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helluvapoison · 2 months

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Save Me

Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

warning: violence n blood but happy ending

“Summon your blue blood master, whore.”

The demon carelessly drops your phone into the cage and it lands at your knees. You don’t remember if this was a ransom or a hit on your beloved. You can’t bring yourself to care because you know the minute he sees you in this state, none of it will matter.

Your tongue darted out and swiped over your cracked lips, gathering the copper taste of your own blood. The chuckle that you let out is dry, cut short by a cough that worsens the state of your throat. It highlighted the bruises littering your skin, especially those you couldn’t see.

He would.

“This is gonna end real badly f’you.” You tell the demon hoarsely, offering them the biggest, meanest smile you could muster.

Your thumb hits the call button without hesitation.

You hadn’t even uttered a single word.

Immediately the energy in the warehouse shifts. An undeniable chill crept in suddenly and seemed to chase off any light the windows provided. Someone may as well have thrown a blanket over the building. If not for your phone providing a faint glow, you wouldn’t have been able to see your labored breaths leaving your lips. Simultaneously, the shitty bones of the warehouse trembled, quietly at first then ramping up to a deafening sound that surely meant it would collapse at any moment. It wouldn’t. Not while you were there. Even if it was only your body for him to collect, no damage would come unto you by his doing.

The demon’s eyes narrow in suspicion, like whatever was happening was your fault and yours alone. Your crooked smile widens into a malicious forewarning for what’s to come. The grin pulls and tears the cut on your lip that had only just stitched itself together, stinging you in retaliation. You’re certain the light illuminating you from below, combined with the blood, has you looking positively mad.

“Told you.”

Lucifer was more than a king; he was the judge, jury and executioner for his subjects. It wasn’t often they forgot it but should they do something drastic, such as stealing his beloved, then he would make an example out of as many souls necessary. You knew this and you knew it well— you’ve been around every century or so when the newer sinners needed a refresher. This just so happened to be your first time being directly involved in why.

It must be then that the harrowing realization finally sets in. They’ve bit off more than they could swallow and now it was going to choke the life out of them. Or, more accurately, he would.

Apparently determined to get in what would surely be their final reprisal, they reached into the cage and yanked you forward by your neck. Your forehead quickly meets an icy bar, sending pain ringing through your skull in greeting. Trapped, a mangled cry rips through the room that you don’t recognize is your own. You writhe in the demon’s grip, struggling to claw at their wrists and face. Tearing at their skin, trying to make them even in wounds more than you’re trying to escape, you manage a particularly good swipe at their eyes that makes them reel back. In their stubbornness, they refuse to release you and your face is squished against the cage as they stumble and crash.

No, you realize. They were flung clear across the room like an unwanted doll, landing in, what was now, a pile of wood. Familiar eyes of ruby and gold steal your attention from the groaning demon. You blink furiously, forcing your vision to tell you true. Of course you knew he would come for you, that was never in question, but whether you would be alive or not for that rescue did cross your mind. Your body had already begun to relax, melting with the comforting warmth of your beloved’s presence. Lucifer’s gasp is rigid, his voice trembling in disbelief and rising fury but he manages a soft tone just for your sake.

“Oh, angel. My sweet, sweet dove. I’m here now, I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

Metal creaks under his palms but it takes less effort than opening a jar of marmalade. He’s obscenely gentle while plucking you out of the cage, acutely aware of the way your breath hitches at his touch. Those aforementioned bruises pulse with vigor, spreading a dull ache all over your body. Just as you suspected, Lucifer's eyes roamed all over counting each and every one. He’ll return the favor tenfold.

One minute Lucifer’s holding onto a fraying thread of mercy, studying your precious face and stealing the apple of your cheek. The next he feels tears slide under the pad of his thumb, swiping them into nothingness like he wished he could do your pain. Your relief is palpable in them, he can taste it on his tongue with hints of your fading fear. His golden pupils get smaller and smaller until they’re consumed entirely by red.

Logically he knows you’re right there in his arms but your weight isn’t grounding enough for him. He can’t see you anymore. All he can see is the ugly blotches that some pitiful excuse for future kindling dared to taint you with. Clearly they knew who you were and how important you were to the King of Hell, so the consequences of taking and hurting you had been glossed over but accepted nonetheless. An act against you is no less treasonous than an act against Lucifer himself; to spit at your feet would be to do the same to him.

“You’ve got guts to pull off a stunt like that, huh?” A terrifying grin cracks unevenly across his face and is shot over his shoulder at the demon that was struggling to pick themselves up. “Let’s see ‘em.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shield your face from a gust of wind. Upon opening them you realize you’re sitting on the ground alone. Lucifer unfurled his wings and launched himself over to the demon. They made it to their feet only to be launched into the wall and leaving a them-sized crater behind. Horrified and paralyzed you could only watch as Lucifer hovered over them, cocking back both fists and hurling them forward one at a time.

“I think there was one there, there— oh can’t forget here!”

Even while knowing what was to come, it still made your stomach lurch to see it firsthand. Teeth clattered to the ground in one punch, another and the demon’s eye was swollen shut. You were positive what Lucifer blocked with his body, the savagery you couldn’t see, was much worse. It shouldn’t bother you, not with how long you’ve lived down here but having blood on your hands, no matter how indirectly, made your stomach lurch.

“Luci—“ You croaked, your throat closing in on itself when you tried to speak. It was as if your body had sided with your beloved’s vengeance.

However the tiny sound managed to put a stutter in Lucifer’s next blow, his knuckles halting just before the demon’s face. A frustrated snarl rips from him and cracks through the silence like thunder, but the storm in him quiets before he turns to you. Wracked by guilt more than rage, your beloved can’t fully face you.

You try again, “Can we—“ only to be cut off by a cough.

“Stop—stopstopstop,” Lucifer whispers, voice getting closer, louder, “I’m here, I’m here. Don’t… don’t hurt yourself.”

True to his word, he’s right there. All it took was a blink and he’s kneeling before you, hovering his hands all over as if he’s not sure where to touch you. How can he comfort you when you’re bruised all over? You force yourself to continue, knowing he’ll keep his focus with you if you do.

“Jus’ wanna go home.”

Lucifer’s demonic features flare, hesitation on the tip of his tongue. Unfinished business never seemed like an issue before. With the bewildered look he gave you, you may as well have asked him to throw out his entire duck collection. The thought of using your voice again made your throat itch so you beseech him with your eyes, pinching your brows together and turning them up.

Scrunching his face once more he sighed heavily, seemingly defeated as his horns shrunk back into his skull and his tail retreated. Then your Lucifer returned to you at last, smiling softly, though guilt and regret swam in his crimson eyes.

“Home it is. Agh, I hate when you use your secret weapon against me. It’s not fair, I mean, how am I supposed to resist this face?”

You try to keep your own smile from spreading too far, opting instead to squeeze the man close to you to share in your joy. Lucifer was starving to do the same, holding you as close as he could without stressing your wounds. You could feel him inhale against your neck like you were air to him, filling him with relief and the ability to carry on.

When he pulled away you grew worried, especially when his smile dropped and he turned ever so slightly to the bloodied and battered demon.

“Congratulations, peasant, you’ve been pardoned. Courtesy of the King of Hell and his angel— who you will never ever even think of again. Right?” There was a pained groan from the demon that sent a dark chuckle bubbling up from Lucifer’s chest, “I thought you might agree. Do me a favor and spread the word? I’d rather not do this again. You know what I mean?”

There was a sharp edge to his grin for a moment too long but it faded by the time he eagerly returned his attention to you. The portal below whirred to life with a faint hum and sent pulses of warmth up into the air. You were completely and utterly wrapped up in your beloved that you hardly noticed. Lucifer mumbled into your hair how he would kiss your “boo-boos”, get you bandaged up and in pajamas in no time.

Hearing that, it was a liiittle hard to believe he was the same man that was seconds away from slaughtering someone for you.

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡ thanks for voting everyone!

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #lucifer morningstar x you #hazbin hotel x you #reader insert

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sixpenceee · 22 days

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Warehouse robot collapses after working for 20 hours straight | source

#battery

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pathologicalreid · 21 days

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Spencer x fem!reader fic based on “Work Song” by Hozier?? Whatever storyline or category you want!!

work song | S.R.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: general cm violence, near death experience, blood, gunshot wound, hospitals. word count: 1.77k a/n: hozier song request makes my brain go brr. i hope the people of tumblr enjoy this bc i most definitely enjoyed writing it.

boys, when my baby found me

Your hair whipped your face as you spun around through the labyrinth of a warehouse that your team had found themselves in. It seemed like an impossible task, trying to navigate this space, but you had already cleared over half of the space.

A small noise, like a shoe squeaking, caught your attention, causing your ears to rise like an animal hunting for prey. Turning a corner, you had your flashlight and firearm raised, coming face to face with Morgan. The both of you relaxed ever so slightly, no longer ready to pounce.

Ricocheting throughout the warehouse, you heard a deafening gunshot. The sound bounced off of the metal walls of the building, making it almost impossible for you to determine where the sound originated from. Meeting Morgan’s eyes, he nodded his head to the left, signaling for you to go that way while he went right.

You affirmed his tactics, turning slowly and making your way to the left. The rusted building was now so eerily quiet that goosebumps were sprouting across your body, even under your bureau jacket.

Continuing your way down the narrow passageway, you saw movement inside of a room. Sliding your back along the wall, you peeked into the room, seeing two bodies on the ground. You whispered almost imperceptibly into your radio, calling for medical. One of them was the local officer that the BAU had been working the case with.

The other one was Spencer.

You pivoted so that you were entirely in the doorway, facing the UnSub, he raised his gun at you, but you were already pulling the trigger, hitting him square in the forehead. Breathing heavily, you lowered your firearm before scrambling over to Spencer.

I didn’t care much how long I lived, but I swear I thought I dreamed her

In your ear, you could hear Morgan shouting, “Y/N, Reid, sound off, dammit!”

Something needed to happen. You needed to do something, but you had such severe tunnel vision that the only thing you could think about was Spencer.

He was gasping for air on the metal ground of the warehouse, lying in a pool of his own blood. You observed in horror as the red puddle spread with each passing moment.

Launching into action, you tugged your jacket off, stuffing the fabric onto Spencer’s side in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Even Kevlar vests had an Achilles heel, and the UnSub had managed to strike him precisely where there was a gap in the material. All the while, you were muttering the words, “Stay awake.” Just those two words, over and over again, like a prayer.

You hummed, using one hand to apply pressure to his wound and lifting the other so that you could smooth his hair back. His skin was alarmingly clammy, and you knew that, even with your attempts, he was losing too much blood. “Y/N,” he muttered, sounding like he was using all of his strength to say your name.

Gently, you hushed him, “It’s okay, Spence. Don’t talk, you’re gonna be just fine,” you insisted as his blood soaked through the knees of your jeans. You weren’t sure who you were trying to console at that moment.

“It makes sense-“ he said, being cut off by a cough, sending blood spurting out of his mouth. If his lung was collapsing, there was nothing you’d be able to do. You tried to shush him again, but he had more to say – he almost always did. “That I’d see you while I’m dying.”

Choking on tears, you leaned your face onto your shoulder so that you could wipe them away without moving your hands. “I’m here, I’m really here,” you urged, he wasn’t hallucinating, and he wasn’t dying. Not on your watch. “It’s me, Spence. I’m right here,” you told him carefully.

He opened his mouth again to speak, and you wanted to tell him to save his strength. You also didn’t want to deprive him of his words. “You…” his voice trailed off as he searched for the words, “You’ve always been my favorite dream.”

Sniffling, you shake your head, “I’m not a dream, I’m right here.” You told him, watching carefully as his eyelids grew seemingly heavier, “baby, open your eyes.”

in the low lamplight I was free

His skin was pallid. Even in the dim, orange light of the warehouse, you could see a sickly sheen forming on his skin. His body temperature was dropping, and it was all you could do to not cover his body with yours as you tried to keep him warm. “Spencer, please,” you rasped, urging him to open his eyes.

Your only solace was that his chest was still rising and falling. His breathing was rickety, but he was still breathing, and that had to count for something. “Spencer,” you cried, watching as blood sept through your jacket, flooding between your fingers as you tried to keep him in one piece.

“Love, open your eyes,” you begged, your eyes flooding with tears until everything was just a blur of red.

His heart was beating, you could feel it beneath your hands. A weak, unsteady beat under your trembling hands. “Baby, please, oh my god,” you pleaded, verging toward incoherent babbling.

You were second-guessing if he was still breathing. If his heart was still beating. With that realization, you screamed.

when my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold, dark earth

At first, you were just screaming, letting the vibrations of your vocal cords portray your emotions, and then you screamed for your team. You had never felt more alone, kneeling in a puddle of Spencer’s blood, and no one was coming to help you.

This couldn’t be how it ended. You refused to acknowledge it, even as you felt the life leave his body.

Leaning your head to the side, you spoke into your radio, “I need medical. I’m in the upper west wing of the building. The suspect is dead, I have an officer and an agent down.” Tears continued to stream down your face.

You heard footsteps behind you as people piled into the room, but you didn’t dare take your eyes off Spencer. Not when there was a chance that it would be the last time you looked at him while you were both still breathing. “Agent,” someone said, but it didn’t register. They kept repeating themselves until two strong arms wrapped around you, dragging you away from Spencer.

Now sat on the floor, you clocked the paramedics that were now frantically working on Spencer, packing his wound, and cutting off the Kevlar vest.

Breathing heavily, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Rossi approached the local officer, checking his pulse. Emily was hovered over the UnSub, collecting his weapon from his corpse.

You were still being firmly held back, trying to pry the tattooed arms of Derek Morgan off of your torso. “Stop, let me get to him. I need to get to him,” you struggled against his grip, but any attempts at freedom were futile. The medics were saying awful things about a weak and thready pulse and pneumothorax.

Clinging to any semblance of hope that you could find, you listened to them talk about Spencer’s pulse, knowing that a pulse meant he was alive.

Your breathing quickened as you looked up at Morgan, Hotch was hovering behind the two of you, “I should’ve called for medical sooner.” Your voice was miserable, you had sat there with your jacket to his side for far too long. He could’ve gotten help from professionals.

“You radioed almost five minutes ago for medical,” Morgan informed you. “The EMTs just couldn’t find you in this damn maze.”

While you had no recollection of calling for help when you first found Spencer, you also knew that Morgan would get no pleasure out of lying to you.

You heard one of the paramedics say there was no pulse, and you didn’t remember anything that followed.

no grave can hold my body down

Crumpled in a ball, you picked at the crusted blood in your fingernails as you focused on the steady beeping of Spencer’s heart monitor.

According to Emily, who had been there when you woke up in the hospital, you had passed out around the time that the medics lost Spencer’s pulse. The doctor said it was just a result of stress. Thanks to some IV fluids and hydroxyzine, you were able to be discharged.

Spencer had been out of surgery for several hours now. The doctors had been careful to use the term “if he wakes up”, while you had made sure to say “when he wakes up.” You were playing the most horrendous waiting game, and there’s nothing worse than playing a game you have no interest in.

You were now donning a pair of black sweatpants and an old Academy t-shirt. Being the only team member permitted to see Spencer while he was still sleeping – girlfriend privileges, as Morgan phrased it – you waited with only the noises of his monitor to keep you company in the ICU.

Nurses came in and out, trying to manage his pain without the use of narcotics, making sure his blood transfusions were helping, and every once in a while, they’d check on you.

At this point, you had been nursing the same cup of ice water for hours, remembering the last thing Spencer had said to you: You’ve always been my favorite dream.

There was something so peculiar about being with someone who read so much, especially when he said such eloquent things while bleeding to death. You sighed, slumping back in the chair, you looked back at Spencer, only to be surprised that he was looking right back at you.

You jumped slightly in the chair, leaning over so that you could look at him, “Hey,” you whispered, maintaining the reverent tones of the Intensive Care Unit. “How do you feel?”

He’d lie to you and tell you he was fine, but you could tell by the way his heart rate increased that it was a lie. His eyebrows furrowed as he clocked the white patient ID bracelet on your wrist and your bloodshot eyes, “You’ve been crying,” he observed.

Despite yourself, you smiled softly, “I thought you were dead.” Your voices were each raspy, yours from screaming and his from being intubated.

Slowly, he unfolded his arm so that his hand was extended to you. Without a second thought, you placed your hand in his. He hummed softly, “And leave you? Never.”

I’ll crawl home to her

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #margot's requests #spencer reid hurt/comfort #criminal minds hurt/comfort #spencer reid whump #criminal minds whump

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that1emowitch · 2 months

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Bruce, high on painkillers, is being babysat by Jason. Jason has to do an emergency Red Hood thing, and lacking an alternative, slaps a stock domino on Bruce and drags him along.

Bruce proceeds to say/do the most unhinged shit. The goons are suddenly viscerally aware of where Hood got it from.

WOW okay you guys are unhinged, you know that?

(And I love it <3)

A/N: I fully intended to write a crack fic, but the feels crawled in through the plot holes I missed and made their homes in the heart of the story. Also I don't know what you mean by 'stock domino' so I'm assuming it's one of those dollar store ripoffs.

(TW: Accidental overdosing on painkillers, mentions of blood, Jason's usual level of swearing, some goons almost dying but like in a funny way.)

Word Count: 2328

Jason wants to scream.

Like, let it rip out on an abandoned cliff in the howling rain kinda scream.

But no, he's stuck babysitting Brucie Wayne who accidentally OD'd on fucking painkillers after trying to treat himself in Alfred's unfortunate absence (how does that even happen?!).

Dick and Damian are out doing some brotherly-bonding thing, Tim's with the Titans, Duke and Cass are at the movies, and Steph has declared herself "not one of Bruce's kids." Leaving Jason as the only one free to look after their "Dad".

Jason pushes Bruce down on the Batcave's gurney for the billionth time after he attempts (keyword: attempts) to walk again, scowling. None of them are getting any waffles from me again. Or pancakes. Or scones. Or anything I make for them out of my sweet, kind heart. Those little shits.

Jason puts two fingers on Bruce’s wrist, checking his pulse. His skin is cold and clammy, breathing slow, but at least he’s not vomiting anymore. He sighs, collapsing on a chair beside Bruce. He's tired. So fucking tired.

Just as Jason's eyes flutter shut for a moment, the Batcomputer's alarm suddenly blares.

Bruce shoots up, shouting, "ALARM!"

Grumbling, Jason drags himself to the computer, pushing Bruce down along the way. He opens the glaring red notification, brows creased.

Black Mask's goons have intercepted some military shipment...

"Ugh..." Jason groans, and moves to put on his helmet (he never changed out of his costume), checking his guns, when a sudden crash from behind him snaps his attention to the man-child he's supposed to be babysitting.

Bruce has stepped off the gurney and collapsed face-down on the med bay's floor.

He can't just leave him there, can he?

Jason considers his options: He could either strap Bruce to the gurney and leave (in which case Dick will have his head), or he could take Bruce out on the streets with him (in which case Dick will absolutely want to murder him.)

Jason smirks. It’s obvious which one’s the right choice.

Ten minutes later, Jason’s riding through the city at over a hundred miles per hour, with Bruce strapped to the backseat of his motorcycle. Bruce is wearing a dollar store ripoff of the Robin domino and a Robin-themed cape made of Tim’s bedsheets, looking absolutely ecstatic at the high speed.

They arrive at the warehouse where Black Mask’s goons have transported their stolen goods, parking in a shadowed spot a building away. Jason gets off, helping Bruce onto his feet, and says, “Now, I’m going to go shoot some people, you stay hidden and quiet, got that?”

“Guns are bad,” Bruce replies, holding a finger to Jason’s helmet. “Just like clowns. And ducks.”

Raising an eyebrow, Jason shakes his head. He doesn’t have time for this right now.

Jason quickly scales the nearest building, grappling to the roof of the warehouse. He peeks in through a hatch in the roof to survey the area. There are about a dozen armed goons, none of them looking very bright. There are 4 crates they’re guarding, likely filled with ammo.

Cocking his guns, Jason jumps down through the hatch, landing right in the middle of the warehouse with a ‘thud’ sound. “Surprise,” He grins, raising his guns.

“Aye, that’s Red Hood, ain’t it?” Comes a goon’s terrified voice. The others around him immediately aim their guns at Jason— they’re clearly untrained.

Suddenly there’s another thud behind him. “That’s a bucket, you morons!” Comes a too-familiar, slurred voice. Jason turns around to come face-to-face with Bruce, eyes wide.

In a fight with any real criminals, this distraction would have cost Jason his life. But luckily these adorably clueless goons are just as shocked as him.

Unfortunately the distraction only lasts for a few seconds. Jason immediately jumps into the fight, shooting three goons in the kneecaps and dodging a few bullets. From the corner of his eye, he sees two more goons running out the door, crying. He punches another guy in the face, instantly knocking him out, and is about to turn back to check on Bruce when suddenly something hard collides with his skull.

Jason staggers slightly, trying to regain his balance, when he sees a goon holding a giant stone, wearing a proud grin.

Fuck, his helmet’s probably busted…

Then suddenly Bruce is running towards the goon, hands fisted and veins popping, screaming, “NO ONE HURTS MY SON!”

Then Bruce’s fist collides with the goon’s with a sickening crunch, splattering blood across the floor as the man crumples to the ground. Bruce doesn’t stop there, and continues to beat him up, yelling profanities.

It warms Jason’s cold, (un)dead heart to watch that— to see his Dad fighting for him. It’s like they say, you’re most truthful when you’re drunk— or high. This is how much Bruce loves him.

Then another thought strikes him— Bruce is going to regret being this violent when he sobers up. It’s going to claw at him, tear him up, and he’s going to compartmentalize and end up punishing himself by overworking.

Jason rushes forward, pulling Bruce off of the man. “B— Robin, stop!” He shouted, looking into the man’s domino-covered eyes.

Bruce’s brows furrow. “Robin?”

Jason points to Bruce’s Robin-themed cape and stock domino.

“Ah.” Bruce nods, pulling away. “You okay? Did you see any duck?”

“Duck?” Jason pauses in confusion. But before he can question it farther, he spies the three remaining goons using a ladder to climb up through the roof of the warehouse, trying to escape.

“Stay here. And do not move.” Jason orders Bruce, and runs after them.

He makes his way up the ladder as fast as he can , exiting under the polluted night sky. The goons, the ridiculously stupid goons, are standing around the edge of the roof, trying to figure out how they’re going to get down.

He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this ridiculous shit.

Actually, scratch that, he doesn’t get paid at all.

“Wow, you guys are pathetic,” Comes Red Hood’s robotic voice, startling the goons, and one of them accidentally topples over the edge, screaming. Jason ensures that the guy’s hanging on tight— he can wait.

He cocks his guns, aiming both at the two standing goons. Both men are trembling with fear, hands up in surrender. “Hood— Mr. Hood, please—” One of them squeaks, but one look from Jason shuts him up.

“Please. Mr. Hood was my father,” Jason quips, his robotic chuckle sounding sinister.

That’s when he hears another voice behind him (again)— “But I’m your father.”

Jason jumps, whipping around. “How did you— I didn’t even hear you come!”

Bruce just shrugs innocently, waving his bloodstained hands at the terrified goons.

Then Jason hears the distinct sound of a gun being cocked. From the corner of his eye he sees the bolder of the goons, the one that had spoken before, taking aim.

“DUCK!” He yells, falling out of the way.

Instead of dodging, Bruce falls into a defensive stance, looking around frantically. “Where?!”

The bullet barely misses Bruce’s ear as he turns his head.

Jason has had it with sky-high Bruce now. Annoyance rising, he quickly shoots the two goons in the kneecaps, forgetting about the one hanging off the edge, and stalks up to Bruce, glaring.

“What is up with you and ducks?!” He demands, his voice raised.

“Ducks are evil,” Bruce spits, nose wrinkled. “Just like clowns. And bats.”

Jason’s brows raise. “Bats are evil?”

“Yeah, duh, that’s why everyone’s scared of Batman.” Bruce rolls his eyes, his drawl sounding too much like Steph. “Bats are scary.”

“You really took ‘become what you fear’ too literally, huh?” Jason snorts, putting his guns back in their holsters. Then he takes off his helmet, checking the damage— just a slight crack at the back. Not too bad.

“You know, I fell into a hole and into a cave when I was a boy and a dozen bats attacked me. I nearly died.” Bruce continues, gesturing towards the air with his hands.

“Yeah, right.” Jason shakes his head, chuckling. “Now come on, we gotta get you back.”

That’s when another voice rings out, high-pitched and scared. “Um, Mr. Hood? Please HELP! Please, please, please—”

Jason’s attention snaps to the corner of the roof— ah, right, the goon’s still hanging off the edge, isn’t he?

He grumbles, making his way over, and squats above the man, shaking his head. The man below him looks like he’s pissed himself, face ashen, tears running down his cheeks, muttering, “I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die…” On repeat.

“I’ll pull you up on one condition,” Jason looks down at him, voice low. “Never become a gun for hire again. If I see you fighting on the streets…” He pulls out his gun.

“No, no, I won’t, I swear…” The man whimpers, eyes squeezed shut. Jason sighs, and grabs the man by the collar and hauls him up. He crumples onto the roof, curling into a ball.

“Take out your phone and dial 911, tell them you’ve been naughty,” Jason orders, his gun pointed at the man’s head. (What? A guy needs to have some fun.)

The man whines, and immediately obliges.

“Pathetic,” Jason ties the man up quickly, and makes his way over to Bruce, who was sitting on the floor of the roof, taking apart some random crushed handphone he’s found.

“Get up, old man. GCPD will be here soon. We’re going home.” He pulls Bruce up, ignoring how he longingly stares at the dismantled phone.

The two of them grapple down from the roof, landing safely on the pavement. As they walk towards his bike, Bruce says, “Did you know I ate a phone once?”

Jason stumbles slightly. “What?”

“Tasted nice. Like electricity. Crackle-y.” Bruce hummed, his face straight (as straight as someone dating Superman could be). He isn't kidding.

That, or he's delusional.

“Don't try it. You might turn into a computer or something.” Bruce nodded very seriously.

“Oh god,” Jason snorts. “I'm so glad my helmet’s recording all this. Perfect blackmail material.”

“Black's a very, very pretty color.”

Jason rolls his eyes, revving the motor, making sure Bruce is safely strapped onto the backseat behind him. “You're just emo.”

“What's emo?” Bruce raises an eyebrow, words slightly slurred.

“Y'know, when people wear all that black makeup, skinny jeans, with hair covering their eyes.” Jason explains, putting a spare helmet on Bruce's head. “And listen to, like, My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy and Panic! At The Disco. The Emo Trinity.”

“Oh, oh!” Bruce's eyes sparkle. “Dickie used to do that! He went to a My Chemmy concert once, but he didn't want me coming along.” He pouts.

Jason thinks of all the times Gerard Way has shoved a mic down his throat and grabbed his junk. “Yeah, I wonder why.”

Then he turns around to look Bruce in the eye. “But, Golden Boy was emo? Seriously?”

Bruce just smiles and nods, saying, “Now go.”

“Going,” Jason smirks and speeds down the streets of Gotham city, not slowing down until their surroundings change from shitty apartment buildings and broken street lights to the eerie quiet of Bristol. He can see the Manor in the distance when he takes a hidden turn, straight down the road that leads to the Batcave.

He pulls into the underground ‘garage’ section of the Cave, parking his bike before helping Bruce off. As he removes Bruce’s ripoff domino and “cape”, he says sternly, “Now, you tell no one of what we did today, got that? Not a soul.”

Bruce just flashes a thumbs-up and smiles in the most un-Bruce-like way possible. It’s a little creepy, honestly.

“And even if you remember this once you sober up you won’t talk, because you swore on your soul not to tell.”

“Mhm. Kay.”

“Good.” Jason smiles slightly, helping Bruce back to the gurney, making him lie down. He checks him over for any symptoms that the painkiller overdose is making his health worse. His skin’s still cold and clammy, but his breathing’s more steady. His pupils aren’t as small anymore, and he’s way more responsive than he was an hour ago.

Huh. Maybe all he really needed was some exercise.

Jason sits down beside his father, taking a deep breath. “Hey, uh… Did you really mean that, back there? That… That I’m your son?”

Bruce’s brows furrow. “Yes, who else’s son would you be? Superman’s?”

A short laugh escapes Jason. He moves closer to Bruce, lying down so his head is resting beside the older man’s. “I just…” He sighs, unable to form the right words. “I know it doesn’t always seem like it, but… I love you, Dad.”

“Aww, Jaybird…” Bruce’s hand moves sluggishly to cradle Jason. “I love you so much more than you could ever imagine.”

A small smile plays on Jason’s lips as he closes his eyes, leaning into his Dad’s touch. Maybe… maybe babysitting a high Bruce isn’t so bad.

[BONUS!!!]

Dick walks into the infirmary nearly an hour later with Damian trailing behind him, intending to check up on Bruce. He’s been ringing Jason’s phone for a while now, but he hasn’t been picking up. And… Honestly, Dick’s getting worried.

“Tt. I knew we shouldn’t have left Father’s safety in the hands of an incompetent fool such as Todd,” Damian frowns, scowling.

“No, no, it’s probably just a misunderstanding,” Dick tries to reassure his baby brother, but he picks up his pace. “I mean, we both know what Jason’s like. One moment he’s nice, one moment he’s—”

His voice trails off as he sees Jason sitting on a chair beside Bruce, who’s on the gurney— both asleep, with Jason’s head resting on Bruce’s shoulder, and Bruce cradling him.

“Aww, Little Wing…” Dick smiles, pausing. Even Damian freezes behind him. Dick steers him away, back into the main house, so as to not disturb the sleeping pair. “Yeah, they’re okay. Nothing bad happened.”

#Jason being a little shit who just wants to piss Dick off at first but really gets into the feels by the end #Also Jason didn't consider that to use the helmet's footage of tonight as blackmail he'll have to admit to the fam #that he bought a sky-high Bruce #(who he was supposed to be babysitting)#out into a gunfight #jason todd #bruce wayne #batman #batfamily #red hood #batfam #dick grayson #damian wayne

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gh0stsp1d3r · 11 months

Note

Heyyy can you do a migeul x f!reader ?

Where it’s an enemies to lovers. So basically, like reader is getting chased by migeul from different universes and he’s trying to catch her?

Sorry idk if this makes sense 😭🫶

Chaos

Warnings- the readers a villain, and very flirtyyy, lil smutty towards the end but nothing explicit, him and reader used to be lovers and clearly have a history. The fic is so Ayesha erotica.

Miguel’s been chasing after you for weeks, he was getting annoyed. You had the power to jump dimensions, and it made you even more slippery.

You messed up a canon event, and ruined your earth while doing so. Miguel viewed you as threat to other worlds, which is why he was chasing you. It wasn’t your canon event you messed up, it was someone else’s.

You saved your friend from dying, and because of it, your other friend who was spiderman didn’t go through losing them.

But that wasn’t the only one you ruined. You liked the chaos, and the worlds collapsing.

You were currently being chased again by him, you ran down the streets as he swung, he used his webs on you, tying you up. But you used your powers, and the webs came off quickly. He then got on all fours, chasing you like a dog.

“What do you want from me? I mean, you’re like obsessed!” You shouted as you ran, running into some random people.

“You’re going to ruin other worlds! Don’t do this!”

“Too late.” You smirked to yourself, and opened up a portal to another world. He followed you in.

The place you were in was a small warehouse. He looked around, narrowing his eyes.

He saw you, and went to attack you, when you ran away again. You used your magic to bind him, he tried to claw at it, but it was no use. He was on his knees before you.

“Let me go.” He gritted his teeth, fangs fully on display.

“Hold your horses, Miguel. Why don’t we just cut the bullshit, what do you want?”

“I want for you to go back to HQ.” He said.

“Why, so you can put me in a cell? No thanks.”

“You know you look.. different from the last time I saw you.” You mumbled.

“This isn’t about me. This is about the millions of lives you destroyed, and will continue to. The fate of the multiverse-“

You shrugged “Who cares? I don’t know them, you don’t know them. And i swear to god if I hear the fate of the multiveverse from you one more time I will strangle you right now.”

“I can’t do this..” he mumbled, shaking his head.

“Can’t do what?” You were teasing at this point, you sat in front of him, fluttering your eyelashes at him innocently.

“Fuck.” He said quietly. “This! Every single damn time I catch you-“

“I’ve never had anyone complain.” You mumbled.

“Just- Come back to HQ. That’s all I’m asking-“

“Nope. I don’t want to.”

“Why do you do it?”

“The world destroying? Cause it’s fun.” You shrugged.

“You’re fucking insane.” He spat.

“Oh but you love me.” You smirked.

“I fucking despise you.”

“Mhm… based on that.. I don’t think so.” You pointed to the hard on he currently had in his pants, you giggled as he just looked at you.

“I could help you with it.. just leave me alone. I promise I’ll be a good girl, I won’t ruin any more canon events.”

He sighed, and threw his head back.

“Oh, I missed you.” You said, bending over next to Miguel and kissing him on the cheek.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x reader #spider man across the spider verse #spider man 2099

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yellowbentley · 2 years

Text

i dreamt about a book where the mc lived in a magic world and had a marking on his ear to kill the magic in him but SIKE he had another marking on the bottom of his foot that he carved himself so he was still actually magic and just hiding it. also he was trans and the hiding the magic thing was an allegory for being trans. someone write this immediately i need it so bad.

#i also dreamt of a little pink and black lizard and a warehouse collapse and one of my friends driving me from work to bumfuck nowhere in a #storm. he also went to micheals and the whole area was to the left of reality #oh and there was a kitten playing on my grandparents lawn #i have weird dreams man #adventures

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

Text

Yandere Simon "Ghost" Riley Headcanons

Summary: You were just a civilian caught in the crossfire, kidnapped by a cartel and held prisoner. And now, after being rescued by Ghost, you may wonder if you are any safer with him than you were out there.

Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of physical abuse, memory loss/amnesia, loss of ability to walk (temporary), yandere behaviour, toxic behaviour, possessive behaviour, kind of slow burn, romantic tension, Ghost gets jealous, somewhat angsty in some parts, very fluffy in others (a good balance), mentions of interrogation, Reader showcases anxiety, no use of pronouns for Reader except ‘you’, mentions of games,

Wordcount: 7,581 words

You were a tourist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time - seen things you weren’t meant to see.

And that’s how you ended up here, chained up in a warehouse for what you could only have guessed to have been a couple of months.

You were barely kept alive by restricted rations of food and water the cartel members gave you, needing you alive but just weak enough to not be able to fight back.

They kept you around for their own amusement, hitting you, beating you, humiliating you.

You missed your family, your friends, your old life. You truly believed, with a heavy heart, that you’d die here without ever getting the chance to see them again.

Until…

It had all happened so fast that you couldn’t keep up with it all.

One minute there was a group of men playing poker at a table nearby, the next they’d all been blown away by some nigh-silent, unseen force.

As soon as it had began, it was all over, though gunfire resonated from deeper within the warehouse.

Your heart thudded, your mind hazy and heavy yet just about conscious enough to acknowledge a set of heavy, booted footsteps nearing you.

A walkie-talkie crackled, followed by a deep, gravelly voice.

“One potential hostage found. Commencing collection now.”

The chains keeping you tethered to the metal post were cut and your hands fell.

You barely had the strength to lift them, nevermind your head, which lolled forward, gaze fixed in your lap.

The person who you presumed to have released you knelt down before you. A gloved hand pushed against your forehead, forcing you to look at them.

He was ghastly.

His flesh face was covered by a second, the insignia of his endoskeleton splayed across a dark mask. His eyes were dark and seemed to swallow all light that tried to glimmer within them.

“Can you talk?” he said. His voice was calm yet lacked patience, as if he knew time was short.

You could barely move, barely think.

You said nothing.

The man took your non-answer and moved to lift you, keeping an arm under yours and the other firmly holding his gun.

Now, stood at full height, walking on legs you hadn’t used in months, your body couldn’t handle it.

Your blood pressure dropped and so did you.

The man grunted as your weight collapsed into him, almost taking him with you.

You fell unconscious, and the man rearranged you, slinging his gun over his shoulder and carrying you in his arms.

The next time you awoke, the setting was drastically different.

The dust-filled, sweltering warehouse you had grown accustomed to had given was to a blindingly white facility, the scent of streilisers and medicine filling your nostrils.

You couldn’t move much, body heavy yet soul willing, and your eyes shifted beneath hooded lids.

A machine beeped closeby, one you recognised to be mimicking your heartbeat. The rest of the room was quiet, save for the turning of paper somewhere.

The surface beneath you was plush, encompassing you, unlike the warehouse floor.

Putting the pieces together, your heart began to pound. The heart monitor copied.

A nearby nurse rushed to your side, turning your head this way and that and shining a light in your eyes, talking at you rather than to you.

The rest became a blur.

Doctors visited, recorded your condition. You didn’t know where you were but you knew you were safe. For now, at least.

Some officers came and tried speaking to you, only to find you unable (or unwilling) to talk.

This came as a discovery to you, too.

Soon after waking up, you found that your mind, your memories, were blank. Nothing of your prior self remained save for an overview of your torturous time in captivity, and…

That mask.

The man who’d saved you.

You found it hard to speak, not having done so properly in months save for begging for your life and crying whenever you were alone.

When one of the officers asked you if there was anything you needed, your body acted on instinct, by reflex, and came out with only one word.

“Skull.”

Ghost was stationed by you shortly after that, having been known to be the one who brought you back to Base and the only one to resemble the ‘skull’ you’d spoken of.

The task was…mind numbing, to say the least.

After your singular request for the man who saved you, you went silent again.

No words, no noises, just you sat in the hospital bed, dead to the world.

Nobody could coax a word from you, not even Ghost, as you heard him introduce himself.

The events of the last couple months had forced you into a state of “Dissociative amnesia,” as the doctor had put it. “Rare, but real.”

The doctor said it could take a while for you to regain your memories, and until then, you would have to be kept under supervision.

No permanent thoughts crossed your mind during your period of blankness. They flitted in and out of your consciousness as a phantom would.

Ghost had only tried interacting with you two or three times, the first being his introduction, the others being an attempt at getting any sort of response from you.

Nothing worked, and you were both resigned to sitting in silence with one another.

Days passed, you weren’t sure how many.

Ghost was getting impatient.

He knew you could be a key witness to the cartel’s deeper activities, but he knew he couldn’t force your cooperation. Not while you were practically vegetative, at least.

Ghost sat on a chair by your bedside, all but resembling a mannequin.

He stared into the distance.

“Oh,” came your small, croaking voice. “It’s you.”

Ghost almost didn’t turn to look at you, believing the voice to be a hallucination.

He hazarded a glance and almost considered jumping.

You looked at him, dead into his eyes, conscious, talking.

Another blur of activity surrounded you immediately after, Ghost alerting the doctors to you becoming vocal again and leaving them to do their job not long after.

Tests were run, your memory was tested (of which there was still little), and the better part of a day was spent observing you, trying to determine whether you were ready for interrogation or not.

Luckily, the higher-ups seemed to feel lenient, giving you longer to recover until you were expected to produce answers to their copious questions.

In the meantime, Ghost was assigned to you day and night, both as your protector and observer.

He was…quiet, to say the least.

Rarely spoke unless spoken to, meaning he was of little entertainment to you in your bed-bound state.

This led to you trying to make small talk, regardless of whether Ghost would respond or not.

Little did you know that, despite his lack of participation, Ghost was listening to every single word you said.

During a one-sided conversation, you mentioned colouring, an activity you liked when you were younger.

“Yeah!” you said, face lighting up as you slowly recalled a memory of your younger self, colouring book in tow. “I remember that my grandma had this old, really old colouring book that she gave me. It was vintage, smelled like antique book pages, sweet,”

Ghost watched you, listened. He saw your face light up. You looked at him, eyes smiling.

“It was nearly as old as her when she gave it to me; I was terrified of ruining it so I never coloured in it. Just kept it safely on my bookshelf, looked at the pictures before bed…”

The day after, Ghost came to you with a colouring book and a box of pencils.

“Not exactly vintage, but it’ll do,” he said, laying the book and the utensils on your bedside.

You smiled up at him as he settled into his seat.

“Thank you, Ghost,” you said, smiling. “I mean it.”

Ghost offered minimal input whenever you spoke to him, which you still did while you coloured the pictures.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

After that, over the course of a week, more memories came back to you.

They were small, inconsequential at best, but they were evidence that you were making a fast recovery.

And Ghost was there to hear every single one of them.

Whenever you came out with something new, he’d write it down in a Base-issued notebook, telling you to slow down whenever words failed you, your mind wrapped up in splinters of who you were - who you are.

And you would glance at his notes every now and then.

“Wow,” you said, suppressing a smile. “Your handwriting’s worse than mine.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” Ghost replied, barely casting you a glance.

You reached for the pen, which Ghost withheld from you until he realised what you were trying to do.

Now, equipped, you turned to a new page in the notebook and tried writing something.

It came out like a doctor’s signature, merely cursive scribbles that meant nothing to the untrained eye.

Ghost eyed your work.

“What you tryna write?” he said, accent rough.

You bit your lip, trying to focus all your efforts on making what was in your head come out onto the paper.

“My name,” you said.

Ghost seemed to straighten up at that.

The memory was weak, a fawn stumbling on its wiry legs, trying to find purchase.

But it was there, behind frosted glass. You could vaguely make out the letters which would be the key to your existence.

You kept scrawling, muscle memory having weakened significantly, until you hit upon a familiar pattern.

The ‘letters’ were indecipherable, even to yourself. The memory of your name began to fade, and, though you grasped at it, you were left with nothing as it was consumed by darkness.

You stopped writing, defeat overtaking you.

“Why’d you stop?” Ghost asked, looking up from the notebook to you.

You felt tears fill your eyes, tried to keep them in.

“I forgot again,” you said, voice cracking.

The pen lay limp in your hand, and Ghost removed it, putting it down.

The fabric of his glove against your skin sent a jolt through you, unexpected but strangely comforting.

“Well,” Ghost said, a temporary solution coming to him. “How ‘bout we give you a new name, just ‘til you find your real one.”

You sniffed, tried smiling at the gesture, and nodded.

You went back and forth for a while, trying to think of a name that would suit you based on the limited information you had about yourself so far.

“It needs to be nice,” you said. Ghost gave a slight inclination of a nod. You kept thinking.

“Fawn,” Ghost said.

His eyes bore into you, though you suspected that was just his disposition rather than him intentionally trying to spook you.

“How’s that sound?”

You tried the name on your tongue, then, you beamed.

“I like it,” you said, giving Ghost a grateful smile.

From that day on, Ghost referred to you as Fawn, a name that the rest of the Base staff called you, too, having nothing else to call you.

Ghost never told you why he picked that name. Perhaps he saw something in you that resembled your namesake. Your newborn optimism, perhaps.

At your bedside night and day, Ghost became the first and only witness of your memories as they slowly revealed themselves to you.

Some were light-hearted, some were filled with the natural sorrow found in human life, and some were downright embarrassing; all of which gave Ghost gradual insights into who you are.

He eventually seemed comfortable enough to make fun of your more embarrassing ones, such as the time you went to a store your crush worked at, only to find that you had toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe the entire time.

This became somewhat of a joke between you and Ghost. One that the staff seemed to find confusing.

Whenever staff escorted you to and from the bathroom, Ghost would look down at your feet.

“No toilet paper to worry about this time,” he’d say.

Your face would burn at the memory, but you’d laugh regardless.

You also forced him to listen to music that came to you as visions from another time, tunes which you’d hum to Ghost, who recorded them, took them to whoever, and would come back with the song it originated from.

Soon, you had three or four CDs which contained music you’d enjoyed before your amnesia.

They all felt and sounded familiar. Comforting.

You’d implore (guilt trip) Ghost to listen to them, too.

His face - his eyes, really, the rest of it was covered - were blank as you passed him the headphones, preparing himself to listen to whatever you’d found that day.

He gave no indication of whether he enjoyed it or not.

“I can see why you like it,” is all he would say, passing the headphones back to you.

“Oh?” you said once, laying the headphones on the bed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Ghost leaned forward onto his knees, elbows propped upon them.

“It means,” he began, “that I’m not surprised this is the type of music you listen to.”

You feigned hurt, having slowly regained your ability to utilise humour after your diagnosis, the days getting easier.

“Well, I bet I can guess what type of music you like to listen to.” You held a smile on your face, just bordering on smug.

Ghost gave you a look. “Oh yeah?” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on, then.”

You pretended to think for a moment, already having thought this question through many times before. Ghost was elusive, that much was plain to see, yet you imagined him in ways that made him familiar - human - to you.

“I bet you like metal,” you said. “Heavy.”

Ghost gave a sound that may have been a laugh.

“Am I that easy to read?” he said, a smirk vague in his tone.

“No,” you replied, innocently. “I’m just not surprised that’s the type of music you listen to.”

Ghost gave a slow, sarcastic, demeaning clap, muffled by his gloves.

“All right, well done,” he said, the smirk in his voice growing.

The two of you played board games together, too.

Initially, he let you win, claiming that life in the military had left him “No time for leisure.”

Translation: “I haven’t played board games in an age.”

You picked up early on he was letting you win and insisted on having him play fairly.

There was something deeply enigmatic about watching a trained soldier try and mask his frustration when he lands on Mayfair for the third time in Monopoly.

Whenever you’d lose you’d challenge him to another game, thus continuing the cycle of celebration and condemnation, with you claiming he was “cheating” when he won.

“You told me to play fair,” Ghost would say, a smugness in his voice.

Not all times with Ghost were light-hearted, however.

Even if his presence reassured you, there was the overwhelming feeling that you were missing out on something.

You knew you had family, if they were still alive, but you didn’t know them.

Friends, too. You wondered how many you had.

If you had a crush, that meant you interacted with people on some scale, right?

And it was in times like these, times when you just wanted to go home, wherever that was, that Ghost was there for you.

More often than not you’d end up in tears, trying to stifle them.

Ghost said nothing as you wept, chiming in only when he deemed the onslaught over.

“Why don’t blind guys skydive?” he said once.

You sniffed, wiping your nose, and looked at him.

“What?” you said.

“I said, why don’t blind guys skydive?”

You looked down, as if the answer lay in your hands. You shrugged.

“Scares the shit outta their dogs.”

Silence for a second. And then, a laugh.

You gave a laugh, airy at first but firmer the longer it went on.

You put a hand over your mouth, as if to hide your growing smile from Ghost.

Wiping the streaks of tears from your cheeks, you looked at him.

“Thank you,” you said. “I feel a little better.”

“S’what I’m here for.”

About two weeks into your rescue, your physical training began.

Having fully recovered from malnutrition, Base wanted you to start learning how to walk again, both for your convenience and theirs.

Ghost attended each meeting you had to go to, watching from the sidelines as a nurse guided you between two wooden poles.

The sessions were tough. Very tough.

You felt useless, responsible for your own suffering.

“If I’d done more, if I’d fought harder-”

“Then you’d be dead,” Ghost would insist whenever you questioned your choices.

“Types like the ones who kidnapped you don’t enjoy people who can easily fight them off. Trust me, you did the right thing.”

After sessions, you were usually tired, opting to try and push for an extra hour or so to get back your ability to walk quicker.

The nurse would insist you rest immediately afterwards.

One evening, you wanted to push yourself.

“I need to do this,” you told Ghost, pulling your legs over the side of the bed. He stood by your bedside, waiting to catch you if you fell.

“I need to-” you slid off the bed, lost your balance, and fell into Ghost’s arms.

His chest was rock solid, and he held you by your arms, close to him, helping you back up.

“You need to rest,” he said, trying to guide you back to bed.

“No!” You yelled, immediately regretting it.

Still in Ghost’s arms, you looked away, shame overtaking you.

“I’m sorry, Ghost, but I- I really, really need to…”

You didn’t finish your sentence. Ghost remained silent for a minute, then nodded.

“Alright,” he said, pulling you away from the bed.

“I’ll help you.”

In your room, Ghost walked a few laps with you, his hold emigrating from your underarms to your elbows, and then to your hands.

You took uneven, shaking steps, but they were steps in the right direction.

You smiled back at Ghost as he stood behind you, helping you.

Another couple of weeks passed. Ghost would give you secret after-session sessions, helping you walk wherever you pleased (within the confines of the room).

You were still shaky, very weak in certain areas, but you were getting stronger, more reliable.

You got to know Ghost more whenever you were resting in your room.

“My favourite colour,” you began one day, “is…[f/c].”

Ghost gave a brief noise of acknowledgement.

“What’s yours?” you asked, continuing to colour.

Ghost spoke plainly. “A secret,” he said.

You blinked, wondering if you’d misheard him.

“Huh?” you said, looking up at him.

There was no humour in his eyes. He was dead serious.

“Aww, come on!” you said, oddly hurt by his lack of willing. “You don’t trust me?”

Ghost’s eyes said everything and nothing at the same time.

“Depends,” he said, diplomatically. “D’you trust me?”

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation and with all the certainty of someone who felt nothing but trust and blind faith.

Ghost’s eyes widened for a second, as if he wasn’t expecting your answer, or maybe the light was playing tricks with your eyes.

Sensing he wasn’t going to say anything, you tried to cover for his absence.

“I mean, it’d be hard not to.” You looked down at your colouring book. You became warm, as if confessing something personal.

“You saved my life, you protect me, you’re always there when I need you,”

“Because it’s my job.” Ghost’s declaration came out as if it were an attack, a deterrent for you to not pursue this line of thinking any further.

You swallowed and continued on.

“Yeah, you could say that,” you said. “But you took this job.”

“I was assigned-”

“No, no, not this one,” you said gesturing to the room, looking squarely at him. “I mean as a soldier.”

Ghost said nothing, only watching you.

“Why would you take a job protecting people if you didn’t see yourself as trustworthy enough for them to rely on you?��

Your question was simple yet revealed a lot. Too much for Ghost’s liking.

Ghost gave no response, his gaze travelling elsewhere.

You dropped the conversation.

The room returned to silence.

“Green.” Ghost’s voice came out of nowhere, low, making you jump.

You looked at him. He said nothing else.

You swallowed, looked down at your box of pencils, and withdrew a green pencil. You passed it to Ghost, who took it reluctantly, and turned the colouring book so he could reach it.

You coloured the rest of the page together.

Then, the interrogations began.

What memories and names Base didn’t gather from your notes, they tried extracting from you in ‘interviews’.

They were simple enough at first: what did you see during your time with the cartel; what were the names of the people you encountered (ones which you hadn’t already alerted them to); how long were you in the cartel’s captivity, etc.

The interviewers were firm yet didn’t push too hard in areas which were still hazy to you.

You gave every detail you could remember and passed on every memory, no matter how small, about your time in captivity.

It brought back unwelcome feelings, the fear, the hunger, the shame…

You were offered psychological aid, which you found to be of some help, though there was an itch the psychiatrist couldn’t quite scratch.

One that you spoke to Ghost about.

“It’s like…it’s like they’re going by a script,” you said, walking with Ghost around your room, leaning against him as you navigated the circuit.

“Like they’re trying to help, they want to help, but…”

“But?” Ghost’s voice was heavy behind you, like a wall. You stopped shambling and Ghost came to a stand-still behind you.

“But…they don’t know how. They don’t know how to help me because they’ve never-”

“Been in your situation.” Ghost finished your sentence.

You turned to look at him, mouth agape as you heaved laboured breaths, your exercise having taken it out of you.

You felt a shiver crawl up your spine. Recognition.

“Yeah,” you said, exasperated. Finally, someone understood!

Ghost nodded. “I know how it feels.”

You both sat down, you on the bed and Ghost in his seat. You shifted, watching him. He searched for something to say.

“I know how your situation’s affected you,” he said. His gaze flitted from your eyes to anywhere else. “And I wish I could say it gets better. But…”

His eyes looked hard, dark. His gaze finally settled on you, penetrating your soul.

“Look, the only way you can start to rebuild your life is to talk to someone.”

“You mean…” You dared not let your gaze slip.

Ghost gave a fractional nod.

“I know these shrinks ain’t much good when it comes to our kind of trauma, but talkin’ to someone who’s been through what you have might make you feel like you’ve not lost the plot.”

You felt like a breakthrough had been made. Something, maybe excitement, crawled up your throat.

“Our?” you said, quiet, as if sharing a secret. A small smile tweaked at the corners of your lips.

Ghost gave no confirmation. But the silence was enough.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, alongside recovering more menial memories of your past, the interrogations became harsher.

You told and retold the interrogators everything you knew, any new developments which had occurred to you, forced to relive everything which had reduced you to your current condition.

But they weren’t satisfied.

They thought you had something to hide. That you were covering for the cartel by withholding names and knowledge.

The second you were back in your room, you broke down.

You ranted and raved to Ghost, who listened intently, his attention solely on you.

In one hand you squeezed your fist, looking for your stress ball; the one that, ironically, was given to you by the same people who had caused you to need it now.

You couldn’t find it. You turned to Ghost.

Hyperventilating, in your panicked, angered state, you reached out to him.

“Can I squeeze your hand?” you said, words spewing out faster than you could think about them.

Ghost seemed rigid.

You swallowed thickly.

“Please.”

Ghost took a step towards you and, slowly, he raised his hand to you.

You took it, squeezing it, trying to stamp out the anxiety pulsing through you.

With your eyes closed and breathing evening out, you held Ghost’s hand close to you, your grip lessening with every minute that passed.

After your attack, as you got ready for bed, outside of your field of vision, standing just outside your room, you didn’t see Ghost.

Didn’t see him look down at the hand you’d so intimately held, squeezed, close to your chest.

He could feel your remnant, phantom warmth encompassing it.

He clenched his fist, as if trying to hold your hand, the memory of it which swam around his like fish in a pond.

A couple days later, you were set for another interrogation.

While you were holed up in that room, Ghost remained in yours.

He searched for your stress ball, the image of your tear-stained face in the forefront of his mind.

Somewhere within his psyche, as he scoured the space for that little yellow sphere of temporary distraction, your voice echoed.

It thanked him for finding it, held him in its grip, drove him.

The warm gratitude you’d express plagued him, encompassing him in a similar, diluted warmth he’d felt when you held his hand.

He glanced under your bed. And there it was.

He plucked it and turned it over in his hand.

The gratification of seeing your face light up when he presented it to you fizzed in his mind.

And then another, heavier thought crossed his mind.

The feeling of you close to him, holding, gripping him in your time of need…did something to him.

He’d be the last to admit that he hadn’t felt warmth like that in a long time. And to forfeit it just for a moment’s gratification seemed a waste.

Ghost glanced at the ball. He deposited it deep into his pocket.

He told himself he’d return it to you later.

Later. Later.

Later came as you hobbled down the corridor with the help of a frame.

You seemed stressed. In need of release.

Ghost slid his hand into his pocket. Squeezed the ball.

“Did you find it?” you asked, hopeful. Your optimism was difficult to ignore.

Ghost shook his head. “Negative,” he said, a habit he’d picked up. Slow and intentional. He knew what he was doing. “But I’m here if you need me.”

And need him, you did.

You ended up confiding in him how the interrogation went, how the interviewers had made you feel like you had something to hide.

All the while, you clutched Ghost’s hand.

No amount of pressure you could muster could possibly hurt him, yet Ghost could tell you were holding back what little strength you had - both physical and mental.

“Don’t be shy,” Ghost said, voice cutting through your anxious ramblings. He looked down at your conjoined hands. “Squeeze harder.”

Something in the way you looked at him, with a look that said ‘I don’t want to hurt you’, crossed your eyes.

A look Ghost had nearly forgotten in his line of work.

You eventually fell into a comfortable rhythm wherein you would squeeze Ghost as hard as you could, leading to him faking injury at one point.

You chided him, you both laughed (or, Ghost nearly laughed), and you rested against your pillow.

“You know,” you said, turning to Ghost, “one day, I hope we won’t need a military.”

You were exhausted. Ghost could tell. He humoured your sleep-deprived ramblings regardless.

“So that people like you don’t have to fight for us.”

“Oh?” Ghost said. He’d be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t piqued.

You nodded, movements growing sluggish, lethargic.

Your hand still held Ghost’s, resting it upon your stomach.

“You’re people, just like us.” You said, yawning. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

Ghost felt an unfamiliar warmth spark in his chest. He ignored it.

“Not gonna happen, I can assure you that.”

“Which part?” you asked, eyes shutting.

Ghost leaned to mutter in your ear: “I’ll always be here to protect you.”

He didn’t know if you’d heard him.

When he withdrew, you were asleep. Still holding him.

He pulled his seat closer to your bedside, unable to bring himself to dislodge his hand from yours.

And that’s how he found you the morning after, awaking from his rigid sleep, still conjoined.

And thus, a habit was born.

After each interrogation, or psychiatrist visit or physical rehabilitation session, you would return to your room with Ghost and squeeze his hand until your anxiety dissipated.

All the while, your memories had begun returning at a quickened pace.

Ghost was learning more about you day by day.

Your favourite food, your home country, the names of your family members.

Your real name.

When he’d heard you say it for the first time, he swore the room got brighter.

It was beautiful and personal in ways that ‘Fawn’ could not compare.

It gave him a place to start searching for traces of you elsewhere.

Social media accounts, certificates, places of work and education - he knew he could find it all.

To make sure you were better off at home than you were at the Base is how he’d justified this interest to himself.

He still called you Fawn when you were alone, the name an inside joke between the two of you.

Speaking of, Ghost exchanged many jokes with you.

Regardless of how illogical or downright plain they were, you laughed each time.

Genuinely laughed.

Ghost wondered if you’d have reacted the same had you not been in the situation you were in right now; practically tethered to him and needing him for everything.

Well, almost everything.

After a few months of physical rehabilitation, you could just about walk again.

Your balance was a little off and you still needed the frame, but it was a start!

Ghost was there with you to celebrate, which, despite their best efforts to make you feel like a caged bird, the Base celebrated, too.

You’d been incredibly useful to them, having turned up many new leads for them to investigate.

As a reward, Base let you do something which caused Ghost to wonder if this was really the best decision.

They let you go to a bar with the boys.

To clarify, they said you could leave your room, the news of which travelled around the Base until it reached the ears of Ghost’s team.

“When were you gonna tell us?” Soap said, Alejandro nearby.

Ghost’s face was blank.

“Didn’t deem it necessary,” he said. And left it at that.

Naturally, Ghost’s team came to visit you and asked if you wanted to go to a bar with them.

“All that alcohol might help you remember something,” said Gaz, looking between you and Ghost.

You looked to Ghost, who, under the silent scrutiny of the other Force members, knew he couldn’t deny you of this freedom.

“Sure,” he said on your behalf. His eyes found yours and, while yours were filled with hope, Ghost’s seemed to exhibit a darkness never before seen by you.

You squeezed his hand that night you were set to leave.

“What if they don’t like me?” you said. “What if I was a terrible person and I remember all the bad things I’ve don-”

“Doesn’t matter.” Ghost’s voice came as a welcome distraction. You looked at him, swallowing your nerves.

“So what if they don’t like you? S’not like you’ll ever see them again.”

Ghost realised what he’d said wasn’t what you wanted to hear when your eyes widened, at which point he cleared his throat and tried again.

“What I mean is that they’ll like you regardless. Hell, they’re excited to just meet you after you’ve been holed up in confinement for the last few months.”

“You think so?” you said. Ghost nodded. And squeezed your hand back.

“I promise.”

The bar was nothing spectacular, being dimly lit and made solely out of wood, it seemed. But it was a change.

Creaking into the room, Alejandro spotted you first, throwing a cheer your way, followed by the rest of the Task Force, turning to face you.

Ghost was your shadow, large and wall-like behind you.

You held onto his wrist, daring not to let go, your other hand on the frame.

“Welcome, (Y/N),” said Gaz, lifting his drink in your general direction before taking a swig.

You gave him a slight wave, a shy smile crossing your features.

“Come, take a seat with us!” Alejandro hollered, waving you over.

You cast Ghost a glance over your shoulder. He nodded stiffly and you made your way to the group.

Ghost came to your side, with you gripping onto his arm.

His hulking mass beside you relieved you somewhat.

And, though he wouldn’t admit it, having you cling to him brought back the same feeling he experienced whenever you squeezed his hand.

Was this perhaps…liking?

The cheers of the team cut his thoughts short.

He knew you’d be safe with his team if he just left. And, with your warmth radiating through him, he felt that he needed to take a step outside to rid himself of this growing affliction.

He made a move to detach himself from you, and, quick as lightning, your hand was atop his.

“Don’t leave,” you whispered to him, eyes pleading as you snapped to look at him.

His heart jumped. Something in him stirred.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t.”

“Hey,” came Alejandro’s jovial tone. “I can see why Ghost’s been hiding you away and keeping you to himself all this time.”

You felt your face heat up at the implication, then feigned oblivion. Just in case you were misreading the situation.

“Oh?” you said, tone inquisitive.

Alejandro nodded. “You’re very attractive.” He gave you an eye smile.

Your face felt as if it were on fire.

“Ah, look what you’ve done,” came Soap, emerging from the group. “You’ve gone and embarrassed (Y/N)!”

All the while, Ghost was beside you.

He seemed…rigid.

“That’ll do.” Ghost’s stern voice came, cutting through the chatter of the bar.

You nuzzled further into his side, as if trying to cover yourself.

You and Ghost settled into a quiet section of the bar after that, Soap, Alejandro and Gaz coming to pay you a visit whenever they brought you a drink, chatting for a minute or two before feeling ghost’s icy stare on their backs.

That night, laying in bed, you cast Ghost a tired smile.

“M’sorry I’ve been so clingy recently,” you said, Ghost tucking you in beneath the covers.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, trying not to make eye contact with you.

Leaning back into your pillows, you reached for Ghost.

“Nervous?” he said, placing his gloved hand in yours.

“No,” you said. “Just want you nearby.”

Ghost’s heart spiked. He ignored it.

You fell asleep with his hand on your chest, hands holding his.

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to fall asleep without taking you in.

Even in the darkness, your features struck him as ethereal, your temperament and trust enrapturing him in ways he’d never been before.

He sat beside you, your loyal guard, watching over you through the night.

At some point, perhaps lulled to sleep by your rhythmic breathing, he joined you in a world far from this one, in a house you’d never seen before yet had lived in for years. You were happy, with Ghost behind you, unmasked, holding you.

Whether you shared this dream or not was irrelevant to Ghost. The only thing that mattered was that this, for now, felt real.

And yet, dreams can only satisfy the human lust for that which they do not have for so long.

The next day, more confident in your physical ability, you asked Ghost something which held an implication you weren’t yet aware of.

“Play Twister with me,” you said. You had a small smile on your face, one which Ghost was finding more and more difficult to deny.

After much pleading and begging, he eventually relented, more fond of the idea than he’d let on.

However, there was a stoic hesitance about him.

“I might hurt you.” His voice was sincere, yet his tone felt blank, as if he were protecting himself from the thought of injuring you.

You just smiled. “Never,” you said. “I trust you.”

Ghost scarcely contained the warmth seeping through his chest, threatening to make him smile.

He suppressed it.

“Fine,” he said.

Half an hour later, you were tangled together, neither relenting as your competitive nature got the better of you.

You span the dial, then called to Ghost: “Right foot, yellow!”

You tried. You really, really tried. But being pinned under the weight of a 6’2 ½ man and only just getting your strength back didn’t exactly give you an advantage. And stretching yourself too far, spreading your strength too thin, caused you to crumble.

You yelped, falling onto your front, winding yourself.

Ghost remained stationery on top of you.

You turned over onto your back and looked up at him, laughing.

“You can let go now,” you said. “You’ve won.”

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

You gave a breathless laugh, hands either side of your head.

Ghost lowered himself onto his knees, your legs caged between them.

He didn’t notice until he felt your thighs touch the inside of his legs, at which point he became aware of the position you were in.

His hands were on either side of your shoulders, trapping you beneath him.

You went quiet, the only noise being your laboured breathing as you regained your breath.

You were so close, you noticed, able to see Ghost’s dark eyes searching yours.

Neither of you spoke.

Slowly, cautiously, Ghost leaned down, drawing closer to your face.

You watched, frozen by your own indecision.

Sure, you liked Ghost, but did you like like him?

Your body decided the latter as you tried to meet him in the middle. Instinctual.

The material of his mask just grazed the tip of your nose when a hurried knock came at your door.

Your heart jumped and you gasped, both you and Ghost turning to look at the door.

You regained your breath, chest heaving. “We should…um…” you struggled to find the words to say, sliding out from beneath Ghost.

“Yeah,” he said, getting up. He offered a hand to you, which you took, and hoisted you up.

You landed on his chest, his hand still gripping yours.

You couldn’t bring yourself to let go, and neither could Ghost, by the looks of things.

But alas, the doctor was persistent, calling your name through the door.

You parted without another word, leaning onto your nearby frame. Ghost assumed his usual tall posture, shaking the situation off his shoulders as if it were snow.

A couple weeks later, the foundations upon which you and Ghost had built your friendship came tumbling down.

Base had announced that they were sending you home, having gotten in contact with your family.

More of your memory had resurfaced, as had your strength; enough to reduce the risk of you getting injured somehow during transit.

Upon hearing this, you and Ghost had very different reactions.

Your heart swelled and you cheered, the thought of reuniting with your family again making your body light up.

Ghost remained quiet, no different from usual. But something about his quietude felt…off.

Cold.

Base would discharge you within the next day or so.

You related your plans of what you would do when you returned home.

“I’m going to go to the beach, I’m gonna read more, I-”

Ghost tuned you out, watching you with a vacant stare.

He knew he should have respected that you were bound to leave eventually, as all good things do. But…something about you made this separation more difficult than it needed to be.

Perhaps it was his ego, so inflated with your reliance on him that he could scarcely see himself having any value outside of it.

That was his first and final line of defence against what the real issue was.

As he watched you get excitable to get away from here, from him (he told himself), his resolve began to crack.

It had been chipped and scathed by other occurrences, sure. But this pressure, this final obstacle, threatened to destroy it entirely.

“What do you think, Ghost?” your voice tuned in as if it were re-emerging from water.

“About what?” he said. He saw little purpose in feigning interest now.

“About me being able to go home.” You wore a smile, a genuine smile. Ghost had seen enough to be able to identify it.

“Good,” he said. “Finally be out of my hair.” There was a venom in his tone that made you double-take.

You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on what the future held for you, but something in Ghost’s demeanour had changed. You sighed, dropped your previous train of thought.

“Ghost…” you said as you slid off the edge of your bed. Your balance had improved, making the trip to Ghost easier than it used to be. He reached out to grab you on instinct.

Standing before him now, you gazed into his eyes, trying to find the root of the issue.

“I wish we got more time together. Under different circumstances, of course.”

Of course, Ghost wanted to say, but he remained mute.

You placed gentle, cautious hands upon his chest, smoothing them over the fabric.

“You’ve been so good to me, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”

Your hands inched their way up to hold the sides of his mask. He made no move to remove you. His eyes bore into yours, soft in a way you’d never seen them before.

He placed his hands upon your waist, pulling you closer to him, slowly, methodically.

Your mind flashed back to your game of Twister. How close you’d been then and how close you were now.

Without thinking, urged by some sorrowful desire, you pulled Ghost into a tight hug, burying your face into his shoulder.

You sniffed, feeling tears sting your eyes and throat.

Ghost’s arms gingerly encompassed your frame, sliding around your waist, securing you.

The aversion he had to physical touch seemed to dissipate from him as you felt his weight pile on top of you, no longer holding back.

Neither of you spoke.

In your mind flashed a future without Ghost, a very real possibility. In Ghost’s, a future of only you and him. A silent promise he made to the both of you.

It took some time but the two of you eventually separated, with you wiping your nose on your sleeve.

Ghost watched you, hesitant to leave. Hesitant for you to leave.

You went to sleep that night as you never had before; Ghost laying in bed beneath you as you rested on his chest.

In his pocket, Ghost squeezed the stress ball, having found more use for it than you had.

In his haze, overwhelmed by the scent and presence of you, came an idea.

Later that morning, as you prepared to leave the Base, Ghost returned your stress ball to you.

“You found it!” you exclaimed, taking the ball and holding it close to your chest. You beamed up at Ghost, though there was an evident sorrow within you. “Thank you.”

Ghost offered his hand to you as he had many times before. And, for what you believed to be the final time, you took it, squeezing it.

You didn’t want to let go.

And neither did Ghost.

You were escorted onto the aircraft, Base fearing that you may be a target for any remaining cartel members while in the country, thus issuing you with a more discreet method of air travel home; a small helicopter.

You watched as Ghost grew further and further away, waving to you as you did to him, until he was gone.

In your hand you clutched your stress ball. Looking down at it, you turned it over in your hand.

There was something on it.

Looking closely, you saw the unmistakable outline of a phone number written in black ink, along with the word ‘Ghost’ below it.

You smiled, the crushing dejection you’d experienced for many hours before evaporating, replaced with a feeling you had grown all too familiar with.

Hope.

Meanwhile, Ghost got straight to work on tracking your location.

He wanted to know where that aircraft was going, when it would land, and approximately how long it would take for you to get home (and call him).

You may not have been able to see him anymore, but Ghost was watching over you.

This would be far from the last time you’d see him, he’d make absolutely sure of that.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

A/N: Due to tumblr's 4,096 character limit per text box (paragraph), I've had to separate the whole post out like this to be able topost it. I've tried putting the breaks where there would be a time skip so that reader immersion doesn't suffer too much.

Thank you for your patience :-)

Taglist: @yagipeach @deddoea @ghostsbrooklnbabe

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fatecantstopme · 5 months

Text

This Isn't Real

Pairing: Dean Winchester x plus size!reader

Summary: When you get kidnapped by a Djinn, Dean and Sam risk everything to save you.

Warnings: canon violence, talk of death, cursing. Shit ton of angst. Some fluff. SMUT, oral (F receiving), unprotected sex (P in V).

You woke up in an unfamiliar room as the sun began to peek through the curtains. Your eyes took a moment to adjust as you glanced around the room, desperately trying to remember where you were and how you got there.

Your mind flashed to a dark warehouse and vague memories of searching for something there, but the harder you tried to remember, the farther away those memories became.

You sat up with a groan and began to rub your temples. Where the hell am I?

You felt someone stir in the bed beside you and realized you weren't alone. You turned to look at the person, but you heard his voice before your brain could process what you were seeing.

"Hey baby, you okay?" he asked groggily.

"What?" you managed to croak out--shock settling into your bones as you stared at the man beside you.

He sat up, revealing his bare, toned, muscular chest. You looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught staring. Why the fuck am I in bed with Dean Winchester?

He touched your cheek and turned your head towards him. "You okay? I heard you groan."

"I--um...I'm fine," you stuttered. "What, uh--what happened last night?"

He raised his eyebrows as he regarded you. "We came home from the party early because you were feeling a little...frisky."

"Party?" you asked in confusion.

"Damn, baby, how much did you have to drink?" he asked with a chuckle.

Your face must have show how deeply confused you were, because he seemed to take pity on you.

"It was Sam's birthday party, babe. Remember? We came home, had some damn incredible sex, and fell asleep. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Sam's birthday?" you muttered, then belatedly yelled, "WE HAD SEX?"

Dean laughed. "Girl, you gotta lay off the whiskey sours. They're messing with your memory." He kissed you on your forehead before dragging himself out of bed.

You were now faced with a very naked Dean Winchester and you averted your gaze out of habit.

"I'm gonna take a shower. Wanna join me?" he asked with a smirk.

"I...uh--I...not right now."

He looked a little crestfallen, but he simply shrugged. "Suit yourself."

As soon as he'd entered the bathroom, you jumped out of bed and looked around the room. Something had to be going on. Something insane. This wasn't real life--it couldn't be.

You glanced down at yourself and realized you were completely naked. You quickly threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before continuing your search around the room.

You saw a couple framed pictures sitting on the bureau near the bathroom door. You picked one up and felt your jaw drop. It was you and Dean on a beach. You grabbed the second one and found it was also of you and Dean, only this time you were apparently in Paris. The third and final picture was, of course, of you and Dean. It looked like some kind of park and he was on his knee in front of you, holding a small blue box in his hand.

You glanced at your left hand in disbelief, but there it was--a very large, very beautiful diamond ring. "We're engaged?" you mumbled in shock.

You set the picture down and collapsed onto the bed. Your mind was reeling and you had absolutely no memory of any of this.

You knew Dean--you'd known him for years--but you were just friends. You hunted together. That was all. Sure, you'd always liked him more than you should have, but he didn't reciprocate it. You certainly didn't wake up in the same bed, and you definitely weren't engaged to him.

When you woke up yesterday, you'd been in a motel room with Sam and Dean...you were hunting something. You closed your eyes and desperately tried to remember what it was. It was almost as if something was blocking that specific memory--no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't grasp it.

Dean appeared from the bathroom, clad in nothing but a towel around his waist. He saw you sitting on the edge of the bed with your head in your hands. Concern knotted his eyebrows together and he immediately crossed the short distance between you.

"(Y/N/N)?" he asked softly when he reached your side.

You looked up at him and felt your heart skip a beat. He was beautiful and perfect...and it was downright offensive. How anyone could look that good was a mystery. An even bigger mystery was why in the hell he was engaged to you.

He knelt down in front of you and took your hands into his. You stared at them, feeling the warmth spread throughout your body.

"What's going on with you?" he asked gently.

Tears filled your eyes as you looked into his beautiful green ones. "I don't know where I am," you whispered. "I don't...I don't remember any of this. I--I don't think it's real."

Dean's face lit up in surprise. "What do you mean? Of course it's real." He squeezed your hands comfortingly. "Do you feel that, baby? I'm real and so are you."

"Then why can't I remember?"

He looked sad. "I don't know, sweetheart. Maybe you just need to give it a little time and then your memories will come back."

You shook your head. "I was in a motel yesterday. A motel with you and Sam. We were going hunting."

Dean looked confused. "Hunting? I've never been hunting and I'm pretty sure you haven't either. Are you sure that wasn't a dream?"

"It felt--real. It was real," you insisted.

"Okay," he said soothingly. "What makes you think that was real and this isn't?"

"I remember it," you whispered.

"And you don't remember our lives together," he finished softly.

You nodded.

He reached up and tucked a hair behind your ear. "I don't know why you can't remember, but I'll be damned if I don't help you figure it out."

He stood up. "Why don't we go see Sam? Maybe going to his house will jog your memory of last night?"

"Okay."

He grabbed your hand and helped you to your feet. "Let's get dressed, pretty girl. Everything's gonna be okay."

You nodded, feeling a little more confident that everything might really be okay.

**********

When Dean pulled up in front of Sam's house, you looked out the window, but didn't have any rush of memories. Nothing about it looked familiar.

Dean came around and opened the car door for you and took your hand as you stepped out. He watched your face for any sign of recognition, but he saw none.

"Come on, beautiful," he said gently, leading you to the front door.

A few moments after Dean rang the doorbell, Sam appeared at the door with a warm smile. "Hey guys! Come on in."

Dean led the way and you followed gratefully.

"So, uh...Dean mentioned you're having some memory problems?" Sam asked gently.

You nodded. "I--uh--I don't really remember much of anything really."

"Hmm," Sam hummed. "Sit. Let's talk."

You and Dean sat on the couch and Sam sat across from you on a chair. Dean explained the morning's events to his brother, while you sat quietly. There wasn't much more to say.

"So what do you remember?" Sam asked you.

"Hunting," you answered honestly. "I remember hunting with you and Dean. We've been doing it for years together."

"Hunting?" Sam asked in surprise. "We've never been hunting in our lives--and certainly not all together."

"Do you believe in ghosts?" you blurted.

Both men looked shocked. "I'm sorry, what?" Sam asked.

"Ghosts, goblins, ghouls, vampires, werewolves...all the things that go bump in the night. Do you believe in them?"

Sam and Dean exchanged worried looks. "No, (Y/N)...those are just stories," Dean said gently.

You sighed sadly. "That's what we hunt," you whispered so softly they almost didn't hear you.

"We hunt monsters?" Sam asked incredulously.

You just nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

"Baby, that really does sound like a dream. An intense dream, perhaps, but a dream nonetheless," Dean said calmly.

"Then why does it feel so real?" you asked softly.

He looked sad. "I don't know, sweetheart. I really don't."

"What about right now?" Sam asked. "Does this feel real?"

You nodded.

"As real as hunting monsters?" he prodded.

You nodded again.

"Then why would you think this isn't real?"

"I guess I don't have a good answer for that," you admitted. "Hunting monsters does sound kinda crazy, doesn't it?"

Dean offered you a soft smile. "A little bit, baby. Especially for a lawyer, a mechanic, and a veterinarian."

Hearing the careers the three of you apparently had sparked another question in your mind. "Dean, how did we meet?"

"What?" he asked in surprise.

"How did we meet?"

"We met when Sam found that stray dog with the broken leg. He asked me to drive him to the nearest vet office...you happened to be the vet on duty that day."

You closed your eyes and tried desperately to remember meeting him, to no avail. You also couldn't remember veterinary school or even having a job at all.

"Hey, it's okay," Dean said sweetly, upon noticing your distress. "You don't have to remember right now."

Tears filled your eyes again, upset and ashamed at your inability to remember your life.

Dean wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. He kissed the top of your head and whispered, "Everything's okay, baby. I love you. You're safe."

You knew without a shadow of a doubt he was right about one thing--you were safe. You had never felt safer with anyone in your life than Dean Winchester and it didn't matter that you couldn't remember this reality...you still knew he would protect you with his life.

**********

Dean's POV:

It had been three hours since (Y/N) went missing and I was losing my mind. Sam and I had looked everywhere...we should have never let her wander off on her own.

My brother was clearly having similar thoughts as he said, "You shouldn't have let her go out there alone."

"Let her?" I asked in annoyance. "I didn't let her do anything. She got mad at me and stormed off. That's not my fault."

Sam glared at me. "You're the one who pissed her off and you didn't go after her."

I kicked a rock that was at my feet as hard as I could. I hated that he was right and I hated myself for upsetting her. I was terrified of what would happen if we didn't find her in time. "I know," I admitted softly.

Sam's expression softened. "We're gonna find her, Dean."

I looked up at him and sighed. "We've looked everywhere. It's like she just disappeared."

"She didn't just disappear. Something or someone took her."

"We've been in this town for 6 hours. It's not like we've pissed anyone off yet," I grumbled.

"Yeah, I know. Besides, (Y/N) could fight off most humans she came across..."

"She went looking for the Djinn, Sam. I just know it."

"Why would she do that on her own? She's not stupid."

I groaned loudly. "Because she had something to prove!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I was mad at her, okay? I was mad she was so reckless during our last hunt and I lashed out at her. I told her there was no way she could do this job without us, but we were perfectly capable of handling it on our own. I wanted her to stay at the motel while we took care of the Djinn."

"Dean, she saved your life!"

"I know!" I yelled. "I didn't ask her to do that! She could have died."

"That's the life, Dean. We all could die at any time."

I glared at him. "If she died saving me, I would never forgive myself. Never."

Sam sighed. He knew what I was trying to say without me having to say it. I wouldn't admit the truth and he knew it. "You should've known telling her she couldn't do something would make her want to do it."

I closed my eyes. "I'll regret it for the rest of my life, Sam."

Sam shook his head and opened the passenger door of the Impala. "You won't have to because we're going to find her."

I watched my brother get in the car and I took a deep breath. "I hope you're right," I whispered before getting into the car myself.

**********

It had been a couple days since you'd woken up in a strange place. You weren't sure why your memories were gone, but you'd started to feel comfortable. You'd settled easily into a routine, and those memories you'd had of hunting had begun to fade.

Dean had suggested you take some time off of work until you felt more comfortable...and perhaps your memories would return during that time. You'd taken his advice since you had zero memory of college and you didn't feel comfortable having animals' lives in your hands.

Dean had been the perfect boyfriend--fiancé. He was incredibly patient and sweet and it warmed your heart to know just how much he cared. Any time you forgot something that had happened, he would gently remind you about it without making you feel embarrassed or uncomfortable.

It surprised you to realize how deeply you cared for him--how much you truly loved him. He loved you, that much was clear, but you had yet to share those feelings with him. At least, not in your recollection.

You'd spent the day relaxing on your back deck with a good book. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt this happy. An hour before Dean would be home from work, you went inside and began preparing dinner. You wanted to make him something special as a thank you for being such a good partner.

You were standing in the kitchen finishing up dinner when Dean got home. He came into the room and inhaled deeply. "Smells amazing, babe. Whatcha making?"

You turned to him with a smile. "Lasagna."

He grinned. "I freaking love lasagna." He came over and kissed you softly. "And I love you."

You smiled warmly. "I love you too, Dean."

His beautiful green eyes lit up at your words. He stepped forward and pressed you up against the counter. His arms snaked around your waist and he kissed you deeply.

You squirmed a little when it became hard to breathe. Dean chuckled as he broke the kiss, allowing you to inhale rapidly.

"You're covered in grease and you're getting it on me," you teased. "Go shower and dinner will be ready by the time you're done."

He smiled and kissed you again. "Fine, fine. I'll shower." He stepped away from you and turned to go towards the bedroom.

"Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I've got a surprise for dessert. I think you're gonna like it."

He grinned ear to ear. "Is it you?" he teased.

"Dean Winchester!" you yelled with a laugh. You threw a hand towel at him and he ran from the room to escape, laughing all the way to the bathroom.

You rolled your eyes and went back to finishing dinner. You also pulled a pie out of the fridge and set it on the counter to finish defrosting. You'd gone to the store earlier that day and picked up an apple pie--Dean's favorite.

15 minutes later, Dean came into the kitchen looking refreshed and clean. You were setting the table, so you told him to have a seat and you'd bring out the lasagna.

"Do you want a beer?" you called from the kitchen.

"Water's fine, babe," he called back.

You froze for a moment. In all the time you'd known Dean, he had never turned down a beer...certainly not in favor of water. A voice in your head was screaming that something wasn't right, but you ignored it. You shook your head to clear your mind and quickly poured him a glass of water instead.

The two of you ate dinner, enjoying each other's company. You listened to Dean talk about his day and he asked about yours. It all felt very mundane...very domesticated.

You kept a smile on your face throughout dinner, even though something was bothering you. You couldn't help but feel like you were meant for something more--like your life had a different purpose. Maybe you were just in your head too much since you weren't working at the moment. That had to be it...

"Sweetheart?" Dean asked, interrupting your thoughts.

"Hmm?" you hummed in response.

"You okay?"

You smiled. "I'm fine, Dean. I was just lost in thought."

His eyes scanned your face for a few moments, but he eventually smiled. You were doing a good job of hiding your thoughts from him, but you weren't sure if that was a good thing.

Once dinner was done, you began to clean up. Dean insisted on helping, which you appreciated. You kept him busy with packing the lasagna away in leftover containers so he wouldn't notice the pie on the other counter.

"Ready for dessert?" you asked sweetly.

He smiled. "Sure, baby. What'd you make?"

"I bought it, but I think you'll still like it. Go sit back down and I'll bring it out."

He nodded and went back to the dining room.

You cut a generous slice of the pie for him and a much smaller piece for yourself. Pie had never been your favorite dessert, but Dean loved pie more than he loved anything in this world. You didn't mind having something that wasn't your first choice because you knew it would make him happy.

You came into the dining room and placed the large slice in front of him before sitting down with your own.

He was quiet for a moment and you felt that same voice creeping into your head again. "Dean? It's apple pie..."

"Yeah, thanks (Y/N/N). Kind of a big piece though, don't you think?"

The voice in your head got a little louder. "Sure, but you never turn down a big piece of pie. I've seen you eat an entire pie before." You chuckled at the memory...except Dean looked different in your mind. Rougher, but somehow happier.

"I suppose you're right. I can make some room in my stomach for it. I guess I'm just not the biggest fan of apple pie."

You froze and the voice began screaming at you. SOMETHING IS WRONG! "Apple pie is your favorite," you said quietly.

His face changed as he looked at you. He smiled warmly and said, "You're right. It is my favorite. Thank you for thinking of me."

Your heart was beating so quickly you thought it might actually explode. The man in front of you had gone from 'not the biggest fan of apple pie' to 'apple pie is my favorite' in the span of 30 seconds.

In that moment everything changed. It was no longer just a voice inside your head screaming at you to leave...you realized it was your voice.

"This isn't real," you whispered.

"What'd you say, sweetheart?"

You looked up at Dean--the man wearing Dean's face. "None of this is real." You stood up. "I'm sorry, but I have to go."

He sat there in shock as you rushed towards the door. You weren't exactly sure where you needed to go, but you had a feeling you would find it. You were out the door and running down the street before he even realized what had happened.

**********

Dean's POV:

"This is the last vacant warehouse in this godforsaken city and I swear to God if she's not here, I'm going to kill someone."

"Since I'm the only person here, maybe you don't kill anyone," Sam said calmly.

I glared at him, but didn't say anything. We'd been searching for hours and we hadn't found a damn thing. Not even a clue. This was a last ditch effort to find (Y/N) and I didn't know how I would handle it if she wasn't there. I wasn't sure I could handle it.

I parked the Impala a little ways away from the entrance to the warehouse, just in case the Djinn was there. I didn't want to tip it off. We grabbed our weapons from the trunk and headed inside.

We'd only been inside the building for a few minutes when I heard a sound that sent chills down my spine. It sounded like blood dripping and my only thought was of her before I took off running.

Had I been thinking rationally, I would have realized it was just the sound of water dripping onto the floor, but I was far past rational. There aren't many people in this world that I would die for, but (Y/N) was second on that list right after my brother. She didn't know it, but she meant the world to me. I had to find her--alive.

Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. He gave me a look like I was being reckless, which I suppose I was. He pointed to a room up ahead that appeared to be dimly lit. He started walking towards it and gestured for me to follow.

The moment we turned that corner, my worst fears came to life. The only thing I saw was the woman I loved strung up from the ceiling by her wrists, feet barely touching the floor. She was extremely pale and I could see blood slowly draining from her body into an IV bag.

I moved towards her with a speed I didn't know I had. Terror filled my lungs as I reached for her, worried that I was too late. There was a lot of blood in that bag and I had no way of knowing how many had been filled already.

I touched her cheek with shaking hands and I whispered her name. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears as I begged her to wake up. I tried to feel for a pulse, but my hands were shaking too much to tell.

Sam came up beside me and pressed his fingers to her neck. I watched him in terrified silence, waiting for him to shatter my heart into a million pieces.

"She's alive," he whispered in relief.

My eyes widened in surprise and my heart practically flew out of my chest with joy. "We need to get her out of here," I whispered back as I unhooked the IV to stop the blood flow.

Suddenly, Sam went flying across the room and I turned around in surprise. I came face to face with the Djinn, who was reaching for me with blue electricity crackling from his fingertips. I ducked to avoid his hand and the fight began.

**********

You had no idea where you were going, but your feet were on a mission. You felt like you'd been walking for days, but in reality it had only been an hour or so. You belatedly realized you could have just stolen a car, but on the off chance you were wrong about all of this, you didn't want to commit a crime.

After almost two hours of walking, you found yourself standing in front of an old abandoned warehouse. Something about the imposing building felt strangely familiar, but you couldn't put your finger on why.

You entered the building cautiously, silently cursing yourself for not bringing anything that could be used as a weapon. You'd been so focused on getting away, that you hadn't done much--any--planning.

The building was dark and you didn't have a flashlight, but thankfully you'd had your phone in your pocket when you left the house, so you pulled it out to use the built in flashlight.

When you looked at the screen, you saw you had several missed calls and texts, mostly from Dean, but several from Sam as well. You ignored them both and turned on the flashlight.

You began to wander through the giant space, looking for something--anything--that felt out of place. It was a lot harder to find something when you had no idea what you were looking for.

After several minutes of wandering aimlessly, you noticed a room up ahead that appeared to be dimly lit. Well that's weird. You slowly made your way closer, trying to be as quiet as possible.

As you rounded the corner, everything changed. You nearly dropped your phone at the sight before you. You were hanging from the ceiling by your wrists, feet barely touching the ground, blood slowly filling an IV bag to your left.

In an instant, everything fell into place. Your memories--your real memories--flooded your mind. You remembered your argument with Dean and your foolish arrogance as you sought out the Djinn on your own. Clearly you'd been unsuccessful in your attempt to kill it--so here you were, trapped in a dream in your own mind while your body slowly died in the real world.

"(Y/N), stay," you heard Dean's voice say from behind you.

You turned to face him, knowing he wasn't real--he wasn't your Dean. "I can't...this isn't real."

"You're right. It's not. But it will feel real. You'll live out your whole life with me. We'll be happy and normal. Isn't that what you want?"

You thought about it for a moment. "No," you answered honestly. "I wasn't meant to be normal, to live a normal life. I'm a hunter...I save people. If that means I'll never be truly happy, if it means I'll die alone, then so be it. I can't stay here no matter how badly I want to...my real life is out there. The real you is out there."

"The real Dean doesn't love you the way I do."

Tears filled your eyes and you nodded. "I know...but at least he's real."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, desperately trying to wake up.

In the distance, you heard a voice yell your name. You focused on the voice, but you couldn't figure out whose it was. The voice begged you to wake up, to fight..."come back to me," it pleaded.

You began to sink into darkness, unsure of whether you were about to wake up or die. In the moments before the darkness overtook you, you realized who the voice belonged to. "Dean..." you whispered.

Then, blackness.

**********

Dean's POV:

"Sam!" I yelled as my brother was once again tossed across the room. This Djinn was seriously starting to piss me off.

I knew I needed to get (Y/N) out of here, but I was a little preoccupied trying not to end up strung up beside her. I'd managed to disconnect the IV, so at least she wasn't losing blood anymore.

"Shit!" I yelled as I once again dodged the Djinn's hands.

Son of a bitch! I saw Sam's silver knife lying on the floor, a short distance away from me. I moved towards it quickly, grabbing it before the Djinn noticed.

The creature approached Sam, clearly about to zap his ass into dreamland. I rushed up behind it and stabbed it in the back, bringing it to its knees.

The Djinn seemed surprised and I smiled ruefully. "Lamb's blood and silver--lethal combination, you son of a bitch."

Sam started to pull himself off the floor, retrieving his knife from the dead Djinn's back. One glance at my brother told me he was fine, so my focus turned back to (Y/N).

I rushed over to her and held her up while Sam started to work on the chains tying her to the ceiling. "(Y/N)? Can you hear me?"

She didn't respond, not that I expected her to, but that didn't deter me. "Come on, (Y/N). I need you to wake up."

Sam finally got the chains removed from her wrists and she slumped into my arms. I sunk to the ground, holding her close, and continued to beg her to wake up. I knew I sounded pathetic, but I didn't give a damn.

"(Y/N), please. I know you're mad at me, but I need you to wake up. I need you to fight. Please." I laid my head against her forehead and I whispered so softly only she could hear, "Come back to me."

To my surprise, I heard her whisper, "Dean..."

My head shot up and Sam's eyes widened. (Y/N) didn't say another word, but I knew she was alive. I picked her up and carried her to the car, gently placing her in the backseat before speeding off like a bat out of hell.

I pulled into the nearest hospital in record time, throwing the car into park without a thought. I carefully pulled (Y/N) from the backseat and carried her into the ER.

Sam had gone ahead and gotten a nurse to get a gurney, which I placed her on gently. I watched as the nurses took her back to an exam room and I sent up a silent prayer that she would be okay.

**********

You awoke to the sound of beeping and it didn't take you long to realize you were in a hospital. With that realization came a flood of memories. You had no way of knowing how long had passed here in the real world, but for you it had been days.

You began to stir and you let out a groan as your eyes started to adjust to the brightness in the room.

"(Y/N)?"

You turned your head towards the source of the voice, but you couldn't quite make out the person's face.

"Hey," the voice said again. "You're okay. It's me."

Your eyes were still struggling to focus, but you recognized the voice. "Dean," you mumbled.

You didn't see it, but he smiled warmly. "I'm right here, sweetheart. You're okay."

Your body tensed slightly, unsure of how to feel. He didn't normally call you by any pet names and you suddenly feared you were back in the dream. "What happened?"

"You were captured by the Djinn. Sammy and I found you."

Your whole body relaxed and you let out a relieved sigh. Dean didn't understand why that would calm you, but he didn't question it.

"Thanks for saving me," you whispered. Your eyes finally focused on his face and you knew in your heart this was your Dean. He just looked different and your heart tightened at the sight of him.

"You don't have to thank me. It was my fault you ran off in the first place."

You shook your head. "I was an idiot."

"No you weren't. You could have taken him if you weren't distracted by my asshole comments."

Surprise lit up your face. "So you're admitting you were an asshole?"

He chuckled grimly. "It's a one-time deal, so don't get used to it."

You smiled. "I expect nothing less."

Dean shifted slightly, clearly wanting to say something, but he remained silent.

"What?"

He seemed to debate for a moment, but finally asked, "What did you dream about?"

You sighed. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does," he insisted. "The Djinn lets you live out your dream life...so what's your dream life, (Y/N)?"

"Technically, the Djinn grants you a wish and the life you see is based around that wish."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're avoiding the question."

"It was my dream, Dean. You don't need to know about it." You spoke a little more harshly than you'd intended and you hated yourself a little for it. Especially when you saw Dean wince.

He quickly recovered and threw his hands in the air in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I won't press, I promise."

"Thanks."

"Let me go talk to the doctor and see when we can get you outta here, okay?"

It was like he knew exactly what you needed. It warmed your heart and broke it all at once. "Thanks, Dean."

"Sure, (Y/N/N)."

**********

"Will I ever not be tired?" you complained grumpily two days later.

Sam laughed from the small table across the room from the bed you were currently curled up in. "It'll just take a little time. You lost a lot of blood, so your iron levels are low. Be patient."

"I hate being patient," you grumbled.

Sam chuckled again. "You sound like Dean."

As if he'd been summoned, Dean himself walked through the motel room door. "Dinner is served!" he announced happily.

You sat up and started to get out of the bed, but Dean ran over to you. "You can eat in bed, (Y/N). You need your rest."

"I appreciate that, Dean, but you're smothering me. I'm tired of laying in this bed."

Sam laughed and Dean just shook his head. "Alright fine."

He helped you to the table and you sat down across from Sam. You were grateful for his help, even if you didn't want to admit it.

"I got you a burger," Dean began. "I wasn't sure if you'd be feeling up to eating one, but you could really use the energy."

You smiled warmly. "A burger sounds amazing, Dean."

He handed you your food and gave Sam his. He pulled out his own, then reached into the bag and pulled out a small item, which he handed to you. "They, uh...they had freshly baked brownies, so I got you one."

Your eyes lit up as you took the neatly wrapped brownie from him. "Thanks," you said softly.

"They're your favorite, right?" he asked.

He remembered. "Yeah. Especially with the--"

"--little chocolate chips," he finished for you.

You stared at him for a moment, a soft smile gracing your features. Your eyes began to water, so you looked down at your food to keep from embarrassing yourself. "This looks delicious."

The three of you ate your dinners in companionable silence. When you were finished, you got out of your chair and started to make your way back to the bed. You were still tired, but you felt stronger than you had in a few days.

Dean immediately jumped out of his seat to help you, but you gently told him you were okay. "I'm alright, Dean."

His hands seemed to twitch as he watched you walk away, clearly wanting to make sure you were okay. He didn't relax until you sat down on the bed and started to unwrap your brownie.

"She's strong," Sam said lowly.

Dean turned his attention to his brother. "I know. I just worry about her."

"You know I can hear you both, right?" you said from your bed.

Both men chuckled lightly.

"The room's small and voices carry," you teased.

"You're not wrong," Sam said as he got up with a stretch. "I actually think I'm gonna hit the bar. I could use a drink after the week we've had."

Sam looked pointedly at his brother, which didn't go unnoticed by you. You watched as some sort of nonverbal exchange happened between the two men.

"I'll be back later," Sam said, getting what appeared to be the final word in whatever discussion they had been having. He walked out the door with his jacket and Dean locked it behind him.

"Since when does Sam go to bars by himself?" you asked.

Dean shrugged, but didn't meet your gaze. "Guess he really needed that drink."

"Or he wants to get laid," you mumbled.

Dean groaned. "Gross."

You laughed. "He's not a monk, Dean."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want to think about him getting jiggy with it."

"Did you just say 'getting jiggy with it'?"

"I was trying it out."

"Maybe don't," you said with a laugh.

He grinned and flopped down on the other bed. "I'll make a note of it."

The two of you fell into silence, but unlike during dinner, this one felt uncomfortable. The tension hung in the air and there was so much you wanted to say to him...and so much he wanted to say to you.

"Do you wanna watch TV?" you asked, breaking the silence.

"Not really."

"Okay."

The silence continued to drag on until Dean finally couldn't take it anymore. He sat up and looked at you, gaze seeming to bore into your soul. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"When you saved my life, I was pissed. Beyond pissed. I haven't been that angry in a long time. But it wasn't because I wanted to die or anything like that...I just didn't want you to. When that vampire sent you flying and I heard you hit the wall, I was terrified. More terrified than I've ever been before."

He took a slow breath before continuing. "Once the vampires were all dead and you started to get up, I felt relieved--you were okay. But then all I felt was rage. I was so angry with you for putting yourself in harm's way like that...for risking yourself to save me. I'm not entirely sure I deserve saving, but I do know if you had died to save me, I would have never forgiven myself."

You stared at him in silence, lips parted, eyes full of emotion. "Dean..."

He held his hand up to stop you. "That's why I yelled at you...that's why I said everything I said. I didn't--I didn't know how to explain what I was feeling, so I lashed out at you. You didn't deserve it and I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, (Y/N)."

"I appreciate your apology," you said softly. "But I won't apologize for saving your life. If I'd let you die? I wouldn't have forgiven myself."

He looked a little surprised. "I didn't think about that."

"You never think you deserve saving. You don't think you deserve happiness or peace, a normal life--god forbid love... You think you're some kind of monster, but you're not, Dean. You're the best person I know. You're loyal to a fault, strong and brave, but also kind and gentle. No one hates you the way you hate yourself, Dean Winchester, and I'm tired of you projecting those feelings onto other people."

This was absolutely not the direction he'd imagined this conversation going...but here they were. "I don't know why you think that...you've seen me at my worst."

Your expression softened. "You're right. I have. But I've also seen you at your best--and that is a sight to behold. You're incredible, Dean...in all the ways that matter."

His eyes roamed your face searching for any sign of deception. When he saw none, he decided to seize the opportunity to ask you the only question he was dying to know the answer to..."What did you dream about?"

"What?"

"What did you dream about?" he asked again.

You inhaled sharply. It wasn't that you didn't want to tell him about the dream...about the life the two of you had shared...it was just that you were afraid. Afraid of how he would react, what he would think, what he would say...you weren't sure if you wanted to risk it.

You looked into his eyes for what felt like eternity. They seemed to swirl with emotion while silently begging you to tell him the truth.

You sighed. "I dreamed of a normal life...nice house, good job, friends, a fiancé...the whole nine yards."

His lips parted in surprise. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask, but he needed to know. "Fiancé?"

You nodded. "Yeah...I, uh--I was as surprised as you are."

"Is that what you want? A normal life with some random guy who doesn't really know you?"

"He wasn't some random guy," you admitted quietly.

"What?"

"In my dream...my fiancé was someone I know."

"Like in the real world?"

You nodded.

"Who?" Please don't be Sam. Please don't be Sam. Please don't be Sam.

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to you or you wouldn't have dreamed it...the Djinn wouldn't have chosen him."

You hated that he was right and you didn't want to tell him. You were afraid it would ruin your relationship...you loved hunting with Sam and Dean. You loved traveling the country with them, hunting monsters, saving people, living in shitty motels...you loved it all, but most of all you loved Dean...and that was something you had never shared with anyone.

"It wasn't real," you whispered. "It was just a fantasy."

Dean decided to take a risk and he prayed he wouldn't regret it. "It doesn't have to be a fantasy."

"What?" you asked in surprise.

"If you tell him...maybe it can be real."

There was something in his eyes that gave you pause. After a few seconds, you realized it was fear. He was afraid of what you were going to say...and it gave you hope. Why would he be afraid of what you were going to say if he wasn't hoping it was him?

"It was you," you admitted quietly.

His lips parted and he inhaled deeply. "Me?"

You nodded slowly, suddenly unable to speak.

He stood up and crossed the short distance between you. He very gently pushed you back against the pillows and crawled on top of you, hovering mere inches from your face. "Do you love me?"

Your eyes widened in surprise. This was not at all how you imagined telling Dean how you feel, but you found yourself incapable of lying to him. "Yes," you breathed out.

"Say it," he whispered.

"I love you, Dean," you said softly.

He closed his eyes and laid his forehead against yours, his breathing labored and his hands shaking slightly. "(Y/N)..."

He stopped thinking then and let his body guide him. He'd loved you for so long--wanted you for even longer--and now he was finally going to have you. He pressed his lips against yours and kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips.

The kisses you'd shared with the fake Dean in your dreams were nothing compared to the real thing. Actual sparks flew, igniting a need for him deep within you. Your hands clung to his flannel shirt, pulling him even closer to you.

He moaned softly against your lips and you parted them to allow him entry. His tongue dominated yours in a passionate fight for power. His hands began to roam the soft curves of your body, eliciting low moans of desire from you.

"I don't remember a time when I didn't love you," he admitted against your lips. "I don't want to remember before."

Your heart seemed to sing at his words. Dean had always been a deeply emotional man--he felt things more strongly than anyone you'd ever known, but he bottled up his emotions and hid them from the rest of the world. Hearing him finally confess his deepest secret made you feel incredibly special.

"I love you so much, Dean Winchester. So, so much."

He smiled. "I love you more, (Y/N) (Y/L/N)."

He kissed you again and you melted into him. His hands continued to roam your body, and yours did the same to his. A passionate need for one another had been ignited within each of you and neither of you could deny it.

You began to peel off his clothing and he did the same to you. The idea of being completely naked with Dean would have normally terrified you, but you could feel the waves of love oozing from the man above you. You knew you weren't the kind of girl Dean normally brought home, but none of that mattered--not when you could feel the love he had for you.

By the time you were both naked, you were overwhelmed with the desire to feel him inside you. He, however, had other plans. He began to slowly work his way down your body, stopping to show your breasts some attention.

"You know, I always loved these," he mumbled as he nipped and sucked at your breasts, earning sweet moans from you.

He continued his journey down your stomach, placing kisses to the scars and stretch marks littering your skin. You felt worshipped in a way you'd never experienced before.

Finally, Dean landed right where you wanted him, but he didn't give into you easily. His lips kissed along your inner thighs, appreciating the soft skin, biting gently to see your reaction.

Your breathing was ragged and you began to beg him to do something, anything. "Dean please," you murmured. "Stop teasing."

He chuckled lightly, but he didn't deny your request. His lips pressed against your core and he pushed your legs as far apart as he could without hurting you. His tongue darted out and licked a stripe up your pussy.

He let out a deep growling sound and dove into you like a man starved. He dug his fingers into your hips as he tugged you closer to him, feasting on you like you were the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.

Your moans spurred him on, the sweet sounds like music to his ears. He could have happily stayed here between your legs until the end of time, but he had a feeling you would make him stop eventually.

Your fingers were interlaced in his hair and you were begging him not to stop. Not that he would have, but you didn't know that. "Dean...I'm so close."

He moaned in response, sending shivers of pleasure up your spine. His tongue focused its assault directly on your clit and you cried out. Your legs began to shake and he could feel you nearing the edge.

He sped up his ministrations, earning another cry from your lips. Your hips bucked slightly and he shifted his arm to hold you in place. "Oh god!" you yelled.

You tightened your grip on his hair as you felt the impact slam into you, orgasming with a cry of his name. He worked you through your high, only stopping when you squirmed out of his grasp.

"Dean," you murmured as he crawled back up towards your face.

He kissed you softly. "I wanna be inside you so badly, baby," he whispered into your ear.

"Please..."

"I don't have a condom," he said softly.

"I don't care. I want you, Dean. Please."

He could never deny you, especially when you begged him so prettily. He lined himself up with your entrance and sheathed himself inside you with one quick thrust.

You gasped his name and dug your fingers into his shoulder blades. The feeling of him filling you up was enough to push you closer to a second orgasm.

Your pussy gripped him like an iron vice and he had to take a deep breath to control himself. He hadn't felt like this since he was a teenager. He needed to get a grip or he was going to cum embarrassingly early.

Your hips shifted beneath him and he hissed softly. "Dean," you begged. "Move."

He started to move and the sounds of wet skin against skin began to fill the room. Those were soon overpowered by your moans and his low groans.

"Fuck, baby...feels so good," he whispered. "Such a sweet, tight, little pussy."

You moaned and your pussy clenched even tighter around him.

He groaned and his hips stuttered to a stop. "You gotta stop doing that baby, or I'm gonna cum."

You grinned wickedly. "Isn't that the point?"

He nipped at your neck playfully. "Not until I get another one from you."

He started to move again, which wiped the smirk from your face in an instant. You wrapped your legs tightly around him, effectively locking him into place inside you.

"Normally I'd have you in a hundred different positions," he muttered, "but I wanna see your face when you cum. I wanna watch my pretty girl fall apart because of me."

Your pussy clenched and you moaned softly in response.

"Yeah? You like that? You like that I wanna watch you?"

You nodded.

"Words, baby."

"Yes, Dean," you gasped.

"That's my good girl."

You practically preened at the praise and Dean made a mental note of it for later. For now, he was focusing on drawing another orgasm from you and staving off his own.

"You're so tight, sweet girl. Feels so good."

Your moans spurred him on, forcing him to keep up his pace. He pulled himself up slightly, tugging your hips with him, allowing him to reach your g-spot with each thrust.

You let out a cry a pleasure that he knew he would die to hear again. He closed his eyes for a moment as he sped up, desperately trying to keep himself from cumming before you did.

"That's it baby, I know you're close," he murmured.

"So close," you cried out.

"I know," he whispered. "I want you to cum for me, baby. Cover my cock with your sweet juices."

Your legs tightened around his hips and your nails dug deeper into his back. He watched your face as you began to shake--orgasm mere seconds away.

"Eyes on me, baby," he demanded.

Your eyes flew open and met his gaze. You gasped--the intensity of it all pushing you over the edge. You yelled his name as you came, explosions of light flashing behind your eyelids as they fluttered closed.

He watched your beautiful face as you rode out your high with him. He shifted focus to his own quickly impending orgasm. His breathing became more ragged and you opened your eyes to find his again.

"Feels so good, baby," you murmured.

His eyes locked onto yours and he panted heavily.

"I know you're close, handsome. I want you to fill me up."

His green eyes widened. "You sure?"

You nodded. "I need it, Dean. Please." You clenched down on his cock to emphasize your words.

That was all he needed in order to reach his peak. He moaned your name as he started to cum, whispering it into your skin like a chant as he emptied inside of you.

You held onto him tightly as he came down, his body shaking slightly from the intensity of his orgasm. He finally collapsed on top of you, unable to hold up his own weight.

You placed a soft kiss to his head and listened to his breathing begin to regulate.

Eventually, he rolled off of you, leaving you feeling strangely empty. He managed to drag himself off the bed with a murmured "I'll be right back."

You watched him walk to the bathroom, and for a moment you worried he'd regret it, but your fears were assuaged by his reappearance with a wet washcloth.

Your face must have betrayed your thoughts because he knelt before you and said, "I love you, (Y/N), with everything I have."

You smiled. "I love you too, Dean."

He returned your smile and began to carefully and gently clean you up with the washcloth. It was warm and it felt nice to be cared for like that.

Once he was finished, he threw the washcloth into the bathroom and crawled back onto the bed. He tugged you close to him and pulled the covers up over you when you started to shiver.

"Anyone ever tell you you're beautiful when you cum?" he asked softly.

You laughed lightly. "You would be the first."

He kissed your hair and tightened his grip on you. "I intend on being the last."

You turned your head to look at him and felt your heart melt a little. You didn't have a good response for that, so you simply kissed him, hoping your emotions were conveyed in the action.

He leaned into the kiss and whimpered slightly when your lips left his. You kissed him one more time and he let you pull away after several seconds.

"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "I'll keep you safe."

You knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would die to keep his word. You settled back against him, a silent response of trust and gratitude. He gave you a soft squeeze as you began to drift off to sleep.

This life might be hard...it might be full of pain and loss, but it was real. The man holding you in his arms was real. The love you felt for each other was real...and you wouldn't change any of it.

#supernatural #dean winchester #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x plus!size reader smut #dean winchester x reader smut #dean winchester x reader #plus sized reader

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mistyresolve · 1 year

Text

| Hostage - Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Word count - 1.9K

Summary - When y/n is taken hostage because she is their combat analyst and knows a significant amount of information in regards to the 141, Ghost goes ballistic. Driven by fear and anger he locates you and is able to rescue you but the fear lingers and he struggles to wrestle his feelings back down.

Warnings/Tags - Violence and blood, allusions to a brief panic attack

A/N - I’m thinking of doing an epilogue to this but I’m really on the fence

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Ghost feared very little. Knew that very little could actually kill him, and even fewer people could do the same. He knew he wasn’t invincible, and someday his luck would run out. Someday his heart would stop, and his blood would run cold. He couldn’t run from the inevitable; thus, he welcomed death with open arms like one would an old friend. He didn’t have a death wish though. He was merely passive towards it. Sometimes he liked the thrill a brush with death gave him. It reminded him he was alive, that his heart did indeed beat like everyone else’s.

When it came to you, it was an entirely different story. The very idea of you being hurt, and dying, scared the shit out of him. The thought of you leaving him behind plagued him. Even in his sleep, nightmares of you taking your last breaths in his arms would force him from sleep. He’d spend the rest of the night watching you sleep, watching your chest rise and fall, feeling the heat radiating from your skin. He feared for the day he wasn’t able to protect you.

A day like today.

“Ghost,” Price spoke slowly and low like he was talking to a wide animal. Which wasn’t that far off, “We’ll get them back, we just need more information. We can’t run in there blind and deaf.”

Price might as well have been talking to a brick wall because all Ghost could hear was ringing. An incessant, grating sound that shrouded him from all sense and reason. He remained utterly silent, seeth in his own wrath. The wrath he was sure to bring down on everyone and anyone who stood in his way. The 141 was well aware of this and stood aside as Ghost stalked to the door, his shoulders rolled and taut ready for a fight. He had turned so wholly maniacal that even Soap was disturbed by the look in his eye and backed down. Ghost went AWOL, but the 141 provided as much support as they could. They were able to give him updates and new information over the radio, but they were never able to catch up with his unrelenting pace. Instead, they only stumbled over his messes. Their own anxiety and unease about the meaning behind it all grew. It was as if humanity abandoned him as he tracked—No. As he hunted down the men who took you, smelling their blood in the air and following the scent. Ghost spared no one. If someone wasn't giving him the information he’d slay them and move to the next. If the next person wasn’t giving him information fast enough they were executed.

When he finally located you, you were in a warehouse, he communicated back into the radio for the first time to tell the rest of the 141.

The captors had yet to start drawing blood, but only because they were trying a psychological approach. It had already been three hours. Three very long hours. You were a combat analyst, you weren’t a trained soldier like the 141. And you sure as hell wasn’t prepared for something like this. He didn’t let himself think too hard about the possibilities. He didn’t let himself think about the probability of finding you dead inside the warehouse. You had crucial information on the 141 that they wanted, and he could only hope that information was keeping you alive.

He slaughtered his way into the building, leaving nothing but carnage behind him. When he got visuals on you, alive, he nearly collapsed. Not completely unharmed though.

You were soaked from waterboarding. They had used ice-cold water, and somehow it was colder still. The big industrial fans hanging from the roof blew cool air, but it was only amplified tenfold for you. He could hear your shivering, see how your lips had turned a scary shade of blue. Your hair stuck to your face in wet clumps. Your hands were bound to a chair, your fingers curling into your palms in search of any warmth. Your eyes burned holes into whoever stood in front of you.

“Where. Are. The 141. Hiding?” Your captor asked again, the same question he’s been asking from the very beginning. He forced your head back, getting ready to place the towel. He hadn’t gotten anything out of you yet, but he could tell you were breaking.

You bit out a smile, although it was more of an act of you baring your teeth at him, “Go to hell,” Your teeth chattered, despite your best efforts. Before the captor could place to sopping towel back over your face he emerges.

It’s almost as if Ghost was made from the shadows themselves with the way he seems to materialize out of them. The way they clung to him. He couldn’t remember losing his handgun, but at some point, he’d resorted to knives.

You knew he wasn’t here for your blood but alarms and warnings went off in your very bones. They screamed, Danger! Danger!

Ghost was every bit his reputation at this moment. His eyes were wide and unseeing. His movements were swift and snappy like elastics were snapping in his limbs. He’d taken his time when he dragged the blade across the man's throat, wanting to keep him alive to feel every ounce of agony at his life quite literally drained from him.

The speed at which he moved in front of you almost made you think him inhuman. He uncuffed you and pulled you into his arms, squeezing you hard enough that you thought he was going to break bones. He was panting, almost unable to catch his breath. You could almost smell his fear; that and the blood that was surely hiding among the black dye of his clothes.

You repeatedly murmured, “I’m okay. I’m okay,” into his shoulder. Not sure if you were comforting him, or yourself. Both, you very quickly realized. As whatever came over him in those few hours of your life in danger, ebbed from his veins, he finally, finally returned to his body. Before it had felt like he was watching himself from outside his body, watching himself from someone else perceptive. Someone may have thought he wasn’t a mundane soldier, but a vessel for whatever god wished to experience true unchecked rage.

But he was human.

He felt true terror today, and his body was starting to feel the effects of it. He kept repeating, “I’m sorry,” like they were the only words he could remember. His body began to tremble uncontrollably, and his skin felt too tight and itchy. You let him hold you, let him feel your heartbeat against his.

The 141 arrived with a medic. Simon immediately stepped aside, allowing the professional to assess you. She’d immediately announced hypothermia and called for a medevac. She’d wrapped a reflective blanket around your shoulders and removed her own jacket and put it on top.

Once Simon was completely and utterly sure you were in good hands, he’d stumbled to the wall, choosing a spot where he was obscured from your view. Everyone’s view. He’d fallen to his knees then, his strength leaving him. They cracked against the concrete, but he welcomed the sharp pain. He’d lifted his mask and thrown up.

It had been a long, long while since he’d had a reaction like this. Where panic and hysteria claimed him. Guilt and self-loathing suffocated him. Filled his chest, and bubbled up into his throat.

He let this happen. He wasn’t careful enough. He got too comfortable.

And this was the result.

It was his fault.

His fault. His fault. His fault.

He clenched his jaw, fighting back hot tears. He leaned his back against the wall, rested his arms on his knees, and let his head hang between his legs. If circumstances were different he would have crawled into the safety of your arms and begged you to make this feeling stop. To make it go away. It was a selfish thought, he knew that. Knew that you were one who needed comfort and reassurance right now. Knew that you needed him just as much, but he didn’t want you to see this. For if you looked into his eyes, you’d be faced with the reality that he truly had had no idea what to do. He came looking with no plan and hardly any direction. He’d once again gotten lucky by following breadcrumbs and whispers to find you.

He almost lost you.

You were alive, yes, but what if he’d come an hour later? A minute?

The 141 knew where he was. Had watched him as he melted back into the shadows, but respected Simon’s silent request for solitary. They understood that he needed to wade through these emotions on his own and that no matter what they said or did wasn’t going to fix it.

When he heard the familiar sound of a chopper overhead he forced himself to collect himself. Allowing himself 10 more seconds before remasking, and finding you. The medic and Price were escorting you to the front doors.

“Simon,” Soap appeared at his side, Ghost jerked his attention to him, “There is nothing you could have done differently.”

He didn’t say anything, but his silence was enough for Soap to understand that he disagreed. With that, he made his way over to you taking Price’s place at your side.

You were still shaking but you held your head high with your shoulders squared. Simon could have cried at the sight. To see you were defiant in the face of it all was enough to ease the tiniest bit of worry from his shoulders. He knew you weren’t totally unaffected and it was going to take you years to repair the damages, but here you were walking out of this building on your own two feet.

The medic tried to tell him he couldn’t come with but he downright refused to leave you, “Try and tell me no.”, and she must have known immediately she wasn’t going to win because she let him in anyway.

He held your hand in his the entire flight to the nearest hospital, eyes darting about. He stayed at your side the entire time you were in the hospital too. He slept in the chair beside your bed, or at least pretended to until you drifted off into sleep, but was wide awake and alert for the rest of the night. Only leaving when Soap came for a visit the next day with clothes for him, telling him he’d take the next shift. Simon changed and came right back to the room. Only this time when he sat in the chair with the hood of his sweater pulled over his head, did he sleep. Finding some solace in knowing Soap was here too.

Tomorrow he was going to have a meeting with Price about his insubordination. And about the ramage he went on. Tomorrow he was going to have to tell Price about how he’d completely lost himself, didn’t even remember half of it.

Epilogue

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A/N - Price isn’t mad, he’s worried

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley drabble #simon ghost riley angst #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod ghost #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #cod x y/n #mw2 x reader #ghost mw2 #mw2 #MistyGhosties

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