#I know those two are different but who cares

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCxDP fanfic idea: Farmer's Market Gossip

Bruce Wayne enjoys visiting the farmers' market, especially the one in Smallville. Something was refreshing about wandering stall to stall, looking over fresh fruit, baked goods, and little handmade nicknacks.

One of the best parts was realizing that almost no one recognized him. Maybe in a place like Gotham, where his face and his activities were always splattered on news outlets and gossip rags, it made it hard for him to go unnoticed unless he actively disguised himself.

That wasn't a problem in here.

People didn't follow the rich here in the same way they followed celebrities. Why would they care that Bruce made a fool of himself at a fancy gala in a random street they had never seen or heard of? Why would his donations to charities matter when the charities never reach this far out here? Why would they bother to look deeper in the thought of Don't I know that guy from somewhere? while he browsed the tomatoes.

Smallville was a pleasant, quiet place to retire or raise a family. But it lacked a night life, and to be fair a large amount of entertainment. There wasn't a whole lot to do out here. It was, in every sense of the world, a little rural town in the middle of nowhere.

Oh, Metropolis was a mere hour and a half drive away, or ninety miles, because Americans need to use actual measurements when speaking of distance, as Alfred once put it (Bruce just thought it was funny to see his father-figure get annoyed at the oddest things). It was a relatively easy drive, hardly out of the way, but it still felt like far too much to go for a mere night out, at least a constant one.

Commuting for work was a different matter.

So, really, Smallville had a limit to gossip, not because the neighbors weren't nosy - in fact, Bruce found them far more invested in each other's lives than they should be but because there just weren't enough people to hear new gossip about. They passed along the same story over and over again, until everyone and their mother had heard it, but after a day or two, that would be old news.

Maybe that's why the vendors all knew Bruce's face, and knew that when he strolled through, he would buy almost everything he paused to browse, but knew nothing else about him. He likes it that way.

Oh, there were whispers; however, those speculations were more about the fact that Martha Kent's boy brought around a city boy with him every other weekend. How suspiciously close that Clark fellow was to his friend.

Mr. Parr, who sold a rosemary sourdough bread that Bruce was addicted to, muttered to Miss Davis that he always knew Clark was on the more colorful side. Miss Davis then commented how Clark did well for himself because Bruce always seemed to have enough cash to walk back to his car, bags nearly spilling out of his arms.

Bruce thought it was hilarious and chose not to correct anyone. He knew Clark was aware of the rumors - it was hard not to, given the man's superhearing made him hyper-aware of everything all the time - but his friend had no idea how people got that impression and didn't know how to make them stop.

His parents' neighbors thought Lois was made up, even after Ma and Pa Kent talked about their son's girlfriend.

This week, he actually showed up without Clark. His friend was busy at work, but had been willing to fly him over so he could get his bi-weekly fix of relaxation. The kids knew they were always welcome to join him, but they also knew Bruce liked doing his little Smallville farmer's market alone.

As he was chatting with Mrs. Green, he noticed a new stall had been added to the usual lineup.

"That's Danny Fenton." Mrs. Green revealed after noticing his curiosity. "Sweet thing, just moved into town. He took over Mr. Jackson's old flower farm after Mr. Jackson became ill. You know the poor man is in the early stages of dementia, so his daughters wanted him closer to their houses, a state away. Anyway, Danny makes these excellent natural creams and lotions from his flowers. You should try his ointments too! Why, it helps clear up most of my arthritis aches and pains."

Bruce flashes her a boyish smile. "I'll go over and see his selection. If it's a recommendation from you, he must be fantastic."

"Oh, aren't you a charmer?" Mrs. Green laughs bashfully, swatting Bruce away. "Go now before you make an old lady faint from a severe big head."

"You big-headed? Never." Bruce laughs taking his fresh set of carrots and apples. "Have a good day, Mrs. Green!"

"You too, Brucie."

Strutting over to the new booth, Bruce made sure to wave at the regular vendors, who all smiled and greeted him back, except for Mr. Martinez, who Bruce had come to know had always had a bit of a hard time with eye contact. He didn't take it to heart.

The man's salsas were far too delicious to be upset over something small like eye contact.

Danny Fenton's booth was much like the others. A large pop-up canopy with a long foldable table was set up. Fenton had some wooden stands displaying randomly sized jars with a ghost-like logo stuck on them. He placed fake flowers around the wooden stands, making it appear as though the jars were sitting in a garden bed, and had soft, classical music playing from a speaker near the back of the booth.

Bruce realized that the closer he got, the more battery-operated fountains were placed around to grab people's attention and create the obvious soft, cottage-core ambiance Fenton was going for. Not only did it pull in customers, but it also let him influence their mood from the get-go for his sales pitch.

The man obviously had some experience in the field.

Fenton kept up his fantasy gimmick by dressing in a peculiar outfit. Bruce couldn't quite name the style at the top of his head, but he was sure that Fenotn wouldn't be out of place in a Renaissance fair among the fairy section that Tim and Damian loved so much. All he was missing was a mushroom-themed hat.

Since Fenton was currently chatting with a few customers, Bruce decided to browse the selections of hand salves. He dipped a spoon in a few of the sample jars and spread the salves on one of his hands, testing out the sensation with a critical eye. His many years of grappling across the city made his hands a bit rough, and it was always nice to find something to soften them again.

He couldn't be a proper gentleman if his hands weren't gentle after all.

Almost instantly, he realized he was going to be walking away with at least three jars: lavender rose, rosemary spearmint, and lavender chamomile. Not only did they feel great, but they smelled divine.

Bruce then truned his attention to some lotions, hoping to find some for Cass who always had a bit of a more pungent nose then the rest of his kids so she tended to look for more natural sents and came face to face with Fenton himself.

The man had finished with his other clients, moving behind the table to stand on the other side directly across from Bruce. He had a few small flowers braided in his hair, letting the rest of it fall loosly around his shoulders and he offered Bruce a smile as gentle and as pretty as the flowers he grew.

Bruce felt his jaw drop.

Never before had he seen such beauty.

"Hi there! Let me know if you have any questions." Fenton chirps, looking so darn happy to have someone standing in of his items that he was almost glowing.

"Um...No...I ...Just these." Bruce coughed, handing over the jars and a random lotion bottle. He didn't break eye contact, as Fenton happily rattles off the price and bags his things for him. But he can't find the will to push words out of his mouth, grunting in thanks and all but fleeing from the man.

Much later, he overhears Mrs. Lee giggling with a few ladies. "Mr. Fenton has to be the most attractive person to ever move to Smallville. I heard he was a supermodel."

"Well, I heard he has some siren blood in him. Miss Jackson said his voice was hypnotic."

"Siren blood? Really?"

"Hey, anything is possible; people like Aquaman are running around."

A siren.

That had to be it. No wonder Bruce had been so struck dumb. A magical creature of the sea had moved to a landlocked town to sell flower-based skin care goods. Not the oddest thing he has faced as Batman.

However, to be safe, Bruce should return next week. Just to make sure Fenton wasn't going to eat anyone.

(Three weeks later, Clark tries his hardest to assure everyone Bruce is not cheating on him with the new Beauty of Smallville because they were never a couple. He gets lots of baked goods to heal his broken heart in response, and Lois laughs.)

[salemlunaa]

LETS TALK ABOUT REVISION

ready to rewrite your life?

i used to talk about revision while operating from different beliefs, however i thought it would be great to talk about it now as i get so many asks about the subject.

In actuality, revision is an illusionistic concept. Why is that? because time isn��t real. You are SO powerful that you are imagining a “past” for yourself on the fly, and can sift through “memories” in a matter of seconds. But because we only live in a now moment, those memories are only made real by your awareness. If you were to take your awareness of a certain moment in time, it would cease to exist, until you are to bring it back to life by again putting your awareness on it.

How revision works: I’m going to use the words “train of thought” instead of “past” as the past is really just a train of thought you believe to have happened, all you have is now. There are infinite realities out there, you shift every second to a slightly different one following every decision you make. Let’s say Julia broke up with her boyfriend, that circumstance is being imagined by her, she has a train of thoughts (from finding problems in the relationship, to breaking up with him) which practically tell her she broke up with him.

Although, there is another version of her with another set of thoughts/ “memories” of her and her boyfriend being in a loving relationship. If she regrets the “decision” of breaking up with her man, she needs to shift her SELF to the person with the train of thoughts that tell her she IS in a relationship with her boyfriend, and because imagination is reality, that’s what will folllow.

A lot of you may use revision for one reason or another, but the main reason that so many seek revision is because they either regret doing something or are in a shitty situation. And i’m going to tell you that revision is just like anything other manifestation meaning: creation is finished. Regret is not a real feeling, it is an imagined feeling, that you generate because you are so fooled by the delusion that decisions are final. Once you see that none of this is real and the past doesn’t matter, you will remove all the regret from your mind,

And i know how regret feels, before coming to terms with who i actually was, it was a feeling that ate me up inside, it’s a horrible feeling, but it is illusionistic, it is only there to solidify the illusion that events and the physical is solid. Which they aren’t.

Please do not be fooled, the past is changeable because there is no past. All you must do is shift to the now version of you that had the desired “past” you wanted. There are people who have revised deaths, diagnoses, fucked up things they did, there’s even a girl on my page sharing a success story about her regret of moving schools, so she simply shifted to a timeline where she never moved! And i have many more dms with successes too, someone who revised their grades when they were a few days away from a parent teacher meeting telling them to repeat the year, one who revised her breakup days before prom. if they can do that why can’t you “revise”? i don’t care what it is. It. Is. Changeable. And that’s because you are everything and You are changeable so ALL is changeable.

✰✰✰✰✰

Another piece of advice is not to look outward for advice. I’m going to give you links to the only revision posts i would recommend!(one two three four five six-probably so much more amazing material, but you don’t need it, stop with the need to over consume). But other than that, a lot of “manifestation coaches” have A LOT of limiting beliefs. For example: “you have to remember that manifestation can’t overrule the law of physics and time”, “changing the past isn’t possible, but you can change how you feel about it” ew…… anyway…..

YOU are god, not them. please do not let their limitations affect you. That’s like the biblical god going to cry in a corner because Moses doubted him. Why are you letting mere humans depict what you can and can’t do? You have the authority, total authority. Which is why i don’t want you to get rattled seeing these beliefs. But wouldn’t the person who has their revised be enjoying life, instead of looking for youtube posts like a junky needing a fix??

To revise all you must do is see beyond the illusion that this life is solid. See beyond the concept that time is set in stone and that time is linear. This circumstance isn’t real, use whatever techniques you like to live from the state of the person who is in the timeline you want to be in (I personally love revising the day using SATS, inducing the void state, visualising and rampages, recently loving robotic affirmations too!)

I hate using the word “delusional” because the only thing that is delusion here is you thinking you can’t do this, but you need to be so far removed from what was, live completely and 100% in your imagination, that’s the only real thing. “But salem, what if i’m living in my head and circumstances still take their course?” If you have to ask me that you aren’t 100% living in the imaginary. And that back and forth, that pathetic attempt at serving two masters is what has you “waiting”. You cannot serve two masters, you are either in your desired timeline, or you’re the loser dealing with circumstances you don’t want, it can never be the two, you have to pick which one you want more.

Also remember that you can never be given things you don’t already have: reality is totally mental, not 50% not 99% but 100% mental, if you still operate from the person who is regretting their life, you aren’t thinking from the state of being in the timeline you wanna be in. You have to know that you have it first, before it can reflect. It will only be hard when you say it is, failure is not a real concept, it’s being imagined by you, remember that. For some of you, your circumstances will slap you right in the face and that is not failure it’s feedback, showing you that you aren’t truly thinking from that version of you.

You are the only person in your way from instantly jumping to your desired timeline. Get rid of that deep belief in time. You are the only reason you have to wake up and deal with unfavourable circumstances again. YOU are the only one that can give it to yourself. And first you have to GIVE IT TO YOURSELF, try to make that make sense. The food is right there but you choose to starve because you are so fooled by the illusion there is no food at the table.

it’s already done, there’s nothing to regret, creation is finished, the second you wanted another outcome a reality was formed. THATS how powerful you are. You are there now.

Shifting to your desired timeline is instantaneous, it will materialise when you finally see there was nothing to do to get there in the first place.

I believe in you, so so so much

[ramiesocs]

1. I was obsessed with FNAFHS as a kid and after I heard the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing I had to create two characters

2. it wasn't really that much because she went from a light grey character with long white hair to a white character with long blonde hair, later on I made a genderbending of her and a few redesign later (like 2) Dylan was recognizable

3. the first thing I decided about Liz was that she would be the cute, dainty, and innocent girl of the two (by the two I mean Liz & Lucy) and u reflected that on the appearance, so the first was both appearance and role on the story

4. the last thing it could be her name I believe, I made her long ago so I'm not sure if it was name or personality

5. her name is Elizabeth Parqués (and Dylan Parqués) the last name I firmly remember it was a reference to Spider-Man bc originally it was Parker and then I made it more Hispanic, I genuinely don't remember with I chose Elizabeth, both I chose Dylan because it was a "soft" and unisex name

6. originally, Liz's design was completely based on her difference with Lucy, meaning that she was "pure" "naive" and more "innocent" than Lucy, now her design shows 2 things, 1 it's aesthetically nice but makes her stand out like A LOT, and 2 you could argue that because it's based on emo, scene and 2020 TikTok alt, it means that Liz decides to live on the past (Dylan it's just and gb version that's supposed to look like the more grim and sad version of the two)

7. I love Liz's hime cut hair and her black side bangs, I also love when her hair it's down even tho I barely draw her like that

8. the origin of her personality it's... Joy from FNAHS with a little of Freddy, she was so like them in the beginning, now she's more outspoken and sometimes gets mad and like hit things (the getting mad and not knowing how to manage it it's the projection)

9. she's not the main character per se on the main story, but she's a catalyst for a few moments and she will be the co- protagonist of other story if I ever write it properly

10. I would define her main arc like she has this false sense of security about her and Dylan childhood, taking things for granted and not knowing how much she likes her brother, only for him to disappear and when they reunite she gets this great mix of feelings, getting angry but happy, the whole journey it's kinda them learning to care for their sibling, she gets a happy ending and learns to be way more grateful

11. she mostly resembles Joy from FNAFHS I think, but because she's white, blonde with straight bangs and has blue eyes she also resembles some interpretations of Magik from X-men, which wasn't on purpose, Liz it's just white

12. I do have a playlist for her, but it's songs that she canonically would listen to, so there's Shawn Mendes, Chappell Roan, Keasha and Avril Lavigne

13. I had a voice claim but I forgot who she was... but I have a face claim, Jane Widdop

14. I particularly don't have specific quotes, the most I remember for the story is her deadnaming her brother do it isn't really the best 😬 (she was possessed so it doesn't count)

15. I've made countless moodboards of her, they're pretty old tho

16. the closest meme I think I got of her is the "friendship with [blank] ended, [blank it's my new best friend" because I'm horrible at doing those things with my own characters

17. I'm also very bad with motif symbols, but maybe ribbons, it's a detail that always appears on her designs

18. she has a whole family tree, there's her, Dylan her twin brother, Martina her cousin/adoptive sister, her aunt and uncle Saraí and Lautaro, her mom Belén, the sperm donor w*lliam, her aunt June her cousin Matt and her uncle without a name, but because of things she doesn't know the last three, at least not yet

19. her whole being it's my favorite things, she's one if not the FIRST oc I made when I was 12/13 so my emotional attachment for her it's really strong, my least favorite thing it's that she uses makeup and clips on her hair and other accessories and I'm really lazy to actually draw them

20. I love to talk about her but because I've technically talk about her since I was 13 I really don't know which one things I've already said about her, it's also really funny to draw her because she has lots of accessories and she would be that cartoon character that has a different outfit in every episode

Character asks!

These are more focused on the background stuff rather than the usual "what would the character do in XY situation" kinds of asks. I've been looking for something like this for quite a while and in the end decided to make my own. Feel free to use, go wild, enjoy

What was the original thought that led to the creation of this character?

How long was the process before the character reached its final version? (or a version that would be clearly recognizable as the character?)

What was the first thing you decided on, the character's name, appearance, personality or their role in the story?

And reverse, which one of the four things did you struggle with the most?

How did you choose their name and why? Was it simply based on vibes or is there any specific meaning behind the name? Are the reasons behind their name different in- and out of universe?

What was the thought process behind their appearance? Did you go mostly for the aesthetic or are there other reasons they look the way they do?

What is an aspect of their appearance that you like the most?

What is the origin of their personality? And let's be honest - how much of it is projecting?

How big is their role in the story? Do they make a frequent appearance or are they a character with little "screentime" but big influence? Or are they just a favourite background guy?

What is their main character arc in the story? Where do they start and how do they develop? Do they get a happy ending or is their story a tragic one?

Is there any existing character from other media that your character resembles? Was the resemblance intentional or was it a coincidence?

Do you have a playlist for the character? What songs do you associate with them and why?

Do you have a voice claim for the character? What do you imagine the character sounds like?

Do you have any quotes tied to the character, either from the story itself or from another source that fit them?

Have you ever made a moodboard for them?

Is there any memes or running jokes associated with the character, both in- and out of universe?

Are there any motifs or symbols associated with the character? How are they represented, in their design, personality or in some other way?

Does the character have other characters connected to them? Do you have a family tree and "offscreen" connections made up for them or do they exist in a vacuum purely for the purpose of the story?

What is your general favourite thing about the character? What is your least favourite?

Bonus question: share any additional thoughts, art, favourite scenes, anything you've been waiting for a chance to ramble about

[bullet-prooflove]

A Bad Night: Jack Abbot x Reader x Michael "Robby" Robinavitch

Tagging: @kmc1989 @daydreamsareallineed @starstruckunknown-princess @sillymuffintrashflap @thedamnqueenofhell

Summary: A bad night leads the boys to confess their feelings for you.

Prequel piece to:

Together - Jack comes home to find Robby in the kitchen and you sleeping the morning away.

Pretty Girl - Jack and Robby spend a little quality time with their pretty girl.

Shift Work - Robby knows you've got something on your mind.

Dr Daddy & The Short King - Jack confronts you about the transfer at your fire station.

The difference been being a third and being two other people’s partner is emotional compatibility. Something you have in spades with both Robby and Jack, which is where the conundrum starts because a threesome is one thing but a relationship is another and they’re trying to figure out where this whole thing with you is leading.

It’s something the two of them have been circling for a while now because they both know the other is in love with you. Robby was the first to admit it but Jack was the first to understand the depth of it.

It comes to a head the night you end up staying over at their place because you get off your split shift to find a pipe has burst in your apartment. It’s three in the morning and you don’t have any other place to go that isn’t the firehouse.

When you turn up, they can tell it’s been a bad night even without the deluge of water that’s flooded your apartment. You look wrung out, exhausted, like the world is falling apart underneath your feet. You don’t want to talk about it, you make that clear within the first three seconds of stepping inside their house, you just want to sleep.

Jack gives you one of his t-shirts because you literally have nothing but the clothes on your back. When you toss them out through the gap in the door, he puts them into the washer on an overnight spin, leaving you to get dressed in the bedroom.

It’s when he comes out the laundry room that he’s confronted by Robby, he’s standing there in those grey sweatpants and his faded Robert Bradley's Blackwater Surprise t-short. Everytime Jack tries wear anything like sweatpants they end up bunched up around the top ridge of his prosthetic which is why he wears plaid straight legged bottoms to bed on the colder nights.

It’s the look on Robby’s face that tells Jack this situation is a problem, a real fucking problem and they both know it.

“She’s not sleeping on the couch.” Jack says firmly, his arms crossed over his chest as he faces off against Robby. “She’s wrecked, she needs a real fucking bed and someone to take care of her.”

“And that’s the issue isn’t it Jack?” Robby responds, scrubbing his palm over the back of his neck. “We both want to take care of her and we both know that doesn’t come from a place of friendship. If we get into bed with her right now this has the potential to go wrong in so many different ways-”

“Robby.” Jack asserts, holding up his hand to slow his boyfriend’s roll. “That woman is falling apart. We both know how touch starved she is, she needs comfort, physical fucking comfort, someone to take her in their arms and tell her that everything is going to be ok. You know what that’s like, I know what that’s like, so I really don’t see what we’re arguing about here.”

“Jack-”

But Jack’s already marching through the house, opening the bedroom door and the moment Robby lays eyes on you, that decision is made for him because he can’t fucking stand the sight of how vulnerable you look in that moment. You’re curled up like a tiny abandoned kitten right in the centre of their mattress, the sheets drawn up around you as if you’re trying to block out the rest of the world.

Jack may have opened the door but it’s Robby who takes the first steps, who sits on the edge of the bed, his palm lightly smoothing the hair off your features as you look up at him with the saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

“Anna…” He says softly. “What do you need?”

You close your eyes, burying your face even deeper into the quilt and Robby understands. Its so fucking hard for you to ask for things you want, to show any level of vulnerability because it’s been beaten into you time and time again that it’s a weakness, that bad things happen when you let people in.

“Ok.” His whispers, his voice rough. “We’re just gonna hold you tonight ok? No funny business. Jack’s going to have your back, I’m gonna be right here in front of you where you can see me. Are you ok that with that?”

You give the briefest of nods and Jack closes the bedroom door behind him before he approaches the bed with a determination in his eyes that Robby fell in love with all those years ago. It takes him a second to remove him prosthetic. He sets it in front of the nightstand, tucking himself into bed behind you, his arm looping around your waist, bringing your back flush against his chest. His chin hooks over your shoulder, his grizzled cheek rubbing affectionately against yours, nuzzling close.

Robby waits until Jack’s content with his positioning before he climbs underneath the sheets. His long legs tangle with yours, his socked feet rubbing over your cold ones to warm them as his forehead presses against your own. He takes your hand and places your palm against his chest, just over the space where his heart resides, thundering underneath the tips of your fingers.

“This thing in my chest, it only beats for the two of you Anna.” He tells you softly. “I want you to think about that as you fall asleep, I want you to know how loved you are, how safe you are. Jack and I…”

He trails off because he isn’t sure if you want to hear those words but it’s Jack that takes over, Jack that thinks you need to hear them now more than ever.

“We love you Anna.” Jack tells you, his voice rumbling in his chest. “We’re all yours if you want us.”

Love Jack x Robby x Reader? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[kdh-tally]

Please can you make some zoey x mystery HCs maybe how there respective found familys react to them?

Zoeystery Being Exposed

Prompt : How the boys and girls found out Zoeystery were together. In order of who found out first to who found d out last.

Author's Note : Every time i write something with Abby I switch between him being a cocky himbo and him being an instigator. Today you're getting himbo.

Baby

Knew from the start.

He was literally right there when Zoey called Mystery her type.

Was already wingmanning Mystery before he even realized he had feelings.

Mystery didn’t need to tell Baby, Baby needed to tell him that he was in a relationship.

The two were in their shared room, playing mortal combat. 

Baby was winning a lot quicker than he usually did which meant that Mystery wasn’t trying hard enough. 

He looks over only to see Mystery constantly glancing at his phone. 

He rolls his eyes and pauses the game before opening the device (Face Id works for him lol) and scrolling to his messages.

He sees the last conversation is with Zoey and shoots her a quick text.

This is Baby. Please ask him out so he can focus on the game.

And that is how they both became a couple.

They’re his OTP

Once told Zoey, “Thanks for keeping him from overthinking himself” and he meant it.

Is glad that his favourite huntrix member ended up with his favourite bandmate. 

Will never admit it out loud.

Has a whole collage of embarrassing Mystery selfies saved for blackmail, just in case Zoey needs it.

Also has blackmail photos of Zoey but Mystery doesn’t see them as blackmail.

He thinks they’re all cute photos of the love of his life.

This frustrates Baby 😒

He’s their third wheel.

Literally their child.

They’ll be out on a date and kissing in the front of the car (which Zoey would be driving) and Baby would just be in the back seat. Eating the meal they bought him.

Was helping Zoey sneak into their dorm, and also helped Mystery sneak into the girls dorm, waaaaaaay before the others figured things out.

Mira

Zoey tells her

Mira is super duper good at reading people so she honestly already had a feeling but Zoey just confirmed it.

“So you know Mystery right?”

The second those words leave Zoey’s lips Mira is staring at her, eyes narrowed as she just waits for Zoey to say the final confession.

“We’re kind of together….”

“I KNEW IT–”

Teases Zoey nonstop. 

“You’re smiling at your phone. Is it your demon boyfriend?”

“I don’t tease you when you text Abby and Roman–”

“That’s different!” Mira yells as she throws a pillow to Zoey’s head.

She enjoys seeing Zoey flustered, so she’ll purposely mention Mystery whenever she can.

Sleepovers with Rumi and Zoey become confession sessions.

Mira already knows about what Rumi and Jinu have going on so she focuses on Zoey.

Bombards her with questions that she knows will leave Zoey flustered, but also just to gather more information on the man who stole her heart.

As much as she loves Mystery, she will threaten him for no reason at all.

I feel like Mystery would be most afraid of Mira (after Zoey)

While Rumi gives sweet big sister that will only hurt you if you hurt her family vibes, Mira gives off scary big sister who will hurt you for no reason at all.

“If she cries, you die. I don’t care if you’re already dead. I’ll send you back to hell myself and make sure that even Gwi-ma won’t be able to bring you back.”

Mystery has major respect for Mira and wouldn’t dare cross her. (omg they’re names r literally M and M. eminem lol)

If Zoey ever gets questionable texts from Mystery, or if she wants to send a questionable text to Mystery, she will come to Mira.

“Okay, first of all, he’s down bad. Second, this is like reading a fanfiction–”

PAUSE!

Mira would write fanfic of them

You don’t have to agree with me at all but she feels like their dynamic is so annoyingly soft and she has to put all of those feelings into somewhere!

She has a 103k domestic fluff AU written in her head about both of them.

Rumi

At first she just thought Zoey had a crush on the guy.

She found it suspicious. 

She’s not suspicious because he’s a demon but because of how he behaves….

“You mean the weird demon who growled at a fan? That’s your type?”

“Yes Rumi”

“He glares at the makeup artists for touching your face”

“It’s kinda hot how protective he is 🥰”

“Zoey they were doing their job 😃” 

She was gonna say something else but she sees how sparkly Zoey’s eyes get when talking about him and she keeps her words to herself.

Eventually warms up quickly when she sees how gentle Mystery is with Zoey when no one’s looking.

Remember that scene when the girls went to a scam doctor and he told Zoey that she was too eager to please others?

Yea this definitely bothered Mira and Rumi.

Seeing Zoey babble on to someone who was hanging on to her every word kept them at ease.

Zoey could continue talking for a while 3 hours and Mystery would be able to recite absolutely everything she said word for word.

She thinks they’re soulmates.

Mystery would give Zoey his soul and so would Zoey

They actually helped Rumi get closer to Romance cause she plans dates for them with him and Mira.

As in Romance, Mira and Rumi plan Mystery and Zoey’s dates cause they’re just so adorable.

They go on double dates.

Rumi and Jinu + Mystery and Zoey

Mystery goes Rumi for advice about their relationship

He has no idea how to plan a date, or an anniversary, and he really wants to do something big for Zoey so he comes to one of her big sisters duh!

“What kind of flowers do I buy?”

“Mystery, you know this already. We’ve gone over it 12 times”

“I want it to be perfect,” he huffs all pouty. 

Bro just wants to make his girl happy.

Jinu

Mystery tells him one day after practice.

I saw a POV video of how Jinu recruited the Saja Boys and Jinu was more or less scared of Mystery the entire time so i will be involving that lmao.

“...”

“Are you going to jump me again?” Jinu says as he slowly backs away, eyes narrowed in focus on the silver haired boy.

Mystery scoffs before opening up his phone, pulling up a photo of him and Zoey on what’s obviously a date. His hair is up in the photo, revealing the face Jinu and the other members rarely get to see. 

Jinu looks at the photo in confusion, “Zoey has a boyfriend? I don’t see why you’re showing me this, are you jealous?” a teasing grin grows on his face.

Mystery remembers how dumb Jinu can be and brushes his hair back, then he puts the phone up next to his face.

Jinu looks back and forth before he finally registers it “OH MY GOSH YOU’RE ZOEY’S BOYFRIEND???”

He’s surprised Mystery can pull.

He’s double surprised that he got with a hunter of all people. 

I feel like Jinu would never expect Mystery of all people (other than Baby) to get involved with the hunters. 

Doesn’t see the vision so Rumi has to explain the whole cat!girlfriend x dog!boyfriend aesthetic they present.

I genuinely feel like (other than Baby) Mystery would be the only other member to view Jinu as an older brother/father figure in their lives.

Mystery didn’t 100% need Jinu to approve of his relationship with Zoey but he really REALLY wanted him too. 

Jinu, once he gets over his surprise, is obviously super supportive.

Will give Mystery the talk but would be so awkward about it….

He also gets super protective of Zoey as well since she’s basically family now. 

He already was (since he’s with Rumi lol) 

I feel like he’d present both of them with a small gift to kinda show his acception?

I really think Jinu’s language (other than words of affirmation) is gift-giving.

He made a small hat for his little tiger baby

He gave his soul to Rumi

See the pattern?

He’d give Zoey a ring (PLATONIC!!) seeing as she already has so many so might as well give her more lol

He’ll also give Mystery a ring (he doesn’t realize he literally gave them matching rings)

Romance

He thinks Mystery is lying. 

Romance was watching a kdrama when he decided he needed a snack. He gets up and heads to the kitchen only to see Mystery smiling, phone by his ear as some excited voice rambles on and on on the other end.

He close enough to hear the person on the other line say “I’ll talk to you later babe!” Romance drops his food before slowly turning to look at Mystery. 

“Who was that?

“Zoey”

“Liar”

“I’m not lying”

“Liar” Romance will not believe it. Not because he doesn’t think Mystery can’t pull (If Mystery couldn’t pull he definitely wouldn’t be in the group 💀) He just doesn’t believe he and Zoey of all people would've gotten together.

He gets too invested.

Whenever both groups hang out he watches them both like hawks.

At first he barely sees them interact and is like so Mystery was definitely lying

However, he one day barges into Mystery and Baby’s room to steal one of Baby’s berets only to see both Mystery and Zoey cuddled up on the bed. 

Jaw dropped.

He can’t get a sound out and has to leave before he completely tweaks out.

He rushes into his shared room with Abby and tries to speak but barely can. 

Abby is barely paying him attention (Romance acts out almost every day so this is nothing new).

“How did Mystery get a girlfriend before me?” He’d mumble into the carpet.

Very supportive though.

He thinks they’re cute and will probably team up with Mira and Rumi to send them on the cutest dates ever. 

Like seeing his bandmate happy.

Besides, he also has a new gossip partner

He’s already told all his underworld stories to the boys but now he can share them with Zoey, who will 10000% build off of them and add in stories of her own.

Gossip girls

He loves them.

Abby

No one told him. He figured it out himself.

Remember how I said Romance would complain to Abby about how Mystery got a girl before he did? 

Abby wasn’t really paying attention at the time but it kinda hits later.

“Mystery has a what?–”

He starts watching  Mystery a lot more.

Notice that Mystery willingly goes to the girls' dorm with Baby for no good reason.

He notices Mystery wears his hair up a lot more, seemingly confident in his face.

When both groups hang out he sees Zoey laughing at everything Mystery he says.

Matter of fact, the fact that Mystery was talking was a miracle in itself.

Abby would be home one day by himself and a knock would go off at the door. It’s Zoey returning one of the sweaters he sees Mystery wear all the time???

Another suspicion to add to his list.

He’s actually so close to figuring it out but can’t piece it together.

He’s missed all the signals because he just assumed Mystery was just awkward and unlovable like the rest of them 💀 (demon traumaaaaa)

He’d probably think that Zoey knew who Mystery was seeing and was kinda playing mediator. 

So, he decides to go ask Zoey about it (Romance is being a prick and won’t tell him)

He walks into the Huntr/x dorm, it sounds empty. Before he can say anything he’s greeted with Zoey and Mystery kissing in the kitchen.

Screams.

“I AM SO SORRY!!”

The couple immediately separate. Mystery looks hella annoyed and pissed and Zoey is so embarrassed. 

He runs out of there.

He approves of them but is so ashamed he didn’t realize earlier.

They remind him of this one couple he’d seen in one of the many movies romance had forced him to watch. 

He thinks they’re adorable but unfortunately can’t get that scene out of his head.

Major respect for Mystery.

[arabella-syntax]

Soft Launch in Denim (One-shot)

Pairing: Leah Williamson x Y/N

Summary: She’s a voice like velvet and chaos. She’s a captain who never cracks. A Calvin Klein campaign puts them in frame — white tanks, whispered dares, and one kiss that lingers.

A/N: I thought I was going to take a nice breather. But then I saw those images of Leah in the Calvin Klein ads, and bam — a new story was brewing in my mind. This is kind of like an AU of the “Between the Lines” series — if Y/N was proudly out, and Leah and her have met in different circumstances.

Word count: approximately 20k

————————————————————————

Leah’s never loved shoots. Not the still ones, anyway. Photos freeze you in time, catch you mid-thought, half-blink, smirk-not-smile — there’s too much room for misinterpretation. Too many people deciding who you are from a single frame.

Still, she said yes to this one.

The studio is in Hackney Wick, all concrete floors and exposed beams, a restored warehouse full of softboxes and moodboards and interns with clipboards. Calvin Klein is going for raw this season — stripped-back, black and white, everything on 35mm film. The campaign is queer — without being loud, intimate, meant to make people feel seen without feeling marketed to. Or so the brief said.

Leah arrives early, as always. Hair still damp from the shower, a hoodie thrown over her shoulder. She signs the NDA without blinking, sips the oat latte handed to her by a quietly reverent assistant, and sits in the makeup chair trying not to overthink the word representation.

“Natural, minimal,” the stylist says, brushing something clear over her lips. “Let your freckles do the talking.”

Leah resists the urge to say: They’re shy.

————

They’re shooting solo portraits first. Bare-faced, bare-bellied. White tanks, denim jeans, Calvin Klein boy briefs peeking. Leah wears the waistband higher than usual, like armor. The photographer — a softly spoken woman with a lens tattooed on her forearm — says things like “chin down,” “hold it,” “now just breathe,” and Leah tries to follow. It’s fine. It’s just… still.

Until she arrives.

The other talent.

The musician.

Y/N.

Leah notices the shift in energy before she sees her. A stir in the crew. A slight lift in the volume, like a room tuning itself toward gravity.

Y/N walks in wearing boots far too tall for morning, a vintage bomber jacket slung off one shoulder, hair perfectly undone. There’s something theatrical in the way she peels off her sunglasses indoors — like she knows people are watching, but pretends she doesn’t care.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, flashing a smile that somehow feels both genuine and mocking. “Was making out with my guitar.”

Leah doesn’t laugh. She just watches.

Y/N’s gaze lands on her — and sticks.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re the footballer.”

“And you’re the late one,” Leah replies, dryly.

Y/N grins. “Touché.”

They’re introduced, of course. Polite nods. Handshake. Eye contact that lasts a second too long.

“Leah, Y/N,” the creative director beams. “You’ll be paired for the side-by-side shots. Chemistry’s key, yeah?”

Leah raises an eyebrow. “Chemistry?”

Y/N shrugs. “Don’t worry, I fake it for a living.”

————

The side-by-side setup is simple: the two of them against a white backdrop, white tanks, denim jeans, Calvin Klein boy briefs peeking. No props. No distractions.

“Closer,” the photographer says.

They shift.

“Closer.”

Now they’re shoulder to shoulder, bare arms brushing. Y/N smells like bergamot and stage sweat. Leah smells like her morning shower and a nervous attempt at normal.

“Try looking at each other,” the photographer suggests.

Leah turns first.

Y/N meets her gaze — head tilted, a tiny smile forming at the corner of her mouth.

“Nice lashes,” she says.

Leah huffs. “Don’t start.”

“Too late.”

————

They take dozens of frames. Angles and micro-movements. At one point, they’re asked to sit cross-legged, knees touching, hands resting on denim-clad thighs.

Leah stays still.

Y/N… doesn’t.

She fidgets. Plays with her rings. At one point, she brushes a lock of Leah’s hair out of her face — and keeps her fingers there a moment too long.

Later, the crew will say the image was electric.

In the moment, Leah just holds her breath.

————

Break time.

Y/N’s sprawled on the edge of the makeup table, sipping from a can of something sparkly and annotated with a sharpie scrawl: not yours. She swings her legs, all soft menace and idling charm.

Leah leans against the wall, towel around her neck, trying not to stare.

“You don’t talk much,” Y/N observes, popping a cherry into her mouth.

“I talk plenty.”

“Not to me.”

Leah tilts her head. “Maybe I’m observing.”

“Maybe you’re brooding.”

Leah shrugs.

Y/N narrows her eyes. “Do you brood on the pitch too?”

“Only when I miss.”

Y/N grins. “So — never, then?”

Leah laughs before she can stop herself.

It’s small. Real. Unrehearsed.

Y/N watches her closely. “There it is.”

————

Later, as the lighting crew resets for the final shot, Leah catches her reflection in the makeup mirror — her own face, bare and still flushed, framed by the fragments of Y/N’s voice lingering behind her like static.

It’s just a shoot.

It’s a job.

But she knows, with a sudden clarity, that she’s going to think about today for longer than she should.

And Y/N?

Y/N already looks like the chorus to a song Leah hasn’t heard yet.

————

Y/N doesn’t usually replay her own demos.

She writes them, sings them, lets them breathe for a week or two, and then shoves them into the drawer with the rest of her almosts. It’s too dangerous to linger — she’s learned that. The longer she stares at something unfinished, the more likely she is to ruin it.

But tonight, she can’t stop.

Her phone is plugged into the tiny Bluetooth speaker that came with the hotel room — barely louder than a whisper, a little tinny around the bass — but the melody is still unmistakable. Sparse. Intimate. Just a few chords on a loop and her voice over it, delicate but certain:

“You look like a Polaroid I forgot I took / denim, breathless, a break in the look…”

She wrote it last week in Los Angeles, in the back of a Lyft, waiting at a red light while a stranger’s hand grazed hers by mistake. It hadn’t been about anyone.

Now it is.

The Calvin Klein shoot had ended with nothing more than a wave.

Leah had walked off quietly, hoodie back over her shoulders, water bottle in hand. Y/N had tried not to watch her go.

She failed.

Something about the way Leah held herself — controlled, precise — made Y/N itch to unravel her. Not in the usual way, not in the ways fans or press or PR demanded. But in the way a songwriter does: with a bridge. With a soft verse no one else hears.

Which is stupid.

Y/N doesn’t write about people she’s just met.

She doesn’t feel things this fast.

Usually.

————

The hotel room is far too nice for someone who still eats canned soup twice a week. High ceilings, brutalist angles softened by linen throws. There’s a bowl of complimentary green apples she won’t touch. A rain shower she’ll overuse out of spite.

She sits cross-legged on the bed, notebook in her lap, and scribbles a half-verse that feels too obvious.

“You said ‘closer’ and I heard ‘stay’ / didn’t mean to tilt my face that way…”

She crosses it out. Tries again. Gives up and opens Instagram.

The campaign hasn’t launched yet, but there are behind-the-scenes stories. A blurry shot of the studio. A slow zoom on the Polaroids taped to the whiteboard.

And there — second row, far right — is one of them.

Her and Leah.

Side-by-side. White tanks. Denim. Hip to hip.

She knows what it looked like. What it felt like.

The pause between shots when Leah had turned her head, eyes catching hers, not quite smiling.

“You don’t talk much,” she’d said.

“Maybe I’m observing,” Leah had replied.

“Maybe you’re brooding.”

God.

Y/N closes the app and presses play on the demo again.

This time, she doesn’t sing along. She just listens.

Listens to the space between the notes, the hesitation in her own voice.

It’s there.

A crack in the sound.

A breath held too long.

A name she hasn’t said out loud.

————

Her phone buzzes — one of those “you still up?” texts from her manager, Olivia, checking in from New York.

She replies:

Yeah. Listening to the new track.

It’s Leah-coded, isn’t it?

Fck off.*

A beat.

Then:

Play it for her yet?

Y/N doesn’t answer.

She gets up to grab a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and catches herself in the mirror.

Still in makeup. Still in the Calvin set.

The tank top hangs loose around her collarbone. The waistband of the briefs just visible above the denim she hasn’t bothered to unzip fully.

She looks like a campaign.

She looks like an aesthetic.

She looks like someone who could break her own rule.

That night, she doesn’t sleep.

She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, demo playing softly on loop beside her.

Not because she’s proud of it.

But because she doesn’t know how to stop hearing her in it.

And tomorrow?

She knows she’ll see Leah again — not in person, maybe not for a week or two. But eventually.

And when she does?

She’s going to have to figure out if this is just a look, a feeling, a marketing moment —

—or the start of something she won’t be able to take back.

————

Los Angeles is exactly as obnoxious as Leah expects.

The sky is too blue. The cars too shiny. Every hotel lobby smells like eucalyptus and capital. Even the air seems filtered — as if someone’s running the whole city through a softening lens.

She doesn’t like it.

And yet, when Y/N walks into the Calvin Klein welcome dinner in a sheer mesh dress and knee-high boots, Leah can’t look away.

The restaurant is in West Hollywood — minimalist, dim, everything beige and expensive. Leah is dressed I n tailored black trousers, a white tank under a structured blazer. Not overdressed. Not under. Just enough to keep people guessing.

She sees Y/N is sitting on the outdoor patio, flanked by two execs, laughing too loud at something one of them just said. Her hair is pinned up haphazardly, and there’s a run in her tights. Somehow, it makes her look more intentional. More real.

Leah slides into the seat beside her, nods a hello, and avoids direct eye contact.

“Didn’t think footballers did fashion weeks,” Y/N teases, taking a slow sip of her drink.

Leah shrugs. “Didn’t think musicians showed up on time.”

Y/N’s grin widens. “I’m evolving.”

————

Dinner drags.

The brand director gives a speech. Someone toasts “authentic visibility.” Another exec refers to the two of them as “the face of modern fluidity,” and Leah nearly spits her wine.

“I didn’t know I had a fluid face,” she mutters.

Y/N snorts beside her. “You do. Very symmetrical. Almost threateningly so.”

The table clinks glasses. Cameras flash. Everything feels curated to hell.

Leah leans toward Y/N. “How do you stand this?”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “This?”

“All of it. The press. The posing. The pretending to care about gift bags.”

“I compartmentalize,” Y/N says, swirling her drink. “One part charm, one part mascara, one part lingering threat of a scandal.”

Leah grins, despite herself. “You should trademark that.”

“Already did.”

————

The afterparty is worse.

Some warehouse downtown has been converted into an event space — neon signage, DJ booth, minimalist furniture. The same song loops every five minutes. Influencers flit between photo ops and real-time edits of their own Instagram Stories. Everyone smells like sandalwood and desperation.

Leah lasts twenty minutes.

She’s slipping toward the exit when a hand curls gently around her wrist.

“Leaving already?” Y/N asks.

Leah nods. “It’s all a bit much.”

Y/N considers her for a second. “Come up to the rooftop.”

The building has a private terrace. Faux grass, string lights, two space heaters trying their best. It’s quiet — too high for street noise, too exclusive for guests that aren’t paid to smile.

Y/N lights a cigarette, offers one. Leah declines.

“I figured,” Y/N says. “You’re too clean.”

Leah smirks. “You’re too dramatic.”

“That’s fair.”

They sit in silence for a moment, watching the skyline flicker. Leah notices the way Y/N leans into her own shoulder, as if trying to fold herself smaller than she is.

“You okay?” she asks.

Y/N exhales. “You ever feel like you’re being watched even when you’re alone?”

“Every match day.”

“Right.”

Y/N takes a long drag. “It’s just… I built a version of myself to survive this industry. Femme, flirty, queer but palatable. I know how to make people love me. I just don’t always recognize who they’re loving.”

Leah watches the smoke curl upward.

“I get that,” she says softly.

Y/N turns to her. “You do?”

“Yeah. I spend so much time being someone people can rely on, I forget how to just… be.”

They sit with that for a minute.

Then Y/N stubs out the cigarette and shifts closer.

“I don’t usually like people right away,” she says. “But you’re—different.”

Leah meets her gaze. “Good different?”

Y/N nods, slow. “Dangerously.”

A pause. A breath.

Leah lifts a hand, tucks a loose strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear. It’s a stupid, instinctive thing. She doesn’t even realize she’s done it until Y/N leans into the touch.

Their faces are too close.

Their mouths even closer.

Y/N’s voice drops to a whisper. “You’re staring.”

Leah murmurs, “You want me to stop?”

Y/N doesn’t answer.

Because she’s already leaning in.

And Leah?

Leah meets her halfway.

The kiss is soft.

Nothing performative. No angles for the camera. Just a shared breath and the brief hum of something inevitable.

Y/N’s hand curls into the lapel of Leah’s blazer. Leah’s fingers rest at the curve of Y/N’s waist. Neither of them pulls away at first.

Until they do.

And then?

Silence.

Not awkward. Just… loaded.

Leah looks away first. “That probably wasn’t smart.”

Y/N smiles without humour. “No. Probably not.”

A beat.

Leah starts to stand.

But before she does, she says:

“If you write a song about this… make me a bridge, not the chorus.”

Y/N’s lips twitch.

“I’ll think about it.”

They don’t talk for four days.

Not because anything was wrong. Not really.

It’s just that neither of them is quite sure what that was.

And in this industry, when you don’t know what something is, you wait for the headlines to tell you.

————

Leah flies back to London first, alone.

The car ride to LAX is quiet, the type of quiet that starts under the skin and stretches out into the air like fog. Her team is chatty — something about Euros prep, media engagements, a kit launch. Leah nods through it all, sunglasses on, fingers clenched around her phone like it might buzz with something that matters.

It doesn’t.

The rooftop kiss has already been swallowed by the West Hollywood skyline. There are no photos. No press. No trace.

Just a feeling — like the last chord of a song that never got recorded.

————

Y/N stays in L.A.

She has studio time booked, two podcasts to guest on, and a brand dinner where she’s supposed to say nice things about denim and “the fluidity of expression.” She says the lines, signs the napkins, and sneaks out before dessert.

Later that night, in a rented studio downtown, she rerecords the chorus of that demo. Slows it down. Adds strings.

Then deletes the whole file before the session ends.

————

Back in London, it rains.

Leah likes it that way. Rain gives her an excuse to hibernate, to pretend it’s the weather that keeps her indoors and not the knot in her chest every time she scrolls Instagram and sees Y/N’s face in someone else’s story.

She hasn’t been able to stop replaying that moment on the rooftop.

The way Y/N’s eyes softened. The way her lips parted just before—

Before Leah stepped back.

Before she let it go.

She tells herself it was smart. Clean. A way of protecting them both.

Y/N is… a firework. Public. Lyrical. Emotional.

Leah isn’t built for that kind of exposure. Her heart doesn’t know how to market itself.

And yet, she wishes she’d stayed.

Just five minutes longer.

Just long enough to see what would’ve happened if she hadn’t pulled away.

The next time they see each other, it’s accidental.

Sort of.

Leah’s invited to a benefit gig at a Camden venue — a fundraiser for queer youth spaces, sponsored by a friend of a friend. She doesn’t realize Y/N is performing until she sees her name on the lineup, printed in pale serif font on a charcoal poster outside the entrance.

She tells herself she can leave early. That she’s here for the cause, not the company.

She’s lying.

————

Y/N walks on stage barefoot, hair messy, eyeliner a little smudged like she’s daring someone to call her out.

She doesn’t announce herself.

She just steps to the mic and strums the opening chords of a song Leah hasn’t heard before.

It’s slow.

Soft.

Not a ballad, exactly — more like a secret in melody form.

The second verse catches her off guard:

“Rooftop hush and teeth on lip /

Didn’t ask, but you almost slipped /

I waited for a sign, you gave me silence /

So I kissed the moment instead of your eyelids.”

Leah’s stomach flips.

She knows that verse.

She knows that moment.

Y/N looks out over the crowd, eyes catching on Leah’s for half a second before gliding past — as if she were just another face in the dark.

But Leah saw it.

Felt it.

Every word stitched into her ribcage like thread.

————

Backstage is crowded.

Y/N is standing in front of a mirror, unfastening her in-ear monitor when Leah finds her.

Their eyes meet in the reflection.

Neither says anything for a moment.

Then Y/N speaks. “You came.”

“I didn’t know you were playing.”

Y/N smirks. “But you stayed.”

Leah swallows. “Yeah. I stayed.”

She hesitates, then steps closer.

“You wrote that about me.”

Y/N shrugs. “I write about feelings. You happened to be one.”

A beat.

Leah nods, slowly.

“You’re good,” she says.

“I know.”

“But also reckless.”

Y/N turns around to face her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say that like I can’t afford it.”

They stand close enough to feel the warmth off each other.

Not touching. Not yet.

“Leah,” Y/N says quietly. “I don’t do ‘almost.’ Not anymore.”

Leah exhales. “I don’t know if I can do more.”

A pause.

Then Y/N nods. “Then this was probably the kiss that wasn’t.”

Leah searches her face.

“And if I change my mind?”

“Then you better write your own verse.”

————

The internet ships them before they do.

A blurry photo appears on Twitter first — Leah in a hoodie, Y/N in a bomber jacket, both standing near a Camden side door, the kind with chipped paint and a flickering light overhead. Someone’s caption reads:

“wait… was that Leah Williamson backstage at Y/N’s gig tonight?? 👀”

The replies go feral.

“power couple energy.”

“calvin campaign turned real??”

“pls be gay fr”

“we’re so back.”

By the next morning, there’s an Instagram fan account dedicated to them.

@leahnxyn.

Header: a Calvin Klein still.

Bio: “we don’t do almost.”

————

Leah wakes up to a WhatsApp from Keira.

Oi. You seeing this mess?

Followed by a screenshot of a TikTok edit.

Clips from the shoot. Y/N’s performance. That lyric.

Overlayed with: “in another life, maybe…”

She groans into her pillow.

She’s barely brushed her teeth when Alex — yes, that Alex — sends a voice note:

“If you’re going to soft launch your girlfriend, at least send me the press kit first.”

Leah rolls her eyes so hard it gives her a headache.

————

Across the city, Y/N is unfazed.

She’s doing an interview with a queer music zine, sitting on a stool in her producer’s loft, sipping tea from a mug that says GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS. She’s wearing her Calvin Klein tank again — strategically, of course — and lets the camera catch it in profile.

“So,” the host grins, “word is you’ve been getting close to a certain Lioness lately…”

Y/N cocks her head. “Oh? Which one?”

The interviewer laughs, flustered. “You know who.”

Y/N doesn’t answer right away. Just taps her fingers on the ceramic, steady and deliberate.

“Let’s just say,” she says finally, “some people look better in denim than they do online.”

————

Later that night, she posts a Story:

a soft-focus photo of a city windowpane, raindrops trailing down.

Overlaid text:

just because it’s on your screen doesn’t mean it’s real.

But Leah sees it.

Of course she does.

————

The club season resumes in full force.

Leah throws herself into Arsenal — training, tactics, media appearances. She keeps her head down and her tackles clean. Says all the right things at press conferences. Avoids DMs.

Still, the whispers don’t stop.

Every photo she’s in gets quote-tweeted with “mother” or “Y/N was so real for this” or “they’re in love, your honor.”

And maybe the worst part is… she doesn’t hate it.

Because for the first time in a long while, the version of her that the world sees — calm, sharp, quietly intense — actually aligns with what someone real has seen in her.

Y/N saw all that.

And kissed her anyway.

————

Weeks pass. No texts. No new songs.

Leah starts to wonder if she imagined the whole thing.

Then, one Friday night, her Spotify recommends a new release.

The cover is plain: white background, serif font.

The title: “The Quiet Between Notes”

Artist: Y/N

She hesitates. Presses play.

And there it is.

Her voice.

Delicate, bruised, holding back something just under the surface. The production is stripped down. Just a piano. A few layered harmonies. And then — the second verse:

“You were thunder held in bone /

a captain even when alone /

I kissed the hush, not the mouth /

and called it almost, somehow.”

Leah closes her eyes.

She doesn’t cry.

She just listens.

All the way through.

————

The next morning, she sees a tweet by a fan that tagged her:

“okay but why does ‘The Quiet Between Notes’ feel like a Leah Williamson verse??”

Leah like it.

————

Leah doesn’t expect the knock on her door.

It’s early — not morning, not night. That hour where time is slack and the city hums low. She’s in joggers, socks mismatched, tea gone cold on the counter. She thinks it might be her neighbor again, the one who always forgets her parcel code.

It’s not.

It’s Y/N.

Backlit by the hallway light, denim jacket slung over one shoulder, a tote bag hanging from the other. Her hair’s pulled up like she didn’t bother to try, which means she definitely did. There’s a tiredness in her eyes, but it softens when Leah opens the door.

“Hi. My manager got in touch with your people — I wanted to know your address.”

Leah blinks. “You flew to London?”

Y/N shrugs. “Seemed fair. You flew into my song.”

Leah’s mouth twitches. “Fair.”

They stand there for a second — not awkward, just… paused. Like a held chord waiting for the next note.

“Can I come in?” Y/N asks.

Leah steps aside. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

The flat is quiet. Clean, but lived-in. A book left spine-up on the couch. A single framed photo on the shelf — Leah and her mum, laughing at something off-camera.

Y/N drops her bag gently and leans against the kitchen island. “I didn’t plan this.”

“I figured.”

“I just… I thought if I waited too long, I’d talk myself out of it.”

Leah nods, slow. “Out of what?”

Y/N looks up. “Out of seeing you again.”

They don’t touch.

Not yet.

But there’s a new kind of tension now — not brittle, not confused. A tethered hum. Like gravity rediscovered.

“I liked the song,” Leah says.

“I wasn’t sure you’d hear it.”

“You sent it to the whole world. Of course I heard it.”

Y/N smiles, small. “It was easier than texting you.”

Leah nods. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

Then Leah adds, “I wasn’t sure if I should reach out.”

“I think we both got scared.”

Leah glances at her. “Of what?”

“Of ruining the version of us we made up in our heads.”

They sit on the couch.

Close, but not touching.

Y/N’s fingers toy with the edge of her sleeve. “I meant what I said in the song.”

Leah meets her gaze. “Which part?”

“The part about kissing the hush.”

A beat.

“I wanted more,” Y/N says. “But I didn’t know if you did.”

Leah exhales. “I did. I do.”

Y/N blinks, caught off guard. “You do?”

“I just didn’t know how to make room for it.” She swallows. “I’m not used to people seeing me and not asking for more than I’m ready to give.”

“I wasn’t asking,” Y/N says. “I was offering.”

Leah shifts closer.

“I don’t want a campaign,” she says.

Y/N tilts her head. “No?”

“I want… late-night walks. Bad jokes. You complaining about oat milk. I want the real stuff.”

Y/N laughs, the kind that shakes her shoulders. “You want me.”

Leah leans in. “Yeah.”

Then, finally, finally — they kiss.

Not a first kiss.

Not technically.

But this one feels like it counts.

Like something that breathes.

Something earned.

After, Y/N rests her forehead against Leah’s.

“You still worried I’ll write a song about you?”

Leah smirks. “You already did.”

“Well,” Y/N says, grinning, “then maybe you should help me write the next one.”

————

They don’t hard launch.

Not really.

There’s no magazine spread. No red carpet reveal. No cryptic tweet with matching emojis or a blurry hand-holding paparazzi shot outside Soho House.

Instead, there’s a photo.

Posted on Instagram without comment on a random Tuesday afternoon.

A mirror selfie in Leah’s flat, both of them in denim — Y/N’s light wash, Leah’s dark. Matching white tanks, sleeves rolled up. Y/N holds the phone, Leah’s chin rests on her shoulder. They’re smiling. The soft, unbothered kind.

There’s no tag. No caption.

Just… them.

It’s the most honest thing either of them has shared in months.

And it breaks the internet in under seven minutes.

The texts flood in.

Jess Glynne: FINALLY.

Keira: I win the betting pool.

Alex: I’m reposting with sparkles. Deal with it.

Olivia (Y/N’s manager): One million likes in two hours. You owe me brunch.

Even Leah’s mum texts a single thumbs-up emoji and the words: she looks cheeky. i like her.

Leah laughs. Then turns her phone face down and lets it rest.

————

They spend the evening doing absolutely nothing.

Door locked. Curtains drawn. Music playing low — a playlist they’ve been curating together. Mitski, James Blake, a couple of Y/N’s songs Leah has on loop.

They order ramen, fight over which Studio Ghibli film to rewatch, and fall asleep tangled in each other’s arms on the sofa, too lazy to move.

Leah wakes up first, around 3 a.m., and just… watches her.

Y/N, curled into her chest, one leg slung across her thigh, a hand twitching softly in sleep like she’s still playing a chord in her dream.

It’s terrifying how much Leah cares already.

Terrifying how easy it feels.

————

In the morning, Y/N steals Leah’s hoodie and wears it to the corner café.

They sit by the window. Y/N doodles in a small notebook while Leah reads the back page of the Guardian. Neither speaks much. They don’t need to.

When the barista asks, “Are you two…?”

Leah just smiles.

And Y/N says, “Yeah.”

————

Weeks pass.

Y/N gets a call from Calvin Klein about a follow-up campaign. “Nothing too branded,” they promise. “Just something honest. Something soft.”

She says yes, on one condition: Leah’s involved.

They shoot it at home — no stylists, no set. Just denim and bare feet on hardwood floors. Messy bedsheets. Shared headphones. A shot of them brushing their teeth side by side, laughing with mouths full of foam.

It goes viral again.

But this time, it feels deserved.

————

Later, Leah scrolls through the campaign images and lands on her favorite: Y/N curled up on the armrest of their couch, head tilted back, Leah’s hand resting lazily on her ankle.

She didn’t know a photo could feel like home.

Didn’t know denim could be a love language.

Didn’t know this — whatever this is — could be real.

But it is.

It’s a soft launch.

It’s a quiet truth.

It’s them.

And it’s just the beginning.

————————————————————————

The end.

[illiath-the-fae]

As a psychologist, I agree with all that's mentioned here.

However... I have thoughts...

While it is correct to state that the incidence of identifying as trans for people with a diagnosis of ASD is higher than those who identify as trans in the general population, it ignores two factors.

Firstly, we do not know the actual incidence of ASD in the global population (global here meaning everyone, all humans everywhere, not "those who don't have <x>"). Heck, we don't even know the actual incidence of ASD in the trans population for a variety of factors not the least of which is...

Secondly, we do not know the percentage of the global population that is trans. We have some estimates, but the difference between the high and low values I have seen is two orders of magnitude (0.1%-10%). While I doubt, sincerly, the number is as high as the highest value, it is also hard to narrow the range as we don't have a "test for transness" that would be 100% accurate. Which also brings up another factor...

We don't have a test for ASD that is 100% accurate. Heck, we don't have a test for any health condition involving humans that is 100% accurate. We've got many that are extremely high, but there's always a chance of error.

This also brings up another issue. One that is more important to discuss when discussing these sorts of things. Correlation does not equal causation. It can imply causation, but it isn't causational. Why do I bring that up? Simple, we're talking statistics, and statistics around health conditions. In this situation we don't know if there is any linkage between being trans and having ASD.

I have my own personal hypothesis around the perceived connection, but doing the testing of those would be highly unethical, but even if I could run them, it would only show a more direct linkage. The primary one, one I will give you "for free" (and hopefully just explaining it will help you see why it would be unethical, if not impractical, to test this).

I'll break it down into "points":

We are taught to "stick to our gender lane" by society.

People with ASD are more likely to not understand why societal views should dictate their actions (not really, but this is just the quick and dirty explanation for the hypothesis points, I'd have to go into technical jargon to explain why this is both accurate, and highly inaccurate at the same time).

People with ASD are therefore more likely to engage in self-reflection and exploration of their gender identity.

People with ASD are therefore more likely to identify as trans, than people without ASD.

So, what would this tell us if true? Not a darn thing about either of the two main points I originally discussed.

However, this also doesn't help us figure out if the gender-exploration and self-identification component is more likely in people with ASD... because ASD is such a wide spectrum and communication impacts with others is one of the primary symptoms of ASD. So... how many people with ASD can't TELL us they're trans? We don't know. And likely won't know until we find a way to communicate with them.

Also, it doesn't account for the possibility that people who are trans might be more likely to present the symptom cluster that we define as ASD. Transpeople might just be more likely to tell society to feck off, and so are more likely to just not care what society things in more than one situation.

And then we hit the most important aspect of this type of thing... the "Third Variable Problem". What is BOTH being trans and having ASD are caused by a third secret thing we don't know about? Or... what if there is a third secret thing that affects people who are trans/have ASD that "causes" the other condition?

What if they aren't related at all, but we perceive a higher likelihood because humans are just great at seeing patterns, even if they don't exist?

If you want my TL;DR on this issue, then here's how I usually describe it. Both "conditions", being trans and having ASD are spectrums. Someone can have many of the "symptoms" of ASD without meeting the criteria for an ASD diagnosis (or a diagnosis of Social Communication Disorder), I (for instance) meet a number of the symptoms at "sub-clinical" levels. At the same time, people can have many of the "symptoms" of being trans without meeting the criteria of gender dysphoria (or self-identifying as trans, whichever way you want to count that), I (for instance) did meet the criteria for GD (I don't, technically, anymore due to the specific wording of the criteria, but I do self-identify as trans for a situation such as this... most of the time though I just identify as a problem *grin*).

I know it's long and unsatisfying, but, as a psychologist, I can't agree with their being a "higher incidence of <x> in <y> population" without more accurate research... But I am willing to look for things more with some groups of people, to help someone explore if they need to be aware of something else I can do to assist them on their life journey.

just saw someone (a trans + autistic person) say "most trans people are autistic" so just wanted to clear up real quickly. that is not true. you cannot separate the autism/trans overlap from the reality that many trans people have to have psych evals in order to access healthcare, which makes us more likely to be identified as autistic. when I was trying to access HRT, my doctor gave me questionnaires for autism and ADHD. many of my friends who are on HRT had to get evaluated for gender dysphoric disorder, and picked up other diagnoses in the process. this is altogether unsurprising to me, and it should be unsurprising to anyone who has been through those layers of psychiatric screening

I'm not saying there's a 0% chance of a real overlap existing between the two groups. it is an overlap that would make some sense. but 1) it's certainly not "most" trans people, and 2) you cannot trust any data about a group that is more likely to be exposed to pathologising processes than the majority

[rorysverse]

sweatshirt

pairing: jack abbot x gn!reader summary: you fall asleep during a shift and jack watches over you word count: 1.1k tags: soft moments , mutual pining a/n: for those of us who think long looks are the equivalent of sex scenes

Jack finds you on accident. At least, that’s what he’ll claim later. Truth is, he’s been pacing. The trauma team cleared out. The surgery board’s empty. And the only thing Jack has to show for the last three hours is a splintered coffee stirrer and a half-written report that makes no damn sense. Somewhere along the way, he misplaces a patient chart - again. He knows it’s somewhere nearby. He just doesn’t care enough to keep looking.

But when he walks past the half-ajar door of the back supply room, he slows. The lights are off, except for the faint lamp someone forgot to shut down. It's barely enough to see by, but he steps in anyway, boots quiet against the tile.

And then he sees you.

You’re curled on your side, tangled in a mess of fabric and fatigue, one cheek pressed to a scrub pack like it’s a pillow. Your arms are pulled close, one knee bent toward your chest. You’re still in your work uniform - smeared with blood (someone else's, hopefully), sweat, and coffee.

Jack pauses. He doesn't speak. Doesn't even breathe for a second.

There’s something about the quiet of you. Something that catches him off guard. He sees people unconscious every day, but not like this. Not peaceful. Not soft. Not someone like you, who’s usually all sharp reflexes and half-joked sarcasm and kind eyes even when things are falling apart.

Jack moves closer before he realizes he’s doing it. He kneels beside you. His hand hovers for a moment, fingers twitching like he’s going to brush your hair back from your face - but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands again and shrugs out of his hoodie. It’s old. Worn soft from too many on-calls and late nights. The cuffs are stretched, and the front pocket has a faint tear near the seam. He drapes it carefully over your body, making sure it covers your arms, your shoulders, your curled-up knees.

You don’t wake. So, he pulls over a chair. Sits, and stays.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

You wake to warmth. A quiet kind of warmth - not sun, not heat - but something softer. Familiar. You shift and blink slowly, vision swimming as the hazy edges of the room come into focus. You sit up, sluggish and confused, and the hoodie slinks off your body like second skin. It smells like soap and eucalyptus and coffee. A little like hospitals, and a lot like someone you’ve stood too close to too many times without admitting how it made you feel.

Jack.

He’s sitting nearby in a scuffed rolling chair, legs stretched out, a manila chart folder open in his lap. He’s reading something under the lamp’s glow, his expression pinched in concentration. There’s a smear of ink on his knuckle and a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

You clear your throat, the sound low and scratchy in the quiet.

Jack looks up immediately. Like he’d been waiting for you to say something. Like maybe he'd been listening for your breathing to change, for your lashes to flutter, for any sign that you'd wake up and he could stop pretending to read that damn chart.

“You drool in your sleep,” he says, deadpan.

You blink, still heavy-limbed and swimming in the warmth of his hoodie. “Excuse me?”

He shuts the folder with a soft snap and leans back in his chair like this is the most casual conversation you’ve ever had. Like he hasn’t been sitting in silence with you for… what, an hour? Two?

“Figured I should tell you before the entire surgical team finds out,” he adds. “Get ahead of the scandal.”

You squint at him, then swipe the sleeve of his hoodie across your mouth instinctively. “I do not drool.”

“Floor begs to differ.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. A fraction of a smile that dies before it can settle on his face.

You lean back against the wall, sighing out a laugh that sounds more like relief. “What time is it?”

“Close to five.”

You grimace and push a hand through your hair, fingers snagging on dried sweat and tangled strands. “Shit. I was supposed to help Eli restock the med closet.”

Jack lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but there’s something deliberately casual in the motion. Like he's downplaying something he absolutely did not downplay at the time. “Handled.”

You frown. “You restocked?”

“I supervised.”

“You hate inventory,” you say, voice full of disbelief.

Jack turns his face away slightly, toward the lamp, like the glow makes it easier to avoid looking at you straight on.

“Didn’t want you waking up just to fall over again.”

It lands heavier than you expect. The words aren’t playful. They aren’t sarcastic. They’re… honest. Your heart stutters once. You try to hide it by shifting in your seat, adjusting the hoodie around your shoulders.

You look at him a second longer than you mean to. He’s tired. You can see it in the way he’s slouched in the chair, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But he’s watching you now - not impatient, not judgmental. Just… watching. Like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he doesn’t want to forget how you look in his hoodie, rumpled and soft in the middle of a world that demands steel and fire.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur.

“I know.”

You could leave it there. But you don’t.

“You didn’t have to stay, either.”

Jack exhales, long and quiet. Then he lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. You watch the motion, the stretch of tendons in his arm, the way his jaw ticks when he doesn’t speak right away.

Finally: “Didn’t seem right, leaving you alone like that.”

You feel something crawl into your throat - unspoken and delicate and stupidly hopeful. Something that tastes like I care. Like stay. Like I notice you even when no one else does. You swallow it down before it shows on your face.

Jack stands slowly, rolling his neck until it pops. You watch him - every line of tension, every unspoken thing left hanging between you.

“Come on,” he says, voice rough with fatigue. “Coffee’s probably drinkable by now.”

And when he turns to leave, he doesn’t look back. But he doesn’t walk fast either. He leaves space beside him. Just enough for you to follow.

“You sleep okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He doesn’t answer. But when you pass him your coffee a few minutes later - too sweet, barely warm - he takes a sip without complaint. And when you hand him back his hoodie, he shakes his head.

“Keep it.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you wear it, it’s two weeks later. Graveyard shift again. You’re dead on your feet, and Jack’s yelling at someone over a misfiled toxicology screen. But when he sees you walk past wearing his hoodie, he shuts up mid-sentence. He doesn’t say anything. But his expression softens.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 29 - All of This is Temporary

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This chapter is. A little different. You’ll see. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Bells in Santa Fe by Halsey

Word Count: 18.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You survive. Usual Warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 27 - Chapter 29

Read on A03!

The muffins are taunting you. 

Raspberry and blueberry and lemon poppy seed, all of them looking amazing, and none of them good enough for your beautiful, stupid boyfriend.

“Just don’t get him a muffin,” Jo says over your shoulder, and you lean back to give her a small frown. “You ain’t even gonna see him until tonight, it’ll crumble in your bag.”

“I’ll be careful.” You mutter, looking back to the display, and Jo scoffs.

“I dunno know how he even deserves a muffin-“

“He made me breakfast this morning.” You keep looking back to the nutty and sugary muffin, but you might just want it yourself. “Then ate me out. And-“

“You love him.” Jo finishes your sentence with a groan, you grin and the nutty and sugary muffin—it’ll do—and flip her off behind your back.

“Sorry I have a perfect life.” You hum, drawing back up and grabbing out your wallet. “And great tits and a hot boyfriend.”

Jo snorts, stopping at your side when you reach the counter. “I’ve seen your hot boyfriend try’n see how many Q-Tips he could fit up his nose.”

You smile at the air, a little like an idiot, but it’s not worth fighting. He’d spent the entire rest of the night groaning about how he could still feel them in his brain, but grinned at you when you sat on the kitchen counter and carefully triple checked that he hadn’t somehow done permanent damage.

It wasn’t the first time you’d done something like that, though. He liked to do stupid things, such as try and race the dog, then lose because he got too excited and tripped. He’s been trying to renovate the house all by himself, and he’s done a better job you’d thought he would—of course he did, the butthead is good at everything—but he also knocked his head against the ceiling fan and almost got a concussion. Once you caught him setting off fireworks in the backyard, and he’d pouted and trailed around after you like a wounded animal when you told him you lived in Chicago, and that was illegal.

“Things are only illegal if you get caught, baby.” He’d muttered, kissing along your neck in the kitchen, and you’d given in too easy.

But he’d looked so pretty, when you’d driven out to your dad’s for the weekend, and set off the rest of the fireworks. He and his brother had almost lit the forest on fire, but Dad had kept a fire extinguisher on hand, and they’d both looked so happy. 

Sam had thanked you, after. Given you a tight hug and mumbled that he hadn’t seen his brother happier than when he was with you. And you’d beamed at him, because you didn’t think you could be happier than when you were with him. For every bruise and cut you had to patch up and kiss better, he held you through panic attacks and stayed at your side through swings of depression. 

He is perfect. And stupid hot. So you’re going to get him a fucking muffin.

“I don’t care how many Q-Tips he puts up his nose,” you mumble. “I love him.”

Jo sighs, but there’s a tiny smile on her face. “I know ya do. You gotta stop bein’ all dramatic ‘bout it, though. We’re gonna be late.“

“Let the children govern themselves, Joanna-“

“Those kids ain’t able to govern themselves,” Jo scoffs, climbing into your Firebird and tipping her head back with a groan of your name. “I’m gonna have to clean up so much fuckin’ paint off the walls if I’m two minutes late-“

“I’m sorry your kids are heathens.” You drawl, turning on the engine. “All mine are angels and geniuses, sent right from the lord-“

“Shut up,” Jo whacks your arm, and you laugh. “I know you have that kid who snuck a hamster into your classroom and you didn’t even fuckin’ notice-“

“That’s what you think. I just wanted a hamster- Jo-“ You squeak as she hits you again, the car swerving slightly. “You’re gonna make me crash Dean Jr.-“

“He’d live.”

“I’d cry-“

“You cry ‘bout everything. Pretty sure you almost cried ‘bout the tree we drove past this mornin’.”

You frown out the window. “It didn’t have any branches.”

“See! You’re gonna cry now-“

“It probably missed them, Jo-“

“Tree ain’t gonna miss their branches, dumbass-“

“I’m gonna throw you out of the car-“

“Nah, you won’t, you’d miss me too much.”

You roll your eyes, but she right. Jo gets to make fun of you all she wants, she knows you too well. She’s not getting thrown out of the car. The worst she’s getting is a silent treatment for five minutes when you turn up the radio, before she’s goading you into singing along and you’ve forgotten that you were even pretending to be mad at her.

“You wanna go out for drinks tonight?” She asks as you walk through the school doors, the hallways dead empty because—despite Jo’s whining—you were perfectly on time. “I wanna see if I can beat ya at pool again-“

“You always beat me at pool.” You wave her off with a shake of your head. “And I can’t, it’s a long weekend. We’re driving out to see my dad.”

“Oh, can I pet sit-“

“Nope. Too slow.”

Jo’s eyes narrow, and she glares over her shoulder. “Novak. You asked him over me-“

“I didn’t.” You shrug, glancing at the old wall clock, that’s chronically five minutes behind, but still dangerously close to 7:30. “See you at lunch.”

“No.”

You give her a flat look. “Jo-“

“Sorry I love your fuckin’ cat and think I should get to hang out with her instead of Cas-“

“Shut up.” You grin at her as she sticks out her tongue, and walk away to find your own room. 

The day will move past quickly. It always does, when there are things to do. The first classes blaze by in a whirlwind of papers and kids spitting at each other and questions about everything under the sun that you answer with bored, practiced ease. 

“Ms. Singer?” William—a boy that looks a lot like Sam, with the floppy hair and big, shockingly innocent eyes—raise his hand, and you nod to him in a silent cue to continue. “Do we have homework due tonight?”

All the kids groan, and a few of them throw papers at poor, nervous looking William, and you sigh. 

“No, you don’t. But,” you glare around the room, and it falls silent in half a second. “The next person to throw something has to write a five-page paper about Slaughterhouse Five.”

“Sorry,” William mumbles, looking around at his classmates glares, then back to you. “I just- I thought we had an essay, and I didn’t wanna be late-“

“It’s fine,” the clock seems like it might be moving slower than normal. “Everyone can finish it over the weekend, it’ll be due when we get back.”

You just don’t want to grade over the long weekend, but they don’t have to know that. And there are only four more hours until you can go home, give your boyfriend his muffin, and get on the road. It’ll be a slow, lazy weekend, and you can watch TV and eat junk food and watch dad kick everyone’s ass in poker again. You can talk to Sam about his plans for the summer, and if they want to come out and visit you in Chicago, because you know the anniversary of their father’s death is coming up, and it’s better to have the support-

Pain strikes you, out of nowhere. One second you’re walking through the hallway, headed for the teacher’s lounge, then it feels like you’re being fucking shredded alive. White-hot and furious and embedded into your very blood, roaring and banging around and trying to raze you from within, making your vision go black and the world fucking spin-

You’re in a boiler room, and two men stand across from you. One has gleaming, yellow eyes and looks like he’d made of clogged, sneering ash. The other is just a man—John, that might be John—but he’s angry. And he’s looking at you like he hates you, his hands in fists as you wrap your arms around your stomach and your throat, and you’re going to have to run but you can’t leave-

The image vanishes, but the world doesn’t go right back into focus. For a split second, something is wrong. You can’t place what—all the walls angled wrong, the tile floor somehow creaking under your feet, all the light flaring and sharper than it should be, the colors too dull, with not nearly enough of them present—but it’s wrong. You know something’s wrong, and the pain starts to boil and twist with something bright in your body, then- 

You’re in the teacher’s lounge. 

You didn’t walk there, or at least you don’t remember it.

Maybe you need to go back the psychiatrist. 

“Are you feeling okay?” Cas is frowning at you across the table, and he doesn’t say it like a question, but he never says things like a question. “You look sick.”

Nick—fucking asshole, no wonder his legal name is Lucifer—scoffs, dropping next to you as if you don’t daydream about drop kicking him. “Don’t tell a lady she looks sick, Novak, that’s rude-“

“I am worried about her.” Cas snaps, his eyes not leaving your face. “Your coloring is off, and you haven’t touched your lunch-“

“I- I’m just not hungry.” You push it away, your nose wrinkling slightly. The thought of food is making your stomach twist. “What are you doing for the long weekend, Cas?”

He frowns at you. “Pet sitting. For you.”

“Right.” Fuck, your head hurts. “Sorry, I think I’m just tired-“

“Try sleeping more.” Nick drawls, kicking his feet up on the table, and you’re going to punch the food out of his stupid mouth. “You know, I hear that’ll help you being tired-“

Cas says your name carefully, still ignoring Nick. “If you need to go home, we can call a substitute. I will drive you-“

“I’m fine, Cas. Promise.” You glance around the teacher’s lounge, and it’s mostly empty. Jo had to stay in her room because some students wanted to eat with her—and she always bitches about that, but you know she loves it—and you and Cas are taking a late lunch. Which means it’s you two, Nick, and Michael.

Michael’s watching you, in the corner. He watches you a lot. Not enough to be a report with the school district, but enough to make you glad you never really cross his path otherwise. 

He and Nick both watch you a lot. 

And there’s another stab of pain through your skull, a high, slight screech leaving your lips, and- 

The Sky is shining above you. Furious. It gave you a chance to escape this, but you don’t want it. This is being salvation. This is using all your sickness to clean the world of yourself, and you wish Sam didn’t have to go with you, but there’s no other way. 

Dean will be safe. He’s Golden across the field and roaring your name, and you love him. He won’t forgive you. But he has to be safe.

The Sky flares, and the Yellow in your hand makes a horrible sound as you close your eyes, and fall-

A sharp gasp leaves your throat, and you’re not in the teacher’s lounge anymore. You’re not even in your classroom, or getting coffee with Jo, just like you do every day after school. You’re parked outside your apartment, the sun hanging low in the sky and the radio in the middle of a song. There are keys missing from your ring, which means you gave them to Cas for the pet sitting. The muffin is perfectly intact in one of the cupholders, which means you went back to your classroom to get it.

But you don’t remember doing any of that. Or driving home. And your head still hurts, and everything—once again—looks wrong.

It goes back into focus, the moment you notice. 

Maybe Nick was right.

Maybe you just need sleep. 

You turn off the car, the world still feeling a little far away, fumble with the keys as you walk up the steps. His car is in the drive, which means he beat you home, but you need to hurry if you want to get on the road before the sun sets-

The door swings open before you can even touch it, and you’re being tugged forwards and hauled into strong arms.

“Dean-“ You squeak, trying to whack his chest, but he just laughs and spins you around, capturing your mouth in a sloppy, deep kiss.

You thread your fingers through his hair in a second, and he carefully lowers you to the ground. Swaying you back and forth as you melt into his body, nipping on your lower one before pulling back with a wide, boyish grin.

“Missed you, Princess.” He kisses your brow and you hum, tipping your head back to chase another kiss. 

“We’ve been apart for eight hours, De-“

“Too damn long.” His hand finds your lower back, guiding you inside. “I packed for you, figured we could do laundry at your dad’s.”

You raise your brows at him. “Where it’s free?”

“Yep. Walked Indy, fed the demon spawn-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat look, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Velma. Fed Velma, and she bit my fucking hand-“

“Did you try to scratch her butt again?”

Dean scowls, dropping his brow to the top of your head and muttering, “Yeah. But she looked fluffy.”

You giggle, taking his jaw and angling it for another, soft and long kiss.

“She never scratches you,” Dean mutters, hanging himself over your body. “Indy never shits on the sidewalk either, when you walk him.”

You hum, pressing a light kiss to the stubble on his jaw. You need to hide his razor, before he tries to shave again. “That’s because you’re a pushover, Deano.”

“Am not.” He grumbles, and you laugh softly. “Cas got the keys?”

“He’ll drop by in the morning.” You murmur. “Did you clean the litterbox-“

“Always do-“

“And wash your hands?” 

Dean rolls his eyes, even as you see his lips twitch. “You got so little faith in me, Princess-“

“I’m just checking-“

“You’re bein’ bossy.” He grins at you, and before you can protest, he’s sweeping you off your feet, forcing you to cling to his chest like a Koala as he climbs the stairs.

“Dean-“

“Don’t worry, baby.” He presses a kiss to the side of your head, shouldering the door to your room open. “It’s fuckin’ hot.”

Baby.

I love you, baby.

I need you, baby.

You bury your face in Dean’s neck, taking a deep long breath of his spice and amber shampoo, mixed with the lingering smell of the motor oil and leather from work. 

Your head hurts, more than usual. It’s been hurting like that all day, and it’s getting to the point where strange colors start to cloud your vision. This is the exact type of thing Dean would want you to tell him about. The thing you’re supposed to tell him about, because that’s how this relationship thing works. And he tells you all about his PTSD flashbacks from the military and the car crash that killed his mom, along with the nightmares about his dad’s final moments in the hospital. You have each other. You always have each other, and he won’t judge you if you tell him you can hear his voice—although a little hoarser and more exhausted—calling baby, I need you, baby-

“Called Sammy.” Dean says, and you blink. 

You’re on the road. You don’t even remember getting in the car, but you’re on the highway with Dean’s hand resting on your upper thigh. His thumb is rubbing small, tight circles on the skin under your skirt, and his eyes are fixed on the road. The muffin is half eaten in your lap, and you have a vague, hazy memory of trying to give it to him, then being met with I’ll eat it if we share.

That is something Dean would say. He’s said it before. 

But the words seem swirled, and crowded in fog. This is your third blackout of the day. 

And Dean doesn’t even seem to have noticed. 

“He’s got some big phamasuitible thingy.” He hums, you raise your brows at him, and he frowns. “Pharamsuit… nickle?”

“Pharmaceutical?”

“Yeah, that.” Dean grins down at you. “So smart, Princess-“

“Shut up. I know you get it wrong on purpose.”

“Can’t prove it.” He shrugs, looking back to the road. “Anyway, Sammy’s gonna be on TV ‘cause of it. I think we should fly out to SF to cheer him on in the courtroom.”

You snort, tipping your head back of the bench of Dean’s car. “De, he’d never speak to us again.”

“He’d speak to you. Likes you more. And he’d forgive me. Not the first time I’ll embarrass him, won’t be the last.”

“It could be, you know. Violence breeds violence.”

“Nah.”

You giggle, leaning your head on his shoulder. “I’m not saving you when he sends you to jail.”

“He can try.” Dean shrugs. “And you never gotta save me, Princess. I save you.”

You roll your eyes, but smile all the same, and turn your face to bury it in his side. Dean just hums, turning up the radio, and you yawn. He smells good. Feels warm and safe. 

This time, when everything goes dark, it’s because you actually fall asleep. And when you wake up, you’re still in the car, but Dean’s gone, and his jacket is draped over your body. You rub your eyes and blink out the window, managing to find the big neon words of Exxon glowing in the night. 

Gas. 

You shuffle with your phone, pulling up Sam’s contact and frowning at it. There’s something is your gut and chest that’s clenching. All the lights are a little too bright again, the world seems to be bending into you, and it can’t hurt to call him. Just to see what his ETA is to your dad’s, and if you’re going to be there at the same time. You don’t even know if he’s bringing Jess or not, and if he is, you’re going to have to alter your grocery plans. 

It’s not weird to call him in the dead of night, either. He was your friend before you met Dean. You talk all the time, and something in you can’t stop feeling wired and taut, and it’ll relax if you just call Sam.

So you dial the number, and it rings.

And rings. 

And rings. 

“Hey,” Sam’s voice comes through the speaker, and you swallow. “This is Sam Winchester, leave a message.”

The line beeps, and you hang up and send him a text. 

He doesn’t answer. And that same, strange feeling seems to be pushing up, up, up under your skin, so you call again. Get voicemail again.

Something feels wrong.

“Hey,” Dean frowns as you shuffle out of the car, right over to his side before dropping your face onto his shoulder. “You alright, sweetheart?”

You nod, twisting one of the rings on your finger—the one Dean gave you a little after you first met, before you were even dating, because he’d seen it in a pawn shop and thought you’d like it—and he sighs. Moves take your face in his hands, thumb running down the bridge of your nose. 

“I know when you lie to me,” he mutters your name and you blink up at him, trying not to get lost in how he looks almost golden in the light of the gas station. “Tell me what that pretty brain is thinking.”

You open your mouth, and another rush of pain slams into your body. 

Dean frowns down at you, your face cradled between his hands as you curl into your body. Both of you sat on the floor, concern written all over his handsome, exhausted features. You’re so tired, and he’s telling you to rest, but you can’t. Not yet. His thumb pets down your nose, and he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your brow. He smells like spice and grass, and you can’t lose him, but you don’t have enough time. You’re in so much fucking pain, and when your gaze falls to your own hands, all you can see is fucking blood. 

“Mornin’ kiddo.”

You sway in the middle of the hallway, the pain turning back into a mindless, odd and numb feeling in your body. Dad is in the kitchen, flipping pancakes and humming to the radio, and he gives you a small smile and nod.

“Um- I-“ You clear your throat, frowning around you. You were just in the parking lot, leaning on the Impala, and you’d been about to tell him something important. “What time is it?”

“Eight. Sit’down.” Dad nods to one of the wooden chairs and you nod weakly. “You two got in real late last night, didn’t think you’d be up till noon. Dean still knocked out?”

“I- Yeah?” You shake your head, and all your thoughts feel like they’re swirling. Blending together and wading through each other, and you don’t know how you got here, but you’re also not sure what here is. It’s home, but it’s cleaner than you remember it. 

You think. 

What you remember of it is either too glossy and plastic looking, or fogged over and painful to think about. 

“Sam ain’t gonna make it, by the way.” Dad grunts, and you frown.

“Dean said they called last night-“

“Flight got delayed.” Dad shrugs. “Gonna try ’n catch the next one, but we don’t gotta wait on him.”

You open your mouth to give some kind of protest, but Bobby just keeps talking.

“You best get your idjit up, kiddo. I ain’t makin’ extra pancakes.”

You nod, and shuffle upstairs to your room. 

Not your room. 

It’s the same thing as the kitchen. The only thing you’re sure is yours—certain that it belongs there—is Dean. Sprawled and snoring on your mattress, shirtless and handsome, completely relaxed in a way you almost never see-

Pain slices through your brow, and you do see him like that. All the time. Last night, and every night before that almost four years. But the thought has that sharp, shiny edge to it, and when you dwell on it too long all the colors seem off. 

Something’s wrong. And Dad told you to wake Dean up, but some strange part of you—just to the right of your heart—pleads to let him sleep just a little longer. So you grab an old notebook and shuffle back into bed, smiling when he immediately trades the bunched sheets in his arms for rolling over and latching around your waist. 

You try to call Sam, again. Get voicemail, again. 

And you start to write. Scrawl out your name, and everything you’re sure you know. The year you were born, the current date, your age. You were born in South Dakota, raised by your single father after your mother died in a break-in when you were little, and everyone always says you look more like she did. You went to college in California, met Sam Winchester, and your father treated him like a son. Then you met Sam’s hot older brother, and-

No, you didn’t. 

None of that is right. 

You were born in Chicago. Your last name isn’t legally Singer, and Bobby isn’t your biological father. You ran away from your family, and he adopted you. You never went to college, and you didn’t meet Dean in a museum when he hit on you and conveniently didn’t mention he was Sam’s brother. You met him in a coroner’s office, wearing a jacket that was a little too big on you, and going against the one rule you’d always known. But it had been worth it, just to have one conversation with the pretty boy you’d like to crash into from the moment you saw him.

“How’s work, Dean?”

You’re at the table. You’d been in bed, but now the sun is setting and you’re at the table.

You don’t know what’s fucking happening to you. 

“It’s alright.” Dean shrugs, taking a swig of the beer Dad had passed him earlier. “Nothing interesting. All the jobs we got lately have been boring, fuckin’ Hondas and Toyotas.”

You let out a soft laugh, and Dean rolls his eyes. 

“She threatened to crash my Baby,” he grumbles. “To give me better work to do.”

Dad snorts. “That ain’t a threat, boy, that’s a promise. When she was ten, she hid all my tools so I could hunt for ‘em. Thought it would be fun.”

“See?” You beam up at Dean, and he’s not good at pretending to glare. “I just want you to be happy, car boy.”

And there’s an odd moment where he’s staring at you. And he looks different. A stronger crook to his nose, a cut on his lip, hair messy and skin covered in a thin layer of grime.

Golden.

For a split second, Dean looks fucking Golden, and he reaches for you with shaking hands, then-

He looks like Dean again. And you might be losing your mind.

“Sure, Princess.” Dean kisses the top of your head and you hum, busying yourself with the steak on his plate. 

He always lets you cut it. You don’t know why, but a knife has always felt good in your hands. Like a security blanket.

And Dean and Dad keep talking about cars—fucking losers, but it makes Dean happy that your Dad likes him enough to have a long conversation with him—while your thoughts drift back to Sam.

It’s not like him to miss a dinner like this. He loves coming to your dad’s. Loves the pub trivia downtown that you’ve been dominating together for ten years, and hold a perfection streak for ever since Dean joined your team. If his flight got delayed, he’d just find a new connected one, or fly into another airport and make Dean pick him up.

The worry won’t stop eating at your gut. Worming it’s way deeper and deeper into the cavity of your chest, until it’s more than just discomfort. 

“Has Sam talked to you?” You ask Dean, leaning against him as he does the dishes. “He won’t pick up for me.”

“Nah, but maybe he’s on the plane,” Dean shrugs. “Can’t keep tabs on him 24/7, Princess.”

You frown, even as Dean kisses the side of your head. That’s not like Dean. He’d put a tracker on Sam, if he could get away with it. You’re not entirely sure he hasn’t. 

And you call Sam, one last time on the porch, but this time you don’t even get voicemail. 

The line just goes dead.

Something is wrong. Something is so, so wrong, because he’d text if he’d gotten another flight. And Dean would never not worry about him, and it’s hurts, everything hurts and the edges of the world are blurring and something’s wrong-

Your phone rings, and no sooner has your gaze shot down than it goes dead. Then it rings again, but you blink.

The third time, you see it. 

The briefest flash of Sam Winchester, before it vanishes. Your hands fumble and fingers shake as you try to call him back, but your phone is dead. Black screened, and cracked in places it hadn’t been before, and something is wrong-

You can hear it. In the distance, drifting on the wind, you can hear Sam calling your name from the woods. 

And you don’t think. A strange blur kicks into your body, and you just run. Sprinting through the dark and hacking through the trees—you’re not sure where you got this knife, but it fits well in your hands so you’re not going to let it go—screaming Sam’s name back so he knows you’re coming. That you know something is wrong, and you’re going to fix it, even though you’ve never really been good at fixing anything-

You stumble to a stop as his voice calls back from somewhere behind you, and you whirl around, scanning over the darkened brush until you see it.

Sam. Bloodied and bruised against the truck of a tree, his hair pressed to his brow and body hunched over in pain. 

It hits you, in a split second. 

You’re in the cage. You’ve been in the cage, and none of this is real. The real Dean and Bobby are back on Earth, while you and Sam are trapped in Hell.

It’s a strange Hell.

Now isn’t the time to think about that. 

You skid to your knees at Sam’s side, taking his face in your hands and trying to examine the damage. He’s hurt. Hurt so bad, you don’t even know where to start. His arm is at a funny angle, and there seem to be lash marks all over his chest. His purple looks battered. Razed and torn and almost rotted, like an open wound festering in the sun.

You let a little bit of the Silver out, and aim it for his purple. It washes over all the infections, slowly melting them away with gentle light, and you pull Sam into your lap like a child as he moans in pain.

“It’s okay.” You murmur, and it’s not. It won’t be. But telling him that won’t do either of you any favors. “We’re gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise.”

He groans, the Silver seeps deeper into his soul, and it doesn’t embed like it did with Dean. He seems to absorb it, like Cas did, and the Silver flares. 

But you can see it, from the corners of your eyes. The Yellow and Red, slowly closing in on the dollhouse world they made you. 

Sam groans your name and a lump forms in your throat as his eyes meet yours. He looks to tired, hopeless and desperate. 

“I’m here.” You whisper, giving him a sad smile. “We’ll be okay.”

And you won’t be. 

Because Sam is ripped from your arms, your voice echoes into a void as the world goes black. 

———

He’s home. The sun hasn’t even set over the flat horizon, and he’s home.

You’ve stopped trying to play it cool, whenever you hear the doors swing open and his voice calling your name. If you’re behind the bar you’ll beam up at him and grab his shirt, yanking him down into a deep, long kiss as he frames your face in his hands. If you’re talking to Jo or Sam, you’ll drop the conversation and melt into his arms, letting him sway you back and forth as he kisses up your neck and—when every else start groaning and mocking you—giggling when he whispers that you could take this out back, Princess, wanna let my pretty girl scream.

Today, though, you’re upstairs. Reading one of the worn, thick books he brought you back last time, lying on your back to try and fight the dry heat of the desert. 

But Dean calls your name.

And you’ve never known how to do anything but move for him. 

He catches you with a wide grin, when you leap into his arms and kiss his dumb, pretty face. Any missed me, baby is turned into a muffled groan as you try to eat him alive, because it’s always so boring when he’s not here. And you always feel like part of you is missing, the moment he gives you a soft kiss on the top of your head and rides away. 

But he always comes back. He pinky promised you he’d come back, under the stars with his arm around your waist. And Dean’s a cheater and a liar—what the fancy ladies in town call a scoundrel—but you don’t care. 

He’s true to you. Doesn’t lie, would never cheat. Says he’s never had a wandering eye since he stumbled into your father’s bar, bleeding out and on the run.

And, just like now, he always comes home. 

“Easy.” He grunts, setting you down with that smug, boyish grin. “Gonna hurt yourself, baby girl-“

“I would never.” You mumble, leaning your cheek on his chest. His heart is still beating, and as your hands slowly travel his back and sides, you can’t feel any new scars-

Dean drawls your name, catching your wrist with a smirk. “You checkin’ me for bullets?”

You flush, but narrow your eyes on his. “Yeah, cause you always drag yourself back to me shot.”

He hums, holding your gaze as his smirk grows. “I would never.”

You glare at him, pushing off his chest. “Shut up, Winchester-“

“Ah,“ He catches your wrist, pulling right back to his chest without a single flinch. “Don’t worry, Princess. Nobody ever worries about me as pretty as you do.”

“You don’t let anyone else worry about you at all.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, kissing the back of your hand and smirk when he sees how quickly go you soft for him. “But you still do it the best. ’S why I always come back.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s only for the show of it. He knows how easy he makes you melt. Fills you with a heat brighter than the sun, makes all the things your Daddy taught you about watchin’ out for men like him vanish into nothing. Dean tugs you into a long, slow kiss before hooking his arms under your legs, and sweeping you into his arms like the bride you’d never wanted to be.

Not before him. 

Never after him. 

He keeps kissing you, as you wrap your arms around his neck, and it’s only ever Dean. 

“Hey, Winchester!” Someone bangs on the saloon doors before Dean can carry you upstairs, and he sighs as one of his partners barges inside. 

“Don’t you see I’m busy, Nick. No one ever teach you to knock before you bang somethin’ down?“

Fucking Nick. He’s one of the less likable people Dean has to work with, only kept around because he’s good the job—you know job means bank robberies and fighting the law, but it’s still adorable how Dean calls them jobs in your presence—but not worth much else. He’s filled with teeth and a leering glare that’s always wandered a little too high up your legs.

You don’t like him.

And you know Dean doesn’t really either.

Nick scoffs. “You’re always busy when we get back, leavin’ us to do the rest of the work.” He grins at you, and you shrink into Dean’s arms. “Howdy, doll.”

“Mister.” You mumble, burying your face in Dean’s neck, and he tenses around you.

“You and the boys can’t do a single thing yourselves?” Dean barks, and Nick raises his hands in surrender. 

“Told Mikey you’d be mad, but we got some Marshall askin’ questions on the outskirts of town.”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean lowers you down, giving you an apologetic grimace. “Gotta go, sweetheart. Don’t miss me too much.”

You give him a small smile, and trace your fingers over the crooked ridge of his nose as you whisper, “Don’t think that’s possible, De. Be careful.”

He pulls you back into a hot, heavy kiss that isn’t very nice, considering he’s about to leave again, and speaks against your lips, quiet enough only you can hear. 

“Always am, Princess. Just need to keep you and the rest of the town safe.”

Always keeping people safe, you want to tell him, before he walks away. Who gets to keep you safe, Dean. When do I just get to hold my husband, and keep him all to myself?

You know the answer is never. Dean is more than you. Worth more than you. Always saving people, keeping everyone safe—even if it’s not exactly the legal way—and never once asking for anything in return. Always saving you.

But pain rips up your spine, when his fingers slip from yours, and he turns away. 

Dean, younger and a little paler, but still with a crooked nose and look determination, blocking you from the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. Swinging something like a poker, keeping you behind him as he fills little paper cups with water and tosses them all over Ugly. You’re useless. In pain and useless, curling into yourself and clinging to his arm as you both stare at a puddle of glittering, brown water on the floor. 

Nick gives you an odd look—tight and not quite worried, but off—and you manage to plaster a smile on your face before Dean turns around for one last look.

“Be back soon, Princess.” He winks at you, and your smile feels a little more real, even as the pain continues to make your muscles sore.

He might see it. Something flashes over his face as he holds your gaze, and he taking a stuttering half step forward, but Nick coughs. And he has to turn away with one last frown, then walk out the door.

You stumble to the washroom the moment he’s gone, feeling fucking sick. And when you fall to your knees, another rush of pain splits you in half. 

You’re on your knees in a dusty room, the heat humid rather than flat. Bugs are buzzing in the background, and you feel colorless and hollow, and your breakfast spills out of your gut until you’re slumped against the wall, silent sobs shaking your body because he’s gone. Dean’s gone, and you can’t figure out how to bring him back. 

He’s not gone. You have to remind yourself, as you slump against the wall. Dean’s probably just near Rufus’ ranch, taking care of whatever uptight lawman is trying to bother your town. 

You still feel a little shaky as you push to your feet, and you don’t want to keep yourself alone. Not when the saloon is too big, your father is off on business a few towns over—he does that more lately, and you think the moment you and Dean give him good news about more family, he’s going to retire—and Jo’s likely handling whatever’s wrong at Dean’s side. 

And you can hear Sam, calling your name from outside. He’s better company than almost anyone. He’ll want to see Dean as well, even though always gets bitchy when his brother gets home and shouts Sammy so loud the tumbleweeds roll. You know misses Dean too. Worries about it. Almost as much as you.

But when you push open the saloon doors, Sam isn’t there. And when you hear him shout for you again, it only seems to be drifting on the wind. 

You try wandering down to his house, but when you walk on the door no one answers. Second best place is his office, but the only thing there is a withering little plant. 

Sam always waters his plant. It was a gift from Jess, God rest her soul. And he’s not at the grave either, when you stop to check.

And Jess is gathering dust. Settling into the grooves of her name and time. 

That’s not like Sam, either. 

You wander the town looking for him, and you can’t tell if the pain in your gut is from worry or something more. Drinking water’s been clean for months, you haven’t eaten anything strange, and yet you feel fucking sick. 

It hits you again, when you wander through the library. 

A feeling like you’re being gutted, a spinning darkness fogging your vision, then-

You, Sam, and Dean in a library. Your legs are kicked up on a chair, and you’re talking to Sam about ghosts while Dean grumbles, glaring between you both before frowning at his book. 

“Never manage to stay put, do you.” Familiar arms wrap around your stomach, and you tip your head back to see Dean grinning down at you. “You’re lucky I know you so well, sweetheart. Was damn near ready to launch a manhunt when I got back and you weren’t there.”

You glance to the window with a frown, because you haven’t been gone that long. Not long enough for him to fix everything, and look for you. But the sky is painted blood red and soft orange and gold, and- 

Dean. Golden. He’s Golden and all over you, and you’re covered in blood, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he holds you in his lap. He even kisses you so gently, like he thinks you’re going to fly away. And you are. But you’d like to be drenched in Gold when you go.

A high whine of pain leaves your throat as the fresh feeling of fracturing, this must be what fracturing feels like, fades, and Dean frowns down at you.

“You okay, baby?”

Baby. 

I need you, baby. 

“I’m okay.” You whisper, giving him a small smile and twisting your wedding ring on your finger, and Dean frowns. 

He’s going to call you on your lie. He always calls you on your lie, and you don’t know how he always knows, but he does. 

Yet this time, he just shakes his head slightly, and tips your chin back to offer you a deep, long kiss.

“I’m hungry,” he mutters your name, and you smile against his lips. 

“You’re always hungry, De-“

“I’m a growing boy, Princess. And I got a girl at home that needs me well fed.”

You giggle, shaking your head. “You make it sound like I’m gonna eat you.”

“Hm.” He pulls away, eyes teasing and soft on yours. “If anyone must eat me, I’d want it to be you.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t fight it when Dean guides you out of the library and back to your home. 

And you love it, when he’s home. You love him all the time—all the way down, a broken voice screams in the back of your head, and you don’t know why it’s in so much pain—but when he’s home, it’s like Heaven’s fallen right into your hands. He helps you make dinner before sweeping you back into his arms, dancing around the empty saloon. There’s no music but there’s his deep, rich voice humming a song that sounds like it’s from a different time, and his big, calloused hands holding you carefully, so it’s perfect.

One on your hip and the other tangled with your own, his movements precise and deliberate as he twirls you and guides you through the movements. He’s always so graceful, for a man built broad and strong. No matter if he’s riding his sleek black mare, Baby—maybe the only thing he loves as much as you—or punching someone square in the jaw for calling you a whore, Dean moves in complete control, and you’d let him take you into the darkest corners of the world as long as he stayed at your side. 

Whore.

Your stomach twists, and bile rises in your throat. 

The whore, a balding man sneers in a church. Another, colder one sneers in a forest. A man in a dive bar and a bearded man that looks too much like Dean, but without any of the warmth, hisses whore, and there a dark sickness in you that can’t be cured, and whore-

“Princess.” Dean mutters, and you blink up at him. “Y’know, you can tell me if I leave too much. If you need me here, I’ll stay.”

He’ll stay. For you, he’ll stay. 

“Don’t need to answer now,” he adds, before you can answer. “Just- Think about it. Okay?”

You smile at him, and nod. “Okay.”

Dean frowns at you for another second, but presses at kiss to the top of your head and squeezes your hand once.

You squeeze it back three times, dropping your face to his chest. I love you. 

He hums, and doesn’t push it further. But you can feel his worry, as you eat dinner and talk about his latest job. It’s written all over his face as you catch him up on the latest town gossip—Sam’s hanging around the Ruby girl again, and you don’t like her, but he doesn’t seem to be all that fond of her either, so you don’t think it’ll last—and he nods and hums along. 

When you stand from the table, he frowns up at you, and you half expect him to tackle you to the ground. “Where you goin’, baby?”

“Sam’s.” You shrug, turning over his palm and playing with his fingers. “Need to return a book.”

“Can’t wait ‘till morning?”

It can. It should. The town is safe, but wandering at night is never smart. 

But something in that sickness—rotten and eroding in your chest, telling you wrong, something is wrong, and you feel faded and wrong—tells you it can’t wait. 

So you shake your head, and lean down to give Dean one last, long kiss. He grunts when you pull away, trying to tug you back into his lap, but you push away with a stern look.

“C’mon, Princess-“

“When I get home, Winchester.” You comb your fingers through his hair, and shake your head at the pout on his face. “That doesn’t work on me.”

He sighs. “Had to try.”

You laugh, and force yourself to pull away. If you linger a moment longer, he’ll talk you into retiring for the evening and meeting him on your knees, worshipping each other in the dark. 

But there’s a moment. Dean’s hand still in yours, refusing to fully let you go.

And he looks broken. Golden and glowing and broken, his expression exhausted, face gaunt, something almost desperate in his eyes as he reaches for you.

His hand seems to almost slip through yours. And you’ve never seen anything like the Gold in him, and something’s wrong-

Sam calls your name again.

You need to find Sam. He’s not anywhere but on the wind, though. Not in his house, not in the library, not at the ranch or Ruby’s or the cemetery. 

And you feel stranded. This isn’t like how a critical part of you leaves with Dean, like a heartline being surgically removed until he returns. This is just wrong. And the longer the pain boils in your body, the dustier and empty this world feels. Empty houses and dead streets and millions of stars over your head, but-

The Sky. It’s watching. It’s going to swallow you whole- 

Sam shouts your name again, and it’s on more than the wind. It’s coming from the outskirts of town, where Dean had gone before. You should get him. Tell him Sam may be in danger before you take your own horse—Dean Jr., raised and bred by your husband for you—and ride off into the desert to find Sam.

But an old, strange instinct kicks in, and you can’t. You’ve done this dance before. 

And that Dean is handsome and strong, but he’s not Golden. 

Not your Dean. 

But it’s your Sam you see, when you stop Dean Jr. and slide off. 

It hits you again, when you see how much worse he is than last time. The crushing reality of what happened. The fact that you don’t know how much of this has been real, or how long you’ve been playing this game.

Hell. 

Still in Hell. 

Cradling Sam in your arms as it all starts to fold down. Trying desperately to heal as much of the hurt in his purple that you can, but losing it a little yourself. He’s in pain, and it’s your fault. Dean—the real Dean—would be able to protect him better. Fix him better. Wouldn’t rush the stitch of the Silver, wouldn’t let Sam hurt in the first place. 

But you can’t really fucking breathe, because you’re doing this again. 

Whispering to Sam that it’s going to be okay before you’re both torn away, and everyone caves over to black. 

———

“What’s a girl like you doing on a roof like this?”

You smile into the dark, leaning comfortably back as he crowds all your space. His chin on the top of your head, his hands casually resting on your hips. He’s flexing on purpose, like some sort of bird doing a mating dance, and you tip your head back to give him an amused look. 

It never stops hitting you like lightning, how handsome he is. His well-groomed beard, cocky smirk, and deep green eyes, filled with so much life. Even in the dead of night, his face covered in a mask, you’d know Dean anywhere. 

“Why’s a guy like you asking?” You smile at him, and he hums, leaning down for a deep, slow kiss. 

You tangle your fingers in his hand over your stomach, sighing blissfully as he holds you a little tighter. 

“This isn’t professional, De.”

“Don’t care.” He mutters. “Let the city take care of itself for one night. I should be allowed to kiss my awesome wife whenever I want.”

You pull back, giving him a flat look. “Right now, I’m not your wife-“

“Yeah, you are. Everyone knows it.” He grins at you. “You see the news last night? Apparently the Princess is kissing the greatest hero ever known.”

“They caught me kissing Cas?”

He groans. “That’s not funny, sweetheart-“

“It’s kinda funny. Maybe it was Cas, the photos are grainy-“

Dean scowls, and you squeak as he spins your around in his hold, taking your palm and pinning it to the bare, exposed skin of his neck.

“Shit- I’m gonna light you on fire, dumbass-“

“I’d be fine.” He mutters, squeezing your hand three times. “You feel me.”

You give him a soft smile, and nod. You can feel all his love and worry and tension and-

Nothing. 

It feels like there should be something a layer below all his usual emotion, but there’s not. Nothing Dean under him. Even all the usual feelings don’t feel real. They feel manufactured, designed, the love without worry or anger and the fear for your safety lined with no awe or desire to hold you close no matter what, and- 

He mutters your name, and you swallow.

It’s Dean. It looks like him. Walks like him. Talks like him. 

But something still feels off.

“I feel you.” You murmur. “I’m teasing, De-“

“Good. And I don’t care who knows.” He grumbles your name, lowering his brow to press to yours.

He flickers. His shoulders sag, and he flashes with some strange sort of golden light, and there’s a look in his eyes like longing. But you take a breath, Dean keeps talking, and it’s gone.

“I love you.” He mutters. “Gonna shout it from the rooftops.”

You smile at him, playing with the hair of his beard. “What if your dad hears?”

“He’ll deal.”

“He hates me-“

“Yeah, but I don’t.” He captures your mouth in a quick, dizzying kiss. “I’ve told you, baby, you’re awesome.”

You hum, tugging him back down for another, softer kiss. “What about your brother?” You whisper, and Dean shrugs. 

“Adam’ll get over it.” He pulls back with a goofy grin. “Or- Mike’ll get over it. Get it, sweetheart. Cause his supername-“

“I get it, De.” You frown at him, something itching and painful at the back of your scar. “What about Sam?”

Dean frowns at you. “Who’s Sam?”

That’s wrong.

That’s so wrong.

You don’t know how, but that’s fucking wrong. The world feels like it’s woven on fraying strings, and Dean- He’d never forget who Sam is. You’re not even sure who Sam is, but you know three things about him.

He’s your friend. 

You’re on the same team. 

Dean would never forget him.

“Sam.” You whisper, pushing off Dean’s chest. “It’s- Sam.”

Dean just frowns at you. “You alright, baby?”

“I- I’m okay-“ You can’t breathe. You scratch your finger as you speak, but then your hand is flying to your throat because it hurts, and something is wrong-

“Shit-“ Dean snaps your name, and you shake your head, backing away. “Baby, I need you to listen to me, if you’re freakin’ out we gotta get you off the street-“

Baby. A voice in the back of your head screams. I need you, baby.

“No.” You whisper, ripping your hand from his grip, and he could hold you tighter, but he doesn’t. “You’re not- No-“

“Fuck- I need you to breathe-“

“No.” You’re screaming, because you look down at your hand and it’s just your hand.

No blue. 

No Gold. 

Not Dean. That’s not Dean. Your Dean would never forget Sam, and he’d always be Golden, and you’re trapped with no way out but Sam-

You run. Fly. The pain is eating you alive and something running under your skin sparks, and you can fly. Dean roars after you, but you don’t look back. They got how Dean roars your name wrong. Michael and Lucifer’s toy Dean say it with only anger and worry. Your Dean would be desperate. A little afraid.

Dean’s on the ground, watching you and Sam take each other’s hands. He roars your name, and it’s the worst thing you’ve ever heard. Looping over and over as you fall, but he’ll be safe, this is all worth it because Dean’s safe-

You can hear someone calling your name, far in the distance. 

Sam. That’s Sam’s voice. Strained and hoarse and cracking, but Sam.

You follow it until it feels like it’s loud enough to cleave right through your skull, and slam to the ground. He’s somewhere below you, and you’re burning right through the world, down, down through concrete and stone and earth, and you’re so bright you don’t know how Michael and Lucifer haven’t found you-

All the fire goes out, right as you land in an impossibly large basement. More of a cavern. And curled in the corner is Lucifer-

Not Lucifer. Your mind hums Lucifer, the supervillain Lucifer, but it can’t be trusted. 

The Silver knows. It stirs and hums, and that’s Sam. 

He’s barely recognizable. Half his face is beaten in, his legs pulled tight against his chest. Large burn scars seeming to make up half his body as he shies away from you. His purple is stripped raw and fragile, ligaments of is looking melted and large chucks of it missing. And you don’t have time, but you take it slow anyways. Sink down to his side, running your fingers through his hair carefully, and sighing when he leans into your touch.

“It’s okay, Sammy.” You murmur, letting the Silver flow into his purple. “It’s okay.”

You’ve done this before. You’re losing your grasp on how many times you’ve done it, because all the memories blur in your head like lifetimes, but none of it was real. You know what is real—real Dean will always be Golden, and it will keep you sane—but as the curtains draw again and you try to heal Sam, you know it doesn’t matter. 

Next time you see him, he might be damaged beyond repair. Next time you’re still going to try to fix it. 

Then you’ll be separated, and thrust into another lifetime, and it’s never going to stop. 

Michael and Lucifer don’t need to lay a finger on you to break you. 

You’re stuck here forever anyway. 

Sam’s being taken away as the Silver tries to slam him back together, but sobs start to shake your body. 

The world going black as you scream into the void for Dean.

You need Dean.

———

You spin your knife in your hands, and something is wrong with it. You can’t quite name it, but it’s off. Missing from your hands, as well. Maybe your jeans. Something that should be there—on the side of your thighs, or maybe stuck to your shirt—is missing. 

“Did y’know in seahorses, the men get pregnant?”

You frown up at Jo, leaning forward on the motel bed and staring at the TV. “What?”

“In seahorses-“

“The men get pregnant.” You finish for her, and she nods eagerly. 

“I’d get a man pregnant.”

“You’d have to, if you were a seahorse- Hey-“

You scramble off the couch as Jo throws popcorn at you, and—because you know you won’t miss—throw your knife in retaliation. 

She screams as it lands in the wall over her head, and you burst out laughing. 

“That coulda killed me-“

“Only if I hit you.” You shrug, standing up with a shrug, and she scoffs.

“One day you’re gonna hit me, then you’ll feel real bad-“

“Uh huh.” You kneel next to her on the mattress, yanking your knife out and frowning at the dent. “Do you think the motel will notice that?”

“Nah.” She doesn’t look away from the TV as she answers, and you sigh.

“We can’t afford the cops on our ass-“

“Good thing we ain’t usin’ our real names.” She shrugs. “Sam and Dean get arrested all the time, and we’re way smarter than them. Hotter, too. They’re so lucky we talk to ‘em.”

You frown, but before you can even open your mouth, Jo sighs and rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah, Dean’s smart and pretty and you love him.”

“I didn’t say anything-

“You were gonna.” 

“Shut up.” You grumble, collapsing fully onto the bed. “What’re we watching?”

“Animal planet.” Jo pauses. “Would you get Dean pregnant?”

“Yes. But he’d be a bitch about it.” You reach over and take popcorn from Jo’s lap, and she laughs.

“Remember when he stubbed his fuckin’ toe and started cryin’?”

“He just wanted me to baby him.” You mumble through your mouthful. “Soon as we got back to our room he was all gonna kiss it better, Princess?”

Your voice drops to mimic Dean’s deep, teasing drawl, and you keep your gaze fixed on the TV so Jo doesn’t see your slight flush. You’re working yourself up just thinking about it. His hands on your waist and his mouth melded against yours, his moans of your name as you scratched his shoulders and the adoration in his eyes as he flipped you onto your back-

“You’re gonna be a great dad.” Jo snorts, and you clear your throat. 

“Thanks.” 

You drop your head onto her shoulder, and something still feels off. There’s all the pain in your body, but it’s no different than normal. Jo is here, Sam and Dean are off on their own hunt, and they haven’t sent an SOS. Bobby and Ellen get the whole bar to themselves, and you’re a little worried you’re going to get another drunk dial where they tell you and Jo how fuckin’ proud they are of you two little freaks, but worse things have happened- 

You crying in the kitchen, holding Bobby’s hand as he sits with you in a wheelchair. Ellen smiling at you and telling you it’s going to be okay before vanishing to places you don’t know how to follow. 

Jo on the ground in the rubble of the church, her blue draining into the ground and leaving stains on your hands-

“You okay?” 

You blink at Jo, and she looks okay. Same as she always does. 

But when you glance at your hands, they aren’t stained blue. 

Yes, they are. They’re blue right on the tips of your fingers, there’s something screaming far off in the distance, and iron that’s blistering your skin and fire that’s licking at your feet. It’s dark, so dark, but you’re glowing silver and there are millions of Red and Yellow eyes watching you-

Jo mutters your name, and the world snaps back into place. “I need to call Dean?”

“No,” you frown at your hands again, but shake it away. “I’m fine, I- I guess I’m just tired.”

“Alright.” Jo doesn’t look like she believes you, but it doesn’t matter. You sink back into the mattress, and watch the seahorse float around the screen, a voice talking about their courting rituals. 

Something still feels wrong. 

You still can’t quite place what.

Your phone rings around midnight with your nightly call from Dean, and Jo’s already knocked out, so you sneak outside to sit on the curb as you answer.

“Hey, Princess.” There’s a clattering sound, and you frown into the dark.

“You okay, Deano?”

“Yeah, Sammy just dropped something.” He sighs, seeming to raise his voice to a shout and lean back from the speaker. “Stop fuckin’ with the heater, Sammy, I’m already sweatin’ balls.”

You giggle, and he lets out an exasperated sigh as he returns. “Sweating balls?”

“It’s Arizona. It’s freakin’ hot. How are you ladies doing, on the easy side.”

“Do you mean the vamp nest we cleared in one night?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, yeah, you’re better hunters than we are-“

“Jo says you’re lucky we talk to you.”

“She’s not wrong.” Dean drawls, and he’s not even looking at you but you can feel the heat of his gaze. “I ever tell you that you’re the best freakin’ thing that ever happened to me, baby girl?”

“Yeah.” Your thighs are pressed together. Dean can’t know, or he’ll somehow talk you into a public indecency charge. “Last night. And this morning.”

“Yeah, well you can’t hear it enough-“

“Not worried about my ego, De?”

“Nah.” You can almost see his relaxed, wide grin. “Anybody gotta be full of themselves, should be you.”

“Okay, Cowboy.” You smile, tipping your head up to look at the stars. 

Something’s off there, too. Something that should be there, but isn’t. 

This world has holes in it. Tears in the seams, fraying edges, and you’re talking to Dean, but the world isn’t Technicolor- 

The colors. 

The colors are wrong. 

“Dean.” You whisper, too many crashing memories and twisted realities rushing through your head to think in a straight line. “Can- I need you to do something for me.”

He hums. “Anything, Princess.”

“Put Sam on the phone.”

There’s a pause, and your heart feels like iron. “He’s in the bathroom.”

“Dean.” You sound like you’re pleading, and it’s not your Dean, but you don’t care. You just need him and miss him, and you don’t know what to do- “Dean, please-“

“Sweetheart, he’s just on the shitter-“

“No, he’s not.” Speaking is a strain, every word being pushed through your throat. “Dean- I- I need to talk to Sam-“

“Can’t you talk to me?” He snaps, and a choked sob shakes your body. 

Lucifer and Michael got that wrong, too. Dean would never shout that at you. He’d just sound hurt.

At the very least, it makes this a little easier. You hang up the phone without a word—no Gold on your hands as you slam it against the pavement—and wrap a hand around your throat. You can feel it again. The Silver, the root of all the pain, rioting in your body and begging to be freed, to free you from this literal fucking Hell-

This world is better constructed than the previous one. They’d been smart to put you in something so close to reality, and you really can’t figure out how long you’ve been here. It hurts to try and think about it, because then there a rattling, glossy memories that never happened. 

But it’s still wrong. So fucking wrong, when you squint and turn your head just slightly to the side. 

You can see the fire. The eyes and the iron and the cage, shimmering just behind a veil. 

This world is thin. 

So when the Silver finally burst from your body—made of furious pain and Gold flickering on your hands as your vision splits in two—it shreds right through it.

There’s a split second where you might be dying. Falling and crashing and bursting. Growing up, up, up and out. The Silver cleaving a clear, clean hole in the door to the cage. 

And there he is. 

God.

Far up in the sky, peering down at you in the cage, waiting to see what you do as the door already starts to mend itself shut.

Dean’s up here. 

But your gaze falls down, and Sam’s in here. 

Lucifer and Michael are splattered over the walls. Not dead or destroyed like Anna, but hurt. For a brief time, nothing more than electricity and skeletal wings.

And they haven’t been hurting you.

But they’ve been hurting Sam. He’s barely recognizable, shaking in the corner of the cage and blinking at you in rapid fear as you approach him. 

You’ve done this before. You know you can do it. And you don’t have as much time, but you need to be more careful. Let the Silver flow gently, trying to mend and fuse Sam’s purple back together before it’s too late. He won’t survive like this, even when Dean finds him. So you work quickly, using the lingering stitches and casts from all your previous healings to bridge the biggest gaps. Pour all your Silver into where Sam’s missing himself, and waiting for it to grow back—if a little misshapen—before carefully grabbing Sam’s shoulders. 

He mutters your name, his voice a little hoarse. “What are you doing-“

“You’re getting out.” You give him a small smile, and his hand flies to your wrist, his eyes widening.

“No, wait- You can’t-“

“I can-“

“But you-“

You plant your hand over Sam’s mouth, because Michael and Lucifer are putting themselves back together, the door is almost fully shut. He can hate you all he wants, trying to pry you away and shaking his head. But right now, with how broken his soul still is, you’re stronger. 

And you can think of life. Bobby’s voice telling you that it’s gonna be alright, kiddo. Eating ice cream with Cas at midnight. The noise of poker being played in the kitchen and a mixtape blaring from a car stereo and life.

Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, hands and grins and teasing words and Gold. Holding you with it. Defending you and Sam with everything he has. Watching TV on the couch. Tossing Sam a beer then dropping at your feet. Taunting and fighting and carrying and crying and Life. 

Life.

The Silver flows into Sam’s purple, and you let out a soft, delicate breath of Life. 

He flickers, his purple rising up, up, up, and vanishes.

The door closes, and Michael and Lucifer put themselves back together.

But this time, when the black closes around you and veil is pulled over your eyes, Sam is safe.

———

The winter is gray. Heavy and fogged all around you, the sun hidden behind layers of gray and most of the light from your lamp hazy and misted.

You wait on the outskirts of the forest, watching the light in his cabin flicker. You’re not welcome inside. Not because he doesn’t love you, but the opposite. 

His father would kill you.

Drive a stake through your heart, and leave you to crumble to ash without a second glance. 

But Dean isn’t his father. 

And when he’d found out, he’d had the stake aimed for your heart, and you’d been ready to let him drive it through you. His hand on your waist and his eyes twisted with a pain you know all too well. If he had to kill you, it wasn’t as if you wouldn’t understand. You’d tried yourself, after you’d died and woken up hungry, but never been brave enough. 

Dean was brave enough. So you’d smiled at him and tipped your head back in surrender. This was what he had to do. What he had to be, not able to fit with what you’d been for longer than you can remember. 

Dean always fit with you. Slotted perfectly against your body in a way no one ever had. 

And maybe he’d felt it too. That this was about more than desire, and a need to never be alone again. It was just you and Dean, until he was in the ground and you lay down at his side, or something dragged you down to hell and he found his way back to your side.

He hadn’t killed you.

He’d dropped his brow between your breasts as the stake fell to the ground, shaken his head and murmured your name like a prayer. 

“Can’t. I- I can’t.” He’d sounded like he was pleading with you, and you combed your fingers through his hand. ��Help me, Princess, I can’t fuckin’ do it-“

“I know.” You’d whispered, clinging to him as you both sank to the ground. “We’ll figure it out, Dean. We’ll be okay.”

And something had tried to break through your skull like lightning. Another forest, and another man that was large in your arms but small under your hands. Telling him it was going to be okay. Wishing that it could be any other way but this one. 

Now, you just waited for him to find you. Return to your side, because he always did. Like the way the moon turned, and the spring flowers always bloomed—no matter how bleak and cold the winter got—Dean came back to you. 

He doesn’t sneak out. He just walks out the front door and into the town, letting out three long whistles that echo on the wind. 

The signal. 

It’s safe for you to follow. 

You try not to stumble and scramble over yourself. You’re supposed to be something delicate and dangerous and elegant. All the towns people already suspect you of being not quite what you seem, if only because you live in a stupid, too big castle with only the butler as company. It doesn’t help that your husband hasn’t been seen in decades—he shouldn’t have turned you, not when you were already so handy with a stake—and your lie of being your own granddaughter doesn’t seem to be selling. 

But it’s Dean. 

And he makes you a giggling, ditzy mess of a fool. His hands on your hips when he twirls you around in the air, his mouth when he kisses you and tastes like the expensive cinnamon his lawyer brother always brings back from his travels. His voice deep and teasing and musical. 

“Missed you, Princess.” He mutters. “Run away with me.”

You smile against his lips, and shake your head. “One day, you’re going to stop asking me that.”

“Never.” He nips on your lower lip, swaying you back and forth and grinning as you cling to his chest. “There needs be somewhere that we can go. Sammy’s been telling me about these pink beaches across the oceans. I know you love the ocean, sweetheart. We could go there.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “I can’t go in the sun, Dean.”

“Then we’ll go north. Heard about those places where it’s night all year. Heard people talk about the lights dancin’ in the sky.”

“The aurora borealis?”

“Yeah.” He grins down at you, pressing a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “We could go there. I’d follow you to hell, baby. You know that.”

You do. And you’d like to go where it’s always dark, and you could see Dean every day. 

But you can’t. 

And, when he starts to dance with you in the dark, another little bit of reality crumbles down. 

Dean holding you in the middle of a messy room, swaying you back and forth without music, talking about nothing and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.

You sort of feel like it. 

There’s never a moment in Dean’s arms—your brow on his shoulder and his hold on you so carefully—where you don’t feel like you could be the only thing in the world. Where you don’t feel like, as long as you have his Gold, nothing could ever possible hurt you again. 

You blink up at Dean, and this is another puppet. Another well-designed, near perfect replica of him.

But he’s not Golden. 

Michael and Lucifer have been at this for longer than you want to think about, and they still can’t make him Golden.

You don’t try to scream or run. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. The darkness is closing in as they realize that you’ve broken free again, and you press your face to Dean’s chest with a sigh. 

He’s warm. 

It’s still not real. 

And you’ll feel better soon, as soon as you forget.

———

This time, it hits you in the middle of the street. Cameras are flashing and Dean’s hand is slotted in yours as he pulls you through the crowd. People are screaming both your names—it’s strange, to hear them screamed in desire and admiration rather than fear—but you’re only looking at him, because you’ve only ever looked at Dean. 

The sweet, good-girl image your brand had cultivated for you had crumbled the moment he’d walked through the door. It didn’t work to have an untouchable sex bunny—wanted, but untouchable—when you were always seen being swept off your feet or sitting in Dean’s lap. 

But you didn’t care. You’ve never cared, as long as it was Dean. You’d never been this happy, before him. You didn’t think you could be happy after. It didn’t matter how many mink coats and fancy trips to Paris executives and businessmen offered you, or how many stories broke about you running away with the boy from the dust bowl and his pretty smile. 

You just wanted Dean.

And the cameras are flashing, and Dean’s glaring around as people try to touch you, but his hand is tight in yours and he’s not going let go. 

Then someone lunges to grab you—maybe just a rabid fan, maybe a member of the gang Dean had been tied up in, unhappy with you stealing their rising star—and when Dean spins you out of the way, your free hand flies up to grab his forearm. 

The hallway is dark and long, and there’s a sickening feeling in your gut as you follow Dean through the dark. He’s got the gun, and you’re barely in control, but it’s going to be okay. 

It has to be okay. 

You have to get through it. 

You always do.

And if you fall—when you fall, because there’s a monster shredded to nothing, all just as a message to you—Dean will make sure you’re safe. 

He always does. 

His fist flies, connecting with the man’s jaw, and they really are getting better. You’re lasting longer each time—you think, there’s no way to really know—and that’s exactly how Dean throws a punch.

But he’s not Golden. And it doesn’t matter how good Michael and Lucifer get. You always still figure it out. 

And it doesn’t matter how many times you figure it out.  

The darkness always closes in. 

And you’re going to be here forever.

———

He’s been staring at you for almost an hour, your head in his lap while he plays with your hair. Your attention mostly fixed on the TV in front of you, because he wanted to watch this movie. Dean’s the one who dragged you into the living room, muttering that you needed to watch this movie.

But you’ve been able to feel his attention. 

And when you roll your head to meet his gaze, he grins at you. Wide and charming and content, his thumb tracing over your mouth, his eyes narrowing when you open just enough for him to push it between your lips.

“Jesus, baby.” He moved back to stroking your hair, but you can hear the strain in his voice. “Bobby’s a room over-“

“No, he’s not.” You grab Dean’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, and he frowns at you. 

“He said-“

“He always tells you he’s home cause he wants grandkids, but don’t got not interest in seein’ how we make them.”

Dean pales slightly, his chuckle not the deep, rumbling sound you’re used to. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Old coot.”

You frown, reaching up to angle his face around, and he raises his brows. 

“What’re you doing, Princess?”

“You’re being weird.” You mumble, tipping his chin back. No cuts. “I know when something’s wrong, De, you-“

You and Dean in the dark. He’s Golden, watching you carefully as your fingers trace and press on his face, and he says something with a dry laugh and you frown. And your fingers linger, and he holds your hand, and the glow of the bathroom makes him look like he has a halo when he squeezes your hands, and tells you all the way down. 

Then you’re in an old saloon. And he’s not Golden anymore, but he’s holding you even closer. Your fingers trail over his chest, and something is wrong, but you’re in Dean’s arms so it can’t really be that bad.

“It’s, uh-“ Dean sighs, and you blink at him, your fingers curled on his jaw. “I’m not- I just wanna talk to you about something. Nobody’s dead. Or injured. It’s just-“ 

He coughs, and your hand hooks around his neck as you push yourself up, a horrible, rotting feeling brewing in your gut. 

“Dean Winchester, if you made another demon deal, I’m going to fucking kill you-“

“No, not that.” He laughs softly, helping adjust you in his lap. “Though I like the faith you’ve got in me, sweetheart-“

“It’s not about faith.” You grumble, glaring at his fingers. “I don’t- I can’t do that again, De. I can’t almost lose you, I can’t pretend it- You promised-“

“Hey,” Dean mutters your name, holding your face gently between his hands. “I’m here. I love you, and I’m not trying to go anywhere, Princess. Ever. All the way down, right?”

You sniff, nodding. “All the way down.”

“Good.” He gives you a tight smile, pulls you closer, and suddenly won’t look you in the eyes at all. Dean’s face drops to your shoulder, mumbling words you can’t make out, and you frown, combing your fingers through his hair. 

“I can’t understand you, baby.” You mutter, and he lets out a slow breath, leaning back again.

“You know how Sammy and Bobby are always on our asses about bein’ so gross. And they, uh-“ He clears his throat again, frowning intently at your boobs. “They joke. About how we should have kids. And, y’know. Fully settle. Not just do off hunts, quit like they did. You could focus on writing or, uh- Music. And we’d be living the honest way boring people do, but-“

“Dean.” You whisper, ducking down slightly to meet his gaze, and he looks so nervous. Like he isn’t the only person in the universe you’d ever want to do this with. “Do you want to retire and start a family?”

He gives you a small nod, and you beam at him, ready to tell him yes. Always. It’s all the way down, Dean, because I-

Dean on his knees, and you’re promising not to leave. And he’s Golden, and the Spiderweb sings as he holds you so close, and you want to tell him. Some small part of you always wants to tell him. But you can’t.

The Spiderweb. It’s not inside of you. 

And Dean’s not Golden. Not yours. 

But there’s another fucking moment. Where he looks Golden. Where he shifts and changes and looks like someone’s put him through a meat grinder, and there’s nothing but longing in his eyes, and you’re going to scream because it’s not real.

But it looks so fucking close to it. That’s your Dean. And you try to lean in to kiss him, taste him, hold him. But then he’s gone again.  

“It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Dean—fake Dean—mutters your name, his head dropping back to your shoulder. “I’d just- I can never imagine it with anyone but you. Could never imagine this,” he takes your hand, twisting the wedding ring on your finger—you have a wedding ring, and when you look at Dean’s hand he has one too, and oh God—and presses a gentle kiss to your neck. “Either. Love you, Princess. And if you don’t want it at all-“

“I want it.” You whisper, and the darkness comes too fast. 

You shouldn’t want it to linger. But this is a Dean who’s never seen Hell. A world where you’ve never lost him, and the future doesn’t have a rope around your neck and wrists. Where you get to always have Dean.

“You’re the only one, too.” You whisper, lips ghosting over his. “Just you, De.”

He grins, tugging you slightly forward into a deep, long, full kiss, and you don’t try to pull away as the darkness folds around you. He doesn’t taste like cinnamon, and he’s not Gold. But it’s still Dean. And he’s happy here, and when you let your eyes flutter shut, you can see it. 

A world where he’s always happy, always yours, and you somehow get to be his. 

God never comes for you. You have that sweet, easy life he’s always mockingly called apple pie, but then you make him one for his birthday and he picks you up and spins you around. There’s a little boy with his eyes, but there’s never anything broken or hollow inside of them. A little girl with your hair, and Bobby teaches Dean how to do braids. And you die not in blood or fire, but on a porch as the sun sets, your head resting easily on Dean’s shoulder. 

You keep your lips pressed to Dean’s, as he fades away. 

And you can, really, truly, almost fucking see it.

———

He’s knocking on your window again. 

You don’t know how he always manages to do it. Sneak past the dogs onto your family grounds, getting up the hill without being spotted, climbing the tree without damaging a single branch or falling. It had been more plausible when he’d been a scrawny ten-year-old boy, clambering up to your windowsill and grinning at you through the glass, ready to show off his broken nose. 

You’d scrambled to open the window, that night. Grabbed his face and angled it to check for further damage, all while he laughed and told you he was fine. That you should’ve seen the other guy, that his dad said it was a battle scar, and he should wield it with pride. 

“You’re gonna get hurt, De.” You’d whispered, and he’d shrugged.

“Nah. And I’m out here learning how to protect you, Princess. One day I’m gonna be strong enough to break you out. Then you’ll see.”

You’d sighed, but let it go. He’d been gone for a month, and you didn’t want to spend your time fighting. You’d wanted to make him sit with you on the floor while you mapped out all the family dynamics for him, and he asked questions. Then he’d told you about the last movie he and his little brother had watched, or the last hunt his dad had gone on. 

And the years had passed, and he always talked about breaking you out, but you didn’t hold your breath. You’d both known what the other was, from the first moment in the church, all those years ago. 

You’d felt something staring at you, and but you’d been inside, so it hadn’t been the Sky. Then you’d turned, and there had been a boy grinning at you from the very back of the pews. He’d been beautiful. The kind of beautiful you didn’t know boys could be. 

He hadn’t smiled like the boys you knew, either. His smile had been all teeth and unruly emotion. 

You might have fallen for him there. Or just right after, when he’d pulled you off to the side while the congregation drifted apart. 

“I’m Dean.” He’d said bluntly, staring at you like you were a star, and you’d flushed. “You’re pretty.”

“You- You too. I mean- Thank you.” You’d swallowed, trying to clear the dizzying feeling from your body. “I have to go.”

“Wait!” He’d caught your hand before you could run away. “You gotta tell me your name-“

“My family doesn’t want me talking to people.” You blurted, and he’d frowned at you.

“That’s mean. Do you at least got siblings?”

“Yeah, but they don’t like talking to me either.”

“That sucks. I’ve got a brother, but he loves talkin’ to me. It’s all he does.” Dean had paused for a second, and you could’ve tried to run again, but you didn’t want to.

You’d wanted to stay with this strange boy, telling you more about himself than you deserved to know. 

“My dad doesn’t like talkin’ to me.” He’d offered softly. “He doesn’t like talkin’ at all, since my mom died.”

“Oh.” You’d mumbled, and no one had noticed you were gone yet, so you’d taken a step closer. Back to Dean. “How’d she die?”

He’d opened his mouth, then closed it with a frown. “I’m not supposed to say.”

“Okay.” 

He’d blinked at you. “Okay?”

You’d nodded, and despite everything, held his gaze and taken another step closer. “I understand.”

He’d chuckled. “I dunno-“

“I have things I’m not supposed to tell people either.”

Dean had raised his brows, taken his own, slow step, and you’d known. He could feel it too. The gravity that made you ready to risk something horrible, just to stay next to him a little longer. 

“I- I’ll tell you.” You’d whispered. “If you tell me.”

He’d nodded, and that had been it. 

Dean knows that your family is insane. You’d cried in his arms when they’d done the ritual, and you’d found out that it was you. You were the one he wanted. And you knew about his dad, and all the monsters, and how he was always sorta worried Sammy was gonna leave him. 

You had each other. He came by once a month, twice if you were lucky. Then he left again because he couldn’t linger too long or his dad would come looking, and it would end in disaster. 

But he always came back. And you always counted down the seconds until he was knocking on the window—no longer the scrawny boy, but a broader, taller man that really should’ve fallen out of the tree by now—and you could see his handsome, stupid smile again. 

“Hey, Princess- Oof-“

You throw yourself into his arms then moment he’s through the window, your face burying in his neck, and his arms wrap around you in a second. 

“Missed you,” you mumble against his skin, and he sighs, squeezing your body once. 

You squeeze him back, three times—everything is fine, because you love him and he’s here—and he relaxes slightly, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. 

“Missed you too, Princess.” He leans back to look at you, and you know he’s looking for visible damage. Evidence that the month has been long. Maybe a bruising hand on your throat from someone who crossed a line, or the bones of your ribs proving that they’re only keeping you alive, and nothing more.

You do the same for him, your hands running under his shirt to check for new scars or bruises. You know he likes to throw himself in the line of fire and act like nothing’s wrong, only to curl up with his head in your lap and whine like a baby as you fix the stitches his little brother’s shaking hands weren’t able to get right. 

And when he doesn’t find anything, he gives you a gentle smile, and your fingers curl in his shirt as you tug him down into a long, slow kiss. Dean almost folds over you, his tongue tracing your lips and a slow moan of your name echoing down your throat, and you melt as his arm wraps around you to pull you impossibly closer. 

It’s still so new and delicate. The kissing. It had been eleven years of knowing him, and he’s always slept in your bed when you could get away with it, and hugged you a little tighter than he needed to, but he was also a little older. And he travelled the country, and spent nights in cities with women who wouldn’t be as complicated as you were. Who could match him and all his teasing and… experience. 

You’d always tried not to think about it, when he was gone. If there was someone else touching him when he was away. If he ever thought of you the same way you dreamed of him, whispered your name into the dark the way you did his.

But then he’d kissed you for the first time, on a humid, June night. He’d been there for your help with a case—an easy excuse for him to see you, as you spent most of your lonely days in the family library, filled with lore books and secretly hoping Dean would come back and you’d be able to offer him something—and you’d rolled your eyes and told him it was a moroi.

He’d stared at you for a second, then kissed you like he was going to die if he didn’t. Touched you like he’d been afraid you’d vanish.

He didn’t kiss anyone else like that. And it didn’t really matter if he did. 

You were the one he came back to. The one he held in the dark, and told all his problems, and made promises you both knew he couldn’t keep.

You thought you both knew. 

But Dean presses a kiss to the back of your hand and moves to the door. Locks it and dragged a chair to block it, before turning back to you with a determined expression. 

“Ready?”

You blink at him. “Ready?”

“We’re going.” He mutters, fumbling with something in his jeans, and- 

“Dean.” You hiss. “I told you not to bring guns-“

“Sorry, baby, but I’m not taking risks.” He walks over to your window, frowning at the drop to the ground. “I’m gonna go out first, then you gotta jump.”

“I am not jumping-“

“I’ll catch you-“

“Dean.” You grab his hand, and he looks a little feral when his eyes meet yours. 

Desperate.

Afraid. 

“What’s wrong?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing. We’re just getting you out of here-“

You shake your head. “There’s nowhere we can run they won’t find us-“

He snorts. “Yeah, there is. I got an uncle in South Dakota. We’ll stay there until we’re sure it’s safe.”

“And then? He’s watching me, De, you know he is-“

“Yeah, but he’s not fuckin’ taking you.” Dean glares into the dark, his voice the rough one he uses when he tells you to roll over or get on the bed, but with a sharper edge. 

Something’s wrong. You know it is. You know Dean.

“Can you please talk to me?” You take a step forward, and his gaze softens on yours. “Before I jump out a window?”

He lets out a long, slow breath, put pulls you into his arms, his face planting on the top of your head and his grip almost crushing. You don’t mind. He can hold you until the Sky falls, or the world crumbles, and you both go down together. 

“Sammy left.” He grunts, a tight strain in his voice and you sigh, squeezing him once. 

He squeezes you back twice, not okay, and you press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“I- I can’t do it anymore, Princess. Dad’s won’t even fuckin’ look at me anymore, and I- I’m tired. I’m so goddamn tired, but I just- I need you, baby.” He’s falling over you, and he’s heavy, but it’s not hard to hold him. He always holds you. “I love you, and I- I can’t do this without you. Please.”

I need you, baby. 

A dark room, Dean’s hands in yours, and his face worn with exhaustion, but still handsome. Still the only thing you’ve ever wanted. You love him. And you can’t tell him that, but when he kisses you, it’s so important that he can feel it. That he knows you’re trying to crawl into him, and you never want to leave his arms. 

Leave his Gold. Go anywhere it can’t touch you. 

Go anywhere Dean can’t mutter your name, and say, “I need you, baby.”

You choke on a strangled noise, and cling to Dean as if he’s real. He’s not. None of this is, and the darkness is coming again. 

I need you, baby. A dark room, and street curb, and a saloon. I need you, baby. Dean turning Gold in this prison and being yanked away and I need you, baby. I love you, baby. Baby. On a beach and in a normal life and in a dark room, baby-

“Shit,” he grabs your face between his hands, wiping the tears away with a pained frantic expression. “Fuck- Don’t cry, Princess- what-“

“Do you think it’s going to get better?” You whisper, searching his face for an answer you know you won’t find. “That I- I don’t know. Maybe there’s a life where this is better?”

Dean frowns, his thumb petting down the bridge of your nose, and you close your eyes. You just want to feel him.

Even if he’s not real, you still want to feel him. 

“It’s never easy.” He mutters, and another sob shakes your body as you lean into his touch. “But I got you. And I’m good, long as it’s you and me. All the way down, right?”

You can’t breathe. That’s no fucking cruel, and you don’t know how Lucifer and Michael found out about that, but it’s like one of the old Hell’s Assassin’s blades being driven right into your gut. 

It’s coming.

And it’s going to hurt until you’re wiped clean, and another decade starts anew. 

You still nod into Dean’s hands, and let out a soft, slow breath. 

“All the way down.”

———

He’s grinning at you. 

He’s so bad at hiding it, you worry that one day someone is going to see. It’s shocking they haven’t. Every time you so much as speak—or sigh, or trip, or breathe—Dean grins, and you have to give him a stern look. You’d caught it the very first time you’d met him, when he’d appeared at your door and informed you that the sweet old man who’d been your guard since you were eight was gone, and he was the replacement.

You’d crossed your arms over your chest. “You don’t look as strong as Bobby.”

“I’m stronger.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d frowned. 

“Bobby never smiled.”

“I’m not Bobby.” He’d shrugged. “And he told me you’d try to convince me to let you do crazy shit, and I’d have to say no. So no trying to trick me, Princess.”

“I would never-“

“He said you’d say that, too.”

You’d scowled, and in that moment, you hadn’t been sure if you wanted to punch him, or throw yourself into his arms. He’d been prettier Bobby—who still visited you, and just rolled his eyes when you’d told him as much—and maybe, when you’d tilted your head, prettier than everyone. Nobody had ever spoken to you like that, but he did, and you’d wanted him to talk to you forever. No amount of bared teeth or big words had phased him, because he’d just keep grinning at you and calling you Princess—which was a title, but not the way he said it—and it melted something in you,

And he was stronger than Bobby.

 You know—very, very well—just how strong Dean is.

It’s dangerous. Almost unbelievably reckless and—in the words of Ellen when she caught Dean in your room—impossibly stupid for you. 

But Dean makes you stupid. He grins at you, and years of training yourself to be strong and smart—calculating and untouchable and clever so that nothing hurts you more than it has to—wash away. You giggle for him. You fold yourself over his body and let him carry you to bed. Listen to all his ramblings about his horse, read him stories because he doesn’t really care for them, but he says he likes your voice. You let him sleep in your bed, even though you’d never even let Jo in your fucking room after dark. 

And it’s not a smart thing to be stupid about. You can’t be his. You’re promised. Betrothed. Made only to marry some emperor, like a lamb that has to dance and smile and learn to lie. 

But it’s Dean. And no one else could possible turn you into someone so pathetic. 

Nobody else could make you like how pathetic you become.

And there’s a fear in you—all the fucking time—that someday, someone is going to see. He’s gotten away with it because everyone is always looking at you. But you only ever look at Dean. And one day someone is going to follow your gaze, see Dean grinning at you, and it’s all going to fall apart. 

You don’t think it will be a deal breaker, for the Emperor. You were born for him. But there are two worlds. One where you and Dean are never caught, and he comes with you, and you have him forever. 

And one where someone follows your gaze, and you lose him forever. 

It would be smart to stop looking at him. 

But you don’t know how. 

“I hear it’ll be warm tonight, Princess.” Dean had hummed that afternoon, standing against the wall as you read in a hidden corner of the library. “You have any intentions to go for a ride?”

Your gaze had shot up, and he’s just been grinning at you. Brows raised slightly, a level of smugness on his face that isn’t appropriate for someone baiting death every moment he spends in your orbit. 

“I don’t ride at night, Winchester.” You’d forced your attention back down to your book, and Dean had just hummed.

“I think I could show you how.”

It had been impossible not to flush, just from his tone. And you’d wet your lips and shift in your chair, making a desperate attempt to appear casual to any passerby, but Dean still knew. He always knew. 

Asshole. 

“You have any plans for the night, Winchester?” You’d sounded breathless, and prayed no one could hear you.

“There’s a hot springs that my brother enjoys.” Dean’s voice had been so fucking casual, and your grip on the book had tightened. “I plan to visit it myself, see if it is worth the praise.”

Hot springs. 

You know where that is. And you don’t think Dean’s diplomat of a brother has ever even heard of it. You’re the one who found it, when you and Jo were kids. The only other people who knew about it were Bobby and Ellen, and they’d never turn you over. 

Another stupid thing to do.

Another risk you’d taken, for Dean. 

Always for Dean. 

Your eyes find him in the shadows—you think you could find him if you were both swimming in the bottom of the ocean—and he grins at you. 

So you run to him.

You always run to him, and another fear that festers just to the right of your head is that one day something will rip him from your side. You’ll scream his name and run to him, and then you’ll lose him forever. 

But in this moment, at least, you have him. And you can’t be his, but you’ll never be yours unless you have him with you. 

He sweeps you into his arms, that handsome grin never one wavering, and spins you around before pulling you down into a long, deep kiss. 

“Missed me, Princess?”

Dean, leaning against a doorway, grinning at you. His eyes widen as your legs give out, and he catches you and carries you to the bed. 

Dean mutters your name, and you blink at him, shaking your head. “You alright, sweetheart-“

“Yeah.” You smile at him, propping your chin on his chest, and there’s a stabbing pain through your skull but you’re okay. “You’re here.”

That softens him. Mostly. 

Although the care with which he handles you is normal. His hand on your waist holding you like he could shatter you, and his gaze on yours like he’s not sure you’re real. His thumb runs down the bridge of your nose and you make a soft, happy noise, your eyes closing in content. 

“Wish you didn’t have to get here by yourself.” He mutters. “It’s dark out, baby, could be dangerous-“

“Like you wouldn’t launch a manhunt if I was two minutes late.”

He sighs, and you open your eyes to see him watching you with an unguarded affection and worry.

Something changes. It’s like the Sun falls right into Dean’s chest, and he looks like he’s been to war. Blood on his skin and in his hair, face swollen from beating. And something in him glowing and Golden, his expression filled with such despair it cleaves you open, and-

It’s gone.

You stand on your toes, wrapping your arms around his torso, and whisper against his lips. He always protects you. The least you can do is help him calm down. 

“I ate before I left,” you murmur. “Fucking Ketch was on night duty, so nobody even saw me leave. Jo’s ready to help me get back in. And,” you guide his hand to your thigh, and his eyes widen. “I wasn’t unarmed, De. I’m fine.”

He relaxes slightly at the feeling of your knife, under your sleeping gown. The knife he gave you. 

Frowning at you on the street, holding out the knife for you to take. Rolling his eyes when you tease him and relaxing when you take it, before climbing into his car.

“Hey,” Dean’s holding your jaw with one hand, his frown deep as another rush of pain almost splits your body. “Where do you keep going, baby? Do I need to get you-“

“No.” You bury your face into the crook of his neck, and he presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Just need you, De.”

He grunts, holding you a little tighter, and sometimes you worry he think it’s a lie. 

It’s not. 

It might be the only thing you know for sure. 

That when he pulls of his shirt and you remove your undergarments—you’re not allowed to shed your gown, because Dean is a pretty dumbass who’s very worried about your modesty for someone who’s about to hold you in his lap until you moan—this is all you could ever, possibly need. 

Dean helping you into the water and pulling you into his arms, helping you straddle his thigh before kissing your neck and grinning at you through the steam when he pinches your side, and your squeak echoes though the forest. You push off his chest with a glare, and he catches your hand before you can drift too far away, but you squirm away. And he groans, but gives chase, and you can’t stop smiling but you don’t care. You try to climb out, but his arms wrap around your stomach, and he pulls you back down into the water.

You and Dean, under the stars and sitting at the edge of the pool. He gives you a look of disbelief when you shove him in, but it quickly turns to a grin. It’s all the warning you get before you’re falling too. 

The pain is getting worse. And it’s not as if you’ve never been in pain—strange, paralyzing nightmare and ghost of a burn over your wrists—but this is different. Almost unbearable. 

Yet you’re not collapsing. It’s as if your body knows exactly how to handle this. When Dean helps you out of the water, wraps you in a warm cloth, it slams into you again—Dean wrapping you in his jacket under the wet, cold water, muttering your name as he guides you inside—but your knees don’t give out. When he says Princess it echoes into the sky, and you turn into a girl, glaring at him in the dark of the car, trying to pretend you’re not already filled with an iridescent light for him. When he kisses your brow, the same moment flashes through your mind a million times with a feeling like your blood is on fire, but you only sigh and hold him a little tighter.

You’re realizing slowly, this time. 

This isn’t your life. Isn’t your world. Isn’t your Dean. 

But you want to stay here. Where there’s a chance you could keep him, and that he might be happy. That, even if Dean is just as willing to bleed for you as you are for him, you can play it carefully so he doesn’t. 

He isn’t, now. When you’re not there to make things harder for him. And you don’t want to think about him having someone else who hugs him like this, who he sways in the dark. You want him to be happy, and you’re never going to escape this place, but you don’t need to think about it. 

It just makes you cry, and Dean hold you tighter—not Dean, it’s not your Dean and it’s never going to be your Dean again—as the darkness closes it. 

This version of Dean—maybe the closest to the real one, always grinning and covered in scars but so strong, and maybe just as stupid as you are, because he’d never disobeyed an order from the King’s Guard until you asked him to—isn’t going to last.

But you’re still going to hold him.

All the way down. 

———

You can hear him. 

On the wind, blooming with the flowers and somewhere in the water, in between all the sparks of the fire, you can hear Dean calling your name. 

But it’s not the Dean that’s in front of you.

That Dean has always said your name like it’s a name. Filled with fondness and adoration, but a name. His voice on the wind is saying it like it’s more than it’s a prayer. Like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said. Will ever say.

And the Dean in front of you has never called for you like that. Like he’s terrified and going out of his mind with it. Like if you don’t answer, the whole world is going to fall apart. 

But your world has already fallen apart.

Because you know. You’re not sure how, this time, but you know. This isn’t real. The Dean in front of you isn’t your Dean. There are no scars littering his body, no tattoo on his chest. He isn’t braced for any sort of fight, doesn’t scan his surroundings like he thinks they’re going to attack him, and his nose is straight, never broken from a fight. 

There are no fights, here. It’s all plenty. Crystal water and fruit you can pick at will. The air is always clear, and the sun is always shining, and there’s nothing to hide from in the dark, because there is no dark. Even the shadows shimmer, and you never need to so much as close your eyes to sleep. 

So this Dean has never slept, but not because of terror or need. But that means he’s never wrapped himself around you, and you’ve never sobbed into his arms. 

And you’ve never seen him look at you like he’s not sure you’re his. Like you’re haunting him. 

This Dean kisses you, and it’s consuming and perfect but there’s nothing about it that’s Dean. No trying to pick you up and maybe mold you into his chest. No hands checking that you’re real and trying to leave burning marks on your skin. He doesn’t look at you like he thinks you’re going to vanish.

Doesn’t say your name like he’s lost you before. 

That’s how the voice calls for you. Like he’s pleading for something he knows is already gone. He sounds lost, and in pain, and you miss him. 

It might be the worst part of this. How you always realize, and then you just miss Dean. 

Not just his Gold, or every memory of him that you had to be bitten and bloodied to earn. You miss him. His glowering and grumbling and shuffling around until you pay attention to him. You miss him driving too fast because he thinks he’s always out of time, and you miss him talking to in the dead of night because he’s not sure there’s going to be a morning. 

Here, in this paradise, the sky is always hanging over your head. And this Dean never tries to shield you from it, because he doesn’t know how. 

And you wish your Dean didn’t know how. But any Dean that’s sort of yours—far from perfect, but still the best thing in a horrible and beautiful world—does. Just like you always run to him, and worry about him, and pretend there won’t be consequences just to see him smile again. 

Dean’s not Dean if he’s not shielding you. If his hands aren’t calloused, but soft when they touch your skin. 

You’re not you if you’re not trying to get back to him. If you’re not thinking about him. 

Dreaming about him. 

In paradise, you don’t dream at all. 

And you miss that too. 

The Dean on the wind shouts for you again, and you want to go home, so you scream back. The guttural noise that leaves your throat is barely even human, and you can’t breathe, and this perfect Dean is just staring at you, because he’s never seen you fall apart. Then the Dean—the one that sounds so pained—roars for you again, and it’s making the Spiderweb bloom, casting light all around the cavity of your chest and the deepest, most rotten parts of you until the Silver sparks, rears its head. And starts to grow. Spreading out and out and up, and you’re everything. The desperate beauty of every flower, the joy of the sunlight, shining through a stained-glass window, the pure fear of a brand-new star, unsure what it’s supposed to do but burn.

You’re everything, but you’re really just yours, because Dean is calling for you. 

Dean, your Dean, is calling for you.

So you have to move for him.

———

It’s bright. 

It’s so fucking bright.

You take a stuttering, gasping breath of air, and it’s so hot and bright.

Loud, as well. 

It’s loud.

The sounds of a city. Of people, screaming and gasping and shouting in languages you don’t understand. But you’re not lying on pavement, and you’re not really sure this is real, but people never screamed at you like that, in Lucifer and Michael’s little games. 

You push to your feet, rubbing your eyes and forcing yourself to ignoring the sheer fucking pain in your body. It’s like you were dipped in lava then frozen for a hundred years. Your throat is dry, your stomach panging with hunger, and the Silver rushing right under the surface. 

The Silver. 

You can feel the Silver. 

And when your eyes open, you’re in the middle of a city. It seems to be a desert, given the types of  plants and heat. It’s not American—with a strange combination of old looking, crumbling white brick and more modern towers—but that’s not what matters. 

What matters is the people. Staring at you on the sidewalks and from windows, each one almost neon with color, but all of them bleeding together and swirling around like a kaleidoscope.

Souls.

You’re free.

A choked sound leaves your throat, and you’re wearing the same things you fell into the cage with—muddied and covered in grime—but you’re fucking free. You don’t know how, or how long you were trapped there, but you’re free. 

You tilt back you head to scream—half in joy, half in pain—and it rips through the air of the city, the whole world stuttering to a brief halt as it echoes into the sky. 

The Sky.

God. 

You open your eyes, head still titled back, and he’s watching you. Just as he always has. Your hand rises to your face—maybe to block the light, maybe to hide from him—and it’s covered in something metallic. Shimmering and made of light and shadow, dripping off your fingers and falling into the earth.

The earth.

Whenever you are, it’s a city. But you were right. 

You’re not on concrete. 

Spreading from when you stand, as if you’re not in the desert at all, is life. 

Grass shimmering with morning dew, flowers blooming and a snake slithering over your feet, vines stretching onto some of the buildings and a hundred butterflies, flying through the air in a hurricane of color. 

You’re free. The Silver isn’t trying to break out of your body, and you’re fucking free.

But you look up at God, and you’re never really free. 

But you can go back to Dean. Touch him. Hold him, and see all his Gold for more than a broken second.

So you’re yours. And Dean’s.

That’s all that matters. 

So you’re free. 

End Note: Season six, remix! Here we go! Also, in case you didn't see my "announcement," I'm offering early access to new chapters on Ko-fi! You can find the link in my bio page if you want it, but if not, I love and appreciate you no matter what. Thank you for reading, and see you next week!

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney @funkenniffler

[bbina]

when chenle said that "you'll see" after you asked where you two were going after he had impulsively stated that he apparently had plans that you weren't aware about til then, you didn't expect that he'd take you the the the mall

in cheongdamdong to be exact. yes, that cheongdamdong luxury fashion street

he takes you inside the nearest boutique where he parked his car at and immediately got into action. the sales associates greet him politely while you walk behind him, clearly looking out of place

it's not all the time you could walk in these type of stores. you aren't the target tax bracket after all

"why are we here?!" you hushed, tugging on chenle's sleeve as he inspects the rows of dresses in front of him

chenle shoos your hand off as he leads you to another rack of dresses, ball gowns and the like

"dress shopping. can't have you looking like you didn't just singlehandedly carry the JDI partnership on your back" he says casually, taking out a dress that initially caught his eye

all of a sudden, chenle starts grabbing dresses left to right and handing every dress to you

"try those on. i'll be waiting by the couch" chenle says, walking away before you can even say anything. "we don't have all day so chop chop" he claps from the comfy seats

you look between him and the heavy dresses in pure disbelief

is he actually fucking serious right now

"please assist her" chenle calls over a sales associate, pointing over to your direction. the sales associate immediately comes running to your help, guiding you to the fitting rooms while you can only shoot glares over your shoulder to chenle who makes himself comfortable on the couch provided by the boutique

the associate closes the velvet curtains for you as you stare at the dresses hung up on the rack. a navy blue, a red and a green. all had slightly different designs, lengths and necklines

you didn't really want to touch it because you caught one of the price tags on one of the dresses and your eyes almost popped out of their sockets seeing the price

probably including tax, you'd say the prices of these damn dresses could pay three months of rent

you mentally curse chenle out for dragging you into this. you could've bought a dress at zara if that meant you'd only show up for company morale for all you care! but no. he just had to bring you to a luxury boutique that he probably knows the manager of since he knew his way around here

with a heavy sigh, you reluctantly try the dresses on

each dress you tried on just didn't feel like you. it was like you were looking at a different version of yourself and you didn't like it one bit. so you carefully return the dresses to their respective hangers and get out of the fitting room. handing back the dresses to the sales associate waiting for you

"how were the dresses, ma'am?" they ask politely

you give them a small smile. "not really my style if i'm being honest"

you two walk back to chenle who was now sprawled out like he owned the place. he looks up when he hears footsteps coming and he was a little disappointed that you didn't go out wearing one of the dresses he picked out

"what's wrong?" chenle sits up, looking between you and the sales associate

you stand awkwardly as you try to come up with some bullshit lie that the dresses didn't fit or some shit. anything that could make you two leave out of this boutique

"uh.. they didn't look.. flattering on me" you lie, wincing that from the get go it didn't sound convincing at all

"okay? so pick another one then?" chenle says like it was the most obvious thing in the world. it was

"but what if i pick the wrong dress?"

"you won't"

"..i don't know the prices to these dresses so i can't just blindly choose one"

"you don't have to know the price because i'm clearly paying for it"

you look at the sales associate for help but then you hear chenle clicking his tongue in annoyance

"jesus christ.." you hear him mutter, running a hand over his face. he knows you were just saying shit so you could get out of the situation but he isn't going to let that happen

wow, he had the nerve to start getting irritated when he was the one who dragged you here, you thought to yourself

chenle then turns to the sales associate, "bring out whatever you have at the back that would suit her best. i don't care about the price just make her look like she's going to overtake my company in due time" he says

your jaw drops in absolute shock at his words

"boss–"

"you're going to walk in that party with me. at least look the part while you're at it" chenle says flatly, "now go follow the sales associate. i'm not hearing any objections" he waves you off, diverting his attention back to his phone

since you couldn't escape this hell, you drag yourself back to the fitting room where the same sales associate was waiting at. they hold out a dress that was still in a garment bag. based from how it's stored, you could say that it wasn't even up for display and you had to ask for it specifically

just like what chenle had done

the sales associate guides you inside the fitting room once more. they place the said garment bag on the rack and unzip it slowly to reveal a midnight blue evening gown

"this one isn't up for display actually. you're probably the first one to try it" the sales associate says, taking the gown out of the garment bag. "it has a slit and a sweetheart neckline"

the sales associate then helps you get in the dress. fixing everything til you looked presentable. when she zips the back, you take a look at yourself in front of the mirror

your eyes trail over the dress. it was beautiful

"wow.." you say in awe, looking at yourself in the mirror

"i know. i'd buy this dress if i could afford it" they laugh softly. "let's get you out of here so we can show your boyfriend—"

"he's not my boyfriend!" you correct them almost immediately, "he's my boss at the company i work at.."

"oh! my apologies, ma'am!" they apologize, "i've never encountered a boss who would personally buy their employees dresses like these.. sorry for making that assumption"

you feel your cheeks heat up. what the fuck

"it's okay" you laugh awkwardly. inside you just wanted to disappear

awkward...

chenle on the other hand, was starting to get bored. he doesn't know how long he has been waiting for you but he can assume he's been here for a while. he's been constantly looking up from where he's at just in case you could walk out at any moment

so much that he ended up ringing a clutch and some necklace he found that was on display after he took a whole lap around the boutique just to keep himself entertained

he was about to ask a sales associate to ask if you were done but then you walk out of the fitting room wearing the dress he had asked for

he swore he could've had whiplash when you walked out looking like that

chenle momentarily forgets to breathe and blink. he just stood there in pure shock and in.. awe?

the dress hugged you perfectly in the right areas. despite the sweetheart neckline, it wasn't too revealing. it shows the perfect amount of skin. the color making your skin pop that you almost look like you were glowing

that's the dress, chenle thinks to himself

"so... uh boss... what do you think?" you ask, slowly doing a little twirl in front of him while you were basically holding in your breath. you can't just admittedly say out loud that you want this like this is the one

"wow.." chenle breathes out

you start to feel self conscious with the way he was staring at you for too long for your liking. you do a double take on yourself. was it too much? was it too revealing? was it too expensive that even the likes of zhong chenle can't afford it?

so many thoughts were going through your head as you continue to feel his stare

"is it too much? i can change back to the other dresses if you want. it's probably cheaper and—"

"no. this is the one" he turns to the sales associate who was assisting you the entire time. "we'll take this one please. thank you– oh and can we add the matching pair of heels that would go with this dress?" he pauses, then turns back to you. "what shoe size you wear?"

"are you serious?!"

"hurry up and tell me"

with a defeated sigh, you mumble a quick "36.5"

the sales associate nods and runs back to where the shoes were at leaving you and chenle

you stand awkwardly again as you fiddle with the hem of the dress, unable to look at chenle in the eye at the moment

"be honest boss.. is it too much...?" you ask quietly

chenle fights the urge to stare at you again. reminding himself to keep professional

"not enough actually" he says casually

you grumble, crossing your arms

"liar. this is way too much. how can i even afford all of this?! with my next 6 paychecks from you?"

chenle laughs, "i'm paying. stupid" he walks over and flicks your forehead lightly. "besides, you're attending this party with me. that means you're going to representing me and the company so if anything i'm just making sure we both look good" he says with a hint of pride in his voice

"now go change so they can pack that up along with your other things" he shoos you again as he walks to the register where they start to ring your items up

you walk back to the fitting room to remove the dress, muttering complaints under your breath. you actually can't believe him right now. that man just bought you an entire outfit just because you outright admitted that you don't have an outfit for the occasion

by the time you finished changing back to your clothes from earlier, you catch chenle signing the last receipts like it was just one of those papers you'd ask him to sign for a department before the sales associate hands him the paper bags

"thank you so much sir zhong! we hope you'll be happy with your purchase" the sales associates muses, watching you walk up to chenle

chenle smiles politely and leaves their boutique with you in tow

you two haven't uttered a word together after that little conversation before you changed your clothes. you were still a little stunned that chenle probably dropped bags for this one outfit with no complaints

"you didn't have to do all that.." you say, getting in the car after he puts the paper bags in the trunk

chenle makes a face when he gets inside the driver's seat. starting the car

"yeah but i wanted to" he shrugs, swiftly getting onto the main road, driving back to the office

you purse your lips, trying to think of something to talk about. you want to thank him for buying you the outfit but you don't really know how to articulate your thoughts properly without sounding too awkward and too... weird

"...thanks, boss" you murmur, looking out the window. literally doing anything you can to keep your mind off of things. things such as chenle suspiciously buying you an expensive ass outfit

chenle steals a glance at your direction. smiling ever so slightly to himself

"any time"

its quiet in the car after that. just the soft sound of the a/c and the smooth engine rumbling

though you're not too sure why it feels significantly warm inside the car or maybe its your cheeks heating up

BUSINESS PROPOSAL ᝰ.ᐟ . . . LOOK THE PART

✎ . . . things aren't going as planned the way you thought it was going to be. especially the part where you find yourself falling in love with your own boss– which was definitely not part of the agreed proposal.

[ PREV / NEXT ]

✎ AUTHORS NOTE . . . 3 chapters left to this arc and i am CHEERING so loud rn

✎ TAGLIST . . . @mrkleelvr @jenodigital @https-dandelion @rik0shii @spacejip @yyangj3lly @multifandomania @taroddori @222brainrot @amouriu @defzcl @va1entinaa @carelessshootanonymous @onlywonb @flaminghotyourmom @do-you-remember-summer-127 @grimlinshere @yayayaiheardyouthefirsttime @hoeingthefuckup @meltinghershey @alwayswook @dutifullyannoyingstrawberrie @dudekiss3r @sibwol @mey-archive @morklee02 @httpsxnox @firydst @yuyita-rosier @ayukas @cottonjaems @monomya @neocults26 @greenyweirdo @cinneorolls @morkleesgirl @jising-jisang-jisung @hsified @kpopwh0r3 @kswluvrr @bbykaixx @90slovejeno @barkbarkseungmin @dearmynayeon

[daughterofheartshaven]

It (was) My Birthday!

So I meant to post this on my actual birthday (which was was like two weeks ago at this point) but uh it wasn't done in time and then I got distracted and anyway you're getting this now.

Anyway, I just survived another year! Yippee! On my birthday I often think of the following quote from Babylon 5's season 4 opener:

It was the year of rebirth, the year of great sadness, the year of pain, and the year of joy

Because (for me at least) that's kind of my life. In this last year alone, I:

graduated college

got an adult job for the first time

started estrogen

got vaguely suicidal for the first time since COVID

worked out I have even more neurological disabilities

officiated a wedding

oh yeah and got Tumblr

And like those are all experiences that will stick with me for a long time and... if you'd told me beforehand that getting Tumblr was going to effect my life as much if not more than taking estrogen, I... I'm not sure I would have believed you.

But it has, because I have met the most wonderful people here. I have a fantastic group of mutuals and I wanna take a moment, for my birthday, to celebrate some of them.

First of all, a big shout out to @ostrich-runner, @lazybard, @cryptid-comrade, and @cowboy-cosmonaut for peer-pressuring me into getting Tumblr in the first place, and @threepigeonsinamechsuit, @mail-me-to-hell, and @bitchcentralstation for helping me get situated here as well. You are really the most wonderful people, and I love you all deeply.

And now, in order of when I followed them...

@the-worms-in-your-bones Worms, you were one of the first people I found on Tumblr, the first person to encourage me that my takes and ideas had value here, and to this day one of my dearest friends on this website. I love your analysis, I love your animal thoughts, and I love having you on my dash.

@thebraxiatelcollection April, I love your takes and thoughts on the DWEU - perhaps unsurprisingly, especially the Bernice Summerfield end of it. You also have this... I guess maturity is the right word about discussing your feelings on the franchise as a whole that I have a lot of respect for. Also if I may be remarkably shallow, the fact that I am mutuals with someone who has wrote a licensed Bernice Summerfield story is so cool.

@familyparadox It's always so much fun talking about Doctor Who expanded universe stuff with you, because you've been in as much of the weeds as I have but very often different weeds so we're coming at these conversations with different backgrounds. It's really delightful and a great way to get new perspectives on the Whoniverse.

@mintyimperiatrix Alongside Worms, you were one of the first people to interact with me on Tumblr, and you gave me some much-needed encouragement that I was welcome in the community. I will never not be grateful for that.

@nitronine Data, we've not interacted very much, but when we have, you have consistently been a kind and caring person to me. I love seeing your posts about the VNAs, as a fellow VNA fan, and seeing your posts about the Eighth Doctor Adventures as a to-be-EDA-fan-once-I-finally-get-around-to-reading-them. Also while I was writing this I was looking at your blog and I found your art tag and your art is very cool, too!

@natequarter Nate, you have some excellent Sarah Jane Smith takes, some excellent literature recommendations, and a lot of delightfully unhinged commentary. You're also consistently down to engage in my shenanigans and that is so wonderful and delightful.

@riversofmars Finding another Liv Chenka fan - one who does some kickass fanart no less - was a moment of pure joy. I love occasionally talking Liv with you. Also while I haven't watched Arcane yet, I still want to, and I promise I will let you know when I do!

@dykebeckett Ace, you've been such a friendly and welcoming presence on Tumblr and I super appreciate that! You're just delightful to talk to, and I love how you post about some of me and my roommates biggest hyperfixations (Doctor Who and Dragon Age).

@electronickryptonitegladiator I see you do a dedicated go-through my blog every so often, and it always makes me happy to see you there. Also, your thoughts on Faction Paradox are super fun and always lovely to see!

@toaasted-bread Alien, I'm pretty sure you were the person who got me into the Gallifrey fandom proper, and that's been wonderful. You have also been super enthusiastic about explaining other special interests of yours to me, and it has been so exiting whenever that can happen. It is always so fun to talk to you about whatever we find to talk about!

@acertainmoshke / @presidentdisastraofgallifrey Mosh, I... I don't know what I can say that I haven't said already, but. You are one of my closest friends. Ever. I love you deeply, and the fact that we're really only known each other for like six months blows my mind. You are such an important part of my life now, and I'm so glad you are here in it.

@gotyouanyway Ali, you were one of the key people involved in getting me settled in the Gallifrey fandom, and I really appreciate that. I've also been having a lot of fun seeing your reacts to media I'm less familiar with - you're unintentionally doing a very good job plugging a certain animated show to me right now...

@stopmyhearts Jae, you are an absolute pillar of the community. You are always so welcoming, so open, and so caring. And on a more personal level, you have always been super direct in encouraging me to share my thoughts, and I always love seeing yours. That I get to call you amongst my friends is both an honor and an absolute delight, and it is a friendship I deeply hope will last a long, long time.

@tenthirty-s-bastards Bill, I'm gonna be intentionally a little vague here, but we've had a couple good connections and I value them quite a bit. It's always a pleasure.

@rosemaryrubiginosa Freya, I love all of the zine stuff when you talk about it! I think that's super cool and I love your passion and enthusiasm for it and the more I learn the cooler it gets. Also the art you have posted is super incredibly cool!

@the-fuckwizard Sam, you will just post about the most random things and have the most random takes (relative to the rest of my feed at least) and it adds this delightful little chaotic spice to my following page that I really appreciate. Thank you for that! (Also I love being able to say that "the Fuckwizard" posted this or that to people it's great).

@shiftofgallifrey Shift, you have these wonderful different perspectives. I love it when we can talk about things, especially when we disagree. It is always a pleasure to learn new things about different perspectives and thoughts through our conversations.

@okaystoptellingmetomakeanaccount I do not remember why we started following each other, but you are the Ducks Person on my dash, and that has actually become such an important part of my dash. It's not complete without the ducks. Thank you for providing the ducks.

@kovacs-on-ice Kovacs, our encouragement about how much you like my stuff... I can't express in words how much it means to me and gives me motivation to keep going and doing the stuff I do. You're super rad and I supper appreciate you!

@squid-in-the-tardis Squid, you provide this lovely assortment of things for my dash. It gives it some nice variety without, like, pulling up posts that are things I would want to avoid. Also you're a squid and that's really cool.

@gracefelldownaflightofstairs / @graceburntdownthekitchen Grace, you're delightful in conversations about Romana and the Gallifrey things, but I need to give a special shout-out your cosplays! They are wonderful and I'm so glad you've posted some photos of them.

@rassilonsleftbollock You go out of your way to provide such a welcoming, accepting space in your blog, and I want you to know that is seen and appreciated. Also most of my friends aren't really into the Deca as a concept so it's fun to have a Deca friend.

@rihagoesrawr Riha, you are a fantastic person. I know you don't believe me here, so let me just say that again. You are a fantastic person. You're so much fun to talk to about various DW EU things, and it's also lovely to talk about video games every so often, too.

@cousin-quartz-of-house-paradox Quartz, this is a deep pull, but your analysis of Bev Tarrant specifically is so, so wonderful and fascinating. You elevated Bev from a character I like to one I adore. Your thoughts on the rest of the Benny cast have been wonderful as well!

@oswinoswald15 Lucero, you always have the most interesting questions about my headcanons. Getting a question or ask from you is always super exiting and I'm very grateful that you give me the chance to talk about my thoughts in the way you do. It means a lot to me.

@autisticzoeheriots Robin, I love seeing your thoughts on Nyssa and Zoe specifically - your perceptions of those two characters line up with mine pretty well and you have these delightful little insights that make me go "oh! I didn't think of that!" Also yes Zoe is autistic forever.

@catscancook I don't know if this will make sense, but I love scrolling around on your blog because of how curated it feels. I dunno what you're doing, but you have the like exact amount of reblogs and original posts and things that just makes me really happy. I also really like seeing your Yaps when they come up too - you always have interesting thoughts.

@smallerontheoutside Lyssa. Arthur. I am so, so glad that we met each other and have been interacting more. You have these wonderful thoughts and insights, and it is always super wonderful to talk with you. You are my friend, and I definitely look forward to many more interactions in the future.

@sanscest69 You are just so kind and welcoming and that's a really wonderful energy and I really appreciate that and knowing where I can find it. Thank you.

@clowns0cks Joey, I love the level of depth you take your character analysis of the Master. I can always see the routes you are taking and I love that and it is so so interesting and always a joy to see.

@the-oracle-of-the-lost Charlie, I love your insights and analysis, but I need to give a special shout-out to the suicidal-hubristic/bastard-clown charts you've been doing for the relisten. I love them so much. Also I appreciate your Star Trek posts too - I'm not as much of a fan, but I do have a very soft spot for DS9, so seeing you reblog and post DS9 stuff is another happy thing for me.

@inkwells-posts Inkwell, you have the most wonderful non-sequitur posts and bug facts. Thinking of you and blue bumblebees and being happy about it! Seriously, interacting with you has been delightful so far and I fully anticipate it to continue to be.

@mildlyinterestedcreature / @i-heart-heart-doctor-who Creature, we have had some great conversations about Doctor Who, but I also love seeing the other things you are into - it gives me such a good insight into a bunch of different medias I wouldn't be into at all otherwise, and I think that's really neat!

@lerios Rob, I love how different your takes on Gallifrey and so on are to mine. Like you take these characters in these directions you never would, but at no point have you been like "my way is the only correct way" so I feel safe talking with you and comparing/contrasting what we do with the characters. It's really wonderful and you're super nice and fun about it and I love that I can talk about this stuff with you so much.

@anonymousdandelion Dandelion, getting you into the Doctor Who expanded universe has been a delight and a privilege, and something I deeply hope I can continue to do! I love seeing your reacts and thoughts to everything.

[kotton-kandy953]

❏ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍 !

➛ 𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐯𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫 !

❝ ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇ ᴍʏ ᴘʀᴏᴍ Qᴜᴇᴇɴ? ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍ ᴋɪɴɢ ❞

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 love interest ꒱ . . . yandere ! scaramouche ! high school ! au x fem ! reader

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 format ꒱ . . . oneshot

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 warnings ꒱ . . . death, forced kissing, kidnapping, kinda angsty, kuni with unresolved mommy issues, more cursing than usual, the reader is a fucking bitch, vivid description of murder

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 synopsis ꒱ . . . In which, scaramouche asks you to prom and you so kindly decline. but unfortunately for you, he just can’t take no for an answer.

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 authors note ꒱ . . . I really thought I ate by basing this story off by the events described in prom queen by insane clown posse. If this counts as angst, this is my first time writing it lol. I usually prefer “sad” or “bittersweet” endings to my fics so a big majority of them could be categorized as angst. || thss homepage!

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🔪 word count ꒱ . . . 2.6k

“Kunikuzushi!” His mother called for him from upstairs, “Hurry up or you’ll be late for school!”

Kunikuzushi, or Scaramouche, finished writing on the card before placing it in his pants pocket.

He usually doesn’t spend that much time on his appearance for school, but today was different.

He rolled his eyes after she called his name for what felt like the millionth time.

“I’m coming, just give me a minute!” He shouted, putting on his uniform blazer and student council armband.

When he was finally ready, he took his his sweet time walking down the stairs where he met his mother, Ei, at the front door.

“You’re not going to eat breakfast?” She asks.

“No, I’ll do it later… and I hope you know I can drive myself to school,” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“And I was doing perfectly fine while you were gone for days and days on end at work. Why do you chose now to be my mother?”

Ei doesn’t respond and only grabs her car keys off a nearby counter.

He scoffs, grabs his backpack, and brushes passed her to walk out the front door.

The car ride to school was silent.

It usually was between them, there was nothing they wanted to say. Nothing to say.

Clearing her throat, Ei finally breaks the silence, “I heard that prom is coming up, were you planning on going with someone?”

There was a long period of silence before he mutters a soft, “Maybe… I dunno.”

That was a lie.

Well, more of a “half-truth.”

Scaramouche has been thinking of going since the date was released. He even knew who he was to ask.

Well, it was really that troublemaker Venti who really pitched the idea to him. Although, they weren’t even that close, so why did he even care?

But why tell his mother all this? As if she would ever dare to care for anyone other than herself.

There were no more words exchanged between the two from this point up to them reaching the school.

Scaramouche left the car as soon as it parked, mumbling an almost silent “bye.”

Upon entered the school’s doors, the first thing his eyes laid on were the Senior Prom posters hung up on every corner.

“Prom’s this weekend…? Ah, Shit…” he whispered to himself, “It’s already Thursday.”

“I could’ve sworn it was next weekend.” He thought aloud.

But he doesn’t care anyway, he was going to ask, no, get his Prom date today.

And he knows exactly who he was going to invite.

Y/n L/n, he was going to ask you to prom.

Scaramouche didn’t entirely understand why he was so… so drawn to you. He could’ve sworn that he hated you from the second you both made eye contact on the first day of school.

Maybe he hated you so much that he loved you.

You were one of those irritating teenagers that fit into the “mean girl” category.

You only hung around your stupid little “friend” group of girls.

You were so, so popular, so idolized by other students, he didn’t understand why anyone would even want to be around you for more than three seconds.

But maybe that’s what other people felt about him. The pretty, popular, student council president with a bad attitude.

Shit, maybe you two did belong together.

He walked around the halls for a moment until he found you. You were still hanging with that damn group, but he couldn’t care less.

All he wanted was you.

As he approached you and your friends standing by your locker, the deafening sound of his heartbeat drowned out the sound of everyone else around him. Archons, why the hell was he so nervous?

He froze in the middle of the hallway as he stared at you, like always, you didn’t even notice. Too self absorbed and busy with your damn phone to even look up for a split second.

But you were so pretty. So pretty it fucking hurts. If you decline his proposal… he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself.

Taking a deep breath, Scaramouche walks the rest of the way over to you and your friend group, but his eyes solely focused on you.

He had an uncaring look on his face, but only to hide the swirling of emotions going on in his head.

Just say it, goddamnit, he thought, taking a deep breath.

“Y/n…” he began, “will you go to prom with me?” Scaramouche extended his right hand out to you that was holding a letter he couldn’t be bothered to put in an envelope.

His left hand was in his pants pocket, as he diverted his gaze to the ground to hide the blush dusting his pretty, pale face.

You looked up from your phone, with look of… was it disbelief? Your eyes were wide but other than that you showed no other reaction.

Your friends behind you covered their mouths and snickered like crazy.

Looking up just slightly, Scaramouche makes eye contact with you. He could’ve sworn he saw you open your mouth to say something, but it closed as soon as it opened.

Then, finally you spoke.

“You want to go to Prom with me?” You asked mockingly as if you had taken offense to such a request.

He brought his hand that was holding the letter back down to his side, his eyes narrowing in something similar to frustration.

“Just answer the question, Y/n. I don’t have all day.”

You laughed right in his face, making his expression change to the same bewildered one you had just a second ago.

He was not expecting that…

“Haha! I’d rather die than go to Prom with a stuck-up rich prick like you ‘Mr. Council President!’”

Scaramouche froze.

Did she just… did she just say no to me? He thought, quite hurt but more offended. Unbelievable. No. No one could just say “no” to him, especially not like that!

His indigo eyes made contact with yours and it stayed like that for a good few moments.

Your words repeated over and over and over in his head like the broken record of a song he despised most, “I’d rather die. I’d rather die. I’d rather die. I would rather die…”

Breaking his stare, he bit the inside of his lip and looked everywhere but at your face. Your beautiful face.

Scaramouche shoved the letter back into his pants pocket, crumpling it up in the process. His face changed to an even more pissed off one than before, “Oh fuckin’ really, Y/n?”

He took a half step closer to you, his eyes piercing into yours, but you were unfazed by it, “I hope you know I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

He could hear their giggling and mocking of the girls as he walked away from you.

One thing about Scaramouche is that he’s a master at putting up a facade that he’s not upset about something.

He did it a little too well actually, the only strange thing about him today was how strangely quiet he was. Too quiet.

Was he thinking about something? If so, what was he thinking about?

It was frightening.

Scaramouche comes home from school 3 hours early. It was lunchtime, and he still hadn’t eaten breakfast.

He didn’t care though, food was the least of his worries right now. His mother was still at work at this hour, but he new she would come home later tonight. It would be like for the rest of the week.

It was perfect.

Now in his bathroom, he stares at his reflection in the mirror. Fuck, why can’t he just stop thinking about you? About the way you declined him so shamelessly. He had to admit, your confidence was admirable.

But what would you do if you really got what you wished for?

Being the most popular girl in school, you have so many fake friends. So many people who either want to be you or be with you.

And sadly, Scara fell into the latter category.

But would those people really miss you if you just suddenly… disappeared?

Or would they just pretend?

But it didn’t matter. The thought that’s been circulating in his mind for hours and hours on end certainly didn’t give a fuck about who would miss you.

“She‘s got to die.”

It was the day before Prom.

And Scara had every part of his plan down to the smallest detail.

He came to school that day but his mood seemed… normal? The people he usually hung around noticed the change, but no one questioned anything.

And of course you didn’t notice. You genuinely could not care less about him.

And he knows that… so why can’t he just stop loving you?

When school was done for the day, you walked home as usual. Alone.

Your head was looking down the whole time, on your phone a majority of the way there. But it was when the streets got quiet and secluded that you started growing a bit nervous.

You could’ve sworn that someone was staring at you from afar, but no matter where you looked, you saw no one.

Maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you. You were tired, and it was getting late.

Well, that’s what you thought before you heard the sound of footsteps behind you growing faster and faster.

The moment you looked back, your met eyes with his.

Was he following you? What the hell is wrong with him!

“Scara you scared the sh—“ you were cut off by him pressing a cloth against your face, knocking you out.

Your phone clattered against the sidewalk once it hit the ground.

The moon had risen by the time Scaramouche finally carried you to his home on his back. He worried he was taking too long and you could have woken up at any moment, but he knew you wouldn’t wake up until the early morning the next day.

His mother was still at work when he dragged you down to his basement, it was almost insane how everything fell right into place.

He gently sat you down in a chair and began securing your wrists and ankles to it so you wouldn’t try to leave. He even tied a blindfolded around your eyes and taped your mouth shut with some duct tape he found.

His eyes lingered a second too long on your face, he hated how pretty you were. Even tied up you were fucking stunning.

Before he knew it, his hand as caressing your jaw with a gentleness that was foreign to him.

A loving touch he’s never felt from anyone.

Not even his own mother.

It was cold.

You were so cold.

Are you… in a chair? A very uncomfortable chair at that.

wait, where are you!?

And why can’t you see!?

You tried lifting your arm to take whatever was on your eyes off your face… but they wouldn’t move. Something rough and hard was keeping your wrists tied down to the arms of said.

Your blood ran cold in fear and desperation. What’s going on!?

Who would do…

Scaramouche… you thought. He was the last person you remembered seeing. But why him?

What did you ever do to him!?

You wanted to scream, to cry out for help but you couldn’t. Your mouth was tapped shut, muffling your desperate calls.

“Wow, you’re finally awake…” You heard a voice smooth coming down the stairs. Your eyes instantly flicked over to where the disembodied voice was coming from.

“I’ve been waiting here all night thinking you’d wake then,” he sighs, “guess I was wrong.”

He flicks the basement light on and walks over to you.

He pulled the blindfold off your eyes. It took a moment for you to adjust to the light, but when it did, you were petrified.

He was wearing the same thing as yesterday and had very prominent dark circles under his eyes… or maybe his eyeliner just smudged because he didn’t wipe it off last night.

Looking past him, there were balloons and streamers hung up on all four walls and even a table with a tablecloth, punch bowl, and speaker on it.

It was his pathetic attempt of replicating a school dance.

You looked down at your lap and your eyes widened in surprise. You were wearing a Prom dress. It wasn’t yours of course, but it was still beautiful. And in your favorite color.

“I knew you were going to go with someone else that wasn’t me Y/n… and I just couldn’t have that,” You look up at him again.

You wanted to scream, not in sadness or despair anymore, no. In anger. In hatred.

You hated him.

You despised him.

He delicately caressed your hair then gently pulled the tape off your mouth. He treated you as you you were the most fragile glass vase.

The second the tape left your lips, you screamed as loud as you could. Of course, it was futile because he immediately placed a hand over your mouth.

His eyes went wide as he stared at you.

Tears filled your eyes in pain as his hand cupping over your mouth’s grip grew tighter, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

You licked his hand in hopes of him removing it out of disgust, but he only laughed.

He laughed right in your face.

“You think that disgusts me, Y/n? It’s adorable, really,” he moves his hand to hold your chin between his index and middle finger. and stares at your angry face in amusement.

“You’re sick,” you spat.

He leaned in so close to you that you could see every little detail on his pretty face. Especially how his eyes kept flickering up your face and back down to you body, as if he couldn’t decide which he should focus in on.

“You don’t mean that…”

You glared at him with a look of upmost disgust. But he didn’t care, he actually found you all the more beautiful when you scowled at him.

When you stared at him like you hated him.

“I couldn’t have you go to prom with some other dumbass after saying that you’d rather die than go with me,” he leans in even closer.

Your eyes shot open in fear, he was kissing you. It wasn’t a sweet, passionate kiss. No, it was a rough, invasive one.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, you couldn’t fight him off you and it was even harder to resist with his hands keeping your head in place.

When your saliva started rolling down your chin, that’s when he pulled away. He stared at you with something scarier than malice, it was devotion. It was difficult to tell if he truly loved someone due to him never having felt real love his whole life. Both romantic and platonic.

But when he did love someone, he had that same look on his face. He was desperate for love, he craved it so.

You forced your eyes shut during the intense kiss, and stop struggling against the ropes binding you to the chair.

And not even a second later, your eyes shot open again.

You can’t breathe.

You’re choking? On what?

You look down at your lap again, dark crimson rolled down from you neck and onto the pretty silk fabric of the dress.

Is that… blood?

You looked up at Scaramouche.

He mumbled something, the last thing you heard before you breathed your last. “You should be more careful about what you wish for, Y/n.”

Once you died, once you finally fucking died — he stared at your lifeless body in fascination. He pulled the knife that he stabbed into your throat out and stared at the crimson blood staining it with with an unreadable expression.

“I know… I know I could’ve taken you to school like a normal man…” he placed the knife down on the nearby table right next to a crumpled up letter.

“…But I just had to kill you first… you would never understand.”

Gently, he untied the ropes binding you to the chair. As he lifted your delicate, limp, wrist he frowned at the bruises the ropes had left on your perfect skin.

“Maybe I shouldn’t tie the rope so tightly next time…” he muttered to himself.

Scaramouche played a song on an old speaker he found down here last minute that was sitting on the table. Next thing he knew, he was picking you up to dance.

Your dead body, yet still a bit warm, pressed flush against him. Your bloodied dress staining his well kept school uniform.

He knew his mother would be even more disappointed in him than she already is once learning about all that he’s done in the past few days…

But maybe, just maybe, she’ll share a shred for sympathy for the unstable mental state of her own son that drove him to do such actions solely for the sake of “love.”

He thought about this as he slow danced with your corpse in his loving arms.

It was when tears started involuntarily flowing down his cheeks that he realized how much he’s suppressed these emotions.

Did you really deserve this? He would think.

Of course you did. He reasoned, You asked for it.

Next to the knife laid the short note he had written to you the other morning, “will you go to prom with me, Y/n? ♡”

When writing this I realized that I never explicitly stated what grade the characters in this au are… so I guess it’s just up to the scenario/request I get for a fic.

[solargeist]

popping in to say i love how deliberate you are with your aus! they really are proper stories told over time and that's so cool! there's attention to how, and why, and minecraft mechanics and character lore interpreted in fun ways, real life phenomena explored with care and accuracy, etc. the characters feel very much like... there's very much a weight to their past and what elements of their lore you're pulling from, and a solid sense of who they are now, which can be quite difficult with mcyt characters, in both written and drawn form. i know fan art doesn't tend to get treated like a coherent story unless it's done in comic form, but the semi interactive format you've got going is super cool! i love how distinctive your different grians are, and xelqua and tegg are adorable! so... thank you for sharing your stories with us, i guess. it's been a lot of fun watching them develop.

WAHH that’s so sweet thank uuu :’(((🫶🫶 I don’t know wat to say im gen jus obsessed with grian smndmdkss im glad people like my silly stories and drawings tho 😫!!!!!! when I was 14 and first learning to draw, I was obsessed with Ask Blogs, like character rp blogs that draw responses, I rly wanted to do that—and those kind of accounts went out of fashion quickly, but ! I get to do that now ! It’s so fun.

I feel like mcyt characters rly gives you a lot of space to create stories from, it’s rly fun to try and fill in the gaps with different series and connecting them together

I actually, mentally, have two new other AUs I want to do after Tegg 😭

[writingdarling]

Hii i may have requested twice.. (indecisive and artistic reader) and i love your writing!! Sorry if this is too much and made sure to take breaks and take care of yourself!! I was a bit scared to request since i dont want you to overwork or anything but could i reuqest reader thats like stupid? Like they accidentally leave evidence behind but somehow the universe seems to just love them so something always happens like the evidence getting contaminated or just accidentally throw in the trash by someone? You can ignore this if you want!! Make sure to take care of yourself again and have a good day/night

Anon you could never request too much, in fact request more cause I'm hitting that block in the road to my writing inspo

I love writing dumbass/chaotic readers

Content Warning: Mentioned Violence, Violence and Suggestive :3

Killer Chat L.I’s & LuckyKiller!Reader

Premise: You’ve done some good kills as a serial killer, enough that you’ve even been invited to a serial killer server (ignore the fast that it was because you were being a bit too obvious on main but-). Now you have some  new friends who actually share your bloody and gruesome interests !

….Though you are also finding out that some of your methods are not exactly…safe ?

Ronin

When he invites you to the server, he already knows you’re a serial killer, unlike in the original game

How could he not ? Your handle is the same as the serial name the media had given you ! Not to mention the multiple post complaining about people who struggle too much while getting choked

Luckily, most who saw those had assumed you were shitposting but still ? What the fuck ?

He’s never met a killer as laid back as you (He’s not sure he means it as a compliment or as a insult)

“Oh yeah, I just cleaned up the blood with a rag and chucked it into the bushes. No I didn’t use a glove ? Why would I need that ?”

He’s more offended than anything (maybe also a bit impressed)

“Ok, darlin’ you left blood trails leading to your apartment but conveniently it rained so hard right after you got in the house that you didn’t even see ‘em the next morning ??”

“Yeah, saved me my mopping time, that's for sure.”

If you two do a double murder, he’s agasted to the way you kill 

“.....Is that rat poison in a spray bottle ? What’re you doin’ with tha- Are you….spraying his tonsils ?”

“Torture :3”

“Fuck yeah I guess ??”

You use the most batshit ways that should definitely get you caught (no gloves, no different shoes, not even a mask on your face, what in tarnation ?)

But it rains, snows or the cctv’s camera blows so you don’t even get caught anyways

Ronin starts calling you his “lucky charm”,  he asks you to blow onto his crowbar before a spree, claiming it’ll help him kill faster and better

He pratically mauls you when he comes home because, would you have known it the guy he picked off the street turned out the be some fucked up bastard and he had so much fun dragging him to a excluded alleyway and no one was even walking so he didn’t need extra kills and-

You wake up the next morning with “grateful” and “thank you” bites and hickeys all over your shoulders.

Angel

When she finds out about your kills and how you clean up, she’s more concerned than anything

She’s watched numbers of serial killers get caught because of a stray hair, let alone a whole bloody, non-gloved handprint left right on scene

She started a personal little “get you out of jail by bail” fund just in case, she puts money in everytime you give her a heart attack due to your recklessness

It has gone over 5000 dollars already

Somehow, every mess up is cleaned for you

Leaving your bag with your id at the scene ? You get it given back to you by a kind jogger who didn’t notice the blood seeping out of the trash bag

Running into the police with literal blood on your shirt ? It’s the night before Halloween and they brush it off as a test-run costume

Angel wonders whether you really are God’s favourite human after you walked ten blocks in broad daylight with blood all over your hands to her house and no one even asked about it

She’s intrigued by it really, the more you kill, the worse messes you leave behind, the more you endear herself to her

She looks forward to your pictures in #killer shit and with any accompanying caption about the little “oopsies” you made during the process

Whenever you're out on dates with her, you talk about it openly, not caring for other people's ears

“Yeah so I bashed his brain out, he was a shit man honestly- What ? No it’s ok, no one cares Angel don’t worry.”

The only time someone has ever taken notice was when a “fan” of your killing had come up to ask if you were discussing about the most recent murder

Angel doesn’t take advantage of it exactly…but

It is easier for her to aim when your luck seemingly makes her target lower his windows for some fresh air

It also helps when you’re there in general or even if you wish her luck before the whole murder thing

“Honestly, it’s like having a god or something on my side.” She says with a smile, kissing your cheeks

“Am I your chosen angel sweetheart ?”

Misaki

Not being in the same area as you, Misaki only knows about your weird luck skill when you call her right after a murder, where you were literally taken into police custody, not as the murderer, but as a almost victim

“You were standing there, chest full of blood from the guy's neck that you slit open ... .and they thought you were injured ??”

“Yeah, I said the ‘murderer’ made me watch as they slit the guy’s throat, that’s why I had blood all over me.”

“.....Was your face that traumatized looking , lol ?”

“I got blood in my mouth when I wasn’t expecting it ok, don’t judge me.”

They think you’re a anime protag in a horror comedy, who dodges cliches with ease

They also ask whether they can make you the star in her webcomic, about a murderer who can’t seem to get caught, even if they leave their literal jacket at the scene

“Yeah, yeah I get it, it was kinda dumb.”

“KINDA ? BABE YOU LEFT YOUR JACKET-

Their anxiety attacks now include the very realistic problem of you getting arrested

That is until you two go on a “kill” date together (too relieve stress and take out 2 dickheads for pocket money) 

And somehow, their both already passed out drunk (no unnecessary movement) with their doors unlocked (easy access) and with enough alcohol in their blood that it could easily be passed as alcohol poisoning with the right poison used

Anyways, Misaki would drag you to all their assassinations if they could because your luck definitely helps out

Funnily enough, you don’t really believe in your own luck but ???

“You….keep avoiding the police like it’s as easy as waking up in the morning.”

“Well…not my fault ?”

Misaki does not care about where or how or if you even acknowledge your own luck, they just love that it keeps you safe and that you’re having fun

They definitely have a lot of fun when you tell them about your weird ass methods for killing

“Babe, do you have any syringes lying around your house ?”

“Yeah..?”

“I wanna see what happens if I inject dye into someone’s heart and then cut them up.”

“.....You turning into Ronin 2.0 or something there baby ?”

V

V is a very scientific man, who doesn’t believe in luck, good or bad

….His beliefs get a little shaken when you tell him that you literally bled all over your crime scene and still didn’t get caught since the police only payed attention to the body

“....First off, why were you bleeding and I hope you are ok, secondly…..how do you have the most incompetent-”

V wonders, extensively how you haven’t gotten caught yet

More importantly, he wonders how he can’t track you down yet, at least, not until you give him enough clues for him to find you

Once you two settle into your relationship together, he notices how often your luck seems to save you

“......You…I’m sorry you just got up and left ???”

“Yeah, I mean, my victim did call the police but they took so long to get here even though the station is just like, 5 minutes away and I know my leg was hurt so I just…limped away ? I don’t know, I’ve done it before.”

“........I’ll deal with your leg first before I unload the entire other…thing.”

He wonders whether there truly is a god and whether you were their favourite.

You do some more murders and one day, V sits you down and pulls out a notebook, messy and full of scribbles about all the times your luck has saved you

“See here, this time you were saved by the ring of a bell giving you enough time to run away but for this time..”

It goes on for a while.

“Ok, ok V I get it, my luck is so so good, I mean it has to be since I have you in my bed right ?”

“...I am trying to be scientific, my love.”

In the end, V cannot nail down why exactly you are so lucky but, like Misaki, he’s more happy about the fact that it protects you more than it hurts you

He feels more safe knowing that, even if he can’t protect you, some unknown fucking thing or just, luck ? Is protecting you.

If you guys ever go “hunting” together, he realizes that your luck not only affects you, but also whoever seems to be there…

“....They knocked themselves out. On the wall.”

“Yeah, I told you, my luck would save us.”

“......I have so many more theories.”

This is me pushing my V conspiracy theorists headcanon I’m sorry-

V is…not so appreciative of your weird kill strategies but he also humors you as long as you’re not getting hurt and that the truly wild ones go to people who deserve them, which you always ensure happens

“Glitter in their lungs.”

“Yup.”

“Causing them to asphyxiate ?”

“Uh huh, he donated to that ‘charity’ that wants to prevent gender-affirming surgery for everyone.”

“Efficient and beautiful, I would expect nothing less beloved.”

I had fun imagine scenarios where the reader wouldn't get caught lol

hope you enjoyed !!!

[simply-wlw-kpopstan]

6. Whistle

Sophia didn't care what consequences this would have, whether you'd be furious or would one-up her again. She could not and would not let you get the upper hand in this little vendetta between you. The town scenery passed by smoothly, and soon enough Lara parked in front of the pet store.

"Are you sure about this?" the Sirene asked as she killed the motor.

"Yes, she's not winning. How childish is it to buy all my favorite ice cream? Every single one!" Sophia glared out the windshield at the lively town in the daytime. "I'm getting that whistle and I'm gonna make her submit to me. If she won't listen I'll just need to train her like a dog."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"I'll find something else. No matter what, I won't let her get the satisfaction of beating me." With a final huff, the vampire gets out of the car and struts inside the store. The smell of different foods, products, and even animals fills her nose. It's an unwelcome sensation but she pushes through, driven by vengeance. "Excuse me?"

One of the clerks who's re-filling the aisles looks up, "Yes? How may I help you today?"

"I'm looking for a dog whistle. One that's good for correcting behavior."

"What kind of behavior? We have different frequencies. If it's barking, a lower hertz will suffice, but if the dog is aggressive, a higher one may be needed to get their attention."

"neither. It's more of an unwanted behavior, causing chaos. I just need one that's loud enough to get them to stop when they're.... Destructive." she picks her words carefully. If the clerk figured out she was going to use it on a werewolf, she doubts he'll let her buy it, no matter the amount of money she throws on the counter.

"An ultrasonic whistle is the best for behavior issues, but it is a higher frequency that we don't hear. I do have to warn you that it may cause werewolves in the vicinity to react to the whistle. So be cautious of when you use it."

"Thank you, could you point me to the aisle?" She gives a polite smile, and the guy points towards the third row on the right. With another 'thank you' and a smile, Sophia walks to the right selection and looks at all the whistles. Her eyes land on a metallic ultrasonic whistle and she takes it without a second thought. She pays for it and makes her way back to Lara with a smirk. "Got the goods, now we need to find her."

"If she's alone."

"Yeah yeah. Just drive."

Lara starts the car back up and pulls out of the parking space and onto the road, "You know I love you, but I really think you shouldn't do it. I have a feeling about this and it's not good."

"It'll be fine. Dogs react fine to the whistles so why wouldn't she?"

"Because she's not a dog. Listen, I understand that you two have this rivalry and one-up each other every time, but at one point, enough is enough. Do you really want to make an enemy out of her?"

"She started it."

"Who's the childish one now. What did she even do that was so bad?" Lara glanced at the Filipina, trying to read her friend, but Sophia held a stone-cold expression.

"I just don't like her. I don't know what it is about her, but she rubs me the wrong way, okay? She's just.... Infuriating."she's aware that Lara doesn't believer her completely, she doesn't blame her. Sophia was holding back the truth after all but it's none of anyone's business why she dislikes you so much.

"I love an enemies-to-lovers just as much as the next girl, but it's getting a bit too personal now. The jabs and words are one thing but what if the whistle hurts her? Are you really going to go through with it?"

"I bought it for a reason, yes, I'm doing it." Sophia crosses her arms in defence, "Why are you defending her anyway?"

"Because I think the whistle will hurt her ears. Not only hers but others around too. What about Megan? She's innocent, but she'll get affected by it too."

"Who says she'll be around?"

"those two are always together. They're two peas in a pod. They're not meant to be solitary creatures, they're never alone. Haven't you ever noticed that?"

"Sounds like separation anxiety to me."

Lara sighs and gives up on trying to sway Sophia. If she's set on something, it's as good as done anyway. "What's the range of that thing anyway?"

Sophia flips the package and reads the back, "16 feet. Not too bad."

"Square feet, Sophia. It's a big range." She doesn't say anything else as she parks at the town square, "I don't want to be around when you use it. So just text me when you're ready to leave and I'll drive you back home."

"Are you serious? You're making me do this alone?" Sophia frowns.

"I'm not comfortable with it okay? It's wrong."

"Fine. Be that way." Sophia gets out of the car and looks for you. She finds you in the last place she'd ever thought you would be, the library. With a glance around to make sure you're alone she brings the metal to her lips and blows.

You drop the book in your hands at the sudden piercing tone invading your ears. It's painfully high and you try to block out the sound by holding your hands over your ears. With a look around, you spot Sophia. She's leaning against a shelf and holding something to her lips. "You," you growl.

"It's about time I started training you." She twirls the metal stick between her fingers, "so every time you do something bad, I'll blow this whistle. Don't worry, I'm not a complete monster. If you're a good girl, I'll give you a treat."

"You can't do this."

"I can and I will. Behave and I won't have to blow on this. That means no pranks. No insults. No talking back."

"I'm not your lapdog."

"Not yet," she smirks, "the choice is yours, mutt. Be good or get used to hearing this a lot." She brings it back up to her lips as if she dares you to give her a reason.

"You can't do this!" Your voice holds a hint of pleading. "It hurts, Sophia. It literally hurts my ears. Do you have any idea how high that is? And how close you're standing with that thing makes it even louder."

"Then behave, and I won't have to blow it."

"I can't believe you're willingly hurting me over a dumb prank. You want your damn ice cream fine, I'll give it." you hold out your arms in surrender, "just know that you crossed a line today that you can't uncross."

"It's a dumb whistle." She looks from the metallic little cylinder in her hand to you. For the first time, she looks like she's actually contemplating what she did. "You're making a fuss."

"You don't even understand it. It's degrading for you to use that on me. I'm not a dog! I'm sick and tired of you making these jokes! I'm tired of having to fight for an ounce of respect from you! You're no better than the humans were back when your great-grandfather fought for equality. You're so proud of his work and yet you treat me like those humans treated vampires back then."

"That's not true. Those people were horrible. They killed vampires! I'm not like them, Hi dare you insinuate something like that?"

"You think they didn't torture supernaturals with any weakness they could find? That hunters to this day use those whistles to keep my species in line like a damn circus animal? That little thing holds power you don't even understand. Eat or drink some vervain Sophia and see what that does to you. "

"No. Why would I eat that? That's...." She drifts off at the realization.

"torture....yes. So is that thing to me. Everyone always thinks that werewolf hearing is similar to a dog's but it's much evolved. You're no better than a hunter. Just leave me alone from now on. I'm not amusing you in your games any longer. I'm done with you."

"What? No. You're not serious, are you? Over a whistle? I'll throw it out if it's that big of a deal to you. "

"Keep it, toss it. I don't care Sophia. You used it, that's what matters. You didn't even care that you hurt me. You still don't care because not once have I heard a sorry when you opened your mouth."

"Fine, I'll apologize then."

"It's not the same now and you know it. Just leave me alone." You pick up the book you had dropped, put it back on the shelf, and turned away from black haired woman.

Sophia stood frozen in her place. Lara was right. How could she have done this? She tried to warn her, told her about the bad feeling. About how it would hurt you and she didn't listen. She thought she would be happy that you wouldn't be fighting her, but now that you spoke those words, she felt a sense of loss. Did she just make the biggest mistake of her life? Had she crossed a line that she'd regret forever? God what did she get herself into this time?

masterlist | next

[writingwithfolklore]

How to Read and Analyze Writing Critically

Reading critically, much like thinking critically, is a skill you learn and develop—not something that you’re born with. All those English classes about blue curtains and the symbolism in Shakespeare (that we made fun of) are about teaching this skill. It’s the difference between rating a book one star because you felt tense and uncomfortable over the conflict, and rating it one star because it wasn’t built with tact or intention.

The very first thing you need to know about reading critically is this:

Everything you read is written with intention.

And

Even if it wasn’t intentional, all writing contains political implications anyway and it’s the author’s job to be able to see those implications.

Which means, in turn, if you’re a writer, you are responsible for the implications of your work whether you meant it that way or not.

This is a good thing! This is how we hold people accountable for bigoted or otherwise biased work, and how we can make positive changes to our work when someone else points out something we didn’t see. The point is in the trying, and the constant improving, and the best way to improve is to start here: by learning how to read (yours and others) work critically.

Like and Dislike:

Most people, when starting out in reading and media analysis, start with this question: do I like it or not?

But in true analysis—when we’re trying to recognize what a piece of work is attempting to do—whether or not you like the work isn’t a very helpful question to answer on its own. What you really want to be asking is: why?

Why was the decision made? Why do you like/dislike it?

Our likes and dislikes are good indicators of our intuition. If something makes you feel itchy or wrong, it’s not enough in analysis to then say, “this is bad because it made me feel uncomfortable." You need to then ask, “why does this make me feel uncomfortable?” Because maybe the answer is, “because the protagonist is being treated like a stereotype. Thus, this piece of writing is biased.” There’s a basis for true critique there. If the answer is, “because my personal experiences make me uncomfortable with sibling rivalry.” Your feelings are certainly valid, but they aren’t a basis for critique of the work itself (unless the author claimed the work was perfect for people with your specific personal experience).

Do you see the difference? Likes and dislikes are important, but they are only one step in the broader question.

Consider word choice

Everything is written with intention, which means the very words the author uses are chosen with precise care to elicit a specific feeling or experience within the reader.

For example, maybe you read a passage and it makes you feel a little gross—dig into the word choices here, maybe they used a word like “moist”. Many people make the mistake of then saying: “this passage was so gross, who even says moist?” without considering that this was a very intentional decision to make you squirm—this passage was meant to illicit that feeling.

When a piece does exactly what it’s set out to do, and contains the messages it has intended to make, it has done a good job as a piece of writing. You can still critique a work like this, however, and it is very important to do so. For example, what if the author set out to create a message that was politically incorrect? Or what if they intended their word choice to bully a certain experience or person?

That’s level two analysis—it’s taking the work outside of itself and into our current and historical world. So you can say, “this work’s word choices intentionally dehumanizes women, which reflects the author’s political standpoint. A work like this is problematic for a countless number of social, historical, and political reasons.”

This is an important step, especially when we’re considering works from the past. We can acknowledge the things that these works did well, while also bringing it into the present day to analyze its political messages.

However! This is also a tricky step, because what if that work that dehumanizes women is, in itself, a critique on thinking patterns present in a patriarchal system?

We’d have to look into the time the work came out, the history and views of the author, whether it was claimed that this work was a critique or satire, and if, in that case, it achieves its job in being a critique (usually found in the theme/ending of the overall work—like if the protagonist who dehumanizes women gets speared to death at the end or something).

True analysis takes work and research like this, and there’s never really any one correct answer. Some will argue that a work knows its own message and is thus critiquing itself, whereas others may argue it doesn’t. What’s important is that you’re as informed as you can be on a work, and your stance is backed by this research and knowledge.

It’s okay to admonish a “good” work for an unclear message or intention. It’s okay to admonish a “good” work from the past that has problematic messaging. These stances are up to you.

So how does this apply to your own work?

The more analysis and critical reading you do, the more you’ll be able to pick out in all works—including your own. Being able to see how killing off a certain character at the end changes the theme of your work, or carries an implicit message about people like that character, is incredibly important to writing with intention, and making sure you’re saying what you want to say.

It takes practice, time, and knowledge about our political and social world today. Stay informed, keep analyzing old and new works, and be open to second opinions and diverse perspectives that may point out messaging in your works you hadn’t considered.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Psst... Did you know I launched a website?)

Head on over to www.gatesannai.com (or click here!) for exclusive blog posts, updates on my work, and pictures of my dog.

While you're there, consider signing up for my newsletter too :-)