#GLOW AU

[waynes-multiverse]

Plastic Hearts – Part 23

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, language, smut, fluff, angst, quiet hurt & a touch of heartbreak

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Oh, you'll hate me again for ending it like this. Have fun, guys 😂

<< 22 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

23. Every Breath You Take

“More?” Dean offers the half-emptied wine bottle and holds it over Y/N’s glass as they sit around the dinner table. The actress throws him a raised look with a little smile playing on her lips.

“Are you trying to get me drunk? You don’t have to. I’m already sleeping here,” she points out in amusement.

“Yeah, but when you’re buzzed, you let me do more shit.” The green-eyed director smirks.

“Ew, Dad!” Claire groans next to him. “I’m right here. This is why I don’t wanna do family dinner with you guys.”

“This was actually a nice idea,” Y/N says with a smile so bright it shows her dimples. “Thanks for cooking tonight. Perfect way to start our last week of filming.”

Dean’s heart stings slightly at her words, but he covers it with a tight smile. The last three weeks passed by rather quickly, and each week, he grew more worried, more nervous, more depressed, and more anxious. This was it. Seven more days before it all imploded. Six more nights before he might not see her again.

He has been wracking his brain, trying to come up with solutions to save the show – to keep her. Cas and Jo are out on fairs, networking with networks and showing their tape to other producers in hopes of getting picked up by someone else, still without any success.

“So, uh, any plans so far? Heard some of the girls are going to auditions, looking for other jobs,” Dean notes and nurses his beer. He doesn’t hold it against them. It’s the business, after all, and everyone’s trying to survive and find their next paycheck.

Y/N bobs her head and sets her wine glass down. “Yeah, actually. I was thinking about taking your advice and going to New York for auditions. I like the idea of doing theater or maybe even a musical.”

Dean forces a supportive smile on his face and hides the heartbreak in his ribcage. “Yeah, you should. You’d be great at it.”

“But, uhm, for now, I’m actually driving to San Diego in a few days for an audition for a musical. I’m not gonna get it, but I figured it’d be fun,” she tells him, and even though she downplays it, Dean can see the excitement sparkling in her eyes.

“Oh, c’mon, why wouldn’t you get it?” he encourages her. He promised himself he’d always be her cheerleader, no matter his own feelings on the subject. He’s trying a new thing these days – it’s called being less selfish.

But God, he hopes she gets it. San Diego is a lot closer to LA than New York.

Y/N snorts into her glass, chuckling. “It’s a Sondheim musical, Dean. I’m not expecting to get it. It’s just good practice.”

“Aiming high, huh?” Dean laughs despondently and takes a big gulp of beer to choke down his tears.

Dammit, Dean thinks. He wishes he could call the dude and tell him what a great woman and actress Y/N is. He’d be lucky to have her in his production. Maybe the director could bribe him to hire her? Would that take things too far?

“How are you gonna get down there?” Dean’s eyes drift to the leg in a cast that rests on a chair next to him.

Y/N gives him a shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Take the bus?”

“I’ll drive you,” he says with a swig of his beer. See? Supportive. He’s really proud of himself, although he wishes he were a lot drunker right now.

“Ooh, uh, Claire, I borrowed two dresses from Alex for you. I put them in your room. You need to pick one for your Winter Formal,” Y/N tells his daughter with a bright smile.

But Claire shakes her head with teenage defiance. “I don’t need a dress. Jack and I are going ironically.”

Dean’s brow furrows in confusion as he blinks at his kid. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Claire rolls her eyes in response and groans. “Ugh, Dad, you’d think for someone who lived through counterculture, you’d understand.” With that, she gets up from the dinner table and takes her empty plate to the kitchen sink.

“I know what she means,” Y/N mumbles nonchalantly.

Dean’s bewildered gaze darts to her. “Really? What?”

Y/N coolly shrugs her shoulders as she sips on her wine before she sighs defeatedly. “Fine, I don’t know. I just wanted to sound cooler than you,” she admits with a cute smile.

Dean snorts a laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

“I’m going to bed. Good night! Don’t be too loud!” Claire yells before the door to her room slams shut.

Dean watches Y/N as she leans back in her chair with a blissful sigh and empties her glass. She has pretty much spent every night at his place since the hospital. At this point, the director has gotten so used to it that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if one night she didn’t. Why can’t it stay this way?

He never thought he’d be someone who wants to have family dinners every night.

“Too tired for dessert?” he asks with a wiggle of his eyebrows and his signature smirk.

Y/N laughs lightly. “I wish one of these days you’d offer me actual dessert,” she quips.

“Like what? Chocolate cake? Pie? I’d actually love some pie. Maybe we should get one for tomorrow night,” Dean muses, chuckling.

Y/N grins mischievously at him and leans her elbows on the dinner table, resting her chin in her palms. “Maybe you can eat pie off of me.”

Dean curls his lips, his cheeks blushing at the idea alone. His dick seems to like it, too. “God, I love… your brain,” he quickly corrects his course before the wrong words slip out.

And it’s not like it isn’t true. While Y/N hasn’t been able to act and tumble around the ring, she’s been coming up with storylines and basically coordinated matches for the past three episodes. She’s also constantly by his side and mans the booth with him. If Dean didn’t sleep with her and like her, he’d actually be scared she’s coming for his job. She’s pretty much directing at this point, and he just lets her because, well, did he actually ever care?

But his declaration is only a small part of the truth, the full truth being that he loves more than just her damn brain and has for a long while. He’s been trying to say the words for weeks now, started and stopped a hundred times, and tried to pack his feelings into a coherent sentence that honestly shouldn’t be more than three words long.

However, those are some big three words. Monstrous for Y/N. And deep down, Dean knows she might feel like he does, too, but can’t admit it and doesn’t know what the hell to do with it. To her, this little arrangement between them is nothing more than friends who fuck. Only Dean’s aware that they’re actually in a deeply serious relationship, which is maddeningly ridiculous.

But hey, if he keeps his mouth shut, they might make it another five years like this without Y/N running away, so that’s something.

Dean then rises from his seat and offers his hands to Y/N. Her leg is still in a cast, so she has been wobbling around on crutches or hopping clumsily across a room. It’s pretty darn cute.

“Thank you,” Y/N says gratefully as Dean helps her up and slings her arm around his neck before he fully hoists her into his arms. She giggles as he carries her into the bedroom. “You don’t have to do this every night, you know. I can walk just fine.”

“Says you, but truth is, you’ve never seen yourself walk on these things. It’s pathetic,” he teases her and plops her carefully down on the bed.

He flings off his shirt and removes his jeans and underwear as Y/N unbuttons her blouse. The mattress dips as he climbs into the bed and helps her discard her pants. It’s routine at this point, but Dean has really started to cherish the stability. Every morning when he wakes up and smiles at her, he loves knowing that he’ll fall asleep right next to her at night all over again.

Gently, he spreads her legs and slots between them. His lips find hers in the moonlit dark and kiss her with deep affection and burning love, always pouring his whole heart into each kiss and hoping one of these days it’ll stick.

Grabbing a condom from the nightstand, he rolls it over his throbbing length and positions his dickhead at her entrance, slipping into her tight channel till she’s full of him. Her lips part as the same little gasp escapes her that he hears every time he enters her. He loves hearing that noise almost as much as he loves to hear the big one when she comes and the medium ones in-between.

Sometimes, Dean makes her come before, but on nights like these, when she’s already had half a bottle of wine, he rather works quick. While wine makes her louder and more daring, it also renders her quite sleepy.

“Fuck,” she sighs and closes her eyes with a euphoric smile, her pussy gripping his cock tight as she clenches around him. “You’re always so good at that.”

Dean smiles amusedly. Wine makes her chatty, too. “I haven’t even done anything yet, sweetheart,” he remarks.

“Well, I guess I just-… I just love your cock,” she says bluntly and grins up at him. “And those lips.”

See? Wine.

“These ones?” Dean asks teasingly and leans down, pulling one of her nipples between them till she squirms.

“Uh-huh, yes…” she moans softly and cards her hands through his hair, causing a groan to pass his lips. “And that tongue.”

“This one?” Dean lets his tongue roll over that same nipple till it peaks, feeling her arch her back underneath him.

“Yes, and God, those hands and fingers…” she almost whines.

“Those two?” Dean snakes a hand between their bodies, two of his fingers finding her clit and drawing tickling circles.

There’s no more strength left for words. She bites harshly down on her bottom lip and nods vividly. Her cunt clutches him tightly, eliciting a giddy chuckle from him. He loves making her squirm.

Three more squeezes, and he knows he has to move before she grows impatient. He knows her well by now, knows every little detail about her, and loves that he does. They haven’t even been able to do half the things he wants to do to her due to her current injury and inability to move (or bend) as freely.

And yet, he’s still not fucking bored, not in the slightest. He keeps waiting for it, but it never comes.

On the contrary, he appreciates the feeling of knowing someone so deeply and intimately as he knows Y/N. She has become a part of his soul, and he doesn’t know if he could ever cut her out without severely hurting himself. He’s not sure if he could survive a wound this deep.

“Dean, please…”

That was the fourth – like clockwork.

Dean manages to thrust twice before loud punk rock music shakes the walls and drowns out every noise in the entire house. Hell, the whole neighborhood can probably hear it.

Frustrated, his head drops momentarily to Y/N’s shoulder as the actress snorts a giggle. He can feel her body and cunt trembling around him, but not for the reason it should.

“Claire!” Dean shouts angrily. “Turn that fucking music down! Y/N’s trying to sleep!”

“No, she’s not!” his kid yells back through the wall and the unbearable music. “I know you guys are having sex! I don’t wanna hear anything!”

“We’re not having sex,” Dean barks and watches as Y/N gapes at him in sheer playfulness.

“Wow, you lie like that to your kid?” she teases him.

“What d’you want me to say? ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m inside of her now’?” Dean retorts wryly, making Y/N burst into uncontrollable laughter as she snorts into his shoulder. “Can you please stop laughing while I’m trying to fuck you? My soldier’s already retreating.”

But Y/N only laughs harder at that, tears streaming down her cheeks as Dean’s lips purse with a sigh through his nose. She then exhales a deep, long breath, trying to calm herself. He’s seen her do this very move a hundred times during an acting scene.

She clears her throat and tries to force a more serious look onto her features. “How about a little Russian motivation?” she says in her infamous accent and smiles when his cock twitches in agreement. “Maybe some oral manipulation, yes?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Dean grins and leans down to capture her lips. “God, I love yo… your pussy,” he quickly corrects himself once more. That was a close one.

Alright, don’t look at him like that and don’t judge him. He’s trying. He really is.

But Jesus fucking Christ, he loves living these days. Who knew his forties would be the best time of his life?

With a big yawn, Y/N rubs her eyes and stretches her arms over her head. The shower in the main bathroom is running with Dean already in it. She grabs her crutches and hops to the window, opening the blinds to let some sunlight in.

She takes a deep breath and enjoys the morning silence for a moment, her gaze drifting out the quiet neighborhood. It has never been this peaceful in the motel. The last three weeks, she has really appreciated waking up in Dean’s bed. She knows she’s probably overstaying her welcome at this point, but he hasn’t kicked her to the curb yet, so she hasn’t been in a hurry to return to the motel, either.

He was right – the memory foam mattress is fucking heaven, especially with a broken ankle.

All in all, she imagined being benched for the show would be a lot worse than it is. Dean’s done a great job of incorporating her anywhere outside of the ring. She’s helping with storylines, training, directing, producing – really anything that could use a few tweaks. The green-eyed director is unfashionably nice to her. Maybe it’s the sex or their friendship or a combination of both. Either way, she’s grateful for him.

However, there’s this tiny voice inside her head that keeps telling her there’s a reason why Dean’s been so nice, and it’s not just the sex. It’s certain kisses and touches and looks – especially the looks – that make her believe there’s something lying underneath the surface. An iceberg so gigantic it could sink the Titanic. Whenever she catches his clandestine gazes from her periphery, there’s this inexplicable feeling that creeps through her veins.

Her peace is disturbed when excessive knocking and an uninterrupted ringing of the doorbell draw her attention to the front door. A part of her expects to find her best friend behind it. Only Jo could be this ruthless and obnoxious.

Y/N hurries to the door as fast as she can, which isn’t fast at all, considering she’s on crutches. Everything is just awkward and slow these days, but she’s been practicing moving around in hopes of joining the show again for the final episode. Billie and Donna have been helping her, too.

But as Y/N opens the door, she’s not greeted by the familiar blonde but by a brunette stranger instead. The only similarity the woman shares with Jo is that she’s incredibly hot and angry, too.

“Can I help you?” Y/N asks with a look of bewilderment, although she shouldn’t be surprised to find a mad woman on Dean’s doorstep.

“I’m Lisa Braeden. I’m looking for my daughter,” the woman says, somewhat impatiently.

Oh.

“Uh…”

Y/N stumps for a moment, eyeing the woman in front of her closely. So, this is Claire’s mother. Dean’s ex. She tries not to feel insecure around her, but it’s hard, considering the woman is a bombshell with perfect curves and flawless features. And if she looks like that now, Y/N wonders what she must’ve looked like seventeen years ago.

The actress suddenly feels very exposed in only the director’s flannel. Truthfully, she looks like she just crawled out of a gutter. Maybe it’s the fact she has just woken up and is sporting major bed-head, but Lisa probably thinks Dean took in a homeless person. The cast and crutches don’t help, either. And then, Y/N wonders why a part of her cares at all what the brunette thinks and reminds herself it’s not a competition.

“Dean? Dean!”

Her voice carries a certain amount of panic that’s probably uncalled for. Yet, it helps. The shower turns off, and not a minute later, Dean stands next to her with only a towel wrapped around his waist, his broad chest still glistening with droplets of water.

He does know how to make an entrance.

Dean’s brow is deeply creased when he takes in the woman at the door, lacking a sense of recognition, however. “What the fuck is all that noise?”

“I’m the fucking noise,” Lisa replies dryly. “I’m here for my kid.”

“Oh…” Dean stumps as well. Then, he swallows thickly and gives her a nervous smile. “Hi, uhm, I’m Dean Winchester.”

“I know who you fucking are, you moron,” Lisa huffs, shaking her head. “You got me pregnant. Where’s Claire?” When neither Dean nor Y/N answer, Lisa rolls her eyes and waltzes past the two inside the house. “Claire!”

“Sure, come on in,” Dean mutters under his breath and shares a wide-eyed look with Y/N, hoping for some guidance.

The actress eyes him up and down, pensively licking her lips. “Maybe you should get dressed.”

With some pants and a shirt on, Dean and Y/N have retreated to the kitchen and sip quietly on their cups of coffee while Lisa and Claire scream at each other. It’s a classic mother and teenage daughter battle. Claire fights for freedom, while Lisa fights for control.

“I had sex with that woman seventeen years ago. Now she’s in my house, yelling at my kid,” the director voices his thoughts out loud, a hint of trepidation shimmering in his green eyes.

“Yup, life has a way of catching up with you. Kinda learned that this year,” Y/N notes with pursed lips and sends him a smile. “But hey, they’re your family now. Kinda nice, right?”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking,” Dean huffs with a bitter look and watches Y/N place her mug in the sink.

“I should probably go. Leave you guys to figure this out,” Y/N announces, one hop on a healthy foot away from walking out the door. “I’ll call a cab.”

“No, don’t! You can’t leave me here alone with them,” Dean pleads, the sheer panic and desperation visible in his eyes and audible in his voice. His gaze bores into her. “C’mon, I need you. This is one of those, you know, friendship moments. Like abortions and getting over coke addictions.”

Y/N lets out a small sigh. How could she leave him after everything he’s done for her? She basically has no choice but to stay and help him through this. “What d’you want me to do? Mediate?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Dean shrugs helplessly. “I just know I’m gonna say all the wrong shit at the wrong time. Please. I don’t wanna lose my kid. Help me.”

As she catches his gaze, there’s that inexplicable feeling creeping through her veins again. This time, it even tugs on her heart.

“Okay, uhm, alright. I’ll stay,” she promises him, offering him a small smile of comfort.

Unbeknownst to her, though, Dean comes close to saying the three ominous words once more. It’s getting harder every day to keep them inside. How long does he have until he bursts? He feels like a ticking time bomb.

“Maybe we should all sit down and talk?” Y/N suggests as soon as Claire has stormed into her room and slammed the door in upset.

“About what?” Lisa barks, half-annoyed as she rests her hands on her squared-off hips. “She’s been lying to me for months.”

“Okay, in my defense, she told me you were crazy,” Dean explains with an innocent shrug.

“I don’t care if she told you I beat her and locked her into the basement. If a kid has run away from home, you call their mother,” Lisa retorts furiously.

Dean purses his lips in defeat for a moment, especially when Y/N seems to agree. She’s kind of his moral compass, but he’s not ready to accept his loss yet. “Well, you didn’t call me to tell me you were having a kid. My kid,” he argues and knows it’ll probably backfire. He can tell by Y/N’s frown.

“Oh, excuse me for not calling the guy who didn’t stay for breakfast,” Lisa counters with an eye roll.

Dean’s brow furrows, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s what happened.” Granted, he’s been high for two decades now.

“I asked if you wanted pancakes. You said, ‘No, thanks, but that was fun.’ And then you got into your car and bolted, never to be seen again,” Lisa recalls, frowning.

“Uhm, that sounds like it was a long time ago,” Y/N interjects in his defense, chuckling nervously. “He’s a different and more mature person now.”

Dean’s heart swells to twice its size. It’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about him. Although, he can tell she only said it to win Lisa over. She’s a good actress, making even him believe her words. But she’s helping him, so it’s the thought that counts.

“Thanks for the input. Who are you again? Are you his fucking maid?” Lisa arches a brow at her, eyeing her up and down.

“No, she’s not my maid,” Dean replies fiercely but then doesn’t know what else to say. Girlfriend? Lover? Friend? Nothing sounds right. “She’s my, uhm, she’s my actress. She’s my… You know, she’s… She’s Y/N.”

At that, Y/N’s brow draws together in the middle with a tilt of her head. Dean surmises that answer probably sounded even weirder.

“Yeah, I can see you’ve changed so much.” Lisa scoffs sarcastically and folds her arms over her chest, her patience running low.

Y/N subtly clears her throat, deciding to step in. God knows the director needs all the help he can get. “Okay, uhm, it doesn’t really matter who I am,” she says and shares a look with Dean, who anxiously chews his bottom lip raw. “What matters is that Dean has really connected with Claire over the last few months. He’s enrolled her in high school, she has joined AV club, she’s got a really nice and sweet boyfriend.” Dean grimaces at that last part, but Y/N skillfully ignores it and continues, “They’re going to Winter Formal tonight.”

“Yeah, I’m chaperoning,” Dean announces proudly. “This dance is very meaningful to her.”

Lisa snorts a laugh, clearly amused. “My kid does not go to dances.”

“Yes, I do!” Claire suddenly stands in the middle of the living room with the brightest smile. It’s freaky, really. She gleefully holds up the two dresses Y/N brought over last night, feigning her excitement. “Which one should I wear?”

Lisa and Dean disagree on the dress choice, but when Y/N sides with Lisa, Claire takes the hint and quickly disappears back into her room.

“It’s just one night, and it will give you two some time to catch up. Figure this out,” Y/N advocates suggestively.

“Yeah, what she said,” Dean agrees and clears his dry throat, wishing he had a bottle of booze in his hand to calm his nerves. Man, in stressful situations like these, he does miss coke sometimes. But fucking Y/N has been a great substitute, so maybe he’ll just do that as soon as that crazy woman leaves his house again. “Look, I get that you’re angry. But I’m really trying here, okay? She’s doing great at school, I gave her a curfew… I wanna make up for lost time,” he explains sincerely. Y/N sends him a proud smile.

“Fine, one night, but tomorrow we’re leaving,” Lisa relents with a sigh. “I’m not gonna indulge this fucking father-daughter fantasy,” she huffs and then finally storms out of the house.

Y/N exhales a long sigh of relief. “Well, that went better than expected.”

“You think?” Dean checks insecurely. He doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Y/N hadn’t been here to support him. “You’re coming tonight, right?”

Surprised by the request, Y/N’s brow meets her hairline. “You want me to go to your daughter’s Winter Formal with you?”

“Yes, obviously,” Dean states matter-of-factly and blinks at her. “You can’t leave me alone with that woman.”

Y/N heaves another sigh as she looks at him. “Okay, fine,” she surrenders.

Sitting on the bleachers of a fully decorated gym, Y/N realizes she has kind of missed high school. At least, everything used to be much simpler back then. Your crush would ask you to go steady, you’d say yes or no, and then you’d be broken up shortly after prom.

Adulthood is complicated. People are complicated. And love is goddamn unfathomably complicated.

“It’s so weird seeing her with her first high school boyfriend,” Lisa notes with a small sigh next to her. “I still remember her drawing with crayons. Now, she’s running miles away, lying, and making out with a boy.”

“Yeah, teenage romance is a lot more intense,” Y/N says, chuckling softly.

“She won’t wear a dress to my wedding. Refused to. Screamed bloody murder,” Lisa says thoughtfully. “But after spending a few months with her estranged father, she suddenly puts one on.”

“People are complicated,” Y/N reiterates her earlier sentiment.

Claire is complicated. Dean is complicated. And Y/N? She might be the most complicated of all.

“My fiancé is not,” Lisa says, a delicate smile playing across her lips. It’s enough to show her happiness. “I always used to date these guys that would run so hot and then completely cold the next minute. I never knew where I stood. It was exhausting.”

“Yeah, I get it…”

Y/N’s eyes drift to Dean as he chats with one of the other dads by the buffet. She doesn’t know what the director wants from her. She doesn’t know what their relationship even is. One minute, it feels epic, like a love so legendary it should only exist on the silver screen. And the next minute, it feels trivial, like it should’ve never existed at all.

But Dean’s not the problem. Deep down, she knows what that creeping feeling in the pits of her stomach is. And she knows she’s not ready for it. Truth is, Y/N has no idea what she wants and feels lost. Because if she admits one thing, it’d mean the end of another. If she stays in LA for a guy, what would that mean for her career? She doesn’t want to end up like Jo. She’s finally about to have it all, only to realize both at the same time are a mere dream.

And worst of all, even if she did know what she wanted, she’s doesn’t know if she deserves it.

“So, what d’you do, son?” an older man next to Dean asks. He’s already balding and gray, as is the scruffy beard he’s sporting. His suit jacket with a name tag that reads “Chaperone” looks a little worn and sleazy, too. The director figured he’d be one of the oldest dads here, so this guy comes as a pleasant surprise.

“I’m a director of a women’s wrestling show,” Dean replies and takes a sip from the fruit punch. None of the kids have spiked it yet, which is quite the disappointment. What’s happening to today’s youth, huh? “And you?”

“Oh, nice.” The man nods with a smile and pulls out a business card from his suit jacket, handing it to Dean. “Bobby Singer. I own a small chain of strip clubs, although my wife Ellen would probably like me to tell you I’m a small business owner.”

“Got it.” Dean chuckles and glances at the card in his hands. “Bobby’s Body Shop. Oh, hey, I know this one! ‘Where the girls are hotter than the asphalt,’” he quotes the club’s tagline proudly, grinning. “I’m there all the time! Actually got one of your girls in my show.”

Bobby chuckles. “Well, next time you’re there, ask for me. I’ll get you a discount.”

“Thanks.” Dean smirks. And Cas claims you can only network on the fucking golf course. “Oh, hey, you should catch one of our shows. It’s our last one this week. It’s pretty badass. We’re over at the old gym in Watts.”

“Alright, I’ll see you there,” Bobby says with a smile.

Dean’s eyes then drift to Y/N on the bleachers. Last time he checked on her, she was still chatting with Lisa, but the brunette has since left. And as he glances at her now, Y/N has found herself encircled by a group of horny teenage boys, causing his brows to draw together and meet in the middle. They’re like fucking vultures.

“Shoo!” Dean barks sternly at the young men as he approaches the group and watches them scurry away with their tails tugged between their scrawny legs.

With an amused smile, Y/N arches an eyebrow at him. “Glad you’ve decided to join me. It was getting crowded. I’ve turned down about twenty offers to dance.”

“Look at you, you little heartbreaking cougar,” Dean retorts with a teasing smile. “You’re gonna turn me down, too?”

“I have a broken ankle. Did you forget that part? I can’t dance,” Y/N replies.

“Oh, c’mon, that never stopped you before. ‘Sides, I’ve got two working legs and can’t dance, either. So, what d’you say, huh?” Dean holds out his hands for her to grasp.

“Fine,” Y/N relents and grabs his hands, hopping to her feet. “Let’s do some awkward swaying.”

“That’s the spirit.” Dean laughs and rests his palms on her hips, helping her stand as she locks her arms around his neck.

“Is that what you had in mind?” Y/N asks teasingly as she looks up and meets his gaze.

“Kinda.” Dean dips his head and catches her lips, deepening the kiss with his tongue slipping inside her mouth.

“Dean,” she scolds him softly with blushed cheeks and a giggle that surely won’t keep him from doing shit. “There’s people here. Teenagers.”

“So? It’s nothing they wouldn’t do,” Dean remarks mischievously. “And no one’s here that we know. Claire’s caught us like a million times already, and Lisa doesn’t care. C’mon, we never get to do those things in public,” he appeals with a wiggle of his brows.

“Alright,” Y/N surrenders with a small sigh and a smile, tiptoeing up on one foot to press her soft lips back on his. She feels him breath into the kiss, cherishing every second of it. His hands wander from her hips to cup her cheeks, causing her to almost topple over as he forgets that he’s been steadying her. “Whoa, Dean!”

Her giggle interrupts the kiss as she tightens her grip around his neck before he moves his hands back to their place on her hips, offering her support again. She leans her head against his chest, and he rests his chin on her crown.

“Sorry, got carried away there for a moment,” he apologizes with a snicker, pecking the top of her head gently.

“Yeah, that happens with you sometimes,” she teases and buries her head deeper into his shirt. “Your heart’s beating really fast. Are you on something again?”

Dean wants to say it’s love, but that sounds too fucking cheesy.

“Nope, still clean,” he replies instead and doesn’t take offense in her question. “Just nerves, I guess. There’s something I wanna tell you,” he says and licks his lips, swallowing thickly.

Y/N looks up and finds his green eyes, her brow knitting in curiosity. But there’s a perceptive shimmer in her orbs, and Dean knows she can already anticipate what’s coming next. Judging by her shift in weight, he can tell she doesn’t want him to say it out loud.

“Shit, uhm…” She squeezes her eyes shut and fumbles for an excuse. Dean gives her a plethora of time to find a believable one. “I have to go. I promised the girls we’d work out a plot for the finale together tonight, celebrate our last week.”

Dean’s lips quiver but manage to find a smile. “You sure?”

Reluctantly, Y/N still nods and lets out a tense breath. “Yeah.”

It feels like dancing around a big, pink elephant between them. Both of them pretend it’s invisible, although it’s painfully not. It’s even roaring or hooting or whatever the fuck elephants do.

“Alright, I’ll drive you to the motel,” Dean capitulates with a resigned nod.

“No, uh, stay,” she tells him and clumsily hops back to the bleachers to grab her crutches. “I’ll get a cab. You should spend your night with Claire. Figure things out with Lisa.”

“Okay,” Dean caves once more but then grabs hold of her, pulling her to his lips. The kiss is fervent and heated and desperate. So fucking desperate. “One for the road,” he says with a painful smile as he draws back. He doesn’t want to admit that it might be the last one they have shared.

Y/N’s look tells him she feels the finality, too. It’s the epilogue of the best book he’s ever read. The end credits of his favorite movie. The final episode of a show he loved.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly with a hesitant lip bite and a harrowing swallow.

“Don’t be. Have fun, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow,” Dean says and sends her one last weak smile before he watches her walk away with an aching heart.

24. Don't Dream It's Over

Honestly, even my cold, cold heart weeped at the end there. Poor Dean 😢💔 But as you can guess from next week's title, we're not done yet 😉

TAGS:

Everything Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @deans-baby-momma @yoobusgoobus

Everything Dean: @SnowAyumi

[jomiddlemarch]

For the fic title asks:

- you're a lure to the shore, and the rocks, and the wreck

- follow your lodestar, starry eyes

you're a lure to the shore, and the rocks, and the wreck

This is a Persuasion AU where Frederick Wentworth returns fifteen years later, even richer, but having suffered injuries which leave him permanently disabled. He meets Anne in Bath, where she is living with her father, and their relationship is rekindled with her taking on the role of a nurse/companion, at first socially, and then when his sister Sophia convinces him to ask Anne to marry him, unaware of their past romance. 

follow your lodestar, starry eyes

This is a Season 4 GLOW fic where Ruth has returned to work as a script doctor on the new wrestling show while also working on a screenplay of her own. Sam comes across a copy of the screenplay and leaves a lot of edits, without knowing it is Ruth’s work. This fic would be highly fragmented and interspersed with parts of Ruth’s screenplay and Sam’s comments.

[artificialqueens]

🏳️‍🌈 Your Best American Girl (Gia Gunn/Laganja Estranja) - Lita 

Summary: Life on the road is fucking lonely, and Laganja thinks it’s killing her. Gia is adrift in a foreign country, trying and failing to stake out a career. Friendship can be found in the unlikeliest of places - namely a high school gym in Delaware. Femme Fatale Wrestling AU. 

A/N: This is essentially the Pretty Dope origin story that I’ve been sitting on half-finished for months. This is set five or six years before the main story iirc, while Gia and Ganja are still working on the indie circuit before getting signed by Femme Fatale. I love these morons and put way too much thought into their respective backstories, and I wish they got less villain-coded airtime in the main story (which won’t be the case for much longer, I promise) so this was stupid fun to write. Re: the song from which I lifted the title and lyrics, Your Best American Girl by Mitski has always been Gia/Ganja crack to me - it was written from the POV of struggling to meet eurocentric beauty standards as a woman of colour trying to date white men, but I think it can also read as a trans narrative and the ‘all-American boy’ line really evokes angst and shit about FFW!Laganja for me, so it’s always really inspired me while writing the two of them. Anyway, hope you all enjoy! &lt;3

CW: Transphobia 

Your mother wouldn’t approve

Of how my mother raised me,

But I do, I think I do. 

**** 

There’s something a little disarming about wandering around in a high school after hours. The fluorescent lit hallway leading out of the gymnasium is overbearingly bright and creepily empty. Laganja makes slow, unsteady progress towards the door leading out to the parking lot; one of the wheels of her suitcase fell off while she was trying to get it out of her car earlier, and dragging it around lopsided was proving nothing short of a fucking nightmare.

The show had been far from bad, but she’d just hit her limit - at least it’s only five minutes’ drive to her hotel, maybe fifteen if she goes via McDonald’s like she’s planned. She has a pre-rolled joint in her backpack, and nowhere to be until eleven am the next morning. Then another hours-long drive to the next gig out in the back of beyond, to another shitty match in a shitty school gymnasium or community centre - rinse and repeat. She’d been living out of a suitcase for the better part of a month already, with another two weeks to go before she’d next see the inside of her apartment. She wasn’t at all mad at the payout, but it felt like a lot of work for money she was spending most of on gas and takeout. A little bit of her missed being a ‘real’ athlete - it wasn’t nearly this lonely. 

A lot of her missed it, actually. Back then, she’d had teammates to keep her company, and she didn’t have to pay for her own accommodation. Or travel. Or gear. These days, she’s never a standout - just a replaceable body at the bottom of a card, never in the same place more than once. No foundations, no friends. She misses being treated like she mattered. 

The scandal had died down since last year - she was finding it easier to get gigs, and could look at her social media without having a panic attack - but it didn’t make things much easier. She was just a little less radioactive than she had been after being kicked off the Olympic team. Rebuilding her life was taking time. 

Laganja rounds a corner, still fighting with her suitcase - a loud voice catches her off-guard and she stops dead; ducking behind a row of lockers. It’s a guy’s voice, brash and angry. She doesn’t really want to get herself involved in whatever the fuck this is. At least not until she’s figured out what��s going on. 

“What part of leave me the fuck alone don’t you understand?” 

“Babe, wait-“ A female voice this time; equally loud and a little abrasive, but with a distinct edge of fear that makes Laganja nervous.  

“I’m not your fucking babe- don’t touch me!”

Laganja hears the crash of a body slamming into metal, and winces - craning her neck to peer down the hall. The feminine voice belongs to that Japanese chick she’d worked a match with earlier that night - Gia something? She couldn’t work out at the time whether or not she liked her - she’d stiffed her a little in the ring, and had been pretty closed-off and hard to talk to backstage. Her lip is trembling, and there’s already black streaks of mascara running down her face. The guy has just shoved her into the lockers - pinning her in place with a hand roughly grasped around her shoulder. The other is raised like he’s about to punch her. Laganja’s stomach drops. 

“Look, can’t we figure this out?“ Gia’s voice is shaking.

“There’s nothing to figure out - I’m not a fucking homo, okay? So back the fuck off. I’m leaving.” 

“But my-“

“I don’t give a shit,” he snarls. “Stop following me around like a lost fucking puppy - we’re done.” 

“How the fuck am I gonna get home-“ 

“I don’t care! You fucking lied to me!”

Gia whimpers. Fuck this - Laganja steps out from where she’d been hiding; this feels like it’s about to get ugly, and she can’t just stand around and let that happen. She tries to say something, but the words get stuck in her throat, standing about ten feet away from them as her mouth opens and closes like a guppy, trying to string a sentence together with her fists clenched by her sides. 

Doesn’t matter - the guy sees her there, and his eyes widen. He practically sprints towards the door; shoving it open with his shoulder and letting it slam behind him. Gia crumples against the lockers. As soon as he’s out of eyeshot, Laganja drops her case, making straight for Gia. She’s sitting on the ground; hugging her knees and crying. Laganja crouches down at her side. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” 

She looks up, sniffing a little. She’s still wearing her ring gear, a black and red high-necked two-piece, with an oversized hoodie shrugged over the top.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, avoiding eye contact with Laganja as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Is he-“

“Fuck off,” Gia pulls away sharply from the hand that Laganja had placed on her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry - I don’t want to shove my nose into your business or anything, but like…hey, weren’t we in a match together earlier?” 

The brunette gives a nonplussed shrug; pulling out her phone from the pocket of her hoodie and wiping away her running mascara with  the aid of her front camera. Laganja fishes a travel pack of Kleenex out of her backpack and offers it to her. She takes it begrudgingly, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. Laganja sits down on the floor next to her, crossing her legs and leaning against the locker. 

“You’re doing a really bad job at fucking off,” Gia observes. 

“I heard most of your conversation - I figured you don’t have a ride home, or anywhere to sleep tonight, and I’m not gonna leave you stranded out here in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. I’m waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass and realise that I’m trying to help you, okay?” 

The brunette cracks half a smile. 

“Bitch.”

“Takes one to know one,” Laganja smirks. “What’s your name?” 

“You seriously did not forget what my name is after an hour-“

“No, I mean your real one.” She gives a bemused laugh. Pro wrestling etiquette is a language she’s still trying to decipher - she’s not sure whether or not that’s something she should have asked, but the question is out there now. There’s probably a stupid made-up word for the question she’d been trying to ask. Shoot name? She thinks that’s maybe it. “Mine’s Lucy, by the way.” 

“It’s still Gia,” she replies, a little thorny. Then: “I’m gonna stick with calling you Laganja, though. That’s funnier.” 

“Thanks,” Ganja rolls her eyes. She turns to Gia, her face turning a little more serious. “So, what’s going on?” 

“With what?” Gia says, her tone half uncertain and half sharply defensive. 

“You know - that guy. Looked pretty bad from where I was standing.”

“Oh, Trey’s my boyfriend. Or well, I guess was. I…” she sighs, chewing over her words a little. “One of the- look, why the fuck am I telling you this?” 

“Because I wanna help,” Laganja replies simply. Gia purses her lips. 

“One of the guys backstage told him something about me that I wasn’t ready to tell him, and he got mad, okay? So it’s basically my fault.” 

“What the fuck could they have told him that made him that mad?” Laganja raises her eyebrows. “None of that was okay.” 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Gia hugs her knees. 

“Listen - I just met you, and after tonight we’re probably never gonna see each other again. Who am I gonna tell? It’s just between us.” Gia doesn’t seem impressed. Laganja offers a hand out to her. “Pinkie swear.”

Gia looks a little wary, hushing her voice and ignoring the childish proffered hand. “I…I’m transgender. I was like, born a guy. It’s not something I wanna make a big deal of, it’s just that-“

Laganja has to hold in a laugh, realising that now might not be the right time. 

“Seriously? Bitch, me too!” 

Gia looks taken aback. 

“Shut up,” she says, shrinking away from Laganja. Fuck. She thinks she’s mocking her. 

“I’m not kidding - honest to god.” Gia eases up a little. “And by the way, wether you told him or not, that doesn’t give him the right to treat you like that.”

Gia doesn’t say anything. 

“I mean it - I’ve dealt with my share of this shit, and there’s no excuse for it. What he said to you was fucking wrong, period. Doesn’t matter how upset he is.” 

“I was gonna tell him - I just didn’t think he’d react like that. Plus like, he was gonna find out eventually.” Gia laughs a little grimly. “I told him I was saving myself for marriage, and I don’t think I was gonna be able to like, keep that up for much longer.” 

Laganja gives a tight-lipped smile, slightly uncomfortable. Not with Gia, with the situation. She hadn’t even attempted dating since she’d come out, and this was exactly why. Too scared of what people would think - or say, or do. After seeing the full, horrendous extent of the first ‘big’ reaction to her transition, it didn’t bear thinking about. Didn’t exactly help that her parents, who she’d been outed to in the midst of the whole scandal, had barely said a word to her since, and her teammates had thrown her to the wolves. 

“Well, he’s a loser who doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Laganja eventually says. She stands up, walking back down the hall to grab her broken suitcase, before returning to Gia and holding a hand out to her. Gia looks perplexed. 

“What are you-?”

“C’mon - I need dinner, and I’m not leaving you here.” 

****

“You want any more?” 

Laganja holds the joint out to Gia - sitting in the passenger seat of her car. The brunette shakes her head, a hint of a laugh in her voice. 

“Nah - I’m good.” 

“You sure?” Laganja takes another drag; trying to talk while holding in smoke. 

“Totally sure - I…you got me really fucking high,” Gia giggles, leaning against the door of the car. She aims a handful of fries for her mouth and misses - dropping most of them into her shirt. 

“I think you needed it, honey,” Laganja smiles, watching Gia trying to pick fries off of her chest with her tongue, like a lizard. She’s loosened up a hell of a lot, Laganja thinks as she flicks ash into the empty Coke can on her dashboard. 

“Yeah,” Gia says airily. “Y’know, you’re the first person I’ve met who’s like, like me. And you’re really fucking cool. I like you.” 

“You’re just saying that because I bought you food and let you smoke my weed.”

“Nah - seriously,” Gia insists - rambling a little, her eyes overly-moist and tinged pink. “I’ve never met another trans girl - I knew that I was one, but you’re like….you’re the first. It’s like we’re fucking unicorns or some shit.” 

Ganja smiles. 

“So, what the fuck is your story, Gia?” 

“What?” Gia giggles, still fighting with her fries. 

“How did you wind up stuck out here, with him? You’re too fucking good in the ring to be working in a high school gym in fucking Delaware.”

“I started training when I was like, eleven,” Gia says, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly. Laganja notices her slack jaw, and tries to pick it up off the floor before Gia sees it too. “It’s like, normal in Japan. Both my parents are wrestlers, it was sort of always gonna be my thing.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“It’s part of the training system - we call it a ‘learning excursion’. You get sent to the US for like, a year before you debut on TV back home, learn to speak better English and work different styles or whatever. So I came over when I was nineteen. Then while I was here, I figured out my whole…” she gestures awkwardly at herself. “This, and now I don’t think I can go back home. Well, I could - but I ditched training, so I think my parents will want to kill me, and also I have tits now - I don’t know how they’ll feel about that but I don’t think I want to. So for the last three years, I’ve just been taking whatever shitty gigs I can get, lying to my parents about getting signed to WWE developmental so they think I’m too busy to talk to them, and trying to like…I don’t know. Live.” 

“God.” Laganja grimaces, sucking down the last few puffs that the joint has to offer. 

“Your turn - what’s your damage, Miss Laganja?” 

Laganja squirms a little. She glances into the backseat at the Team USA backpack that she still uses. It feels a little bit like stolen valour. 

“Kinda similar. Not as cool. I was an amateur wrestler - and I was fucking good at it. Like, Olympics good. I was meant to go to London in 2012, but I’d already started hormones and obviously that got flagged up in my drug tests, so I got disqualified and then the news went apeshit about it because it got misreported and people thought I wanted to compete for the women’s team. So I sort of just went and lived under a rock for a year until the shitshow died down, and then started doing this. I’m still pretty new to it.”

“You are really good,” Gia says, kind of aloof like she doesn’t want to be caught giving Ganja real praise. 

“Thanks.” Laganja’s cheeks flush pink. 

“Also that’s fucked up. What happened to you, I mean.” Gia pulls a face. 

“Yeah, but I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. At least this way I can actually be myself.” Laganja shrugs. “And nobody seems to care - real sports it’s all ‘biological advantage’ this, ‘biological advantage’ that, but this is all staged, so nobody gives a shit. And the outfits are better.” She gives a laugh, watching the evening sky shift from deep orange to star-scattered blue through the dirty windshield. “I never wanna see a fucking singlet again.” 

“Tell me about it,” Gia giggles. “It’s like, a whole thing with the Young Lions - the rookie wrestlers back home - that you don’t get to have a distinct look until you graduate. Just black trunks and a shitty haircut.” Gia pulls out her phone, flicking at warp speed through her camera roll and then zooming in on a group picture. She turns the phone to Laganja - it’s filled with the image of a depressed-looking teenage boy with a buzz cut, standing shirtless and shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of similarly uniform but presumably less miserable kids. Laganja’s eyes widen. 

“No fucking way is that you!” She gasps. “That’s insane - you look so different.”

“Thanks, it took a lot of work.” Gia half-laughs. 

“Seriously - you’re like…so much hotter now. It’s not even funny. Your stupid boyfriend doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Shut up - you’re hot.” Gia smiles, her head lolling back. She puts a hand on Laganja’s thigh. Laganja’s skin tingles. 

“And you’re high.” 

“Am not.” Gia flops sideways, her head resting on Laganja’s shoulder. “I’m glad I met you, Ganj. You’re really nice. And really pretty.” 

Laganja blushes again. She doesn’t think anyone has ever called her ‘pretty’ before. She tries to keep her eyes fixed in front of her, like she’s driving, but Gia’s hand is cupping her cheek now - soft fingers brushing against her sweat-misted skin, gazing up at her with hazy brown eyes. When Laganja looks down, Gia inches closer to her - hesitantly pressing their weed-dry lips together. Laganja doesn’t know what she’s doing, but she also doesn’t try to stop her. 

The brunette parts Laganja’s lips with an exploratory tongue, and Laganja - no idea what she’s thinking, no intention of questioning it - lets her, closing her eyes and deepening the kiss, one hand leaving the steering wheel to cup the back of Gia’s head. Gia murmurs softly, and then she pulls away before Laganja has really figured out what’s going on. Once her touch is gone, she kind of misses it. 

Gia is laughing again, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. 

“Sorry. I don’t know what the fuck that was. Guess I am high.” 

“It’s okay. I liked it,” Laganja admits hesitantly. Gia reaches a hand out for hers, clasping them together. “What now? Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

“Fuck no,” Gia pulls a face. “And I don’t have anything booked for…” she pauses to think, counting on her fingers. “Fucking ages. I was just tagging along with Trey since most promotions don’t bother booking a women’s match until the last second, but now he’s gone.”

“You can tag along with me,”  Laganja offers. “I’m crashing here tonight and then I’ve got a show in Pittsburgh tomorrow - come along for the ride, I can try and get you on the card.” 

“Sure - if you’re sure.” Gia looks hesitant. 

“Positive. I kinda miss having company. And you’re really cute.”

“No, you.” Gia smiles drowsily. Pulling Laganja closer by the hand she’s holding, Gia tries sloppily to initiate another kiss, and this time Laganja doesn’t hesitate. 

For the first time in months, she doesn’t feel quite so alone. 

****

You’re an all-American boy,

I guess I couldn’t help trying to be

Your best American girl.

Pride Challenge Points: 5331

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[zillychu]

(sequel to this) they broke his 100 year long depressive episode with sheer idiocy

[darkmuffinstudios]

HAD THE MOST INSANE DREAM JUST NOW AND THESE TWO WERE IN IT AND I WAS JUST LIKE JSVFIJVFSJIVFSIKVSFIKSFV STEALING YOU GUYS

LIKE I LITERSLLY ROLLED OUT OF BED AND GRABBED MY TABLET AND SCRIBBLED THESE GUYS BEFORE I FORGOT

SO SO SO! THE IDEA IS THAT SOMETHING SOMETHING WHEN PPL DIE, THEY GET THESE HALOS ON THEIR HEADS WHICH TIE THEM TO THE LIVING WORLD AS A SORT OF LIKE “THEY CANT MOVE ON” SORT OF THING

AND WHEN KILLER GETS KILLED, HE HAS SO MANY DIFFERENT REGRETS AND SO MANY DIFFERENT WANTS THAT HIS SOUL ESSENTIALLY SPLITS INTO TWO—. UT THEYRE STILL VERY MUCH CONNECTED? LIKE THEY ARE DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF HIM BUT NEITHER CAN MOVE ON UNTIL THE OTHER IS SATIATED AND EISJCNDJSKCSKCMDLD

GOD THESE TWO ARE SO BADASS DISJCJCJC MY OWN BRAINROT IS GOING NUTS

MAYBE MORE TO COME SOON OK BYEEEEE

[captainzigo]

i was inspired to make this by @amendokat !

[sapphicseasapphire]

No thoughts, just Cryptid Wild.

[chunchalunch]

Page 6

[waynes-multiverse]

Plastic Hearts – Part 21

Pairing: Director!Dean Winchester x Actress!Reader

Series Summary: Los Angeles, 1985. Y/N’s a young actress without any success, hopping from one failed audition to the next until one desperate mistake brings her to her breaking point. Dean Winchester, on the other hand, is a grade A asshole and washed-up director at the end of his career, known for his godawful slasher movies in the 70s and his love for blow, booze, and women. Lost in the toxic Hollywood life, their paths cross when one hopeless little wrestling show changes their trajectory.

Chapter Warnings: +18, language, smut (p in v, dirty talk, spanking), fluff, angst, comfort

Word Count: 7.6k

A/N: It's finally happening! Get the Office gifs ready 👀😂 It's so good to bring this series back after such an unexpectedly long time away. We've got five more chapters left, so let's make 'em count with as much drama and ridiculousness as possible, shall we? Ready? And action! 🎬

<< 20 || Spotify Playlist || Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

21. Rock You Like A Hurricane

Dean swallows the clot that has formed in the back of his throat as the first button of her white cotton blouse flies open. The air in the office feels dry, his mind hazy. Is he dreaming? Once again, he reminds himself to stop mixing booze and blow. It never ends well and barely ever helps.

Another step forward, another button, another swallow.

Y/N is a Fata Morgana, a mirage, slowly moving towards him through blurry lines and summer heat.

“Don’t you want me?”

The innocent lip bite that accompanies her question sends him downstairs, predestining him to burn in hellfire. He swallows again. Of course, he wants her. He always does.

The heels of his boots dig into the rotten floorboards as he pushes back on his office chair, enough to free his thighs from underneath the wooden desk and show off the bulging erection blooming in his jeans. It started to form as soon as she walked in and turned that damn lock behind her back.

The corners of her pink lips rise to a smile. She likes what she sees, and soon enough, she finds herself slotted between his bow legs with his greedy palms smoothing up her denim-clad thighs until they find a home on the juicy globes of her ass and squeeze tight. Green eyes darken as they wander up her frame before they meet two sparkling orbs that mirror his own lust back to him.

More buttons spring open, the blouse slipping off her shoulders and hitting the ground. A gray leotard becomes visible, two pointed peaks on luscious hills poking through the thin material, his mouth forming a ring around one of them, hot air igniting her skin and stealing her breath. Her arms weave around his neck, her head lolls back between her shoulder blades, her legs grow unsteady. Eyes close, fingers tangle in his hair and claw at his skin.

One large hand travels to the front, works the zipper of her jeans, and shimmies the denim fabric down two smooth thighs. His other arm snakes around her waist, holds her tight, and pulls her closer until she straddles his lap and lets their hips fuse into one.

Their eyes find each other. Gently, he brushes her hair out her face, tucks it behind her ears, strokes her flushed cheeks. She’s breathless and breathtaking, and then she dips her head and catches his lips, kissing him until he is, too.

“Wait, wait, wait…” He draws back in a drunk state of mind and gasps for air, hoping oxygen will help in clearing his head.

“What?” She pouts, her voice velvety soft and delirious.

“I just-… I have to ask you something first, make sure…” The air works wonders, the fog dissipates from his mind. Green eyes watch her closely. There’s something off, something wrong, something out of place. Y/N wouldn’t just stroll into his office and throw herself at him. As much as he enjoys this little dream sequence, it’s not who she is. “Why are you doing this? You’re not-, uhm…” He swallows harshly, his mind racing in circles. “You’re not fucking me, so I’ll stop being mad at you, right? ‘Cause that’s not what I want.”

God, the thought alone kills him. It’s his goddamn nightmare. What if he subconsciously manipulated her to do this? What if he’s taking advantage of her? What if he drove her so desperate that she sees this as her only option? What if she actually doesn’t want this?

But a gentle smile forms on her face instead. She pecks his lips, rests her forehead against his, and softly shakes her head. There’s amusement in her voice. “You already said you weren’t mad at me, remember?”

“Then why?”

Y/N shrugs and licks her ample lips. “I want to. I want you… You’re the best guy I know. I can’t think of anyone I’d want this with more,” she assures him with a sweet smile and caresses the scruff on his cheeks, her hips grinding against his crotch. “It’s just-…” She bites down on her lower lip, cutting off her sentence.

“What? Tell me, sweetheart.” He clutches her chin and draws her gaze to meet his eyes.

“Even with the show being over, I don’t want the girls to find out,” she confesses nervously.

Dean nods in understanding and gifts her a smile. “Lucky for you, I’m good at keeping secrets. Have I ever let you down in that regard?”

She thinks for a beat, then shakes her head and matches his smile. “No.”

“See?” He grins, showing his pearly white teeth, and pulls her lips back to his for a searing kiss that seals their deal.

His hands begin to roam the curves they’re holding, her hips rocking against his in a needy rhythm, desperately searching for more friction to scratch the unbearable itch he seems to cause.

“Need you so bad, need this cock so bad…” she whispers between kisses and ragged breaths.

“Yeah? You think you can get off like that?” Dean lifts his thigh a little higher, shoves it right against her clothed cunt to give her a bit more friction, and listens to her whimpers in satisfaction. “Show me how much you want this… want me, baby girl. Wanna know how desperate you are for this cock, Y/N. Work for it.” His challenge is accompanied by a little smirk, which soon disappears and becomes stuck in his throat when Y/N accepts with eager nods.

Shit, he really needs to stop underestimating her. That’s already been his first mistake when he met her.

Her arms lock tighter around his neck for more balance as she rubs her pussy against the rough denim that covers his thick thigh. Her breathing grows so labored that kissing becomes an impossibility, the need for air in her lungs greater than the need to stay connected. The strong arm slung around her waist helps her move while his other hand tweaks, pinches, and gropes her tit, prying the gray cotton of her leotard over one shoulder to free the flesh and expose her nipple to the cool office air and his hot breath. He feels a wet patch forming on his leg, sees the stain on his jeans from her arousal as he peeks down between them.

“Dean, I’m–…”

Y/N doesn’t have to say it out loud. He can see it on her face that she’s damn close. “Such a good girl. Cum for me, huh? Let me finally fill and stretch this nice pussy with my cock, baby. Been waiting for you,” he coos. “Bet you’re so tight, yeah? How long’s it been?” His tongue licks the hardened bud before he pops her tit in his mouth and sucks, bites, tears.

“Fuck!”

She explodes, his name falling from her lips in prayer as she trembles and quivers in his arms. Her mouth parts, sucks in as much air as she can to fuel her lungs. Her arms cling to him, fingers denting the skin on his broad shoulders.

“That’s my girl,” Dean praises her, smiling as he lets her ride out her orgasm. “So, so pretty when you come. I missed that face.”

“Dean, please… Need you inside me now,” she purrs against his lips, swallowing his groans as they connect.

“Yeah? You sure?”

“Uh-huh, please,” she begs breathily. “How d’you want me, boss?”

“What do you want, Y/N?” Hearing what a woman wants him to do to her or what she wants to do to him has always been one of the biggest turn-ons for him. “Tell me.”

“Want you to bend me over your desk, take me hard, punish me… Been a bad girl. Need you to punish me, please,” she whimpers and hungrily claims his lips, her nails digging into his jaw.

Now, Dean should probably be worried or at least stumped by her somewhat strange request. Not because it’s the craziest thing he’s ever heard a woman ask for in the bedroom, but because it’s not necessarily something Y/N would say. However, she’s also an actress, and he’s about 99.9% sure she’s playing a role and following a script in her head. And well, hey, he likes playing too, so who would he be to deny her wishes? He’s been dreaming about spanking her ass and punishing his favorite Russian villain for weeks at this point.

“I think we can arrange that, baby girl,” he promises, a saucy smirk plastered on his lips. “But first – need to see your face when I break you in, yeah?”

Y/N grins and nods against his lips, her hand reaching down between their heated bodies and unbuckling his belt, pulling it from its loops, metal clinking before the sound of a zipper follows. Lifting her ass from his lap, he helps her strive off the denim, pushing it down his legs till it pools by his ankles, only leaving a thin barrier of cotton between them.

“Condom?”

Dean nods and motions for her to stand up, so he can reach into the bottom drawer of his desk. As he fishes out a foil packet, Y/N discards her leotard, nothing but naked skin and flesh left for his eyes to devour. Removing his own pair of boxers, his long cock bounces against his stomach and stretches to his belly button, fully erect, head swollen, and leaking at the tip. He tears the foil with his teeth and rolls the latex down his aching length before his hands drag her back into his lap.

Her arms settle on his muscular shoulders, her lips find and bruise his as he lines himself up with her entrance and threads his dickhead through her dripping folds. Her cunt is pink and glistening, hot and wet as he slowly slides inside, lets her feel every inch that fills her tight hole to the brim, her small body sinking down on him till they’re inseparable.

A moan escapes them both when he’s fully sheathed in her heat, and Dean knows lasting long would border on a miracle. Her mouth falls open as he stretches her tight walls, her eyes seeking his and not daring to look anywhere else. Unsurprisingly, Y/N takes direction well. She remains connected to him – mind, body, and soul.

“Fuck, Dean,” she breathes and swallows at the sheer thickness inside of her, her eyes finally falling closed as their foreheads meet.

Dean caresses her cheek and softly pecks her hairline. He then shuts his eyes as well and just focuses on the feeling of her wrapped around him for a blissful heartbeat. This is all he ever wanted.

Her. Here.

“You good?” he checks, his fingers trailing soothingly up and down her spine as she relaxes her muscles and adjusts to his size.

A gentle smile twitches and tugs on her lips. “Yeah, I’m great… You feel great.”

“You know, if you keep giving me compliments like that, it’s gonna be hard for me to smack your perky ass purple and blue,” he chuckles and watches a grin form.

“I like to make things hard for you,” she sasses and kisses his lips, her pussy purposely gripping his throbbing dick.

“There’s my bad girl.” Dean can’t fight the smile on his face. “Alright, you ready?”

Dean doesn’t have to wait for an answer as her hips begin to lift and rock against him, calming like the Pacific waves and soothing like the lullabies his mother used to sing when he was sick as a child.

“M-more,” Y/N whines, the needy desperation haunting her vocal chords.

“Beg for it,” Dean whispers, nuzzling his nose against her ear with a smirk.

“Please… Please fuck me, boss,” she rasps her pleas. “Need it hard and fast.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Dean catches her lips, the kiss scorching and lasting before his hands smooth up her bare thighs and grab her ass tight, lifting them both from the chair.

Swiftly, her soles hit the ground as he swirls her in his hold and bends her over his desk. Her tits press flush against the wood, his palms finding her hips as he pulls her closer to him, ass up until it brushes against his solid length. With his knees, he spreads her legs wide and easily slots between them. He palms both asscheeks, caresses the skin before he administers his first slap, the sound echoing through his quiet office with her whimper as he watches the juicy flesh ricochet, completely entranced.

“You got a safe word, Y/N?” Dean asks as he soothes the red spot on her cheek.

“Hmmm,” she muses and bites her lower lip, and he can see the mischief twinkling in her orbs. She giggles, “What about ‘camera guy’?”

His palm strikes the other globe, making her yelp and jolt on the spot.

“Ow, fuck!” Y/N’s moan drowns in a laugh. “Jesus, Dean, I was just kidding.”

The director chuckles, “Yeah, well, I wasn’t.” With one harsh and fast thrust, he drives his cock back into her tight cunt, causing her to slam forward, her hips bruising against the desk. Her fingers curl tightly around the edge, knuckles white as she keeps herself pinned in place. He leans forward, his chest pressing against her back as his warm breath fans against the shell of her ear, his blunt fingernails denting the skin on her hips. Smirking, he demands, “Safe word. Now.”

“Fuck, uhm…” Breathlessly, her mind spirals, his cock slowly dragging in and out of her and not stopping to give her even a second to ponder. “Squirrel?”

“Squirrel it is,” he agrees amusedly, straightening as he picks up his pace and drives in deeper, watching as his dick gets swallowed by her soaking cunt, his swollen shaft glistening with her slick. “Shit, baby girl… Wish you could see how well you take me. Your needy little pussy sucks my fat cock right in,” he groans, listening in delight as his balls slap against her ass with each roll of his hips.

“Maybe you can bring your camera next time, boss,” Y/N mewls her suggestion as she falls apart underneath him.

“Yeah? Would you like that, huh? Would you like to see how fucking desperate you are for me, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh, would love that, boss. Wanna see how you fuck me and split me open,” she breathes hazily, her moans getting louder with each slam of his hips. “F-fuck, so close… Wanna come on your cock, please.”

“Oh, we can arrange that, sweetheart,” Dean chuckles, his breathing growing more labored as well as sweat starts to collect on his skin in sticky beads. He’s close, too, feels his cock throb and swell inside of her. His palm smacks her asscheek one last time. She cries out with pleasure as the sting burns her skin, her pussy clenching around his dick and gripping it tight.

But just as his hand sneaks to her front and finds the sensitive little nub, their ears both perk up as the big metal door of the gym flies open and a wave of female chatter floods inside.

“Oh, shit!” Y/N moans loudly at his last violent pound into her pussy before Dean’s palm covers her mouth and stops the rest from spilling out.

Pulling her up, her back straightens and presses flush against his body. He slows his thrusts but still pushes in deep enough to tickle her cervix and keeps the little circles on her clit alive, feeling her knees give in as her legs become putty. Her breathing is harsh and restricted against his palm, her lips straining and tightening to keep the screams inside.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh… you’re doing so, so good, baby,” Dean whispers his praises into her ear and chuckles as she clenches hard around his dick. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Trust me, they won’t hear us over their blabbering,” he chuckles. “Relax, okay? Let loose… little more,” he orders her, feeling the tension in her muscles shift to her head as she bites down on his fingers to keep it locked inside. “There you go… Gonna need you to come quietly, and I’ll be right behind you, alright? Can you do that?” Y/N nods against his hand. “Good girl,” he coos and pecks her temple quickly.

And then, he draws out till only the tip remains inside her drenched channel before he roughly slams back in. His thrusts become relentless in both speed and force as he fucks her, her screams of pleasure only muffled by his palm and the harsh bite of her lip. Tears sting her eyes and stream down her cheeks, trickling onto his fingers at the intense pressure as her walls tighten. One more thrust, and they begin to flutter, her body convulsing as she falls over the cliff and milks his cock for all he’s got, pulling him over the edge with her.

A primal grunt rumbles in his chest and crawls out of his throat, his fingers leaving bruises on her hips behind as he spills hot ropes of his seed into the condom, his cock throbbing in rhythm with her twitching cunt. His hand falls from her mouth as she braces her palms on the wooden surface in front of her.

Deliriously, they both gasp for air, every breath jagged before the storm within them calms. Dean brushes her hair from her sweat-covered neck and lovingly kisses the salty skin on her shoulder blade, a blissful smile gracing his lips.

The sun blinds her eyes as Y/N stands on the green, perfectly cut lawn of the Dusty Spur. The boys have called an emergency meeting at the motel this time, gathering all the women in front of the reception outside.

It’s been three days since she has fucked the director in his office. He was careful not to leave any marks on her throat behind or anywhere else where it might catch unwanted attention, no one batting eyelashes at the new bruises on her hips that joined some of the old ones from training.

Dean told her he wanted a repeat of their encounter, whispering the dirtiest and most sinful promises into her ear. However, they haven’t seen much of each other since then. Both of them have been quite busy after the news of their new time slot and impending cancelation broke. And while it certainly dampened the lighthearted mood in the gym for a day, hope was not entirely lost, though, and still thrived in everyone but Y/N and Jo.

Yet, the two of them played along with the illusion the show still could be saved for the sake of the team. She didn’t know why Jo was entertaining the farce, but Y/N did it for her friends and, well, Dean, who’d been pondering and working nonstop to try and figure out what went wrong in his well-oiled machinery.

Y/N hates that he blames himself, not having the guts to tell him it’s in reality all her fault. Even with his sunglasses on his freckle-dusted nose, she can see the bags under his green eyes from the lack of sleep in recent days and feels more guilt pooling in the pits of her stomach. She doesn’t want him to be mad at her again, which is why she’s glad she can use Billie’s new, harsh training regiment as a good excuse to avoid him.

“They gave a men’s wrestling show our slot! And you wanna know why, hm?” Cas throws his rhetorical question into the group. Y/N has never seen the producer so angry and swallows more shame down. “Truth is, they’re better! They fly higher and hit harder!

“They hit harder because they’re bigger. It’s physics,” Y/N points out and tries to keep her annoyance at bay. It’s a men’s world they’re living in, and she’s getting sick and tired of the comparisons.

“Oh, fuck physics, Y/N!” Cas yells, causing her to flinch at his tone. “I need you to take everything you got and push it all the way to the limit, okay?”

“I don’t know what else we can do. We’ve been training for hours almost every day. Sun up till sun down,” Donna says and sighs.

Maybe it’s not too late, and Y/N should request a private meeting with Dick at the network, try and smooth things over before they get any worse. Maybe a blowjob in the office is enough to get them their old slot back and save the show. Dean wouldn’t ever have to know, right?

Besides, would he even care? Maybe he’d be grateful. After all, she doesn’t have much worth beyond fucking someone if you asked anyone here.

“I don’t need to hear excuses. I need to hear results,” Cas huffs and places his hands on his squared-off hips, shaking his head.

“You want bigger moves? Fine, you’ll get ‘em,” Billie assures him with a biting fighter spirit.

Cas’ lips curve into an enthusiastic smile. “That’s what I wanna hear! Look, I know this is gonna be hard, but I believe in miracles, and we’re going to make this miracle happen!”

Jo heaves a sigh. “Right, so we break our bodies and wrestle harder and magically get our time slot back?” she asks wryly, but her sarcasm is sadly lost on Cas.

“Yes!” the producer agrees joyously. “Look, I have it from Richard Roman himself that this is what they’ve been missing.”

At that, Jo’s blaming eyes wander to Y/N as the two former friends share a look. Shamefully, Y/N averts her gaze to the green grass underneath her feet, and Jo clenches her jaw tightly and starts to grind her teeth. Ever since their heated conversation in the gym, things have went downhill between them. Nowadays, there are just judgmental looks and passive-aggressive comments passed between them.

“So you met with Richard Roman?” Jo turns her unresolved anger towards the guys.

Cas groans loudly and rolls his blue eyes back. “Jo, I’m sorry, okay? It was a guy thing. We had to storm the gates,” he explains.

“Yeah, don’t get back up on your feminist high horse, alright? We didn’t leave you out, okay?” Dean jumps to Cas’ defense and unsuccessfully smooths things over. “We just think your focus should be on performing this week, you know? You and Y/N have a big match coming up. The, uh, continuing tale of the bereaved mother and the insane Russian, right?”

Jo nods and clenches her jaw once more, biting back her surely fiery comments.

“Okay, enough talking! Let’s do it!” Cas announces eagerly and claps his palms together as the women scatter back to their rooms to get ready for today’s training.

“What time do you wanna rehearse today?” Y/N bitterly asks her blonde opponent, already expecting a bitchy answer.

“Oh, any time, really. I mean, we could rehearse all day and night. It won’t make a difference,” Jo replies in an annoyed tone as anticipated. “You of all people should know that.”

Y/N watches Jo leave, trying her hardest not to strangle her former friend. She gets it. She fucked up, but she still doesn’t agree with Jo. Would sleeping with Roman and sacrificing her dignity really have saved the show?

“Hey, everything alright?” Dean’s deep voice startles her. She was so preoccupied with killing Jo in her mind, she hasn’t even noticed the director sneak up on her. “I know Cas was a little intense today. Never seen the guy this riled up before. It’s like a puppy getting rabies.”

Y/N forces a chuckle from her throat and brushes him off. “Oh, uhm, yeah, wasn’t so bad. I get it.”

Dean’s brow creases, sensing something is off with her. Shit. She does not want the director to find out about what happened.

“You’re not mad at me, right? I know I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. It’s just been crazy with everything going on,” he explains sincerely and shoots her a soft smile. “I meant to call you or at least talk to you. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah, no, like I said, I get it, Dean. Don’t worry about me, okay?” she assures him and compels another smile to her face before her curiosity takes over. “Did Roman really say our moves weren’t good enough?”

Her hope comes flooding back. Maybe it truly wasn’t her fault. Maybe the guy hits on so many actresses on a weekly basis that he doesn’t even care if one rejects him. Maybe it’s just all in her goddamn head, and it was just bad luck all around.

Dean shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, he didn’t say it exactly like that, but you girls are amazing. He’s gonna change his mind, and you’ll be back in your old slot in no time,” he promises her hopefully.

“Yeah, I guess so…” Fuck. It’s definitely about her.

“You sure you’re okay?” Dean checks again, noticing her absentminded behavior. Y/N’s usually chipper, eager, talkative, and hard to keep contained. She’s a warrior. The woman in front of him right now is the complete opposite, however. He almost doesn’t recognize her, and it worries him a little.

Is it him? Did he break her?

“Uh-huh, yeah, just tired, you know? Billie’s been riding us pretty hard this week,” Y/N excuses her strange mood with a half-truth, and Dean seems to buy it.

“Yeah, I bet.” He nods understandingly, chuckling. “Well, uhm, I’ve got some free time tonight. You wanna come over for dinner and I don’t know maybe… stay? You could ride me pretty hard, too,” he suggests, making her snort. “Admittedly, that sounded better in my head. Sorry.”

“No, uhm, I’d love to,” she replies honestly, giggling at his bashfulness. “But I’m pretty beat. Probably gonna fall into bed around seven like a dead person. Raincheck?”

Truthfully, there’s nothing she’d rather do than spend her nights (and days) with Dean, but the guilt in her belly is eating her alive. She can barely look him in the eyes. As of right now, though, she can see even more disappointment shimmering in his green orbs.

“Sure, yeah. Open invitation, sweetheart,” he says and acts as if her rejection doesn’t bother him. “But still, if all you wanna do is sleep, then you’re welcome to do that at my place as well. I do have the better mattress than the motel. Maybe a good night’s rest and a hot bath is all you need to recover, you know?”

Hot bath. The words make her skin crawl and take her right back to that horrible night where it all went wrong. How could she have been so stupid?

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat and fights for words. “Oh, uhm… I don’t, uh…”

“Hey, it’s okay, alright? No explanation needed, sweetheart,” Dean says and lets her off the hook. “Just wanted to offer, you know?”

“Thanks, another time.” Y/N forces one last smile to her lips.

Dean hasn’t seen Y/N in a whole week. Well, that’s not entirely true. He sees her every day at training in the gym, rolling around with Jo in the ring. But he hasn’t seen her privately since their little naughty stint in his office.

By now, he’s sure she’s avoiding him for some reason, but he doesn’t have the guts nor the balls to ask her straight. He’s too afraid of her answer, scared she has changed her mind about them and their arrangement. He’d accept it, of course, but he still doesn’t want to find out if that’s the reason why she keeps her distance. It would most certainly break his heart.

A knock on his office door makes his head snap up with hope that it’s Y/N. Either she’s here for another booty call or to end it. He’s prepared for both. To his surprise, though, it’s Donna who’s stopping by for a visit.

“Dean? Can we talk?” the curvy blonde asks insecurely, concern etched into every crease of her face.

“Sure, uh, what’s up?” Dean knows Donna and Billie have given their all to train the girls over the last few weeks, and if production could afford it, he’d give them both a gigantic raise. Unfortunately, he can’t but hopes it’s the thought that still counts.

“It’s about Y/N and Jo,” she informs him, and his ears perk up at that.

He’s noticed some tension between those two as well, so he’s not as surprised as he should have been. But honestly, sometimes it’s hard to tell what those two are fighting about. If it’s something new or just the same old beef.

“Usually, they do a good job of keeping their weird friendship stuff out of the ring, but not in the last week. There’s something wrong with them,” Donna tells him.

No shit, Dean thinks. Those two having issues is not an entirely new thing.

“What d’you want me to do about it?” Dean asks. He knows Donna didn’t just stroll into his office to chat and gossip. She’s looking for direction. Like the rest of these women downstairs, the blonde expects him to solve their problems. In the end, that’s his job.

“Postpone the match,” Donna prompts, the worry deepening. “I don’t think they should fight. They’re not communicating properly. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

Dean tries not laugh, but in reality, it’s just fucking funny. Do these women ever think things through? Y/N and Jo’s match is the main storyline, the two of them being the best fighters as well. If they’re not entering the ring, he might as well just throw in the towel now and quit. The show would never make it back on air.

“Donna, I can’t do that,” he tells her frustratedly and runs a palm over his face. “C’mon, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like they’re gonna kill each other.”

“Dean–” Donna is about to interject when he stops her.

“Fine, all right? I’ll talk to her,” the director assures the blonde.

Donna’s brow shoots up. “Her?”

“Them. I’ll talk to them,” Dean corrects quickly and watches her leave his office, clearly dissatisfied with his solution.

Dean hates West Hollywood like a mouse hates a cat. He can’t believe he fucking agreed to this thing in the first place. And the only reason he did agree was his stupid daughter, who’s not even here tonight because she’d rather spend time with her boyfriend than with her dad.

Fucking teenagers…

Honestly, Dean’s got no clue why he still came here without Claire. Maybe because he’s old-school and actually keeps his commitments, or maybe it’s because he’s got nothing better to do since neither his kid nor his not-girlfriend want to spend time with him. So, it was either getting drunk at home alone like he always does or do this.

As Dean enters the dark theater, he notices not a lot of seats are taken. Surprise, surprise! No one cares about him or his movies…

There’s a group of teenagers in the front row, though, who seem to be way to young to watch one of his films. But who is he to judge? He’s not their fucking parent. God knows he’s got his hands full with one teenager already.

He’s about to take a seat somewhere in the back when his green eyes spy a familiar head of hair. His heart skips a beat when he recognizes his favorite actress. Out of all the places in all the world, he’d never thought he’d meet her here.

“Hey,” he says as soon as he’s made it to her row. Her head darts up, but she doesn’t seem too surprised to see him here, which makes this coincidence even weirder. He assumed she strolled by this theater by accident and saw one of his movies was showing, deciding to check it out, which just so happens to flatter him and stroke his ego perfectly fine. “What are you doing here?”

Dammit. That sounded way too aggressive. He’s honestly happy she’s here; he just hasn’t expected it. Call it a ‘pleasant surprise.’

“Oh, uh, Claire invited me,” Y/N explains and gulps nervously. “But I can leave if you don’t want me here.”

Damn that kid. Of course, she meddled in his affair. Does she know he likes Y/N? Is it that obvious? Well, either way, someone’s getting a bigger allowance this week. Doesn’t he have the best kid?

“No, uh, stay. Please,” he says and sends Y/N his best smile. “Can I sit with you?”

Her face lights up. “Sure.”

Dean sits down on a red velvet seat next to her and feels like a goddamn teenager on a first date. His knees are shaking as he anxiously taps his boots on the sticky movie floor and drums his palms repeatedly on his thighs. Something inside of him urges him to hold her hand and interlace their fingers, or do one of those moves where he yawns and slings his arm around her shoulders.

In fact, he can barely concentrate on the movie until he takes her hand in his. But who cares? He wrote and directed this masterpiece, so it’s not like he’s missing out on anything important. He already knows the plot and every single shot.

Once their fingers touch, his heartbeat accelerates to light speed. She shoots him a look and raises her brow with a teasing smirk. He can catch it from his periphery but doesn’t dare to look straight at her. Instead, he awkwardly clears his throat and glues his green eyes stubbornly to the silver screen, pretending it’s not a big deal.

When did holding hands become such a fucking thrill? He’s not goddamn sixteen anymore, for crying out loud.

Y/N takes note of his uncomfortableness and focuses back on the movie but still gives his hand a small squeeze, telling him everything is all right. They remain exactly like this till the end credits roll across the screen.

And then, to his greatest surprise, there are cheers and claps from everyone in the theater. Y/N lets go of his hand to clap as well and bites her lip to hide a smile once she sees him blush furiously at the attention and admiration.

The group of teenagers then approaches him and stops by his row as a young, scrawny boy speaks up, “You’re a genius, Mr. Winchester.”

Mister?! How old do they think he is? Well, granted, he probably shot that movie before those kids were even born. Talk about feeling old.

“Your disorientation factor is truly masterful,” the boy continues. “Claire told us we’d love it.”

His brow shoots up in surprise. “Claire? How do you know my kid?”

“Oh, we’re all in AV club together,” the boy replies and gestures to his peers before they filter out of the theater.

“Huh.” Dean is gobsmacked, truly. For one, he didn’t even know Claire was in AV club. And secondly, he’s goddamn proud of her. Who knew the kid would take after her old man?

“See?” Y/N pokes his arm with her elbow, a big grin adorning her face. “You have a whole fan club of teenagers who adore your movie that they are, for sure, too young to see.”

Dean chuckles softly and wishes he could hide his reddening cheeks from her.

“I liked your movie, too,” she says then and watches his reaction closely.

“Oh, c’mon,” Dean tries to brush her off. She’s probably just saying it to appeal to his ego. He knows she’s not the biggest fan of his work. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Y/N says enthusiastically. “Those kids were right. It was disorienting. You were doing your own thing.” But then she catches her mistake and corrects herself, “Are. Sorry! You still are doing–”

Dean, however, shakes his head at her correction. “Nope, you’re right,” he admits and scoffs. “That was me twenty years ago. My hands all over everything like the biggest control freak, driving everybody nuts. I mean, my operator actually became so frustrated with me that he quit the first day and threw his camera at me. I had to shoot the rest of it myself.”

“You shot that?” Y/N’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Wow.”

“Yeah, I did.” Dean sighs and pensively scratches his beard. Something’s been bothering him for a while now, and talking to Y/N usually helps him sort through his jumbled thoughts. After all, she’s his Alma. “You know, I’m accustomed to a certain level of failure. When a project usually goes wrong, I know exactly what happened. It’s just-… with our show… I have no idea what went wrong there. I don’t know why they shit-canned us. Not a fucking clue. None. It’s driving me insane.”

Y/N grows quiet next to him and fumbles with her fingers. She swallows deeply before she opens her mouth. “I have an idea. I know why,” she confesses.

The director’s brow furrows. As he looks at her, he recognizes her nervousness. It causes him to worry. “What d’you mean?”

“Richard Roman, the head of the network? He-, uhm, he invited me to dinner… at his hotel room,” Y/N begins, the uncomfortableness growing inside of her and expanding in her chest.

Dean, on the other hand, stays perfectly still and quiet. The calm before the storm, so to speak. Because as soon as she said those words, he could feel his heart stop and drop several feet into the depths of hell. There, he’s sure he’ll find some kind of weapon he can use to kill that motherfucker before he comes back topside. The director knows how that story ends before she has even finished it, and it makes him want to puke his guts out and burn this godforsaken city down.

“He came on to me. As in… he wanted to have sex with me,” Y/N continues and clarifies in case he didn’t catch on. She’s not entirely sure the director is getting the message since he hasn’t said a word yet. “But I left before anything could happen. Ran away, actually. Bolted right outta there.” Her little chuckle at the end is a futile attempt to lighten the mood.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Dean’s furious, his nostrils flaring. He wants to punch and kill someone, but most of all Dickhead Roman himself.

“No, I’m not,” Y/N replies meekly. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Bewildered, he frowns. “Mad?” That’s when he notices that she suddenly seems scared. Is she frightened… of him?!

“Maybe I can still fix it. Just call him and ask him if I can come by his office,” Y/N suggests, her voice laced with desperation. But not the good kind that usually turns him on. This time it’s just plain sad.

“To do what exactly?” Dean prompts grimly, already knowing her intentions. Over his dead body is she doing that!

“Well–”

“Fuck no!” Dean doesn’t even allow her to finish her sentence. In fact, he doesn’t want to hear it at all, or he might have to scratch his ears out afterward. God, he doesn’t even want to think about it. “You’re not fucking doing anything, alright?”

“But–”

“That stupid fucking son of a bitch,” Dean huffs and shakes his head. “What a goddamn prick!”

“So you’re not mad?” Y/N checks insecurely.

For a moment, Dean stops his rage to look at her, his heart almost breaking as he does. She deserves so much better in this life than all the shit she’s getting. How the fuck is any of this fair?

“At Dick cocksucking Roman, yeah. But not at you. Never at you, okay?” he emphasizes and sees her nod in relief. His heart shatters anew. How could she even think for a second he’d hold some sleazebag’s actions against her? But then his suspicions grow as he puzzles the pieces together. “When the fuck did this happen?”

“Uh, a little over a week ago,” Y/N answers quietly. “The night before they moved us to the nighttime slot.”

“That’s when you came to my office, and we–” Dean doesn’t finish his train of thought and cards a hand through his messy hair. Now, it makes sense. Her strange behavior, the inexplicable need for punishment, and everything in between.

‘You’re the best guy I know,’ he remembers her words. ‘I can’t think of anyone I’d want this with more.’

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Was that why you were avoiding me?”

A part of him feels unbelievably relieved. It’s not him but literally someone else’s fault. For once, he’s done nothing wrong. For once, he hasn’t ruined everything. But another part of him, the bigger one, just wants to rip Dickbag Roman’s throat out with his goddamn teeth. What a pathetic fucking loser…

Dean wishes he could beat the guy black and blue and leave him bleeding on the highway till a truck runs over him. He wishes he could cut off that guy’s dick and put it through a meat grinder. His mind can’t stop imagining the most gruesome ways to make that asshat suffer and die. In fact, he wishes Manson was still roaming Spawn Ranch and would send his Family over to that Roman’s mansion and leave Sharon Tate the fuck alone.

“I’m sorry. I guess I was scared you’d react like Jo.” Y/N gulps and averts her eyes to her trembling hands in her lap.

His brow knits, Donna’s warning words echoing through his mind. “Jo knows? What did she say?” But before Y/N can answer him, the director stops her again. “No, wait… I can take a fucking guess,” he mutters bitterly. The blonde bimbo probably told her to blow the guy in his goddamn office. Typical…

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong, you know,” Y/N mumbles and bites down on her lip without looking at him.

“What d’you mean?”

“All I’m good for is a fuck,” she says with a wry smile and wipes away a small tear. Dean’s heart twinges and hurts for her, but that pain is nothing compared to the cool blade of a knife he feels soon instead. “I mean, you of all people know that…”

Dean’s quiet for a moment and bites his nails as he ponders. His mind is a maze, and he knows he has to pick and choose his words carefully in order to get out of it.

“No, I actually don’t know that,” he states and catches her attention.

He tries his best not to sound angry or offended, even though he is a little. Hasn’t he been building her confidence for weeks now? Hasn’t he been instilling in her that she’s his favorite – and not just among the cast but on this planet in general? He figured she knew how much she truly means to him, but maybe he hasn’t been clear enough yet. He knows Y/N’s self-worth issues could fill every damn swimming pool in California, so maybe he shouldn’t expect a miracle so soon.

Mostly, he’s angry at Dicksuck Roman and Barbie for ruining all his hard work with one asshole move and a few bitchy words.

Dean wets his lips and lets out a sharp exhale through his nose before he looks at her. “Y/N, you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my entire life. You’re never just a quickie in the office to me. Do you understand that?”

She nods in slow reluctance. “I think so.”

“Good,” he says sternly. “Now believe it ‘cause it’s true.”

The green-eyed director cups her cheeks and pulls her to his lips, tongue meeting tongue in a searing kiss. The old seats creak when their weight shifts, Y/N leaning into his touch as she wrings for oxygen with heavy breaths. And where words fail, he tries his best to show her how he feels through his actions.

“Sorry,” Dean apologizes cheekily once he lets her get some air. “Couldn’t hold myself back any longer. That’s okay, right? We’re still on?”

Suddenly, it dawns on him that she might’ve still changed her mind about him. Has he just sexually harassed a woman right after she told him how she’s been sexually harassed by a superior? Jesus fucking Christ, he’s goddamn tone deaf, isn’t he?

To his luck, though, Y/N finds his stupidity amusing and giggles, placing another sweet kiss on his plump lips as she shakes her head. “We’re still on, boss,” she assures him and hears him heave a big sigh of relief.

“Awesome.” He grins from ear to ear and brushes a strand of rogue hair out of her face. “Are you and Jo okay? ‘Cause if you’re not, you gotta tell me. You wanna postpone the match?”

Now that Dean knows there’s no chance in hell the network’s going to let the show survive, he doesn’t even give a shit if the girls resort to doing the chicken dance in the ring or taking a dump on stage. No one truly gives a fuck anymore, least of all him. He never has.

The only thing he cares about is sitting right next to him.

Y/N, however, vehemently shakes her head. “No, we’re fine. I wanna fight. ‘Sides, I’m supposed to win this match, and I can’t wait to kick Jo’s bitchy ass.” She grins broadly.

“That’s my bad girl.” Dean smirks and pecks her lips. “You’re gonna stay over at my place tonight? Play a little Cold War in my bedroom?”

“Only if I can do my accent,” Y/N says, beaming.

The director playfully rolls his green eyes, even though he’s direly been waiting for that sort of role play. “Oh, you’ve got yourself a deal, Natasha.”

22. Girls, Girls, Girls

Hope you enjoyed this one! We came back with a literal bang 😂 Next up we deal with more drama and a hospital stay 👀

Don't forget I re-did the tag lists after the break, so pick your new place (everything, specific character, or series) and put your username in there ❤️

TAGS:

Jensen: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey @deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies @agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28 @mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33

Old Series Tags (only for this part): @jessjad​​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​​ @smellingofpoetry​​ @justrealizedimmascifygurl​​​​ @leigh70​​ @4getfulimaginator2022​​ @yeahmynameiscool06​​ @luci-wiggles​​​ @darkened-writer​ @mimaria420​​ @samanddeansannoyingsis​​ @sarasolros​​

[lieu-rey]

can I interest anyone in vampire javier + jovier

[artificialqueens]

🏳️‍🌈 Bitch Fight Ch.18 (Multi; JeLa) - Lita

Welcome to the world of Femme Fatale Wrestling. The future is female, and we’re here to prove it.

A/N: Heyyyyy….So, I’m still alive. Sorry about the nearly-a-year posting break, I changed jobs irl, got side tracked with an original fiction project, and have been generally super busy - but both I and this fic are very much still alive. I’m aware that it’s been a minute, so if anyone needs a refresher, the fic in its entirety can be found here. 

Anyway - this is the long-awaited Jinkx Chapter™ and the point at which the story (imo) reeeaaalllyyyy starts to get good. So I hope you all enjoy, and to those of you who are still here and sat through the nine month hiatus: Thank you &lt;3

______

CHAPTER 18: YOU’VE STILL GOT IT

Dela had already left the house before Jinkx woke up. That was weird. Usually she didn’t leave to do anything without pestering her to get out of bed first. That did drive her a little insane - not that she’d ever say that out loud. Dela was trying. The fact that Jinkx hadn’t come with some kind of post-injury instruction manual made things difficult for the pair of them - she felt guilty about it. But acting on that guilt required effort that she didn’t have the capacity for. 

She’s been bizarrely cagey and quiet since the show on Saturday, honestly - reluctant to talk about work, distant, inside her own head. Jinkx wants to help, but the part of her that knows how to is miles away; trapped behind some impenetrable wall held in place by surgical screws. 

Regardless, Dela is god-knows-where, and Jinkx is alone, which she doesn’t deal well with. Being awake when she’s by herself is unpleasant - seconds drag on forever into minutes, and she feels agonizingly conscious of the time that she’s wasting. She’d set up camp in the living room, and more than likely wasn’t going to move until it was an acceptable time to go back to bed - coffee on the table, and Macho sitting on the couch a few feet away from her, stirring from his nap every few minutes to claw at the couch or glare at her like he wants her dead. The TV is on, but she isn’t exactly watching it. She scrolls through her texts, blankly waiting for Dela to respond to her and tell her what exactly she was doing, and trying her best to ignore the litany of unread messages from Bill. She’d deal with him later. 

‘Later’ was becoming an increasingly nebulous concept. She missed him, in a way - it was like he’d stopped caring when she got hurt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him face-to-face, and the text correspondence she got from him to report back from the events of shows tended to be curt and impersonal - a couple of words, nothing more. Well, he was busy. And he was serving his purpose, she guessed. She hoped. In all honesty, she wasn’t really sure. She felt guilty about that too. 

She feels like her body is constantly heavy; doing anything is difficult, in a way that she struggles to justify. On the days where she’s physically in pain, it makes sense at least. Or when she’s depressed - when something’s happened, when she’s actually struggling. She hates feeling like this - like a shell of a person, but without an excuse. On paper, she should be okay. 

She’s spent the bulk of the last year mentally torturing herself like this. Being angry with herself when she feels like shit, and equally angry when she doesn’t and yet still can’t bring herself to function. The promotion had become a real point of shame. A few months of absence felt understandable - but a fucking year? She knew that she was letting people down, and in some way or another she’s lulled herself into thinking that maybe they’re  better off without her. She didn’t have much faith left in her abilities as a promoter, or a booker - and if she couldn’t wrestle, then what was the point in her? She’d fucked up before. 

She didn’t know how she felt about Manila being back, even if it was just for a night. Her gut said she didn’t like it. 

That night barely held a coherent shape in Jinkx’s memory - the blood pooling on the mat, Raja’s seizure in the hallway, the unblinking terror on Manila’s face. Jinkx had gotten home from the emergency room at four in the morning, after spending all night picking up the pieces as best she could. She’d sat staring at the living room wall until the sun came up - still in her ring gear, blood that wasn’t hers drying in her cuticles, feeling like the walls were closing in around her. She recalled this horrible sense of foreboding overtaking her, like she knew that this was only the shitty start of something that was about to get much, much worse. 

Her last exchange with Manila had been awful - Manila had been angry with her, and she had every right to be. She’d been on her way out the door regardless, but that didn’t change how terrible Jinkx felt about the way it ended. The situation with Magnolia was an embarrassing, shitty mess. Going off-script like she had was a problem on its own, even without the state she’d left Raja in. And yet a month down the line, she’d still been under contract. 

Moreover, Magnolia had been holding the title - a position that Manila was furious about. She had made an absolute point of refusing to listen to any excuses Jinkx tried to give. They’d been flimsy at best - maybe it was a good thing that she’d been unable to get a word in edgeways. Anything she could have said would have been far too easy to poke holes in. 

Jinkx has been put in a shitty position; being strongarmed by her talent, apparently incapable of growing a backbone and doing the right thing. She didn’t have any concrete proof that what Magnolia had done to Raja was deliberate, and Magnolia had made it crystal fucking clear that if Jinkx fired her, pulled a screwjob, or interfered in any other way, she’d go straight to every dirt-sheet that would listen to her and drag both her and the promotion’s names through the mud. That had terrified Jinkx to her core. 

About five years ago, someone had put it together that the Jinkx Monsoon who now had tits and ran an all-women’s promotion was the same one who’d appeared as an acne-ridden sixteen-year old boy in an ancient TLC documentary about pro wrestling bootcamps. Maybe using the same ring name since she was a teenager had been a bad idea after all. There’d been a minor shitstorm on R/SquaredCircle - apparently it had been a slow news week, because then Pro Wrestling Insider ran a story about her. That had sent a few assholes in her direction but equally gave the promotion some free publicity. Then WWE had fired Jim Ross two days later, and everybody moved the fuck on. 

It hadn’t been a big deal - she couldn’t exactly be outed if she’d never been in the closet in the first place. Her being trans had always been something of an open secret. For fuck’s sake - she’d used ‘Dude Looks Like a Lady’ as entrance music for years, she’d never exactly been subtle. 

And then some mid-tier ex-WCW guy had started a Twitter rumor that she was lying about her gender identity, and she’d only founded FFW to enable her to perv on women. The allegation effectively ruined three months of her life. Some of the things she’d read about herself were downright fucking vile - they’d been forced to cancel two shows; she’d had to shut down all of her social media, and even then found herself getting death threats sent to her business email. Femme Fatale had been in its infancy, up and running for a little under three years, and it had nearly killed the entire promotion. 

She’d had an awful, terrifying gut feeling that it would only have taken one bit of crappy press to reignite that level of public hatred, towards both the promotion and her personally - crappy press that Magnolia was clearly more than happy to provide. If it came straight from the mouth of someone who’d worked with her, rather than unsubstantiated crap from some bastard she’d never met with too much time on his hands, then Jinkx would have been definitively screwed. She’d learned the hard way how fragile her standing was. The threat had gotten to her, in a really fucking horrible way. She wasn’t sure if that had been Magnolia’s intention, but it had definitely worked. 

So, she’d spent weeks handling the situation with kid gloves and waiting to see if a solution jumped out. It didn’t - and in the end, she’d fired her anyway, and lived to tell the tale. 

Not that there hadn’t been consequences. Bianca, Morgan, and Detox - the three people originally tasked with trying to get the belt off of her before Courtney eventually succeeded - had all threatened to quit; her relationship with Manila had been irrevocably damaged. Raja’s career was over, and Jinkx hadn’t been able to look Courtney in the eye for weeks after that fucking massacre of a match. She couldn’t unsee the blood trickling from her nose, or the missing front tooth. It only twisted the knife in further. 

Not to mention the guilt over feeling relieved that Magnolia had been stupid enough to shoot on someone twice. Maybe on some subliminal level, that had been her intention in letting the whole mess fester for as long as she did. Jinkx had known it would only be a matter of time before she tried it again. Firing someone over a botch wasn’t the done thing; deliberately injuring an opponent was entirely different. It was an easy out; one that didn’t put her neck on the line. 

But it was her failure that had gotten them there in the first place, and her price to pay to fix it - not anyone else’s. It should have been Jinkx in that match instead of Court. It should have been her blood on Magnolia’s hands - her tooth on the ring canvas. Her pound of flesh. 

Jinkx been reckless, and stupid. She’d endangered her talent by putting them in the ring with someone who had shown their capacity to be deliberately fucking evil, and for what? 

Every stupid mistake she’d made in that couple of months had been haunting her for the last two years. It was undeniable proof - she sucked at her job. She’d put people in harm’s way to save her own skin. And if that was how she’d been before everything had happened, she didn’t even want to think about all of the ways in which she’d probably fuck it up now. Back then, she wasn’t a miserable shell of her past self. She’d still had passion; she still cared. 

She glances over at the TV, trying her level best to fucking distract herself. UFC. The fight looks pretty bizarrely matched, a dark-haired beast of a woman with a shaved head getting the shit knocked out of her by some skinny kid with bright green hair. Buzzcut is bleeding all over the place; there’s barely a mark on Green Hair. Jinkx winces.  

MMA had never made a lick of sense to her; she’d been in her share of messy matches, but that damage was always superficial. Busting someone’s face open with your bare hands is a completely different ballgame, and it’s always made her feel a little bit sick to watch. Plus it just seemed boring - maybe that was the sports-entertainer in her. What’s the point of having a cage there if nobody is gonna jump off of it? Where the fuck was all of the pomp and circumstance? What she was getting here was glacially-paced punching and kicking - no flair, just blood-sport. 

Buzzcut takes a kick to the head and immediately hits the deck. Jinkx shuts the TV off. 

Legitimate knockouts scared the shit out of her. She hated watching them happen; hated thinking about what kind of state they left people’s brains in. Jinkx had suffered through two concussions in her career - one when she was a rookie; the second the night she broke her neck. Dela had had four. Every time it was terrifying, and thinking about it for too long kept her up at night. 

Watching Dela get hurt had been a kind of pain that Jinkx hadn’t been fully prepared for. Every time anything happened, she found herself wracked with a sense of sickening guilt for being the one that led her down this path in the first place. The night she’d come home after the hardcore match with Morgan - broken nose, swollen lips, tears cutting streaks through the dried blood all over her face - Jinkx had barely been able to look at her. 

Jinkx had been in the ring with Dela the night she broke her leg - she’d watched it happen, horribly aware of exactly how bad it was, but glued to the spot, unable to do anything. Everything about it - the sound of snapping bone; the twisted, terrified look on her face as Bill trying to cinch in that stupid fucking ankle-lock - had haunted her for weeks. The sound of her voice was what had cut her the deepest; the pain and the panic behind her words, thumping the mat with the palm of her hand, screaming ‘I quit, I quit’ over and over. 

Jinkx hadn’t spoken to Bill for almost a month after that. Dela had been the one to insist that they patched things up - she was okay, it had been an accident, he didn’t realize. Given that she’d been the one that had to go through three hours of surgery and six months of recovery because of his stupidity, she’d been the authority. Jinkx had been furious; after watching him treat Dela like an inconvenience at best and a personal affront to him at worst for as long as they’d been together, her patience for his shit had worn thin. 

Bill and Jinkx had turned up at the same run-down training school for the first time on the same night, and had been joined at the hip for about four years as perennially single high-schoolers. He was a little abrasive, and had a tendency to talk over her - but underneath it all, Jinkx had sensed a kind of insecurity in him, veiled by this performative, hypermasc bravado. He’d clung onto her from the moment that they met and refused to let go. She didn’t mind - he’d never cared about the fact that she was a little weird, and he didn’t make her feel like an outcast the same way that other guys did back then. 

He’d been the person responsible for the chip in her front tooth; a slightly overenthusiastic superkick during their first match in front of a crowd had taken a diagonal chunk out of it, which she’d then proceeded to accidentally swallow. She’d refused to get it fixed - in the first instance because she hadn’t had the money, then later because her response to Bill ribbing her for her fucked-up smile had always been to remind him that it was only like that because he was a shitty wrestler. It was a part of their personal history. 

Bill and Dela had never exactly gotten along. Well, Bill had never exactly gotten along with Dela, and had never tried to. He’d never really learned how to share Jinkx - he got jealous and clingy in the locker room when she tried to talk to other people for god’s sake. Dela gatecrashing their little bromance had seriously rubbed him the wrong way.

Dela hadn’t been a wrestler when they first met - a recent college graduate, she’d worked in the bar that Jinkx and the other guys frequented after shows, since the staff seldom kicked them out for being too rowdy. They’d both crushed on her for weeks, from afar - Jinkx had been the first one of the two of them to make a move, and it was like Bill resented Dela for picking the wrong guy. Not that he’d ever said that out loud; not that he’d even really tried to pursue her. She’d just been supposed to telepathically know that he’d wanted her too - he was the better man, or rather the only one that succeeded at being a man. It was like he hadn’t even viewed Jinkx as competition. 

Once he got to know her, besides thinking she was hot, he couldn’t stand her, or at least he claimed he couldn’t. Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard; she was too fake, too immature. Before she became a wrestler herself, she didn’t understand ‘their’ world - he called her a ring-rat more often than he used her actual name - but when she started, she sucked at it and wasn’t trying hard enough. She was pretty much incapable of doing anything right. For fuck’s sake, he even hated the fact that she didn’t argue back when he tried to start shit with her. It had always driven Jinkx quietly insane, but Dela insisted that she didn’t mind. 

Jinkx feels bad for Dela more than anyone through all of this shit. She tried - she fucking tried, so hard. With everything; with him, with the promotion, with her. Jinkx still felt just as consumed by that incredible, overwhelming love for her as she had back when they first got together, and that made the guilt and the pain so much worse. Dela was suffering because of her - she could see it. Knowing how much of a horrific, draining burden she’s become on everyone she cares about disgusts her. 

Five-percent survival rate. That sentence had haunted her since she got injured. Why did she get to be one of that five percent? It doesn’t feel fair. Better people have fucking died because of the same shit, and the ones that lived didn’t waste the time they’d stolen by rotting away in their own misery and self-pity. 

Jinkx’s phone starts vibrating in her hand, jolting her back into the real world. The name on the caller ID makes her stomach drop. MANILA LUZON. 

 “Manila? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Manila’s voice on the other end of the line is clipped and guarded. Jinkx feels uneasy. “Look, I’m gonna cut to the chase - Mateo got a developmental deal with WWE, so it’s looking pretty likely that we’re gonna be moving back sometime soon. I need somewhere to work, and I-“

“That’s kind of not my area anymore. Dela said you were at the show on Saturday, did you talk to Bill?” Jinkx says. Her voice feels like an answering machine; verbally shitting out the exact same thing she has to tell Dela, or any of the girls, when they try to come to her about shit, without any kind of conscious thought. Talk to him, I can’t deal with this right now

“No, I didn’t - why the fuck would I? I’m not asking a referee about a new contract deal. It’s your promotion,” Manila’s tone spikes. 

“It is, but-“

“Jinkx, come on.” Jinkx can practically hear Manila rolling her eyes. “I didn’t see you around once the other night. What the fuck is going on?” 

“What?” Jinkx says absently, barely paying attention. She doesn’t want to deal with this right now. Manila had always been spectacularly talented at being a bitch when the situation necessitated it, even before the whole horrific mess with Raja. That had just honed her ability to focus said talent in Jinkx’s direction. 

“You were at the show, right?”

“No,” Jinkx says flatly. 

“What the- why?” Manila sounds astonished. Did she really not know? How the fuck did she not know?  

“I’m retired, Manila,” Jinkx feels like she’s stating the obvious. Manila pauses for a second. Jinkx hears her swallow. 

“As of when?”

“I…Shit happened last year,” she doesn’t feel like explaining herself right now. Manila doesn’t respond, leaving a pause in the conversation that begs for an explanation. Jinkx grits her teeth. “Botched piledriver - I broke my neck, triple fusion surgery, whole career down the toilet in five minutes.” 

“And how is that stopping you from being backstage?” Manila asks pointedly, moving straight along from what Jinkx had just said without any kind of feeling. Jinkx feels like she’s smacking her head against a brick wall. She stays silent. “I’m serious, Jinkx. It’s a mess - how did you let things get this bad?”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I told you that you had a goddamn laundry list of issues to work out two years ago when I left. It’s bad enough that you let Magnolia stick around after what she did to Raja - it’s bad enough that you let her keep the belt. I’d thought things would have improved by now, and somehow they’re worse.”

“You’re still mad about that?” Jinkx groans, exasperated. She wasn’t about to give away the fact that she herself wasn’t even remotely over it yet - the only person who didn’t seem to be holding onto any resentment or guilt over the whole thing was Raja. Though that was probably because she didn’t remember most of it. 

“Raja nearly died, and you let the person responsible get away with it - I care about her, of course I’m still fucking mad. You can’t do that to somebody.” 

“How the hell are you guys still not fucking?” Jinkx mutters under her breath. She really hopes Manila hadn’t heard her - that would do less than nothing to help her case. 

“You know that Courtney went off-script on Bianca, and that Adore kid, right?” Manila asks, sharp and confrontational. 

“I- what?” Jinkx sits up - pretty certain that she’d misheard something. “What the fuck did she do?” 

“Ran in during their match - she hit Bea with a chair, slapped Adore around a bit, then demanded a title match. Dela and Bianca tried to convince me it was a work, but it was super obvious.”  

“Manila, I- look, are you sure? Like, this was definitely Courtney?” 

“I’m not stupid, Jinkx.”

“I never said you were, but Courtney’s the champ. Why would she need to-”

“Uh, no she’s not,” Manila says disbelievingly. She pauses for a second. “Jinkx, do you seriously not know who your world champion is?” 

“I thought I did - there was a bit of a hiccup a few weeks ago, Adore botched the finish and accidentally won the belt, but Courtney got it back.” Jinkx pauses. Someone isn’t telling her something. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m fucking serious. This is ridiculous, Jinkx. You’re in charge, and you can’t let any of this crap fly. You can’t let people run around shooting on each other, you can’t not pay attention to what’s going on in your own company.” 

Jinkx nods along with her. She’s fucking right, and she’s the only person around Jinkx right now who can’t see the ‘HANDLE WITH CARE’ sticker that’s been plastered on her forehead for the last year. Slowly, quietly, she feels that heavy lead ball of depression she’s been carrying around within her chest for the last year starting to crack.  

“You need to get your information from someone who wasn’t just there for a night. All I’m saying is I’m looking to re-sign, and I’m there if you want me - but not if something doesn’t change,” Manila sighs. “I know how much all of this means to you, and I don’t wanna see it fail, but this is not the promotion I left two years ago. Half of the locker room is gone - the audience is barely there. You need to fucking do something.”

“You’re right,” Jinkx says. She chews the new information over in her mind; still reeling from the well-timed sucker punch to the jaw that Manila had just landed on her from miles away. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’m gonna get this shit in hand. Give me a call once you’re back home and we can talk about you re-signing. I mean, if you decide that things are up to your standards.”

There’s a little hint of the old bite in her voice. Hi, Jinkx Monsoon - nice to see you. It’s been a while. 

Manila gives a surprised little laugh. 

“Okay,” she sounds taken aback, before adopting that serious, stern mom-tone she’s been using for the rest of the conversation. “But seriously though, figure-“

“You’re laboring the point,” Jinkx says. “Thank you - clearly I needed someone to kick me up the ass.”  

Manila chuckles. 

“Look, I have to go - I’m in a fucking bathroom stall at Epcot, Mateo is with the kids, but I couldn’t stop thinking about everything, and I had to talk to you,” Manila says. “I appreciate it. And I’m sorry about everything that happened to you. It sounds like it sucks.”

“Yeah, it does.”

Manila ends the call. Jinkx stares at her phone screen, a wry smile on her face. More cracks start to form. She’s not sure what this emotion is, whether it’s good or bad - but she’s gonna ride it out and see where it goes. That sea of unopened texts from Bill catches her attention. 

BILL SCARGILL:

UNREAD (14) 

Rematch sucked. One with the red hair keeping title. Courtney can’t fucking wrestle 

D throwing bitch fit about decision. Tell her to get her shit together. 

SERIOUSLY. Get your wife in check 

Jinkx??? 

Adore feuding with Bianca. Rest of show sucked - where tf did you find those jobbers?? Trinity Fame and the other blonde one can’t wrestle. Time to downsize?? 

Had to talk to Courtney about her attitude btw. Entitled as fuck. None of these girls have any respect for authority. 

Show was fine. Good crowd. Courtney no showed btw 

Courtney no showed again. 

Don’t know what’s going on with her and don’t care. Unreliable bs. No professionalism. 

If she doesn’t turn up tonight she’s fired. If you don’t answer this I’m assuming you don’t give a fuck. 

Call me ASAP 

Jinkx 

Jinkx?????

CALL ME 

That horrible, heavy ball in her chest explodes.  

She needs to talk to Bill. Wait, shit - no, she needs to talk to Dela. Find out what’s really going on, because the picture that this is painting from texts and Manila’s account alone isn’t fucking pretty. She can feel long-unused gears within her brain slowly, stiffly grinding into action again; powered primarily by the white-hot anger that’s sitting between her lungs where the bomb just detonated.  

Now that she truly thinks about it, Jinkx can’t say with absolute certainty how Bill ended up in the position of ludicrous roided-up power he’s currently in. Only that, when she eventually awoke from the walking coma of memory loss and painkillers her injury had sent her into, that was just the way of things. And then the depression had kicked in, and so too had her lack of desire to do anything. Dela had seemed to go along with it sans protest, but she’d been going along with his shit sans protest for years - that wasn’t an indicator that he was any fucking good at what he was doing. 

She pulls out her laptop, typing out a frenzied plan of action, trying to curate some of the mess in her head into something usable. Talk to Dela. Figure out what the fuck his problem is. And for how long it’s been a fucking problem. And then…

“Everything okay?” 

Dela’s voice breaks through the silence - she’s standing in the doorway in her gym gear, bag over her shoulder and stray hairs stuck to her brow with sweat. Her phone is in her hand, and she looks shaken. Macho barrels across the couch, using Jinkx’s chest as a launch-pad to greet his favorite mom at the door, mewing with his tail in the air until Dela picks him up.  

“I- uh…what?” Jinkx stumbles over her words after she gets done choking on the lungful of air that Macho had knocked out of her. She half-closes her laptop, putting it down on the coffee table. 

“I asked if you were okay,” Dela sits down on the couch by Jinkx’s side, putting a hand on her thigh as she cradles Macho like a baby. There’s a concerned little knot in between her eyebrows. 

“Yeah,” Jinkx nods solidly. Dela pulls a face that Jinkx can only describe as alarmed. “Are you?”

“Uh - not really, it’s a long story, I won’t bother you with-”“Please bother me with it.” Jinkx claps Dela’s hand in both of hers. Dela laughs nervously. 

“Well, I just narrowly avoided getting murdered by Bianca in the parking lot of the gym for one thing - I’ve never seen her that pissed, it was fucking terrifying. I’m…” she pauses. “Courtney got fired. Supposedly on your orders, which obviously isn’t true but it’s still…” Jinkx clenches her teeth. Dela sets Macho back down on the couch, turning to face Jinkx. “What is going on with you? You seem really…” Dela searches for a word, which Jinkx can only imagine is ‘insane’. She eventually settles on: “…Energised.”

“I, uh…I just got off the phone with Manila. Between everything she told me and now this, I need to take care of some business. The next show is this Saturday, right?”  

 There’s an unfamiliar kind of certainty to Jinkx’s voice. Dela looks at her with her eyes alight; her mouth hanging just open in surprise. 

And then, Jinkx is returning to Femme Fatale. 

Pride Challenge Points: 3589

[alienssstufff]

Top 3 best red life skins and why is it this one

[ckao03]

Finished! Uncle Tello and Casey Jr!

Sculpted by @starrstrucksilly!

Based on the Cass Apocalypse Series by @somerandomdudelmao !

Donnie doesn't sit quite where he is supposed to, because I flew too close to the sun and he paid the price for my hubris.

I was sad to glue Casey to the base, holding him brought me joy... But I think he turned out pretty good!

I need a better camera, there is weathering on Casey's arm and leg wraps that you can't see... I think he looks better in person, too... The nose shading between his eyes is my favorite part for some reason.

Edit: Forgot to mention, I am aware I put the top ninpo arm on backwards, looks super cool and menacing from certain angles lol

[oobbbear]

Was playing with idea of fool having tattoos

Fool belongs to @venomous-qwille !

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