#and it's just so frustrating to see this happen when I loved her so

[bosbas]

Chapter 9: in my defense, I have none

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 2.3k

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, we are getting somewhere!!, still a lot of pining ofc

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

December 18, 1812 - Tensions had been... high... in the Bridgerton household as of late, to say the least.

The holidays were looming, and with that loomed also the prospect of Anthony spending an entire week with you in his home in the countryside. So naturally, he'd been distracting himself by practically biting the head off of any family member who dared speak with him. A particular fury, though, was reserved for Daphne when she brought you up.

Such an argument happened to be taking place at this very moment. Anthony had made the grave mistake of revealing his plans to leave for Aubrey Hall a few days before the rest of his family in the hopes that it would provide a brief respite from the chaos.

"You're being ridiculous," yelled Daphne, grabbing a cushion off the couch and squeezing it in frustration. "You simply can't deal with your feelings like an adult and you're running away."

"I'm not running away," roared Anthony. "And I've dealt with my feelings plenty. I just can't be bothered to have this conversation for the hundredth time. You're boring, Daphne!"

"Don't you say that to me," the younger Bridgerton fumed, throwing the pillow in her hands at her brother.

Much to her chagrin, Anthony easily dodged it, and the condescending smile he gave her in response was enough for her to let out a strangled scream.

"I will as long as you keep bringing this up," Anthony snapped, nearing his sister and shaking her by the shoulders. "I've had enough of you meddling in my life once again. Let's not forget how it ended the first time."

"It only ended because you wanted it to end," growled Daphne, shoving her brother's arms off her shoulders. "You can't deny it, Anthony. It might have started as a ploy, but what happened after was entirely out of my hands. Is it really worth running away for?"

"For the last time, I'm not running away!" repeated Anthony, grabbing the pillow Daphne had thrown earlier and launching it in his sister's direction.

Unfortunately having been hit by the cushion, Daphne angrily fixed her hair as she looked at her brother. "Don't lie to yourself, Anthony. You only want to avoid Mama and me, who make you actually face your feelings. It's cowardly, just like you are."

But the venom in Daphne's voice didn't seem to penetrate her eldest brother. He'd made his decision, that much was clear, and hopefully, a couple of days of peace and quiet would help him prepare to see your eyes and hear your laugh once again without wanting to run straight into the Thames.

Ignoring his sister's insults, Anthony huffed and straightened out his coat, turning around to leave the room. "I certainly won't be speaking with her while she's at Kent if that's what you're trying to imply."

Daphne could've screamed out of frustration. She opted for something she knew would cut her brother to the bone. "Don't you think you've punished her enough?"

Anthony stopped in his tracks and blinked repeatedly, almost as if he'd been struck.

But Daphne continued. "She's miserable. She can't eat, she can't sleep, she's ridden with guilt and pales at even the slightest mention of you. I've never seen her like this. I haven't heard her laugh in weeks. Don't you think that's enough?"

Anthony turned around slowly to look at his sister, wanting to confirm what she was saying.

Daphne's eyes were clear, pleading.

"I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. How could you? You leave the room if anyone even says her name."

"I-" tried Anthony, but no coherent sentence came out of his mouth.

"You've punished her enough," repeated Daphne, sighing deeply. "Not to mention how much you've punished yourself. You're allowed to have feelings for someone, Anthony. You're even allowed to pursue them after that. You'd be happier to realize that before you manage to completely ruin your chances with Y/N."

Once again, no words left Anthony's mouth. He was far too choked up to say anything that could have been deemed appropriate at that moment. So he stood there as Daphne pushed past him, standing in dumbfounded silence as he thought about just how much he wished he could go back to that May night when you first asked him to dance.

Perhaps he could have asked you to dance first. Perhaps it wouldn't have mattered. He supposed he'd never know.

---

Standing at the entrance to Aubrey Hall, the Bridgertons' country estate, you found yourself wringing your hands. You were anxious, though you'd never admit it aloud. You usually spent the winter at your own family's house, a tradition more rooted in habit than sentiment. But every Christmas, without fail, you took the short carriage ride to Aubrey Hall and stayed there for a week. It was your annual escape from the echoing silence of a holiday spent alone with your father, who, truthfully, preferred his ledgers to any kind of festivity. Holidays only seemed to remind him of your mother, and he coped in the only way he knew how: by pretending they didn't exist.

Daphne had repeatedly insisted that you were welcome this year. That nothing had changed. That you ought to come, just as you always had, and that everyone, including Anthony, would be happy to see you. You weren't entirely convinced, but you'd chosen to believe her. Or, at least, you were trying to.

The sky above was thick with snow-laden clouds, the air sharp with that particular stillness that came before a storm. It felt fitting, in a way– your thoughts were just as restless, your nerves just as unsettled. This was the first time you'd returned to a Bridgerton home since that night. Since everything. And while part of you thrilled at the familiar sight of Aubrey Hall, a quieter, more wounded part was dreading the possibility of seeing him.

Anthony.

And there it was again: that flutter in your chest you wished you could attribute to the cold.

Just as you were about to knock on the door, Anthony opened the door himself and you let out a startled gasp.

He, in turn, looked like he was seeing a ghost.

"Hello," you said awkwardly, not able to tear your gaze away from Anthony's wide eyes.

"I thought you weren't coming," breathed Anthony, completely ignoring your greeting.

"Excuse me? Daphne said-" you coughed, shocked that he wanted you out of his home that badly.

Anthony blinked, coming back to his senses. "I meant I thought you weren't coming today. The rest of the family decided to wait a couple of days for the storm to pass, I suppose I thought you'd do the same."

"They're not here yet?" you squeaked out, genuine dread filling you from head to toe as you realized you and Anthony would truly be alone in his family's country house.

He shook his head, looking at the sky as if to confirm the incoming storm.

You rushed to explain yourself. "It's such a short carriage ride that I thought the weather wouldn't matter so much. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I can go back, I'll just tell the driver-" you sputtered.

Anthony screwed his eyes shut briefly and then looked straight into yours. "It's alright," he assured you, almost reaching out to put a comforting hand on your shoulder but retracting it before making any contact. "The storm is about to start anyway, it wouldn't be safe."

You nodded, not quite sure how to proceed. This was the longest conversation you'd had with Anthony since he found out about... well, everything.

He cleared his throat. "Please, come in. I wouldn't want you to catch a chill," he said, stepping aside and offering to take your coat while motioning for his butler to help carry your bags inside.

Once again the two of you were stood, alone, trying to look anywhere but at each other. A heavy silence filled with things left unsaid made it almost impossible to hear your own thoughts, and you ached with the desire to reach out to Anthony for reassurance, much like you had done for a greater part of the summer.

"Well, I'd better be on my way," he said, not providing an explanation for why he was going outside when a powerful storm was clearly about to hit. "I'm certain you know your way around by now, but do let me know if you need anything."

His voice sounded detached, far away, and not at all like the warm tone he used to use when you were whispering together at a ball or sharing a funny story during a promenade. You were torn between wanting to continue speaking with Anthony, if only because it reminded you of how much you did love him, or if you wanted to get away from how cold he was being as soon as possible.

In the end, he made the decision easy for you by leaving without waiting for your response.

A painful reminder of just how damaged your relationship was. Perhaps it was beyond fixing now. It certainly seemed like it.

You sighed and made your way to your bedroom, already dreading the rest of your stay at Aubrey Hall. It was like the life had been taken out of you entirely.

Quietly reaching your door, you decided to stay away from Anthony as much as possible before the rest of his family arrived. It was the least you could do. It was already a burden being here alone with him, and you didn't want to make it worse by actually attempting to speak with him.

---

In the end, your plan failed miserably. It was the middle of the night, and you found yourself shivering from the cold in your bedroom, looking out at the snow swirling around outside. It would have been a beautiful sight if you were not chilled to the bone.

With every passing minute, your resolve to avoid Anthony at all costs was waning. You desperately needed another blanket– or three– and there was no one else you could ask at this hour. It was entirely too late to bother any of the staff, and you were far too exhausted to go downstairs anyway.

As much as you tried to hold off, burying yourself in your sheets and curling into a ball, goosebumps covered your entire body and your teeth were chattering loudly.

Finally, as you felt your feet grow numb, you decided you could wait no longer. Standing up and wiggling your toes, you exited your room to try and find somewhere a blanket might be (or Anthony, whichever came first).

You wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes, not quite thinking clearly. Eventually, you passed Anthony's study and found the light under the door still shining, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

Knocking gingerly, you opened the door slowly to reveal Anthony writing down some notes on his desk before he looked up to see you.

You felt uncomfortable under his gaze, underdressed in your nightgown. He'd seen you naked before, you reminded yourself, and you almost smiled at the absurdity. But it didn't help your nervousness.

"Is something the matter? It's the middle of the night," he said, looking you up and down without restraint.

You shook your head and remembered where you were. "Oh, yes, sorry."

"I wish you'd stop apologizing," he responded darkly and promptly looked back down at what he had been writing.

Your throat went dry, but you'd come this far, you might as well actually tell him why you were here.

Trying to keep your voice level, you explained, "I was just wondering if you had a spare blanket I could use. It's quite cold in my room."

Anthony paused for a second, looking back up at you and seeing you slightly shaking from the cold still. Finally, he nodded, gesturing toward the couch at the other end of the study which had a very thick blanket laying atop it.

You scurried over, wanting to get out of his study as soon as possible, but Anthony's voice stopped you.

"I'm nearly done, if you'd like to wait for a few minutes, I can walk you back to your room."

You sent him a questioning look, but he just shrugged.

"It's quite late," he repeated, as if that would provide an explanation, and promptly returned to his work.

To be frank, you were too tired to care, and you knew that Anthony would put up a fight if you disagreed with him, so you sat down anyway. Draping the blanket across your shoulders, you sat down on the couch and stared at Anthony. It had been months since you had the opportunity to just look at him, and you had forgotten how much you truly desired him.

Even as your eyes grew heavy and you sank deeper into the cushions, you couldn't help the warm feeling that came over you every time you thought about that night with him on the floor of your library.

The next thing you knew, you were in Anthony's arms as he lowered you gently on your bed.

"I didn't realize I had fallen asleep," you whispered, rubbing your eyes sleepily.

"It's no bother," he whispered back, pulling the covers around you and tucking the blanket up to your chin.

As he turned to leave you grabbed his hand, and though he could have easily kept walking away, he sat down on the side of your bed, looking down at you expectantly.

You were half asleep and fighting to keep your eyes open, but you wanted him to know. "I wish things could be different," you spoke softly.

Anthony smiled sadly at you, saying nothing but leaning down to plant a tender kiss on your forehead before he stood to leave. You fell asleep before he even reached the door. 

—

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[luvfae]

BEST FRIENDS MAKE THE WORST LOVERS

summary: he was yours first and if you can’t have him, no one can.

parings: thanos x f!reader

warnings: cheating, smut, swearing

You've always had a thing for your best friend, Su-bong.

You don't know exactly when it happened — the shift, the slip, the quiet fall. Maybe it was after that night at a mutual friend's seventeenth birthday, both of you half-drunk and grinning, tipsy on cheap vodka and shared frustration. You'd looked at each other, shrugged, and decided you were tired of waiting, tired of wondering. Virginity was overrated anyway. So you'd fucked — clumsy, curious, urgent. Just to say you had.

Or maybe it was before that. Before you ever touched. When the laughter came easy, and his hoodie always ended up on your shoulders, and you'd catch yourself staring at the slope of his neck, wondering how it would taste. Wondering why no one else ever made you feel quite the same.

Whatever the case — the truth settled in after. Quiet and permanent. A part of you.

You want him.

But not in the way that's noble or romantic. Not in the way you could explain to your friends without sounding unhinged. You want him selfishly — he doesn’t have to love you or be your boyfriend.

You just want him to be yours.

In the way that matters in private. In the way that doesn't need labels, or promises, or futures. In the way that makes you the only one who knows how he sounds when he comes.

And he's still your best friend. Always has been. You're good at that part — loyal, ride-or-die, first to answer the phone at 3am. You show up. You look out. You hold the parts of him that no one else gets to see. The sharp and the soft.

But you also keep his bed warm when he needs it. Keep his mouth busy. Keep his balls empty.

And for a while, that was enough.

Until he got a girlfriend.

At first, it was fine. Truly. She was pretty in a harmless way. Nice in a way that didn't raise your hackles. She didn't try to separate him from you — not at first. She smiled when you walked into the room. Laughed at your jokes. Let him lean against you at parties and never questioned how easily your bodies fit together.

You even tried to be happy for him. Because you do love him — in that complicated, sideways, back-of-your-throat kind of way.

And you thought you could handle it. Thought you could go without. Thought you could be just friends again.

At first.

Until the jealousy started to rot you from the inside.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a slow, creeping burn that sank into your bones.

It wasn't just the loss of the best dick of your life — it was the silence. No more lazy smoke sessions on your balcony. No more co-op missions at midnight, legs tangled on the couch. No more FaceTime rings answered on the first buzz, no matter the hour, no matter the reason.

You weren't just losing the sex.

You were losing him.

And you could live without the fucking, maybe. But not the version of him that belonged to you. The version that lived on your couch, barefoot and loud. The version that rolled your joints better than you did, who knew your Panda Express order by heart, who'd watched you cry over boys he never liked anyway.

You could feel her pulling him away in inches. And you were never one to beg. So you made sure he remembered where he came from.

The first fight hits hard — and loud.

You don't get the details. You don't ask. He just shows up at your apartment at 11:42PM, hoodie half-zipped, phone clenched in one fist like he wants to throw it through the wall.

"Bad night?" you ask.

He exhales, tight and bitter. "You have no idea."

You hand him the joint before you say anything else. He takes it wordlessly, flicks the lighter like second nature, and leans against your kitchen counter like it's his.

Like he never left.

"She says I don't talk to her," he mutters, exhaling smoke. "Says I shut down. But then when I do say something, it's wrong. Too much, too blunt, too—" he waves a hand, "—me."

You let him talk.

Let him pace.

He moves like the words are eating him alive, like if he stands still too long they'll rot a hole through his ribs.

You sit on the couch, pull your knees up. Watch him unravel.

"I try," he mutters. "I fucking try. But I'm not soft like she wants me to be. I'm not—"

You tilt your head. "You don't have to be soft with me."

His gaze flicks to you.

You tap the cushion beside you. He doesn't hesitate. Just drops down, exhales hard, passes the joint back.

The silence that follows is familiar.

Laced with old habits. Old sins.

Your legs are over his in the next minute — casual, innocent on the surface. Then your hand on his chest. Then your lips at his jaw.

He doesn't move.

"She just doesn't get me, you know?" he murmurs, voice low, almost broken.

You kiss his neck. Slow. You feel him shudder. Feel his hand drop to your thigh.

"I do," you whisper.

And then, without thinking — or maybe because you've thought about it too much — you straddle him, rock your hips against him.

Just once.

It's not enough to cross the line.

But it's enough to smear it.

His head drops back against the couch, a low sound breaking in his throat. Your name, half-spoken.

You move again. A little slower. A little deeper.

He doesn't stop you.

Doesn't even try.

His hand grabs your hip, hard.

And then he's fucking into you — desperate, panting like he's been starving for weeks. You're still on top of him, still pretending you didn't plan this, and he's still trying to pretend he's not cheating.

But he is.

And you're moaning into his mouth like it's the first time all over again.

You're his best friend.

And you've never made it so easy to forget someone else.

It becomes a pattern — ritual, even. Every time they fight, he ends up here. Knuckles tense. Mouth tight. Carrying anger like it's stuffed in the lining of his jacket, waiting for you to tear it out of him.

And you always do.

You fuck him like you own him. Like you're the only one who could ever handle him. You ride him until his voice cracks and his grip bruises and the heat behind his eyes dissolves into something messier. Needier.

His fury fades between your thighs — swallowed by how fucking tight you are, how perfectly you take him, how your pussy milks the stress out of him like it's your job.

And maybe it is. Maybe you made it your job the night he chose someone else.

You drag orgasms out of him like confessions. Make him moan in ways she's never heard. Make him forget what he was mad about in the first place.

Because she argues.

You open your legs.

She gives him space.

You give him your throat.

And when you sink to your knees, slow and smug, dragging your tongue along the base of his cock before wrapping your mouth around him like you're starved — he breaks.

Every time.

One hand in your hair, the other gripping the back of your neck like he needs to feel you taking it. Eyes rolling back. Chest heaving.

"Fuck, you're warm," he groans, voice wrecked. "Always so good to me."

You hum around him. Eyes glassy. Drool on your chin.

She never sucked him like this. Never let him fuck her face until he was twitching, nearly crying, emptying everything down your throat because he couldn't hold back even if he wanted to.

And the worst part?

You know that.

You want him ruined. You want him addicted. You want him thinking about you when he's inside her.

And he does.

Because her moans are soft.

Yours are filthy.

She kisses him sweet.

You beg him to breed you.

You whisper, between gasps and trembles, "I want your cum. Want it deep. Want to feel it leaking out when I walk."

She tells him to slow down.

You tell him to break you.

She arches away.

You arch into it.

And every time he's sure he's going to end it — every time he's buttoning his jeans with shaking hands and the taste of you still in his mouth — he remembers.

She's not you.

But you're not her, either.

Because where you fuck and praise and give him everything he wants, she holds his face and tells him things he doesn't want to hear. Things that make him better. Things that make him human.

You make him forget.

She makes him try.

And that's the difference. That's why he hasn't left her.

But you? You don't need him to stay. You just need him to come back.

And he always does.

It's happened enough times now that it feels like fate.

Fucked-up. Familiar. You, bent over your bed. Him, buried inside you. Whispering things he swore he'd never say again. Praising your cunt. Cursing himself. Saying your name like a sin and a salvation.

And still — he goes back to her.

You know this pattern by heart.

You know she doesn't suspect yet — but she will.

Because she's not blind. Not anymore.

It starts at a party.

It always starts at a party.

You're wearing that dress you know he likes — the one that rides a little too high when you bend, clings a little too tight when you sit.

You feel his eyes before you see them. Heavy. Heat-soaked. Lingering too long on your legs. His beer stalls halfway to his mouth. Frozen. Like he forgot anyone else existed.

You don't look at him. Not directly. You just sip your drink and laugh at something someone else said — as if you can't feel the weight of his stare branded into the inside of your thigh.

But she sees it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The way his chest rises when you cross your legs.

The way his pupils don't move until you finally get up to leave the room.

She doesn't say anything then. But it eats at her.

Later, when the noise fades and they're alone in her car, she turns to him. "Do you have feelings for her?"

He scoffs. Too quick. Too sharp. "She's just my best friend."

And maybe he believes it.

Or maybe he's just repeating it — like a mantra.

Like a lie he's told so often it's starting to sound like truth. But his voice cracks just slightly when he says it. And she hears that too.

It's not just that night.

It's not just the look.

There are other moments — quiet things, easy to brush off on the surface, but wrong if you stare too long.

She stares too long now.

You're curled up on the couch in Su-bong's hoodie, barefoot, legs tucked under you. He's in the kitchen pouring drinks, and she watches the way he glances at you — like a habit, like gravity. You don't notice. Or pretend not to.

When he comes back and hands you a glass, she says, a little too light, "Su-bong never lets me wear that hoodie."

You grin. Sip. "I was cold."

Her laugh is thin. She doesn't say what she's thinking. That you're never cold when she's around. Only when she isn't.

Or the time, she walked in on him helping you zip up a dress. His fingers are at your spine. Your hair is swept to the side. He's laughing at something you said, low and under his breath.

You both freeze when she opens the door.

You turn. Smile. "This thing's impossible without help."

She nods. Smiles back.

But later that night, she whispers in the dark, "Why didn't she just ask me?"

He doesn't have an answer. He just kisses her shoulder and pulls her closer, like she won't notice how his hands don't linger the way they lingered on you.

The parties were always the worst. Too much alcohol. Too many people.

One time, she finds you both in the hallway, laughing too hard. Your hand on his chest. His arm above your head on the wall.

The moment stretches.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice sharp.

You pull away immediately. Too quick. "Nothing," you say. "He was just being an idiot."

Su-bong nods. Eyes down. "Just messing around."

But she sees the way your lipstick's smudged.

The way his hand brushes your back when he walks past her.

She doesn't say anything that night. Doesn't cause a scene. But when they get home, she doesn't kiss him. She doesn't even look at him.

And he doesn't ask why.

Because he already knows.

It's well past midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

You're not even surprised — just rise from the couch in silence, heart already bruising in your chest.

You open the door and he's there.

Su-bong.

Shoulders hunched. Hoodie soaked from the rain. Eyes rimmed red.

His mouth moves like he's trying to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a breath, jagged and raw, and then he's pulling you into him, holding you like you're the only solid thing left in the world.

And that's when you feel it — not just the weight of him, not just the tremble in his arms, but the wet warmth that hits your collarbone.

Tears.

You freeze. You've seen him at his worst — high, drunk, bruised, broken. But never this.

He's crying.

And not because he lost her.

Because he didn't.

Because she's still there, still waiting for him to come home.

And he's not sorry.

Not really.

Not enough.

That's what's killing him.

You guide him inside without a word. Sit him down. Wrap a blanket around his shoulders like you're bandaging a wound that never bled right. He stares at the floor like it's going to collapse under him.

Minutes pass.

Then, softly — voice shredded, "she doesn't deserve a fucking asshole like me."

You smile.

Not cruel. Not smug. Just... knowing. You reach out. Brush wet strands of hair from his forehead. Let your fingers linger.

"Maybe not," you hum, warm and quiet. "But I do."

He looks at you. Eyes wide. Bloodshot. Searching.

And you say the thing that's lived in your chest for years.

"I've never asked you to be anyone but yourself, Su-bong."

Something breaks in him then. Not the way it did in her hallway, not in anger or panic — but quietly.

Like relief.

Like love.

His hand finds yours. Brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like he's never touched you before.

And when he leans in, when his lips meet yours, it's not rushed. Not hungry.

It's soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that tastes like apology and something almost sacred.

He doesn't take you to the bed. He follows you there.

Undresses you carefully, like he's worried you'll disappear. Like this version of you is something new — or maybe something he's just now letting himself see.

And when he pushes into you, slow and deep, chest to chest, your name on his tongue — it hits different.

Not like every other time. Not like fucking to forget. He's not fucking you now. He's making love to you.

And that terrifies you.

Because when he groans into your neck, "God, you feel like home," your body arches into his and your heart whispers, Please. Choose me.

And for the first time, you let yourself imagine what that might look like. Not the secret. Not the backup. Not the girl he runs to when he's wrecked.

But the girl he stays with when he's okay.

The girl he wakes up beside in the morning.

The girl he picks.

Out loud.

All the way.

And when he holds your face after, panting and dazed, whispering thank you, you don't say anything back. You just press your lips to his cheek and let yourself hope.

You don't sleep that night.

He does.

Right beside you, sprawled on your sheets like he's always belonged there, like the fight that sent him here never existed. One arm draped over your waist, breath slow and steady, skin still damp with the memory of what you let him do — of what he let himself feel.

And you watch him. In the quiet. In the dark.

You trace the lines of his jaw with your eyes, the way his mouth softens in sleep, the curve of his bare shoulder where it catches the first hint of dawn.

You could love him like this.

You do.

But it's no longer enough.

Because you're tired of hiding. Tired of being the secret he comes to when he's aching, the mouth he fucks when he's angry, the name he moans into a pillow he doesn't get to keep.

You're tired of being good at it.

Of being his best friend.

Of being the one who listens, and waits, and swallows.

You've seen what's left of him after a fight. You've seen what he looks like when he breaks. And now you've seen what he looks like when he gives himself to you — not rough, not reckless — but soft.

Yours.

And if you can have that version of him — even for one night — you know you can have it again.

If she wasn't in the way.

You think about her when you kiss his temple. Think about how she clings to what little of him he gives her.

How she thinks she knows him.

Thinks she has him.

But you've felt him cry.

You've felt him come apart.

You've felt him say nothing and mean everything.

She doesn't have that.

She never did.

So maybe it's time she finds out what you already know — That he was never really hers to begin with.

Not the way that matters. Not where it counts.

And maybe that makes you cruel. But cruelty is a small price for ownership.

For love.

For him.

So you lay back down beside him, head on his chest, heart thudding with quiet resolve.

You're done sharing.

And if he won't choose you outright — you'll make it so he can't keep hiding.

It starts small.

A text.

I miss you, when you know he's in bed with her.

You don't expect him to answer — not right away.

But you know he sees it. You know he thinks about it. And that's enough. At first.

Then come the games.

You start leaving things behind — panties tucked half-visible under his pillow, lip gloss on his sink, a stray earring on the floor of his passenger seat. Things she'll find if she's even half paying attention.

You press hickeys just above his collarbone — places too risky to ignore, but too intimate to blame on anyone else.

He gets mad, sometimes. Tells you to be careful. Says she's suspicious.

But you know him.

If he really wanted to stop you, he would.

And when he doesn't?

You push harder.

Nudes at 3:14AM.

Soft lighting. Lip bitten. Panties pushed aside.

Wish you were here.

You pray she checks his phone. That she sees the way his hands linger too long, the way he won't meet her eyes the morning after he's been inside you.

But it doesn't work.

She never finds the panties. He wears hoodies to hide the bruises. She doesn't go through his phone.

So you get bolder.

The comments come next. Sweet. Polished. Laced with venom.

When Su-bong is out of earshot — fetching drinks, answering a call — you smile at her, too wide, too warm, and say things like:

"I hope you don't mind that he still comes to me when he's upset. Old habits die hard, I guess."

"He's always been... generous. I'm sure you appreciate that, too."

"It's the little things, you know? Like how he knows just where to put his hands. Always so intuitive."

"I've always loved how... responsive he is. Even the smallest touch gets a reaction."

And you get a reaction. Every time. She flinches. Smiles too tight. Looks to Su-bong with that look — like she's trying to catch him looking at you first.

She never does.

Because he's careful.

But not careful enough.

Eventually, she tells him:

"I don't want you seeing her anymore."

And for a while — you don't hear from him. No texts. No calls. Not even a half-assed excuse.

So you show up. Late afternoon. Hair down. Hoodie oversized. Nothing underneath but perfume and patience.

She's not home.

He opens the door like he expected this — like he hoped you wouldn't come, and knew you would anyway.

He doesn't invite you in.

You step in anyway.

His voice is quiet. Heavy.

"She's onto us." A beat. "She wants me to stop seeing you."

You nod. Say nothing. Let the silence choke him for a moment before you sit on the edge of his bed.

Then you say it.

"I was the one who held you when you were nothing." Not loud. Not bitter. Just... true. "You only love her because I taught you how."

And he doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

So you stand. Walk up slow. Put your hand on his chest — right where you can feel the thud of his guilty heart — and lean in.

You kiss him.

Soft. Final.

And he kisses you back.

Because he always does.

His mouth is still on yours.

Soft. Then not.

The kind of kiss that shouldn't happen. The kind that tastes like final decisions and fucked-up truths and everything he swore he wasn't going to do again.

But he doesn't pull away.

And you don't let him.

His hands slide to your waist — grip tightening like he's trying to stop himself from shaking. He presses his forehead to yours for a beat, breath shallow.

"I shouldn't," he whispers.

You smile against his lips. "Then don't."

He groans. A low, guttural sound that vibrates in his throat — and then he kisses you again, this time deeper, hungrier, teeth grazing, tongue pushing past your lips like he needs to taste every second you've been apart.

Your fingers curl in his shirt. Tug. Yank. You want skin.

"Su-bong—" you gasp into his mouth, "—I want you to touch me."

"I fucking am touching you," he snaps, hand sliding down to your ass, squeezing hard.

"Not enough."

He curses under his breath — like the request hurts — like it lights something up under his ribs.

You shove him back a step, just enough to grab the edge of your hoodie and pull it over your head in one motion. No bra. Just skin.

His breath catches. "Jesus fuck."

He stares for a second too long — like he forgot how good you looked underneath all your attitude — then grabs your jaw and kisses you hard, dragging his other hand up your side, palm rough against your bare breast. He groans into your mouth when your nipple tightens under his thumb.

"You do this on purpose," he growls. "Show up like this, act like you didn't plan the whole fucking thing."

You moan, arching into his touch. "Of course I did."

"Brat," he mutters. "You're fucking evil."

You just grin, gasping when his mouth drops to your neck, tongue dragging over your pulse before he bites — not gently — and sucks a bruise into the skin just below your collarbone.

You gasp again as he starts walking you backward, fast and clumsy, until the backs of your knees hit his bed. You fall with a soft thud, legs spreading instinctively, panties already damp and sticking to your skin.

"I don't have time—" he pants, eyes locked on the wet patch.

"You have time," you breathe.

He grabs your thighs, spreads them wide, pushes them up until your knees are almost to your chest, panties stretched tight across your cunt.

"I should make you beg," he mutters.

"I already am," you whisper.

His mouth crashes down.

Right over your panties.

And you cry out — hips lifting, thighs twitching — as he drags his tongue hard over the soaked fabric, lips curling when he feels how fucking wet you are.

"Goddamn," he groans. "You missed me that bad?"

You nod, breathless.

"I didn't even touch you yet."

"You don't need to," you whimper.

He's licking you through your panties like it's the only thing keeping him sane, but when his watch buzzes on his wrist, he pulls back just an inch — breathless, flushed, mouth glistening.

"Shit," he mutters. Checks the time. "She's gonna be home soon."

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering. "Then you better be quick."

That breaks him.

His mouth crashes to yours as he fumbles for his belt, yanking it open one-handed, pants halfway down his thighs. You reach for him at the same time, push your panties to the side, pull him between your legs like he belongs there — like he never left.

"I shouldn't be doing this," he pants against your lips.

"Then don't make it slow," you whisper. "Just make it worth it."

And he does.

He shoves into you in one desperate thrust — so deep, so fucking full it rips a moan straight out of your chest. His hands are braced on either side of your head for a second before one slides to your throat, gripping just enough to make your breath catch.

"Fuck—this pussy," he gasps. "Every fucking time. It's like you were made to fuck me."

You choke out a laugh, nails digging into his back. "Maybe I was."

He fucks you hard. Deep. Not rushed — but urgent. Like he's trying to memorize every sound you make, every clench, every tremble. His body presses you down into the mattress, your legs over his shoulders, angle so brutal it leaves you speechless.

"You like this?" he grunts, tightening his grip on your throat.

You can't even answer. Just nod, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream.

"Use your words," he growls. "You want it like this, don't you?"

"Y-Yes—yes—Su-bong—please—"

"Say what you want, baby," he pants, eyes locked on your face. "Tell me."

"Choke me—fuck—choke me harder," you gasp. "You know I love it. You know I love when you ruin me—"

He does.

His hand tightens. Your head tips back.

He leans in close, mouth brushing your cheek, voice rough and tender all at once.

"My girl," he murmurs. "My pretty fucking girl. Gonna fill you up. Don't worry."

Your breath hitches. "Please—please—inside—please—"

And that's when the door opens.

A pause.

The world stops.

You don't see her.

But you hear her.

A gasp. A stutter.

And then—shattered glass.

You twist your head toward the doorway — and she's there. Frozen. Face pale. Eyes wide. Tears spilling.

Su-bong freezes inside you. Hands still on your throat.

Your eyes widen. You try to speak, but nothing comes out.

She breaks the silence.

"You told me not to worry about her!" Her voice cracks. "You said she was your best friend!" She's shaking now, yelling, chest heaving. "You told me I could trust you!"

Su-bong still hasn't moved.

He looks down at you — stunned, guilty, still hard inside you. And you — eyes glassy, lips parted — look up at him like this is the moment you've been waiting for.

Because now?

There's no hiding.

There's no going back.

And someone's about to burn for it.

The silence stretches thick — heavy enough to suffocate.

Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat, but your smile is steady.

You sit there, half-naked under the covers, legs spread slightly, still slick and throbbing, Su-bong's cock still twitching against your inner thigh.

You meet her eyes.

Hold her gaze.

And you smirk.

Soft. Lethal.

The final nail in the coffin.

Then you tilt your head, voice syrupy sweet, “he only fucks me like this because he can't with you."

The words land like a slap.

Her whole face crumples — color draining, mouth trembling — and Su-bong jolts like you physically punched him. His hand shoots out, grabbing the edge of the bed, knuckles white.

"Jesus—" he growls under his breath, glaring at you. “Why the fuck would you say that?"

But it's too late.

The damage is done.

She stumbles backward, tears spilling down her cheeks, choking on a sob so broken it barely sounds human.

Su-bong yanks the covers over your body, muttering furious, useless curses under his breath as he shoves away from the bed — pulling his jeans up, erection angrily straining against the denim.

He catches her in the hallway.

"Babe, wait—"

You hear her voice crack like glass, “don’t call me that. Don't you dare fucking call me that."

A slam of a door.

And then silence.

You give it a beat. Two.

Then you slide out of his bed, bare feet padding across the floor, still naked, sticky, shameless. You find him slumped on the couch, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he's trying to disappear inside himself.

For a second — just a second — you feel almost sorry for him.

But then the old ache tugs at your ribs — the jealousy, the hunger, the way he always picked her first even if it was just for the sake of appearances — and it washes clean away.

You move without thinking.

Sink to your knees between his legs.

His hands tense where they grip his hair, but he doesn't look up — not even when you rub your palms soothingly along his thighs, slow, careful, patient.

You nudge your head under his hands, tipping your chin up.

His red-rimmed eyes meet yours.

Broken. Defeated. Addicted.

"Want me to make it better?" you murmur, voice dripping with false innocence. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweet and slow. “Want me to finish you off, baby?"

He exhales — wrecked, trembling.

You see the exact second he caves. The way his shoulders drop, his mouth slackens, his thighs part just slightly under your touch.

He nods. Small. Miserable.

"Yeah," he rasps, almost inaudible. “Yeah, baby. Please."

You smile — soft, secret — and lean forward, pressing a kiss to the damp denim over his cock.

He shudders.

He's still hard for you.

Even after all that.

Even after her.

And that?

That's the sweetest victory of all.

[southernimpala]

i love you, stupid

sam winchester x fem!reader

summary ↬ sam gets a bit too drunk after you get hurt and you're left to take care of him

notice ↬ she has finally posted!! a little angst if you squint, fluffy as always, sam being drunk, descriptions of injury nothing too crazy, writers block is a bitch (and so is finals week(but dean smut coming soon :)), no use of y/n, lowercase intended !

wordcount ↬ 3.2k

the motel bathroom smells medicinal like antiseptic, burning your nose and causing tears to flood your waterline. 

well, you aren’t sure if it’s the rubbing alcohol or the stinging from your head wound that’s making you cry. probably both.

the hunt was a success; a few stubborn vampires taking teenage girls as their victims in a nowhere town in oaklahoma, nothing you and the boys couldn’t handle. except, when a vampire manages to get their hands on you, that’s a cause for disaster. 

“can you be any more rough?” you groan. you’re sitting on top of the sink, gripping hard around the porcelain under you as dean closes the nasty gash decorating your forehead, “you stitch yourself up like this?”

 he sticks his tongue out in concentration, not bothering to entertain your words laced with pain, “almost done.” 

“i can’t believe the thing managed to throw me down a flight of stairs,” you chuckle mirthlessly, the ache stemming from your back coursing through the rest of your body as you recall the incident, “couldn’t even do its job right and just bite me.” 

dean laughs. sam, who is leaning against the bathroom door frame, doesn’t.

instead, he scoffs, “did you want it to?” 

you furrow your eyebrows, “no, sam, i was kidding—” you hiss as dean threads the last needle through, “—fuck, that stings.” 

he still doesn’t appear amused. his eyes fall to his shoes, arms crossed over his broad chest as he avoids your confused gaze, looking like a kid whose just been scolded.

you know sam doesn’t take people close to him getting hurt lightly, especially you, for a reason you can’t pinpoint. but, nothing tragic happened. you’d just been shoved and knocked out; hit your head on the last step before tumbling all the way down. compared to what else the three of you have been put through, that seems miniscule. 

except, sam isn’t taking it like some tiny paper cut or bruise. and truthfully, you were trying to make yourself feel better about the situation. losing consciousness for an hour and waking up with a much too deep tear in your forehead was enough to spook even you. but, you were fine. alive and breathing. 

“well,” dean starts, noticing the awkward tension suffocating the room, “you probably still have a concussion, so i’d take it easy tonight, see how you feel in the morning.” 

“great,” you huff sarcastically, letting him help you off the counter, “i was planning on getting plastered.” 

sam scoffs again, his eyes, weighted by something, glaring at your figure as you move to sit on one of the motel beds, “you aren’t funny.” 

“alright, what’s your problem?” you ask, now slightly annoyed at the coldness bleeding from his tone. 

“nothing,” he brushes off, “just wish you’d take this more seriously.”

“more seriously?” you repeat, surprised, and now, completely frustrated, “what do you want me to do? sulk about a scratch on my forehead?” 

“it isn’t a scratch,” he retorts, voice picking up.

“well, it certainly isn’t fatal!” you argue louder. your head starts to spin. 

“could’ve been!” 

“could not!” spots dot your vision. 

suddenly, dean moves to step in between the two of you just before you can attempt to stand up and escalate the situation. 

“alright, alright, you two, will you both calm down,” dean intervenes, like a parent taking control of his two children, his hands stopped in front of both of your chests, “she’s fine, sammy, take it easy on her, alright?” 

sam bites the inside of his cheek, looking away and nodding angrily. it takes all but a minute of silence for him to break it, “i’m going out,” he announces, words thick with emotion. 

your expression softens slightly as you hear the slight shake in his voice and see the bob in his throat as he swallows whatever is lodged there. your mouth opens and closes like a fly trap, trying to muster something to say to diffuse whatever the hell that was before he walks out. 

you jump as the door slams shut, and suddenly, all the blood—red hot with frustration and confusion—rushes back to your wound as you begin to wobble on weak legs. dean grabs your arm to stabilize you— “woah, you’re okay,”—helping you sit back on the bed as you take your head in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut as your vision blurs and spins.

you muster a laugh, “guess it’s worse off than we thought.” 

“well, gettin’ yourself all worked up will do that,” dean says, his eyebrows now creased in newfound concern at your worsening state. your eyes start to become heavy. dean notices. 

he helps you lay back against the pillows, “try and get some rest.” 

you nestle your face into the floral fabric, trying to ignore the musty smell and the ache in your chest as you take a deep breath, flashes of sam’s face, so melted in emotion and anger, burn your eyelids, “is he alright, dean?” 

“he’s fine and so are you,” dean hushes quickly, bringing the covers up over your shoulder, “i’ll go talk to him; you don’t worry ‘bout a thing but gettin’ better.” 

 at his voice’s soft assuredness, you manage to sink yourself into your drowsiness, sleep overtaking your aching body. 

when you awake, you’re immediately drawn to the dull throbbing in your temple, traveling down your arms—bruises starting to form along your skin—all the way to the bottom of your back. you groan, bringing a hand to shield your sensitive eyes from the gross, yellow light emitting from the bedside lamp, bulb flickering shadows onto the dark walls. 

the ac is loud, too loud for the migraine you’re experiencing. and the disorientation that comes after a concussion-induced nap consumes you. 

as you try to adjust your eyes and ears, you begin to sit up, looking around the room. and that’s when you realize you’re alone. 

you sigh. at least with the room to yourself you could go back to sleep easier, no snoring or loud breathing to annoy you as you heal. but as you move to turn the lamp off, you notice a note scribbled in dean’s handwriting and another room key.  

found sam. he’s at the bar. got me and him the next room over to give you space. 

if you’re reading this, go back to bed. 

you want to smile at the thoughtfulness, but ‘found sam. he’s at the bar’ causes your insides to twist. 

your eyes glance at the old digital clock beside the note, the blinking red numbers reading 4:41. you assume dean managed to drag his ass back to the new room, both probably passed out asleep at this point. you’d slept for four hours. a lot could happen in four hours. 

just make sure he’s back home, you think to yourself as you make your weak legs get out of bed. another blood rush forces you to grip the nightstand, steadying yourself as much as possible as you blink away more spots. just make sure he’s alright. 

 you leave the room, chilly june wind swirling around you under the bright moonlight, which is peeking through tree silhouettes from the nearby woods. 

the dive bar across the parking lot catches your eye, but you force yourself into the next room. unlocking the door with the spare key next to the note, your heart sinks as you creak it open and see dean, sprawled on the far right bed, passed out and snoring in the dark room, with sam nowhere to be found. 

you curse to yourself, shutting the door gently so as not to wake him. you look over at the bar again and your stomach knots. god knows what sort of state he’s in; drunk out of his mind, maybe in the middle of a fistfight with a biker gang. it all seems so much more dean winchester, but the look in sam’s eye before he left told you he wasn’t in the right state of mind, wasn’t sam. 

the loud classic rock blasting through the jukebox in the dingy bar was enough to make your head spin again. you blink rapidly to keep your vision stable as you search each face for the hazel eyes you catch yourself staring into, for the soft hair you only wish you could run your fingers through, and the smile that amplifies your pulse. 

it takes a while to find him in the crowded, small room, but sudden shouting erupting from a pool table in the far corner perks your ears.

“you think you can hustle me?” a gruff voice shouts.  

“nooooo, i knowww i can hustle youuuu,” another slurs. you recognize that voice. 

pool cues clatter on the floor. loud boots stomp. a fist connects to a face. 

your heart drops as sam’s body stumbles back into the billiard table. without hesitation, you’re pushing through the bulky crowd with newfound adrenaline. before the large, tatted man can get another hit on sam, you stand between them, shielding his body with yours, broken and bruised. 

“stop!” you yell, digging your hand into sam’s chest to keep him against the table, “he’s leaving okay, he’s leaving.” 

you can’t look at sam’s face, but you feel his eyes, hooded with impairment, burning holes into your figure.

“look at this,” the man laughs grossly, “this one’s got a bitch saving his ass.” 

sam wrestles against your hold, “shut up!” 

“what was that boy?” the man takes another burley step toward you, but you hold your ground.

“get away from us,” you demand. the man’s face twists as your vision blurs again, “we’re leaving.” 

you grab sam’s shoulders firmly, forcing him out as he struggles to break free, “let go of me!” 

ignoring his feeble attempts at rushing back to the man—his body shaking with rage against you—you manage to make it out of the bar and into the brisk night air again. 

“sam, can you—” you grunt as you heave his arm higher around yours, struggling under the deadweight, “—can you help me out a little here?” 

his breath reeks of whiskey as it fans across your face, “that jackasssss—should’ve shown h-him who i—” he hiccups, “—ammm!” 

“god, how much did you drink?” you think aloud, the motel room getting closer. 

he giggles drunkenly, “not enough!” 

you roll your eyes, propping him up on the dirty brick as you unlock the door, sam instantly bursting inside. he stumbles into a dusty lamp, laughing to himself as he trips about the room. he eventually lands on the mattress, sprawling out and staring at the ceiling. 

you take a wobbly seat in the chair across the beds, rubbing a stressed hand across your forehead, careful not to graze over the fresh stitches in your skin. 

“this bed is comfortable!” he shouts, forcing you to shush him harshly. 

the small bit of relief you feel now that sam’s in your sights, alive and not getting his ass handed to him in some back alley behind the bar, fades quickly as he starts rambling, giggling, and  acting like dean after a rough bender. 

“sam, what the hell is wrong with you?” you ask exasperatedly. 

“what do you mean?” he asks, clueless, “i feel great!” 

your tongue pokes your cheek, “why did dean leave you in that bar?” 

sam smiles strangely, “he didn’t leaveeee, i made him.” 

“yeah, and how did you do that?” you ask, unbelieving. you know dean would never leave his brother in this state regardless of how hard sam tries to shoo him off. 

“well, i wasn’t like this,” he states, as if you should’ve known that already. he shrugs, “i just told him i’d be back in an hour… like three hours ago,” a giggle bursts past his whisky lips, “what an idiot!” 

“this isn’t like you,” you huff, standing up to help him sit upright; just in case he starts vomiting. 

 “why can’t it be like me?” he hiccups, “oh, so—dean’s the only one to have all the fun?” 

“no, i—” suddenly, waking dean and letting him handle whatever the hell is happening with his brother seems like your favorite way of dealing with this. “i just wanna know what’s wrong.” 

 under the dim light illuminating half of his face, reflecting off the green and yellow in his iris, you finally notice how tired he looks. and not so much physically. emotionally, it seems like he went through a trainwreck—baggy under eyes, flushed cheeks, waterline rimmed red. 

“you,” he whines, mind still in a brandy induced fog. 

you bite your lip, “you can hate me for dragging you out of there sam, but, i still need to know what’s—” 

“yeah, you!” his voice picks up again. 

you wonder if it’s your head trauma or the confusion causing your head to spin

“sam, i don’t—” 

“i couldn’t even stitch you up myself,” he mumbles, words dipped in delirium, “hands were shake—” he hiccups again, “—my hands were shaking and i knew i couldn’t so dean had to.” 

 you’re silent as he rambles and runs a stressed hand through his tousled brown hair, soft despite the sweat accumulating by his temple, “i wanted to do it but i couldn’t stop remembering you falling down those—” another hiccup, “—down those stairs.” 

without warning, sadness crashes over his face like a tidal wave, the giddy drunken smile morphing into a depressed frown, brows furrowed, eyes now heavy and teary-eyed, “i thought you were done; all the blood from your head and how many steps you fell down and then you didn’t wake up—” he cuts himself off with a choked sob, “and i was too late.” 

your ribs gripped your heart in a clenched fist, “what do you mean, ‘too late’, sam?” 

another pained gasp slips from his lips, “i saw it, saw you about to fall, saw that vamp put its hands on you and i froze.” 

in an instant, your mind flashes to right before you were shoved, and then you remember. sam’s broad figure looming down the hallway, watching with wide eyes, frozen in fear. realistically, there was no way he could make it to you in time regardless, but you felt the weight of his guilt. and then it all makes sense. 

“sam—” 

“don’t,” he interrupts, sniffling, and you can tell the rush of emotion forced him to sober up a bit, “it was my fault.” 

you purse your lips, swallowing down whatever multitude of protests are dying to be let out. you know that’s the last thing he needs, and the uneasy look on his face as he wobbles in his seat confirms that for you. 

he almost topples forward, reminiscent of how you were after dean had patched you up, but you catch his shoulders, easing him back down on the floral sheets and onto his side. 

“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering as he fights sleep.

“nothing to be sorry for, sammy,” you say, trying to keep your composure.

he looks so soft and innocent, the way his eyelashes fan against his blushed cheek sending your brain scrambling again. you run a warm hand down his forearm, easing him into some kind of relaxation. 

sam tries to fight it, swallowing dryly as he looks at you through hooded lids, “i won’t freeze next time,” he exhales. 

as he drifts off to sleep under your steady hand, you pray your heart isn’t thumping loud enough for him to hear through your chest, because you certainly can.

your fingers move to trace the fresh, bumpy, and definitely uneven stitches along your forehead, and can’t help the bittersweet grin that forms on your face as his words settle.

the buzz of the dingy diner the next morning is not the wakeup call neither you or sam need, heads in a tizzy from the debilitating hangover and your little trip downstairs. you’re both squished in the red booth beside each other, twirling your fork in your eggs—a sickening yellow color that makes your guts twist—and sam, gulping down water like a starved man. 

not to mention, you were both running on four hours of sleep. 

dean looks between the two of you, “jesus, what the hell happened to you two last night?” 

you groan, sliding your head into your hands, “too much.” 

“way too much,” sam adds, voice muffled by the plastic cup. 

“i knew i shouldn’t have left you,” dean says, taking a hefty forkful of pancakes, “either of you because this—”  he points to the two of you with his utensil, “—this is what happens.”

the look on dean’s face when he walked into your room this morning, dumbfounded at the sight before him: you and sam sleeping beside each other, not touching but certainly close enough, might be ingrained in your memory forever. 

“i took care of it,” you assure. 

“only did so with a concussion,” he argues, stabbing his breakfast again, “what the hell happened?” 

you try to hide the pink arising on your cheeks, sinking into the ripped up booth, attempting to catch sam’s expression out of the corner of your eye. you can tell he’s trying to hide the fact that he remembers everything, the words he spoke bordering on some kind of confession still lingering on his tongue. you ache to hear them, to know why he lost himself last night because you were hurt. 

certainly, it wasn’t just because you were friends. and the rose color dusting over his nose confirms that for you. 

“nothing,” you clear your throat, sitting up straighter, “just got him to bed and passed out again.” 

“yeah,” dean mumbles, unconvinced, “yeah, alright.” 

he gets a head start to the car as you and sam pay the bill at the front, anxiety crawling up your stomach and settling in your chest as you rack your brain on anything to say to him. 

“so,” you start, walking out of the diner, “don’t remember a thing, either?”

sam stops, grabbing your elbow softly to pull you out of dean’s view, shielding yourselves on the side of the building. you press up against the brick, watching as his tongue pokes at his cheek in thought. 

“you have no idea how sorry i am about last night,” he says quickly, face flushed, “you were hurt and you had to take care of me and listen to me spew all this self loathing crap, and—” 

“sam,” you stop him, bringing a hand to his solid chest, feeling the thump thump of his heart as it races under your palm, “was it all true?” 

his eyebrows furrow before falling softly in realization and remembrance. 

“about you freezing and caring and worrying,” you add, voice a note higher than a whisper, “was it true?” 

he looks away, then slowly begins to nod. 

all the blood in your body rushes to your feet, almost giving you a feeling of weightlessness, and before you can back down, you bring your lips up softly to his, pressing deep into his mouth as his part in shock. 

then, he melts, a large hand falling behind your head, fingers threaded through your hair. 

you feel him smile against your own, prompting you to bring a palm up to his jaw, the kiss deepening—

a loud honk blares through the chirping birds and rustling trees. you both jump apart, lips swollen and eyes bulged. 

dean pulls the car up, watching you through the impala windows as he honks again, beckoning you both. 

you swallow down the lump in your throat as everything dean winchester is going to say about what he’s seen rushes through your mind. 

yeah, you’re both done for.

but, it’s so worth it.

[moesthoughts]

I didn't even request it but Loved her safe space! Could you do a pt2 of it with soft smut maybe???? Add whatever you want thankssss :)))))

Her safe space 2.

pairing ⛧ shauna shipman x fem! reader

warning ⛧ fingering r! giving, slight praise kink, cannibalism mentions

summary . . After establishing your relationship with Shauna, you find yourself tucked away in your shared hut longer than usual. After another tough day, Shauna comes to you seeking a different kind of comfort.

part one

It hasn’t been long since you and Shauna professed your feelings to each other, since then you promised to keep your relationship a secret. You both knew it was the best. You’d rather be sneaking around in secret than getting looks from people, and hearing rumors that aren’t true. Though, it was hard not being to express yourself for who you really are. Before the crash you pictured the wilderness as a perfect camping spot, somewhere you could be free and not care what others think.

Yet here you are, in the middle of nowhere. Currently dating the one girl everyone either hates or is afraid of. But it was the least of your worries, because you know the Shauna underneath all that malice. She always gives you that same sweet, innocent look she hasn’t had since the spring, and that’s all you needed. All you wanted was for Shauna to feel seen, heard. Noticeably, it’s made her calm down substantially, and it hasn’t gone unnoticed. The girls came to you for advice, advice on how to calm her down during an argument or at least get her off their backs. You’d always shrug your shoulders, Van said you must have the magic touch.

And hell yeah you did, because every time you and Shauna would make out, she’d melt under your touch, lean into your hands when they cupped her cheeks. You tamed a wild animal, and that is your greatest accomplishment here. Not surviving the hunts, the cannibalism, and the constant destruction that happened here. But being in a relationship with someone you longed for since you were just girls excited for your next soccer game, someone who is feared throughout your community. You were just surprised nobody has found out your dirty little secret.

It really has been a hell of a day, lately, you can’t keep up with your team. Being together for so long, doing unimaginable stuff to survive. You knew that trust would slowly dwindle throughout the group, the animalistic hunts you’d perform just to eat something, and worst of all, how long you all kept Coach Scott around. It makes you sick to your stomach, you admire Nat for how brave she is, but the others don’t see eye to eye with her, and neither does your girlfriend.

You are in your shared hut, reading the book you must’ve read 100 times over. The pages are slightly burnt from the fire that happened at the cabin, it feels like years passed by since that occurred. You’re happy with the community that Nat and everyone else helped to build though, it almost feels like another home. As you flip the pages, you start to wonder where Shauna is, she’s usually here by now. Since she was crowned the “Antler queen”, she’s been busy, you know that all too well. A sigh escapes your lips as you put your book down, and boredom settles in.

The wilderness must’ve heard your prayers, because here comes Shauna Shipman into your hut, her eyebrows knitted together. You can tell something is wrong, you are always able to tell. The way she’s huffing, slipping her shoes off so aggressively, and the way her eyes are filled with anger. You put a hand on her leg before she can bury herself even deeper into her frustration, you feel her stop suddenly, slowly sitting down in front of you. She averts her gaze, looking towards the dirt at the bottom of your hut.

“What’s the matter?”

Your tone is soft, and so is your gaze. Shauna huffs again, her sharp eyes landing on you, you feel your stomach flip, that look was never a good sign. It’s almost everyday that your girlfriend has a rough day, and then comes into your shared hut at night seeking your lips, your skin on her palms, her teeth on your neck. Your fingers scratch her knee, trying to comfort her, but you can’t deny you are also eager to feel her all over you again.

“This team is fucking hopeless, they need to listen to me if they want to survive out here.”

There it is, that poisonous tone everyone is so familiar with. You take a deep breath and peer out of the stick walls of your hut, the warm light from the fire, everyone seems to be discussing something, the problem being that Shauna isn’t there to put in her piece. Your eyes trail back onto the girl in front of you, you scoot towards her. Her breath hitches once you move in between her legs, your hands touching her neck oh so gently.

“You must be so angry, Why don’t I take your mind off of it?”

Your tone is sweet like honey, and you have Shauna dissolving in your hands already. A smile perks up on her lips, she closes the gap between you, its hungry, likes she’s been craving you for the whole day. Which she has, she’s been imagining her fingers curling around your waist, your bare skin being all she can see, her thoughts are filled with only you, pleasing you, you pleasing her. Her face dusts in a pretty red, her hands already starting to wander farther than they usually do. You pull away from the kiss, desperately trying to catch your breath.

“Tell— Tell me what you want me to do.”

You notice how she perks up hearing your idea, her eyes wander your body, and she seems lost in thought. A warm feeling spreads through your core, embarrassing little noises escape your lips as her hands explore your body. She obviously knows what she’s doing to you, how your panties are growing wet from how much she’s teasing you.

“Undress, then help me undress.”

You act immediately, slipping off your top with ease. You smile watching her eyes trained on your half-undressed body, you unbutton your shorts next, kicking them off your feet. You’re left in a bra and underwear, Shauna drinks in the sight, checking you out. You can’t deny how excited it made you. She grabs your wrists, guiding you to the bottom of her t-shirt. Your fingers curl underneath the fabric, dragging it over her head. You pause for a second, she is absolutely beautiful. You don’t want to keep her waiting for long, so you slip off her pants soon after, almost too desperately. Shauna smirks at your neediness. You follow her as she lays down, and your leg swings over to the other side of her body instinctively.

“Now.. Touch me.”

A shameless tone laces her voice, her hand guiding yours to her panties. You take a shaky breath before shuffling off of her, opening her legs. You get an eyeful of how wet she is already, you smooth over her clothed cunt causing her to let out a soft noise. You dip under her panties, sliding them off with ease. Shauna bites her lip while studying your actions, melting into your touch. The way your hand caresses her inner thigh, how your eyes are filled with nothing but love. She’s in control, but she feels so vulnerable. You know well that she trusts you with everything, trusts you enough to open her legs for you, and that’s what makes your heart ache. Your finger circles her clit slowly, drawing out quiet moans and whimpers.

“Does this feel good?”

Shauna nods fast, her nails cutting into the makeshift mattress underneath her. Your fingers trail down her slit before you experimentally pushing a finger into her enterance. Her breath becomes shaky, as she lays her head down on the pillow. She presses her lips together to keep quiet, knowing that there’s still people out there that can easily catch you both. Though, she wants you to know how good you feel inside her, she hates having so little privacy. She would be loud if everyone knew you guys are in a relationship, but unfortunately it’s under lock and key. Her eyes widen as you push another finger in, slowly starting to pump in and out of her.

“Fuck.. faster.���

Another order slips from her mouth and you are quick to follow it, she rolls her hips into you as your pace increases, fingers curling at her sweet spot. You squeeze your thighs together, desperate for some kind of friction of your own. Seeing your girlfriend under you, getting off on your fingers, you could practically finish just off of the sight. You bring your thumb to her clit, tapping on it, seeking some kind of approval to continue touching her like some sheep. You are a follower for her, submitting so easily to her words. Your thumb rubs her bundle of nerves once a million yeses come from her mouth. You increase your speed, noticing how she’s approaching her release. Her quiet moans become desperate, her fingers almost digging into the dirt under the blankets. The tears in her eyes are so perfect, she looks so pretty.

Finally, she comes around your fingers. You continue until she’s finished, pulling out of her soon after. She catches her breath, her mind dizzy thinking about how you fucked her so well. She sits up to meet you, her lips pressing onto yours, so gentle, so sweet. You smooth over her cheek, a smile forming on your face.

“You did so good, you’re such a good girl.”

Shauna whispers through small pecks on your lips, causing your face to flush a soft hue of red. This reminded you of how much you love Shauna, how much you’ve longed to be with her. She slowly lays you down on your back, breath hot on your neck.

“Now, let me make you feel good.”

HII THANK YOU FOR REQING THIS, i just love writing soft smut !! Also yes I think her safe space has been one of my fave yellow jackets works so far 🤞

req me!

masterlist

[storiesfromafan]

She’s More Than A Best Friend

A/N: the long awaited part two of Just His Best Friend.

I am sorry it has taken me so long to write and post the follow up, that so many asked for. I struggled with how to write and start this, but every now and then I would get ideas and write it out.

This is shorter then the first part. But good news, I am going to do a third and final part!

Part one was the reader dealing with her feelings and all that. This is about Mattheo, his thoughts and feelings. Part Three will be it all coming out and happy end 😊 unless you dont want a happy ending...🤔😂

Warning/s: a few swear words, angsty, possible speeling/grammar mistakes.

Tag List: @simp-for-love @augiemyers79 @hatakemrs @hisparentsgallerryy @alwayslatetothefandoms @kikilee24 @minghaossv

He’d pushed you into the orbit of Kellen Barlowe. Mattheo knew it, but had hoped whatever happened between you two would have sorted itself out by now. And things would have gone back to how it had always been.

But no. Even though you were still friends, you began to spend more time with Barlowe. It had started out as a quick chat before or after meals, before leading to long study sessions in the library and hanging out with his group of friends.

It anger Mattheo, to the point anyone who he heard gossiping about you and the number one guy he hated, he would hex them. He grew irritated by the friendship you had with Barlowe.

Then he had seen it when crossing one of the courtyards. The both of you sitting under a tree talking away, when Barlowe had the nerve to push some of your hair back behind your ear. You had gotten all shy, while the boy making you blush smiled fondly at you.

Before he could reach for his wand, Theodore put an arm around his friend. Then dragged him away, halting Mattheo's malicious intent. While Lorenzo was walking beside them talking about something pointless, like they were acting normal, no murderous intent present. But all Mattheo saw was red.

Being practically dragged away from preying eyes, Theodore finally let Mattheo go when they reached a secluded area. Mattheo moved around in an angered fit, once freed. He was seething, not only from seeing you with Barlowe, but his two best mates dragging him away and not letting him get some justice.

“W-why did you do that!?” Mattheo roared turning around to glare at his friends. “Could you not see what I saw! Barlowe and (Y/N/N) together! And the audacity he had to push her hair back!”. A frustrated noise then came from his throat.

Theodore and Lorenzo shared a look, something Mattheo did notice and found infuriating. Which only intensified when they turned their gazes back to him. The unsure looks on their faces stunned him for a second, just a second.

“Look, mate...” began Lorenzo, putting on that calm voice he used to defuse the situation. “We get it...you hate Barlowe-”

“I fucking hate him" growled Mattheo.

“-Yeah, fucking hate him. But, you know...did you ever think about (Y/N/N)? How she would take you hexing him?” Lorenzo finished with a soft expression.

For a moment Mattheo stood there, blinking as those words slowly sunk in. How would you take him hexing Barlowe? Would you sit there, understandingly? Would you laugh and cheer him on, that’s what Mattheo hoped for. Would you be upset, and make your friendship more tense...

Taking a deep breath, Mattheo sighed, knowing the answer. “She wouldn’t like it...she’d probably hate me...”

The anger and fire in him diminished. His voice soft, realisation and sadness in his tone. His shoulders even slumping. Both Lorenzo and Theodore could see that their friend finally got it. He couldn’t go to war with Barlowe, or else he’d lose you.

Theodore placed a hand on Mattheo’s shoulder. “You finally get it, don’t you?”

Mattheo nodded. And silence sat between the three for a short while. Lorenzo waited, hoping Mattheo would speak more, open up to them. While Theodore was never one for such sappy moments. He didn’t like seeing his mate like this, but this also wasn’t his forte.

“Come on, let’s go prank some first and second years" Theodore spoke up, wanting to be anywhere else then here, as well as hoping to cheer his friend up by doing something else.

But Mattheo shook his head. “No...not in the moon. You both go...” he said softly, stepping back from his two best mates.

Lorenzo and Theodore shared another look, this one full of concern. But decided to give their friend space. With a few more words shared, both males left Mattheo. Who in turn decided to head back to their dorm room.

He took to deserted halls, less contact with people the better. Only dealing with the murmurs from passing paintings. Then he descended the stairs to the dungeons. Each step down was like descending into his own personal Hell.

Entering the Slytherin common room, he noted students sitting around and chatting away. He didn’t waste time making his way to the dorms, and slipping into him room.

The silence caused his ears to ring. The coolness of the room making the hairs on his arm rise. Sitting on the edge of his bed Mattheo sighed, head in his hands. His mind recalling the courtyard, you and Barlowe, and how sickening you were both together.

The image of him pushing back your hair, you all shy, and Barlowe's damn smile, it made him angry. Yet this time not as murderous. Because Mattheo wouldn’t want to upset you if he hurt the older boy. You probably wouldn’t forgive him, Mattheo knew that.

But it hurt. Seeing you and the one guy he hated so damn much, friends and possibly more. His brain told him to hex Barlowe, even punch him. While his heart said no, dont do it. (Y/N/N) would be upset...

Falling back on his bed, Mattheo let out an irritated groan. He was use to just flying off the handle, starting fights with people. Only for you to be the one to sooth him, to softly chastise him and pull him into line.

This time, if he truly followed his instincts, he could lose you...

“You know one of these days you’re going to pick a fight with the wrong person...” you sighed, cleaning Mattheo's knuckles.

He rolled his eyes and smirked. “So little faith in me (Y/N/N)?"

You rolled your eyes. “I’m just saying...the next guy you fight might actually hurt you" you chastised.

Mattheo laughed. “I’d like to see them try. I’m faster in duels, and can fist fight like a champ”.

You dabbed his wound a little hard, making Mattheo wince from the pressure and antiseptic ointment.

“Oh so tough" you teased.

“I’m the toughest...” pouted Mattheo before smiling. “No matter the fights I get into, you’ll always be here to fix me up, right?”

You nodded your head. “Yes, unfortunately...”

That brief memory came to Mattheo's mind. The words from you both from second year haunting him. For you had been there every time he was scuffed or bruised, to tend to him and chastise him.

But this time, if he fought Barlowe, he knew you wouldn’t be there to fix him up. You’d choose your side, Barlowe's side.

Mattheo sighed as he laid there, looking up at the canopy of his bed. His heart was aching, he felt hopeless. And it was because he knew the truth.

Mattheo Riddle was in love with you.

Apart of him always knew it. But his brain would kill the thoughts. Chalking it up to being a worrying best friend. When it was a way to deny the truth.

And why? Fear. Fear of hurting you, hurting your friendship. Fear of letting someone so close to him, to know the real Mattheo. The Mattheo with such a troubled home life, the darkness within him.

You were pure, a light in darkness. A rare find in a Slytherin, but you were a beacon. And Mattheo knew he could ruin that. Nor did he want too.

So he became a playboy, different girl every few days to a week. Flirting relentlessly, making out with whomever. Never letting anyone closer than arm’s length. Except you, you were half an arm’s length from him, because he wanted you a little closer than the rest.

But look where it’s gotten him. Angry, hurt and scared. Angry because he’d let Barlowe get close to you. Hurt because your friendship was rocky. And scared, because he was losing you...

That beacon of light and hope fading out, bound to leave Mattheo in his darkness.

It’s what I deserve... he told himself. You deserve better.

In that moment Mattheo knew what he had to do. As your best friend he had to swallow his hate for Barlowe, and accept the friendship between you to. And if you ended up with him, Mattheo would be there.

Because he had to let you go. To find what makes you happy. And if it was Kellen Barlowe, Mattheo would support you. As a best friend would. Even if it killed him...

[youdontknowe]

Heyyy this is both my therapy and the reason I need therapy so let’s see how much it hurts or helps this week LMAO

* Ehehe standing in the corner like 🧍

* Not the firebird (tbf it has no headlights)

* 😧 he’d be willing to leave BABY? Now that’s a dean in love

* Dean no you cannot play the I was dead card after using I’m on a timer card

* Lol sleepy girly is not waking up yet

* Awh her brain finally processing that he’s back

* lol Bobby always has someone to chew out on their dumb shit

* lol every time skip from sam is just ‘did you get bigger?’

* Ooooo enochian? That is awesome (cue cas and her sharing secret notes to shit talk)

* lol poor sam will never get to know his hair looks good

* I like the detail In translation doesn’t always quite work even if it’s psychological

* Ehehe if I remember correctly she was also compared to a cat (don’t quote me my memory isn’t grand)

* Uhoh I forgot about the whole Sam’s got a problem because of ruby

* I always like how you explain bobbys soul cus it fits his character so well!! Cus of course he’d be something solid cus he’s about the only solid thing for his kids (the boys ain’t johns kids in anything by name in my mind)

* Ooooo Mayhaps they’re like that because chuck has like them as like the most detailed characters? I dunno I could be talking crap

* Pfff dean catching sass off castiel

* Bros doing a lot of bending rules for an angel

* Lmao he doesn’t care she can’t be smited doesn’t even question it he just relaxed like ‘oh thank god(chuck?) that I don’t have to worry about that too’

* By far the most frustrating (in a good way) part of your slow burns is nones allowed to say I love you before like at minimum half way through the fic

* It’s on sight with ruby. She’s catching hands and a magic woodchopper

* Girls trip!! (They’re going to kill something but that’s what really makes a girls trip right?)

* Yesss dragon hoarding gold analogy 10/10

* Lmao at least she’s aware and not ruining Jo’s breakfast with the icky details

* Jo is now getting official little sister shit card for princess

* Lmao “I can see souls, Jo.” I read that in the most deadpan way

* In giggling so hard Jo is just throwing any and all teasing comments about dean whenever she can

* Woohoo Jo your so smart! Really taking after her mentor

* Dean saying please is literally just the magic word to get her to agree to something

* The fact it’s widely known deans obsessed is so funny and yes I agree with Jo I would marry a man who drove from the falls to Texas for me cus I googled it and that’s a minimum 15 hour drive 💀 (America is scary big wtf)

* Damn bro was fast as fuck to get there! He was totally like literally just entering the area and called to get where she was lmao

* Bobby having a topic he will rant for ages about is so dad canon

* Hehehe sleepover ritual is so cute but the image of dean in a face mask - PRICELESS

* Sam being fed up of Dean part 2329473

* I think my favourite little scenes are Dean quietly threatening people whenever princess is asleep on or next to him

* Yk it’s cool to think of like an alternate reality where she IS maybe a bit evil and wants something really big bad to go down and how unstoppable both her and Dean could be, just because he’d do anything for her and it’d be even worse if she guaranteed Sam and people he cares about safe during it

* Sad nightmares :(

* Bro has NO issues getting on his knees for her at any time and I’m living for it. Give me more men on their knees for their girls

* YES more dress content cus she’s rocking silk

* It’s never good when someone gets a bad feeling oh no I’m nervous

* Oh bloody hell it’s a disaster

* OH I like that we’re getting deans pov on what she looks like using her powers

* And back to the shitshow this hunt has become

* I love deans pov in all this it really secures the, chaos- omg she’s so pretty i would die for her- oh shit more chaos

* What’s happening oh no

* I’m panicking people I’m panicking

* OMG IS IT HAPPENING

* ITS HAPPENING AHHHHHH THEY SMOOCHIN

* Shit that was a tasty make out scene

* Lmao that must have been the single most victorious and awkward few minutes for Jo

* Magdalene is a cool asf name

* Ooooooo I love the history lessons and lore drops so much it’s amazing

* Yeah cas bad bad timing but tbf this is probably the best for Dean cus he’s got less things to worry about her hating him for

* Do we get more smoochin action next week? Pretty please

* End note: Dean really needs one of those shiny shock blankets they give out from ambulances n stuff. Hes really just gonna be sitting for weeks trying to wrap his head around the fact she’s seen all that in hell and STILL sticks to him. I love them so much

* It took a a little longer to read this week but I really enjoyed it 💙 im so excited we get to maybe see more physical affection from here cuz it’s finally happeningggg

Chapter 18 - You Can Start to Make It Better

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Return of the swaggy Monster of the Week cases.

Chapter Title from Hey Jude by The Beatles

Word Count: 17.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You go home, and try to get back into a rhythm. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 17 - Chapter 19

Read on A03!

You have rules.

If you’re going to love Dean, you have to have rules.

To keep yourself sane, and to keep Dean safe.

To ensure that your priority can be making sure Dean stays alive. You can never, ever fail him again, because now that you have him, it will take a biblical tragedy to make you lose him again.

So you have rules.

The first rule comes before the drive home. You stay the night in Texas, but neither of you really sleep. For Dean, it’s so the stiches can set, and for you, it’s so you can feel Dean’s arms around you and hear his heartbeat near your ear, his hand splayed gently over your stomach to monitor the stitches. Then, before the dawn has even fully broken the sky, you go.

Together.

Dean asked you not to run, so now you means you and Dean, together.

He goes to pick you up some non-bloodstained clothing—you’d slept in his shirt, and you’d both silently agreed not to talk about it—as you get the coffee, and when you start to change he takes a tall, rigid stance facing the door. It’s almost adorable, how he’s fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket and glowering at the walls. Like he’s somehow trying to preserve your modesty.

“We’re taking my car.” Dean mutters, and you freeze with one leg in the sweatpants.

“Dean, I’m not just leaving the Firebird.“

“Yeah, you are.”

“You gave me that car-“

“I’ll send Sammy back for it.” He snaps. “He’ll bus down and drive it back up, and you’ll stay with me.”

You roll your eyes, standing up straight as you finish with the sweats. “You never let Sam drive Baby, why is my car different-“

“Because.” Dean grunts, shooting you a glare as you shuffle over to his side. “I am not letting you drive back to Sioux Falls by yourself after you just got fucking shot, Princess. We’re leaving the Firebird.”

“You can be really dramatic, Deano, you know that?”

His lips twitch slightly. “It’s not dramatic to make sure you don’t bleed out somewhere in Oklahoma, Princess.”

“See, you sound dramatic-“

“And you’re not driving yourself home. Give it up.”

You pout up at him, putting on your best, innocent, sweet expression. “But my car, De. Please-“

“I don’t give a shit about your car.” He grumbles, and that breaks you in a second.

You could see the clench of his jaw and fists, hear the resolve in his voice, and this wasn’t a fight you were going to win. If Dean is valuing you over the car, you’d lost before the conversation even started.

It wasn’t like you really cared either way. If it were up to you, you’d climb onto Dean’s body and never be peeled away from him again.

“What about your car?” You hum, just to selfishly press a little further, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“If that’s what it’s gonna take to get your ass back home, we’ll take the freakin’ Firebird instead. But,” he narrows his eyes at you. “I’m driving, and you’re resting, and that’s it.”

You stare at him, and it creeps right up to the edge of your tongue. You love him. So much. Desperately and eternally, because he cares. More than anyone. All the time. You’ve seen him almost shoot people for looking at the Impala wrong, he’s willing to leave it in fucking Texas for you, and you can see how serious he is in his Gold—solid and burning in his body—and you love him-

“Dean, you don’t need to-“

“I do.” He grumbles, starting to herd you out the door. “I’ll carry you home on fucking foot, if I have to. You’re more important-“

“Than a car?!” 

Dean shoots you a glare, you offer him a soft, teasing smile, and he sighs. “And you’ve got the nerve to call me dramatic.”

“Bold words from the man who just said he’d carry me home on foot.” You hum, and Dean finally grins.

Wide and pretty and unrestrained, staring at you in the breaching light of the morning that’s somehow less golden than he is, and here. Alive.

Not yours, but with you. 

And you love him. 

“I missed you, Princess.” He mutters, and it’s a good thing you’re already half-pressed into his side. Otherwise, you would’ve fallen over.

“I missed you too,” you whisper, and Dean’s grin is beautiful, and there’s the first rule.

This can’t be about you. He’s too pretty and magnetic and Golden, and you love him, but if you’re going to keep loving him it can’t be about you.

“We can take Baby.” You mumble. “I- That was nice, though.”

“No problem.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, and you could swear there was a slight redness to his cheeks before he looked away. “I, uh- Yeah. C’mon.”

Dean half carries you to the car, because he’s an amazing idiot who really seems to think that if he takes his hand off your body for a second, you’ll vanish into thin air.

You understand the sentiment. It’s the same reason that, when you stop for gas after a few hours and he tells you to stay in the car, you shake your head and start to open the door.

“What are you-“

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, I told you to stay-“

“You’re not the boss of me.” You mutter, twisting to glare at him when his arm crosses your chest, pinning you to the seat. “I want a shitty gas station donut, Winchester. Let me go.”

He doesn’t move. “I’ll get you one, sweetheart, just stay-“

“Listen to me.” You snap, leaning forward with a scowl. “If you don’t let me out, I am going to break out, stab you, and sit on you while I eat my donut.”

Dean’s eyes widen slightly, and a small smirk creeps onto his face. “Bossy, Princess.”

“Dean Winchester-“

“Chill out,” he drawls your name, his arm moving back and leaving an almost whining depression where he’d been touching you before. “I’m not looking to get stabbed today, you can get your own freakin’ donut.”

You smile at him in triumph, Dean snorts and shakes his head, and you really don’t give a fuck about the donut. You care about Dean, guiding you inside with a hand on your lower back, muttering low jokes in your ear as you wait in the shockingly long line, and grinning at you like there’s nobody else in the world.

Dean plays his music too loud in the car on the drive back, trying to get you to sing along and pouting whenever you refuse.

“You know, this isn’t very nice,” he grumbles after the fifth attempt. “I just came back from the dead, Princess, the least you could do is sing for me.”

You shoot him glare, the Silver whining in your body at the reminder. “The I was dead card isn’t going to work on me, Deano. I don’t think it’s funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” He shrugs. “C’mon. I think I’m making it work.”

“You’re not.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and Dean drops it like that.

You don’t know if he gets it. The toll his death took on you. And you’re going to do everything in your power to ensure he never knows—that’s just another burden you don’t want him to carry—but there are things you can’t keep him from seeing. 

How you get quiet whenever he mentions it, because the numb feeling of nothing, Dean’s gone so there’s nothing, washes back over your body. The fact that you know you don’t look healthy, because even with the Silver humming once more in your body, you still have bruises from malnutrition and rashes on your wrists from where Ketch tied you up. There’s a gaunt quality to your skin that wasn’t there when he last saw you, and you might not be trying to force the Silver down anymore, but the habit of picking your skin raw is too deeply ingrained to go away.

You have gotten better at the healing, over the past four months. But the weakness from being held captive hasn’t faded away, and it means that you’re too tired to do most anything but rest, and talk to Dean.

You can always talk to Dean. 

He’s keeping his voice softer than usual. Almost gentle, as your eyelids start to droop, and his word fade in and out of your head.

“I’m gonna pull over.” He mutters after another few hours. “Check your stitches.”

You hum, and don’t bother to do anything but wait for Dean to park the car and move so he’s kneeling on the grass before you, then let him maneuver your body, so your stomach is under the flashlight in his mouth.

All your effort goes into trying not to moan, when his fingers brush over your skin. Warm and broad and calloused, so careful when they touch you, like you’re something that could possibly be broken.

You don’t care if the Sky sees this. If it hates it, or doesn’t care because Dean’s keeping you safe and alive. 

You’re for Dean. Nothing and no one else. He’s the one who sits you up carefully and presses a kiss to your brow, before making you drink water and settling you upright once more. Dean is the only person in the universe who, when he scoots back into the driver’s seat and slings his arm around your shoulders, you’d ever even consider leaning into.

Sleep comes easy and peaceful, on Dean’s shoulder, the music humming softly in the background and the Silver flowing softly through the world as Dean drives you home.

It’s twilight, when he wakes you up. Everything is cast in deep shades of blue, and the shadows have grown a little longer in the night, but there’s no pain or fear in your body at all.

It’s all still technicolor. 

Dean’s still here.

And you’re curled right into his side, and you can hear his heartbeat, and everything is okay.

“You wanna go right to bed?” He mutters in your ear, and you blink up at him as sleep lingers over your brain.

“Huh?”

Dean huffs a soft laugh, looking at you with an odd gentleness you don’t understand, but are going to cling to for the rest of your life.

“De, I-“ You cut yourself off with a yawn, burrowing yourself a little further into his side because he’s warm and alive and you’re too tired to stop yourself. “What’s happening?”

“We’re back at Bobby’s, Princess.” Dean watches you carefully, his voice still so strongly low and soft. “And Sammy told me they’d wait up, if you wanted, but if you wanna go to bed, we can sleep in your room, or the room I’ve been using. If you, uh, if you want me in the bed, obviously. We can separate and I can take the couch if you want my room-“

You shake your head, moving your hand to press over Dean’s mouth. 

He blinks at you, and you only stare at him through a slight daze.

“Slow down, Deano, you’re talking so fast.” Your voice sounds whiny to your own ears, but Dean doesn’t really look like he cares, and you’re so tired. “‘M tired, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Dean grabs your hand and slowly lowers it down, his eyes dancing with a soft light. “You’re tired, sweetheart?”

You nod, dropping your head to his shoulder, and he lets out a low chuckle that rolls through your body. 

“Alright, you’re doing bed then.”

You frown against his body. “What’s doing bed mean.”

“Means you’re acting like you’re freakin’ drunk, ba- Princess.” Dean starts to shift you around until you might be in his lap—the world is all blurry color and Dean, so you can’t really tell—and sighs in your ear. “So Sam and Bobby will just have to wait till morning.”

“Sam and Bobby. Where are-” Your words die as you lean back, and Dean’s face is right there. A breath from yours, and pretty, and there’s so much life in his eyes—all beautiful and so focused on you—that you almost burst into tears.

“Wait, shit-“ Dean grabs your face with one hand, the other keeping you steady by your waist, and that’s enough. Your eyes start to sting, and a weak noise leaves your chest as the Silver pours out into the world.

You’re the easy wind outside the car, the gentle comfort of the Impala—warm and filled with love from Dean’s care—and the soft hope of a lightbulb outside, covered in moths and flickering but still holding out to draw something else into its light. 

You’re not Dean, but you’re curled right against him, and when your eyes flick down to your hands they’re covered in gold, and Dean-

“Fuck, Princess, don’t cry- It’s- I didn’t mean to- Oof-“

You tackle your body fully into his, somehow finding force without movement, and Dean’s arms wrap tight around you in half a second as you sob.

“You died.” Your hands fist against his shirt, and there’s too much dizzy, sleepy fog over your brain for you to do anything else but sob and hold onto Dean. “You- you were gone, and you died, and I couldn’t- I tried but I couldn’t- And you- You were in Hell, and I didn’t-“

You cut yourself off with another strangled sound, and Dean’s hand starts to stroke through your hair.

“I know. But I’m good now.” he mutters in your ear, and it’s soothing. Like a lullaby that’s a little more. A promise. “I know, Princess I do, but you’re okay. We’re gonna get you to bed, sweetheart, you’re real tired and it’s- It’s okay.”

Dean pries you off his chest as you continue to sniffle, his thumb presses to the bridge of your nose, and it’s like a spell. 

The Silver eases back into your body, and you’re out. 

When you wake up, sunlight is filtering through the room. Your room.

You’re back in your own room.

It hasn’t really changed. Bobby seems to have cleaned up all your notes from the floor, and the sheets are fresh and changed, but everything else is as you left it, save for a slight coat of dust.

And Dean.

The last time you’d slept in this room, Dean had been at your side, but he’s not here now.

The only thing that keeps the Silver from bursting out of your body and ripping through the world to find him is the Gold. Bright and strong and covering your whole room, imprinted on the mattress and all across your clothing, a soft lining of it on the door knob and over the carpet. 

Dean is alive. The Spiderweb is soft and iridescent in your body, so he’s still alive, and he’d been here because only Dean is Golden like that.

It wasn’t just a cruel nightmare or trick of your mind, that he’d come to get you, and-

Oh, fuck.

You’re not tired now, but god, you had been when you got home, and you’d fallen apart from nothing at all. Fragile and uncontrolled and sobbing into Dean’s arms when he was the one who fucking died.

And he’d held you, but you’d been far too close. If he hadn’t somehow eased you to sleep, you probably mumbled that you loved him, in your exhaustion. And he had so many other things to worry about, all far more important than you. Dean shouldn’t be responsible for soothing you whenever you lose your fucking mind-

But he had. Because he was amazing, and Dean, and has always had you  when you lost your fucking mind.

You love him.

Second rule.

You can’t overindulge yourself.

If Dean volunteers to care for you, you’ll take it because you’ll never have enough will to not. But you can never ask for more, when he already gives so much. If you ask for more and he gives it, that won’t be love. It will be selfishness, and greed, and the monster in you hoarding him like the gold he is because you love him, and nothing should ever touch him again. 

Instead you’ll be his beast. Snarling and marching in front of him and taking whatever scraps he throws to you. If Dean asks to keep sleeping in your bed, there’s no world where you say no. If he wants to carry you around and stitches up your wounds and hug you in his lap, you’ll keep pressing your face to his shoulder and drowning yourself in his Gold until he either shoves you away, or you start to infect him and you have to put yourself down.

Castiel said you’d already infected him. That you’d embedded yourself in him.

He’d seemed fine. There were all those new parts of the Gold, and the way that the rivers of Silver were glowing and secured through his body, but if that was what Castiel had been talking about, Dean didn’t seem to be fighting it or rejecting it from his soul. 

That could be part of the no overindulging. What you’d planted in Dean seems to have grown roots, and there was no taking that back, but it ends there. With the only exception of saving his life, the Silver will never touch him again. Especially with how little control over it you still have.

When you see Castiel again, you’ll have to ask him what he knows about souls. He’s the first other not-person you’ve met who ca see them. 

As your brain starts to fully kick back into its normal gear—devoid of weeks without sleep and months of being plagued by Dean’s voice on the wind—it hits you that you really need to talk to Castiel again. He’s a fucking angel. Angels are real, and one had saved Dean, and all the Hell dreams were real too, which has to mean something, but you don’t know what, and Castiel hadn’t seemed to know what either, but he was an angel, so he has to know something-

One thing at a time. 

Too much is happening, and you’ll get through it—you always do—but you still had to go one thing at a time.

And you’re home.

You shuffle out of the bedroom on silent feet, and you can hear them before you can see them.

“I still don’t know why I have to go to Texas.” Sam’s voice mutters from the kitchen. “You’re the one who made her leave her car there-“

“She’d been bleeding out, Sammy, I wasn’t gonna just let her fucking drive-“

“But-“

“Sam.” Bobby’s voice grunts, and you can hear the exhaustion in it. You can’t really tell if the gnawing feeling in your gut is guilt of relief. “I’m with Dean on this one.”

“Thank you, Bobby-“

“Not cause you made the right call, ya’ idjit.” Bobby snaps, and you can very easily picture Dean’s dejected puppy look. “If you’d used your fuckin’ brain, you wouldn’t have taken off the moment Cas found her, and one of us coulda driven it back behind you.”

“But, uh, I still did the right thing with the stitches and driving-“

“Stop fishin’ for compliments. You’re lucky I don’t shoot you for only callin’ us two hours before you got back.”

“I was busy,” Dean mutters, Sam snorts, and you finally turn into the kitchen. 

Dean sees you first, but Bobby’s close behind, and once they’re both staring at you, Sam follows their gaze with wide eyes.

“Hi.” You mumble, keeping one hand on the doorframe to steady yourself. “I- uh- sorry.”

It’s all you can think of to say.

And it turns out it’s all you need, because the words hang in the air for a fraction of a second before Bobby’s marching across the room and you’re pulled into a long firm hug.

You hug him back without a thought, and his grip tightens. You can almost feel all of Bobby’s anger and stress and relief pressing into your body, and you’ve been a really shitty daughter but he’s still hugging you, and there’s no urge to let go.

It’s the same way he’d hug you when you were a kid. When you’d make the house go haywire, then curl into a corner and cry for hours. The hug that meant, even though you’d made a huge mess for him to clean up, Bobby was just glad you hadn’t killed yourself in the process. 

And you hadn’t.

But when Bobby speaks, his voice is still gruff.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ do that to me again, kiddo.” He mutters, low enough for only you to hear, and he knows you don’t need to hear the rest of the lecture. About how you damn near killed him, and he doesn’t need to lose you and Dean, so next time you should just come home. You can feel it all in his hug, and that’s enough.

“I won’t.” You whisper, squeezing him a little tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bobby pulls back, scanning over you with a tight frown. “You gonna tell us what had you off the face of the damn earth and needin’ stitches?”

You nod, rubbing your wrists as you speak. “I will later.” You lean around Bobby to see Sam still gaping at you from his chair. “Hi, Sam.”

Sam pushes out of his chair without another word, and Bobby barely side-steps him before you’re in another death-gripping hug, Sam almost crushing you into his body.

“Did you get bigger?” You mutter into his chest, and Sam snorts.

“I’ve had a weird seven months.” 

“Ah.” You lean back, and Sam stares down at you, but doesn’t let go. “Same.”

He swallows, and something flashes over his face that you don’t understand. “I, um- I’m sorry I didn’t look for you. Dean was gone, and I knew you’d take it worse than anyone, and you were kind of all I had left of him, so I really should’ve tried harder-“

“Sam.” You offer him a soft smile. “It’s okay. I didn’t make myself an easy person to find.”

He nods, taking a slow step back, and Dean clears his throat.

“Can I have a hug too, Princess?”

You give him a flat look. “I’ve hugged you three times already.”

“Yeah, but I also drove you home, I think that’s earning me another one-“

“I’m not running a hug-based economy, Winchester, they’re fucking free-“

Dean almost crashes into you, and you hadn’t realized how different Dean hugging you really was until you felt them all back-to-back. 

Sam and Bobby had been firm, and almost strangling, but they hadn’t been trying to move you into their body. They hadn’t rested their chin on the top of your head, or moved your face to press into their necks, and you hadn’t tilted your head to try and hear their heartbeats. 

Sam and Bobby had stepped back, after the socially allotted amount of time.

Even after Sam lets out a very loud cough, Dean still squeezes you one last time, and keeps his hand between your shoulder blades as he moves away.

That wasn’t overindulging. Dean had hugged you, and you’d only responded to the pace he’d set. You’d sunken a little further down, down, down into Dean because he’d given you to chance, and you’d curled your fingers at the nape of his neck because the situation called for it.

Still, you have to set another two rules.

Third, you can’t let it show on your face, where Sam and Bobby and anyone else who knows where to look can see. When Dean keeps talking—and he’s right next you, and you love him, and he’s so pretty—you can’t just stare at him with a stupid smile and soft, adoring eyes. It has to be business as usual, no matter what, where you love Dean and it’s kept locked in the Spiderweb.

Fourth, you can’t let it affect work. At all. You have to fucking pay attention as they fill you in on the seals, heaven and Lilith, some guy named Chuck wrote those books, and a girl named Anna who’s now a missing angel.

“Oh, wait, get this.” Sam leans forward, his eyes wide on yours. “Where’s the Blade and your book, there’s-“

You cut Sam off with a long sigh. “I lost them.” 

“You- How?”

“Hunters.” You mutter, twisting the skin on your finger, and Dean’s eyes narrow.

“You got a clue where they are, Princess?”

“Yes.”

Dean opens his mouth to push it, but Sam cuts him off before he gets the chance.

“Well, alright, Dean says you can write in the language too-“

You frown. “What language?”

“Cas and Uriel called it Enochian.” Dean mutters, running his hand over his face. “Angel language.”

“Angel what?”

“You heard him, kiddo.” Bobby shrugs at you, and you must still be clouded with sleep, because there’s no fucking way-

“I speak angel?”

“Yeah, but,” Sam sighs, frowning at the air. “We don’t know why, so if you’ve got something-“

You shake your head. “I’m not an angel, Sam, if that’s where you’re-“

“It’s not. Anna was a secret angel, and that was worked out in a month.” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s gotten really long, but—and he’ll never get to hear this—it suits him. “It’s just better than nothing, right? Did you find anything new on, you know…”

You huff a soft laugh as Sam trails off. “Yeah, I know. And sort of. It’s- I was sort of visiting a bunch of witches-“

Dean pushed off the counter with wide eyes. “You were what-“

“Calm down, Deano.” You give him a firm look, and he scowls, but shuts his mouth. “None of them hurt me. They all treated me like I was some sort of royalty. It was really fucking weird.”

Dean frowns, opening his mouth to say something that’s likely going to be adorable and unhelpful, but Bobby beats him to the punch.

“They give you anythin’ to go off of? If they were treatin’ you like that, they had to know somethin’-“

You shake your head with a long sigh. “They didn’t have a fucking clue either. One older one, like really old, said the name for what I was is lost, but-“ Your eyes widen. “Fuck.”

“What-“

You shake your head, and Sam cuts himself off as you stare ahead into nothing and rub your wrists, letting your brain turn over the chance. It’s lining up, and it’s less than a gamble and more of a risk, but there’s no fucking way it’s that easy-

Dean says your name in a low, careful voice. “What are you thinking?”

“You remember how I thought the soulweapons were solemn oath weapons? And you told me that solemn oath means soul?” You run your thumb against your palm, and Dean nods. “I thought that was just, you know, whoever wrote it being weird or something. But if it really is a different language-“

“It is.” Sam mumbles, and you sigh. 

“Okay, but that means I’ve been translating in my head for some fucking reason, and what if I’ve been mistranslating other words like that?”

Sam frowns. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve been makin’ them literal.” Bobby grunts, giving you a small smile and nod, and you stand a little taller. “You thinkin’ of another word you need worked out?”

“Yeah.” You swallow. “Are you guys still kind of fighting with Castiel, or is he going to take a, uh, prayer?”

“He’ll take it if we say we’ve got something interesting. He’s nosy.” Dean starts to guide you to the table. “He’s kinda like a cat. Comes and goes. You’ll like him.”

You give Dean a sweet smile, biting down the words that you already met him, and he did seem a little like a cat. It’s not a lie. It’s an omission.

And that’s bad within itself, but at least until you see Castiel again—and he gets real fucking specific about what the angels have been waiting for means—you’ll have to keep omitting. 

Even if Dean pulls out a chair and helps you into your seat, and the Silver twists because there’s still some muss in his hair from sleep, and he’s still touching you, and you love him.

“I can walk myself, you know.” You raise your brows at him, and he shrugs, dropping in the seat between you and Sam.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Princess.”

“We both know you won’t-“

“Sammy, can we have some paper?” Sam passes Dean a sheet from his notebook, and it’s slid in front of you with a pen.

You blink at Dean, and he sighs, grabbing the pen and moving it into your hands.

“Write down what you want Cas to look at.” He mutters, tapping the paper. “So when we call him, we’ve got something to show him.”

“Oh.” You whisper, glancing down to the paper. “Right. Smart.”

You could swear Dean sits a little taller, his face breaking out in an even wider grin, and the rest of breakfast slides by fast. You do some loose, more pointless catchup about the past months—Sam found some new books he can show you, Bobby’s being a butthead and won’t tell you if he’s been dating, and Dean won’t stop reminding Sam that he needs to get moving to Texas soon—and for long, beautiful seconds, it’s hard to remember that you were gone at all.

But there’s evidence. Proof only you can see that you’ve change. That you’ve all changed.

Dean’s soul is still Golden, even if parts of it are to clearly new and molten from being mended, and Bobby’s soul is still green—although a little more worn, which is going to keep eating at your stomach—but Sam is…

Different. 

There’s more red, even when you give him a quick glance. It’s like blood seeping over his softer tissue and bone, and there’s certainly far less blue to his purple than before. It looks a little like an infection. It’s raw and malignant the same way the Darkness was, and the Silver doesn’t like it. It’s still setting off and keening to spread out over you in an almost chemical reaction. To burst and bubble and flow until all the red is gone, because it’s wrong.

You can’t really think of a good way to mention that to Sam. You’ve never told someone that their soul looks infected before. 

A problem for a later.

Because right now, as you finish up with the word—it takes longer than you’d like, but you’ve never tried to write in Enochian, and it takes an odd amount of effort to separate it in your brain—and you take the time to look at their souls fully, you see it.

Bobby’s soul is firm and pact, like the soil of the ground. Unwavering and firm, but not cold like stone. 

But Sam and Dean aren’t anything you’ve ever seen.

You’d noticed it, when Dean found you, but you’d been tired and chalked it up to exhaustion. Yet you’ve slept, and you’re looking with the intent of seeing, and they’re not anything.

Or they’re everything.

You can’t really tell.

But whatever they’re made of, it’s the same. It’s all light and shadow, shifting and turning like a star inside of them, and almost pure looking. Like it’s raw, but still made from something old. 

You can’t stare. If you stare, they’ll ask questions that you don’t have an answer for. Whatever it is, they’ve been made of it their whole lives, so it’s not another change.

And the changes all fit themselves—except for Sam’s, you’re a little worried about him—but they also still fit each other. You can see that too. How Sam’s soul is running with wisps of Bobby’s green, deeper coatings of gold that look a little like stitches over the redness, and a thin layer of silver that’s flowing through and off of him without leaving any scratches. The marks of silver are on Bobby as well, although a little brighter and further into the muscle of his soul, and then Dean-

Embedded.

You’re embedded in Dean. The rivers of silver as refracting with rainbow and have been almost buried in the Gold, and that’s what Castiel meant.

You don’t get to ask him about it when he arrives.

The introduction is quick. Dean says your name, Castiel—Cas is quicker, and suits him a little better—gives you a short nod, and you both stare at each other for a long second as Dean keeps talking. 

“We just need you to take a look at it.” He taps the paper, and Cas’ eyes flick away from yours, down to the paper.

“That is it?”

You nod, glancing down to the words. Word. When you’ve focused on writing it in Enochian, it’s obviously one word, no matter how it keeps shifting off the paper into four. “I, uh, I might have been giving it a literal translation, because nobody ever actually taught me what I was writing. I didn’t even know I was writing in a different language.”

“Enochian is… very old and complex.” Cas mutters, moving to frown down at the paper. “I do recognize this word, but I’m afraid I don’t know what it means.”

Dean frowns. “How can you not know what it means, it’s your freakin’ magic language-“

“Do you know every word in the English dictionary, Dean?” Cas gives him a bored, pointed look, and you have to cover your mouth to hide your giggle.

“No.” He grumbles, shooting you a glare. “And you’re supposed to be on my side, Princess.“

“I am.” You shrug. “But that was funny.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and Cas keeps staring down at the paper.

"There are some things I will have to check before I give you an answer." Cas turns to look at you, his words slow and cautious. "But I warn you, what I find may not be what you wish to hear."

"As long as it's something." You mutter, leaning back in your chair. "I really don't give a fuck what."

It's a few more minutes where Cas lingers in the kitchen, talking about some new seal Lilith is trying to break, and telling you that—wherever he has to look for the direct translation of your word—it may take him a few weeks to do it undetected.

"Won't the angels want us to figure it out?" Sam asks, frowning down at your paper. "I mean, you told Dean that not even you guys really know-"

"None of my siblings within my rank know." Cas corrects, shaking his head. "It is not information that has been deemed necessary. Our only orders are to keep out of it.”

"Then what's got you suddenly all in on helping her?" Dean raises his brows, and Cas shrugs.

"I am... curious. My brothers and sisters are dying, and if this is what I think it may be-“ Cas sighs. “I am willing to bend things. For this alone. And as long as we are careful, and the seal is dealt with-"

"Your big bosses won't be all pissed.” Dean finishes, running a hand over his face. "I dunno, Cas, that douchebag at Chuck's didn't seem too flexible about things."

"Aw." You give Dean a soft, teasing smile before Cas has to respond. "You're worried about him getting in trouble."

Dean scowls. "Yeah, because they'll freakin' smite him or something, Princess. Then maybe try to get you too-"

"They cannot smite her.” Cas shrugs. “They’ve been very clear about that. It would not be effective.” 

You swallow, but Dean relaxes. That opens up a million more questions, but Dean lets out a slow breath and presses his knee further into yours, and you almost say it again. 

And you know that there has to be a last rule. 

It’s most important of all. 

You can never say it aloud. 

It won’t bring Dean anything but more danger. More grief. Everything is only growing more and more complicated, and telling Dean you love him will only be cruel to you both. Telling someone else will force them to keep your secret, and that’s selfish. 

It will have to live in your head. Where only you can hear. Not even the mirror can know, because the Sky might be listening, and you never want it to touch Dean. 

You love him. 

You’re going to have to find a way to tell yourself that in more silence, because it’s not helpful to repeat. You’re aware. It’s a given. You love Dean.

And you don’t know how you convince him to go without you for the seal case. It’s a lot of promises of phone calls and check-ins, plus the fact that Ruby’s going to be there, and Sam is—rightfully—under the impression that you’ll kill the moment you see her.

“She left me at the gas station. She’s the reason I didn’t get to Dean on time.” You hiss to Sam—Dean, Cas, and Bobby wrapping up in the kitchen—and he sighs.

“She got kicked out of her vessel by Lilith.” He mutters your name, and you scoff. 

You don’t believe him. 

More accurately, you don’t believe what Ruby’s told him. 

But it’s still the right call to sit out the seal case. The angels are still hunting you. Cas is likely risking a fair amount by looking into the Enochian, and it’s better not to draw attention while things are still so fragile. You lie low at Bobby’s for a few days while Sam gets the Firebird, and you keep to your rules. Dean sleeps in your bed, but you only hold him when he holds you first. He hovers at your side like your stitches may rip open if you breathe wrong, and you keep your glances at him measured and controlled, your flush under complete control.

When Jo calls you with a case—bunch of deaths at an opera house, sounding like a lich—you agree to it in a second.

It doesn’t matter how the Silver howls at the idea of leaving Dean’s side. It can’t affect work, and you miss Jo, so even as Dean glowers at you when you hang up, you’re going to go on that hunt.

“I can’t just sit here, De.” You mutter before he can even open his mouth. “Cas said it could take a week, and if the angels are looking for me I shouldn’t be doing the seals-“

“You safer here.” He cuts you off with a grunt. “There are wards, and Bobby can watch you-“

“I don’t need watching. And you don’t get to fucking bench me-“

“I’m not- Son of a bitch.” Dean lets out a long breath, leaning forward and holding your gaze. “Just come with us. I really don’t give a shit if you kill Ruby, I’m all for it, but you just got back-“

“Dean.” You sigh, keeping your tone soft. “I’m not leaving. You and Sam will work the seal, and I’ll be with Jo the whole time.”

“But-“

“She asked me to help. I’m going to. And,” you give him a pointed look. “You can’t stop me. You can either go with Sam, or come on this case with me, but you’re not keeping me here.”

“Bossy.” Dean mutters, and you’ve won.

You want to lean forward and kiss him—at least on the cheek as a thanks—but that would be overindulging. 

Sam’s back by that night, and when the morning comes, you split up once more.

“Call me if it goes south.” Dean mutters your name as you stand in front of the Impala, Sam already in the passenger’s seat.

“It won’t. I know what I’m doing, Winchester-“

“Yeah, I know, just-“ He sighs. “You heading out to New York?”

“Boston.” You correct. “Citizen’s Opera House. We’ll be fine, and you guys can join us if you finish first.”

Dean gives a tight nod and, right before he turns to climb into the Impala, he whips around and pulls you right back into a crushing hug.

You hug him back without a thought, and it’s not breaking a rule. He hugged you. 

“Come with us.” He mutters in your ear. “Fuck the angels and Ruby, it’s safer together-“

“Not for this, De.” You force yourself to peel back, giving him a soft, sad smile. “And I’ll be with Jo. She’ll have a gun.”

Dean’s mouth twitches slightly. You’ll take it.

He presses a kiss to your brow before he takes off, and you really are a monster. A dragon. Taking every bit of Gold Dean gives you and only craving more. You can’t let it show on your face, but he’s driving away, and you want him to turn around. 

He looks back. You see him glancing in the rearview mirror, and it’s all you can do to keep the Silver in your body as he vanishes down the road.

He’ll be fine. Sam won’t let him get hurt, won’t let him be taken away from you, even if Ruby’s there. And you did miss Jo—grinning at you from the motel sidewalk as you pull into the parking lot—but this might have been a mistake.

Because more than anyone, you want to tell Jo. 

The biggest point of the case—at least to you—is to mimic some normalcy. Sam and Dean are trying to stop Lilith from something to do with flowers blooming at night, and if you can’t be with them, you can’t just do nothing. And lich are easy—up until the very end—so most of the case can just be you and Jo talking, like nothing in the world is wrong at all.

“It’s like a scavenger hunt.” You tell her over breakfast, flipping through the evidence she’s already found. “It’ll have a bunch of artifacts it’s tethered its lifeforce to, and once we burn all of those, we find the lich and burn it.”

Jo frowns. “Will it be easy to tell? If it’s a magic corpse?”

“It can illusion itself.” You shrug. “But it’ll just be an illusion, so-“ You pause, glancing down at Jo’s eggs. “I’ll tell you later.”

She grimaces. “It’s gonna be real freakin’ gross, isn’t it.”

“I think it’ll be better if I don’t answer that.”

“Great.” Jo sighs, poking at her plate with her fork. “Ya know, I didn’t think Dean was gonna just let you go off alone.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say nothin’-“

“Yeah, but I know where you’re going with it.”

“What?” Jo gives you a mockingly innocent smile. “That you two should save us all and start suckin’ face- Shit!”

You laugh as she barely manages to doge one of your apple slices, aim right at her head. 

“Fuckin’- I just did my hair-“

“Well I warned you.” You stick out your tongue, a wide grin still splitting your face. “I told you to shut up, and you didn’t.”

“You just don’t want to hear the truth-“

“Because it’s not the truth.”

“God, you’re fuckin’ stupid for the smartest person I know.”

You scowl. “Hey-“

Jo cuts you off with raised brows. “How many times Dean called you, since you guys split up?”

You flush, and do the smart and mature thing.

Ignore her.

But it still scratches at your tongue. You want to tell Jo. To lean forward and whisper that you love Dean, like it’s not something complicated. Like you’re just two girls in your twenties, eating greasy diner food and gossiping about crushes and other pointless, normal things.

You’re not, though. The very next thing you do is grab your knife and a set of matches, then get in the car to go kill a magic corpse. 

The first day really is just a scavenger hunt.

“This place is freakin’ fancy,” Jo mutters in your ear, adjusting the black cap on her head, and you hum in agreement.

“Just act like you belong.” You whisper, scanning over the lobby. “We’re new staff. I’m in hair and makeup, you do sound.”

“I don’t know how to do sound-“

“You don’t have to know.” You shrug. “We just need as much backstage access as we can get.”

“Right. Smart.”

You shoot her a grin. “I know.”

Jo scoffs. “Shut up. How are we gonna know what’s one of those life-objects?”

“The normal effort is a lot of cutting your hand and seeing if the object eats your blood-“

“Eats your blood-“

“But.” You raise your brows, and Jo sighs. 

“You’ve got something else, don’t you.”

“Nope.” You give her a wide grin. “You’ve got me. And the life force is just a faded and split form of their souls. So…”

You spread your arms, and Jo just stares at you. “So what?”

“I can see souls, Jo.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right.” She gives you a grimacing smile. “I kinda forgot. Lot been happenin’ this year.”

“Yeah. That’s fair.” You let out a long sigh, rubbing your palm as you scan around the lobby. “Ready?”

Jo nods, and for such a fancy place, it’s shockingly easy to lie your way into a fake job. 

“I didn’t know we had new people.” The small, pretty girl—sitting at the front desk with a bow in her hair—smiles between you and Jo, and you’ve never seen someone’s teeth be so white. “They never tell me anything, though, so don’t worry about it.”

“They didn’t tell us much either,” you give her an innocent nervous smile, glancing back to Jo over your shoulder. “Do you know where we’re supposed to go?”

The girl waves her hand. “Just walk into the stage. If someone yells at you, tell them to actually tell Lacy things instead of just expecting her to deal.” She pauses. “I’m Lacy, by the way.”

“I guessed that.” You glance to the doors. “Just walk inside?”

“Yeah, um, wait-“ Lacy slides two badges across the desk. “Take these, and uh, be careful. We’ve been having a lot of accidents.”

You blink like you have no clue what she’s talking about, passing Jo one of the badges. “Accidents?”

“There’s been a lot of crew deaths, right?” Jo jumps in with a perfect, fake-worried expression. “Is it gonna be affectin’ the jobs?”

She’s gotten really good at this.

You’re proud.

Lacy shakes her head. “No, bosses say it’s business as usual. Just really bad luck.”

Bad luck doesn’t usually end up making corpses look like they’ve been dead five years. 

Lacy doesn’t need to worry about that.

“Jesus fuckin’ Mary.” Jo’s eyes widen as you step into the house, the stage large and shining ahead of you, rows of red velvet seats around you. “Can we actually just work here? For real?”

You snort. “After we kill the undead wizard, sure.” 

“Right.” She gives you a teasing look. “You think Dean would wanna work mechanics, so you can stay together-“

“I’m going to push you off the balcony.” You say in a flat tone, marching up towards the stage, and Jo laughs before running after you.

“That’s fuckin’ rude!”

“I’m not listening!” You call over your shoulder, not bothering to hide your smile, and push yourself up onto the stage. “There’s nothing in here, by the way.”

“What’d you-“

“No souls.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Jo climbs up to your side, frowning around the house. “You know, I can play a mean triangle. Maybe they’d take me. Or- Dean told me you can sing, we can run away with the circus-“

“This is the literal opposite of a circus.” You mutter, turning to scan over the stage. “And Dean’s never heard me sing.”

You’re walking before Jo can push it further, because every single mention of Dean is going to make you want to tell her, and you can’t let this distract you from the job.

Lich cases really are easy, when you know what you’re doing. The first thing you find is a delicate, old hand mirror in a dressing room—crawling and twisting with faded gray tendrils—and Jo throws it against the wall before you can stop her.

“That do it?”

You poke one of the shards with your foot, and let out a long sigh. “Yeah. Somehow it did.”

“Awesome.” Jo grins at you, turning around the room with her gun in hand. “Now we fight?”

“There are going to be like, two or three more you know.”

“Three?” Jo gapes at you, and you snort. 

“Yep. Nothing else in here, though.” You start back towards the door, poking your head out the hall to check for other staff. “Jo?”

She sighs from behind you. “No more smashin’?”

You give her an apologetic look. “It’s kind of loud. And we can’t draw attention, or people will split us up.”

“But it’s fun, and it works-“

“You sound like Dean.”

“From you, I’m takin’ that as a compliment.”

You flush again, but you walked into that one.

You’re walking into most of these. The day passes quickly, and you manage to destroy another two artifacts—a comb and a fountain pen—before the building closes. There are no deaths when you leave for the night, but you really wish a stakeout was a plausible option, because most of the night is filled with Jo teasing about Dean.

Most of the whole next day is filled with teasing about Dean. You find a fancy gun with lifeforce, and Jo says you should give it to Dean. It doesn’t help that you would, if it didn’t need to be destroyed to kill the lich. It’s the exact type of gun Dean would like.

It wears off around the afternoon, though. Every single sweep of a room, you find another artifact, and it’s starting to drive you and Jo up the wall.

“You said three,” she grumbles as you drag another mirror into what you’ve deemed the destruction room. “This is more than three.”

You shrug, stepping back so Jo can smash, because she was right. It does work. “Yeah, well, this asshole must be strong.”

“How are we even gonna know when we’re done?”

“I’ll be able to see it, because all its lifeforce will be back inside its body.”

“So I don’t have to do the gross thing?”

You shake your head. “Once the objects are destroyed, you can’t do the gross thing.”

She frowns at you. “Which was?”

“Touching it.” You sigh, wiping your hands on your pants. “You’ll be able to. You know. Feel the deadness, right now.”

Jo wrinkles her nose. “But after?”

“It’ll make you the deadness.”

“Oh.” Jo blinks. “Fun.”

You hum, and move on to the next sweep. 

It doesn’t take all the artifacts being destroyed to work out who the lich is, though. Jo works it out herself by day three.

“Who even wears a monocle anymore.” You mutter, chucking this one at the wall yourself, and Jo tilts her head.

“I’ve seen an old guy doin’ it. The one who waves his hands, while the orchestra’s rehearsin’.”

You frown. “The conductor?”

“Yeah, him.” She pauses, staring into the air for a long second before speaking with slow, careful words. “That was his dressin’ room. And I ain’t seen that monocle on his face before. You don’t think-“

“If you think.” You shrug. “I’m on board. Be careful of the conductor.”

Jo grins, and you’re really proud of her. She’s got this whole case under control, to the point that she barely even needs you at all. She figures out that—as you keep looking everywhere, finding less and less with each sweep—it’s likely that there’s an instrument you won’t be able to get until the orchestras rehearsing again, and that you’ll have to be ready to fight the moment it goes down.

The lich hasn’t been killing since you showed up, though. It’s probably worked out that you’re not just new staff. Figuring out that it’s the conductor puts you back on even ground.

Jo figuring out that it’s the conductor.

You hadn’t even looked at the name on the dressing room, because Dean had texted you, and you’d gotten distracted.

You let yourself off the hook for that one, though. It wasn’t your love for Dean messing with your focus. It was the fact that he’d been blowing up your phone with how he was gonna fucking shoot Ruby in the face.

“I think you should.” You tell him over the phone that night, and he laughs through the speaker.

“I’m this freakin’ close, Princess. I’m serious. She’s a fucking bitch-“

“Do you want me to tell you not to?” You grin into the night air, leaning against the outside of the diner. “Because that would be lying, De, and lying is a sin-“

He snorts. “You were just telling me about how you spent the whole day committing property damage-“

“Which is a crime. Not a sin.”

“So you’re a criminal?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Nah, I wanna hear you admit it-“

“You’re gonna be waiting a long fucking time, Winchester.”

“Alright. I got patience.” You can hear his smile over the phone, and your fingers are still painted in his Gold. It’s going to drive you insane. “Oh, and text me the address of the motel you’re staying at. Me and Sammy are wrapping this up.”

You sigh, ignoring how the Silver start to riot at the very idea of Dean, here, holding you all day and through the night, and why did you suggest splitting up in the first place, you haven’t slept well all week, and all you do is dream of him anyway-

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“I know. But I’m gonna. And if you don’t text me, I’ll make Sammy do his computer magic to track you down.”

You sigh. You know he’s not lying, and that makes all of this harder. “You’re being dramatic again.”

Dean pauses, muttering something you can’t make out, but raising his voice before you can ask what. “C’mon. Do it for Jo, least she’ll be happy to see me-“”

“I’ll be happy to see you, De.” You cut him off with a frown at the air. “But the seal was all the way in Kentucky-“

“And I love driving.”

“I know, but-“

“Please,” Dean mutters, and that’s it.

He wants to. It’s not indulging if he wants to.

“Sam and Dean are coming to help.” You tell Jo as you slide back into the booth, and her grin is shit-eating.

“Aw, he wants to see you,” she hums when you hang up, and you flip her off without a word.

It’s not effective. 

“You guys are so cute, runnin’ around after each other, and callin’ every night-“

“I got shot.” You mutter, tracing your fingers over your stomach. You haven’t tried to fully heal it with the Silver. At this point, it would be pointless anyway. “He calls to make sure I’m not dead.”

“Cause he loves-“

“Jo.” You shoot her a glare over the table, and she scoffs.

“Why don’t you think he loves you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this-“

“I do! He at least wants you!” She sighs, leaning forward and holding your gaze. “You’re supposed to be smart, you know. Whenever people ask me about you, they ask you know the smart girl that-“

Jo cuts herself off with a sudden, strange expression, and you narrow your eyes. “That what.”

“I don’t remember.” She mumbles lamely.

“Joanna-“

“You don’t wanna hear it.”

“Well now I have to-“

“That Dean Winchester’s obsessed with!” She blurts, giving you an apologetic expression, and the whole world stops for a second. 

Obsessed with. And you’re embedded in him. And he’d apologized, on his knees, and put you to bed and let you crawl all over him and had never wanted you to leave-

“You were kinda all he talked about, before you got back.” Jo sighs. “I’m kinda shocked you ain’t together, after all that. I mean, everyone’s seen it, and if they ain’t seen it, they’ve heard about how you damn near died tryin’ to save him, and how he’s always smilin’ more when you’re at the roadhouse with him.”

“Jo.” You whisper, and the Spiderweb feels like it’s crashing down, down, down all while building and pulsing with light. “Please don’t. I- Everything is so complicated, and I-“

You can’t say it aloud.

And Jo only gives you a soft smile, reaching across the table and holding your hand. She’s such a pretty, soft blue, when you look over at her. Smooth and gentle like water, but still running and turning faster than any other soul you’ve ever seen. 

“I know.” She mutters, and you feel a little like a child. “I just need you to know, cause, God, I ain’t gonna be able to handle another year of y’all starin’ at each other like lost puppies. You’re happier together, and he drove to freakin’ Texas for you, then begged you to come home.”

You sigh. “I shouldn’t have told you about that-“

“But ya did. And if a guy did that for me, I’d marry him.”

“I-“

“I’m not sayin’ you marry him now. I’m just saying thinkin’ he don’t at least want you is insane. But,” she leans back, shrugging and giving you a small smile. “We can talk about somethin’ else now. How’d you get shot, anyway?”

You pause, giving Jo a careful look. She’s really just moved on that fast, her brows raised as she takes a bite of her burger, and you let out a long sigh. “You can’t tell Dean.”

“Ooo, it’s a secret-“

“It’s not a secret, I just don’t want him to-“

“Worry?”

You flush, glaring down at your plate. “Shut up.”

“I’m teasin’.” Jo says your name, giving you a firm look. “When have I ever told one of your secrets?”

That’s a fair point. She hasn’t. And the Spiderweb is still raw in your body as the world grows more and more vibrant, so maybe your judgement is clouded, but maybe it’s just Jo. And you sort of trust her more than anyone in the world. 

And you tell her everything. Studying witchcraft, and trying to look for ways to bring back Dean. How ever has been Silver since he died but it’s all still so painful and hard to control, and Ketch and Davis chasing you then holding you captive. The books—you need to ask them how that panned out, actually—and Enochian and the months on the road.

You leave out the Spiderweb and the Sky and Cas’ visit, for the same reason you won’t tell Dean you love him. That’s not their problems. You won’t make things more complicated than they already are.

But you do mention seeing Dean in Hell, mostly because you have to tell someone.

“Like- In Hell?”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “And I, uh- I don’t think it was a dream thing. It was really realistic, and I saw-“

“You still don’t want him to know about this, right?”

You frown at her. “Yeah, wh-“

“Cause I can see Dean right now.”

Jo nods over your shoulder, you twist in your booth, and she right.

Dean’s standing at the door, his hands in his pockets as he scans over the diner, and when his eyes land on yours, a wide, bright grin splits his whole face.

You love him.

You’re going to fucking kill him. 

“We’ll finish later,” Jo whispers, and you give her a small nod right as Dean stops at your table. 

He’s so fucking pretty, grinning at you as he drops into at your side without a word, forcing you to scoot back so he doesn’t end up half on your lap, and looping his arm around the back of the booth like this is the most casual thing in the world. 

“What are two girls like you doing in a place like this, huh?”

“Dean.” You keep your voice firm, forcing yourself to ignore how he’s pressed his thigh right to yours without a thought. “You’re supposed to be in Kentucky.”

“Sammy’s got it. Rather be here anyway.” He shrugs like as if it’s nothing, already eyeing your fries because he’s a perfect idiot. “You ladies doin’ like a girls night or something?”

“We’re huntin’.” Jo says, crossing her arms and raising her chin, and you slide your plate over to Dean without a word.

He winks at you before he takes one.

You’re going to explode.

“I heard, kid. You know, extra hands never hurt-“

You snort. “Dean. What do you want.”

“Why do I have to want something.” His eyes flick right to yours, and he’s Golden, and you swallow. “Can’t I just be here-“

“What about Kentucky?” Jo pipes in, and Dean sighs.

“I already said Sam’s got it. What are we hunting?”

“We’re not hunting anything-“

“Lich.” 

You shoot Jo a glare, and she just shrugs. 

“We get to smash things,” she tells Dean, and he raises his brows.

“I can smash things, Princess.”

“Yeah, I know you can, De. Jo, if it’s just the instrument-“

“Then the lich is going to reveal itself.” She gives you a pointed look. “And the more people we have for that, the better.”

“Awesome.” Dean takes another fry, settling somehow further into the booth. Into you. “I’ll tell Sammy to call Bobby when he’s done, and we can gank this lich thingy.”

“Cool. But,” Jo shoots you a grin, and you’re going to kill her. “It’s funny you mentioned it, Dean, but we do have a girl’s night. You agree not to be a big whinin’ bitch about it, you can stay in our motel room.”

Dean pauses, glances over to you in a silent question, and death isn’t a firm enough fate for Jo. You’re going to leave her in a room with Bobby after you ask him about historical figures he thinks were secretly hunters or monsters.

You shouldn’t have trained her so well. It’s coming back to bite you in the fucking ass.

There’s nothing you can do but give Dean a small smile and nod—because he’s asking permission, but you split open the world if it meant not having to go another night without him on the other side of the bed—and mouth I hate you at Jo across the table. 

She only laughs, and you’re not going to kill her.

The rest of the night is going to kill you first.

Because you can’t stop seeing it, now that Jo has said something. Dean doesn’t ever just press into people like this, or offer anyone else fries with raised brows. And he fucking pouts when you say no, then grins when you roll your eyes and snatch the fry from his hand. Whenever Jo’s talking he’s listening, but you can’t stop staring at him from the corner of your eyes, and he glances over at you so often. And he helps you out of the booth, and pays the bill—you’ve never seen him volunteer to pay a bill, not unless he was trying to make a dramatic point—and walks you to your car like you don’t have a fucking knife in your jacket.

The jacket that’s always been yours, but he held onto when he didn’t even know if he’d see you again. And the knife he gave you, because he was worried about you.

His hand stays on your lower back with every step.

This isn’t good. 

Not when you can really never say it aloud.

Dean trails you back to the motel in the Impala, and while Jo had been exaggerating about girl’s night, you do have… rituals. 

There aren’t a lot of other girl hunters. And you love the men you’ve surrounded yourself with, but the one most secure in his masculinity is Rufus, and it’s still not pseudo-sleepover-secure. 

Because that’s a better description for this. Neither you nor Jo got real, stupid, fun sleepovers growing up, so it’s become a habit whenever you have a hunt together. A stupid game, or more stupid series of truth or dare—Dean is a banned truth topic for you, and get the most people to leave the bar is a banned dare topic for Jo after the fire incident—with snacks and a movie and-

“I am not doing a fuckin’ face mask.” Dean snaps at you, and you raise your brows as Jo snickers.

“You said you wouldn’t be a little bitch, Winchester.”

“I said whining bitch-“

“You’re still being a bitch.”

Dean scowls, eyeing the plastic in your hand like it’s a bomb set to go off. “What’s it even going to help with, my skin is fine-“

“Yeah, but it’s not-“ You glance down, having already forgotten which mask you chose. “Poreless.”

“I- I fuckin’ need my pores-“

“It’ll make you pretty, Dean.” Jo calls from her bed, and he flips her off. 

You sigh. “Not helpful, Jo.”

“Sorry, mom.”

Dean snorts, and you whack his arm.

“Whose side are you on, Winchester?”

He shrugs. “Whichever side gets me out of that mask, Princess.” 

“What if I say please?”

“Uh,” Dean sighs. “Maybe.”

“What if I say please,” you pout at him slightly, making your smile impossibly sweet. “And I promise not to stab you when you try to check my stitches later?”

“I wasn’t gonna-“ Dean cuts himself off at your pointed look, running a hand over his face. “Fine. But I get to actually check them, too.”

“Deal.” You lock your pinky with his quickly, shoving the mask into his hands before he can take it back. “Go wash your face.”

Dean doesn’t move. He only stares at you, and Spiderweb might as well be made of the Sun in your body, and your pinkies are still locked. His skin is rough, and warm, and feels right against yours, and he can’t look at you like that, or you’ll-

Jo coughs, and you pull yourself back together. 

“C’mon.” You fold your fingers fully through Dean’s and pull him after you into the motel bathroom. 

You sit on the sink for a better, and it’s a good excuse to touch him, as you smooth out the lines of the mask on his face. Taking more time than you need, with more careful fingers than necessary, because you just want to touch him a little longer. 

“Be honest.” He mutters as you move around his eyes, continuing after you hum an agreement. “I look stupid.”

“That’s not a question, De-“

“So I do look stupid-“

“You look very handsome.” You let your fingers trail down to his cheeks. “Stoic. Debonair and heroesque-“

“Alright, alright. I get it.”

“Everyone looks stupid in a face mask.” You mumble, pressing the sheet onto his brow. “You’re still working it pretty well.”

Dean gives you an odd look. “You’ll look good.”

It’s a good thing you didn’t bother with the full overhead light. Dean doesn’t need to see how your flush is spreading down your neck. “Thanks.”

He just shrugs, and the silence stretches on without tension as you try to focus on the mask, you’re touching him because of the mask, not to trace his sharp jawline and slightly crooked nose-

“Dad would kill me if he saw me now.” Dean chuckles suddenly, and your hands still on his face. 

“Because you’re with me?”

Dean shakes his head. “One of the reasons, yeah. Mostly cause I let Sammy talk me into ditching him for a girl.”

You frown at him. “Sam told you to go?”

“Apparently I was driving him insane.” Dean mutters. “He said he had it, and I should, uh, just freaking go to her.”

“Her?”

“You.”

You swallow, and he’s so close. You’re brushing over his lips as you keep holding his face, and the liquid of his mask is sticky, but you don’t really care. 

“Is my face supposed to be tingling?” He mutters, and pulls a soft giggle from your throat.

“Yep. That means it’s working.”

Dean frowns, but lets you keep touching him. And he does look handsome with the mask. It’s insane, and unfair, and even when you finish up, he doesn’t move away.

Neither of you are trying to move away.

And things are always complicated. They’ve always been complicated, but when he’s gotten the chance, Dean’s always stayed, and you can’t tell him that, but you have to tell him something-

“I’m really glad you’re alive.” You whisper, and he beams at you.

Full and happy and so fucking Dean—handsome and Golden and not yours, but still making the Spiderweb catch light and throw it around your body until you’re a little dizzy—and nothing about this is easy, but it still feels it. Dean is here, so pain is somehow foreign. 

You’re suddenly a little afraid of what you’d do to keep him safe, and away from the Sky, out of the angel’s reach.

“Yeah. I- I’m glad you’re alive, too.” He blinks, frowning into the air. “I mean- I’m glad we’re both alive. Uh, together.”

You smile at him, and in the low light of the bathroom, it’s a little like he has a halo.

You still don’t know what his soul is made of. You don’t really care. 

It’s still Dean all the same.

“All the way down.” You take a careful step back, but you’re cruel to yourself, so you let your hand fall back into his. 

It’s his gravity.

You’re never going to be able to pull away.

And if you could, you’d never able to bring yourself to try.

Because he grins, and says it back with a squeeze of your hand. 

“All the way down.”

And you know. It doesn’t matter what Cas comes back saying you are, or what heaven or hell wants from you. You know what you are. 

Dean’s.

You’ll be damnation or salvation or a whore or a monster for him. You’ll be wrathful god if that’s what it comes to. But you’ll be his.

All the way down.

——————

She’d fallen asleep on Dean’s chest. 

At some point during the movie She started to lean into him, and Dean could never be strong enough to push Her away. When Her eyes had started to flutter shut and Her face had angled in his body, he’d pulled her a little closer. When she’d let out a small, soft sigh, he’d been certain that the world could crumble and collapse around them, but he would just stay right fucking here.

Jo had been giving Dean smug, pointed looks when Her arms had wrapped around his stomach. And when he’d carefully moved his hand to brush a little hair from Her face, he’d kept his words to Jo low.

He didn’t want to wake Her up. Not when She was sleeping this well.

“Don’t say a freakin’ word.”

Jo had let out a soft laugh, her gaze never moving from the chick flick on the TV. “I ain’t said nothin’.”

“If you tell Bobby, he’ll-“

“Like Bobby don’t already know.” Jo had scoffed. “He’s old, not blind and stupid.”

Dean had swallowed—Bobby couldn’t know, nobody really knew—but kept going. “Fine, but if you tell Sam about anything tonight-“

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep all the girly stuff you did to myself.” 

“Okay-“

“But I am gonna tell him about this.” 

Jo had waved a loose hand to Her and Dean—their bodies now fully curled together, Her breathing even and steady, one of Dean’s hand stroking carefully through Her hair—and Dean’s jaw had clenched.

The only thing that has kept him from yelling at Jo was Her. She’d stirred slightly as he tensed, and he couldn’t disturb Her. 

And, selfishly, he couldn’t ruin this for himself.

This was the part of being Her shadow that he’d always wanted, but never dared to ask for. The part that was softer, and bloodless, and gave Her even more. Where he got to hold Her and touch her like no one else, and She was safe as long as Dean was at her side. The part that could maybe lead to his hands on bare, soft skin, to Dean being allowed to kiss a little more than Her brow when he could get away with it. 

He didn’t know how to earn that. Hell, he hadn’t even earned this. He could never fucking earn it. She’d told him that She was what they hunted, but that was fucking insane because nobody in their right mind could want to hurt Her. It would take more than a monster to grab something rare and beautiful and destroy it, rather than orbit around it and follow it all the way to the edge of the earth, then down. Dean was the one who’d barely become better than a demon, but the very last fucking thing separating him from the black-eyed sons of bitches was that he still had things to defend. 

No matter how Sammy was driving him insane with the Ruby bullshit, Dean still defended him because that was what he did. Sam was still a kid, and he was smart as shit but he could never handle all the blood and guts the same way Dean was crafted for them. It was the same way She fit so well into Dean, but She could never been made for the mud and darkness. Dean was Her shadow to keep as much of that from Her hands as he could. 

She’d chosen to be here, with Dean. To come home and forgive him for things She shouldn’t ever have to know about, and the angels could forget all their fucking plans, because if She told Dean she wanted Lilith to open the seals and to let the world burn, he’d let it fall apart without a single fucking question.

And She wouldn’t do that. She was made of too many good things, and full of too much light to want the world to be ash. It wouldn’t be any place for Her, so Dean wouldn’t let it happen. 

This was the place for Her.

At Dean’s side, where he could watch over Her and silently crave more until She decided he’d earned it. Because it would never matter what Dean had done until She said it was too far, then the last piece of him that Alistair hadn’t carved into would become the very ash he was trying to save Her from.

“You call her Princess, don’t you.” Alistair sneered, and Dean didn’t respond, only staring at the different weapons before him. “Answer me, boy.”

He hadn’t. It was one of the last lines Dean had for himself. He’d rip himself and a million other souls apart, but he’d never let Alistair touch on the fucking idea of Her or Sammy. It was his last apology to them. The last way he had to protect them, when—if they saw him now—he’d beg them to drive Ruby’s knife right into his ribs to save themselves.

His silence always ended with a little extra torment. Dean could live—or die—with that. It was what he deserved.

“I’ve warned ya.” Alistair hissed Her name in his ear after. “She’d got a special spot on my rack, when I drag her down here. I might not be supposed to hurt her, but I ain’t ever cared ‘bout the rules before. Nothing gonna fuckin’ stop me anyway.”

Dean had tensed, and Alistair had laughed in his ear.

“You think you’re gonna save her? That she’d want you to save her? Be your Princess’s shining white knight and sweep her away into the sunset? Here’s a new lesson for you, Dean. Nothin’ can save her, and if I’m bein’ honest, she might be better off down here, with me. I’m not man of god, and maybe,” Alistair’s breath had been hot over Dean’s face as he’d been yanked up by his hair. “That’s exactly what she fuckin’ needs. Maybe she’ll beg me to hurt her. I’ve heard what a little masochist that one is.”

Dean jolted awake in a cold sweat, the sound of Alistair’s laughter still echoing around his skull. It was just another nightmare. She was still right at his side. His hand was touching the bare skin of Her arm, and when he dared to draw small circles with his thumb, She hummed and let out a soft sound Dean would like to hear for the rest of his life. 

Cas needed to hurry up on that translation. The sooner they had better idea of what She was, the sooner Dean could handle those certain nightmares better. 

They’d never go away.

But at least he’d be able to wake up, look at Her, and know nothing would touch Her. That Lilith couldn’t grab Her and use her against them, and the angels might not want Her around, but they could never hurt Her, and She was—as long as he used all the sharper and bloodied parts of himself right—safe at Dean’s side. 

Or across the room from him, or in his car, or holding his hand and pulling him into the fanciest fucking building he’d ever seen. Wherever he could see Her, and orbit around Her. 

Maybe crash down to his knees before Her, because that had worked real well in his favor last time, and there was really no other proper response to Her when she looked like that.

She really was a fucking Princess. This dress was worse than the one last year. Silk, falling over Her body like it was made for Her—most of the world was—and showing Dean too much for him to properly, but still not enough to satiate him, because was a greedy son of a bitch.

He didn’t have a goddamn clue where She’d gotten such fancy outfits on such a short notice, but he knew his tie wasn’t strangling at his throat because She’d carefully adjusted it before they left the motel. Standing only a long breath away, every bit of Her blinding and beautiful as she chewed at Her lower lip, going over the plan one last time.

“There might be multiple instruments.” She’d said, glancing over her shoulder to Jo, who was working on balancing  in her heels. “Once I find what they are, we have to move fast. Smash them, burn them, whatever you need to do. Then the conductor will be in raw form, and if I can see him, I’ll give you the all clear to burn him. Dean, we have to take separate cars-“

Dean had scowled. “No-“

“We’re about to burn a man alive at a public event.” She’d said with a flat voice. “Once we finish, we have to book it. And I am not making Sam take the bus again. Finally,” Her fingers had stilled on Dean’s chest, Her voice dropping to a soft, firm tone. “Don’t let it touch you. It’ll turn you into a puppet corpse.”

Jo had gaped at Her. “A what-“

“Puppet corpse.” She’d sighed. “It’ll kill you then use your body like a puppet.”

“Oh. Gross.”

Dean had cleared his throat. “Can we go back to the car thing-“

“No.” She’d turned on Her heels, tangled Her hand in Dean’s, and pulled him out the door.

And Alistair hadn’t been wrong that Dean wasn’t a white knight, but he was still Her’s. She was brilliant, and as long as it wasn’t putting Her in direct danger, Dean would do whatever the hell She asked. If She needed an army, he’d been a million fucking soldiers. If She needed a guard, he’d turn into a shield.

If She needed him to stand off to the side of a stage while a lady sang in loud, high sounds and She frowned the orchestra, he’d do that. 

He was even allowed to keep his hand on Her lower back. 

“De.” She whispered, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket, and he glanced down to see Her attention fully fixed on the area below them. “It’s the harp.”

Dean followed Her gaze to the instrument. “You sure?”

She nodded, and Jo’s voice crackled in their ears. “Is there only one?”

“Yeah.” She whispered, scanning slowly over the area once more. “But- Shit, there are so many people here, Dean we’ve gotta-“

Dean nodded. “Jo, you’re in the sound booth thing, right?”

“Uh huh. I think I’m actually gettin’ the hang of this, too.” Jo hummed Her name. “Turns out I can do sound. You want me to steal more earpieces before we go?”

A small smile tugged at Her lips, and She gave Dean an amused look as she spoke. “We’ve already stolen three, and we’re about to totally ruin their performance. I think that’s enough.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jo paused. “Were you tryin’ to talk to me, Dean?”

She giggled, eyes dancing with amusement, and Dean couldn’t really be that annoyed if this was making Her so happy. “Yeah, I’m thinking you can cut all the sound to the audience, we can run out, get it done in the confusion, then get out.”

“That’s good,” She muttered with a nod, and Dean stood a little taller. “Maybe- Jo, can you just amplify the speakers? If you get them loud enough it’ll start a feedback loop, and we’ll get a good-“

“Cover?” Jo finished Her sentence, and Dean could hear the grin in the girl’s voice. “On it. You want a countdown?”

“One second.” She turned to Dean with a firm, determined look. “Go for the harp. I’ll take care of the conductor.”

There was no fucking way Dean was letting Her do the more dangerous thing. That was supposed to be what he was here for-

“And before you argue, if it’s not the conductor, I’ll be able to see who it is. You won’t.”

Son of a bitch, that was a good point. And She had that shining, fluttering look in Her eyes as Dean just glared at Her, the one where she knew She’d already won. “Princess-“

“Please, De.” 

God fucking damnit. “Fine.”

She gave him a wide, sweet smile, and raised Her hand to her ear. “Ready, Jo. Turn it up.”

“Alright.” Jo hummed, and Dean’s fingers started to curl onto the bare skin of Her back. “Three.”

Dean didn’t like this. Something was tight in his gut, and She’d hunted these things before and been just fine alone—with Dean or Jo there to help Her—but this felt wrong-

“Two-“

He muttered Her name, and She gave him a smile, and it was only making him feel sick because something was off about this-

“Go.”

A loud, screeching noise echoed through the theatre, people started shouting as it pierced into their skulls, and Dean had to force himself not to grab Her and hold her to his chest until it all just passed. 

None of this would pass unless he did his job.

Smash the harp. All Dean had to do was smash the fucking harp. Break it into pieces so She could burn this lich asshole.

Dean could break something. He really was good at breaking things, and breaking something for Her might be the easiest job he’d ever had.

He ran into the pit, shoving his way through the orchestra and ignoring people shouts of protest. His ears felt like they were going to fucking bleed, but he’d felt worse, so Dean pushed through it. 

The harp was heavier than Dean had thought it would be, when he reached it.

It still broke easy.

Dean threw his whole body against it, the instrument fell to the floor, and when the first piece of wood snapped off, all hell broke loose. 

People were screaming and running around—that had been a given, the rich idiots probably thought they were under attack—but over all of it, Dean could hear Her, shouting his name.

He turned right in time to see the conductor running right towards him, hands outstretched, and fuck-

Dean dodged as She screamed, and started to fumble in his pockets for his lighter, where was his fucking lighter, he was tripping over abandoned trumpets and seats as the conductor continued to swing at him, and where the fuck was his lighter-

There was another scream of his name, and Dean looked up to see the conductor only fucking inches away, and that couldn’t be good, but right before slightly shriveled hands closed around Dean’s face, the man stumbled back and screeched.

Loud, and echoing through the theater, his whole body writhing, seeming to flicker and wither and-

“Son of a bitch.” Dean muttered as the lich’s illusion fully faded, his body a sticky, browned and boned corpse. “You’re one ugly asshole.”

The lich only screeched again, and as it fell to its knees, Dean looked up to find Her standing on the edge of the stage.

Dean had only seen Her use her thing once, when Lilith had attacked them. And that had only been a primal, feral scream ripping through Her body as Lilith released him with a cruel laugh.

This was different. 

There was no proper way to describe it, but She didn’t look like a human. Or a monster. Or a demon, or angel, or witch.

She looked like Her, turned up to a goddamn million. Everything closer to Her body was more colorful. Her hair was impossibly shinier, and Her skin seemed to be glowing, and Her eyes were fucking bright. 

Her pupils weren’t black anymore. They were silver. 

Dean had never seen anything more terrifyingly beautiful in his life. And when the lich turned to slime at their feet—sinking back into the floor and vanishing like there had never been anything at all—whatever had been amplifying Her seemed to collect back into Her body, her eyes focused right on Dean’s.

He almost fell to his knees again. This was the siren or goddess he’d been silently worshipping since he met Her. This was the royal, ethereal woman he wanted to serve for the rest of with worthless life. And it was just Her, but it was all of Her, and Dean wanted fucking all of Her-

He didn’t see it until it was too late. 

The woman behind Her. 

Not a woman. The illusion of a small young woman—white-teethed with a bow in her hair—vanished the moment the lich grabbed Her around the wrist.

There were two. 

There were fucking two, and Dean wasn’t goddamn fast enough.

The only reason he could hear his roar over the blood in his ears was because it echoed around the theater. And She wasn’t even fucking fighting the thing, She’d gone slack and pale, and Dean was sprinting over the abandoned instruments to get to Her, yanking his gun from his jacket and aiming it right at the ugly bitch’s fucking face.

The shots didn’t kill it, but the lich released Her and stumbled back, falling right on the floor as Jo sprinted out from the backstage.

Jo’s lighter dropped, and the lich died with a scream.

But the fire didn’t slow or die. It only spread across the stage, and Dean was going to have to add arson to his rap sheet again, but he really didn’t fucking care.

All that mattered was Her, pallid and backed into the wall, rubbing at her wrists like she’d been branded.

Dean wasn’t sure if the whole corpse puppet thing was contagious.

That was another thing he really didn’t fucking care about.

“Hey,” Dean muttered Her name as he grabbed her face between his hands, forcing Her slightly glazed eyes onto his. “You’re gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay-“

“It touched me.” She cut him off with a whisper, and Dean’s grip tightened. “Dean, it touched me-“

“I know.” He grunted. “I know, Princess, but it’s- we’ll fix it.”

She shook Her head, still scratching at Her wrists and Dean did the only thing he could think of. He stroked his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until her breathing was relaxed, and she’d slumped forward into his arms.

“Dean?” Jo called from behind them. “I- uh, we should go before the building burns down.”

Dean nodded an acknowledgment, but She wouldn’t be able to run. She was too pale, shaking in his arms and starting to draw blood with Her nails- 

He knocked Her hand away, She made a whining noise, and this was not allowed to be it. He was not fucking losing Her like this, he’d call another fucking demon deal or trap a million fucking angels until they performed a miracle, or-

Cas. He needed to call Cas. 

But first, he had to get Her out before the building killed all three of them. 

Dean pressed a quick kiss to Her brow, and hauled Her up bridal-style into his arms, and the moment Jo was at his side he was moving. Out the back into the cold air of an alley, down the streets until they were at the Impala and the Firebird. 

“Here’s the plan.” He grunted, raising up to face a pale-faced Jo on the sidewalk. “You’re taking her car. Drive for forty minutes west, then stop at the first motel you see. Call Sam on the drive, tell him what happened.”

Jo nodded, catching Her keys with shaking hands. “What about- Dean, I’m- We thought there was one-“

“Jo.” He snapped. “Just fucking go.”

“Is she gonna be okay-“

“Yes. Go.”

Dean’s short, firm words got Jo to move, but he didn’t have a fucking clue if She was going to be okay. She wasn’t turning into a corpse, but She was still colorless and silent, and Dean was praying to Cas the whole fucking ride but they didn’t have a goddamn timeline on this, it might already be over-

It couldn’t be over. Dean had only just gotten Her back, and he’d meant it.

He wasn’t losing Her.

She’d know how to fix this. She knew everything, and She was a genius, so if Dean could get Her to speak, he’d do whatever she said needed to be done to fix this.

Jo met them right where she was supposed to, and Dean gave short orders for her to just keep fucking praying to Cas until he showed up. 

“C’mon.” He muttered Her name, moving her to the edge of the bed and kneeling down, keeping his thumb running down her nose and scanning over Her slack face. “I need you to talk to me, I don’t have a fucking clue how to do this, Princess, I- I fucking need you, c’mon-“

Something was wrapping around Dean’s lungs. He wouldn’t fucking lose Her. Not like this. It was all his head could loop around because fuck, this would kill Jo, and he’d never be able to look at Bobby again, and he would’ve gotten Her back for barely a week just to prove Alistair right.

She was better anywhere without Dean. He’d do anything for Her, but anything wasn’t enough, and She’d survived all those months without him, but the moment he’d gotten back he’d killed Her, he’d fucking broken the one that had always seemed permanent, and he was a vile piece of shit from lower than the mud, and Dad should’ve killed him. Instead of threatening and hurting Her, Dad should’ve pressed a barrel to Dean’s head and shot him. It would’ve saved everyone a whole lot of grief if Dad had gotten some fucking clarity and killed Dean instead, or just let him die in that goddamn hospital-

“Dean.” She whispered, blinding eyes finally focusing on his. “You need to go.”

He stared at Her. “What.”

“Before it hits. I- I can’t feel it, but once it kicks in-“

“You’re going to be fine.” He snapped. This wasn’t a conversation he was going to have, because it wouldn’t matter when She was fine, and they were driving back to Bobby’s like nothing had happened at all. “Cas is coming, and I’ll grab whatever we need to slow this down-“

“There’s no slowing it down.” She gave him a small smile, and Dean’s heart might be trying to claw its way out of his throat. “It’ll be better to burn me. So nothing finds my body.”

“Shut up.” He grunted, his hands tightening on Her thighs. She wasn’t moving away, and maybe if he held tight enough, that would keep Her together. “We’ll fix this, there’s always a way to fix this-“

“Not here, De. I- I’m-“ She started to rub Her wrists, letting out a slow breath. “I could do it myself, but I can’t even feel it, I’d have to feel it to know what to fix-“

“Then maybe you’re fine-“

“I don’t want to risk it.” She mumbled. “Please go.”

“No.”

“Dean-“

“I’m staying right fucking here.” He hissed, rising up on his knees to look Her in the eyes. “And that’s it. You try to kick me out and I’ll come right back in, Princess, I did not spend so goddamn long waiting for you only to lose you-“

“You can’t lose me.” She whispered. “You’ve never been able to lose me. I-“ 

She swallowed, Her eyes starting to go glossy, and Dean wouldn’t let the sting in his own take over. There was nothing to mourn about, because She was going to be fine-

“I’m here.” She pressed Her hand to his chest, and he wasn’t breathing. “All the way down.”

Dean stared at Her. 

He didn’t have enough words for Her beauty. He never had. He’d never been good at words, or saying the right thing, or knowing when to stop or how to keep something. And he’d let the world use him and beat him however it wanted—crawl right back onto Alistair’s rack or pick up only torture instrument until he was a demon—if he got to break that last pattern. Dean could replace words with actions, replace saying the right thing with doing the right thing, and replace knowing when to stop with going until his soul gave out. 

He couldn’t replace Her. Keeping Her was the only option, if She’d have him.

But losing Her to something other than Her own will was simply not on the goddamn table.

Dean had prayed before. Since the angels had showed up, he’d been praying to Cas a lot. 

But he’d never prayed to God. 

And it was all he could do now. This wouldn’t be it. Nothing holy or good owed Dean any favors, but the fucking universe owed Her. It couldn’t let Her go, because She was too good for all of it, and Dean needed Her.

She was the universe. She was bigger and brighter than God, and wherever the hell that asshole was—if he was even real at all—he better be fucking listening because Dean needed Her, and maybe She was God and he just needed to pray and worship Her instead.

The thought moved through Dean’s whole body. He needed to tend to Her. That was what he could see. What he could know. What he’d always known. 

He rose slowly, never breaking Her gaze. Giving Her time to move away as he inched closer, cupping one hand on Her face and bracing the other on the mattress, stopping where if he spoke, Dean’s lips would brush Her’s.

There was no mistaking what he was daring to attempt. No way for Her to miss it, and be caught off guard. A long, strained moment where Dean gave Her the chance to shove him away and curse his name back to Hell, and at least then he’d know. That he’d always be in Her orbit, but to Her, Dean was just another thing, trying to sit in Her light. 

But She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were wide on his, yet She wasn’t looking away. Her fingers were curled on his shirt, and Her breath was heavy from her nostrils.

He licked his lips because he couldn’t fucking help himself, and She flushed, Her breath hitching, and Her mouth falling slightly open.

There it was.

Dean crashed down, and kissed Her.

And he’d never been good with words.

But this didn’t need any.

It was all movement and feeling. Her lips fit even better against Dean’s than he’d ever been able to imagine, and every single bit of desperation he threw into Her, she threw right fucking back. Dean bit at Her lower lip and She moaned, right down his fucking throat as She opened further for him, but when Dean got to press his tongue into Her mouth and have more, She pulled it between Her teeth and swallowed Dean’s groan with the best sound he’d ever fucking heard escaping from her throat. 

She tasted like coffee and sugar and that fucking fruit, Dean could taste the fruit and he was going to get addicted, but there were worse fucking vices to have. At least this one had Her wrapping an arm around his neck and tugging at his shirt to get him closer, She wanted Dean closer and he’d have to be fucking insane to deny Her.

When he pushed deeper, moving Her down to lie flat on Her back and never fucking breaking the kiss, She let him. She let Dean have fucking all of it. He got to overtake Her quickly, and She was responding to all his silents pleas for more and shivering under his touch when he grabbed Her waist and trailed his fingers down, down, down, to the bare skin of Her thighs-

“Dean.” She gasped against him, arching slightly off the mattress, and if God didn’t take his prayer, Dean would put all his torture skills to some good fucking use until the son of a bitch promised to never let anything hurt Her again. 

Until then he’d keep Her caged safely between the mattress and his body, devouring every single sound he was learning so fast to pull from Her body with only his mouth. They were all somehow better than last, and Dean had never felt this fucking high from just a kiss-

A foreign noise breached through Dean’s skull, and he sat up in half a second, pulling Her with him and burying Her tight into his chest. Anything that wasn’t Her or Dean was a fucking threat and-

It was Jo. When Dean twisted around with a deadly glower it was just Jo, and maybe he’d gotten a little too intense about that. 

But She was still in danger. The lich had still touched Her.

“Dean." She shoved at his chest, Her words muffled in his body, and he loosened his grip until She could twist against him.

But She stayed against him. Small victories.

“How, uh-“ She swallowed, and Dean glanced down to see Her rubbing at her wrists. “How long have you been there?”

“Few minutes.” Jo mumbled, staring at the floor, and Dean realized the girl’s whole face was red. “I’m sorry, I just- I didn’t stop it cause I was happy for you, but then I realized it was just gonna keep goin’, and, uh, sorry-“

“Jo.” Dean muttered. “What-“

“Cas is here.” Jo gave Dean a nervous look. “I prayed to him.” 

Dean sat a little taller. She would be fine. “Tell him to get his angel-ass in here and fix her-“

“There is nothing to fix.” Cas was very suddenly in the room, and Jo squeaked in surprise.

“Fuckin’ Christ-“

“My apologies.” Cas said with a small, grimacing frown. “You told me to wait until I was summoned, and Dean did just say to get my ass in here. My ass can’t be here without the rest of me, so-“

“Cas.” Dean gave him a flat look. “Focus. What’d you mean there’s nothing to fix-“

Cas said Her name slowly. “She is in perfect health.”

She frowned. “But the lich-“

“You are not in danger of any lich infection.” Cas shrugged. “It is not possible for your kind to succumb to any sort of preternatural disease, curse, or weapon. At most you will have felt a little sick, but it will have already passed.”

“My-“ She cut Herself off, setting up tall and straight, and Dean caught it. 

What Cas had implied. .

“My kind?” She whispered, Her eyes wide. “Did you- You figured out what I am?”

Cas sighed, and nodded. “I cannot offer a full explanation- The word you gave me is ancient. Uncommon. I would not call it taboo, but it is mostly lost with purpose.”

Dean frowned. “You mean on purpose?”

“No, Dean. With purpose. It has been deemed better for mortals to know as little as possible. Even we are not fully able to comprehend it.”

“Cas.” She muttered, rubbing Her thumb over her palm. “Please just say it.”

Cas let out a long breath. “You are the Magdalene.” He said Her name, watching her carefully as he continued. “They are the oldest and rarest breed of witch, although witch is a… crude term. You are made of the magic witches learn to harness.”

She swallowed, Her voice impossibly soft. “I- I’m a Magdalene.”

“No. You are the Magdalene.”

“Cas.” Dean grunted. “What the hell are you talking about.”

Cas sighed, still not moving from his place beside a wide-eyed Jo. “There is nothing in heaven’s record or knowledge about where Magdalene’s come from. They simply… are. Impossibly rare, and powerful. Dangerous. There is maybe one born every five hundred years, with the rare exception of two existing at once around the end of what your historians call the Common Era.” Cas said Her name again, and Dean was a little worried She wasn’t breathing. “You are the most powerful one recorded.”

“Oh.” She mumbled. “Cool. I- Doesn’t that probably mean whatever, um, Magdalene comes after me will be more powerful?”

Cas shook his head. “Heaven has monitored Magdalene’s since Lilith-“

Dean went rigid. “Lilith? What the hell does that bitch have to do with-“

“She’s a Magdalene, isn’t she.” Her words were still soft, Her attention still trained on Cas. “She said she was like me. That I was her descendent.”

Cas gave Her a grimacing, apologetic nod. “It is a biological trait, yes. There are complexities to it I do not think you’ll care to understand, but before Lilith was a demon, she was the first Magdalene. She had daughters, and they had daughters, and-“

“It led to me.” She muttered, and Cas nodded.

“The birth of a Magdalene has always heralded danger. Change. Lilith brought on demons, Avva, a goat-keeper in Sumar, brought on writing and calendars, and a consort in ancient China name Fu Hau introduced witchcraft to non-natural born-“

Dean sighed. “Man, we’re not here for a history lesson-“

“I am getting to my point, Dean.” Cas’ voice remained flat, his attention returning to Her. “The most powerful Magdalene’s before you were Cleopatra VII Thea Philopato, who brought about the Roman Empire, and Mary-“

“Magdalene.” She finished, Her eyes widening. “Is it- If it’s that old, how can it be named after her?”

“It isn’t.” Cas shrugged. “Magdala was the home of Lilith, as a human. It is simply what you would call coincidence.”

“Cas.” Dean grunted. “The point.”

Cas sighed. “Mary brought on the invention of the human religion, Christianity, which has been… impactful. Both her soul, and that of Cleopatra’s, had a sliver of the Magdalene power.”

Jo frowned, her voice small as she jumped in. “A sliver? How much is in a sliver?”

“My best estimate would be 2.159%.” Cas said. “Although I do not think Dean would want a math lesson on top of my history.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and She let out a soft laugh, even as Her nails started to dig into Dean’s skin.

Better than it being Her own.

“Cas?” She said carefully, and they were already looking at each other like there was a silent conversation Dean and Jo weren’t allowed to be a part of. 

Cas said Her name, bowing his head slightly, and She swallowed.

“How much of my soul is… Magdalene.”

“Half.” Cas muttered, giving Her an apologetic look, and She was going to draw blood. “And from what I have found, that should not be possible.”

“Oh.” She was almost fully curling into Dean’s body. He chanced one arm snaking around Her side, and She held it there.

Small, horrible victories. 

“It is likely why you were able to walk into Hell.” Cas said, looking only at Her, and Dean froze.

“What’d you mean, walk into Hell.” He hissed, looking between Her and Cas. “You’ve never been to Hell, Princess, and nobody just walks in-“

“I- I know, De, just-“ She shot Cas a glare. “You have horrible timing.”

Cas frowned. “I will- is that something to improve?”

“Yes. We’ll talk about it later.” She sighed, giving Dean a careful, soft expression that made something in him balk.

She couldn’t have walked into Hell. Something would’ve grabbed Her, Alistair would’ve known and seen Her and hurt Her, and Dean felt like a million fucking bricks were being pressed down onto his chest. 

“I sort of,” She took a deep, long breath, and whatever it was, Dean kind of didn’t want to hear it. “Could see you, sometimes. In Hell.”

“See me.” He grunted, and She nodded. “When.”

“Every night.” She whispered. “I was- I saw Cas saving you. That’s how he knows.”

She wasn’t lying. 

And there wasn’t a place low enough for Dean in the universe. She’d seen everything. And he’d be able to just beat himself and ignore the bruises if it hands only been his torture, but She’d seen parts of what he’d done. The souls he’d ripped and broken, and there had to be something worse than Hell, for things like Dean. 

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled, and She wasn’t pulling away. 

Dean didn’t know why She wasn’t pulling away. This was the reason. More than an out, a neon sign begging Her to take the exit door, yet She was still here.

He’d never understand Her. She wasn’t caving under any of this, just looking back to Cas and staying pressed to Dean, and She knew, She’s known, how has She known and not fucking left-

“What now?” She asked, and Dean had to focus.

It wasn’t about him, now. If he was going to keep doing the shadow thing right, it was about Her.

“You will need to be careful.” Cas said slowly. “There is more, that I was not able to access, and once it is known that you have reunited with the Winchester’s, precautions may be taken.”

“What-“

“I am not able to say, but mostly because I do not know. I have already lingered too long. Jo. Dean,” Cas gave them both nods, then said Her name with the same movement. “We will talk later.”

She blinked, something flashing over Her face that Dean didn’t understand, and Cas vanished. 

None of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Too much had changed from the morning, and it was all so fucking complicated, and God, Dean really fucking hated that word.

But She was still in Dean’s arms. A hand over his on Her stomach, that fucking fruit smell invading his sense as She leaned slightly further into his body. Into Dean.

So as long as he could manage, Dean wasn’t going to let Her go.

End Note: The emotional whiplash Dean just went through... someone get him like a blanket or something. (Also 300k words to kiss. They're insane)

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[inseobts]

Fate Won’t Take You From Me

chifuyu matsuno x fem! reader x mitsuya takashi

what if your boyfriend chifuyu knows the future will never be nice to the two of you and he doesn't know how to change it.

a/n: I wrote this when I still had to finish the anime so I hope it's not too bad o(TヘTo)

words count: 4.6k

tags: angst, drama, love triangle(?)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

Chifuyu leans against the wall of the abandoned warehouse, arms crossed, watching as Takemichi rubs his temples like he’s battling the worst headache of his life.

He just got back from another dive into the future, another desperate attempt to fix things before everything spirals out of control. Chifuyu is used to this by now. The frustration, the exhaustion in Takemichi’s eyes.

Takemichi looks uneasy, avoiding his gaze, shifting uncomfortably like he’s keeping a secret.

Chifuyu doesn’t like that.

“So?” he presses, forcing his voice to stay casual “I guess we didn't win yet.”

Takemichi hesitates “It’s… complicated.”

It always is. Chifuyu sighs, running a hand through his hair “Yeah, yeah, it always is. But you know what? I wanna know something else. You know I always try to not ask much but I'm too curious.”

Takemichi finally looks at him “What?”

Chifuyu smirks, trying to lighten the mood, though there’s a weight in his chest that he can’t explain “I never asked before but… What about me and y/n?” he asks, referring to you “Do we… you know… last?”

Takemichi blinks “Last?”

“Yeah. Do we stay together? Are we finally married?”

It’s supposed to be a stupid question. A joke, even. Because of course you do. You and Chifuyu have been through everything together. There’s can't be no version of the future where you aren’t by his side.

Right?

Takemichi’s silence is the first thing that unsettles him. The second is the way his friend suddenly refuses to meet his eyes.

Chifuyu feels something in his stomach twist.

“…Oi,” his voice drops “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Chifuyu, I—”

“Just tell me. The worst that can happen is that we gonna change the future.”

Takemichi takes a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his words shatter Chifuyu’s world.

“In every timeline I’ve seen 'til now… you never marry her.”

The air in Chifuyu’s lungs disappears. It’s like the room is suddenly suffocating, like the walls are caving in around him.

He swallows hard “Then… is she… alive?”

“Yeah, she keeps doing good actually.”

“Then… is she still around? does she marry someone else?”

Takemichi hesitates. But he can’t lie, not about this.

“…Mitsuya.”

For a moment, Chifuyu doesn’t move. He can’t.

His brain refuses to accept the words, refuses to process them.

Mitsuya? Mitsuya?

It has to be a mistake. Takemichi has to be messing with him... but his face tells him everything.

It’s true.

His fingers curl into fists. His heart pounds, a chaotic mix of emotions, shock, denial, fear. But the worst one is the burning, consuming jealousy that claws its way into his chest.

Mitsuya. His friend. The guy he trusts with his life.

And the guy who, in every future that exists, steals you away from him?

Chifuyu forces a laugh, but it comes out weird “Nah… nah, that’s bullshit.”

Takemichi doesn’t say anything.

Chifuyu’s jaw tightens “She loves me.” His voice is sharp now, more desperate than he wants it to be “She’s with me.”

Takemichi finally speaks, and his voice is gentle. Pitying.

“…She’s with you... now.”

Now.

The word slices through Chifuyu like a blade.

Because that means one day, you won’t be.

One day, you’ll wake up and love someone else.

One day, you’ll leave him behind.

His chest tightens painfully, like his heart is being crushed in a vice. He wants to scream, to fight, to tell Takemichi he’s wrong. But he can’t, because deep down, a part of him knows… you’ve always been close to Mitsuya after all.

A part of him knows, if he looks too closely, he’ll start noticing things he never wanted to see.

But he refuses to let that happen. He won’t let fate take you from him. He can’t.

Chifuyu doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, Takemichi’s words replaying in his head like a curse.

“In every timeline I’ve seen… you never marry her.”

“She ends up with Mitsuya.”

He hates it. Hates how it latches onto his brain, poisoning every thought, twisting everything he knows about you. About him.

It’s stupid. You love him. He knows you do. But now, he can’t shake the feeling that one day, that won’t be enough.

The next day, he finds you outside Mitsuya’s sewing room, your back against the wall as you wait for him.

You look up when you see him, eyes bright. His girl. His heart aches just looking at you.

“Chifuyu” you call out, pushing off the wall to meet him “What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickers to the door behind you. Mitsuya’s door.

Something in him snaps.

“What about you?” his voice comes out sharper than he means it to “What are you doing here?”

You blink at him, confused “I told Mitsuya I’d stop by today. He’s fixing up my jacket.”

Of course. Mitsuya.

Chifuyu clenches his jaw, ignoring the way his stomach twists.

“So you just waited out here for him?” he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Yeah?” you frown, tilting your head “Why?”

He knows it’s stupid. He knows he’s being irrational. But now, every second you spend with Mitsuya feels like a countdown.

Like every moment between you two is another step toward the day you wake up and realize you love him instead.

And the worst part? You don’t even know it’s coming. And he doesn't even know when does that exactly happen.

Chifuyu swallows down the jealousy burning in his throat and forces a grin, his usual grin, the one you love.

“I just didn’t know you guys were that close” he says.

You roll your eyes, laughing “Of course we are. He’s my friend.”

Yeah. Friend. Until he’s not.

The door behind you suddenly opens, and Mitsuya steps out, wiping his hands on a rag. He looks up, notices Chifuyu, and nods.

“Yo” Mitsuya greets.

Chifuyu nods back, but there’s something in his chest, something ugly, clawing at him as he watches you smile at him.

Is this what fate looks like?

Mitsuya turns to you, handing you your jacket “Should be good as new now.”

You take it with a grateful smile “Thanks, Mitsuya. You’re the best.”

Chifuyu watches as Mitsuya reaches out to fix the collar of your shirt, a simple, meaningless gesture.

Something inside him breaks, and efore he even thinks, he grabs your wrist.

“Come on” he says, voice tight “We’re leaving.”

You blink at him in surprise “Chifuyu?”

He doesn’t let go. Doesn’t want to let go.

Mitsuya watches him, silent. Calm, as always. But Chifuyu swears he sees something in his eyes, a question.

Chifuyu forces a grin, pulling you closer to him.

“She’s mine, Mitsuya” he says lightly, but there’s an edge to his voice.

Mitsuya doesn’t react, just watches. Like he’s studying him. Like he already knows something’s wrong.

You pull your wrist free, frowning up at him “What’s with you today? That was rude.”

He hates how guilty you sound, like you’ve done something wrong. Like you’re the one hurting him, when it’s fate itself that’s betraying him.

“Nothing” he lies, forcing himself to relax “Let’s just go.”

You hesitate, glancing back at Mitsuya, but eventually sigh and nod “Okay. See you later, Mitsuya.”

“Yeah” Mitsuya says slowly, watching the way Chifuyu keeps you close “See you.”

Chifuyu doesn’t look back as he leads you away, but he knows Mitsuya is still watching, and for the first time, Chifuyu realizes something.

He’s not just fighting fate anymore.

He’s fighting Mitsuya too.

Chifuyu doesn’t let go of your hand until you’re far from Mitsuya’s place. Even then, his grip lingers, fingers still curled around yours like he’s afraid to lose you.

You glance at him, brows furrowed “Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing” he says too quickly “Just wanted to spend time with you.”

You give him a look “You could’ve just asked instead of dragging me away like that.”

His stomach twists. You’re not mad, not really, but there’s something in your tone. Something off. Like you’re confused. Like you don’t understand why he’s acting this way.

Because you actually don’t. Because you don’t know what he knows.

He forces a smirk, bumping his shoulder against yours “I just missed my girl, that’s all.”

Your expression softens, but only a little “Still… you were kinda rude to Mitsuya back there.”

His jaw clenches before he can stop it “You always have to defend him like that?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, he wants to take them back.

You blink, surprised “What? Chifuyu, it’s not about defending him, it’s just—”

“Forget it” he cuts you off, shaking his head “Let’s go do something fun.”

You hesitate for a second, then sigh “Fine. But if you keep acting weird, I’m making you tell me what’s up.”

He just smiles, pulling you along, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

He won’t let fate take you from him. No matter what.

Later that night, Chifuyu watches you from across the room as you scroll through your phone. You’re probably texting Hina or some of the other girls, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.

His mind replays Takemichi’s words over and over again like a nightmare.

“She ends up with Mitsuya.”

His fingers curl into fists. He can’t let that happen. He won’t.

But would Mitsuya even fight for you?

Would he ever try to take you from him?

No. He knows Mitsuya. He knows he’d never do something like that. Mitsuya’s too good. Too loyal.

And that scares him even more. Because if Mitsuya isn’t the one stealing you away…

Then maybe it’s you. Maybe one day, without even realizing it, you’ll start choosing him instead. Maybe it’s already happening.

Chifuyu swallows hard.

He needs to do something. Now.

Mitsuya, on the other hand, notices the change almost immediately.

At first, it’s subtle. Chifuyu standing closer to you, always making sure to keep a hand on your waist or your wrist. The way he interrupts conversations just to pull you away.

It’s small things. Easy to brush off.

Until he realizes Chifuyu never lets you be alone with him anymore.

Until he catches the sharp glances Chifuyu throws his way when you aren’t looking.

Until Chifuyu starts watching, like he’s waiting for something to happen.

Mitsuya doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches back.

Because he’s starting to understand.

Mitsuya leans against his worktable, arms crossed, watching Chifuyu from across the room.

It’s been like this for days now. Chifuyu hovering close to you, keeping you just out of reach. Always watching. Always waiting.

At first, Mitsuya thought he was imagining it. That maybe Chifuyu was just being overprotective, like he always was. But now it’s obvious.

Chifuyu isn’t just protecting you. He’s guarding you from him.

Mitsuya exhales through his nose, standing up straight “Chifuyu”

Chifuyu stiffens but doesn’t look at him “What?”

“You got a problem with me?”

Chifuyu finally meets his gaze. His eyes are sharp, guarded “No.”

Mitsuya tilts his head slightly, studying him “Then why are you acting like you do?”

Chifuyu exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Mitsuya doesn’t let up “Because it seems like you’ve been keeping her away from me.”

Chifuyu’s jaw clenches, but he forces a grin “She’s my girlfriend, Mitsuya. Maybe I just want to spend more time with her.”

Mitsuya doesn’t react “And maybe you’re scared.”

Chifuyu’s whole body tenses.

That’s all the confirmation Mitsuya needs.

Mitsuya takes a slow step forward, his voice calm but firm “You’re not stupid, Chifuyu. You know I’d never do anything to mess with your relationship.”

Chifuyu says nothing.

“But you’re still looking at me like I’m the enemy” Mitsuya continues “Like you’re waiting for me to take her from you.”

Chifuyu exhales sharply, turning away “Drop it, Mitsuya.”

“No” Mitsuya’s voice is steady, unwavering “Because this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you.”

Chifuyu’s hands curl into fists.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” Mitsuya doesn’t let up “You really think she’s gonna leave you”

Chifuyu’s eyes snap to his, burning with frustration “Shut up, Mitsuya.”

Mitsuya holds his gaze “Or maybe...” He pauses, voice softer now, like he’s starting to understand.

“Maybe you really do think I would try steal her from you...”

Something flickers in Chifuyu’s eyes.

A crack.

Mitsuya inhales slowly “…You know something, don’t you?”

Chifuyu doesn’t answer.

Mitsuya watches him for a moment longer, then sighs “If you keep this up, you’ll lose her anyway.”

Chifuyu’s breath catches in his throat.

“Not because of me, or because of fate itself” Mitsuya says simply “But because you won’t let her breathe.”

Chifuyu doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stands there. And for the first time, he wonders if Mitsuya is right.

If in his desperate attempt to fight fate… He’s becoming the reason you leave.

Chifuyu’s mood shifts over the next few days. You notice it immediately. His usual smiles are forced, and the protective gestures feel more suffocating than caring. He pulls you closer when you don’t need it, watches you with eyes that don’t just look. They study.

And the worst part? He barely acknowledges it. Like he’s pretending everything’s fine.

You can’t pretend anymore.

This isn’t the Chifuyu you know. The Chifuyu you know was always open with you. Always honest. Always real. But now…

You can feel the distance growing.

It hurts more than you thought it would.

So tonight, you decide to confront him.

You wait until the two of you are alone, until it’s just you and him in the living room, the silence thick and suffocating.

He’s on the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him, a manga in hand, but his mind clearly elsewhere.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, your gaze focused on him “Chifuyu.”

He doesn’t look up “Hm?”

You step forward, your heart pounding “Stop acting like this.”

He freezes, the manga slipping from his hand, but he doesn’t look up “What are you talking about?”

You take a deep breath, walking closer to him, every step heavy with the weight of your frustration “You’re being distant. You’re overbearing. You’ve been acting like… like I’m some fragile thing that needs to be kept away from everyone. And you know I don't like it.”

Chifuyu finally looks up, but there’s no understanding in his gaze. Just confusion “I’m just looking out for you.”

You shake your head “That’s not it. It’s more than that.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at you, the walls around him thickening “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t lie to me, Chifuyu” you step closer, your voice firm but shaking from the emotion rising in your chest “You keep acting jealous... You think I would leave you for someone else?”

His eyes widen, and you can tell you’ve hit a nerve, but he still doesn’t speak.

“You’ve been pushing me away, and I don’t know why. I thought you trusted me, but now…” you take a breath, steadying yourself “Now, I feel like you don’t even know who I am anymore.”

He stands up suddenly, his face a mix of frustration and guilt “I trust you, Y/N! I do! But…”

He trails off, his voice faltering as if he’s trying to find the words to explain the chaos inside his head.

“But what?” you ask quietly.

Chifuyu rubs his forehead, as if trying to calm the storm in his mind “Every time I look at you, I think about what happens next. What if one day, you wake up and you’re not with me anymore?”

You blink, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. His eyes are dark, haunted, like he’s seen something he can’t shake.

“Chifuyu…” you whisper, stepping closer to him, your voice softening “I’m not going anywhere. I'm here...”

He looks up at you, his eyes wide with uncertainty, and for a moment, you see the fear, raw and unfiltered, that he’s been hiding.

“You don’t get it” he mutters, voice breaking slightly “I saw it, Y/N. In the future. In every timeline… you end up with Mitsuya. Not me. You marry him.”

You freeze. The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you can see the pain in his eyes, the torment he’s been holding in.

“You saw it?” you repeat, your voice shaking now.

“Not me, actually. But it’s the same…” he admits, his voice almost a whisper “No matter what… you end up with him. And it kills me, Y/N. I can’t… I can’t just stand by and watch it happen.”

You take a step back, his confession crashing over you in waves. The room feels like it’s spinning, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say.

But then, you find your voice “Chifuyu…”

You take his hands in yours, forcing him to look at you “Listen to me. I don’t know what you saw or not. But this…” you shake your head, feeling a mix of confusion and compassion “This isn’t about fate. It’s about us. I choose you. Every day, I choose you.”

Chifuyu’s eyes well with unshed tears, his hands trembling slightly as he holds onto you “But what if it’s already decided?”

You gently cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes “Then we fight it. Together.”

His breath catches, and for the first time in days, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters.

“Chifuyu…” you say softly “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. But you need to trust me.”

He nods, his voice breaking as he whispers “I’m sorry, Y/N. I was so scared…”

You smile gently, brushing a strand of hair from his face “I know you were. But you can’t keep pushing me away like this. We’re in this together. Always.”

Chifuyu finally lets out a shaky breath, his shoulders relaxing as he pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly like he’s afraid he might lose you all over again.

“I won’t let you go,” he says, his voice thick with emotion “I promise.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Chifuyu feels like maybe he can stop fighting fate and trust that you are his, and no one will take you from him.

It’s a quiet evening when Takemichi arrives back from another dive into the future. He’s been gone for days, and you’ve been trying to distract Chifuyu from the anxiety that’s been weighing on him ever since the last conversation.

When Takemichi walks in, his face is grim.

Chifuyu notices him first. He’s standing in the doorway, his eyes tired and heavy with the burden of knowing too much.

You look up from where you’re sitting on the couch and smile, happy to see Takemichi, but Chifuyu doesn’t share your enthusiasm.

“Back already?” Chifuyu says casually, his tone sharp and protective.

Takemichi hesitates. The last time he revealed something, it only made things worse.

“You… you want to know what happens this time?” Takemichi asks, his eyes shifting nervously between the two of you.

Chifuyu stands up, walking over to where you’re sitting. His hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, but there’s a firmness in his voice as he answers Takemichi.

“No,” Chifuyu says, his voice steady “I don’t need to know. Whatever happens in the future… we’ll handle it.”

Takemichi blinks, surprised by Chifuyu’s refusal. Normally, Chifuyu is the one pushing for answers, the one desperate to fix things, but today… it’s different.

“Chifuyu…” Takemichi starts, but Chifuyu cuts him off, his voice unwavering.

“No, Takemichi,” Chifuyu says, shaking his head “I don’t need to know what happens with me and Y/N. I trust her. I trust us.”

You feel your heart swell, the love and reassurance in Chifuyu’s words more than enough to put you at ease. But then, a part of you know what Takemichi has seen, his face tells everything.

Takemichi swallows hard, looking between you both. He knows the truth. He knows what he’s seen. He knows what’s coming. And yet, he doesn’t want to say it.

Chifuyu’s grip on your hand tightens, but he doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t look at Takemichi. He stares straight ahead, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I already know what you saw” Chifuyu replies, his voice calm and controlled, but there’s an edge to it “But I don’t care. This is our timeline. Our future.”

Takemichi’s eyes widen in confusion, not understanding what Chifuyu means. He expected a fight, maybe even an argument, but Chifuyu… Chifuyu’s eyes are clear. His gaze unwavering.

“You’re… you’re not angry?” Takemichi asks, his voice uncertain.

Chifuyu shakes his head slowly. He finally looks at you, his expression softening.

“No” he says simply “I’m not angry. I’m just…”

His voice falters for a moment, but he continues, his words filled with conviction “I’m choosing to believe in you, y/n. In us. And no matter what happens, I’m going to fight for that. For us. If that’s the future, it means that something might have happened and all I want is you to be happy, even if it's not with me.”

You feel a rush of emotions flood over you as you squeeze his hand tighter, the words meaning more to you than anything else. You don’t need the future to define what you have now.

Takemichi watches the exchange between the two of you, his chest tightening. He understands now. Chifuyu is choosing to trust you. He’s not going to let the future dictate his present.

“You really believe that?” Takemichi asks, his voice quiet.

Chifuyu nods firmly “Yeah. I do.”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, the world feels still. Takemichi is silent, eyes searching Chifuyu’s face, and then, finally, he lets out a breath.

“…Alright.” Takemichi says, his shoulders slumping slightly “Then, I guess that’s all I need to hear.”

You can see the relief in Takemichi’s expression, the weight he’s been carrying lifting slightly as he looks at both of you.

“I’ll make sure this timeline works out for you guys” Takemichi adds with a small smile, stepping toward the door.

Chifuyu watches him go, then turns to face you, his eyes softer than they’ve been in days. He pulls you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you as if he’s afraid to ever let go.

“I’m not going anywhere either” you whisper, holding him close.

“I know” Chifuyu replies, his voice steady but filled with warmth “And I’m not letting you go either.”

You smile against his chest, feeling the love and trust between the two of you stronger than anything fate could ever throw your way.

And for the first time in a long time, Chifuyu feels like the future doesn’t matter. Because as long as he has you, nothing else will ever break them apart.

The days after are peaceful. Chifuyu’s trust in you grows stronger with each passing day. He never mentions the future again, never brings up Mitsuya, and his affection for you deepens, he’s focused, determined to make the present his truth.

But something inside you feels weird.

You don’t want to think about it. You don’t want to admit that the future still lingers like a shadow over your relationship. But after everything you’ve heard, after everything Chifuyu has sacrificed to believe in you, you can’t ignore the question that keeps pressing at the back of your mind:

Why do you never end up with Chifuyu in the future?

You’ve tried to push it away. You’ve tried to focus on the present. But the truth is, you can’t stop thinking about it. And deep down, you know you need to get the answer for yourself.

One night, when Chifuyu is busy with work and you find yourself alone, the weight of your curiosity becomes too heavy to ignore.

You slip out quietly, your heart racing as you make your way to Takemichi’s place. The chill of the night air doesn’t even register, all that matters is the unanswered question that’s been haunting you.

When Takemichi opens the door, his face softens at the sight of you.

“Y/N?” he asks, surprised “What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you,” you say quietly, stepping inside. You don’t waste any time “I need to know. Why… Why don’t I end up with Chifuyu in the future?”

Takemichi blinks, clearly taken aback. He hesitates, looking at you with a mix of sympathy and something heavier. Something he doesn’t want to say.

“Y/N…” he begins, his voice soft and hesitant “Are you sure you want to know this?”

You nod, the resolve in your voice stronger than it feels “I need to know, Takemichi. Please. I have to know the truth.”

There’s a long silence as Takemichi looks at you, weighing the decision. He knows how much this will hurt. How much it could change everything. But he can’t keep it from you.

“Alright,” he says finally, his voice low “The reason… the reason you never end up with Chifuyu in the future… it’s always the same.”

You hold your breath.

“It’s because of Chifuyu,” Takemichi continues, his voice thick with regret “He never feels like he’s enough. He loves you so much that he convinces himself you’ll be better off with someone else. He pushes you away… he doesn’t want to be the one holding you back.”

Your heart sinks as you absorb his words. It’s not about Mitsuya. It’s not about you choosing someone else. It’s about Chifuyu, about his own insecurity, his fear of not being good enough for you, of loving you so much that he believes he’s destined to lose you.

“And no matter what happens,” Takemichi continues, voice trembling with empathy “Chifuyu doesn’t fight for you. Not because he doesn’t love you... he loves you more than anything. But because he thinks that’s what’s best for you. He believes you deserve someone who can give you the world, someone who won’t drag you down.”

The words crash over you like a wave, and you feel dizzy, your mind racing.

Chifuyu’s fear of being unworthy is the reason you’re torn apart. He believes his love for you is not enough to keep you.

You take a deep breath, forcing the tears back. You’ve spent so much time trying to make sense of everything, trying to figure out why fate always separates you and Chifuyu.

And now you know.

But knowing doesn’t make it any easier.

You stand there, numb for a long moment before you finally speak, your voice thick with emotion “So… it’s always his choice? He chooses to walk away from me?”

Takemichi nods, his eyes filled with sadness “Yeah. He never thinks he’s good enough for you. That’s the reason, no matter how much he loves you, no matter how hard you try, it always ends the same.”

Your heart aches as you let that sink in. The realization that Chifuyu, the person who loves you more than anything, could be the very reason you can’t stay with him.

You turn to leave, Takemichi’s voice stopping you just before you reach the door.

“Y/N,” he says softly “I’m sorry.”

You nod silently, wiping away a tear that threatens to fall. You need to go back to Chifuyu. To hold him. To remind him that he’s more than enough. You need him to believe in you, in both of you.

But deep inside, you know it won’t be easy. Because it’s never been about love. It’s been about belief.

And for now, you can only hope that, somehow, Chifuyu will find the strength to fight against the very thing that’s pulling him away from you: his own fear.

[dreameyess11]

LIKE FATHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

Anakin Skywalker x Reader

You stand in the center of the room, arms crossed, frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Leia, her little fists clenched at her sides, glares up at you with defiance sparking in her eyes. It’s been a long day, and you don’t have the patience for another one of her outbursts.

"Leia Skywalker," you say, voice firm. "How many times have I told you not to sneak out of the palace at night?"

"I wasn’t sneaking!" she fires back. "I just wanted to see the ships take off!"

Your jaw tightens. "That’s not the point, young lady. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is? What if something had happened to you? What if—"

And then it happens.

The way she tilts her chin up, the fire in her eyes, the sheer stubbornness in her expression—it stops you cold.

Because you’ve seen that exact look before.

On someone else.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen silent until a voice—deep, familiar—breaks through.

"She was just curious, love" Anakin says. "She’s got a strong spirit, that’s all."

You turn, and there he is. Standing just beyond the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with that mix of misplaced amusement and ill-advised sympathy. You give him a sharp look, and he hesitates, as if just now realizing he’s stepped onto a battlefield.

"Oh, don’t even start," you warn, voice low. "This is your fault."

Anakin blinks. "My fault?"

"Yes!" You throw a hand toward Leia, who watches the exchange with interest, clearly sensing the shift in the storm. "Do you see that face? That’s your face! That stubborn, reckless, I’ll do what I want look—she gets that from you!"

Anakin has the audacity to look confused. "Well… I mean… maybe a little?"

"A little?" You raise an eyebrow. "Anakin Skywalker, this is exactly how you looked when you told Obi-Wan, ‘Don’t worry, Master, I got this’ right before crashing into a droid battalion!"

Leia snickers. Anakin shoots her a quick look, like they’re suddenly allies in this war. You can see the silent exchange—We’re in this together, kid.

"You are not bonding over this!" you snap, pointing at both of them. "You do not get to encourage her!"

"I wasn’t—"

"You were!"

"I just—"

"Anakin!"

He sighs, rubbing the back of his head, finally conceding defeat. "Okay, okay. Maybe she got the stubbornness from me. But you have to admit, she gets her sharp mind and leadership from you."

You press your lips together, torn between lingering frustration and the warmth of that compliment. Leia, ever the opportunist, sees the distraction and makes her move.

"So… am I still grounded?" she asks hopefully.

You and Anakin turn to her at the same time.

"Yes!" you say in unison.

Leia groans, and Anakin grins at you behind her back. You shake your head, exasperated, but as you meet his gaze—those same blue eyes staring at you with that familiar mix of mischief and devotion—you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

You’re outnumbered.

And Force help you, it’s only going to get worse from here.

[thirtyorolderpls]

the strawmans i see by american TRAs on tumblr are insane but i want to focus on the "women are not oppressed"

i think it's important to address that, yes, lots of women have wealth, race and social class privilege over other men. it's dumb to deny it and it doesn't water down feminism one bit.

in fact i think denying it and presenting women as this ever suffering sex is a big mistake, one that i made when i was younger. because it obscures reality and feminist victories just as much as denying our oppression does. lots of women are living happy and successful lives and they must be celebrated as well.

another mistake is recurring to historical data, sure, everyone should know that women were basically objects up until two days ago, historically speaking, but that won't impress misogynists because they see it as a far away thing, just like racists like to repeat ad nauseam that "slavery ended 200 years ago" therefore no more racism.

modern misogynists, both men and women, have fallen for the illusion that women and men are legally equal, and that's when women from the west make the third mistake which is mentioning feminist issues from different countries.

you don't need to say that child marriage is legal somewhere else because most child molesters are usually closely related to the child. in the west a man can rape his children and if he goes by statistics alone he knows it's very likely that he will not get reported.

women are allowed to study, sure, but try being a woman in a male dominated field, try getting a promotion without being called a cocksucker. it happens, sure, but it doesn't happen more often because misogynists prevent it from happening. just like they used to do with music until someone said "enough" and now around 50% of professional musicians are women.

speaking of working women try being a lady boss outside of a city. i could write for HOURS about how men disrespect women who are their superiors, others already have. it's incredibly frustrating when you see it happen for yourself. one of my bosses had to ask her big boyfriend to just be there when she talked to male employees, and it fucking worked, they started respecting her a lot more.

trans women are forced into prostitution because of stigma, and that's horrible, but women are much more often abducted or coerced into prostitution than just "trying to making ends meet". sex trafficking is very real and mostly targets one sex and one sex alone. "but that barely happens to girls in the west" true, but most of the eastern european girls who are trafficked end up in my country, and that makes it my country's issue as well. my country is first world, has good education, great healthcare and so many things that make it look like a progressive country but it still is a prostitution haven, thousands of mostly chinese and eastern european women are trapped in here while thousands of male tourists come for sex tourism daily.

women are still expected to do more house chores and generally take more responsibility in a relationship and even worse in parenthood. we are still coerced to have children and expected to like children. SAHMs have no financial compensation for their daily work, can't contribute to social security and are left basically homeless if their loving husbands decide to leave them. "but it is their choice!" alright and what are they supposed to do now? get fucked? because the whole of society told them being a SAHM with no plan B is okay and normal and lots of women make it work? "but it's not really work" yeah that's why you pay for others to cook your food, take care of your kids, dogs, house, right? because it's not really work? yeah, right.

medical studies that use human subjects are still mostly conducted on males because periods are annoying to track. men get alopecia medication and viagra 2.0 and women are still told that "menopause is a natural process" and get sold a bazillion different supplements that don't work because there's almost no data on menopause that doesn't revolve around fertility rates. in general, most of what we know regarding women's health revolves around fertility. fuck pain relief and better quality of life, all that matters is if you can pop kids out or not. and this is huge, women with reproductive issues are usually ignored and have to face excruciating pain for no reason at all, menopause goes on for years and these women are not only expected to perform as well as they did before, they're mocked for a natural condition of aging as a woman.

last time i checked it was women mutilating their bodies daily in the name of beauty and self esteem when it's really body dysmorphia. anyone who has body dysmorphia knows that getting surgery to fix it will only make the problem worse, so we officially have a multi-billion industry that predates on women with mental health issues and it's fine because it's also their choice. just like most women have some sort of disordered eating pattern or have anxiety over food, not healthy consciousness but a terrible relationship with food and their bodies.

if you want to convince someone on why feminism is still important in the west, despite full access to abortion in my country and full equal rights under the law, these are better arguments than resorting to extreme situations of violence or trying to educate someone on women's history, they will not believe you or won't care.

[babysubinnie]

racing for your... heart? (lee heeseung) - too close to hate, too hurt to love

🥚 pairing :: richboy!heeseung x richfem!reader, streetracer!heeseung x streetracer!reader, 🥚 genre :: emotional, fluff, angst (lowkey a lot) 🥚 warnings :: suggestive, lots of swearing, flirting from hee, tension!!!,, grabbing wrists,, confrontation, jealousy and past relationship tension, crying, reckless driving (brief), slight emotional miscommunication. 🥚 synopsis :: he may have been the heir to the Lux hotel empire, but that didn’t stop him from being a reckless, cocky asshat—fast cars, faster girls, and a reputation for never losing. but then there was you—the one girl who refused to fall at his feet, the only racer who could actually keep up. you were his biggest competition, his biggest frustration, and worst of all, his biggest distraction. no matter how many races you went head-to-head in, you never lost—especially not to him. but this time, the stakes were higher, and whether he admitted it or not, heeseung wasn’t just racing to win. he was racing for you.

masterlist!

a/n:: sorry loves it's been a while since i posted a chapter but i'm done school now so i should be able to post at a better time now but enjoy <3

——————————————————————————

"why, you don't wanna be seen with me?" he teases, but that was the actual reason. you didn't want anyone thinking that you were the new girl of the month right?

"uhm.." you struggle to find the words to speak, his eyes darkening realizing what you were trying to say. he wraps his arm around your waist pulling you closer towards him, your hands landing on his chest. "w-what are you doing?"

"you think I was playing with you? god, no. i just didn’t know how to ask you to stay without sounding like i'd fall apart if you didn’t."

"w-what?"

"you heard me. you think that i'm just using you? that's.. not.. at all what's happening." he leans down, pulling you even closer. you look up at him your breath hitching as you feel the heat of his body against yours. "that's exactly what i thought this was." you shake your head laughing.

"is that all you think of me as?" his expression becomes serious, and you drop your smile. he was actually being serious, it was weird to you that he was being so serious..

"well that and an annoying piece of sh- poo." you decided to lighten the mood, but he wasn't having it. he noticed you held back from swearing, but he broke, and smiled at you.

"yeah? i suppose i can't deny that." he smirked, leaning closer as he lowered his voice, unable to defend his self.

"oh god help me, you can't even go five minutes without flirting huh?" you scoff and roll your eyes still not realizing he was still holding you close. he lets his hands run down your back and rest on the small of it, chuckling, amused by your words.

"i really, really can't. flirting with cute girls is way too fun, and you're the most amusing person that i've flirted with in a long time." he raised an eyebrow at you, eyes flickering around your face for any type of reaction. you roll your eyes, laughing as you push him away.

"speaking of which," you freeze when he speaks, not knowing what unexpected thing he was going to say. his eyes flick down to your lips, and you shake your head laughing it off. "can i-"

"no. whatever you're thinking, no." you smirk, turning on your heels to walk away. when you hear him walking up faster, you slowly start running. he laughs as he runs after you. you run to the parking lot, seeing a group of girls leaning on the hood of his car, your car sparkling next to his under the sun. you slow down, and he catches up to you putting his hand on the small of your back, "just stay here. i'll-"

just as he spoke, the famous ex-girlfriend, se-ri, walks up to us, with a big smile on her face. when she notices his hand on your back, her eyes narrow. she scoffs and rolls her eyes before putting her hand on his wrist, pulling him towards her. she glances at you, then up at him with batty eyelashes. you laugh in disbelief, walking towards your car, but she stops right in front of you.

"can i pass?" you try to step to the side, but she only moves in front of you while keeping her eyes up at heeseung.

"what are you going to do about it if i don't?" she moves her eyeline to you, shooting daggers out of her eyes. you scoff and reply, dripped with venom,

"don't fuck with me, se-ri."

her eyebrows raise, and she chuckles, "or what? you going to throw a tantrum?" and in the corner of your eye you see heeseung step forward. you hold out your hand stopping him, smirking at se-ri. then you remember the conversation she was having in the classroom with her friends and you step closer to her,

"oh like you when your dad didn't buy you that bag?" you smirk, knowing that she was itching to hit you. she grabs your uniform shirt in her hand pulling you close. "oh, i'm so scared of you." she pushes you away from her and lifts her arm to hit you, but heeseung was faster.

his hand wrapped around her wrist, voice lower than usual, "enough." her face drops, and clenches her fist before pulling out of his hold, and letting you go. you continue smirking at her, walking past her, stopping shoulder to shoulder to her.

"i told you not to fuck with me." you walk up to your car, and her minions run over to her, as you hear heeseung's footsteps running after you. "you okay?"

you turn around smiling leaning on the hood of your car. you tilt your head and cross your arms. "why did you do that?" he gets nervous, rubbing his neck, then looks up into your eyes.

"i- fuck." caught red handed.

"why hee? you care about me that much?" you smirk, stand up, meeting his eyes. your heart skips a beat, not knowing if this was a good idea, and it definitely wasn't. before he could do anything, you got into the car, and watched him run to the passenger side, got in quickly so you couldn't lock it. "what do you think you're doing?"

"getting in your car. you're driving me home." he smirks and nods at you. with a roll of your eyes you glance at his car, then back at him.

"you have-" he cuts you off, tapping on the gear shift. you shake your head but decide to listen when his eyes narrow. you change gears, starting to drive. the drive is somewhat silent, but he watches you drive the whole time.

"what?" you glance at him shaking your head laughing. you were taking the long way to his house, hoping he didn't notice. you had no idea why you even wanted to take the long way. he looks down when you look at him, then looked up seeing the street you were driving down.

"uh... y/n?" he starts, and poked your shoulder with his finger. "we're going the wrong way. you know that right?" he pokes you harder getting a sigh from you.

"i know. it's on purpose. stop poking me!" you roll your eyes continuing to drive, stepping your foot on the gas, speeding up before he could get in a word. you gripped on onto the steering wheel with one hand, and one hand on the gear shift. he put his hand on top of the hand on the gear shift,

"easy y/n.. you're going too fast." he says cautiously and you push his hand off, "you the police?" you scoff waiting for him to reply, and the heat in the car definitely went up. you take a deep breath, stopping to breath when he spoke, lowly, almost a growl.

"no, but i don't want you to get a ticket."

you place both hands onto the wheel, and you see an empty parking garage, speeding up to pull in, parking anywhere you wanted. his eyes widened as you sped up. you scoff at his response turning to look at him, pissed.

"what is your issue?" you broke. you needed to know why he was doing this, playing a push and pull game with you. you were getting sick of it, waiting for him to respond.

"nothing is with me. i just want to- i mean- i don't want you to see you do something stupid oka-" he starts fumbling over his words like you caught him doing something bad. you cut him off, completely going off at him.

"no. you’re so fucking confusing heeseung! one minute you’re all over me, next minute you’re making out with the whole school, and then by the next day you’re protecting me and being all.. like this!! what is with you? decide how you fucking feel for fucks sake!!" you raise your voice, throwing your head back against the headrest groaning as you try to calm yourself down. you needed to know the answer, no matter what it was. even if it was a rejection.

"y/n.. i-" you look up as he starts to talk, then you turn to look at him. his jaw was clenched, putting his hand through his hair and sighing. god he's pretty. you betrayed your thoughts scoffing,

"no. don't talk. i don't want to know anymore." you say with a shaky voice, changing the gear. you start driving, but he finally speaks.

"what the hell? you don't even want to hear what i have to say? even after screaming at me like that?" he frowned, halting you to stop the car again, switching it off completely. you get out of the car, taking in the fresh early evening air. you look back at him, and he's looking down at his lap. your heart aches as you get back into the car sighing.

"it's going to hurt, and i don't want to know. that's why i don't want to know." you held your breath the whole time you spoke, without looking at him once. his expression hardened,

"please just- just listen." he cleared his throat hoping you would listen to what he had to say. you took another deep breath, feeling your throat get dry, but you stayed quiet. "i'm just- i don't know.. i'm.. i knew i was messing around with your feelings, but i still did it, and that was.. wrong of me. i knew that i was hurting y- or even if i'm not, i knew that i was playing with your feelings, and i'm so-"

you laugh bitterly, "i don't want your sorry, and i'm also not hurt by you messing around with girls. i'm just confused why you're.. being so confusing because like i said, one day you’re all over me, not looking at any girl except me, then the next you won’t even look at me. maybe you're doing this because it's fun," you look up at him, he was listening so well that it seemed crazy that you were even in this situation in the first place.

"because you like seeing me get mad, and you like seeing me react to you, that’s why. but then you go around caring about me, coming to my races even when i don't invite you, protecting me from se-ri, telling me you don't want to see me do something stupid.. do I need to go on?" his eyes widened, meaning you hit the target exactly. you take a deep breath after you're finished talking, and he looks down at his lap from looking at you, then swallows.

"nothing to say right?" you waited for a second, his mouth opening to speak, but quickly closing again. "yeah.. i thought so." you smiled weakly, driving to his house.

the drive silent the whole way, you both not looking at each other the whole ride. you arrive at his house, and with not even a glance at him, you speak up, "goodnight."

his voice low and quiet, "don't be mad at me.. i can't fucking bare seeing you mad at me. please." he turns to look at you, placing his hand on your arm on the armrest. you look away from his house, turning to glance at him sighing. "i'm not."

before you knew it, tears fill your eyes, and you had no idea why. were you really falling this hard for him? it's just because you're frustrated. yeah. that's why... right?

"please don't cry.. i'm sorry." he places his hand under your chin, turning you to look at him, then moves his hands to cup your cheeks. "i'm so fucking sorry. i'll sto-"

"fuck i hate you so much." you take his hands off your face, then laugh bitterly again. you shake your head, biting your lip then looked down into your lap. he speaks again, voice sounding almost desperate. "y-you really hate me that much?"

you shake your head glancing at him then dropped your head.

"damn it, lee... no. I can't stop. no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I tell myself to walk away, I just-" you choke on your own words, the lump in your throat burning.

"I fucking hate it. I hate how much you get to me. I hate that I care this much."

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Hi, I really like reading your takes on the Harry Potter books. I think they're fresh, logical and open-minded. So, I wanted to know your thoughts on Hermione's career.

Rowling says that she became minister for magic, while I like the idea, I find it difficult in execution. Like, it's common knowledge that politicians need to be charismatic, people smart and influential. And none of those traits apply to Hermione. I'm not saying that she isn't smart. I'm saying, her personality isn't suitable for a political career. I don't see her accomplishing anything in that field.

While recruiting for the DA, it's Harry's influence that brings people in. Sure, she did the heavy lifting with the list and coins, but she wouldn't have been able to convince anyone to join on her own. She tries and fails with SPEW.

I think she's more suited as a researcher or a journalist.

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe she changed a lot after the war but I just don't see it. I would love to hear your thoughts on this.

Thank you! 💕

Kind of talked about this here.

Hermione is really good at organizing things. She really shines when she needs to get people together, prepare a plan, research information, and organize said information. She would be brilliant in managing an office or department, but I don't think she'll be great as a politician.

Because you are right, it was Harry, the D.A. joined for, not Hermione. Later in DH, Harry was the symbol everyone followed and rallied behind, not Hermione. And a politician needs to be charismatic and learn to work with the WW's crapy system. Systems don't change overnight, and you need to understand the ministry to change it. Hermione, while very patient when researching a subject, she isn't very patient when it comes to getting things done or with people she considers not as smart as her. (Ron is the only people-person in the Golden Trio)

I think Hermione would work well in various roles in the ministry, I just don't think being the minister is one of them. I think she'd cause a lot of tension, and that it's the kind of position that would make her worse rather than something she would enjoy long-term. Becouse she'd start passionate and idealistic, and the ministry is going to grind her down, and when that happens, Hermione would swing back even more aggressively and create more opposition for herself to deal with. She'd enjoy researching for the ministry, but I think she'd find the actual politics part of it, trying, frustrating and she'd feel like she's constantly scrambling.

Hermione isn't a good liar, nor is she good at thinking of things on the spot under pressure. If some other politician presses her enough to stress her, she might freeze up and forget half her planned bullet points. She can also be more hesitant than you'd want to be in some situations as a minister — she can be very cautious and self-doubting when it comes to more risky, bigger plans (as seen repeatedly in DH). She struggles to say "I planned enough, let's do this," and often needs that push.

So, yeah, I don't think Hermione is minister material, but I think she could manage certain offices and departments in the ministry (that are more research-heavy) if the right people are working around her (which she would be able to control, so, yeah).

I think Hermione would be a brilliant journalist, actually. She would do all the legwork for research, she eavesdrops on conversations and likes being in the know (she is very nosy), she's very articulate and well-spoken — yeah, I back this. I think Hermione could have a blast being a journalist. It would also allow her to shed light on injustices and systemic issues in their world. It's one of the better headcanons for a profession for Hermione I've seen.

[paulyenvol6]

To Lose Yourself (Chapter 2)

Contains: little bit of fighting, flirting, invasion of privacy

Wordcount: 3,055

Masterlist of this story

She sighed deeply and entangled her hands on her stomach.

"What is it now?" Alicent asked with a clearly annoyed tone and arched her neck to look at her little sister that rested her head on her legs.

"Nothing," Anissa answered at once.

"Then why are you sighing like this? I can't concentrate on my book."

"Sorry," she spoke and rolled her eyes.

In this moment the door sprang open and Alicent accepted the fact that she wouldn't be able to read a little longer before supper so she put her book down. Anissa had lifted herself from her position and curiously looked at their father who had his face drawn with fury.

"Father, is everyhing alright?" Anissa asked with a friendly tone and despite sensing that his face softened a little when he put his eyes on his youngest daughter Anissa couldn't ignore his tense mouth. Otto sat down on the bed and ran his hand over her head and then pressed a kiss on her forehead.

"Yes. Just a little encounter with the king's brother."

"What happened?" his daugher asked and watched him with big eyes.

"That's not of importance for you. Don't worry, sweet child, nothing I won't be able to fix."

Anissa nodded with her head and then glanced at her sister.

"Can we please do anything? I'm so terribly bored and Alicent just wants to read all the time and so I've been staring at the ceiling for hours now."

Otto chuckled quietly while watching Alicent prepare herself to give a snappy answer but raised his voice before his eldest daughter could respond.

"I don't think there's enough time to do anything before supper, my dear. But afterwards we can do something. The three of us could go on a walk through the gardens, what do you say? Perhaps we will see some stars."

Anissa tilted her head thoughtfully but then nodded.

"Fine... But can't we go into the city? I always love it so much to see all the hustle and bustle and there is so much more going on than here in the keep."

Otto sighed and took his daughter's hand in his. "I know that you love it but it can be dangerous, sweetheart. There are drunk people that want to harm others and I don't wanna risk it. Here in the keep there are always guards that look out for us."

Anissa rolled her eyes but instantly regretted it when her father raised his eyebrows.

"Anissa. Don't be disrespectful."

"I'm sorry," the girl murmured and rolled to her other side. Otto's face softened up and he straightened up.

"No need to feel sad, daughter. It's time for supper now and I'm sure we will have a good time in the gardens. The sky is very clear tonight."

She nodded despite still not feeling entirely content but what else was she to do? Her father got off the bed offering her his hand and Anissa took it unwillingly.

"I'm not even that hungry," she continued to mumble and this time it was her sister who glanced at her.

"Must you always complain about everything, sister?"

This time she didn't bother to answer and just adjusted her dress so she looked presentable for supper. Once both sisters were ready to go Otto guided them out of the room and then to the familiar chambers of the king. Anissa nibbled at her thumb which her father commented with a dangerous look and a slight shake of his head. The girl sighed feeling very frustrated and annoyed for some reason but obeyed her father.

"Otto, Lady Alicent and Lady Anissa," were the words that brought her attention to the king who spread his arms to welcome the little family.

"Thank you for dining with me tonight."

"It is an honour, your grace."

Anissa followed her sister inside the room not paying any attention to her surroundings which instanty led to her almost bumping into a shelf.

"Careful," Alicent quietly hissed and gripped her arm to guide her to the table.

"I can do it on my own," she complained trying to shake off her sisters hand but she determindely glistened her eyes at her.

"Obviously you can't. Why can't you just behave yourself for once in your life?"

Anissa decided not to let this escalate although there was a thunder roaring inside of her. It seemed like everyone wanted to anger her tonight and she couldn't wait until she would finally be in her bed. The servants brought the food to the table which, to be fair, looked delicious which was why she didn't notice the way Viserys glared at the door. Only when it opened her attention was drawn away from the plates and she almost rolled her eyes again watching Daemon strut through the door.

"Brother. I'm glad you made it."

If Anissa hated anything more than the rogue prince it was the way Viserys seemed to be blind to the flaws and crimes of his brother. Family was important, sure, but he was the king and he couldn't just let everything slide when it came to Daemon. He should have been punished long ago for how he did whatever he wanted to without even asking for the king's leave while everyone else at court was forced to buckle up before the king.

Now the rogue prince gave everyone at the table a smug smirk that made Anissa want to throw up but it probably would only enrage her sister and father so she stared back without an expression. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction and pay attention to him so she dropped her gaze to the table seemingly busy with deciding what food she craved.

If Anissa had looked up she would have seen Daemon observing her with relish. He had always found it pleasurable to have his eyes on her and not only did she look particulary nice tonight, he couldn't help but imagine the face of Otto Hightower if he came too close to his precious daughter. If he looked at her the wrong way. Or gave her a blatant compliment.

"You look nice," he suddenly said following an inner voice.

Anissa's eyes shot up and in the way her face tensed in surprise he knew he had done the right thing. It was simply too good. She took a glimpse at her sister as though she was looking for help in what to do which Alicent replied to with a gentle hit against her upper arm, signalising her to answer politely.

"Thank you," the girl said avoiding his eyes which made him smirk.

"You're very welcome."

She really was a pretty thing, Daemon thought and cut the meat on his plate feeling very entertained and content with the way this evening was going so far. Of course he hadn't been thrilled when Viserys had announced to him that he expected him at supper because the prospect of spending his evening with Otto Hightower while he could be in a brothel at the same time was terrible. But it also meant that he got to take a closer look at Anissa and play his favourite game in the world: Intimidating Hightowers.

"I've heard that you are to host a ball in the near future," he spoke while leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Anissa was seemingly caught off guard as she hadn't expected to be involved in a conversation with Daemon tonight. She despised him just as much as he did her so what was he doing? Was he trying to mock her?

"Yes. So I've heard," she said much more quiet than she had intended to.

"Then look out for your big sister. I heard that she's very eager to be the center of attention at the moment."

Now Anissa looked at him for the first time tonight and frowned at him, almost forgetting that she was supposed to look angry and disgusted.

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh you haven't noticed?"

The girl turned her head to Alicent seeking answers, but she merely shook her head looking equally shocked.

"I don't know what he's talking about either," she claimed and Daemon couldn't surpress a chuckle.

"Perhaps this is not the right time to discuss this. But you might ask her later. She knows exactly what I mean. Just like your father and… quite frankly my dear brother know."

Of course Daemon was referring to the way Alicent was literally being dragged to Viserys at the moment as Aemma had passed away a few months ago and of course Otto had seized the opportunity to present Alicent like a prize in front of Viserys in order to enhance the power of his family name. But it seemed like Anissa was oblivious to her father's plan because she only questioningly glanced at her sister who gestured her to be quiet.

"I still don't know what he's saying, sister. Just eat."

Daemon was more than amused watching the girl stare at her plate seemingly weighing up whether she was supposed to dig deeper to find out what was going on or if he was just toying with them. She didn't seem to come to make a choice but instead started to listen to the conversation between Viserys and Otto, looking much less confident than before. Daemon also paid his attention to something else now feeling quite self-satisfied with himself and starting to eat his food. But his eyes remained on Anissa.

He desired her and wasn't afraid to admit it to himself. He had observed her for quite some time now and his craving for her only grew more intense. His hate for Otto and the way he would be able to hurt him if he touched his youngest daughter was only a part of his desire. In its core he wished to claim her and make her his own. He wanted to touch her, feel her body and be the reason for her pleasure.

But Daemon wasn't sure whether to make a move yet. He couldn't risk getting exiled by his brother or even executed for defiling Otto's daughter. He was one of Viserys' closest companions after all not matter if he liked it or not.

And that was what Daemon did for the next couple of days. He watched her, thought about her more often than was appropriate while his anger against Otto grew simultaneously. He would give everything to humiliate him the way he did in all these small council meetings and although he didn't act, the plan in his head prospered.

And then something happened that changed everything.

It was late afternoon when Daemon was once again boiling with anger. Otto had had the audacity to embarrass him in front of his brother by sending him to his chambers like he was his pet. Of course he had refused when he asked him to get a letter from their allies in Pentos that had received the hand of the king earlier and that he had forgotten in his rooms but Otto had taken his twisted ankle as an excuse to send him.

Daemon had grinded his teeth, clenched his jaw but found that he had no choice but to follow his command despite fighting the urge to smack his enemy across the face. And now there he was in Otto's room feeling like his maid as he searched the table for the letter. There were countless books which made Daemon think that the page might be in one of them and so he started to browse through them.

But he stopped when his eyes suddenly scanned beautiful elegant handwriting and frowned. This wasn't a normal book. He turned it around to look at the book and narrowed his eyes as it was just a scarlet red cover with no title giving away what kind of book this was.

He knew that this wasn't what he was supposed to do at all but suddenly Daemon was caught by curiousity and opened it again to go to the first page.

'April, 6th,' it said and that was the moment he realized what kind of book this was. He had just found the diary of one of the Hightower girls and Daemon smirked crookedly. This was getting a lot more interesting than he had expected and not eager to let this go, he read the first words on the page.

'We visited mother's grave today which I was really scared of. Father is very quiet at the moment and doesn't talk a lot but Alicent says that he just needs time to process everything.'

He stopped to measure when Anissa might have written these words. When did Otto's wife die again…? She must have been 13 if Daemon was correct. He browsed through the book not really interested in reading the thoughts of a 13 – year old although he still couldn't help but think that he would be able to use his found in some way. He believed that her more recent entrys would probably be a lot more intriguing and skipped to the one from three days ago.

'I think I lost one of my earrings today when I went to the stables with Alicent. We searched the ground for almost an hour but didn't find anything so I guess I have lost hope. She told me that she would keep her eyes open, but searching for an earring in the straw is pretty much like searching for a needle in the straw.'

Daemon scoffed turning the page around and started to believe that this might be completely unimportant to him. All she did was write about her day and he wondered if her life really was that boring. He browsed through the pages loosely running his eyes over a few words until he saw a very familiar word: 'Daemon'.

Without giving it a thought he looked at the top of the page. August, 29, so it was around a month ago. Daemon sat down on a chair placed the book on the table and started to read, every thought of why he had come here in the first place gone.

'I'm sitting in my chambers currently and I'm feeling a little lost. Father is in a very bad mood and so is Alicent I believe, but unlike with father I can't figure out why. Father is angered because of Daemon of course, just like he seems to be all the time. It gets really annoying because it seems like every time there is a small council meeting he comes back to his rooms boiling with fury. I don't know what they are fighting about all the time but father curses him like he has burned down a city or something. Of course I don't like Daemon after everything father has told Alicent and me. He is arrogant and self-centered and I hate the way he acts like he stands upon everyone else. I wish someone would just put him in his place for once in his life because I would love to see his face when he feels uncertain and insecure. But what troubles me most right now - and it pains me just to write these words down - is that I catch myself thinking about him at times. I hate him of course. I really do. But I have no choice but to admit that he is a handsome man. I don't want to think this way of course but I enjoy looking at him although he makes me so angry at the same time. There is just something about him when he smiles or crosses his legs like he always does. I feel miserable because I think that way and that is why I will never in my life tell anyone about it, not even Alicent. It feels like I have sinned because I am not supposed to think that way about any man and especially not a man that gives my father such a headache. I have to somehow get rid of the feelings and I start to think that the best way is to get married. If my mind is with another handsome lord I will only think about him and forget about Daemon's beauty. Yes, this is what I'm going to do. I'm not eager to marry and I don't wish to court the way Alicent does but perhaps it is the only way to fight this disgusting desire in me.'

Daemon sank back in his chair not being able to process what he had just read. He stared at the pages for a moment and then a smirk formed on his face.

'What a naughty girl,' he thought and put the book back down. Who would have thought that the Hightower girl was such a needy little thing fantasizing about her father's biggest enemy?

He had always seen something bratty and defiant in her but he wouldn't have thought that she would go so far as to feel attracted to him out of all people. Daemon couldn't help himself and imagined her sitting here in this room nervously glancing at the door every now and then, scared to get caught writing these shameful words.

Her brown eyes which she loved to flash at him so impolitely being all round with worry… He chuckled quietly and then remembered what he had come here in the first place.

Daemon coninued his search for the letter and eventually succeeded. However, his mind was absent all the time thinking about Anissa and what he had just found out. It definitely changed a lot but Daemon wasn't yet sure about how to proceed now.

He still desired her for once because he had this special affection for her and of course to use her for his initial want to humiliate her cunt of a father. And now she apparantely wanted him too… It would definitely make things easier for him, he thought while tidying up the table so there would no evidence for his explorations.

He couldn't wait to see her again, that much he was certain about and smiled feeling the most relaxed and content he had in weeks.

~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@archerxnn

[bellysoupset]

For the mini can you do “shh accidents happen” and “oh it’s in your hair” for wen/vin or Luke /bell just need something soft for the girls with their boys 🥑

"Broken down and hungry for your love," Vince sang, moving around Wendy's — theirs — apartment, "with no way to feed it...Uuuhyeaaah- Uh, hi- WEN!?"

Wendy had just rushed inside, dropping her bag at the front door, not even bothering to close it or acknowledge him as she rushed past Vince. He wanted to follow her, but first he closed the door and picked up her bag, only to regret doing that as he heard his girlfriend cough and choke inside the half bathroom.

She hadn't bothered to close the door in her rush, instead Wendy was crumpled on the ground, one arm draped over the toilet and her cheek resting on it as she took shallow breaths, hyperventilating.

"Aw honey," Vince crouched down next to her, frowning, confused and worried, "it's in your hair..." he pouted as he saw the way her wavy bangs were plastered to her forehead, some strands of her bob coated in vomit.

"Don't- Don't feel good..." Wendy slurred, her eyes heavy due to the fever he could feel without even touching her. She was inside a complicated outfit, mini skirt with a little corset top and frilly undershirt peaking out, a belt with metal stars around her waist and her usual platform heels. There was no way she was comfortable.

"Okay, hon," Vince decided to drop his inquiry, clearly she was feeling too lousy to help his investigation. Besides, he didn't really need any more information to arrive at the conclusion she had the stomach bug, "are you done?" he gestured at the toilet, reaching for the flush.

Wendy grimace, then shook her head, whole body shaking as she heaved and heaved, a mouthful of chunky vomit falling inside the bowl.

Vince wrinkled his nose at the gruesome sight, but reached in without thinking, grabbing her hair and pulling it away from her mouth, slimy pieces be damned.

It was another long handful of minutes before she stopped empty heaving and curled up as much as she could, wrapping both arms around her stomach as she fell against the bathtub, causing Vince to stumble forward since he had been holding her hair.

"I'm sorry..." Wendy whimpered, her stomach letting out an upset growl, "I'm all sticky and gross, I'm sorry-"

"Oh shush it," Vince rolled his eyes, pressing the flush and then grabbing the hand towel, standing up to wet it and crouching back down next to her, so he could clean up the sick covered pieces of her hair and her chin, "let me help you out of these clothes, they cannot be comfortable on your belly..."

Wendy's brows met and she curled up even more, muffling a sickly burp against her fist, "no, don't touch me," she whimpered, gagging and licking her chapped lips, "can you- Can you go away? I don't want you- uUrop — seeing me like this..."

"Uh, no?" Vince frowned, offended, "can't do, honey, you'll just have to deal with the fact you don't gross me out in the least."

She opened her eyes, emerald jewels staring at him as if she was gauging if he was serious or not. Vince bit the inside of his cheek, it was frustrating to want to scoop her up and hold her close, but Wendy still resist him so damn much, not because she didn't want him to, but because apparently she wasn't allowed to be comforted when feeling sick.

"Okay..." She relented, gulping down convulsively, "I- Okay," her chest jostled with a sick hiccup and Wendy groaned, a hand rushing up to cover her mouth, probably thinking she was going to muffle a burp, but then a splash of pale yellow vomit covered her hand, sliding between her fingers to fall on her brown mini skirt.

"Oh no, shit-" Vince grabbed the abandoned damp towel, wiping her hand and the splash of vomit from her skirt before it could stain, "I got it, I got it- No, honey, don't cry-"

"I'm sorry," her voice got all hoarse and squeezy, half acid burning her throat, half tears she was trying to hold back, "so gross-"

"Shhh," Vince dropped all pretense at restraint, shuffling closer in the cramped bathroom, in order to hug her to his chest, "accidents happen, honey... Your belly isn't well, that's alright, how many times have our positions been reversed...?"

"It's not'thesssame," she slurred, hiding her face against his bicep, whole body shaking as she bit down another gag and Vince sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"It is the same," he insisted, scooping her up entirely, pulling her to sit sideways on his lap and wrapping his arms around her, "I love you, you're sick, let me take care of you."

[smoulderingocean]

After the confession that Nick told her in 6x03, knowing that it's the last season, I'm disappointed for Osblaine. I mean, with June saying: "He waited for me." I want to tell her: "Is this enough for you? Staying with a guy because he waited for you." So it's true that he cheated on Annie and there's no indication that he did it with June. I thought Gilead had changed her outlook on men. On what she wanted in life. That she had understood certain things, apparently not.

Hey! While I get being disappointed that the love triangle is being dragged out and we're not getting as much Osblaine as we should, the season is still only halfway through at this point and so it's too early to make a full judgement on the season. We don't know yet just how much Osblaine we're going to get or what that content will entail. Good things and harder things seem to be ahead for us.

Alas with how S5 ended (honestly with the entirety of that terrible season), the love triangle being drawn out was inevitable and it really does do a disservice to June as a character. I hate it, I truly do. I too find it sad that June seems to be staying with Luke out of guilt, obligation, and because she doesn't want to be alone. I think that that's deliberate, they're def not clueless to this relationship being less than loving, I just wish they'd show that June wants more out of life and to be with Nick, but can't and so she settles. They hint at it and at the slow march to the end of June and Luke's marriage, but it doesn't feel like enough. The lack of the big convo about Nick is a factor in this and it's pretty frustrating at this point that it hasn't happened. I do love that Nick is able to bring up Luke and that in contrast Luke can't do the same, but I wish June would do so! It contradicts her character development when it comes to her empowerment and how she sees men to see her still remain so meek and submissive around Luke, even when considering the extreme guilt she feels about not "waiting" herself and falling in love with someone in Gilead.

I personally don't find it realistic that Luke was celibate. There's no way that a man that cheated on his wife for being infertile would not "cheat" on his captured wife, especially as the years passed and her return seemed less and less likely. The scripts had a couple cut scenes indicating that Luke had something going on with a woman and OT himself mentioned he had his own view that Luke also did, but that when the scene was dropped, he returned to Luke's monkish ways. I think it was a big, big mistake to cut this. Bruce Miller is responsible for a lot of the cut scenes and he ends up making the show weaker as a result.

With all that said, I actually think that this season is going to be really important in establishing Osblaine as a true, full relationship and not just something good to hold into in fleeting moments or as something that exists to just get things done. June needs to actively choose to be with Nick because she loves him and not just because she can use him as he can do things for her that Luke can't or that she doesn't want to be alone; that she is with him purely because she wants to be and because she loves him. And for Nick it's important for him to know that June loves all of him, good, bad, and ugly, which will allow him to open up more. Right now Nick loves all of June, but currently June can't as she wears rose coloured glasses and doesn't know about his past or much of his life in Gilead because he keeps that hidden from her because he's scared that it will destroy things (and because he also doesn't want to burden her). Once she fully sees him and the patina wears off, accepting those parts and seeing him as a full person that she truly knows and loves completely, he will feel secure for the first time ever. Once this is all established, June choosing to be with Nick will be all the more meaningful because it will be a deeper, more complete love. It will be a love that they both feel secure and safe in and will be a strong, powerful relationship as it will embody the totality of the 1 Corinthians 13 bible verse that Nick read back in 2x05. It will destroy the notion that Osblaine is a trauma bond, coping mechanism, or tool. And I truly can't wait for that. I think we're really in for something good here, it'll just take a while to get there and that's the struggle as a fan- we want it now!

[fluemsiie]

never change [d. winchester]

synopsis. tate finds the two of you in bed after the party notes. 1k words, mentions of cheating, being hungover, justified cheating, toxic dean, all charachters are eighteen in their senior year, samjess!! — comments & rbs appreciated. ++ third part coming super soon

wake up to a bucket of ice cold water thrown over your bed. fuck. you sit up in alarm, feeling arms pull you closer. when you look over, it’s your best friend’s boyfriend. thank god he’s fully clothed. “what the hell…” he mutters, hardly fazed by the water, his only reaction rubbing is it away from his eyes and pulling you in.

he looks up the same time you do. “tate?” he closes his eyes back up, seemingly going back to sleep. “what’s up with you? why’re you acting crazy?” he mumbles and you sigh, pushing him away and removing yourself from his arms. god, he always does this.

dean is only ever nice when you’re alone, otherwise he’s a jackass to you and everyone around you.

“fine,” he scoffs at you, “shut the door behind you, it’s too early to be up.” tate lets out a frustrated breath, slamming the plastic bowl in her hand on his head.

“you’re a cheating asshole, dean.” when she goes without a response, she storms out of the room, you going after her. “you can’t keep falling for his nice guy act, okay? he’s not a good guy!” she says when you’re both in the kitchen. “in fact, he’s the worst kind of guy there is! dean’s cheated on me a million times when we ‘broke up’ for like two days. and he’s neglectful—.”

“then why are you still with him?” she lets out a short, dry laugh before facing you.

“you’re serious? fuck you!”

“i’m not accusing you, just asking.”

“he’s my boyfriend and i love him. all couples go through a rough patch but at the end of the day he loves me, i’m sorry to tell you, it isn’t the same way with you, alright? which means i worry for you when you’re with much more than when he’s with me. just listen to me.” she pats your shoulder and get started on breakfast. she knows jess and sam are here which is probably why she looks so gorgeous at ten in the morning and why you’re smelling sam’s favourite breakfast.

you’re not exactly his best friend, but you’re both definitely close, so when he comes down to the sight of waffles and you’re the first person he sees, there’s no hesitation to grab your cheek and kiss you. “god, yes. thank you!”

“it was actually—” tate comes into view and he can’t help but awkwardly smile. it’s no secret tate and jess don’t love each other, if anything, it’s hurting jess to see her boyfriend and your best friend interact at all, knowing he’s cheated on his last girlfriend with tate, and that he’s in love with her.

not that tate ever let anything happen after he kissed her while with another girl, but it doesn’t make jess feel any better, she always tells sam to not be alone with gate and yet most of the time, she finds ways to be the only one in the room as him.

”okay, i’ll go wake up dean, is jess coming down?” a short nod from sam who’s already salvations at the smell. you knock on dean’s door to find him sitting up. “hey, breakfasts ready.”

“you made breakfast?” he smiles up at you. he looks gorgeous with his wet hair still sticking to his forehead, his shirtless and very toned chest staring you in the face. god, he’s beautiful to look at.

“no, no, i can’t cook to save my life. rate cooked for all of us.” he nods once at the mention of his girlfriend. you worry your bottom lip between your teeth before walking further into the room and shutting the door behind you. “dean why didn’t you correct tate? why didn’t you tell her we aren’t sleeping together?”

“because she’s gonna act crazy either way, ‘m not gonna entertain her.” it’s a crappy thing to say, and he notices the look on your face, pensive and confused, “look, me and tate aren’t really like that. we aren’t— i mean, it’s different with you, alright?”

“because we’re friends?”

“sure.” he says it with a shrug but it’s not that hard to see he’s only easing your mind with the word, dean winchester sees you as everything but a friend.

“i’m not gonna stay for breakfast,” you mumble, “i’m just gonna leave.” he stands up immediately as you go to open the door, you feel his hands wrap around your waist, he leans down to kiss your bare shoulder.

“hey, c’mon, you okay?”

you only nod. “don’t lie to me. you were hungover and the drugs and everything and then she wakes you up like that— you want me to take you somewhere? we can eat outside of here.”

why is he doing this? god, he’s asking if you should ditch his girlfriend and just have breakfast together in a totally different place.

but at the same time, tate is so very clearly throwing heart eyes at sam and it’s been rocky with dean for a while now. she doesn’t love him, even if she did at some point, now it’s just routine for them to break up and get back together. “me and tate are broken up, cheer, stop overthinking it.”

he wraps your hair in a pony tail with his hand, moves it to your right side so he can have better access. “when did you guys break up?” you ask, breathless.

“she came into the room to wake me up after the two of you left,” maybe when you were in the bathroom, “said were not together anymore.”

“but you two are never together, dean, that doesn’t mean—”

“it does, okay?” he always says that. always says they’re broken up for good this time and then him and her are back with hate sex the next day. you can’t be in the middle of this. “promise.”

he kisses a sensitive spot snd you let out a short gasp. “stop stop,” he does, takes a step back with a sigh.

“whatever.” he’s never going to change. you leave the room snd the winchester’s freakin’ beach house and pray you never see him again. at least not ‘til next week at the basketball game.

[avonne-writes]

Avoooooonne!

Loving the HS AU after 30 posts. Re: their approaches to discipline in this post: https://www.tumblr.com/avonne-writes/781890657067450368/for-your-high-school-au-do-you-have-any-more?source=share

Not being a parent or ever planning to be one, even I find it super frustrating how 'perfect' some parents present themselves as on social media, so it's great to see a more realistic approach.

Given John's general affability, what kinds of things would get him to actually raise his voice to the kids? Is it fear when they do something dangerous, or if he's just having a supremely shitty day? How would Gale handle that the first time it happened given his own upbringing?

Re: this post - Thank you so much for the great question! I'm glad you're enjoying the new headcanons 🥰

Yes, neither John, nor Gale is perfect; and I agree, I think it’s more realistic like that.

The kind of things that make John raise his voice:

Indeed, the kids doing something dangerous

The kids hurting each other (this only happens once or twice)

Mean-spirited misbehaviour

The kids' misbehaviour in addition to an intense frustration of not being able to solve an issue, like a big workplace problem. Bucky can’t stand helplessness.

The kids hurting Gale (there's one specific incident when Abby hurts Gale emotionally and Bucky gets livid and sends her to her room).

Gale's reaction to Bucky yelling:

It's good to note that Gale's very familiar with what Bucky's like when he loses his temper, because they had several big fights in the past. He’s not intimidated by Bucky, nor did he ever flinch like he used to from his father.

But the first time Bucky yells at Abby and she cries and goes to Gale, Gale feels like he’s in shock. He has a short fear reaction. Nevertheless, he reiterates to Abby what she shouldn't have done, even as he wipes her tears and picks her up. Bucky notices this, of course, and his temper cools immediately. He goes over to them and tries to comfort Abby with a gentle voice. Soon enough, she's okay, but more careful not to misbehave.

Later that night, Bucky and Gale talk about it. Bucky apologizes and says it won't happen again, which makes Gale angry with him for a minute, because it reminds him of his dad promising stuff like that. But he calms down soon and tells Bucky to just be realistic about it. Bucky amends and says he’ll try not to lose his temper like that. Then, Bucky asks Gale about his feelings, and Gale eventually confesses that it made him feel bad. He and Bucky talk it over and agree that the most important thing is that the kids should never doubt his love for them.

And while the yelling does happen every now and then in the future too, they always deal with it the best they can, and it doesn't become a big issue.