them off.
Just fabric. That’s all it was. Polymer blend, 40/60 maybe. But the heat under his hand said otherwise. His mind kept converting warmth into meaning, and meaning into something harder to shake.
Frustrated huffs, gentle as moth wings. Hips tilted upwards involuntarily, you brought your thighs closer together, a plea for more.
Rick splayed a hand across your knee, redirecting it to cushioned moss. A yielding resistance.
He clicked his tongue, “We do this my way.” Not a careless step, but an exploration of pressure, how far he could sic’ control.
Simple friction, he told himself, basic chemistry. The body always betrayed itself in contact.
“Please,” you pleaded. A futile attempt to maneuver hips in your favor blocked. Bending your free leg upwards earned contact with his bicep, flexed just enough to nudge you back down. You were utterly at his mercy. Every touch spiraled into growing need.
A cocky smirk. “Breathe,” Rick coaxed just the opposite. He thumbed your clit through the cloth, the tip of his nail fleetingly agonizing against the bundle of nerves. Prickling irritation.
Frustration transferred to your grip. You cupped the back of his head, an attempt to urge him closer. Rick barely budged. He moved only with the quiet gravity of someone who dictated the rules of motion.
Ragged breathing, your moans clearly pitched into wavelengths of strained desperation.
“Please," you begged once more.
Rick finally obliged, sliding his fingers under the damp fabric, slicking them against your folds. He moved slowly, repeating the torturous cycle he’d assigned before.
You whispered exploitatives, bringing your hands above your head in surrender, wrists overlapping. Rick towered over you, enjoying the view. You tried your best to keep steady, a mess of self-constrained writhing.
The air moved like a living thing, slow, tidal, breathing with you. Every inhale drew the cave’s cool dampness into your lungs; every exhale sent faint ripples through the vapor that clung to the stone.
With a precise push, Rick sunk a finger deeper, then two. His eyes scanned your features, devouring every reaction. He curled his fingers deliberately, testing how far you stretched to the edge of sensation.
“Look at you," Rick cooed. His influence was clear on your face. Tightened brows above rapid fluttery blinks. An arching back, Rick kept even pressure within you. Purposeful and timed with the gentle spasm of your hips begging for more. Knot after knot unwinded like threads pulled gently from a tangle.
His hand found his briefs. Rick dragged them down, freeing his strained length. He palmed himself with dry friction, thumbing the tip to smooth his slick.
Too sweet, too metallic. The air pressed against your skin like water. Fingers gripped at nothing, breath shallow, your senses threatened to fold in. “Rick," you negotiated for more.
He removed his fingers with care, leaving you trembling in anticipation as he drew himself closer, taking your soaked underwear with him.
Violet and blue. The light neither steady nor random, pulsed in rhythm with your breath, or maybe the planet’s. It was impossible to tell where your heartbeat ended and the atmosphere began. Each flicker of color shimmered along your skin, heatless but present, like being touched by sound.
Rick slicked himself against your folds before aligning his head with your entrance. He slowly pushed forward, groaning at the sensation. As if the planet itself had leaned in, the pressure wasn’t violent, just unrelenting. A slow, invisible hand guiding him down, forward, deeper.
He groaned under the weight, low and involuntary, the sound swallowed instantly by the cave’s walls. The glow around him dragged resistance through his lungs; every exhale met the atmosphere’s answering push.
His body adjusted before his mind did. Muscles flexed, grinding against you. The hum in the air deepened, vibrating through his ribs.
It hurt. Not unfamiliar, and you’d been tucked away long enough for it to. Straining just short of tearing, a deep ache that sharpened before softening webbed at your entrance. You quieted through the pain.
“Christ, you’re—“ his words caught on the draw, replaced instead with your open-mouthed pants. “Fuck," he decided on. His growing pleasure leaving him wordless.
“Just keep moving,” you huffed, “It’s been a while.” The pain spread into a steady burn that almost felt good. It was pain, yes, but refined. Pain made precise.
Rick sunk himself in fully, pausing briefly at the hilt to let you breathe. “Relax,” he reassured. “Good problem to have.” Cocky.
It took a handful of agonizing thrusts for your body to shape to him, giving way to his rhythm. His breathing synced with each hit, a steady tempo of exertion. Each press, each roll, seemed to pull your body into itself, releasing tension like water slipping through cracks, leaving you both heavier and lighter at once. Pained hisses turned pleasurable shudders. A gradient of ecstasy unfurled, softening every earlier ache.
A grin cut through his expression. “Okay?” A craftsman checking his work.
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The silence stretched, full of breaths you both understood all too well. His body stopped resisting.
Rick reached over. His fingers dug into the fabric of his lab coat, scrunched it into lumpy wedge. He shoved it underneath your tailbone, filling the hollow beneath the small of your back. He tore clumps of moss with it. Uneven, too soft in spots, too firm in others, but it held just enough against the ache in your gut. Not comfort exactly, but leverage.
Rick rocked forward, testing the shift, and let his head tilt back. It wasn’t luxurious but the fresh angle was a calculated pleasure proven by a chorus of deepening moans. He nudged at your sweet spot with meticulous pacing. A viscous drag clinging to skin.
“Please just," you didn’t bother spelling it out for him. Couldn’t at the peak he was quickly pushing you towards.
Rick was already smirking like he decoded a language you never meant to speak aloud. “Yeah?” he groaned between thrusts, half amused, half resigned. “Got it.”
He kept the pace until your insides crystallized, the last phase before shattering a rain of a thousand. Your body hummed through it, faint at first, then louder, until it texturized. It rippled behind your temples, silvery and wet, like currents tangled in nerve endings. Every blink distorted. Hue bleeding, sound stretched thin, the body slow to remember itself in the static haze.
Rick followed, the last trace of curiosity shuttered behind him. A little forceful, a lack of control. Through ragged breaths, ribbons prettied your insides.
The moment was over, fading but concluded, and he moved like someone unwilling to linger.
A quiet collapse, the two of you independently recovered. A faint vibration lingered underneath your skin, steady and clean, the kind of immobilizing calm that felt earned. Stillness born of too much feeling. No guilt, no rush. Just that strange, private hum that came from surviving something, finishing something, and realizing you made it intact.
A sound cracked the silence. The faint metallic chirr of calibration, a pulse of blue light against the dark. You blinked. Rick was no longer beside you. He stood a few feet away, hunched over one of the drones, hands moving with brisk, unthinking precision. The shift in him was jarring. The air that had been sacred a second ago now hummed with ordinary sound. Tools, motion, disinterest.
“When—” Your voice came out raw, small. “When did they get here?”
He didn’t look up, eyes squinting at the readout. “Couple minutes ago,” he said, like that meant nothing, like the moment you’d just lived had been yours alone.
The hum in your chest faltered, replaced by something sharper than awareness. Distance. The quiet shock of being left behind mid-breath though you weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting from him.
You blinked hard, breath catching on to the turn of relief. The drones — finally.
Their faint hum filled the air, reassuring in their predictability. Still, your pulse stuttered.
“Did they—” you hesitated, glancing toward the obsidian seam of the cave’s entrance, “Did they see anything?”
He grunted, somewhere between dismissive and thoughtful, “If they did, it’s on the feed.” He kept his eyes on the screen, tone clipped, “Which I’ll delete. Obviously.”
Rick crouched lower, the glow of the drones’ interface washed blue across his face. His fingers moved in short, practiced bursts. Tap, flick, recalibrate, reroute. A low click echoed off the cavern walls, then a sharp beep, higher-pitched, almost triumphant.
“Finally,” he muttered. One last sequence of keystrokes and the drone’s shell hissed open, releasing a faint puff of sterilized air.
Inside: a neatly folded set of clothes, still sealed in vacuum plastic, and a fresh portal gun: gleaming, intact, portal fluid swirling faintly like it had been waiting. He didn’t notice your expression. Your relief tangled with the shock of seeing something so familiar emerge from this strange place.
Rick grinned, the kind that looked half-earned and half-spiteful. His thumb brushed the trigger casing. “Fresh clothes, working tech,” he said under his breath. “Not a bad haul.”
Your words snapped through the cave, sharper than you meant them to. “How the fuck did your AI know to send that, Rick?”
“The black-box. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t guess. It remembers.”
You blink, caught halfway between relief and dread. “Remembers what?”
Rick’s gaze flicked past you, toward the dark stretch of the cavern, “Everything it’s seen me do,” he said. “Every calibration, every variable, every failure. It’s built to predict my next move before I make it — because I programmed it to. That’s its job.”
He stood, portal gun in hand, the glow of its coil painting his knuckles green. “So if it sent this…” He gestured at the clothes, at the tech gleaming like a heartbeat in the drone’s open shell. “It means it thought I’d need it—which clearly, we did,” he said.
It sat under your skin, that sour pulse of embarrassment. Hot and spreading quick. You glanced toward the cave mouth where the last traces of smoke still cling to the air.
“You don’t turn your ship into abstract art on a cliffside and not need emergency delivery," he finished.
You knew he was right about the black box, about its importance, but admitting it would feel like swallowing glass. So you stayed quiet and bare. Bra and socks and embarrassment.
Then, without looking at you, he’d reached over and tossed something your way. A folded packet, the clean clothes from the crate.
“Here,” he said, like it was nothing. “Figured you’d want first pick.”
You’d caught it clumsily, pulse skipping. It was so casual it almost stung. No mention of the moment previous, no smugness, no victory lap.
He’d straightened, cracking his shoulder, still facing away. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, tone even, almost bored.
It had been the kind of line that left space for you to breathe again. A truce spoken in his language. You nodded, though he hadn’t seen it, and let the silence settle warm again, the embarrassment ebbing into something quieter. Gratitude threaded with ache.
Rick adjusted the last setting on the portal gun and fired. The air tore open with a hiss: a vertical wound of green light spilling across the cave wall. The glow painted everything in acid hues.
He stood there for a moment, watching it stabilize. Then, almost pointedly, he said, “Pathetic.”
The word snapped you out of your head. “What?”
He didn’t look at you right away, just holstered the gun and brushed the dust from his palms. “You,” he said finally, voice flat, eyes still on the portal. “You sounded pathetic.”
You blinked. The words hit differently. Not cruel, but threaded with memory. You could still feel it: glass embedded in your forearm, blood mixing with dust, his voice above you, sharp and detached. 'You sound like you’re getting fucked. Pathetic.’
You remembered your forearm, still patched with a makeshift bandage. Beneath it a nearly healed scar, shiny circuitry slivers of memory.
He caught your expression then, the confusion, the flush of remembrance. His mouth twitched something between a smirk and a wince. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered. “Just…don’t make it a habit.”
“Well, let’s never crash here again,” you countered. “Once was enough to prove our compatibility issues.”
“Compatibility issues, huh?” He stepped closer towards the portal, tone dipping. “If that’s what you want to call chemistry, sure.”
Acid light caught the edge of his lab coat, and for a second you saw it again: that flicker of honesty he always buried under sarcasm. Then he was gone, swallowed by the green.
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rick fills his free time with inventions and fucking his sweet girlfriend—his sweetheart who laughs at all his stupid jokes, patiently listens to his endless rants, cringes whenever he makes a joke about their sex life around his family and adores his cranky moods cause she likes to be fucked silly while he goes on about his day.
“and oh, baby—the way i shot their heads off,” he drones on, barely paying attention to his own words as he watches your wetness cling to his pubs. he always does this, so consumed in the way your pussy is pulling him in, your hole so sloppy and wet that it’s damn near disgusting, that he barely remembers what he talked about after. you’re no better than him with how foggy your brain gets. he hears you hiccup, the soft sound snapping his focus back to you.
“are you uurrp listening?” he slurs, narrowing his eyes at you, the smugness in his voice impossible to ignore. it takes you a moment—almost too long—to nod, your breath shaky as you cling onto his lab coat. but he’d put up such a stubborn fight that you finally let him win. it doesn’t help that last time, he refused to wash the damn thing for weeks, claiming it smelled like you (not like he does anyway), and he wasn’t ready to lose that like clingy dog and its favorite toy.
“good,” he mutters, a grin tugging at his lips. “’cause I’ve got some news that’ll blow your tiny little mind.”
you hate this part—hate how he always demands a reaction to every word, every sound he makes, even when he’s completely wrecking you. it’s not like you can form coherent thoughts when he’s like this, but that doesn’t stop him. no, he thrives on the power trip, on making sure you’re there for every word he spits out. and when you tell him to tone it down, to maybe not be so loud for once, he just sneers, his voice dripping with arrogance. “i can do whatever the hell i want, babe. i’m rick fucking uurrp sanchez. let ’em hear.”
and you let him. you always let him because he’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he knows it. besides, if you don’t, he’ll draw this out for as long as it takes, leaving you dangling just out of reach. “mm, w-what is it?” you stammer, barely able to form the words. he grins, pushing himself closer, deeper, so you can feel every word reverberate through you.
"y'know, word on the cosmic grapevine is you've got the best uurrp pussy in every universe—at least, that's what all the other ricks won't stop runnin' their mouths about." he chuckles, the sound rough and guttural, before clearing his throat, his tone dropping lower. his hips move in deeper, slower rolls, and your eyes follow suit, fluttering back as he pulls every bit of control from you.
“but they don’t know what the real one feels like, do they?” his teeth grind slightly as he mutters under his breath, “amateurs.” you almost laugh at how ridiculous it is—him getting jealous over his own clones—but the thought barely takes root before his hips snap into yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.
through glossy eyes, you look at him, your voice trembling, thick with need as you reply, “no, no—you’re my god, rick.” you know it's what he loves to hear most, no matter the situation.
he looks back at you with bloodshot ones, his smirk widening as his ego swells with every shaky word you manage. “that’s right,” he huffs, his voice dripping his smugness. “means something coming from you, sweetheart. don’t let it go to your head.”
smoking weed with rick sanchez is a spiritual experience im telling u
like you're all nervous, fingers fiddling with the frayed hem your denim skirt as you're watching him roll up in the dim light of the garage. it's fucking sinful the way his long tongue peeks out behind his lips, gliding over the yellow paper and dampening it until it's almost translucent, thumbs working with mindless skill and some stupid 'a boogie' song playing from his computer. (one he thought a kid almost a quarter of his age like you would be into.)
he eyes you as he taps the small cylinder against some random piece of scrap metal that's laying beside him, a small smirk on his lips as he takes in the way you're watching him. dumb little lips parted in awe as you eye the blunt between his fingers like you've never seen one before.
when you take your first hit, it's surprisingly pretty smooth. must be the weird alien shit rick smokes, you assume, but you still cough a little nonetheless, eyes watering as you pass him it back and fight the urge to spit on his garage floor.
he chuckles, one ankle resting against his knee and his arms spread wide across the work bench, curling around you almost. when he takes his, it's embarrassingly cool. a smooth exhale and he's even considerate enough to purse his lips, angling the smoke downward and away from your face.
"you never- never done this before?" he taps the ash over his propped leg and you nod between deep breaths. "you're- you're tellin' me none of those horny pricks at school want to- try to get you stoned and get in your pants?" there's a touch of humour in it, but the look he gives you means he's serious and you giggle as you shake your head, hands folded in your lap.
his eyes dart down to where your hands rest, a small smirk falling over him as he raises the blunt toward his lips. "good girl." your cheeks burn at the casualty of the way he says it and his smirk only grows at the reaction he's managed to pull from you as he takes another slow drag.
a couple more hits in and you're relaxed against his shoulder, smiling like an idiot at practically nothing as you gaze at the various boxes piled along his shelves. he's watching you, but you don't mind. the feel of his fingers as they play with the hem of your shirt is enough to keep you awake, so you allow him to study you in the silence as you take shallow breaths in the glow of your strange high.
his voice is lower than usual when it comes to you, a deep rasp beside your ear "you good?" and it makes you giggle at him. you cover your mouth, afraid of offending him, but he only smiles at you, the hand under the hem of your shirt pushing higher as he pulls you further into his body. "yeah, you're- you're fuckin' good."
you don't know if it's for you or for him, but something about it warms your belly nonetheless and you have to chew your lip to stop another stupid giggle escaping.
♡ TW: a lot of different stuff today, NSFW, noncon/dubcon, yandere, stalking, gangbang, harsh language, sexual exploitation, bondage, zero holes safe, and more, read at your own risk
♡ FEM reader
Pride is an artist, and you, poor dear, are lucky enough to be his muse.
You’d caught his eye one day simply by coincidence while working your part-time job as a barista.
And though it had been a rather unorthodox request—between balancing school and work and constantly finding yourself both strapped for cash and strapped for time—you’d decided to quit and take him up on his offer—as what he was offering was about twice what you could make at the cafe anyway.
He’s not that much older than you, but he’s old money. And while you're stuck in community college, he goes to an elite art school—which he doesn’t even show up to, 'cause why would he? They can't afford to kick him out anyway, given his father’s donations make up half of their yearly budget.
And so he's free to self-study as much as he wants.
Yeah... he’s a little too used to getting what he wants—exactly how he wants it—without delay. So when you struggle to come to your sessions on time due to having to take the bus to the other side of town, he decides to solve it by buying you a car. And when he doesn’t feel like that’s sufficient enough, he buys you an apartment right above his own studio. And when you try to reject, he only has three concise words for you.
“Don’t be stupid.”
The way he says it leaves very little up for debate. In fact, it leaves you mute each and every time.
It was nice in the beginning—you didn’t protest to anything other than his overpriced gifts. You were flattered and blushy and giddy and more than happy to sit pretty for him for hours at a time while he sketched and sculpted and painted and whatnot. It was essentially nothing in comparison to the luxuries he gave you in return.
But you think, at some point along the way, he must have forgotten that he only owns the artworks he makes of you—not you yourself.
“N-naked?” you stutter, looking at him wide-eyed where he stands in his usual apron—flecked with the proof of your countless sessions. Honestly, it was getting to be a little strange posing for him in a room stuffed with a myriad of sketches, paintings, and statues of yourself. Hadn’t he had enough?
“I can’t capture you correctly when you wear all these rags,” he says—clinically, though with a pinch of impatience just shy of vexation—eyeing you from head to toe, almost with a look of disgust while beholding your clothes, despite being the one who’d bought them. “They obscure everything. So take them off.”
You knew he’d probably had about a hundred models undress for him, and stand here—old, young, men, women—you knew it probably didn’t mean much to him. He probably regarded it the same way he does everything—without even batting an eye. However…
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do that…” You fiddle with your fingers, standing there, still dressed despite him standing ready at his easel, foot-tapping while waiting for you, already with a stick of charcoal between his fingers.
“Why are you making a fuss? You think I haven’t seen a naked body before?” he jokes, but without humor—no, rather strictness as if you’re wasting very precious time. “This is standard practice—don’t make it anything than what it is.”
There he goes again with those very final words that make you feel all in all kind of silly.
You bite your lip and mull it over before ever-so-begrudgingly uttering a weak little, “Okay…”
You suppose he was right. This is a job, and it’s just nudity—just another shape in the eyes of an artist—it doesn’t mean anything—is what you tell yourself while you undress. Still, you can’t help but feel flush—heart pounding in your chest as you fold your clothes all neatly for some other nervous reason.
“Resume the pose,” he says—almost like a drill sergeant. And you jump into place, timidly rushing over to the chaise where you lie down like before.
This does feel like it would be a better painting, you admit. More reminiscent of Renaissance art and such. Not that you know much about it, but thinking back to field trips through the museum, you seem to remember having seen plenty of portraits of naked ladies lying on pretty but uncomfortable sofas just like this.
He seems very invested, at least. A deep furl between his brows, nearly scowling at you while he works—though you’ve come to learn that it’s just his concentration face.
After a while, he sets his charcoal down and wipes his blackened hands on his apron.
You sit up, asking, “Are you done?” All but ready to leap from your seat to your clothes and finally cover yourself again.
“No, keep still,” he all but reprimands—voice intense as he stalks across the floor over to you with determination written plainly across his face.
You draw back in place as he rests his knee on the chaise and leans forward. It wasn’t uncommon for him to come and correct your pose, but you couldn’t help but flinch this time around, feeling just a bit too exposed.
His hands are warm and overworked, both dry and a bit clammy all at the same time. You didn’t mind much when you wore clothes, but it felt a bit too intimate now as he touched your bare skin. But you bear with it despite that.
Eyes closed, you repeat that same line from before—it doesn’t mean anything, this is standard practice, it doesn’t mean anything.
It works in calming your breath for a moment, but then he grabs your tit.
You gasp, jolting back while stuttering, “Wha–what are you doing?”
And yet, he keeps his steal gaze just as fixed and unfazed as before, sighing at you as if you were overreacting, before stating rather simply, “Getting a better understanding of your body.” He then reaches toward you again, showing no concern for how you shrink away. “It’s easier to replicate when I know it by hand.”
Again, you let his voice silence you, and again, you closed your eyes and let his hands wander—around your chest, up your neck, down your belly, and then—
“Wait! That can’t be necessary—” you blurt out, this time with your arms and hands shooting forth to distance him.
“Oh, trust me—it is.” Again, he pays you no mind, simply bearing over you with his entitled hands roaming whatever place he so wishes and chooses. Only clicking his tongue at you when you squirm, “Don’t fuss.”
You don’t exactly push him away, though you don’t exactly make his pursuit easier for him—lying there beneath his touches, wiggling and whimpering, though not really protesting either as he feels your slit.
Your fingers curl into his arms, gripping his messy shirt streaked with paint and coal—as his fingers run through your lips, teasing your entrance and your clit. He twists his hand around and presses his thumb down on the pearl after it perks for attention, then enters you with his pointer finger—drawing out wetness before promptly feeding you another.
You bite your lip as they curl and spread within you, testing you out while rubbing firm circles into your clit.
Gingerly, your hips return it, starting to move in tune with his ministrations. Thighs trembling, keeping your eyes squeezed tightly shut as you start to pant—small moans leaving your lips with every breath, feeling it build within you—a small flame at first, nursed until it fills and all but fights for room within you before finally bursting.
“That’s it—that’s the expression,” he purrs—voice much softer than usual—cupping your face with his other hand, holding you steady while taking in those dopey eyes sparkling with pleasure and those parted lips that never dare speak up—eyeing you like he's the proud owner of a prized possession. “Perfect.”
He hums, sounding pleased, then gets off you shortly after, sauntering back to his easel.
“You can get dressed now. I got what I needed,” he states, picking the stick of charcoal up again, ripping the last sketch off for a fresh sheet before starting anew as if nothing had happened.
And you, still lying there, are left just as mute as usual.
Wrath is your ex-boyfriend who refuses to get it through his thick skull that the two of you are over.
Any time you talk to another guy, he beats him up—to a fucking pulp, no less.
He’s always been that way, and still, it wasn’t always like this…
You started dating each other when you were young. He was rough around the edges, and you liked that about him—tattoos from his neck down to his ankles—the type your parents would have a heart attack if you ever brought home.
He was going to be a professional fighter, he’d say—mixed martial arts. He had all the rage and zero technique, but still, he’d land some of the best on their ass all through pure strength of will alone.
He was near impossible to train, though—always too wired to be able to take any pointers. And that’s why he needed you. You were his reliever. He’d fuck you like it was his last day on earth, and suddenly he’d be able to do anything. Like an enhancement drug, everything would start moving in slow motion, and he could somehow see all the moves of his opponent before they ever made them.
You admit you liked hearing him preach about it. It made you feel important—made you feel as if half the win, or at least some of it, was yours. And when he started raking in the dough as the champion, winning multiple titles across several tournaments, you were more than happy to be his lucky charm and cheer him on from the sidelines.
But then, you had this awful and sudden feeling of being just that—a tool for his success and nothing else. Sure, he’d give you presents—pretty things he thought suited you well—but you hadn’t gone on a date since his career started, nor had you had a proper sit-down dinner together either. He’d stick to his diet regime, be out training at the gym all day, and you’d be home, going about your own business.
And while you were doing that, you’d think—about the nature of your relationship. And what you found is that all it really entails in the end is him demanding a fuck whenever he needed it—before a tournament, before training, before an interview. And then, after coming to that glum conclusion, you can’t help but feel like nothing more than another one of those items he keeps loose in his gym bag.
And those thoughts only got validated when you tried denying him sex for the first time…
You were just curious, really—curious to see what he’d do. If he’d beg, if he’d plead, if he’d say boo, don’t be that way while down on his hands and knees for you.
But of course... he can’t get anything else but angry.
“If you’re not gonna give me the one thing you're useful for, then what the fuck do I keep you around for?” is what he’d said—no, barked. “You think you’re special? If you’re not gonna put out, I might as well go out and find me someone who will.”
He’d fucked off to some other room with a huff and left you standing there.
And you don’t know, amidst the shell shock and the ache of your heart coming undone... suddenly, you had no idea why you were there or with him or what you were supposed to do—and when you found no answer to any of those questions, it made no sense for you to stay. And so you went to your shared bedroom—or his bedroom, as a matter of fact, which you’d stayed in for the last months—quickly grabbed your things—your things specifically, and not all the other stuff he’d thrown at you—and stuffed it all haphazardly in your bag, then gone out to the entryway to put your shoes on.
That’s when he’d reared his head again with the gall of asking, “Where the fuck are you going?”
He hadn’t had that same raised tone as before. No, this time it was lowered—frayed—with a touch of urgency and unease as if balancing on the edge of a knife—as if he knew he'd done something wrong and was reaping the consequences and yet still hadn't the balls to simply apologize and correct it.
And so, you hadn’t answered him.
“It’s the middle of the fucking night,” he’d stated then, coming closer, ready to grab your arm with that hint of alarm in his voice increased. “Hey, I asked you fucking a question—”
That’s when you’d twisted around and slapped him. You’d put all your might into it as well, though you doubt it compared to much of what he’d felt in the ring.
And still, he’d looked at you as if he’d just lost all his titles.
He hadn’t said anything else after that—just stood there with his mouth agape as you opened the door and slammed it shut behind you. In fact, you don't think he even dared do so much as take a breath.
You’d gone and crashed at a friend's and rethought your life. There was no way you could ever go back, after all—not after what he’d said. Treating you like a stay-at-home whore. Who the fuck does he think he is?
What an asshole—you'd tried convincing yourself as you cried yourself to sleep…
The days and weeks after were nothing if not fucked up and toxic, to say the least. You’d go out to have a fun time and try to forget about him, but he’d always show up out of the blue to ruin everything—being his usual douche self.
Though… you can’t exactly claim to be any better than him—not after finding yourself in bed with his number-one up-and-coming rival.
Of course, it ends up all over the news—big headlines plastered on every gossip platform pushing your private affairs for all to see—a real media circus if there ever was one.
You end up back in his apartment. To talk, he’d said—a pretense you had a hard time believing in. He’s never been one to talk much. Honestly, you don’t know why you even bothered coming over when he asked. There might even be a chance he’ll kill you. This is how most homicides start, after all.
The two of you sit in silence for a couple of minutes. You look off to the side, waiting for him to speak because fuck knows you have nothing to say.
Meanwhile, he just stares at you—his big, hulking body leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands braided before his face. It’s the type of posture he’ll have when sitting in the corner of the ring—he’s got that same look in his eyes, too, deadset on you.
It makes you a little nervous, actually—maybe he really does plan on killing you.
“Why’d you do it?” he asks suddenly.
You almost scoff—almost roll your eyes, but you end up simply returning his dead glare. “Is that really what you asked me here for?”
He doesn’t answer that question. He just keeps staring at you.
You huff out a sigh, “I don’t know, maybe I just wondered what it would be like to be fucked like a woman for once and not someone’s toy.”
You don’t know why you decided to take it there when you both know why you’d done it. What other fucking reason would there be other than to get back at him? It’s a stupid question to begin with, and so you give it a stupid answer in return. And you won’t deny it feels fucking good—seeing him like this. Five o’clock shadow, eyebags, and uncut, disheveled hair.
He looks like a wreck, and rightfully so. Fuck knows what a mess you’d been before you finally managed to drag yourself out of bed. Funny what the single simple thought of revenge can do for someone so lost.
He scrapes his thumb down his jawline, over his stubble—a deep sigh running through him as he leans back on the couch. Offering no other reaction as he says, “I can sit here and act threatened, but you and I both know he was shit compared to me.”
He throws his arms up against the headrest, chin tipped up. Thinking he can hide it, thinking you can’t see right through him—to how hard he’s fighting to upkeep the poker face.
He’s forgetting who his opponent is.
“I know you, babe—I know your body. And there's no fucking way some shitstain you just met–”
“His dick was bigger,” you interrupt—face blank because two can play that silly game, and you do it better.
He’s shut up for a moment—you can see a vein pulse, but it’s quickly stifled, and he smirks instead, snickering despite his grit teeth, “Sorry, that must'a hurt given how much you cry with me.”
This time, you don’t refrain from scoffing and rolling your eyes, “That's all you have to say? Thought you were a fighter.”
“You want me to get jealous? Is that it?” he accuses then, starting to crack, throwing your scoff back at you, “Tch—should've fucked somebody important then.”
This time, you skip the eye-roll and flat-out laugh instead, “I'll keep that in mind. Next time, I'll call up your dad-”
That did it—got him out of his seat and everything. “Shut your mouth.” Standing big and hunched, all muscles and fury.
And you react in kind. Glad that you’re finally getting somewhere. “Make me.”
"You're fucking–" He clenched his fist in the air, scrunching his face in frustration, withholding a growl before releasing a heavy sigh instead.
Dropping his arms, shoulders slumping—hanging his head the same way whilst mumbling under his breath, “Fuck this… fuck this entire thing.”
And just as quickly as he’d sprung to his feet, he flopped down on the couch again.
“I don't wanna play games…” He looks up at you—now with the look of a starved and beaten dog. “I don’t want anyone but you.”
He reaches out slowly—big hands cradling your thighs, pulling you towards him gently, and you let him—put off by that strange new look in his eyes.
“You can fuck half the world, and I'd still only want you.”
It’s an odd confession. Unexpected coming from him. You’d anticipated more of a fight, not whatever this is. Looking at you with glossy eyes on the verge of tears. Suddenly, you feel kind of mean, struck with this sense of guilt for having reduced him to such a state.
“Don't take the high road. It doesn't suit you,” you declare, though without much bite.
And he just sighs, “Fuck that, we’re even now.” Pulling you even closer still—into his lap—he makes you straddle him. Forehead to forehead without kissing you yet. “So, are you gonna let me fuck you, or are you really gonna make me beg?”
And though you would kind of like to see what he’d look like on his knees, the sight of him like this was good enough proof that he’d learned his lesson despite it not being an apology.
Besides, he'd been all too right when he’d said the other guy couldn’t fuck you like him.
You volunteer at the homeless shelter and can’t help but feel extra sorry for him. He’s only around your age—so young yet with no future to speak of.
This winter, given it’s going to be an especially harsh one, all volunteers have been asked if they have any spare room they can be so kind as to give to those less fortunate. And though you’re not that well off yourself, you still have an extra room you’ve only been using as storage.
So, unable to look the other way, you decide to clean it out, get a bed, and host him.
You took precautions first, naturally—just to be safe. But, from what you could tell, he’s neither a drug addict nor has any criminal record to speak of. No, he’s just another abandoned kid who'd society had failed.
This is the least you can do to correct its wrongs.
And, of course, he falls in love with you for it. Not only do you give him a place of rest—but you make him warm food, give him fresh clothes, do his laundry, draw his bath, watch movies with him every night, and always ask him if he has everything he needs. You even cut his long, shaggy hair for him and give him luxuries such as face-lotion.
You’re a saint, too good for a filthy sinner like him, but he’ll never let you know that... No, your pity feels too nice—taking such good care of him—he’s going to leach off of you and your honeycomb heart for the rest of his life if he can help it.
He doesn't look too bad after he cleans up, and after a few more weeks of eating well and getting enough rest—he stops lurching and starts standing up straight, looking lanky and lean with muscle—at which point you can’t deny he’s even a little hot. You know… in that scrappy sort of way.
You feel weird about it, of course—guilty even. He’s a homeless guy you’re housing—you’d be nothing if not downright evil if you took advantage of him. But after a few weeks of settling in, he starts feeling like more of a normal roommate and not a stranger. And with that familiarity, you both lose the distance and become more lax and loose around each other—wearing less, talking casually, not afraid to brush up against each other, and before you even know it, you find yourself folded in half beneath him on the living room couch.
You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into—but his cock’s so big he’s pounding the sense right out of you with every thrust.
He’s not even going fast. No, rather slow, actually—taking his time as if savoring it. But that doesn't take away from the pleasure bubbling up inside of you where his strokes hit so heavy, resting deep within, so fulfilling that it all but replaces your better judgment with the sole need to squeeze him with all you've got.
“Mh, you’re pussy’s so nice and warm—I could stay inside you forever.”
You’re so wet it’s ridiculous—like never before—like you’re the one who’s been starved and neglected and not the other way around. Getting your breath all but knocked out of you, getting fucked so utterly full, he’s making you kick your feet and curl your toes in the air, bucking your hips back into him like you’re desperately begging for more.
He’s got your knees hooked over his arms, keeping you neatly pressed under him. “You’re so good to me—so, so sweet, you must be the sweetest girl in the whole entire world. My guardian angel.”
All you’re able to do is babble and moan in return—misty- and cross-eyed with your dewy face cradled in his hands.
You just hold onto his wrists while he speaks fondly against your lips, “You saved me when no one else even bothered looking. Let me return the favor—give this pretty pussy all the thanks it deserves.”
When he re-angles and hits you in a different spot, the switch in your lower belly is immediate—making your whole body seize up and shiver, breath shuddering in your throat, followed swiftly by a pulse migrating from your core all throughout your body, tasting oversweet on your tongue enough to make you drool.
He locks lips with yours, slurping your spit up sloppily and keeping himself fully sleaved as you peak—feeling your wet, gummy walls tighten and flutter, rippling along his length like a rush of kisses.
Then, right before it fully dies down, he picks up the pace again and rekindles it—because fuck knows he’s well-rested and over-due and the farthest thing from done with you just yet.
You start off as a waitress at his restaurant. And yet, he’s the one who developed an appetite—for you and your pleasing smile and that busy-bee swing you have in your hip as you hop around from table to table.
He licks his lips at the sight of you more than he does the food he makes. He even had the uniforms altered in your image—made the skirts shorter and shirts tighter.
He's utterly shameless, but who can blame him? You’re such a little bite-sized treat—he just has to taste you.
And taste you, he most certainly does.
For breakfast and for brunch and lunch and dinner and supper, as well as a midnight snack.
“Your pussy juice is my favorite,” he groans from between your legs.
Fat-muscled chef’s arms, tattooed with all types of silly patches, curled tightly around your thighs, keeping you close despite those times you try and push away when it gets to be a little too much—because fuck knows he doesn’t have the same reservations. Nose and tongue and chin deep in your slit, slurping you down while filling you up with his words, “I want to flavor every meal I make with you.”
You keep a hand over your face, kissing your knuckles, sometimes with a bite—whimpering pitifully, “Gross…”
Of course, you can’t help but cringe when he says things like that. He’s your boss, after all, not a porn actor. Still, you don’t say it with much conviction. It’s just that you get so embarrassed you don’t know what else to say.
He chuckles, still with his face buried. “Don’t be childish.” Words muffled as he doubles down on his efforts of sucking on your clit like a piece of candy.
“I’m not,” you whine. “You're just weird.”
He smacks off of you at that, a refreshing sigh leaving him rugged and raspy, a devilish look in his eyes as if he’s about to eat you for real. “I’m a world-renowned chef—are you implying I don’t know my flavors?”
Everything in your gut coils with anticipation, nearly rumbling with need, while he pulls your lower half up and even closer—face glossy with the way he’d gorged himself already—licking his teeth now as he refocuses on your clit alone.
Flattening his tongue on it while he speaks, sounding like some type of beast, “I’ve tasted everything the world has to offer. And I'm telling you, this pretty little thing between your legs is the best there is.”
You can’t stand looking up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you hide your face with both hands. Mumbling out a weak, “Pervert...”
Again, he snickers, shaking his head as if he’s ripping into flesh when he’s really just got his tongue out—straight motorboating your poor pussy.
When done, he drops you onto the bed again, grinning while replying to your insult, “Can’t argue with that,” before promptly kissing and licking up your belly—with fingers replacing his tongue, pumping you on his knuckles, getting you ready.
He groans when his mouth reaches your chest, lips wrapped around a nipple, “If only these titties had milk. I could feast on you from every position.”
You don’t know if you should giggle or grumble—he’s such a baby—and a spoiled one at that. But really, his fingering is making it difficult to do anything but stammer and try and keep it together, “We talked about this—I’m not taking hormones just to breastfeed you, you weirdo.”
He whines then, “Please—it’s my only wish in the entire world—I need it.”
You struggle to argue, feeling like you’re under siege—an onslaught set out to make you breathless. “Well—” you pant, gritting your teeth and bearing it. “We can’t always get what we want.”
“Oh, I’ll see about that.” He takes it as a challenge, this time really locking his lips around your nipple and suckling—releasing just briefly to say, “I bet if I suck on these babies enough, they’ll give me what I want.”
He keeps his fingers working diligently while at it—used to multitasking—curling and spreading them out within you, pumping you so fast, you barely have the time to beg him to “Stop that—” before you’re already shaking and cumming for what must be the seventh time already.
He laughs breathily, kissing your teat goodbye as he lifts himself up again. Pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to his lips and blithely sucks them off.
“You know I can’t stop, dear. I’m so hungry—I’m ravenous.”
You watch him from over the tips of your fingers. So hot and mortified you think you’re soon to pass out. Breathing heavily behind your hands, muttering, “You’re a glutton—that’s what you are.”
Again, he just cheerfully snickers, bowing down to your halfway-hidden face with a smile. “I hardly see how it’s my fault I can’t get enough of you.”
He spreads your legs again and finds his place between them.
“You’re the one who got me hooked—so you better take responsibility for it.”
Lust is your boss. He's the owner of the strip club where you work, your pimp when money’s tight, as well as the porndirector of all your lovely little films.
Yeah, you might as well have a tramp stamp of his name on your ass, the way he practically owns you…
He's around ten years older and has basically taught you all about sex from when you were only a fledgling in the industry. You live at his studio above the club since he keeps all your money in a bank account under his name, calling you his little sugarbaby and telling you you’ll get an allowance and that you can get more if and when you ask him nicely and tell him what it’s for.
“Don’t be a brat, baby. You know how I hate it when you're a bad girl,” he says when you raise the topic of moving out, treating it as if you’re a child threatening to run away from home.
“I don’t belong to you. Give me what you owe me.”
Honestly, you have no idea where you got the courage.
But is it courage? Or is it just plain stupidity? Because, though you’re increasingly more terrified as you quickly watch him lose his temper, it doesn’t exactly come as a surprise. And so, if you knew this is what was going to happen—why the fuck would you put yourself through it?
Must be madness.
“I give you everything, don't I? Food, clothes, a home,” he chastises, bearing over you while you’re down on scuffed knees, holding your wrist in a bruising grip and your face just as fiercely—nearly tearing the skin off your cheeks with the bite of his nails.
“And still, you have the fucking nerve to act like a goddamn bitch.”
You hiccup on sobs, spluttering out a desperate “Please—I’m sorry–”
"You and your entire slut body belong to me, you understand that?"
"Yes-yes—please—I'm sorry! You're right! I belong to you! I'm sorry!"
That seems to calm him just a bit—at least enough to take the bite away from his voice, now cooing at you in an ugly mocking attempt at sweetness, “Yeah, you do every single little thing I ask. ‘Cause if you’re not gonna behave like a good girl, I have no other choice but to treat you like a bad one.”
He lets your audience be rowdier than usual that night, allowing them to slap and grab, then forces you to have an extra rough shoot afterward—with tighter bondage, more toys, bigger guys making use of you like a piece of meat, smacking and choking you as they find out how many cocks your holes can fit, every last one finishing on your face.
Then, when you’re all done and all used up for the day, he brings you upstairs—home, sweet home—where he treats you to some much-unwanted after-care...
You shiver and shake despite the hot water. Sitting in the bathtub, laying back with your spine against his chest, feeling thin like a sheet of paper, all crumbled up and torn—sniffling and sniveling as the after-shock of the day still ricochets through you like wind through a hollow husk.
“The shoot today was rough, huh?” he drawls, washing you with his own hands. Stroking your poor sore cunt despite how it makes you whimper. “Yeah... was it a little too rough for you, hm?”
You don’t do anything in return—but your body language says enough on its own, and he allows it to be your answer.
Sighing heavily, he wraps you up with both arms and squeezes you tighter, chin resting atop your head.
“You know… if you’d just be my good girl, I’d give you a good girl to-do list. Let you stay here all day, do some house chores while I’m gone, make love when I get home, hm? Doesn’t that sound better?”
He traces a welted bruise on the inside of your thigh, one you got from the shoot—roughly the shape of a hand, and a dozen more others layered on top of it. It makes you suck in a hiss.
“But if you’re gonna be a bad girl, then this is what you get.”
He settles into the grove of your neck, purring against your ear. “Are you gonna be my good girl from now on? Hm?”
You bite your lip, breath shuddering while nodding pitifully.
And still, he insists, “Say it so I can hear it.”
The water’s gone cold around you—just like everything else, as you say, “I’ll be a good girl.”
He seems pleased, at least. Nuzzling against your cheek with chin stubble and a smirk, asking, “Yeah? Whose?”
Your voice is small and pathetic, nearly a wince, “Yours.”
He groans then, “That’s right. My good girl.” Lifting his hand from the water, he takes hold of your chin, fingers pressing into those designated sore spots as he angles your face toward him and gives you a heartless kiss before growling against your lips, “And don’t you ever fucking dare forget it again.”
After he’s finished washing you up, he carries you out to bed. It's one you fear much more than the one down in the studio.
Because in this bed, just like every night in this hellhole… he starts teaching every last one of your holes who they belong to.
Or, well, no, he’s not your enemy, but you’re most certainly his enemy.
You’re just not aware of it because of what a ditzy and clueless airhead you are.
But fuck, he can’t stand you—you and your fake personality, acting all bubbly and sweet, cheering him on, always telling him to do his best—condescending little bitch acting like everyone’s friend—like he doesn’t see through you right to your rotten core. You don’t fool him—he knows you’re as bad as the rest of them, so just quit pretending like you’re better or something.
You’re under the false impression that the two of you are friends. You just think he has a strange sense of humor, but you laugh politely even when you don’t always get the joke.
Well, maybe it’s not so much politeness, but the fact that you have a big fat hopeless crush on him.
It infuriates him. He throws your niceties back in your face as insults, and you just laugh. How low do you think of him? Honestly? How tall is that high horse of yours that you have your head constantly in the clouds?
Poor you… you just think he’s so cool—always saying what he feels like, not a lame people-pleasing goodie-two-shoes such as yourself. You can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy all day long. You’re always making sure you sit next to him during lectures—heart almost beating out of your chest, holding back from squealing when your prayers are answered, and the two of you are finally paired for a project together.
It really feels like the universe is on your side, and so you just can’t stop yourself from going the full mile—making chocolates and preparing him a hand-written love letter. You know he’ll think you’re a little silly, that he’ll make fun of you for it—but you can’t expect to get anywhere without putting your heart on the line, can you? For a chance at love, the risk must be worth it!
Yeah, you’re such a hopeless romantic—you feel it as he punches his fist through your ribs when he rips out your poor heart and stomps all over it.
“I fucking get it already! You’re little miss pretty and popular. Would you quit rubbing it in my face, or do I really have to spell it out for you? I. Don’t. Fucking. Like. You,” he seethes through grit teeth. “Go pick another one of the hundreds dying to be your partner and leave me the fuck alone!”
You shrink where you stand, shocked doe-eyes rapidly welling up like a flood, lips wobbling as you choke on your words, “Oh… okay… I’m sorry… I just… I–”
“You-you-you what?” he barks at your stuttering. “Spit it out already! What the fuck do you want?”
“I just-I-I just always thought you were amazing. So…”
His face contorts, scrunches up in a grimace different from anger, though not without it, as he spits out, “What the fuck are you on about now?”
But his voice is a little diminished now, with confusion usurping the place of his hate, suddenly feeling a little out of sorts because… what did you actually just say?
“I just, I really like you–” you repeat, hanging your head, only barely able to mumble through the tears blocking your throat. “But I guess I’ve just annoyed you all this time—I’m sorry...”
Only now does he notice you’re trying to hand him something—a flat little box with a pink note attached.
“This is for you, but I understand if you don’t want it.” Unable to look up, you just stretch your arms out until it gently bumps into him.
Baffled, he accepts without thinking.
“I’m sorry—I’ll leave you alone from now on.” And then you run off, disappearing with a sob that all but shoots him through the chest.
And slowly bleeding out, he remains standing there, eyes glued to where you'd left—mouthing the word what…
What did you just say?
Like? Him?
Did he mishear you, or did you just confess?
No way—that can’t be it, right?
But what the fuck is this heart-shaped letter, then?
"What the fuck did I just do?"
You look like you’ve been crying your eyes out all night the next day—your usual bubbly personality reduced to a ghost in a shell, walking the hallways like a zombie, slowly and without purpose, eyes on the ground—letting everyone bump into you.
You don't even so much as bat an eye when someone runs straight over you, fully knocking all your books and folders onto the floor.
You just get on your knees and start recollecting them.
A newfound hate flares up within him at the sight. “Hey, you!" He stomps over. "Watch where the fuck you’re going next time, dipshit.”
You look up at the sound of his voice—flinching before you notice it’s not directed at you.
No, rather, he’s got a boy up against the lockers, lifted by his collar onto the tip of his toes. Face only a few inches from his, glaring at him harsher than he’d glared at you yesterday.
“Now apologize to the girl before I punch your ugly face in.”
You stare at the altercation with large eyes, only able to blink as the boy who’d bumped into you starts spluttering on the verge of tears, “I–I’m sorry–I didn’t see you! Sorry!”
You don’t answer. Shocked and speechless, you remain on the floor in confusion, asking yourself why’s he doing this? Didn’t he cuss you out yesterday, or was it all a bad dream like you'd hoped?
He throws the boy on his way, then gets on his knees down alongside you—proceeding to help you gather your things.
You only watch on in wordless bewilderment until he starts muttering something under his breath.
“I’m sorry I made you cry yesterday.” He stacks all your things in a neat pile next to you while continuing his apology. “And for being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”
He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor where his hands busily roam around until there was nothing more to retrieve.
He then hesitantly looks up at you—eyes flittering—a little too ashamed to hold your gaze as he says, “Your chocolates were really good.”
That’s when your heart starts fluttering again—as if new life was just breathed in and revived it.
He can see it as well—how you light up like a rekindled candle.
“They were?” you gush, shuffling closer on your knees all excitedly—face brighter than the sun on cloudfree summer day.
It blinds him—nearly stunts him, only able to utter a meager, almost shy, “Yeah.”
He then slings his bag in front of him and pulls something out.
A lunchbox.
“I made you these..." he swallows thickly. "As an apology…”
He’s utterly red—from the tips of his ears to his neck and entire face, even his hands.
“For me?”
“Yeah..." He reaches it over stiffly. “They’re not as good as yours, though...”
You eagerly accept despite his nervousness, popping the lid off where the two of you sit—right there in the middle of the hallway floor, with other students walking around you like water passing two rocks in a stream.
His blush grows ever more intense as you pick one of his crudely made chocolates up, not even examining it before throwing one into your mouth.
It was his first time making anything that required a recipe. And they most certainly did not come out well, but he figured the embarrassment was part of his atonement.
He didn’t actually expect you to try them.
But there you are—lying through your teeth, saying, “I think they’re great!”
He can only scoff out a soft laugh. “Of course you would.”
Turns out, you really are just a nice person after all. You don’t have the heart to be mean at all, do you? Yeah, you don’t even have it in you to feel any of the ugly things he keeps inside. In fact, he bets you don’t even have the means of knowing such ugly things exist.
That must be what he’s envied about you all this time…
He doesn’t want to share you with anyone and gets viscerally jealous each time you hang out with others. It’s as if he feels boils rising beneath his skin, simmering with a violent need to kill anyone and everyone you ever come into contact with—even if it’s just a passerby who accidentally brushes against you.
He can’t stand other people—how they think they can just come along and be your friend when he’s been your friend since you both were in diapers. What? Do they really expect him to share you with them? Just like that? No way. You’re his best friend. They should all go find themselves their own.
Actually, the term best friend doesn’t even really cut it… It’s a little too childish. You’ve both grown out of it. And besides, it never really fully encompassed what the two of you actually are to each other. You’re so much more than just friends, after all. Yeah, what you really are is soulmates. Yeah, that sounds more right. Soulmates.
And the bond between soulmates is like the bond between an addict and their favorite drug. You wouldn’t ask an addict to share his favorite drug, now would you? No. Not unless you’re prepared to either kill or be killed.
But he can’t say he blames them for wanting you, either. Of course, they’d want you—anyone would.
He pities them, actually. And you make it no better for the poor suckers, stringing them all along—acting as if there’s enough of you to go around. Well, there just isn’t. And even if there was, he shouldn't have to share you with anyone.
Yeah, the problem here is you. You don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand that you’re his.
Well… seems like he’ll just have to teach you once and for all, now, doesn’t it?
“What’s… this?” you mumble groggily once you wake, sluggishly tugging your bound wrists—not yet aware of what they are. Your eyes blow wide once you do—voice turning sharply frantic, “What’s happening?”
“We’re having a play date like we used to.” He comes into view just as the panic sets in—and though his face has all the familiarity to be a sign of comfort, his words evoke no such feeling within you.
“Remember? How we used to play house?" he says. "Granted, we're a little older now… so I thought I’d change it up a bit.”
He stands before the bed you’re currently lying tied down on. But he doesn’t look like himself. No, there’s something very wrong about all of him. Seeming way too at ease for the situation.
“Instead of making mud pies…” he continues. “I'm gonna fuck you and give you a creampie.”
Your heart lurches up into your throat at his words, and you choke. Your clothes from the day have been removed, leaving you naked. You spot them lying on the floor in a heap while you spastically look around for clues as to “What the fuck’s going on? This isn’t funny–”
“Shut up,” he says—his demeanor still as nonchalant as he climbs on top of you and pushes something past your lips, nudging it deep down in your throat.
Feeling it as it scrapes your tongue, you can tell it’s your lace panties, and you gag—shaking your head, trying to dislodge both it and his fingers, but he holds you steady.
“I have things to say. So, be a good friend and listen.”
You start crying then—brows cinched as you look up at him in terror, full-tremoring now while struggling under his weight and the all-too-intimate way he starts touching you.
“I'm glad you’re still a virgin…” he suddenly says, running his hands down your breasts, catching your nipples between his fingers.
You twist in disgust, halfway convinced you’re having some godawful fucked up dream—that this just can’t be happening—but somehow, at the same time, something deep in your gut that’s been lying there for a while ignored by your kind heart doesn't find it completely without warning, having felt how strange he'd been acting as of late—always looking at you a certain way and saying certain concerning things—certain concerning things he’s saying right now, “I’d kill all those little toy friends of yours if you were ever so stupid to let them have it.”
He glares at you—looking every bit angry, and yet you can’t describe it exactly. Something about that look in his eyes makes him seem like a complete stranger to you. Then he cracks a smile, and it makes it all the worse. Bowing down until his forehead presses clean against yours, noses rubbing against each other.
“But I think you knew. Didn’t you? Knew how it wouldn’t be right. Knew it was mine to take.”
He shuffles backward until he’s separating your thighs instead of straddling your waist. And you croak with an especially full-chested sob as his touches travel further down along with him—with savage goosebumps running rampant across your body once he rubs his thumb crassly over your slit.
“You see?” his breath shudders in his throat—thick with something mortifying that’s bound to ruin you forever. “It’s so happy to see me.”
You whine and scramble, trying to force your thighs shut—but he has the upper hand—keeping you spread with his body while two of his fingers slip through your lips and bully themselves inside.
He pumps them in and out with zero regard to how you recoil—only sneering at the way you worm in disgust, “At least your pussy understands where its loyalties lie.”
It’s not long before his ministrations draw wetness, and he pulls them out—inspecting them in the dim light he’s left on. Rubbing the digits together before putting them in his mouth.
You close your eyes with a whimper while listening to the sickening sounds of him sucking them clean.
He puts both hands around your neck next. He doesn't squeeze hard, but your breath stops nonetheless. Eyes stinging with both spent and still-welling tears.
“I’m upset with you,” he states, brushing his lips over your parted ones, still stuffed and silenced with your own underwear. “But I’ll forgive you if you apologize and swear to me that you meant it when you said we’d be friends forever.”
That look in his eyes—you still can’t explain it. Desperate, desolate, deranged, and enraged—something downright sick.
“But since you can’t talk right now, you’ll have to prove it some other way...”
One of the hands disappears, and you hear the following sounds of a zipper being undone, then the rustling of his pants being shoved down.
“Cum on my cock, and I’ll know.”
The room tastes of blood and something rotten as he frees his cock and graces your clit.
“Actions speak louder than words anyway, after all, don’t they? So cum on my cock, and I’ll cum in your pussy, so we can seal our friendship again—just like the time we married each other on the playground.”
He enters you, and you think you might just die in the mix of horror and grief.
And yet you remain perfectly alive—even as he rips through you and splits both you and your heart apart.
“You can think of this as the honeymoon,” he whispers. “Always and forever, happily ever after, never apart.”
rick grimes x fawn! reader
summary: rick grimes vs. the care and keeping of a fawn like, doe-eyed girl. (Spoiler alert: He wins.)
tags/tropes: girl who has very obviously sculpted her entire life around avoiding conflict and being yelled at and a man who dives headfirst into trouble, so yeah it’s just gooey and fluffy
a/n: you all begged, cried, pleaded, asked politely, and shouted in my inbox, comment sections, AND reblogs for several months, and i feel bad for being on such a long hiatus, so this is my treat to ya’ll <33 if you see inaccuracies/plot holes no you don't
title taken from Couldn't Make It Harder by Sabrina Carpenter, aka this fic (and blog's) anthem!
۫ ꣑ৎ
You have a target on your forehead. Rick’s pretty sure you know it’s there.
You've always had the special and particular talent of being aware of every single possible and present danger all the time. On high alert— always ready to bolt.
It makes you shy. Makes you quiet, prone to self-isolation. But you're different; special in a way that sets you apart from everyone else who's developed hyper-vigilance after the shitty hand life's dealt them.
You're soft. Sweet. Fucking kind.
And he isn't really sure how he managed to lure you under his arm, but he did. And he's determined to keep you there.
Which, at times, honestly seems too easy. He thinks it should be harder. That you should give him a harder time. That you should ask for more, maybe give him shit every now and then.
The first time he tells you, you look at him strangely. Like he'd just suggested you run naked into a hoard instead of (what he believes) to be a pretty reasonable request. Then you'd given him awkward smile (that had no right to look as cute and pretty as it did) and said 'sure.'
Like you were placating him. 'Sure, Rick. I'll get right on that.'
The second time isn't as direct, but it does end in another awkward smile. You'd both been fairly busy all day. You, on a supply run —He doesn't want to toot his own horn when he says that he made a good decision making you a runner, but damn, you're good— and him doing day-to-day problem solving, scouting, decision making, and all the other exhausting shit he wishes he didn't have to do.
So you'd both been lying on the couch, just kind of taking each other in, and he asked you:
"What do you want to do tonight?"
You'd lifted your head from where it was pillowed against his shoulder, eyes a little wider than usual. You'd stared at him for a beat too long to be considered normal, like you were looking for something in his face. An answer.
And then you'd asked him: "What do you want to do?"
And it wasn't really the answer he was looking for, but it did make something kind of click, in his head. He didn't remark on it out loud or make any sort of indication that something relatively important regarding you and your relationship has just occurred to him.
Instead, he said: "I'm pretty content right here."
And you'd smiled, but it wasn't quite right. It was just a little off. Like you were waiting for something.
He files it away for later.
—
Later happens to be much sooner than he thinks, because now he can't really stop himself from noticing all the myriads of ways that you just... don't ever state your opinion. There's a part of him that preens when you automatically defer to his judgement, especially when it involves giving you a command or order, and he gets to see that glassy look in your eyes, but the other part of him, that part that twinges uncomfortably when he can't manage to wrangle a clear answer from you about what you wan't for breakfast, kind of thinks that there might be layers to the whole fawn thing you've got going on.
It's honestly kind of confusing. On one hand, he knows that if he were to ever really cross a line, you wouldn't hesitate to stab him in his sleep. Or poison his food, or maybe just slap the shit out of him, plain and simple. You're not harmless or defenseless. You wouldn't have survived this long by yourself if you were. So it doesn't really make sense when you simply just... never interject or say "I don't want to do that."
He honestly doesn't think he's ever heard you say no to him before. Which makes him feel extremely slimy and gross, and he vows immediately the moment the thought occurs to him that he has to put a stop to this.
"Sweetheart," He says one morning, having finally worked the courage up, "I got a little something."
You rush over to him immediately, eyes sparking and your body practically vibrating with excitement.
"Is it a new water bottle? Cause I know mine is gross—"
"Slow down," He chuckles, though makes a mental note to add a water bottle to the list of things to do for you, "It's not that exciting I'm afraid. Just... a little treat."
From behind his back, conveniently hidden on the counter behind him, he pulls out a box of your favorite tea. Nothing crazy- he'd happen to spot it on a run-slash-get-away with Daryl, and he knew he could use it to enact a certain plan of his.
It feels so cruel, but he needs to test it. To make sure. And to see the severity of what he's dealing with.
Sure enough- you gasp, hands immediately reaching out for it.
So he interrupts you before you can speak. "It's Maggie's favorite. I know you and her have started to get closer, so I thought you could give to her as a gift."
Watching you falter and retreat into yourself is physically painful. This was a terrible idea. Rick feels awful.
"Oh. Yeah, I think she'd like that."
Rick sighs, full-bodied, and leans back against the counter and gently grabs you by the arms, pulling you forward.
"Baby," He says, voice pitched low and a little soft, just for you, "I did not get that for Maggie. I got that for you."
"Oh," You say again, voice too quiet for his liking, "Then why did you say you got it for her?"
"Because I wanted to see if you'd tell me no."
He waits for you to respond, maybe defend yourself, or something like that, but you don't. You just look at him, eyes a smidgen wet, expression carefully blank.
He raises his hands slow, slow, slowly, because he knows you, and if you're quiet that means two things: Content or scared. And you're definitely not content right now, and he doesn't want to give you a reason to bolt.
You don't though. Run, that is. You freeze in place instead, which almost feels worse, and close your eyes when his hand grows close to your face. He watches your whole body tense, he watches you suppress a small flinch when he finally touches your jaw, your cheek.
"Angel," He brings his other hand up, and your eyes flutter open, "I want you to say no to me. I want you to ask for things and I want you to give me shit. Can you do that for me, baby?"
You scrunch your face up, hesitant, and take your bottom lip between your teeth and nod.
"Uh-uh," He presses on your lip, tugging it free from your merciless bite, "None of that. Come on, use your words."
"I'm... not good at that," You admit, tone hushed, "And... I don't want to. I like it when you decide things, because then I don't have to think about decisions and it's not as stressful. I don't want to go back to stressing all the time."
"Can you honestly say you haven't been stressing this whole time? About what you thought I would do or say if you spoke up about something?"
Your silence is telling.
"If I ever, and I mean ever, raise my voice to you when it's not an emergency, or if I get mad at you for disagreeing with me or voicing your opinion, you have my full permission to slap the shit out of me. Or ask Daryl to do it."
You giggle a little. "That's not fair. Daryl would do that if I asked right now."
"He'd do it for free," Rick amends, a smile tugging at his lips. "But I'm serious. Ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you if you tell me what you want for breakfast."
"I dunno," You shrug, "I might spontaneously explode."
He snorts, then opens his arms and beckons you forward. You collapse against him without a second thought, a little whine expelled from your lungs and muffled by his chest.
"I know, I know," He coos at you, half-mocking half-serious. "But you were so brave, and brave girls get treats."
"Like tea?"
"Yes, like tea."
You hum against him, easily placated, and he thinks that you really aren't difficult at all.
—
A few weeks go by, and you really do make a concerted effort to speak up. For him only, of course. You still have the habit of keeping to yourself, and you seem to just be quiet by nature. Which is fine, because he's taken an awful liking to having such a cute and quiet little thing around him. And your effort is adorable.
Still, though, it's not without it's hiccups.
You got home from a supply run a little bit ago, and you've been avoiding him. Not so glaringly obvious that he feels like he has to say something, but. You definitely are. You just seem on edge. Skittish. Like you were when you first got here.
So he goes about making dinner, cause he's not the kind of man to expect his girl to do everything for him. Especially you, because he knows you would if he asked. You would do anything if he asked. Which really only makes him want to make you do less. Sweet little thing like you shouldn't worry about things like that.
Except here you are, in the kitchen, hovering, and very obviously worrying.
"Sweetheart," He says, absentmindedly flipping a pancake —you've never said it out loud, but he knows breakfast for dinner is one of your favorite meals, "Sit down."
You comply- and quickly at that. But in the absence of hovering near him, you begin bouncing your knee and staring at him, so he dishes up a single pancake and slides it to you.
"Eat that. And when you're done, I want you to tell me why you're upset."
"I"m not—"
"Didn't I tell you to eat first?"
You do actually grumble under your breath a little, much to his satisfaction.
Once you've finished wolfing down the pancake, you tap your fork on your plate, staring at the silverware and clearly avoiding his gaze.
"I've been trying harder to speak up."
"Mhm. You have. I've noticed."
You start chewing on your lip.
"Am I... Am I not trying hard enough?"
Rick's eyebrows furrow. "Why would you think that?"
He quickly flips the last pancake, plops it on the stack with the others, and carries it to the table where you're nervously fidgeting.
"You haven't- um. Usually, you..." He watches you clench and unclench your hands, body tense like you're two seconds away from skittering right out the door, and when you speak, it's hushed and mumbled. "You usually tell me I'm doing good."
Oh. Oh you poor thing.
"Oh baby," He murmurs, sitting down on the chair next to and patting his lap, "Come here,"
You rise from your chair slowly, your eyes briefly flickering from him to the door, and then back to him. Weighing your options. A prey animal weighing comfort over safety.
In the end, comfort wins out, cause you gingerly shuffle forward and plop yourself into his lap, burrowing your face in his shoulder. It doesn't seem like a comfortable position, with you all scrunched up like that, but he's not going to fight that battle right now. Not when your hands are shaking with their grip on his shirt.
"My poor baby," He coos, rubbing up and down your back, "Have you been stressing this whole time? You been worrying? Thinkin' you ain't good?"
"Mhm." You mumble, voice dejected.
"Oh, sweetheart, that ain't true, not one little bit, alright? You've been doing so good, haven't you? Yeah you have. Working so hard to be good on top of being the best runner here, ain't that right?"
You nod into his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you think you weren't doing good. I'm so proud of you, you know that?"
You make a little wounded noise, kinda soft, kinda whiny.
"It's true. I am. I don't like that you were stressin' this whole time. Defeats the whole purpose, don't it? You know why I wanted you to start speaking up for yourself in the first place?"
Your breath hitches a little before you speak.
"Why?"
"Cause I could tell it was making you worry. And if you have anything to worry about, then I'm not doin' my job properly."
"It's your job to make sure I'm not worried?"
"Yes ma'am," Rick lets his hand come up to rest on the back of your neck. "Sweet things like you shouldn't have anything to worry about. You're too kind for that."
"You think I'm kind?"
"Course I do." He says, readjusting his grip, one hand squeezing your hip, just a tad possessive, It's too hard to resist, when you're clingy like this.
You pull back, bottom lip jutted out and the perfect shade of bitten-pink, entirely irresistible. He doesn't even try to stop himself from kissing you, soft and deep. You've earned it.
"Now," He says, a touch breathless, "I reckon you've worked up a bit of an appetite with all that worrying. And it looks like someone made your favorite dinner."
You give him a quick kiss on the nose. God, you're adorable.
"You're too good to me."
"No," Rick mouths at the side of your neck, lazy and slow. "M' just giving you exactly what you deserve. My pretty girl."
—
After that, he makes sure to praise you each and every day. Honestly, it's as much for him as it is for you. On several occasions, he has to pull you aside from your daily chores just to kiss you, to hold you, because you're just too enticing, all sweet and kind and so happy when he tells you 'good job' or calls you 'good girl'. You're a menace to his blood pressure.
Watching you slowly bloom is a special treat, though. Kind of intoxicating, if he's being honest. Because now he knows with absolute certainty that when he gives you an order, a command, you comply because you want to. You want to listen to him.
It's a miracle he manages to leave the bedroom every day.
You'd confided him one night, curled up into his side that you'd been worried that you'd be difficult to handle. That he'd get tired of putting up with you and your skittish nature.
"Sweetheart, I fuckin' love handling you."
He spent the rest of the night putting your fears to rest. You both sleep through your alarms the next morning.
sokka x reader (gn!reader [fem. leaning]) [getting together, mild crack, fluff, jealousy, confessions, first kiss]
summary: you and sokka are both very affectionate people, and there isn't anything wrong with that. a conversation with aang shifts your perspective, and for some reason, you think avoiding sokka will do wonders for your relationship. spoiler alert: it doesn't.
warnings: probably some fem!terms, jealousy, mild arguments, reader avoiding sokka, tame sexual joke(s), maybe ooc (i haven't written for avatar in a LONG while), reader is fucking stupid, oblivious reader, misunderstandings, maybe spelling errors, no use of y/n, second person
word count: 7.6k (yo..flip that around....)
note: i've always been a sokka girl.. HE'S SO BAD i haven't watched the movie i'm waiting for actual release but oughhh ignore any canon inconsistencies because of that i wrote this in likeee one day i love him i am working on my other fics i swear ALSO i will take requests for avatar...... just make sure to check over the rules okay enjoy baiii
Yours and Sokka’s relationship was platonic.
Very platonic. As platonic as it could possibly get. So platonic, in fact, that you had never even thought of dating him or anything silly like that.
(Well. Maybe that last part was kind of a lie. But it had only been once or twice, back when you were stupid teens trying to figure out how to save the world.)
You, personally, thought that it was obvious.
Apparently, it wasn’t.
“I’m pooped.” Sokka sighs loudly, leaning heavily on your back as he peers over to glance down at Toph, who stood before you, crossing her arms.
“What distinguished vocabulary you possess.” You reply, smiling lightly as you reach up and pat blindly at his arm.
“Thanks. I try.”
“Oh, I can tell.”
“Can you?”
“Of course.”
He hums happily. “I appreciate it.”
Toph clears her throat loudly. You turn your attention back to her quickly, an apologetic tone in your voice.
“Sorry, Toph. What were we talking about?”
“Nothing important.” Her eyes narrow slightly as she stares right at you, although not quite at your eyes. “Sokka.”
“Toph. Wonderful to see you, as always.”
“Can’t say the same.” She replies, deadpan. For a moment, Sokka jostles against your back, an offended noise leaving his lips before you lightly jab an elbow into his side. He gets it after a moment.
“Ah!” He perks up, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you quickly. “Ha! I get it! Good one, Toph! Real knee-slapper!”
Toph lets the faintest smirk appear on her face.
“I’m sure we all got it.” She says, leaning back on her heels. “What do you want?”
“Can’t I say hi to my friends?” Sokka tilts his head, his cheek brushing against your ear. “Is that a crime, Toph? Am I going to get arrested?”
“It’s a crime when it’s the two of you.”
“Huh?” You raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Everything.”
You turn back to exchange a look with Sokka, who shrugs back at you, just as, if not more, confused.
“Okay.” Both of you say in unison as you look back at her.
“Ugh. Don’t do that. That’s weird.”
“Well, I wasn’t lying when I said I was just stopping by to say hi.” Sokka stretches, taking a step back from you. You miss the warmth that came with him. “Got things to do, people to see, yada yada.”
“I’m sure you do.” Toph responds, raising an eyebrow. “But with all of your impending duties, you just had to come say hello?”
“How could I not? I heard very familiar voices and I couldn’t resist.” Sokka’s hand finds its way to your cheek, pinching it lightly and tugging before letting it go. He knows better than to try that with Toph. He learned the hard way.
“Oh, we know what you can’t resist.” Toph cackles. You don’t get it. You turn to Sokka, a questioning look on your face, but once again, he looks just as clueless.
“Uh…sure.” He smiles, patting your cheek where he’d just pulled.
You laugh softly, swatting away his hand. “Aww, well, we appreciate it.”
“I don’t.” Toph interrupts.
“You definitely do. I can feel it in your bones.” Sokka declares confidently.
“My bones?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve developed bone bending. I can detect what you truly feel. Of course, I’ve always had this ability. Say goodbye to being used as a lie detector, Toph. I’m the new big deal, and heart rate won’t matter this time. This is all in the bones. You can’t fake bones.”
“Bone bending, huh? Enlighten me.” You grin, shifting your weight onto one leg as you turn to focus your attention on him.
“I’d love to.” Sokka beams back. “Now, this all started way back when—”
“Well, I’m sure you’d love to, but weren’t you just plagued with ‘things to do and people to see’?” Toph cuts in.
Sokka looks thoughtful suddenly, like it had slipped his mind completely. “You’re totally right. Bone bending just gets me so distracted. I’m very passionate about it, you see. It’s kind of my whole thing.”
You snort, shaking your head. Sokka looks utterly delighted as he takes a few more steps backward.
“Alright, see you guys later. Don’t miss me too much.”
“We’ll try not to.” You reply happily. He puts a hand to his lips and loudly blows a kiss to the two of you, spinning on his heel and happily whistling something off-tune.
“I can’t stand you two.” Toph complains as Sokka leaves. You know that her volume is always loud enough for everyone around to hear. Sokka turns his head back, just barely, to stick out his tongue.
“Jealous!” He calls, and then he’s gone. You laugh and wave at his back as he goes.
“What?” You ask as you look back towards Toph, whose expression can be described as nothing but disgusted. “What?”
She scrunches her nose, fanning under it like she’s trying to get rid of a painful odor. “I would say ‘you know what’, but you don’t, which is what makes this worse.”
You blink. Okay. Vague. Thank you, Toph.
“I hate lovebirds.” She continues, walking forward. As she passes you, she hits your arm. In turn, you wrap your other arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her head.
“Get well soon?” You try as she playfully shoves you off.
“I should be saying that.”
As she goes, she mumbles something about idiot boys and idiot girls that she surpassed in intellectual ability. You didn’t dare to doubt her.
Recently, she’s been doing things like that. Unclear words that could rival proverbs of ancient past and riddles that would make anyone’s head spin. Sickened looks and scoffs and odd comments. And it was only when you and Sokka would interact.
Weird.
You didn’t think there was anything to warrant the behavior, but Toph was a little difficult to understand sometimes, so you didn’t really think much of it.
And then Zuko would flash weird looks when Sokka would wrap an arm around your shoulder and Katara would stare when you leaned against him.
Which was also weird.
Everyone had their own lives, now that you’d all grown up. You weren’t a bunch of (pre-)teens worrying about the fate of the world anymore. You had more normal but tiresome responsibilities, which meant not seeing each other as often.
But the times you were all together, all you would get were funny looks.
And you weren’t stupid. You knew that it was for a reason, but you truly couldn’t understand why.
So, of course, you decided to consult your beloved friend who would never keep you from the truth.
The Avatar himself.
“Aang! Hey, Aang!” You call, waving wildly at the retreating flash of yellow and orange you know and love.
Aang stops in his tracks, turning around with a thousand-watt smile already lighting up his face.
“Gee, you’re excited!” He notes, grabbing your forearms as you slow to a stop in front of him. “What could I have done to deserve that?”
Sometimes, you catch a glimpse of the little boy you’d met all those years ago. It’s the same with Toph. It melts your heart and makes you sad, knowing how quickly time slipped by, how tall and strong and wonderful the kids you knew got.
“I need advice. Help. A talk. Whatever.” You shake your head.
“What’s going on?” Aang’s eyebrows furrow slightly as he glances down at you. “Nothing bad’s happened, right?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” You correct, rubbing at your cheek lightly.
The two of you sit down on a nearby bench, your foot tapping against the ground quickly. You slam a hand down on your knee to make it stop. Aang raises an eyebrow.
“Okay. Uh…why is everyone acting funny?”
Aang thinks about it for a moment. “They are? Who’s everyone?”
“Toph. Zuko. Toph. Katara. Toph. Have I mentioned Toph?”
“No, I don’t think you have.”
After a beat, the two of you erupt into giggles. It feels oddly childish for how old you are now, but it feels good to relax.
“Seriously, though.” You clear your throat. “They just keep saying weird things and casting judgmental looks. Have I secretly been declared the enemy of all?”
“Not that I know of?” Aang shrugs, leaning back against the back of the bench. “Do they just…always do it?”
“Always? No, no. It’s…it’s only when Sokka’s around.”
Aang freezes. His eyes widen slightly and his lips pull back into a faint grimace, but you’re too busy letting your words take over to notice.
“And I don’t even get it at all! What could possibly be the reason for all the funny behavior, huh? It’s not like Sokka and I have been acting differently. If anything, I think we’ve been acting the exact same this whole time. As normal as we possibly could be. I haven’t said or done anything out of the ordinary, not that I know of, so whatever warrants this has to be—”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Aang raises his hands, cutting you off. “I think I see the frustration.”
“Do you?” You ask, exasperated. You slump back against the bench.
“Definitely.”
The look on his face looks strained, like he’s trying to hold back an awfully pained expression. It only makes your worries worse.
“What?” You ask desperately. “Don’t beat around the bush like Toph does. I’ll cry.”
“You won’t cry.” Aang says simply. “Uh…where to start…”
That’s a terrible beginning to an explanation. That means there’s a lot to go over and you were in some deep trouble.
You wait not-so-patiently for him to continue.
“Sokka…and…you…” He begins slowly, clasping his hands, “are very…close.”
“...yes.” You nod back just as slowly. “Aren’t we all?”
“Well…yeah. But there are different levels of being close.”
“Sure.” You agree. “Like you and Katara.”
“Right! Like me and Katara.”
“Right. So the problem is…?”
Aang bites the inside of his cheek. “The problem is…that you and Sokka are very close.”
“You said that already!” You complain. “What’s so wrong with that!”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that we…are…wondering…about…the extent…of your relationship!”
The pauses he includes almost make you want to strangle the words out of him. Instead, you take a deep breath and try to collect your thoughts. The extent of your relationship? There’s only one thing you can come up with to explain that.
“We’re not fucking.”
“I didn’t say you were!” Aang cries, a faint hue of red dusting his cheeks like he wasn’t the one to insinuate that.
“Then what were you saying?”
“I was saying that maybe you and Sokka are a little closer than everyone else is!”
“I…guess?” Your eyebrows knit together. “Not really, though, right?”
“Ehh…” Aang trails off, glancing away.
“What?” You pry, leaning forward. “Say it. I won’t say anything.”
“Ehh…” He repeats, turning his head completely around.
“Aang!” You grab his face and snap it back around. “Stop avoiding the topic!”
“I’m just trying to think about how to word this!”
“Just say it straight up! I won’t say anything!”
He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘you will’ but you ignore it for his actual input instead.
“Let’s see…okay. You’re very…comfortable around Sokka, right?”
“I’m comfortable around everyone.” You respond.
“That’s different.”
“No it’s not. I’m the same with everyone. Aren’t I?” You try to think back on it.
“I’d say you’re a bit more affectionate with Sokka.”
“Affectionate how?”
“Well…you know…the basics.”
“Such as…?”
Aang clears his throat. “Uh…you guys hug a lot?”
“I hug everyone. That’s not weird. You hug everyone. Is it weird to hug people, Aang?”
“No!” Aang shakes his head. “Hugging isn’t abnormal. But you kiss him, too.”
“On the cheek. There’s nothing wrong with kissing people on the cheek, or anywhere else.” You cross your arms. “I kiss everyone, too. I kiss you on the cheek. I kiss Katara on the cheek. And Zuko and Toph.”
Aang runs a hand down the side of his face. “Right. You do.”
“I do. So, what’s the problem?”
“It’s just that…you…kiss Sokka on the cheek like I kiss Katara on the cheek.” He snaps his fingers, leaning forward once he’s made the connection.
“Uh…” You close your eyes, picturing the four of you side by side. “But you and Katara are together.”
“Yes…” Aang nods supportively.
“Sokka and I aren’t together.”
“Right…”
“So how would I kiss him that way if we’re not together?”
“Exactly!” Aang claps. “You’re close to him in a way that Katara and I are close, except you aren’t together.”
It takes a moment for you to realize what he’s getting at. Once you do, your entire body seems to heat up.
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” You shake your head so hard you might rattle your brain. “So—you’re saying that everyone is acting weird because Sokka and I act like we’re a thing?”
“Basically?”
“But we’re not!”
“You could be?” Aang tries. “I mean, do you want to be with Sokka?”
Loaded question. Your mind shortcircuits, your heart skipping a beat as the idea firmly plants itself in your head. You and Sokka? You and Sokka?
It’s not like it was a completely foreign idea. You see where Aang’s coming from, but also, that’s Sokka. Sokka, who’s been the same with you since the day you met. Sokka, who’s been by your side for years and never said a word about it. Sokka, who you’ve watched get and lose partners over the span of your journey together.
He wasn’t ugly. Quite the opposite, really. You could admire that without having a silly crush on him.
But…but you did like him. Kind of a lot. That didn’t mean it had to be in that way.
Still…you did get a lot happier when he was around. And you were more comfortable with his presence and letting him place a hand on you or an arm around you. You’d let anyone do that, but you suppose that maybe you wouldn’t be as ecstatic and content with it if it had been Katara or Toph instead.
Those were feelings, though. Normal feelings. You think. You’re not quite sure, actually. So what were all the weird looks for then? Did the others find your relationship odd, or did they…
“Honestly…everyone thought you guys were dating.” Aang cuts off your train of thoughts as if reading your mind. “I mean, that’s just what it looks like.”
“For how long?”
“Huh…I don’t know. It’s looked like you’ve been dating for years.”
“Years?” You repeat increduously. It can’t have been that long that the two of you had been…ugh. This was hurting your head. You still hadn’t answered Aang’s question.
I mean, do you want to be with Sokka?
What would that entail, anyway? With what Aang’s saying, nothing would change. Except the presence of actual kisses, and maybe waking up with him, and living together and—
Okay. That got too real too fast. Your face flushes and you turn away slightly. Aang—alert, lovely, and too observant for his (your) own good, Aang—catches on instantly.
“You do!” He cries, overjoyed. “You do want to be with him!”
You shake your head quickly, but he enthusiastically points at your leg. “Look at that speed! You only do that when you’re really nervous!”
True to his word, your leg was bouncing at the speed of light. You slam both of your hands down on your knee to make it stop, your eyes wide.
“Not so loud!” You hush him, despite the fact that you were probably being just as loud.
“Sorry, sorry!” He whispers, leaning in to grin at you. “But you do like him!”
“I…maybe?” The roar of emotions in your heart implied a more honest sentiment.
“You do. So…talk to him.”
“I can’t just talk to him.”
“Sure you can! He’d get it.”
“How would you know? He thinks this is all normal.”
“No way he does. Sokka’s not that stupid.”
“Does that mean I was stupid for thinking so?”
“I didn’t say that! I just meant that he’s probably having an epiphany right now, too.”
“Is he?” You raise an eyebrow. “And you would know that how?”
“Katara wanted to talk to him earlier.” He shrugs.
Crap. Okay. So the two of you were being cornered and told exactly what’s going on between you both. Definitely comforting.
“What do I do? Aang, guide me through this, now.” You lean in closer, eyes darting around like Sokka might pop out of any corner.
“Just talk to him. It’s not like he’s a stranger anymore. You’re never afraid to speak your feelings. So…just go for it.”
“That’s not clear enough!”
“It doesn’t have to be. Do you want this turning point of your life to be pre-planned and rehearsed?”
“I…guess not.”
“Exactly! It’ll be more authentic and successful if you just lead with your heart and go for it.”
“I can’t just do it now!”
“Then don’t. Sleep on it. Let yourself grasp the lines of your emotions, then ask to see him, and go!”
“What if he hates me for it? What if he really thinks that this was all friendly?”
“He won’t. Trust me.”
“How would you know?”
“You know who knows Sokka the best?”
It doesn’t take a second to reply. “Katara.”
“Exactly. Their sibling bond is really strong. And Katara is completely convinced that he really lo—likes you.” The stutter goes unnoticed.
“Are you sure about this?” You chew on your bottom lip. “What if everything gets messed up?”
“It won’t. I promise. Even if the impossible happens, you and Sokka have been friends too long to let this damage you in any way. It won’t change things.”
“I don’t know. This is pretty big.”
“Bigger than defeating the Fire Lord?”
You crack a smile. “Maybe not.”
“Definitely not.”
A long, deep breath mostly calms down your nerves. You nod slowly, leaning back and looking around.
“Okay. I’m going to…think about this. Sleep on it.”
“Good.” Aang nods back. After a moment, he looks back at you. “I think you guys would be really good together.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’re like two halves of the same person. You’re both better and more complete together.”
“Aww, Aang. You’re so sweet.” You smile, pinching his cheek. He laughs softly and pushes your hand away.
“I’m serious. You’re one of my best friends. You deserve to be happy, and I think Sokka would help with that.”
You might actually cry now. You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly. It takes less than a second for Aang to reciprocate, squeezing you so tightly you might lose your breath.
Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to.
After a few seconds of silence, Aang breaks it.
“Also, we’d pretty much basically be siblings if you two got marr—”
“Aang!”
—
You weren’t lying to him when you said that you’d actually think about it.
You did think about it. You slept on it that night and dreamt about it. You ate breakfast the next morning thinking about it. You worked and thought about it. You took a walk and thought about it. You talked to Zuko and thought about it.
In fact, it hadn’t left your mind once.
Because the moment the realization was planted in your brain, you weren’t able to let go at all.
You were lucky to not encounter Sokka for the majority of the day. You might have died if you did.
Now, the problem was that idea carried over into the next day. And the next day. And the next. Until it had been nearly a week since your eye-opening talk with Aang, and you had barely interacted properly with Sokka since.
It was stupid to think that no one would notice. It was kind of obvious.
Really obvious.
Toph and Sokka are sitting together and talking? Great! You’ll sit down next to Toph and let her lay her head on your lap while you let them mostly speak.
Katara and Sokka are walking together? Lovely! You’ll let Katara stand in the middle and act as a barrier while you try to grasp the overwhelming feelings he brings.
Everyone is hanging out after dinner? Fantastic! Zuko can take your weight as you lean against him and try not to fall asleep.
Aang, too smart for his own good, did not allow you to use him as a wall.
He caught you on day six, pulling you aside.
“So…what did we talk about?” Aang asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly.
“To talk to him, yeah, yeah. I’m thinking right now, okay? Can’t a person just think?”
“Not like this! You’re not even trying to act normal anymore.”
“Just give me a couple of more days. I’ll get there. Promise.”
You were now closing up on day seven, and you still had no idea what to do.
You wanted to talk to him about it. Of course you did. But the idea of actually having to face him and talk about something so personal felt so…weird. You just didn’t want to have to do it. Not now, at least.
Except you did want to talk to him. You didn’t know how, but you really did want to. You were good at talking, just going with the flow, so why did this mess you up so bad?
Ugh.
Night was falling, and you weren’t feeling any more tired than you had a couple of hours ago. You’re smart enough to know when you’re not going to get any sleep. So, obviously, you have to take a nighttime stroll instead to clear your head.
That would help. Walking always helped, even if you drowned in your own thoughts first before letting yourself be pulled out.
You all were staying in a relatively small village in a relatively large house together. Did that make it harder to avoid him? Yes. Did it make it more suspicious? Yes. Which is exactly why you should have gone out on a walk ages ago.
Well, you can’t change the past now.
It’s not too lively outside. Things are dying down, and most people are retreating to their homes after a long day of work. A couple of them greet you with tired smiles as you pass by, which you return with double the energy. Waves and calls of good night’s take up most of your initial excursion, leaving you no room to think until you get to the very edge of the village.
It’s quieter out there. The moon shines down on you, peeking through dark clouds that might bring about rain later. You’re not too sure about the forecast.
As you make your way along the perimeter, you try to gather your thoughts, you really do. They’re just as much of a jumbled mess as they were way back when you first figured out what the two of you truly were. Or, tried to figure out, at least.
What you do know is that you like Sokka. Like like, bordering onto actual love, which is a terrifying thought. How could you have been in love with him for all this time and not know? Scary. You’d like to stick to like like instead, just for now, just so that you don’t implode.
You don’t know if he likes you back. Aang swears on his life that he does. You want to believe him, but doubt always makes its presence known, no matter how much you try to push it down. You can’t force yourself to believe it, but you can try. For now, you’re just going to think about this logically.
He might like you back.
So…how to bring it up? Something tells you that ‘Hey Sokka, I talked with Aang and I realized that I’ve liked you for a while now, you should let me be your girlfriend’ won’t really work.
You could be really sappy about it and have a nice long speech prepared. Or you could go out on a whim and say something simple.
Neither sounds very appealing to you. You want something meaningful, but like Aang said, not forced. You want it to matter.
You don’t even notice the figure standing in front of you until you crash right into him, too focused on staring into nothingness. Apologies are already spilling from your lips.
“No, no, it’s okay.” The man reassures, grabbing your shoulders to stop you from tripping over yourself. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I am. Sorry again. I’m totally fine. I really don’t know why I—sorry.” You respond, trying to shove down the embarrassment that comes with nearly knocking over a stranger you definitely should have seen coming.
“No harm done, promise.” He reassures. His hands have not yet left your shoulders, and when he notices that, he quickly drops them like he’s been burned. “You must have been deep in thought, huh?”
You offer a shrug, rubbing your arm. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Love troubles?” He asks. You startle, taking a step back. He laughs and tilts his head. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m not that obvious. I’m not…am I?” You ask desperately, nearly hissing as you lean forward, your voice hushed in fear of someone else nearby overhearing.
The man offers you a comforting grin. “To me, maybe. I’m not too sure about anyone else.”
“So you know about love troubles.”
“Woah, woah, woah. Let’s not go accusing a guy without even asking his name!” The man raises his hands in surrender.
“Ah…you’re right. Sorry. May I have the name of the gentleman who I nearly knocked over?”
“Why, of course. I’m Lee.”
You do not believe that for a second, but Lee was a pretty popular name. You let him off the hook.
“Well, Lee. I suppose we’re both having our own love struggles.”
“Maybe we are.” He offers a one-armed shrug. “I think we’ll get past it.”
“I sure hope we do.”
It’s weird, the concept of mildly opening up to a guy you’ve never seen before and likely never will, but that’s also comforting. He’ll forget all about you at some point, and you him, so you won’t have to worry about gossip spreading. No one will care.
Before you can do something stupid like dump your entire life’s story on this guy, he speaks first.
“I think that you might have a name as well.” Lee asks, shifting his weight as he leans on his leg, a little closer.
“I might.” You joke.
“And that name is…?”
You open your mouth to reply, but when your name is said, it’s not your voice that responds.
It comes with a heavy arm around your shoulders, firmly planted behind your head, completely wrapping around your body. It comes with a warmth you’re very familiar with and a scent that can only be matched to one man you know.
“I’ve seriously been looking for you everywhere. I mean, I nearly had to start checking under everyone’s beds, and I don’t really want to know what I’d find under Zuko’s.”
Sokka.
Okay. Awkward. Lovely. You’re kind of afraid.
Lee looks a bit taken aback, his eyes widening. His gaze meets yours and he mouths ‘love?’ to you, to which you breathe out and nod.
Sokka catches this instantly.
“What was that?” He asks, squinting. “A secret code? That was weird.”
Lee coughs. “Uh…we were just talking.”
“Right.” Sokka nods, stretching out the vowel as he raises an eyebrow and looks between Lee and you under his arm. “Cool. Well, we’ll be going now, alright? Bye.”
He turns you right back around, his arm guiding your body and forcing you to follow after him. You turn your head back to look at Lee, who smiles at you. You look back front, then back at him again, to which he forms a heart with his hands and a thumbs up.
Your cheeks flush pink. Sokka’s free hand plants itself on the top of your head, swiveling it back to face your front.
“Why—are you blushing?” Sokka cuts himself off, sounding absolutely scandalized. He lifts up your face and appears to analyze it, his fingers grasping your jaw.
“No.” You deny pathetically.
“Holy bison, you are.” He shakes his head. “Hold on. What was going on back there? Who even was that? Why were you out so late? Was that your…your secret lover?”
His voice spikes in pitch, just like it would back when you were teens and his voice would crack. This was really embarrassing now.
“That was…not…my ‘secret lover’. I don’t have a ‘secret lover’.” You correct, reluctantly pulling his hand down. “I just went for a walk.”
“Uh-huh. And you just happened to stumble upon a handsome guy down there and spark conversation.”
“That is exactly—a what guy?” You nearly shriek.
“Don’t act innocent. I can see right through your ruse.” Sokka’s arm does not loosen around your shoulders as you continue to walk.
“What ruse?”
“The one where you’re trying to convince me that you weren’t sneaking out to see a guy.”
“I wasn’t doing that.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Walking.”
“Walking. Right. That didn’t look like walking.”
“Well, it was. Until I accidentally bumped into him.”
“Bumped into him!” His grip on your shoulder tightens. “I guess you stumbled right into his arms, too!”
“That did not happen.” You frown. “Why are you making stuff up?”
“I’m coming to plausible conclusions.”
“You aren’t.”
“I am.”
“You weren’t even there!”
“Exactly! Who knows what else went on before I got there? Did you exchange poetry? Recite haikus to the stars?”
“None of that happened!”
“Of course not. So I’m just supposed to believe that you haven’t been avoiding me and seeing some villager for the past week.”
Before you can try to refute his claims, he shushes you, his finger pressing against your lips.
“And don’t even try to deny the avoiding part. I’m not stupid. You can attempt to cover up seeing him, but you can’t pretend you haven’t been running away from me.”
His finger leaves your lips, and you fall silent. He was right. You were avoiding him, just not for the reason he thinks.
“I…was not…seeing Lee in the village.”
“But you were avoiding me.”
You chew on your bottom lip slowly. “It wasn’t avoiding.”
“It most certainly was.”
“I just wouldn’t call it that.”
“I would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Well, then what would you call it?”
“...taking some time to myself?”
Sokka frowns. “Really? Of course, that doesn’t apply to Katara, or Toph, or Aang, or Zuko. Just me.”
Right. If anything, you had doubled your levels of affection with the rest of your friends. You swallow thickly, trying to find the words.
“Maybe I needed a bit of time from you.”
Why did you say that? Why would you say that? You can’t even try to take it back.
Sokka falls unusually silent. The only sound is the fall of your syncretized footsteps against the soft earth.
“Why?”
You barely hear it. You probably wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been listening for something, anything to leave his lips.
“Nothing important.” You were making some really bad decisions.
“It was important enough to give me up.”
“I didn’t give you up.”
“It sure feels like you did.”
You don’t have a response for that. Sokka sighs.
“Listen.” He starts, his fingers flexing against your shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re seeing…‘Lee’...in the village. That doesn’t matter to me. What—I’m talking right now, wait, you can defend yourself later—what matters to me is that you stopped finding me to find him.”
“That’s not what this is. You keep bringing Lee up, but he’s not the reason—”
“Then what?” Sokka interrupts, albeit not harshly. It’s soft when it shouldn’t be, which is why it stops your words despite the lack of violence in them. It just sounds…defeated.
What do you say now? That you have feelings for him and instead of dealing with them like an adult, you’re acting like a teenager with a crush that will never be reciprocated? That you’re practicing what it’ll feel like if he rejects you?
It’s stupid. You know he won’t do something drastic like lash out or insult you if you say something. You know he’s not like that. You know that you’re both better than that. But your mind just keeps jumping to all of these horrible ideas, and you have no idea what to believe and what not to.
You think that you should start with your heart.
“I talked to Aang a while ago.”
Sokka doesn’t say anything. He nods slowly, like its encouragement to keep going. You do.
“A week ago.” You continue. You know that he knows that’s when this whole thing started. “I wanted to know why Toph was acting so strange that day.”
“Yeah. That was weird.” He replies simply, his mind clearly elsewhere. You don’t know if that’s good or not.
“And…we talked.” You conclude, nodding along like you’d just revealed the secrets of the world.
Sokka waits for you to keep going. When you don’t he looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed.
“That’s it?” He scoffs. “That doesn’t explain anything! What did you talk about.”
“That’s private information.”
“So why would you tell me that?”
“I don’t know! That’s kind of what led to this whole thing, okay?”
Sokka takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, let’s start over.”
“Starting over. Got it.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“If that’s the word we have to use.”
“It is. Something happened, and you’re avoiding me. Aang and you spoke about something, and you’re avoiding me.”
“...yeah.”
“Okay. So what was that ‘something’?”
There was no use trying to beat around it now. You need to man up and spit it out. That’s right. You’re a grown adult. You can face your feelings.
“We…are close, aren’t we?”
Sokka stiffens for a moment, but he nods. “Yeah. I’d say we’re pretty close.”
“More so than normal?”
“Uh…let’s define normal?”
“I don’t know. Like the way I am with…Toph?”
“Toph can’t be used as an example for normal.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, Sokka. Whatever. What I’m trying to say is…is that…Aang let me know that we’re…like him and Katara.”
“We are nothing like those losers.” Sokka puffs up his chest.
“Sokka.”
“Sorry. Continue.”
At least you know that he’s not really pissed at you. He wouldn’t joke around if he was. That’s a good sign.
“It means that everyone thinks we’re a thing.”
He stops in his tracks for the first time since your conversation began.
“A thing? Like a couple kind of thing?” He repeats, the disbelief coating his voice clearly.
“Yeah. Like a couple.”
“Huh.” His nose scrunches up. “So…you found that out…and you decided that you couldn’t be seen around me anymore lest Lee find out?”
“No!” You cry, swatting at him. “Stop bringing him up! I don’t even know him!”
“What am I supposed to think?” Sokka bites back.
“You’re supposed to believe me!”
“I’m trying!”
“It sure doesn’t seem like it!”
His arm finally drops from your shoulders as he covers his face and groans. “Okay. Fine! You don’t know who Lee is. I believe you. But you avoided me for some reason.”
“I told you the reason.”
“People think we’re a couple. You’re…embarrased, and you decide to stay away from me so that they don’t think that anymore.”
“That’s not it.”
“Well, that’s what I’m hearing right now.”
It’s your turn to cover your face and groan. “It’s not that part of it.”
“Then which part?”
“I’ll tell you if you stop asking questions.” You uncover your face just in time to catch him zipping his lips.
Is this it? Do you just say it straight up, now?
“I just…needed some time to think about the…extend of our relationship.” You breathe out. “That’s all.”
“So…you wanted to reflect on what we truly were.”
“Yeah.”
“And you came up with…?”
“I…don’t know.” You confess. “I don’t know.”
Sokka exhales slowly. Is that a bad sign? Maybe.
“We’re…friends.” He says.
“We are.” You repeat hollowly.
“Right. So…that’s cleared up, then.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.” You say before you can even think about it.
Sokka’s breath hitches. He stays silent for a moment. “Yeah. I didn’t think so, either.”
So you were both on the same page there. You agreed that there was more to it than friendship. That’s…good. Hopefully.
“Was it only because you needed to think about what we were?” Sokka asks.
“What?”
“You avoiding me. Was it just because of that?”
“I…yeah?”
“So it wasn’t that you…you hated the idea of being with me and had to distance yourself to stop the assumptions?”
“What? No! No, that wasn’t it at all. I just needed to think about it.”
Your outburst takes him by surprise. Once the words register, his raised eyebrows lower into an expression that looks more relieved than anything.
“Okay. Good to know.” He wets his lips. “And…and you’re being honest about that guy—”
“How many times do I have to say it?” You groan. “I don’t know him! I bumped into him and we spoke for a little bit. He has his own love troubles to navigate.”
You try to ignore the fact that you called what’s going on between you ‘love troubles’ so blatantly. You know he caught onto it. You know he knows that you know. Neither of you say anything about it.
It was kind of annoying, the way he just kept going back to Lee like he was—
Holy shit.
“Oh.” You say simply, turning to face him completely. “You’re…jealous. You’re jealous.”
“Wha—what?” Sokka splutters, taking a step back, his hands raised as he shakes his head vigorously. “Me? Jealous? Of that guy? No way!”
“You are!” You protest, taking a step forward to make up for the distance that he’s putting between you two. “That’s why you’re so pissy!”
“I’m not pissy!”
“You so are! I get it! I get it now! You’re so upset because I was with him!”
“I’m upset that you’re pretending to not know me anymore!”
“It’s doubled because of him!”
“So what?” Sokka turns it around suddenly, taking a step forward with a sudden surge of confidence. “Huh? So what if I was upset? I have a right to be! You start avoiding me, and then I go out for a walk to clear my head, and I find you all buddy-buddy with some random guy all alone at night, and what am I supposed to think of that, huh?”
You gape at him, but it’s obvious that he’s not done.
“The only thing I can think is that you’ve found a new guy to replace me or something, either as a friend or—or something more, and I haven’t even been able to have an actual conversation with just you in a week and here you are just all over this guy like he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen and—ugh!”
A hand flies up to dig his fingers into his scalp. “Whatever. Whatever. Forget it. It’s stupid.”
His incoherent mumbles and pacing that leads him away from you snap you out of your stupor. “Wait. Wait! Sokka, hold on!”
Sokka stops, slowly turning around to face you.
“It’s…it’s not stupid. It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m the stupid one. I don’t know why I avoided you like that for so long. I should have just been straight up with you and done things like an adult. I’m sorry for making you feel like I was casting you aside or seeing someone else or anything along those lines. Really.”
The two of you are standing face to face, yours angled slightly upwards to meet his eyes. Sokka’s fists clench and unclench. Silence suffocates you until he closes his eyes and breathes out.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize or anything. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions and accusing you without just asking first.”
“I guess I still have some growing up to do.” You scratch the back of your neck sheepishly.
“I think we all do.” Sokka replies. “But that’s the fun of it.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
When you fall silent, it’s much less awkward this time. Still, you know that it’s not the end of your conversation.
“So…you were jealous.” You bring up again.
“Are you going to let that go anytime soon?”
“I’ll think about it.” You smile, but that’s not the reason you brought it up. “Why?”
“Why? Maybe because you were talking to a guy I didn’t know. Alone.”
“You called him handsome.”
“He kind of is. Alright, how was I supposed to feel seeing you talking to a handsome guy I don’t know all alone?”
“The others wouldn’t have reacted the same way.”
Sokka huffs. “No. They wouldn’t.”
“It’s different, then.”
“Yeah, it’s different with you. It’s always different with you.”
You stare at him with wide eyes. Sokka meets them for a moment, then grows flustered and turns away.
“I…I do like you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” He mumbles.
“Like me? Or…like like.”
A quick hesitance. “The second one.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, huh.”
So…Aang was right. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but once it does, it becomes a complete mess. Your body performs about a hundred actions at once, including overheating, fidgeting fingers, rapid blinks, and nervous twitches.
“Are you going to say anything, or are you going to leave me hanging?” Sokka asks, his own nervousness concealed under a confident demeanor that you’ve long since been able to see through.
You nod, your lips parting. Here it is. This is your chance to say something, to tell him how you feel, how you want more and how you—
“I love you.”
…
You did not mean to say that. It was true, it always had been, and your heart had known that, which is why it took over instead of your brain. But you were supposed to start off slow and sweet, not jump straight into it.
Before you can even apologize for the way it made both of you freeze, Sokka’s lips parting in shock and yours quivering as if unable to take the recoil of the confession, he moves.
In an instant, his hands fly up to cup both sides of your face, his thumbs resting on your cheeks as he pulls you up to meet him halfway.
His lips are slightly chapped, contributing to a vague rough feeling that’s drowned out by the overall gentleness that comes with the kiss. It’s a simple press of lips to lips, his perfectly slotting in against yours. His hands stay firmly planted on your face, and your hands come up to rest on his chest in turn. You tilt your head slightly, but the moment you make a move, he snaps back.
His eyes are blown wide, a regretful expression on his face that scares you into believing that he’d realized that he didn’t actually like you or something. He backs up, his hands slowly falling from your face. “Crap. Sorry. Was that too soon? That was too soon. Sorry, I should have asked, I—”
You grab him by the collar of his shirt and tug him back down again. His hands shoot up, and then quickly find a place on your waist. In turn, you loop your arms around his neck. It’s not any more rushed than the last one. He’s savoring you with a gentleness you didn’t think you’d ever experience. He doesn’t push hard, just enough to make a imprint that you can’t easily get rid of.
This time, you pull back, making sure to keep your arms around him. His eyes flutter open and he looks at you. Differently. It’s fond, and while he’s looked at you like that before, there’s something so loving in the way his gaze softens that it practically turns you to mush.
“We could have done that a week ago.” He whispers to you.
“Guess we’ll have to make up for missed time.” You respond, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.
“I like the sound of that.” Sokka smiles, dipping down to steal another kiss.
BONUS
“So…were you lying when you said you didn’t care I was out with Lee?” You ask as you walk back to the house, Sokka’s arm wrapped tightly around your side.
“Oh, yeah. I was lying straight through my teeth. I was going to cry and everything.” He grins back, swooping down and pressing a quick kiss to your head as you cross the threshold.
As you turn, you hear something shatter. You jump slightly, your head swiveling to find the source as Sokka pulls you back and his shoulders tense.
“You…you did it!” Aang cries, a shattered glass at his feet. He sounds suspiciously on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe it!”
“You didn’t believe in me?” You tease, relaxing as you rest your head on Sokka’s shoulder.
“Not at all.” Aang jokes back. “But hey, I’m happy for you. Even if nothing’s really changed”
He was right. The only thing different about you guys was that you could kiss him on the lips. Still, it’s not like you’d want it any other way.
“I’m happy, too.” You reply with a soft smile. Sokka beams, grabbing your chin and kissing you again.
You don’t think he’d get bored of that anytime soon.
Synopsis: You and Sokka married, both of you stubborn, devoted, and entirely too in love. Same year you had your first child and while you were overjoyed, something in Sokka shifted. He didn’t just want a family. He wanted a legacy. (art from Pinterest)
Pt2 Missing Your Touch
Sokka had always been an enthusiastic person. As a child, he threw himself into everything. Training, hunting, leading, even his terrible ideas. So when he married you at twenty-two, he made a promise to give you everything he had.
And Sokka, unfortunately, had a lot to give.
You had your first child that same year, a beautiful baby girl with your features and Sokka’s entire personality packed into a tiny, chubby, unstoppable body.
“Look at her!” Sokka beamed one afternoon, crouched low as your daughter toddled across the floor, clutching a poorly carved toy boomerang. “Baby, she’s perfect. She’s already a warrior.”
“She just tried to eat snow like five minutes ago,” you replied, leaning against the doorway.
“She’s innovative,” he corrected proudly.
You scoffed into a laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek. He turned his head just enough to steal one from you instead. That should’ve been your first warning, because something in Sokka clicked that day. And from that moment on…he wanted more.
More laughter, more chaos, more chubby grabby hands, more little feet running across the ice floors.
More you.
And unfortunately you Sokka didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.
•••
You should’ve known something was up the second Gran Gran looked at you like that.
You were sitting beside her, helping sew tiny fur-lined coats for the expecting mothers in the village. The needle moved steadily in your hands, but Gran Gran’s gaze lingered on you, sharp and knowingly.
“What?” you asked, squinting at her suspiciously. She smiled slowly, eyes soft but entirely too perceptive.
“I think,” she said, patting your knee, “we should make one more… for you.”
You blinked for a second registering her words, “Gran Gran no.”
She hummed nodding. You just laughed it off shaking your head, she’s ridiculous.
Two months later, you were staring at your round reflection in complete disbelief.
Seven months after that—twins…twin boys!
Sokka nearly lost his mind.
“Two?!” he shouted, pacing the room while you held one baby in each arm. “We made TWO?!” The babies blabbed blowing raspberries with their spit having no idea what was going on.
“You helped,” you said dryly.
He dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes shining like stars in the midnight sky. “This is incredible. This is— this is strategy. This is expansion. This is—”
“This is you not sleeping for the next year,” you cut in. He didn’t even hear a word you said. By the next week, he had already built some ridiculous contraption to carry all three children at once. It had straps, hooks and something that looked suspiciously like a modified fishing net.
“It’s efficient!” he insisted as you stared at it.
You stood with a hand on your hip with your head tilted, “It’s a safety hazard.”
“It’s innovative.” He had his arms open in awe.
“Just like the snow eating, huh?”
He wore a big bright grin “…Exactly like the snow eating.”
The third time truly was NOT your fault. New Year’s Festival, Gran Gran offered to see the kids. The entire village was celebrating, fireworks, alcohol, music, and dance.
And your husband? Your very affectionate, very determined husband decided that the storage tent behind the main hall was “private enough.” Nine months later, you had another daughter…
Gran Gran didn’t even act surprised anymore she just welcomed her with open arms.
Ten years passed in what felt like a blur of laughter, exhaustion, sleepless nights and tiny voices calling for you at all hours of the day.
Six children.
Four girls. Two boys. A home that was never quiet, and a husband who still looked at you like you were the best decision he had ever made.
The village noticed, of course they did.
At first, it was small comments. The little jokes. Nothing malicious just amused, fond observations whispered between mothers while hanging laundry or gathering water.
“I heard Chief Sokka might single-handedly repopulate the Southern Water Tribe.” Giggles followed.
“Oh, please. At this rate, they’ll need a second house.”
“I give it two more years before they run out of names.”
You didn’t hear any of it. Not until your best friend Leila told you.
Leila leaned casually against your open doorway, watching as you expertly balanced a toddler wrapped to your chest while braiding your eldest daughter’s hair.
“You know,” she said, biting back a grin, “people are starting to talk.”
You didn’t even bother to look up. “If this is about the twins putting fish in someone’s boots again, I already handled it. They're cleaning them as we speak.”
“No, no,” she waved you off. “It’s not bad gossip. It’s just—” she paused, trying not to laugh. “They joke about you and Sokka repopulating the entire tribe.”
You stilled. Slowly, you turned your head. You didn’t know how to feel about hearing that.
“…What?”
Leila lost it sitting down her basket and coming inside to take a seat, “I’m serious! Six kids in ten years? People are impressed— a little concerned and afraid but overall impressed.”
You blinked. Then glanced around your home at the scattered toys, the half-finished chores, the sheer number of small humans moving around you.
“Oh…Okay,” you admitted slowly. “That’s…kind of fair.”
•••
You thought about what Leila said all day and decided to bring it up later, casually though.
The house was loud as usual children scattered across the floor, toys half-finished, one of the boys arguing loudly with his sister over something completely nonsensical. Sokka sat beside you, one child asleep across his lap as you folded laundry nearby.
“So,” you started, “The village thinks we’re trying to repopulate the Southern Water Tribe…”
Sokka snorted. “What? That’s just ridiculous.”
You hummed. “I mean… six kids, Sokka. That’s quite a few.”
He paused, seemingly in thought. You narrowed your eyes waiting for a response, “…Sokka?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Well…” he said carefully. “When you put it like that…”
“Sokka.” Your stern tone hinting for him to spit it out. “I just—” he shrugged, trying (and failing) to look innocent. “I kinda thought we’d have more ya know?.”
Silence fell over the room. You stared at him as you felt your eye began to twitch and fist tighten around the clothes you held.
Sokka being Sokka smiled trying to make it better. Big mistake.
You set the laundry down slowly. “More?” you asked making sure you heard your husband correctly. The room went quiet just the crackle of the fire and Sokka’s very audible gulp.
“Just a few,” he said quickly. “You know round it out.” You stood, he immediately knew he screwed up.
“Sokka have. you lost your damn mind?! A few more— ROUND IT OUT?! Look at me, are I not round enough? I have spit out six children and you want more—“
“Wait—”
“You know what I’m never letting you touch me again.”
“WHAT— hey, that was a joke!” he scrambled to his feet laying his once sleeping baby on his lap on the nearest softest surface. He ran after you calling your name but you paid him no mind.
“You have six children, Sokka. SIX!”
He continued to follow you around your home like a lost otter penguin, “And they’re amazing!”
“You are done.”
“I’m not done—”
“You’re done!”
He continued to follow after you, actual panic setting in. “Baby, be reasonable—”
“Go be a father!” you snapped, gesturing to the chaos of your home.
“Wha- I am a father!”
“Well be more of one!”
“I can do both!” He pleaded.
You stopped, turned, and gave him a look so sharp it could’ve cut an ice berg down. He froze in his tracks, even as the Chief of The Southern Water Tribe his wife is the sole person who can strike fear in him (besides Gran Gran).
“…I’m joking,” he said weakly.
You stared at him a second longer before turning and walking off toward your children playing with the other kids you invited over earlier. Sokka stood there, watching you walk then glanced around at his six kids, then looked back at you.
“I could handle one more...” he muttered.
Across the room, Gran Gran— who had definitely heard everything sighed deeply.
“You,” she called, pointing at Sokka without even looking at him, “are going to be the death of that poor girl.” The other village mothers nodded in agreement.
Sokka frowned into a scowl. “Oh, go home already!” The women paid him no mind.
a/n: i had a derek hale kick a while back and this was one of two actually usable wips that came out of it. pt 2 is already in the works
main masterlist crossover masterlist
synopsis: it's been over two years since you've last seen your brothers sam and dean, and you've made a home for yourself in beacon hills with the love of your life, derek hale. what happens when your brothers come to town and are faced with your new reality? (ft. established relationship derek x reader, sister!winchester, messy family dynamics, wholesome pack dynamics, winchesters being a mess, daddy issues, derek being wholesome, stiles and scott are actually your children)
wc: 7.2k
“This is a bad idea,” Stiles muttered looking at you and then at Derek.
“Seconded,” Lydia chimed, raising her hand.
“Look, guys, we need to know what this is. My bet is it’s just some omega who doesn’t know how to control themselves. Either way this is our job,” you remind the teens standing opposite the table to you as Derek stepped closer to you.
“She’s right,” Scott nodded. “We’re the only ones who can, this is what we do.”
“I still don’t like this,” Stiles grumbled, stepping closer to get a better look at the map.
“I know Stiles,” you nodded before looking at everyone else and grabbing Derek’s hand from under the table. “Alright here’s the plan…”
---
Two hours later and everyone was getting into position, Scott was with you and Derek was going to go with Lydia and Stiles.
“Hey, (Y/n). You run, okay?” Derek said seriously as you moved to the back of the car.
“You know Derek, sometimes I think you forget I could kick your ass any day,” you smirk as you open the trunk of the Camaro and lift the hidden compartment to grab a gun from the mini armory you had stashed.
Derek was the only one who knew who you were, well Chris had too, but your hunter past was something that was pretty buried. You had met Derek on a case when you were a kid, your dad, John Winchester, had brought you and your brothers, Dean who was older, and Sam who was younger, with him. You had given up hunting after the closest thing you had to a real father, Bobby Singer, died. Bobby Singer was more of a father to you than John Winchester ever was. Your dad was always preoccupied with hunting the thing that killed your mom, then making sure his golden child, Dean, was being shaped into the mold he desired. Or John was busy arguing with Sam, they never got along, and they always had different points of view. Sam was smart, he graduated and saw his ticket out. You stayed.
Then dad went missing, and sam came back. For a while it was okay. When it was just the three of you, nothing ever was that bad. And then came Chuck and his angels. When Bobby died, you wanted out, out of hunting, out of demons, and angels. So you packed up and left.
It was funny when you realized the only place you felt comfortable was with a werewolf. You’d arrived at Derek’s loft at two in the morning, soaked from the rain. When he had spotted you he had welcomed you in and you’d been here ever since. Derek had been your best friend throughout it all. He was your biggest secret growing up.
When you had first met Derek on that case when you were younger you both just connected and when he saved your life and shown you his werewolf nature you had kept your mouth shut. Your dad wouldn’t have cared that Derek was a good person, or that he was the same age as you, or even that he’d saved your life. he would’ve hunted him the same way he does with all other supernatural beings.
Derek became the person you’d call when you had a moment alone or e-mail when you could. He was your confidant because he knew what you were the same way you knew what he was, and you were always thankful for that.
Months passed after you had arrived before anything really happened between the two of you, but after one night where he took care of you while you were absolutely plastered the two of you became closer than you thought possible. The two of you came out stronger, together.
“Trust me, (y/n), I never forget,” Derek laughed as you picked up your gun, you checked the clip before tucking it behind your waistband.
Derek leaned over and handed you an extra clip and two knives, both made of silver, “You know I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Junior Detective over there had figured out my family history,” you smiled while placing the weapons on your body, glancing at Stiles.
“With the way you gear up it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out,” He shook his head leaning close to you.
“Keep an eye on them, yeah?” you gesture to Stiles and Lydia, he nods pressing a quick kiss to your lips before stepping back.
“Hey, Scott!” Derek called out, gaining the younger werewolf’s attention. “Keep an eye on her, yeah?” he asked, sending you a wink causing you to laugh and shake your head.
“Always,” Scott nodded with a smile before you all broke up to cover more ground.
You and Scott had been creeping around for about an hour now when Scott’s head whipped to the side.
“What?” you whispered.
“Someone’s coming!” he whispered back.
“The omega?” you mouth.
“No, human,” Scott said with a confused look and your eyes hardened.
“Hide,” you order.
“What? I’m not going to-” Scott tried to argue.
“Hey, I said to hide, now. If it’s human I’ll flash my badge and get them to leave, that won’t work if they see some high school kid next to me,” you tell him seriously.
This time you heard a twig snap and you gave Scott a look, one he thankfully understood. “Derek’s gonna kill me!” he hissed before he carefully crept away. You pulled out your gun and turned the safety off before moving to turn.
“Don’t move!” a gruff voice shouted and your grip on the gun tightened, you knew that voice. “Drop the gun!” he shouted.
“I drop this gun, it's gonna go off,” you tell the strangely familiar voice.
“Turn around, slowly,” he huffed.
You did as the voice said and when you finally met the eyes of the man a feeling of relief flooded your body. Those eyes were green, a shade of green you’d known your whole life. His lips parted and his arms holding the gun dropped a bit as he stared at you. A small breath escaped you and while you felt relieved your heart rate sped up. Before you could say anything though Scott came barreling out of nowhere knocking the man off his feet. Immediately you were switching the safety on and running towards the man and Scott.
“Scott! Scott, get off of him. McCall! move! now!” you shouted shoving the teen wolf.
When Scott fell away the man was staring at you, his eyes tough and a bit broke but still the ones you remembered vividly, “Need a hand, big brother?” you laughed.
“Brother?” Scott asked.
“(Y/n)?” Dean’s brows furrowed as he accepted the hand you offered to pull him up.
As soon as he was up he was wrapping you in a hug, “Damnit kid, where the hell you been?”
“It’s good to see you too, D,” you sighed, wrapping your arms around him too.
When you pulled back Scott was standing again but his head was whipping around as if he could smell something, “Scott?”
“There’s something close…” he trailed.
“The...omega?” you asked.
“It doesn’t smell like another werewolf, it doesn’t even smell remotely human. It smells sort of putrid… like…” Scott listed.
“like rotting flesh?” Dean offered and my head turned to him.
“Yeah,” Scott nodded with a concerned expression.
“Dean, what were you hunting?” you asked urgently, turning to your older brother.
“A wendigo, super strange to be this far west, but don’t worry, Sammy’s got this,” Dean answered and you paled.
“Scott, you need to call Stiles, now!” you shouted at the teen. “And we need to get back to Camaro,” you whispered.
You all took off, Dean following you, and Scott wasn’t even sweating, “Any answer?” you shouted, jumping over a log.
“No!” he shook his head and you forced yourself to go faster.
“Scotty we got split up!” you decided.
“You’re joking? You’re the one that says pairs, always!” he argues.
“I know!” you shout back panting as you skid to a stop by the cars. “Dammit!” you curse kicking the Camaro’s tire. “Okay! New plan. Dean, you call Sam, I’m going to call Derek, if we get no answer Scott you take your bike and you find Derek, you’re the only one who can,” you tell him seriously as Dean and you pull out your phones. You dial Derek and you know Dean’s tryna get a hold of Sam.
“C’mon Der, pick-up your damn phone, please,” you beg quietly.
“Hey, what’s up?” Derek asked, his voice a hushed whisper.
“You need to grab Stiles and Lydia and get back to the cars, now, Derek, right now,” you tell him seriously.
“(Y/n), what’s going on?”
“Derek, run, and don’t stop, especially Stiles, okay? He’s the one at the most risk.”
“Okay, we’re on our way back,” Derek assured you and you finally took a breath.
---
When Derek, Stiles, and Lydia finally showed up you were changing out your weapons of choice. instead of a gun and blades, you grabbed your lighter and an aerosol spray. You grabbed a flare gun and a machete too, just in case.
“Hey, what’s up?” Derek asked, stopping in front of you, hands going to your shoulders to check in with you, his intense eyes checking for anything.
“It’s not an omega,” you tell Derek seriously as you move from his grip.
“So what? An Alpha? Because we’ve handled alphas in the past,” Lydia argued.
“And why’d you say I was the one at the most risk?” Stiles butt in.
“Because it’s not a werewolf, it’s a wendigo,” you sighed, shutting the trunk.
“Who’s that?” Stiles was giving Dean the side-eye and Derek’s eyes flickered to Dean and then back to you.
“Which one is this?” Derek’s voice was soft as he asked but he knew that the person behind me was related.
“Dean,” you mouth and Derek’s eyes dart to Dean again, though this time they’re more guarded.
“You mean the one who’s more likely to kill me than talk to me?” Derek asked with an irritated look.
“Yup,” you nod, slipping the machete into the harness you had attached to your waist and leg.
“Is that a machete? Why the hell do you have a machete?” Stiles asked.
“Derek, get them back to the loft, check-in with Kira and Malia, I know they stayed in tonight, but no chances,” you order.
“If you think I’m ditching you now, you’ve lost your mind,” Derek said seriously.
“I’ll be okay. I got Dean, and Sam should be here soon, right De?” you tell Derek while looking back to your brother.
“Sam’s on his way,” Dean nodded, carefully analyzing Derek.
“What happened to being a team?” he asked you and you gave him a pained look. “Fine, if you’re not back at the loft before nine tomorrow I’m calling Stilinski,” Derek warned.
“I’ll be there, no sweat. I’m not about breaking promises,” you wink before turning to Scott, Stiles, and Lydia. “Listen to Derek, please. And don’t do anything stupid and under no circumstances, and I mean none, will you come out here without Derek or without me, do I make myself clear?” you hiss at the teens.
“That turned very dark very quick,” Stiles nodded.
“No, I’m serious, okay? A wendigo is not a joke and none of you are equipped to deal with one,” you say seriously, they offer you a couple of nods in reluctant agreement.
You sigh, “thank you,” you tell them and suddenly the three of them are charging at you, they give you a tight hug and you smile as you squeeze them back. They take a step back and you smile at them one more time. Derek reached out and you squeezed his hand tight before moving towards Dean.
“You even remember how to hunt? Two years is a long time?” Dean sniffed, his earlier enthusiasm seemed to have ebbed away to pain, the pain of you leaving, and pain at everything that’s coming to light before him now.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Dean. I’m still very capable of hunting, family business after all,” you muse, and the headlights from another car reach your vision.
“What were you doing with a werewolf? With any of them, for that matter...” Dean asked as Sam arrived.
“That’s not important,” You shake your head a small smile on your lips as your younger brother steps out of the car he had no doubt “borrowed”.
“(Y/n),” Sam let out a breath and pulled you into a hug.
“Hey Sammy, it’s been a while,” you chuckle into his chest.
“No kidding,” he laughed back.
“How are you doing, little brother?” you smiled.
You didn’t miss the way Sam’s eyes darted to Dean and then to the ground before settling on you, “Busy,” he answered and you decided you’d pull that string later on.
---
When you finally arrived back at the loft the sun was starting to rise over the horizon and it was with a foul mood. The three of you had managed to kill a wendigo but it was just your luck that there was another one out there.
“Where are we?” Dean asked, eyeing the building.
“Somewhere safe,” you tell them, fishing your keys from your pocket.
“Hale? Scotty? Stiles?” you shouted as you pulled the large metal door open.
You spotted Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Malia and Kira all passed out on the couch and the floor beside it, the sound of feet on the stairs drew your attention from the sleeping teens.
“They passed out around three AM this morning,” Derek told you and you knew, from the look in his eyes that what he really meant was that he was glad to see you.
“They’re gonna complain when I send them home in a few hours,” you shake your head. “Did you tell Melissa that they’re here?”
“Yeah, and she told the rest of their parents,” Derek nodded, and then his eyes narrowed on you. “You’re bleeding.”
It was a statement and you laughed dryly pulling the door back shut, your brothers behind you. You peeled your bloody jacket off and revealed the growing red spot on your side from where the wendigo had grazed you.
“How could you tell that it was my blood?” you asked, moving towards the kitchen with a slight limp and painful groan.
“I’ve gotten your scent down over the years, I’m sure Scott has too,” Derek shook his head, grabbing the first aid kit and throwing a pillow at the sleeping teens.
You slumped against the kitchen counter and pulled off your ruined t-shirt, allowing Derek to get a better look at your side. Dean and Sam had moved closer, carefully watching Derek and you.
“You in pain?” Derek asked as all the teens slowly stumbled over to the four of you in the kitchen, Derek grabbed you by your hips and lifted you up on the counter apologizing when you groaned.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” you smirk and Derek meets your eyes, he’s close now, a few inches away and he’s smirking back at you.
You heard Dean clear his throat and you rolled your eyes before looking up to your brothers.
“Right, everybody, these are my brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester,” You introduce, and one of your hands comes up to Derek’s shoulder to help steady yourself. “Dean and Sam are hunters, just like I used to be, they’re here for the wendigos that have been killing everyone.”
“Hunters? Wendigo? Yesterday you said it was an Omega, you remember that? You know before you sent us home!” Stiles butt in.
“I was...wrong,” you pull a face while saying the word.
“No, you weren't. You knew,” Scott realized. “You knew but you didn't say anything.”
“Secretive as always, little sis,” Dean chuckled dryly.
“You want to talk secrets?” you press with a glare, warning him not to go any further. “And I didn’t know, not really, I had a hunch…”
“She’s pulling out the mom glare,” you heard Kira whisper, and your head turned to her in a warning.
“Okay, this is going to hurt,” Derek interrupted, holding a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
Scott moved forwards to grab your hand, the black veins appearing instantly. But you oulled back with a warning glace. He huffed but nodded and you send the boy a soft smile in relief and then a nod to Derek. Derek helped you lay back on the counter and he turned to Malia, “Hold her shoulders,” he told her and the new addition moved to do so.
Derek turned the bottle over and began pouring the liquid along the gash and then dabbing and wiping at it with the gauze he had. You squeezed Scott’s hand a little harder as he did so and let out a strangled groan.
Derek helps you sit up before wrapping a bandage around your middle. Letting his hand linger on the skin. Black veins appearing as he leeched the pain from your body.
You swayed for a second. relief hitting you, on hand dropping to Dereks shoulder to hold tight until you tapped him to stop. The veins ebbed away and you took a few deep breaths before letting your eyes flutter open.
When you were done Stiles came over, his face pulled in an expression of disgust holding a glass of whiskey for you.
“Thanks, kid,” you laugh, taking the glass.
“Brothers of mine, meet Derek Hale, Malia Tate, Stiles Stilinski, Kira Yukimura, Lydia Martin, and Scott McCall,” you finished the introduction.
“Better?” Derek's question is soft in your ear.
You offer him a half smile, "Yeah,” you nod, forehead resting against his forehead a second.
“It's... uh... nice to meet you all,” Sam forced out with a tight smile that you saw straight through.
“Yeah, can we talk to you?” Dean asked, looking you straight in the eyes. His voice had that ‘it’s not really up for discussion’ tone to it.
“Sure,” you mutter, jumping down from the counter with some help from Derek. You gave a small wince before walking over to Dean.
“This is where you’ve been?” Dean asked, his tone was accusing.
“Yes,” you nodded.
“The entire last two years, you’ve been here?” Dean repeated.
“Yes.”
“I think what Dean’s trying to say is that you should’ve sent us a message, to let us know where you were,” Sam cut in as Dean glared at you.
“No,” you shook your head.
“No? No? Are you insane, we had a right to know! You took off in the middle of the night-” Dean hissed.
“No. Because if I told you where I was, you guys would view it with your hunter’s brains,” you tell them seriously.
“What? like your little teen wolf over there? Huh? The one who tackled me last night,” Dean pointed and you knew Scott, Derek, and Malia were listening in.
“Yeah, Scott’s a werewolf, and the only reason he tackled you, was to protect me, or did you forget there was a gun in your hand?” you shoot back at Dean.
“You held a gun at her?!” Sam’s hissed whisper is directed at Dean and he rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t know it was her,” he defended.
“I-,” Sam pauses, shakes his head, looks over his shoulder and then back to you, “the one who patched you up, he’s one too, isn’t he?” Sam asked, brows dipping.
Before you could answer Dean cut in, his voice taking on a meaner tone, “Of course he is, talking about smelling blood, knowing your scent. But did you see the way he was looking at her, the way he touched her while patching her up?” Dean pressed and you shifted under your older brother’s glare. “What’s the matter little sis, you screwing the big bad werewolf?” Dean bit and you met his glare head-on.
“Shut up, Dean,” you warned.
“What? You’re some alpha werewolf’s bitch now?” Dean pressed.
“Dean-” Sam attempted to interrupt but got cut off when you shoved Dean.
“You have no clue of what’s going on here, so don’t act like you do,” your tone was low because you were on edge, finger pointing at him.
“Or what? Huh? You’re going to sick your puppies on me? Reality check (y/n) they’re monsters. We hunt monsters, remember? Saving people, hunting things, the family business!” Dean was leaning closer now and when he smacked your hand away it set off a chain of reactions.
A growl could be heard from off to the side and so your head, as well as your brothers, snapped over there, you had been expecting it to be Malia as she still had the least amount of control but it was Scott, his red eyes glowing brightly for the boys to see.
“What the hell?” Sam asked rhetorically, his voice just audible as a whisper.
“Dammit Scott. Hey, it’s okay. Alright? They...they’re not a threat to me,” you hold your hands up as you begin to walk closer to Scott.
“(Y/n)!” Dean called trying to grab you but you side-stepped him.
Derek was squaring up and Malia was looking between you and Scott and then to Sam and Dean before she frowns at Sam and Dean. Stiles seems to pick up on that too because he moves closer to his girlfriend, with a nod at you.
Scott let out another growl as you reached arm distance, “Hey!” you shout at him drawing his attention away from your brothers. “Take a breath, and pull it together, Scott,” you tell the boy, using the tone that Lydia had dubbed the mom tone.
Scott’s eyes immediately flicked back to brown and his shoulder sag a little as he looks up at you with a nervous look, like a puppy who knows they messed up.
You took a deep breath in and put a hand on his cheek moving your thumb in a soothing manner, “it’s okay, we’re okay,” you remind the boy.
“I’m sorry, I..I don’t…” Scott trailed and you knew he felt bad.
“He’s been struggling since, well… you know…,” Stiles jumped in and you offered the boys a sad smile, you did know.
You should’ve realized this was going to be a lot tougher for him now, now that he doesn’t have Allison. Now that none of you do. You look at Scott and you realize you don’t want the next victim to be one of these kids or someone else that they care about.
“It’s okay, I know they seem intense,” you nodded smiling at Scott. It was so easy to forget that the pack was made up of teens, kids. “But you don’t need to worry about me, I can lay them both out quicker than you’d think,” you wink, attempting to lighten the mood.
“(Y/n)!” Dean shouted again.
“Dean, I’m going to go pack a bag, and we’re gonna go get the last wendigo, today,” you tell your older brother, but your eyes stayed on Scott, making sure the teen was okay.
“I wasn’t done,” Dean huffed.
“Dude!” Sam interjected.
“No, that’s fine. But you’re gonna shut the hell up until we’re in the Impala,” you decide, finally looking at your brothers. “I’ll be right back,” your voice is tight as you excuse yourself before walking up the stairs.
You had just grabbed the duffle when Derek appeared in the doorway, “put the bag away, you’re not going anywhere,” Derek argued.
“I have to Derek,” you tell him.
“Why? Because your brothers said so? That’s a shitty reason,” Derek shot back.
“I’m going for you! And those kids downstairs! Our kids, Derek. Because you know that’s basically what they are, I’ve already watched three of them move away, I’ve watched four of them die! I’m not going to lose another one. I can’t handle that, but this, this is a wendigo, that’s my wheelhouse, and you know it!” you argued.
Derek’s eyes softened as he placed one hand on your shoulder, “Allison wasn’t your fault,” he said softly as he pulled you into a hug and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
Your eyes shut as you took a deep breath, fist clenching in the soft material of Derek’s shirt, letting him take your weight for a moment, “she took that blade for me,” you whispered, “it will always be my fault.”
Derek held you for a moment longer, finally understanding why you had to do this, why you were willing to put up with your brother's bullshit. And then he helped you grab the weapons you had locked away in a safe in one of the cabinets.
When you came back down the stairs Scott was looking at you, brows furrowed and lips turned down, “she wasn’t your fault,” he said softly and your face fell from the tight-lipped smile it had been in.
“We don’t blame you,” Lydia added and you shut your eyes for a second to take a breath in.
“You don’t have to, I blame myself,” you tell them honestly. “And I thought I told you guys to stop eavesdropping on Derek’s and my conversations,” you remind them.
“Don’t go,” Stiles cut in. “Whatever is going on, we can handle it.”
“Look, kid, whatever you think you can handle I promise this is something you can’t,” Dean’s gruff voice spoke and you sighed because you knew these kids could handle it, you just didn’t want them too.
“Yeah old man? I think we can handle a lot more than you think,” Stiles argued.
“Who are you calling old man, kid?” Dean stepped forwards putting an emphasis on the word kid.
“Wow, you must be in some serious denial,” Stiles scoffed.
Dean opened his mouth to say something else but you cut him off.
“Alright!” you interrupted. “Stiles I know you can handle it. I do, but you guys deserve a break, okay? You have school tomorrow, so just make sure you guys are ready for that,” you ask.
“You’re benching us?” Kira asked, her hands playing with the ends of her long hair.
“Yeah, this time I am,” you nod.
“Are you benching Derek too? Because if Derek’s going, we’re going,” Malia stated flatly.
“Derek’s being benched too,” you sighed.
“Call us, when you’re done?” Scott asked, knowing that this wasn’t a winnable argument.
“Yeah, of course,” you nodded.
“Are you kidding me?” Stiles shouted. “This is bullshit! We’re just supposed to let (y/n) leave with those two assholes who look like they want to kill all of us?”
“Watch it, punk. We’re her brothers,” Dean glared.
“Some brothers, you haven’t even tried to look for her in over two years!” Stiles shot back and you gaped at Stiles, maybe he had searched into your family history a bit.
“Stiles-” your tone was warning but he was glaring at Sam and Dean.
“No, they want to complain about (y/n) coming here, but these guys, the great Winchesters, they’re supposed to be some of the best hunters out there, and somehow they couldn’t find (y/n) when she wasn’t even attempting to hide!
“That’s enough!” you slammed your hand down drawing everyone’s attention.
Lydia took a step back and pulled Kira with her. Malia’s frown deepened. Stiles’ eyes went wide as head whipped to you, his mouth parted open. Sam and Dean both had shocked expressions on their face and you understood why. You weren’t as aggressive or loud the last time you had seen them. Scott was calculating everyone in the room but his eyes were trained on Derek. Derek was stone-cold now, a deep glare aimed at Dean but everyone who saw it shrunk away.
“Lydia, would you please take Malia and Kira home, unless you’ve got something to share with the class?” you hint at her.
“Yes, Ma’am,” she sighed, pulling out her keys. “We’ll see you later,” she says it firmly and you take the reassurance as it comes.
You nod and she grabs the other two girls and walks out, shushing Malia as she goes.
“Scott, you too, go home,” you tell him.
Scott looks between you, your brothers, and Derek, “(Y/n)…” his tone is uneasy.
“Go home, do your homework, I’ll help you with the SAT prep stuff later this week,” you decide, you’ve dedicated yourself to trying to keep things normal, to reassure them, that this is just a bump in the road.
“Yeah,” he nods and slowly starts to leave, but not without casting another look over his shoulder. “You should know, she might be your sister, but she’s a part of our pack, and we’ve faced a lot worse than you. We protect pack,” he adds, it’s a low warning but it’s a threat you weren’t fully anticipating.
You catch the upward twitch of Derek’s lip as he smirks in approval. Scott only waits another second before walking out.
“Derek,” you turn to face your best friend and boyfriend, “I will see you when I get home,” you say softly with a small smile. “And you, smartass,” you turned back to Stiles, “You’re coming with us, it’s time to talk to the Sheriff.”
“No, I’m not letting some sarcastic punk in my car, no way!” Dean shook his head and you rolled your eyes.
“Fine. Stiles, if Dean won’t drive we can take the Camaro,” you decide.
“Dean,” Sam said seriously. You knew why, Sam wanted you all together so he could play mediator, just like he always had.
“No,” Dean stayed stubborn and you scoffed at him, before glancing over to Derek.
“Not a scratch,” he said reaching into his pocket to hand you the keys.
You walked up to grab the keys, but he held them tight looking into your eyes. “Your car’s gonna be fine,” you tell him.
“Wasn’t talking about the car,” he said seriously, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks. “You, don’t wanna see you get hurt, again,” his voice was soft so only you could hear, though when you were with werewolves you were never really sure when they were listening or not.
“I can’t promise that,” you remind him, not wanting to lie. “But I’ll do my very best.”
He nods releasing the keys, you notice the way his eyes dip to your lips but then flicker back to your brothers. You shake your head slightly, not really bothered to know what they think. Grabbing his soft green v-neck you pull him close for a quick peck and a soft smile. He gives one back to you and you turn around, walking to the door, Stiles right behind you, silent as a mouse.
You waited until you were in the Camaro before speaking again, “When did you figure it out?”
“Scott and I have known since the second month after you arrived,” Stiles admitted. “You may have noticed I don’t tend to trust new people easily,” he huffs.
Your lips quirk at that, understatement.
“You never said anything,” you note, biting your lip to keep from laughing at him.
“We told Derek and Mr. Argent, asked them some questions, but they already knew. We trusted them, at least, on this we did, and over time we learned we could trust you too. Scott always figured you’d tell us when you were ready,” he explained.
“And the rest?” you inquired, starting the car.
“Lydia, Isaac, and Allison were the only ones, and well…” he trailed and you sniffed, pulling out of the garage and then out onto the main road.
“What about your dad?” you asked as you began navigating toward the sheriff’s station.
“He knows that there’s stuff from your past that you haven’t shared, pretty sure he thinks you were a hunter, and what about your brothers?” he shoots back.
“Black Chevy ‘67 Impala,” you nod towards your rearview window.
“They’ve been following us,” Stiles realizes.
“Yeah,” you agree stiffly.
“They’re jerks, you know, or at least the shorter one is, not that either of them is short, I mean they’re both massive, are you sure they’re human?” Stiles rambled and a small smile quirked to your lips.
“Yes, they’re human, I mean, last I checked they were, and as for the jerk part, Sam, the taller one, is usually very sweet and Dean is usually very abrasive, so…” you trail hitting the signal before turning into the sheriff’s parking lot.
You park and wait outside the Camaro for your brothers and you know that Stiles has more questions but you nod ahead, telling him to grab his dad and he disappears inside.
“Sheriff’s station?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, Sheriff Stilinski happens to be more aware of what happens in this town than it’s everyday citizens,” you hint.
“And why’d you bring the smartass?” Dean questions.
“Because he’s the sheriff’s son,” you lament with a lazy smirk and Dean’s face scrunches in annoyance. “What are you guys doing here?” you press
“Told you, the wendigos,” Dean argues.
“Bullshit, this town has a very deep supernatural history, two wendigos with a fresh and minor body count should’ve flown under your radar considering everything else here that has. So cut the shit, what are you doing here?” you argue.
Sam sighs and pulls something from the inside pocket of his fed jacket, a newspaper article. There in print is your face, it’s not the focus but the article had been on the three freak ambushes that hit beacon a couple of months ago, you knew it to be courtesy of the nogitsune. That’s why they had come, because they had finally found you.
“This was months ago, why are you here now?” you huff, shoving the paper back to Sam.
“We didn’t see it until about a week ago, a hunter buddy recognized you and sent it to us,” Sam explained. “We were worried.”
“Yeah well, your worry is overdue and unnecessary. I can handle the wendigo, really, because as much as I came here to get away from hunting, I’m constantly kept on my toes in this town. You guys can go, move on to the next town, that’s what hunters do, right?”
“What happened to you?” Dean finally spoke up and he started staring hard at you.
“Me? Nothing,” you negate.
“Now who’s bullshitting?” he pressed.
“Fine!” you amend. “You’re right, I’m different Dean because I’ve grown up. More than dad ever made me. More than Bobby did. I’m a different person, a better person. I have a real job here in town, I have a place to call home, people who love me-”
“They are not people!” Dean interrupted and you sniffed and stepped back as the crushing reality reminded you that your brother would never be able to shake your father’s mind control, even now years after the man had passed.
“Maybe not to you, Dean, definitely not to dad, but I’d argue they’re more human than we are, because those kids? They still have their entire souls, which is more than can be said about us, right big brother? It’s not like they’ve had demons tear up their souls, cut into them, manipulate them. No, last I checked, that’s just us.”
Dean goes quiet, expression sour as he stares at you. Sam’s hovering eyes darting between you both as if he’s not sure what it is exactly that he wants to say, but is forced to listen. “They are a pack, my pack, and I’m really lucky to have them,” you state, forcing your tone to be level, as you stare at your brothers.
“Do you need another minute, or….” Stiles had come back and was hesitant in approaching us.
“Nah,” you shook your head and smiled at the older man, “Hey, Sheriff. These are my brothers Sam and Dean. They’re hunters,” you explain.
“Like Argent?” Sheriff checks.
“Yeah, and also like Argent, my family have been hunters for a long time,” you inform the sheriff.
“That… explains a lot,” he chuckles.
“Yeah, we just wanted to let you know that there’s a rogue wendigo in Beacon, which is strange because historically Beacon is werewolf territory and they are not west coast creatures. Sam and Dean are here to help get rid of it, thought we’d give you the heads up,” you smiled.
“I appreciate that, (Y/n), I’ll let Parrish know too. Stay safe, alright?” he requested resting a hand on your shoulder with a heavy pat. “Call if you need any backup.”
“Yes, sir,” you agree.
“And, uh, keep this one out of trouble if you can?” he refers to his son.
“It’d be my pleasure,” you smile at the man.
“Thanks (y/n),” he offers you one more smile before patting his son on the back and walking back into the station.
“Let’s go, Stiles,” you decide and move to open the car door.
“(Y/n) we weren’t done,” Dean scoffed.
“I was,” you state flatly. “Out of everything I’ve learned Dean, hunting, and living here, I’m not going to waste my time, not when it’s so insecure. So if you wanna yell at me, tough shit big brother. I don’t feel like being yelled at for something you don’t understand. And you can pull the big brother card if you want, but you’re not dad and thank fuckin’ god, because that man fucked us up more than we can ever truly repair,” you state before getting in the Camaro.
Stiles doesn’t say anything when you drop him back off at the loft. When the Impala pulls up right after you, Stiles pauses.
“Get in, (y/n),” Dean states, and you quirk and eyebrow. “We’re gonna take care of that wendigo problem,” he says cooly, and you nod. You grab your gear bag and toss the Camaro keys to Stiles.
“Tell Derek, and if I’m not back in 24 hours then you can get the pack on it, okay?” you tell the boy as he looks at the keys and then at you.
“He’s going to be so pissed,” Stiles reminds you and you smirk.
“I like it when he’s pissed, it’s hot,” you muse and Stiles snorts. “I’ll be okay Stiles, I’ve dealt with wendigos before, and I’m trained a lot better than you think,” you assure the boy.
He nods and heads inside and you slip into the back of the impala, “How very deja vu this is,” you joke as you settle against the seat.
“Oh, she’s got jokes too, what a night we’re in for,” Dean states sarcastically.
“I’m sorry did I hurt your feelings, Dean?” you shoot back.
He lets out a heavy sigh but says nothing and you catch the way Sam looks at him and then at you and you shrug your shoulders in nonchalance.
“We missed you,” Sam stated carefully and your gaze moved to the window.
“You think I didn’t?” you ask. “Do you seriously believe that there wasn’t a single day that passed that I didn’t miss my brothers? Because I did. I just couldn’t go back, I still can’t. Not to that life, living out of this stupid car with no real ties or relationships. I needed a real life.”
“You could’ve told us that, you know? When you left, you should’ve told us that you weren’t gonna come back. Instead of pulling a disappearing act and leaving a shitty letter,” Dean huffed.
“Oh yeah? You would have just let me leave?” you press.
“Well-” Dean began and you cut him off.
“Exactly, this was the only option.”
“Things are different now,” Sam says wisely.
“No, Sam, things are the same. We’re different now,” you correct and he nods in concession.
“Why, here?” Dean asked, suddenly.
“Dad worked a case here, once, when I was in middle school,” you recalled and Dean nodded. “After school one day Dad sent me to go get you and to go get some information, you got preoccupied with a girl so I went alone. I met Derek…”
“Holy shit, Derek was the kid!” Dean shouted.
“What?” Sam asked, and you blushed.
“When I finally caught up with (y/n), she was walking out of a diner with some kid her age. They were adorably awkward as they said goodbye,” he mused and you rolled your eyes.
“The case was long, we were in beacon hills for almost 3 weeks,” you continued. “Derek and I became friends, on the last day we exchanged… contact info,” you trailed.
“Wait, three weeks, and a guy?” Sam back-peddled. “Did he play basketball?”
“How could you even know that?” you pressed.
“Because I saw some guy with a basketball kiss you, and it was the same guy I’d seen you with for a while.
“You kissed him!” Dean turned to look at you.
“Focus on the road!” you argued.
“Wait, you’ve kept in touch all these years?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, when I initially left I had no clue where to go and so I found myself on a bus to California and then eventually here, to Beacon Hills. It’s been… nice…” you admit.
“You look a lot….. better,” Sam added.
“Sam when I left I was a borderline alcoholic who barely slept, I looked like shit, all the time,” you reminded him.
Dean parks the car back at the preserves, a more secluded area that you had found last night. The three of you jumped out of the impala and you watched as the boys went to the trunk, they lifted the bottom and started gearing up.
“We should probably grab a badge,” Sam decided as he closed the trunk.
“I think I got that part covered,” you muse and your brothers turned back to you with confused looks. “I’m a deputy with the sheriff’s department,” you added, showing them your badge.
“Like, actually?” Dean questioned coming up to look at the badge clipped to your pants.
“Yeah, I get a paycheck and everything,” you smirk.
“That’s cool…. I guess…” he sniffed stepping back.
“You’re jealous,” you laugh, dropping the shirt back over the badge.
“Whatever,” he huffed, turning towards the preserves.
“Alright, let’s go gank this thing,” Sam agreed, and you all looked out.
You heaved a deep sigh and then you were all trekking back through the preserves.
summary: you got separated from your brothers in the middle of a hunt during nighttime. now, the wendigo is approaching you, and your odds don't look so good.
pairings: reader is sam & dean's little sister
warnings: there's a chase scene, scary wendigo, reader is 17/18 years old, a bit of angst, but a happy (?) ending, not proofread + english is my second language ^^
word count: 678 words
the night hunt had started like any other: quiet, careful, with the three of them moving through the dark woods. sam was in the lead with dean a few paces behind, their little sister between them, alert to noises in the trees. she was ready, well, as prepared as she could be for her third hunt alongside her brothers.
then a branch rustled nearby and the three of them turned toward the noise. they could see three tall, giant figures emerge from the shadows: wendigos.
“run!” shouted dean as they turned around. amid the chaos, sam grabbed his sister by the arm in an attempt to drag her with them, but the forest was thick, branches everywhere, and they couldn't stay together. sam and dean ended up fleeing in one direction, while their younger sister ran in the opposite direction.
with her heart in her throat, the little winchester girl ran as fast as she could. her footsteps rustled the leaves and branches. her breathing was agitated. she didn't stop running until she realized she had dropped her flashlight. she frantically looked around, but saw only total darkness. without the flashlight, she was completely lost.
a chilling howl was heard near her and she froze. it wasn't just any sound from the forest, it was a wendigo. she didn't know what to do; the sounds were getting louder and louder and, without her flashlight, she was as vulnerable as a frightened lamb.
In the distance, two shots rang out followed by another scream: a different wendigo, perhaps one of her brothers fighting it.
“where is she?!” she heard faintly, a distant, desperate voice. dean's voice. the little winchester girl wanted to answer, but when she opened her mouth, another low growl sounded, this time too close. she ducked behind a tree and peeked out slowly only to see a wendigo lurking. her hands trembled around the knife she had drawn, but she knew it wouldn't be enough if the wendigo found her.
meanwhile, sam and dean had managed to take down two of the creatures. but neither could relax. they had seen their sister go off in another direction and now there was no sign of her.
“dean, we have to find her!” sam said, very concerned.
“i know, sammy.” dean replied, his tone firm. but inside, fear was eating at him. the thought of his little sister alone in the dark was unbearable.
“y/n!” he shouted, his voice travelling through the woods. sam joined him, their shouts overlapping as they moved deeper into the woods, weapons ready.
she heard their voices again, closer this time. she was about to scream, but the wendigo's footsteps were too close; she couldn't risk giving herself away. Instead, she began to move in the direction of her brothers' voices, crouching low and silent. but before she could make much headway, the wendigo spotted her. its eyes bore into her and the creature let out a shriek and pounced on her.
she ran away as fast as she could. she zigzagged through the trees hoping to throw it off, but it was difficult. suddenly, she tripped over a root, fell to the ground, and turned just in time to see the wendigo bearing down on her. she raised her knife in preparation for the worst.
but then, out of the darkness, came a flash of light and two gunshots. dean and sam burst in, both firing at the wendigo, knocking it back. the creature shrieked, staggering backward.
dean ran to his sister without hesitation, helping her up while sam kept his gun aimed at the creature, until the creature stopped moving.
“are you okay sweetheart?” asked dean, examining her for injuries.
she nodded, trying to catch her breath.
“yeah… i'm fine. i lost the flashlight and then-” tears started falling down her face.
sam stepped closer, resting a hand on her shoulder. “hey, we're here. it's okay.”
dean managed to show a smile. “next time, let's try to stick together, huh?”
she laughed softly, nodding. maybe hunting would be more complicated than she thought.
⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Sam + Dean Winchester + ?!fem!Reader [non romantic]
⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Two brothers are hot on your tail; The noose around your neck tightens fast as you are the last one left alive of your cursed family. Or are you?
WARNINGS / TAGS 18+ Heavy Angst | Kinda Comfort in the end?
Reader is a civilian | Early Seasons !! | Attempted Suicide (but unwillingly!!) | Manipulation | Reader's family died | Detailed description of drowning | Canon violence | Plot Twist and Happy End ! | No use of Y/N.
⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 1000
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES My angst-themed snapshot entry for @ambiguous-avery's Summer Snapshot Challenge. I feel like cutting these down to the wc limit of 1k takes me longer than the actual writing. 😂 Also... I wrote this a good month ago and when reading it again now, I don't really like it anymore lol. But the deadline's tomorrow so I got to learn to let it go as Dean quoted Elsa. 😂
Whoever said drowning is a peaceful death, clearly never died one.
It's terrifying. Cold. Painful. And worst of all, it's slow. Or maybe it just feels like hours and it's only been seconds since you've had your last breath of air.
Now you're just choking on salt water.
Foaming at your mouth, lungs searing as the sea breaths into you. Helplessly, you watch the world close its heavy curtain, plunging you into pitch black darkness. An invisible dead weight latches onto your foot when the depths of the ocean begins to pull you down. Swallowing you whole.
Panic takes over your mind. Your limbs flail aimlessly, fighting for air - the surface.
Not because you want to live. But because your body doesn’t understand the decision you made days ago.
Atone for his sins. Repent, repent, repent-
For two months that voice has lived inside your head. Constantly. Repeating like a broken record, slowly chipping away at your sanity and your will to live. Whispering how your drowned family followed your father's fate, had atoned for the sins of a man you barely even knew, and how you're a coward for pacing the cliffs but never jumping.
Eventually, the bubbles begin to fade. It’s eerily calm. Head too. Silence. Finally.
With every passing second, every searing swallow of more water flooding your stomach and your lungs screaming for relief, you find yourself finally going limp.
And that’s just the way you deserved to go. Right?
Come to me… she coos now. Soothing. Her voice like an uncanny impression of your mother's. It's close. But just an octave off.
Come to me… you did well. Leading your family to us…
...Come...
“C’mon…”
“C’mon!”
The world breaks up above you.
Silent, but all the more violent.
At first just flashes of dark blue colours swirling and crashing and devouring each other flood your senses, then voices, muffled and distant fade in and out - next moment, loud thundering noise hammers against your ears like someone had just unmuted the entire world for you at once.
"C'mon, sweetheart-" the voices get louder, overlapping from all directions.
You gasp. And -
Air.
Your lungs expand and all of a sudden every nerve in your body's back online. Burning and roaring through your system like lightning.
How's this possible? How's there air down here? Am I dead yet?
You convulse, hacking seawater. Tasting salt and sand in the back of your throat. While you feel rough hands turn you sideways and slap your back, drawing even more liquids from your mouth.
Snippets of dialogue seep through your panicked sputtering and wheezing.
One from behind. Deep and hoarse, panting heavily like he'd just run a marathon.
"- c'mon - breathe, sweetie - that's it -"
One from the front, softer, steadier, followed by a soothing touch up and down your arm.
"- we got you, it's okay, you're gonna be okay -"
But you can only think of one thing.
"Why'd you save me?" You rasp. Broken. Parts of it left in the depths of what was meant to be your grave.
"What?" both say at once.
Fear slams back into you with the force of the waves you hear crashing against the shore in the distance. She's angry.
The thing that wore your mothers voice calls your name. Sweet. Sour. Livid.
Eyes begin to sting, tremors make their way to your lips and your hands when you hear it scream inside your head like a banshee again.
Repent.
"I - I need to go back- she's angry -" You begin in a panic and when you try to scramble to your feet you feel arms pin you back down into the wet sand the same moment.
"Whoa- whoa- hold on - ya ain't goin' back."
"Hey- talk to us, what's going on? Who's angry?"
You try to find your voice, force it out – "She – who dragged them under – she wants me too –" but it's cut short.
Don't listen to them! Your father has skinned and burned my children alive!
You start at the sound of the sharp command, the same voice which had led you all the way to the cliffs.
They exchange a look, the mop haired muttering to the other.
"The sirens dad was after? You think he missed one?"
"Awesome. So we got a sea monster that's gone Carol Sanders*."
"What? Please - I -" your voice cracks up, confused, now wet and drowning in your own tears.
"Hey, hey... breathe…" the short-haired guy leans down from behind you, pinning you to his chest, arms tight around your waist. Grounding you. His gruff voice softens to a murmur. "You're save now. I got you."
"They're... they're all dead..." you sob into your sleeve, voice and body shaking. Violently, and broken. "I've got no one left."
Sam's eyes flicker up to Dean's. The silence hangs heavy above your head.
The waves churn behind you. Dean sucks in a breath, then starts.
"Not all of them," he murmurs firmly, tightens his arms around you while his lips brush your crown, gently, brotherly - he swallows - then continues against your hair, "You've -… still got us."
You shake your head. He doesn't get it. Your entire family is gone.
A hand settles on your shoulder. "Can you tell us your father's name?" Sam asks gently and it has your eyes snap up to meet his.
Your focus flickers between them, only now noticing how they look like they already know the answer to their question and just want you to connect the dots yourself.
Your breath stutters.
"John Winchester."
Their eyes meet again. Dean doesn't say anything but you feel his arms go rigid, jaw locked. Sam swallows hard.
"How much do you know about his life?"
"He was a bad person. He – he burned them," you rasp out, voice tight. Dean behind you lets out a scoff at 'bad person'.
"He was a hunter, sweetheart. That's the -… That's our family business."
*Dean’s pop-culture guide: Carol Sanders is the main character of A Mother's Revenge (aka Desperate Justice) 1993. It was based on the novel of the same name by Richard Speight from Nashville, Tennessee (father of Richard Speight, Jr. - aka. Gabriel 😉).
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I've still got two fluff-themed snapshots planned in my drafts but I don't think I'll be able to finish them before the deadline... T-24 hours :')
a/n: staying true to the resolution! the largest folder in my wips is probably the crossovers. way too many possibilities for someone entrenched in too many fandoms. but, nonetheless, here we are. also big shock! i still write for other fandoms, not just dc.
main masterlist
prompt: A; hold on you died?! ... B; yeah, well, it didn't stick.
synopsis: what if a hunt brought you and your older half-brothers and guardians, Sam and Dean Winchester, to Beacon Hills, and what if, you get in a spot of trouble with your new friends, and need to call for a ride.
wc: 2.7k
Black.
Everything is black.
You feel your body being torn apart, excruciatingly slow, and suddenly it all snaps back together, muscles, veins, tendons reconnecting and attaching, skin growing back.
Flashes of light, bright, discombobulating.
And then your eyes open.
You shoot up, bodies hovering over you.
Someone screams, someone else is crying.
You choke on nothing for a second, and then you push yourself back to your feet.
Hands grip onto you, frantic, and finally everything fits back into place.
You blink and turn, coming face to face with two boys. Not your brothers, a piece of you panics, but the memories come quick, and you force yourself to relax.
Stillinski and McCall, your brain supplies as you stare at the two. Both are watching you with wide eyes, lips parted, slightly pale. There’s a girl behind them with tears in her eyes. The redhead, Lydia you mind supplies after a second, looks especially distraught.
The choking feeling comes back and this time when you cough, something falls from your lips, a bullet.
You stare at the brass for a second, “seven fucking hells,” you hiss, bending down and picking up the bullet.
It’s deformed, likely the exact bullet that had killed you mere minutes before. Deformed from where and how it had impacted against your body.
The memory of being shot comes back fast and painful, your whole body flinches as you jerk to check your side. There’s blood, and your brow furrows as you push off your jacket and then pull your shirt off, wiping at your side, until you clear away most of the blood.
No wound.
“(Y/n)?” Stiles’ voice cracks as he says your name, and your head snaps back to the others.
They’re still staring at you like they’re all about to be violently sick.
“Hey,” you say, swallowing thickly as you calm your heart rate.
Who brought you back? No Angels nearby… Crowley didn’t have the pull anymore… Leaving… Billie? Or… Chuck?
You shudder at the thought, you hoped it was Billie.
You reach into your pants pocket, and pull out your phone, but your frown deepens when you realize it’s broken, screen cracked, totally toast— kinda like you were.
“Damn,” you mutter, turning back to the four still staring.
That was a problem.
“Can I borrow a phone?” you ask, voice hoarse, but they’re all still staring at you. You roll your eyes, and snap your fingers startling them. “Phone? Please?”
Lydia reaches a shaky hand into her purse and pulls her out, holding it to you.
You’d just dialed Dean’s number when Scott comes back to himself.
“Hold on,” he begins, “you died,” he states.
Newbies, you scoff internally.
“Yeah, well, it didn’t stick,” you lament, raising the phone to your ear.
It rings, and rings, and keeps ringing, until you’re met with “Agent Plant, FBI, leave a message.”
“Damn it,” you mumble, dialing Sam’s number next
It rings, and rings, and rings…
“Agent Page, FBI, leave a mess-”
You don’t wait for the end of the message, and instead hang up, biting your lip you try the last active number you knew of.
It rings, and rings, and rings…
“This is Agent Jones, FBI. Please leave a message and I will-”
“Chuck’s sake,” you grumble and then freeze. There was more than one way to call Cas.
“Your tattoo is gone,” a voice interrupts and your head whips back over to the other teens.
“Fuck, are you sure?” you ask tilting your shoulder in to look at the blade. “You’re so dead, Chuck, stupid things hurt like a-”
“What is she talking about?” you’re vaguely aware of Stiles’ muttered question, but you force yourself to take a deep breath and refocus on the task at hand.
“You were dead,” Lydia finally speaks up, as you hand her phone back.
“Yes,” you nod.
“We did CPR,” Scott adds on.
“Explains the pain on my ribs,” you note, looking around, eyes perking when you spot your backpack.
“It didn’t work,” Stiles.
“Yup, got that,” you confirm half-heartedly, as you pull open the bag, rummaging through.
“I heard your heart stop,” Scott adds, and you pull a spare t-shirt, the one you’d used for gym class, out triumphantly.
“Make sense, since I was dead,” you nod, tossing the shirt over your shoulder, and looking back into the bag.
“I felt it,” Lydia adds, you shudder slightly at that, Banshee premonitions were an entirely different beast.
“Sorry about that,” you say uncomfortably clearing your throat as you pull out the small container of hand sanitizer.
You grab the bag and walk back over to the other three, they’re still starring wide eyed, and you refrain from rolling your eyes again as you reach down for the bloody shirt. You reach to your ankle and pull out your switchblade, using it to cut up the shirt, taking the clean parts, and then dousing it in the hand sanitizer, using it to remove as much blood from your skin as possible.
It leaves the skin sticky, you wrinkle your nose at the feeling, but once content, toss the bloodied clothes in a pile, and wipe your blade before putting it away.
You toss the mostly empty hand sanitizer back in your bag, and run your finger over the bullet again before putting that in your pocket. You pull on the gym shirt, it reads Beacon Hills High School, across the front, and is made of a stiff cotton polyester blend that scratches at your skin, and well, it smells like gym, but you’ve had worse, that’s for sure.
You swipe back your hair and reach into another pocket producing your lighter. You crouch down, and set the bloody clothes on fire. It burns quick, hot, and bright. Especially once it catches on the cloth that had the hand sanitizer. You watch the flames quickly until your blood is gone, and then you stamp it out.
Finally, you swing the bag back on your shoulder and you turn to the other three, really taking the time to take them in. This time you do roll your eyes.
“Yes, I died. Tragic, I know. And yes, I’m back, shocking is an understatement I’m sure, but can we please move on?”
“You died!” Stiles repeats again, and you let out a long sigh.
“And it didn’t stick. It’s not the first time, probably won’t be the last,” you admit, but that seems to be the wrong thing to say because the three of them seem to raise into higher hysterics. “Right. okay! You process this, however you need to. Let me know when you’re ready. In the meantime, I gotta… make a call.”
The three offer jerky nods and you huff, walking ahead of them. They follow in a daze as you guide them out of the preserves and back to the main road. You look up and down, and quietly you close your eyes and pray.
Cas… Castiel, I could really use a hand right about now… Please?
You peek an eye open but are disappointed by the lack of blue-tie-trenchcoat-wearing angels.
You cave after another few minutes of silent prayer.
You drop your bag and walk into the street, “CAS! CASTIEL!!!” you shout.
Stiles flinches so violently he trips over his own feet, the three staring at you as if you were a lunatic, which; fair, but now was so not the time, to go into the angels and demons of it all.
“CASTIEL!” you try again.
“What is a Castiel?” Scott asks, eyes wide and concerned.
“CASTIEL,” you begin, shouting his name once more for good measure, before your lips turn into a deep frown, “is a no-good, older-brother preferring, utterly useless contingency plan,” you huff out, before looking back at Scott and shrugging, “apparently,” you add clearing your throat.
“Right,” Scott nods, but nothing about his response inspired his belief.
Again, fair.
You huff again, “guess we’re doing this traditionally,” you mutter, turning to the three. “No chance any of you has chalk?” you ask.
“Chalk?” Stiles repeats, spluttering. “What like sidewalk chalk? What are we gonna do hopscotch our way back into town?”
You deadpan at Stiles unimpressed, and he shifts under the weight of your stare.
“So no chalk?” you ask, and he huffs. “Fucking townies,” you mumble under your breath, but the look you get from Scott tells you he heard it.
“No chalk,” Lydia confirms. “But, chalk’s mostly made of the shells of single-celled organisms, like coccolithophores and foraminifera,” she explains and your brows furrow.
“What?”
“It’s found in most sedimentary deposits,” she continues.
You blink at her.
Her shoulders sag a bit, “Limestone rocks would work,” she relents.
You perk at that. “Wait here,” you tell them, taking off back the way you’d come. “I saw some limestone on our way out!”
By the time you make it back to them, the three are huddled, whispering quickly and casting weary glances around. They pause as you come back but you barely pay attention, instead, you focus on chalking the ground, delicate and precise marks as you use the limestone on the asphalt.
Once happy with the markings you stand outside the drawing, and toss the leftover limestone aside, wiping your hands on your jeans and standing at full height. You crack your neck, and turn to the markings.
“Amaymon, Amaymon, appear now, by the power of the Angelical Keys, I summon thee, Castiel,” you begin, voice loud and clear. It pulls the other three’s attention. Stiles ready to interrupt when you began again. “Rah ah gah ee oh es, Castiel, Rah ah gah ee oh es,” the three were now staring with wide eyes, on your second pass of the Enochian chant, your voice seemed to reverberate through the preserves, sounding less and less human. “Amaymon, Amaymon, appear now, by the power of the Angelical Keys, I summon thee, Castiel,” you repeat a final time.
You hold your breath, waiting, seconds tick by and finally your eye twitches. Fucking Castiel, you appear whenever Dean calls, bastards, all three of you.
“Fine,” you huff, throwing your hands in the air. “Prayer didn’t work, neither did calling nicely, or an official summons, so I guess that leaves me with threats! I hope you’re happy!” you shout at no one, and you catch the look Lydia shares with Stiles.
“(Y/n) maybe you should-” Scott begins and you wave him off.
“CASTIEL, YOU GET YOUR WINGED ASS HERE RIGHT NOW OR I SWEAR ON MY NAME I WILL NEVER LET YOU HAVE ANOTHER MOMENT OF PEACE YOU WINGED RAT!” you scream, causing the other three to flinch.
And then a man in a trenchcoat materializes right behind you, and the three lose their shit.
“WHAT THE FU-”
“WHO?”
“WHERE DID-”
You whirl around and the Angel stands stiffly as he stares at you.
“About fucking time,” you huff, glaring at him.
“I find your demanding tone off-putting,” Cas decides and your eye twitches.
“Off-putting? Are you kidding Cas? I’ve been trying to get in contact with Dean and Sam, no one’s answering their phones!”
“Which numbers did you try?”
“Plant, Page, and Jones, FBI,” you counter.
“We deactivated them.”
“No shit,” you hiss.
“You are acting like a-” he stops himself, sighing.
the audacity.
“Like a what, Cas?” you press.
“Like an ass-butt,” he admits and you have to scrub your hand over your face. “I do not appreciate it,” he adds on.
You open your mouth with a sharp retort but you stop yourself, count to ten in your mind and let out a deep breath instead. Reminding yourself, you can’t talk to Cas the same way you would to Dean and Sam, it was counter-productive at best.
“You’re right, I apologize Castiel. I’m… flustered,” you admit, levelly, jaw clenched and eye twitching as you do.
“Is it because of these three?” he asks, finally addressing the others hovering just a few feet away.
“No, these are friends Castiel,” you huff.
“Why then? You are usually the most put-together of the three Winchester siblings,” he questions.
Isn’t that a low bar? The 17-year-old little half sister is the most put-together when compared to her two adult older brothers.
“I was shot, and killed about an hour ago Cas, I can feel where they sliced me open down in hell, and smell like a mix of death, blood, and high school gym class. I would very much like to know where my older brothers are, right now,” you explain, once again keeping your voice in that forced level tone.
“I see. One moment,” he says and before you can disagree he disappears.
“Oh, Fuck me!” you shout again.
“I have so many questions,” Stiles speaks up from where he and Scott are still stood.
“Sliced you open?” Lydia repeats, voice pitching up.
“Yeah, and Hell?” Stiles tags on, funnily enough, his voice did the same thing.
You glare at the two. Chuck’s sake, it was going to be such a pain to do the whole tip of the iceberg speech, at least they already believed in the Supernatural.
“Just-” you pause for another deep breath. “Please, let me find my brothers first,” you request instead.
Luckily you don’t have to wait long, because only a few minutes later you can hear an engine coming up the road, and you sigh when you catch sight of the Impala.
The car’s moving fast, and it screeches, skidding a bit, as Dean throws the thing in park. Both of you brothers rushing out. Dean gets to you first, hands on your shoulders, looking you up and down.
“The hell happened?” he asks, voice gruff.
“Hell,” you answer shortly.
“That’s not funny,” Sam counters.
“Neither is radio silence,” you shoot back.
Both of your brothers share a look.
“Fair,” Sam concedes, when Dean stays resolute, he hasn’t let go of you yet.
You feel Dean’s grip tighten and you sigh, “I’m fine, seriously,” you relent, voice softening far more than it has since you woke up.
“C’mon let’s get you to the motel,” Dean decides, keeping one hand on you as he starts pushing you to the Impala.
“Uh, Dean?” Sam calls after him, a nervous laugh paired with a clearing of his throat.
“What?” Dean barks the question over his shoulder, walking you forwards.
“She’s got friends,” he reminds him and you shrug at Dean who finally turns and stares at the the three who have been watching your brothers with curious eyes.
“Ah shit, more teenagers,” Dean frowns. “Fine, pack it in,” he huffs, opening the door.
Sam smiles nervously and gestures for the three to slip into the back row. You on the other hand, end up sandwiched between your two big brothers. Sam casts another look over you once he’s back in the car, and Dean’s pulling a U-turn.
“You sure, you’re okay?”
You sigh, and reach into your pocket, pulling out the bullet, and then dropping it in Sam’s hand as a response.
“Sorry I asked,” he backtracks.
You roll your eyes, and lean back into the leather seat, “Someone has to redo my tattoo when we get to the motel,” you speak up.
“Damn, total wipe?” Dean asks looking over at you.
“Not even a scar,” you mutter.
“That’s not too bad, I mean that wendigo last fall caught you pretty bad, right? Scar’s gone now?” Sam tries to point out but both you and Dean level him with a look.
“I thought we agreed to no bright sides on death, hell, torture, and resurrection,” you mutter mutinously.
“We did,” Dean agrees.
This time Sam rolls his eyes, “Alright, I’m sorry I tried,” he huffs, settling back as well.
“So many questions,” you hear Stiles repeat, and you groan in despair.
summary: when you get hurt on a hunt with crowley, sam comes to rescue you. crowley's jealous because all he wants is to be loved by you the same way your brothers love you
pairing: sam + dean x middle-sibling!reader (gn) ft. crowley
genre: angst | word count: 3.2k
warnings: hellhounds, crowley being snarky, overprotective sam, hellhounds, arguing, crowley just wants to be loved
notes: this was written for @chevroletdean lovely 5k follower challenge !! i got crowley and rowena for my chracters, angst for my genre and jealousy for the prompt. so, i present to you; whatever the hell this is
There you are again. The single bright spot to his darkness. The good to his bad, to antidote to his poison. Everything about you opposes everything about him, and it only makes him hate you more. No, not quite hate. Envy, perhaps. Because what you are is what he will never be; not to his family, and certainly not to yours.
You’re loved. You know it, he knows it, your brothers know it. It’s obvious to anyone who’s ever heard about you. Sam and Dean talk about you all the time, pride evident in their tones. They don’t even have to say I love you for you to know they do, because the love of your brothers is one that doesn’t need words to be described. It’s obvious from their tones, the simple things they do for you; making sure they always have your favourite drink in the cooler, giving you the extra blanket in motels if you’re too cold, making sure your weapons get reloaded first. You have family.
Crowley does not. At least, not in the same way you do. Sure, he’s got Rowena, but she’s a poor excuse for a mother and she might as well not be with the way she treats him. Hell, even you treat him better than she does, and he’s pretty sure you hate him just as much as your brothers do. At least you’re appreciated, taken care of in a way that’s tender without being overbearing, understood without having to speak.
It's jealously, Crowley realizes, how he feels about you. A burning jealousy that simmers under his skin every time he lays eyes on you, every time he hears your name. He hates it, hates you, because you have everything he wants; someone, anyone to see him for himself. To look at him without grimacing, to touch him without flinching, to be in the same room as him without backing away. He needs someone to love him like he’s family. Forget romance, because he’s long accepted it’s not in the cards for him. He just needs someone to let him think he’s worth it, even if it’s just for a second.
You’re kinder to him than your brothers are, he starts to notice. Sam in particular harbours a strange hatred for him. He’s not done anything particularly bad, he thinks, because if he had, Sam wouldn’t be alive to hate him. Dean’s a little more lenient, likely due to your persistence that Crowley can still be useful. He’s thankful for that at least, because it means as long as you’re in the room, he can breathe just a little easier until the jealousy overtakes him.
He gets a break one day, when you do something that completely shocks him. You bring him tea. Not just tea, the boring kind you buy in bulk and steep in lukewarm water in motel kitchens because it’s the cheapest. No, this is real, proper tea. The kind that comes in loose leaves, flower buds and herbs mixing together with an earthy scent that’s reminiscent of home. The tea you’d gotten from Sam as a birthday gift last year, the kind that comes from a brother and says love ya without the words.
“Made you tea,” you say casually, placing the cup down at his elbow.
“Why?” Crowley says, staring at you from his seat with an unreadable expression.
“Because I wanted to?” you retort.
That makes him stop. Not just because the tone is the same one you use when you’re fed up with someone playing you, although it does make his blood run a little colder. No, it’s because you’ve done something for him without him needed to ask. He didn’t even have to threaten. This is new. And what’s new is terrifying.
“If you wanted to seduce me, you could’ve just asked,” he says, his familiar sarcasm flooding his tone.
You’re not impressed, merely raising your eyebrows as you take a sip of your own tea.
“Don’t think too highly of yourself, Crowley. Might have to ask Sam to put you back in the dungeon.”
He freezes, holding your stone-cold gaze with his own until you break, a toothy smile cracking your face before you burst into laughter.
“Shoulda seen your face,” you choke out when you can breathe again. “Absolutely priceless.”
He shakes his head as the corner of his mouth twitches up against his will, fighting the smile that threatens to break through. Taking a sip of his tea, he’s pleasantly surprised to taste the right amount of sugar you put in; just enough to take the bitterness off, but not enough to overwhelm the sharp bite of the peppermint.
“Good, right?” you ask.
“You sneaking around behind my back and memorizing how I take my tea?”
“You ever say thank you?”
He just has to laugh at that, because you’re the only person who matches his sarcasm and doesn’t make it bite. “Not really.”
“That was me telling you to say it, by the way.”
Crowley’s silent, taking another sip of his tea. You know he won’t really say it, and you’re not expecting him to. You’re just trying to have a little fun with the guy before your brother inevitably show up and ruin your fun. You like him, in a strange way.
Morally, he’s a nightmare. And Sam’s right to be suspicious of him, although he takes it a bit of an extreme. Dean’s approach is better, but he’s still a little trigger-happy, and a little too excited to put Crowley back in the dungeon again if he ever steps a toe out of line. You, on the other hand, like to push him, see how far he’ll go before he admits to what he really wants. He’s a little bit like family, in a strange, strange way. Not a brother, no, but someone you could keep around for a long, long time and never really tire of. Barring the fact he’s a demon, he’s a pretty nice guy when you get to know him.
Suddenly, the tea’s too sour in his mouth. He sets the cup down, picking up a scrap page from where they’re scattered on the table. Anything to distract him from the fact the tea suddenly tastes like hatred and spite and jealousy. You’re giving him something to drink that was a gift from your brother. And that thought makes his stomach curdle, because he wants it. He wants to be given things of yours that matter to you. He wants to have something that’s his, because someone cared about him enough to give it to him.
“Oh, look at you two, gettin’ all cozy.” Deans’ voice from the doorway is mocking, and you jump.
“Shut up,” you mutter, eyes averting his gaze.
“Oh relax,” he says, chuckling. “I’m not gonna ruin your fun.”
“I will,” Sam says, peeking out from behind.
You roll your eyes. “No you won’t, Sammy, you love me too much for that.”
He huffs. “Not when you’re getting all buddy-buddy with a demon.”
Crowley’s eyebrow raises. “And you didn’t? Don’t think I forgot about your little escapade with Ruby, Moose.”
Sam’s jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek jumping. “Lay off it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I will.” Crowley’s getting riled up now, you know, because suddenly his voice cuts like a blade and his words carry spikes. “I’m not hurting anybody by being here, am I?” he says, looking at you.
“Sam, leave him alone,” you comment. Sam huffs again, but doesn’t say anything.
“You done arguing?” Dean says.
“Yeah. What’s up?” you reply.
“Got something you might want to hear about.”
You invite him in, and he drops heavily into a chair beside you, across the table from Crowley. Sam stands behind you, arms crossed over his chest and eyes sharp, staring Crowley down as though he could protect you with just a glare. And maybe he could, if it were anyone else but him Sam was staring down.
Dean starts talking, telling you about some sort of demonic rising he’s been tracking a couple states away. There’s all the classic signs, and he says it should be textbook, but you catch the way Crowley’s shoulders curve inward like he knows something you don’t.
“Dean?” you say, and he stops. “Crowley, what’s wrong?”
Crowley’s speechless for a minute, because you just asked his opinion. You’ve never done that with anyone that’s not your brothers. It’s strange, he thinks, that you should be so nice in the same way you are to Sam and Dean.
“You’re missing something,” he spits out, making Sam’s eyebrows raise. “This sigil. I recognize it. It’s ancient, older than anything I’ve ever seen before. They wouldn’t use this in a rising like that if it wasn’t something big.”
Sam’s posture changes behind you, defensive as ever. “How do you know about it, Crowley? You suddenly an expert in demon rituals now?”
“More than you, I’d say,” he retorts. “Some of us pay attention to more than dusty lore books, Moose.”
“Crowley-,” you warn, but he doesn’t stop.
“I’ll have you know, I was there when it was last used! I painted that damn thing into the soil myself. ‘Course I bloody know what I’m talking about!”
Sam starts forward, and you stick out an arm to hold him back. “Don’t you dare, Samuel.”
He looks at you wide-eyed, because just for a moment, you sound exactly like a parent chastising their child rather than his older sibling. He doesn’t like it, but he nods anyways, backing down without pushing. He knows well enough by now not to push you when you talk like that, because it never ends good for him.
“So, lets say you’re not lying to us,” you start, and Crowley has to remind himself that you’re still wary of him, even if you make him tea from your gifted leaves. “Where do we start?”
“There’s a few things I need from your stash, but I know how we can break the sigil. Doing it at the right time should eliminate whatever its summoning.”
You smile a little, content with that answer. “Great. I’ll come with you.”
“Woah, woah, woah. With him? You’re taking him?” Dean says apprehensively.
You stare at him blankly. “Why the hell wouldn’t I? Dean, he knows what he’s talking about. I trust him to fix this.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Sam juts in.
“Well, then we put in him in the dungeon.” You glare at Crowley as you say it, and he swallows sharply, nodding in agreement.
“Fine, fine, fair deal,” Crowley says lowly.
“Glad that’s decided.” You start to stand, but Sam stops you.
“We didn’t decide anything.”
“I did. We’re going. You’re going to wait here, and you’re not going to come unless I call you, alright?”
He looks like he wants to argue, but your face softens as you put a hand on his shoulder. “Trust me on this one, Sammy. I want to give him a chance to prove himself. That’s all.”
Sam takes a deep breath in, shoulders heaving. “Fine. But if anything, and I mean anything, goes wrong, call us.”
“I know, I know.” You’re halfway out the door before realizing Crowley isn’t following. “You coming, demon king? We got work to do.”
Not even a day later, you’re on the road with you behind the wheel and Crowley sitting shotgun beside you. He looks awkward in the cramped space, but you don’t push him. Some people just don’t talk about things, especially not with anyone who’s brothers wouldn’t be opposed to stabbing him on the spot. He’s lucky you care enough to keep him alive.
“So, remind me what we gotta do?” you say, voice rough after hours of disuse.
“You’re not doing anything. I’m breaking the seal, you’re making sure the ghosts of hell don’t come flying through the rift.”
You snort, like he’s just made the funniest joke on the planet. “Yeah, right. I’m helping whether you like it or not.”
“Look, I’m not telling you this for fun. It might kill you, and I don’t need your giant lumberjack of a brother on my ass for your death.”
“So? It’s bound to happen sooner or later. You’ll probably just raise me from the dead anyways.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because you like my annoying ass, that’s why. I’m the only reason my brothers haven’t killed you yet, that’s gotta count for something.”
He makes a disgruntled noise, turning his attention back to the window. Your fingers tap a beat on the steering wheel, and you sit in silence until Crowley directs you to the field.
He steps out of the car, jaw set in that way that tells you he’s going through with his plan no matter what anybody says. Gathering his ingredients, he steps to the center of the half-finished sigil and starts work. You salt the area around him, drawing a devil’s trap in the dirt too. You’re careful not to trap him in it; leaving one line broken until he’s safely out of range.
“Here they come,” he warns, scrambling back as you finish the trap.
You cock your gun, loaded with salt rounds, ready for whatever comes out of the rift that’s opened up in the ground. Crowley stands just to the left and slightly in front of you, partly blocking your body with his but still making sure you have enough room to fire around him. He’s chanting now, harsh Latin that sounds rough in his voice, like gravel under car tires.
Then, it goes sideways. You’re not sure what happens, not really, and Crowley’s not able to move fast enough. There’s a ripple of air, and Crowley’s just barely able to shout at you to get behind him before the hellhound rips at where you’ve just been. But he wasn’t quick enough, and the hound’s claws slash at your shoulder, blood pouring down your side as you drop.
He finishes the chant as fast as he can, the hounds disappearing back into the void as the rift closes and the sigil vanishes. He’s standing over you, panic hardly concealed; partly for you, partly for himself if your brothers find out.
It’s strange, seeing Crowley this afraid. Somewhere along the way, he’s started to think of you like family, as much as he’s afraid you’ll hate him if he says it. It feels wrong, but he craves your attention so desperately it drives him crazy.
“I’ll handle him later,” you whisper. “Just call him.”
Crowley’s hand fumble with his phone as he dials Sam’s number, and you can just make out his voice shouting something angrily at Crowley through the phone as he explains.
When the car rolls up, you’re half-conscious and partly repaired, thanks to Crowley’s mediocre stitching. Sam’s lumbering steps toward you are more felt than heard, but you sink into the ground, knowing he’s got you.
“Hey, Sammy,” you say weakly when he gets close.
“What did he do to you?”
“Nothing, trust me.”
“Nothing?” he explodes. “You’re bleeding in the grass, half stitched up, with a demon standing over you, and you’re telling me he didn’t do anything?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Who do you think stitched me up?”
Sam stops, brows furrowing. “We’re going. He’s staying.”
“Wh- Sam, no. No, he’s coming with us.”
“He let you get hurt!”
“I don’t care!”
Sam helps you to your feet, steadying you with an arm around your waist as he helps you walk back to the car. Crowley’s still standing dumbfounded in the grass, half his heart hoping you’ll let him come, the other half knowing Sam won’t let you make that choice.
You turn back to him, mouthing I’m so sorry to him, and he just nods slightly in acceptance. It’s okay, he thinks, if you don’t see him like family. This jealousy isn’t hot like before; it runs ice cold and bone deep, flooding him with a sadness incomparable to anything he’s ever felt before. He’d hoped that just maybe, all the things you did for him were a sign that maybe you felt like that too, that you could give him that familial love his mother never did. Maybe he was wrong. He’s been wrong before, he can handle being wrong again. How he’ll face you back at the bunker, though, he’s not sure.
In the car, you’re arguing with Sam. His words are sharp, but they don’t hurt because he doesn’t intend them to. You’re more yelling than hurting him, and he lets you, because it’s just how you two fight. Venting your frustrations without hurting each other.
“Sam, you can’t just leave him there.”
“Yes, I can, and I will.”
“I don’t want you to.”
“Why the hell not?” he says, turning to you and pulling the car over. “Give me one good reason why I should go back there and get him.”
“Because he’s family,” you whisper so low he almost misses it.
He stops dead in his tracks. “He’s what?”
“Family.”
“How on earth is he family?”
You inhale deeply. “Because he cares. He protects me. He protected me just now, shoving me out of the way before that dog could really nail me. I’m alive because of him, Sam.”
Sam listens quietly, judgement dissolving.
“Never once has he tried to hurt me. Never once has he lied, manipulated me, made me think of anything other than the truth. I trust him, Sam, and in his own weird way, he’s family.”
Sam starts the car again but doesn’t turn back.
“Why aren’t you going back?” you say.
“I’ll get Dean to come for him later.”
“Sam-.”
“No. I’m not doing this right now. I gotta get you back and fix those stitches. We can argue about your demon buddy later, okay?”
You nod solemnly. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m sorry for calling him family, if that’s what got you all mad. I can- I can take it back.”
Sam’s quiet. “You don’t need to take it back. I just hope he doesn’t feel like family too. Because maybe he’s your family, but he’s not mine. And I’d like to keep being your brother.”
What that means, you’re not quite sure. It’s not complete rejection, but it’s not acceptance either. Maybe someday you’ll get through to him, that Crowley can be trusted. Maybe you can even tell Crowley himself you think of him like that, want to give him that familial love he’s missed out on. All he wants is to be needed, and you need him. Maybe someday…someday, someday, someday.
