#and she can't leave without saying it!!!!!

[rin-may-1103]

Aspiring Escape Artist (part two)

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"Why don't we all head inside, yes?" Mr. Wayne suggested, waving his arm in the doors general direction.

"Yes, that sounds great," Ms. Clance agreed, turning to Danny like she was debating whether or not she should drag him inside. Danny was very against that idea and glared at her. She huffed but turned and started making her way up the stairs.

The other, he can't really say kids because he's pretty sure half the people standing in front of him were over the age of eighteen, but they still lived with Mr. Wayne, apparently, so kids it was. The other kids continued to try to stealthily watch him as they made their way into the building. (He refused to call this place a house; it was bigger than Sam's manor for Ancients' sake.)

The gray-eyed girl waited for him, the not-so-happy but happy sparkle back as she watched him approach. Pausing for a moment, Danny turned and gently patted the bush closest to him, it had been practically begging for attention for the past ten minutes and Sam would have throttled him if he had just ignored it.

She treated them like demented puppies, and it's against every unspoken law (in danny's books, atleast) to ignore a puppy.

The gray-eyed girl (man, he was going to have to learn their names, Ancients, why were there so many people here?) tilted her head curiously, eyeing the plant he just patted.

"My friend has plant powers," Danny huffed, which was true. Sam still had lingering plant control and a connection to the green because of Undergrowth. Danny was just leaving out the fact that he also had plant powers. He wasn't sure why he always got new powers after beating new powerful ghosts, but it happens, and now he needs to pet the plants because they get sad if he doesn't.

(Jazz theorized once that the new powers were due to his half-a nature, but then they looked at Vlad and decided it was probably something else.) (Also, why in the world did he get ice powers and then almost immediately plant powers? like, seriously, why?)

"Close friend?" Gray asked, turning to follow Danny inside.

"One of my best friends," Danny agreed. Man, he missed them. He'd have to figure out how to get out of here soon; there was no way he was going to just not see his friends on Tucker's birthday. Which meant he had about a week to bust out of here and get back to Amity. Oh, and stay under the radar so Vlad doesn't find him.

Glancing around the entry hall, or was the term foyer? like, the place was fancier then most five star hotels he's seen (which he wants to make clear, was against his dying wishes. fuck vlad and his not hard earned money.) like, sure, it wasn't all white modern minimalist like the hotels, but he's pretty sure the vase just sitting a little too close to the edge of a table was worth more then a human heart on the black market.

"Welcome to Wayne Manor," Mr. Pennyworth started, closing the doors with a heavy thud. He didn't lock it, though, Danny noted. Probably because Ms. Clance still needed to leave.

"may I have your coats?" he asked, holding out his arm to Ms. Clance and looking over to Danny. Ms. Clance immediately started to shrug off her jacket and dropped it onto his arm without a second glance, trying to talk to Mr. Wayne about an office or something.

Danny shook his head, "No thanks. I prefer to keep my things with me." especially in a new place, who knows what they'd do to his stuff. last time he handed anything over it had been locked up and never returned. (or well, not returned until he stole it back right before leaving, but that's getting into semantics.)

"So, Daniel was it?" the older guy from the first three asked, smiling brightly and trying to act casual. He was failing.

"It's Danny," Danny huffed, glancing around to study the others.

Gray was nice, he had a feeling they'd get a long fine. she was like an open book, all her opinions and emotions right there for him to see. Though that just meant she was awear of them and could easily hide them.

The others not so much.

Eyebags looked tired but alert, watching Danny like he was a new puzzle. Which was fine, Danny could deal with that. He probably wasn't as bad as Jazz or his parents were when obsessed with new things, so he goes lower on the list but not off.

Mr. Casual over here was watching him AND the others, which meant he was probably the peacekeeper. That or he was the one who antagonized the others into acting without them noticing. Same as eyebags, then.

Blondie looked like she was planning how to prank him right then and there, but also like she was evaluating him for something. Like he thought earlier, she'll probably stick around until she gets bored. So, hmmm. Keep an eye on more than eyebags, but probably not a problem.

there was a kid maybe two-three years younger than him trying to hide on the stairs out of view, he looked pissed off and annoyed. Something was telling Danny he should stay away from him. So, definitely going to the top of his list right next to butler man.

And finally, Mr. Wayne. He was smiling and chatting with Ms. Clance like he didn't have a care in the world. And it would have been believable if it wasn't for the fact that the man was easily steering the conversation away from the stuff Ms. Clance wanted to talk about, without Danny around, before leaving. Which means Mr. Wayne wanted Danny to be part of the conversation, probably to get both sides of the story.

He was smart and knew how to manipulate situations without people catching on.

Also, top of the list, then.

"Only people who want to kill me call me Daniel," Danny added, watching as Ms. Clance tried to bring up his file and fell for another diversion.

"Really?" Eyebags asked, actually surprised for some reason.

Oh, wait, murder isn't normal. Ha, to live a normal life. It must be boring. Couldn't be him, even if he wanted it. There was nothing normal about growing up with mad scientists, and nothing normal about being half dead and a vigilante.

"Yeah, my friends and I made a chart and everything. Granted, we didn't have many people to add to the list to compare with, but it's checked out so far." Danny admitted, turning to face Eyebags.

Honestly, it was just Vlad, his parents, a few GIW agents, and those very few times his friends almost killed him. But come on, they all called him Daniel at some point. Therefore, it totally checks out.

"Huh," Mr. Casual blinked, glancing at his siblings before shaking his head. "Right, so uh, why do people want to kill you?"

"Because they're Fruit Loops," Danny grumbled, finally deciding to approach Ms. Clance. Might as well get this done and over with. The longer she stayed, the less time Danny would have to scout the place by himself later, after all the introductions.

Next (to be written)

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 1: Convalescence

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: M. Chapter Summary: "Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel." Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, blood, death, apocalypse health care, temporary blindness Words: 2,725

A/N: I don't think I've ever written something so deep and sad, but damn, Joel Miller will do that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for guiding me and looking everything over.

Healed Masterlist Masterlist

—- You’ve given up trying to avoid the glass. Blood smears red against the clear shards strewn across the floor. Too many voices, too many cries of pain. You’ve been in Jackson for only one day, a town that you thought would be a sanctuary amongst the wreckage of the world you used to know. And yet, you quickly learn, no matter how tall the walls are, the blood never stops flowing. The room suffocates beneath the hot, metallic tang of it, pooling beneath your feet as you move among the bodies. You can't get away from the screaming.

You are doing this on instinct. You must be.

"You're a doctor," a voice says. Maria, one of the leaders, grips your arm. "We need a doctor.”

You follow her as she pushes through the crowd, leaving the blood. 

The air is bitter as you step outside, the stench of death is strong as you make your way through the corpses of your new neighbors and the infected. 

"We need a doctor," she repeats, as you follow close behind. "Before it's too late."

You don't have the heart to tell her that it probably already is. You’ve already seen this type of despair line the streets through the apocalypse.

You’re both running down Main Street, the same street you rolled down just yesterday, exhausted and starving.

You should still be worn down from the days of travel, from the confusion and loss. But each time you think you can't take another step, you do. It’s almost enough to give you hope… until you see the gate burning while a group quickly seals a fissure in the fence.

Just past the flames, a man kneels over someone lying in the snow.

"Help him," Maria says. "Help Tommy’s brother, Joel."

—-

He’s not moving. His leg is mangled, tourniqueted by a belt soaked in red. You put your ear down to his heart and check for a pulse. Nothing.

Tommy still kneels, crying and pleading as his shaky hands grip Joel’s shoulders.

“Move,” you command, getting into position. You find the center of his chest and begin compressions.

One, two, three, four…

A small group forms around you, whispering Joel’s name as they look on. You can’t focus on them now.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

You tilt Joel's head back, pinch his nose you’re sure is broken, and give him two of your breaths. His broad chest rises slightly with each one. Back to compressions.

One, two, three, four…

He fills his lungs with air, but it sounds like the opposite… like they're letting the air out.

He’s alive, but barely.

He needs surgery. Now.

"We need to move him," you say urgently, looking up at Tommy. "Can you carry him?"

Tommy nods, and with the help of two other men, they lift Joel's limp body. His head lolls back, face gray beneath the blood. You keep your fingers pressed against his neck, feeling the faint flutter of a pulse.

—-

There's too much blood to hold on to anything, it's impossible to even see without a suction running the whole time. This is not what they taught you in med school. This is nothing like it should be. It hasn’t been for 25 years.

You're out of practice and out of your league.

There’s no oxygen therapy in the apocalypse, and he’s barely breathing. His pulse is weak, but he’s still here, holding on after you brought him back to life. 

A doctor, who looks like he should have retired years ago, tells you it’s nearly impossible to save Joel’s leg.

"I’ll try," you respond.

The bullet fragments are still in his leg. Some of them. Maybe not enough to kill, but enough to leave him limping the rest of his days. If he makes it through.

Your steady hands dig and find, dig and find. Shards land on the floor with a tink as they hit the tile.

The operation shouldn't have lasted this long, not with what looks like an old man, not with the slight pulse he barely holds onto.

But he lasts.

Joel Miller survives.

You wash his blood off your hands and breathe in relief for the first time today.

You walk out the door of the tiny, barely sterile operating room, Tommy stands across the hall.

"He's going to live," you say, that’s all he needs to hear.

He hugs you.

"Thank you,” he whispers, pulling away. “He needs care," he says, hands still on your shoulders. “The hospital's overrun. Joel—" His voice breaks. "Joel's gonna need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I'm not sure—"

"Please," his grip tightens. "You saved his life. I'm asking you to help him keep it."

—-

And that’s how you found your new home. Save a life, get a bed. The room across from Joel’s is now yours. 

It’s a nice enough room. A queen bed, two worn side tables, and a closet that can easily fit your one change of clothes. You haven’t had an actual bedroom to yourself in ten years. Yet, you hardly spend any time in it, it’s easier just to sleep in the worn recliner near Joel's makeshift hospital bed that sits in his living room.

The silence during the day is overwhelming. Just your footsteps on the worn floorboards, your soft voice telling Joel what you’re doing as you care for him, your knitting needles tapping against one another as you knit with what little yarn you have left. He never stirs; he just lies there silent.

The nights are even quieter. Joel’s breathing is the only sound you hear when you drift off to sleep every night, air filling and emptying, rattling his lungs.

He sleeps for days. You change his dressings, monitor the fever that makes him sweat and shiver, and refill the makeshift IV drip that hangs from a nail in the wall. 

There’s a framed sketch sitting on his mantle. The man that stares back at you from the yellowing paper is quite handsome. You think it’s him.

But for now, his face is only a collection of pain.

Bruises, cuts, scabs.

Contusions, lacerations.

Stiff and swollen.

You unwrap his bandages, cleaning his wounds twice a day. You talk softly to him, as if he’s listening.

He's really not much company. The house sits still like him. And yet, every morning you tell him good morning and reintroduce yourself, just in case.

It’s lonely.

Sometimes there’s company, but not enough. 

Maria brings you new clothes, spools of yarn, and some essentials you haven’t had in so long. When she leaves, she grabs your hand, tears welling in her eyes, and thanks you. “So many people depend on him here.”

Tommy checks in every day, and on the days he has the time, he sits silently watching his big brother’s chest gently rise and fall. He brings you food, one less thing for you to worry about as you spoon-feed Joel broth and blended vegetables. 

“He’s tough,” he always says before leaving. “He’ll pull through.”

You only nod. The wounds are severe; infection is a constant threat. And yet, Joel refuses to let go.

—-

A young woman hobbles in one day. Ellie. Tommy’s mentioned her many times. She winces as she sits, damning her broken ribs when she leans forward and grabs Joel’s hand, tears falling down her cheeks.

She asks if he’s okay.

You nod.

She asks if he can hear her.

You nod.

She asks you to leave the room.

You leave.

—-

His face is still swollen and misshapen, barely recognizable. You stare at the sketch on the mantle. Ellie drew it, a supposed perfect reflection of who Joel was, you look over at his broken face. If you squint, you can almost make it work. You wonder if he will ever look like the man in the drawing again.

His body sprawls on the bed, limp under the blankets that you pull away from him as you check over his body and wash it.

"I'm going to clean you up a bit," you tell him softly, dipping the cloth into the basin of warm water beside the bed. You're not sure if he can hear you, but you talk anyway. "It might sting a little."

His body tenses slightly at your touch—the first real response you've gotten from him.

It’s all so clinical, but you can’t help but take a moment to notice the size of his body. He’s marred, yet still golden. Purple bruises cover his torso, and a large, mangled scar stretches across the side of his stomach. You wonder what story it tells.

“You’ve been through a lot,” you whisper aloud to nobody.

His leg is healing, though still swollen and damaged. He must be in so much pain.

He stirs under your touch, and the briefest twitch of his eyelid tells you he's still hanging on. "Joel?"

Nothing.

It's so strange to care for someone like this, someone who doesn't even know you're there. Or maybe he does. Maybe somewhere in the darkness he’s shrouded in, he can feel your presence.

—-

You don’t know if you’ve ever been around this much silence. You’re quietly reading in the recliner when you see his fingers twitch, the corner of his mouth pulls back just enough for you to tell he's fighting his way back to the world.

“Joel.”

You say his name. His breathing quickens at the sound, but there's no response otherwise.

He's drifting in and out, unaware that you're beside him. But at least he's moving.

He's barely conscious, his breaths turning into grunts and mumbles as you watch over him.

You place a hand on his arm, soothing him softly, petting against the small part of him that isn’t injured. He calms, his breathing evening out. “You’re okay, Joel. You’re safe.” He doesn’t respond, it’s not like you expected him to. 

If you can't hold a conversation with him, at least you can try reading to him.

You start taking books from his bookshelves. You start with the westerns. He stays still, stuck under a haze, but you read to him like he's listening. “Lonesome Dove, hm,” you muse to him, when you pick up a thick hardcover book. “Sounds kinda like me right now, doesn’t it?” 

You pull the chair close to Joel’s bed, 

“When August came out on the porch the blue pigs were eating a rattlesnake – not a very big one.”

You barely finish the page before you nod off. You’re exhausted, you can’t remember the last time you stood in the sunlight.

When you wake, his fingers are twitching again.

You pick up the book and read on, twenty pages this time. 

Days blur into one another as Joel's condition improves just enough for you to keep your spirits up. He can't see you through the swollen mess of his face, but you know he hears you.

You read him chapter after chapter, the only entertainment for the two of you. He barely says a word, just grunts in approval or pain.

You feel more like a librarian than a doctor.

—-

The sound of your voice is more real than anything else. He floats through the clouds of half-consciousness. Part of him thinks he’s dead.

He must be a ghost, hovering above the empty shell of his body. But when you speak, he’s tethered back to life.

He wants to see you, to open his eyes and find out if you're real, but it's too much work. His lids are heavy with injury, and the swelling doesn't allow them to open.

He hates the dark.

Sometimes you hum, sometimes you talk out loud to yourself, sometimes to him. He holds on to your voice because when you speak, the pain goes away.

He can just make out your silhouette backlit by the window near his favorite chair. Your face is a blur he can't bring into focus. Maybe he did die, maybe this is some sort of limbo he’s in, because you sure as hell sound like an angel, and when you touch him, he feels at peace.

A whole week passes. The swelling is still too much for him to see anything besides shadows and forms. 

He hears pages turning and knows you're still there.

He hears the edge of worry in your voice as you talk to his brother and knows you care.

You’ll sometimes drift to sleep while you’re reading to him, always waking when his breaths become strained, when he struggles in his dreams.

Always there.

"You need to wake up," you tell him. 

And still, he can't be sure you're not a figment of his desperate imagination.

Sometimes he’s sure he must be dead, because he thinks you’re an angel. He wonders if he deserves one.

Another day passes.

Another.

And another.

He loses track of how long you've stayed by his side. Until he loses track of everything except the sound of your voice.

But you don't leave him.

His body refuses to cooperate, but you don't give up.

And then, after god knows how many days, progress. His voice is the first thing that returns to him. It barely makes it past his throat.

"Ellie?" It's the most important question.

"She's safe," you tell him.

“Water,” he manages, the word scraping against his dry throat.

“Here,” you say. Your hand slips beneath his head, lifting it gently as you bring a cup to his lips.

“Slow,” you whisper. “It’s been a while.”

"How long?" he asks. He sounds like such an old man, but at least he sounds like himself.

"A while… but you survived.”

“Who are y–” the question dies in his throat, he’s too weak to form it completely.

“I’m a doctor, your brother asked me to care of you."

“Your voice,” he says, the words barely audible. “I know your voi—”

“Try to rest,” you tell him as you adjust his pillows.

—-

Soon, he’s able to say a full sentence without feeling like he’ll never be able to speak again. He gets to tell Tommy he’ll be okay. He gets to tell Ellie he missed her. He gets to say your name.

It has to be easier to take care of him now, he tries not to think about how much of a burden he is to you. A stranger, in his home, taking care of him in the way that you do. The soft way you adjust his pillow, the way you gently brush his unkempt hair out of his face, the sweet way you greet him every morning. 

Every night, after dinner, you read to him. It’s his favorite part of the day. The familiar sound of the chair scooching into place, your soft throat clear, and then your voice.

“Live through it," Call said. "That's all we can do.” Your voice catches at the end of the line.

“Repeat it,” he requests. 

You read it again for him. He sits silently. Your sweet voice saying “live through it” is repeating in his head.

—-

The breathing gets easier, the swelling begins to subside, and you still don't give up on him.

He flutters his eyes open just enough to see, to test it. It’s no longer shadows. 

This time, he opens his eyes and he sees you. He sees your face.

He really sees it.

You’re as beautiful as he imagined, backlit by the window, you’re bathed in an aura of soft light shining in through it. You are an angel.

He stares at you. The mystery of the metallic clicking he’s been hearing is solved. You’re knitting, two needles clicking away in your hands. His vision is the clearest it's been. 

He says nothing and watches you. He watches and he memorizes.

You don't even notice him. You're so used to him lying there, lifeless, that you don't even look to check… until you’re done counting your stitches and look up, your needles freezing mid-stitch.

“Joel…”

He croaks an affirmative.

You drop your knitting needles and gasp.

"Joel?" You kneel by the bed, and for the first time, he can see your whole face. For the first time, he’s sure you're real.

You press your palm to his forehead, testing his temperature before grabbing your stethoscope and checking his heart rate.

“Can you focus on breathing for me, Joel? Your heart is elevated.”

He takes a deep breath, trying to settle his heart, knowing it’s only because of you. 

—-

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[kaiser1ns]

The night is still young, they said, with the club still buzzing with chatter, loud music, and DANTE SPARDA leaned against the side of the bar, swirling his glass of half-drunk whiskey, when he spotted a familiar, wobbly figure stumbling out of the women's bathroom door.

(Name) was an eternal beauty—even drunk off her ass, even barefoot now with one heel swinging dangerously in her hand. The champagne dress clung to her, or at least it tried to, her hair wild but still looking gorgeous, her eyes suspiciously inspecting her surroundings as she tried to stay upright.

Dante grinned, getting up from his seat, leaving some money on the counter next to the unfinished drink. Oh, this is going to be good.

“Hey, princess,” he called, stepping toward her. Without warning, she shrieked and threw her heel at him like a makeshift dagger, or like a catapult, either way she used all her strength, even though she was not in a sober state. How cute.

He caught it midair, laughing. “Easy there, Tiger. I’m not here to mug you.”

(Name) blinked, squinting at him. Her nose wrinkled adorably. “Who—who the hell are you?” she slurred, swaying slightly.

He spun her heel lazily in his hand. “Just a guy lookin’ out for a lady in distress.”

She pouted. Pouted. This is their best "date" so far, especially when she's not making fun of him or playing hard to get. “M’not in distress. M’fine. Jus’... jus’ tired. Damn dress... stupid shoes…”

Dante chuckled, slipping her shoe into his coat pocket. “Sure you are, sweetheart. Come on, lemme walk you home.”

She eyed him suspiciously, clearly debating if he was trustworthy. Then she nodded, swaying again, and nearly face planted into him. He caught her easily, steadying her with hands at her waist, as he gently squeezed her, clearly enjoying how vulnerable she is right now.

“You’re warm,” she mumbled into his chest, snuggling more into him. “And you’re drunk,” he teased, looping her arm around his to keep her close.

They started walking, the fresh air hitting just right, and now left with one heel clacking against the pavement when she tried to limp along on one foot before finally giving up and walking barefoot.

Halfway down the block, she sighed dramatically. “You know, you’re real cute for a stranger.”

Dante smirked. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She hiccupped, twirling a lock of her hair, unintentionally making his heartbeat go faster, “Got a stupid face.”

“A stupid face?” She nodded, almost falling over again. He gripped her tighter.

“Y’know what’s worse?” she continued, voice rising. “I got a crush on someone with a stupid handsome face like yours.”

He bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Really? Must be tough for a lady like you.”

“It is!” she whined. “He’s got this dumb perfect hair and a dumb voice that makes my knees all jelly and a body that's—ugh—so unfair!”

Dante couldn’t resist. He leaned closer, very much amused and intrigued by her description of her stupid crush. “Sounds like a real pain in the ass, sweetheart.”

“You don’t even know!” she slurred, poking his chest with one finger. “I see him and I’m like—” She made a frustrated noise and waved her arms dramatically, nearly smacking him in the face. “Why is he so hot? So annoying most of the time, but he's so kind and caring about me. Why does he make me lose all my senses and can't think straight?”

He was dying inside. Absolutely dying.

They reached her door, and Dante leaned her against the wall while she fumbled for her keys, muttering curses about “pretty demon boys” under her breath.

Finally, she turned around, glaring up at him with eyes that left him without the right to choose or say anything. “You stay.”

The demon hunter blinked, grin pulling wider. “Stay? Isn't letting a stranger into your home a little dangerous?”

She nodded, tugging him clumsily by the front of his red coat. “Stay 'cause I need to rant more about my stupid crush with his stupid blue eyes and his stupid cocky smile, and stupid abs...”

He leaned down, nose brushing hers, teasingly close. “Sounds like you got it bad, babe.”

“You have no idea,” she whispered, wide-eyed. He caught her chin gently between his fingers, lifting her face. Looking at her with those eyes and a smile, teasing and challenging her. “Maybe I do.”

(Name) blinked, squinting harder, vision slowly clearing. Her breath hitched.

“Wait a damn minute...” she slurred suspiciously, poking at his cheek. “You... you look like him…”

He laughed, warm and low, gently cupping her face, “Surprise, sweetheart.”

Before she could say another word, or throw her earring at him, he swept her up effortlessly, carrying her inside.

“Don’t worry,” Dante said, voice smug and fond as hell. “We’ll talk about your stupid crush in the morning. Over some pizza, my treat.”

(Name) just sighed against his chest, a little smile appearing on her face. “Stupid handsome jerk...”

And Dante? He’d never been happier to be called stupid in his whole damn life.

©2025 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work.

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |16|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Sixteen: Yesterday's Sins

warnings: implied intimacy, grief and trauma, guilt and shame, graphic/disturbing imagery, intense emotional distress, and implied substance use.

note(s): nobody expects the spanish inquisition!!!

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The cold wakes you first—a bone-deep chill that seeps through your clothes despite the body pressed against yours. You blink, disoriented, as consciousness returns in fragments. Rough wooden walls. The sharp tang of iron in the air. Lottie's arm draped possessively across your waist.

The meat shed.

Memories flood back with nauseating clarity: snow against your back, Lottie's challenging smile, the hunger that had consumed you both. You extract yourself carefully, desperate not to wake her as shame crawls up your throat like bile.

Lottie stirs anyway, her eyes opening with none of the confusion that marked your own awakening. She looks at you with perfect lucidity, as if waking up in the meat shed after what happened between you is the most natural thing in the world.

"Morning," she murmurs, voice raspy with sleep.

You manage a nod but can't force words past the knot in your throat. Your clothes feel wrong against your skin, too tight and simultaneously not enough protection against her gaze.

Lottie sits up, stretching languidly. "You're thinking too loudly."

"We should get back," you finally say, the first words you've spoken to her since... since everything. "Before they notice we're gone."

"They already know," Lottie says with maddening certainty. "Shauna was looking for you last night."

Something cold clenches in your stomach. "What?"

"She came to my sleeping corner. I wasn't there." Lottie's smile is faint but unmistakable. "Neither were you."

You busy yourself gathering your scattered things, desperate to avoid eye contact. "How did we even end up here?"

"You don't remember?" There's genuine curiosity in her voice. "You suggested it. Said you were worried someone would hear us."

The memory returns hazily—stumbling through the snow, drunk on adrenaline and need, finding the padlock unlatched and thinking how perfect, how private. You hadn't considered how it would look in the morning light.

"I need to go," you mutter, tugging on your boots.

Lottie watches you, unperturbed by your obvious discomfort. "You're afraid of what she'll think."

It's not a question, and you don't dignify it with a response. Instead, you reach for the door, pausing when Lottie speaks again.

"I meant what I said yesterday. Your threads are entangled. This doesn't change that."

You want to ask what exactly "this" is, what happened between you, what it means. But the words stick in your throat, and you leave without looking back, the cold morning air a welcome shock against your flushed skin.

------

The cabin is quiet when you enter, but not empty. Van looks up from the fire she's tending, her eyes widening slightly at your disheveled appearance.

"You're alive, then," she says, returning her attention to the flames. "That's nice."

You glance around, noting Tai's absence with relief. "Where is everyone?"

"Hunting. Foraging." Van shrugs. "The usual struggle for survival."

You nod, moving toward your sleeping area, desperate to change into clean clothes before facing the others.

"She was worried, you know," Van adds, just as you reach the corner that serves as your makeshift room. "Shauna. When you didn't come back."

Something in her tone makes you pause. "Did she say that?"

Van snorts softly. "Course not. But she checked outside like five times before bed. Kept saying she heard something." She gives you a pointed look. "Didn't sleep much either, from the sound of it."

Guilt compounds the shame already churning in your stomach. "I didn't mean to—"

"Save it," Van interrupts, not unkindly. "Not me you need to explain yourself to."

You finish changing in silence, aware of Van's occasional glances. When you emerge in clean clothes, hair somewhat tamed, she's pouring hot water into cups.

"Tea," she explains, extending a steaming mug. "Well, pine needle tea. Better than nothing."

"Thanks," you murmur, accepting the cup gratefully. The warmth seeps into your fingers, chasing away the last of the meat shed's chill.

The door opens before either of you can speak again, admitting a blast of cold air and Shauna, arms laden with kindling. Her eyes find you immediately, something flashing across her face too quickly to read.

"You're back," she says flatly.

"Yeah," you reply, hating the inadequacy of the response.

Van looks between you, then stands abruptly. "I'm gonna check on that thing. Outside. The important thing. That needs checking." She grabs her coat and slips out, subtlety abandoned in her haste to escape the tension.

Shauna drops the kindling by the woodpile, brushing pine needles from her sleeves with deliberate care. "Cold night to be out," she remarks, her tone deceptively casual.

"I, uh, lost track of time," you offer lamely.

"Must have." She meets your eyes then, her gaze hard. "Funny how that happens. One minute you're helping Lottie gather herbs, the next you're nowhere to be found until morning."

You wince at the precision of her aim. "Shauna—"

"No, it's fine." She holds up a hand, cutting you off. "You don't owe me explanations. We're not—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "Whatever. Just maybe don't disappear without telling anyone next time? Some of us are still a little jumpy about that."

The pointed reference to your previous vanishing act lands like a slap. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" Shauna moves to the counter, busying herself with the morning preparations. "Silly me, I thought leaving without a word was your trademark move."

"I didn't leave," you protest, setting down your barely-touched tea. "I was just—"

"With Lottie. Yes, I gathered that." She slams a pot onto the makeshift stove with unnecessary force. "Like I said, you don't owe me explanations."

"Then why are you acting like this?" The question bursts out before you can temper it.

Shauna turns, her composure slipping for just a moment. "Acting like what? Like someone who's tired of being worried about you? Like someone who's done watching you self-destruct?" She takes a steadying breath. "Like someone who cares too much about someone who clearly doesn't care at all?"

The last words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication. You open your mouth to respond, to deny or confirm or somehow address the rawness in her voice, but the door swings open again and Natalie strides in, followed closely by Travis.

"—can't be sure until we check the eastern traps," Natalie is saying, stopping short when she notices the tableau before her. "Uh, sorry. Did we interrupt something?"

"Nope," Shauna says quickly, turning back to the stove. "Just morning chit-chat."

Travis's eyes flick between you and Shauna, his expression knowing. "Uh-huh."

"Successful hunt?" you ask, desperate to change the subject.

"Not really," Natalie replies, dropping into a chair. "But we found tracks. Fresh ones. Might be deer."

The conversation shifts to hunting strategies and territory, allowing you to retreat to your corner under the guise of organizing supplies. The day unfolds with agonizing slowness, each hour marked by careful avoidance of both Lottie and Shauna. You volunteer for every task that takes you away from the cabin but not too far into the wilderness, haunted by Shauna's accusation that disappearing is your "trademark move."

By late afternoon, the tension has built to an unbearable pressure behind your ribs. When Tai assigns the evening tasks and pairs you with Shauna for water collection, you mutter an excuse about checking snares and bolt from the cabin before anyone can object.

The cold air hits your lungs like a rebuke as you stride through the snow, no destination in mind beyond "away." Your breath clouds in front of you, each exhale carrying fragments of thoughts you can't quite form into coherent patterns.

What happened with Lottie—it wasn't planned, wasn't even wanted in any conscious way. It was surrender to something primal, a momentary escape from the grief and guilt that have been your constant companions since Jackie's death. Since before that, if you're honest with yourself.

You're so lost in thought that you don't notice the footsteps behind you until a voice calls your name, startling you out of your spiral.

"Hey! Wait up!"

You turn to find Javi jogging toward you, his slight frame bundled against the cold. He's grown in the months since the crash, childhood receding faster than it should in the face of your collective trauma.

"You okay?" he asks, coming to a stop beside you. "You looked... intense."

A laugh escapes you, sharp and humorless. "That's one word for it."

Javi falls into step as you resume walking, tactfully giving you space to speak or not as you choose. The silence stretches comfortably between you, a rare gift in the close quarters you've all been forced to share.

"Do you ever just want to run?" you ask finally, the question emerging unbidden. "Just... keep walking and not look back?"

Javi considers this seriously, as he does most things. "Sometimes." He glances at you sideways. "Is that what you're thinking about now? Leaving again?"

The direct question catches you off guard. "No. Maybe. I don't know." You stop walking, forcing yourself to articulate the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. "I feel trapped, but not by this place. By... everything else."

"Like what happened with Jackie?" Javi suggests gently.

You nod, grateful for his perception. "That. And other things."

"Like whatever's going on with you and Shauna?" When you look at him in surprise, he shrugs. "Small cabin. People notice things."

"It's complicated," you sigh, the understatement almost making you laugh again.

"I bet," Javi agrees. "And now there's whatever happened with Lottie too."

You stop walking entirely, turning to face him. "How did you—"

"Like I said. Small cabin." His expression is sympathetic rather than judgmental. "Plus you both disappeared all night and came back looking... well, like you did."

Heat floods your cheeks, and you look away, suddenly fascinated by a distant tree. "It wasn't... I mean, it just happened."

"Sure," Javi says easily. "Things happen out here. It's like we're in a different world with different rules."

The assessment is so accurate, so aligned with your own unformed thoughts that you stare at him in wonder. "When did you get so wise?"

He grins, the expression transforming his face back to the boy he should still be. "I have my moments. Mostly, I just listen a lot."

You resume walking, letting his words settle into the spaces between your tangled thoughts. "I'm not planning to leave again," you say finally. "I just needed some air to think."

"Good," Javi says with surprising firmness. "Because it really sucked when you were gone. For everyone."

The simple statement hits harder than Natalie's anger or Shauna's accusations. "I'm sorry."

"I know." Javi kicks at a clump of snow. "Just don't do it again, okay? This whole 'stranded in the wilderness' thing is a lot less fun without you around."

You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Cool." He points toward a cluster of trees ahead. "Want to check those snares you were supposedly going to look at? Might as well make your excuse legitimate."

"Lead on," you agree, grateful for his practical suggestion. "Though I warn you, my tracking skills are about as well-developed as my impulse control."

Javi laughs. "So completely non-existent, then?"

"I resent that," you protest, falling into the easy banter that reminds you why you've always enjoyed his company. "I have excellent impulse control. I haven't killed Natalie despite numerous provocations."

"A true testament to your restraint," he agrees solemnly. "Very Monty Python of you. 'She hasn't killed me yet, so I must be the Messiah!'"

You snort with surprised laughter. "I think you're mixing your references there."

"Probably," Javi admits cheerfully. "It's been a while since movie night."

The reference to your life before the crash—to normal teenage activities like watching films and quoting them endlessly—brings a bittersweet pang. "God, I miss movies."

"Me too." Javi's smile dims slightly. "And pizza. And my PlayStation."

"And showers," you add with feeling. "Real, hot showers with actual soap."

"And toilet paper!" Javi's enthusiasm for this particular luxury makes you both dissolve into laughter, the sound echoing strangely in the silent forest.

The moment of levity eases something in your chest, loosening the knot of tension that's been building since you woke in the meat shed. By the time you return to the cabin, having checked the empty snares and gathered a few edible plants Javi identified, you feel steadier, more centered than you have in days.

The respite is short-lived.

------

Dinner is a subdued affair, conversations flowing around you without requiring participation. You focus on your food—another watery stew, this one bulked with winter roots—aware of Lottie's occasional glances from across the fire, of Shauna's deliberate avoidance of your gaze.

"—don't you think?" Tai's question pulls you from your thoughts, and you realize she's addressing you directly.

"Sorry, what?" you ask, hoping your inattention wasn't too obvious.

"I said we should check the area where you and Lottie found those herbs yesterday," Tai repeats, her tone suggesting it's not the first time she's had to repeat herself to you. "Might be other edible plants nearby."

"Oh. Yeah, probably," you agree, carefully not looking at Lottie or thinking about what followed the herb gathering.

"Great. You can show us tomorrow," Tai decides, turning back to her conversation with Van.

You nod, though no one is watching for your response, and return to pushing food around your bowl. The stew has cooled, congealing slightly at the edges. Something about the texture triggers a memory—a flash of something you can't quite place, a feeling of wrongness that crawls up your spine.

"—not like it was much to begin with," Natalie's voice catches your attention, the words floating across the fire with peculiar clarity.

"Nat," Travis warns, glancing in your direction.

"What? It's true," Natalie argues, her words slightly slurred. She's been hitting the dwindling alcohol supply hard lately, dulling her edges with whatever she can find. "They were never actually dating. It was just... convenience."

You realize she's talking about you and Shauna, the assumption so wildly off the mark that it would be funny if it wasn't so painfully close to the truth. You were never dating—never put a name to whatever existed between you in the darkness, the comfort and connection that transcended simple friendship without ever being acknowledged in daylight.

"Fuck off, Nat," Shauna says quietly, her eyes fixed on her bowl.

"Am I wrong?" Natalie challenges, leaning forward. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you two were playing house until she"—she gestures at you with her cup—"decided to bail, and now you're both acting like someone died. Again."

"That's enough," Tai interjects, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We don't need to rehash this."

"Fine," Natalie mutters, slumping back. "Just saying. Everyone tiptoeing around like there's some great tragedy when really it's just—"

"I said enough," Tai repeats, sharper now.

The conversation shifts awkwardly, the tension lingering like smoke. You stare into your bowl, suddenly unable to contemplate another bite. Something about the stew, the texture, the smell—it sits wrong in your stomach, bringing back that elusive sense-memory from moments ago.

You set your bowl aside, drawing a concerned look from Mari across the fire. She leans forward, voice low. "You okay? You've barely eaten."

"Fine," you murmur, forcing a smile. "Just not hungry."

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue. You're always hungry these days—all of you are, subsisting on whatever the forest provides, which is never quite enough. But something about tonight, about the stew...

"You should eat while you can," Mari insists, nodding at your abandoned bowl. "Winter's not getting any easier."

"I know." You reach reluctantly for the bowl, knowing she's right. Food is too precious to waste, regardless of your unsettled stomach.

As you raise a spoonful to your lips, another flash of memory breaks through—hands tearing at flesh, the heavy copper scent of blood, someone crying in the background. The spoon clatters against the bowl as your hand jerks involuntarily.

"Seriously, are you okay?" Mari presses, her concern more evident now. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," you repeat automatically, but the images keep coming, fragments of memory you've somehow buried until now. Snow-covered hands. A blade glinting in firelight. Meat hanging in the shed where you and Lottie...

Oh god.

You stand abruptly, bowl forgotten as nausea rises in your throat. "I need air," you manage, already moving toward the door.

"It's freezing out," Shauna objects, speaking directly to you for the first time since your morning confrontation.

"Don't care," you mumble, yanking the door open and escaping into the frigid night.

The cold hits you like a physical blow, but it's nothing compared to the horror building inside you as memories continue to surface—images and sensations you've somehow suppressed for weeks. Jackie's body, stiff with frost. The decision made in desperate hunger. The things you did. The things you ate.

You make it only a few yards from the cabin before your knees give out, sending you sprawling into the snow. Your breath comes in short, painful gasps as realization crushes down on you.

"We ate her," you whisper to the empty air, the words hanging visible in the frozen night. "We ate Jackie."

The memory crashes through your carefully constructed barriers: Jackie's blue-tinged skin as you all brought her body back to the cabin. The discussion about burying her, about waiting for the ground to thaw. Then the hunger, the desperation, Lottie's voice suggesting what no one else would speak aloud.

And you—you had helped. Had held the knife. Had tasted human flesh and told yourself it was venison, had buried the knowledge so deep your conscious mind couldn't access it until now.

Your stomach heaves, and you retch into the snow, the meager contents of your dinner burning your throat on the way up. You can't breathe, can't think beyond the horror of what you've done, what you've all done.

"Hey!" Mari's voice seems to come from a great distance, though her footsteps crunch nearby in the snow. "Oh shit. Guys! Something's wrong! I need help out here!"

The world tilts sideways as your vision narrows to a pinpoint of light surrounded by encroaching darkness. The last thing you register before consciousness slips away is the sound of multiple footsteps rushing toward you, and Shauna's voice, suddenly close, suddenly frantic:

"What happened? What's wrong with her?"

Then nothing but merciful blackness, swallowing you and your terrible knowledge whole.

[mintmatcha]

The sun does not crest the sky once today, but the town stays fully alight. The city center is teeming with life: music and food and drinks strong enough to shock your senses and flush your cheeks after one sip. For a calm and conservative culture, the festival is rather wild.

You've perched yourself at the outskirts, on a lounging bed. The dragonborns occasionally glance your way, more curious than anything else.

A bunch of younger girls ask to touch your hair in broken Common before Obi chases them away. The man has been busy catching up with friends and over indulging with his brother, but he often loops around to check on you.

Sorghum comes by where you are sitting and pushes a plate of food into your hands wordlessly. When she returns to her husband, she shrugs away his drunken touch.

Seeing her face leaves a hollow feeling in your chest. You don't eat anything she's brought you.

It's only a bit later that your beloved staggers over to you with open arms. He's dressed in fine, sheer robes, woven in beautiful, bright patterns.

"Oh," he breathes. "I'm mesmerized."

Obsidian kneels beside the fainting couch, resting his chin on the arm. He smiles up at you with a contemplative glee, eyes wet from the liquor. The party swells and moves around you, but Obsidian stays still, regarding you carefully.

"You are utterly radiant," he sighs. He nuzzles his face into his arms like a lovelorn schoolboy. "Like a star plucked from the sky."

Despite yourself. you melt a bit. You reach up and scratch the ridges on his head, tracing over each bump with your nails. "Obi..."

"Eternally, painfully, tragically beautiful. I am so lucky you fell into my life." It's the alcohol talking, you remind yourself, but his voice is so earnest. "So beautiful that you break my heart whenever you look away."

You turn out of bashfulness and the dragonborn whines, flopping harder into the couch. When you look back, he practically purrs.

"Are you warm enough, my fawn?" The dress is intertwined with warming spells, sown in by your lover himself. It's a traditional draconic dress, clearly not built to account for your breasts. It scoops low, low enough that your body threatens to spill over when you move the wrong way. "Are you too warm?"

"It's perfect," you say. "Thank you."

He judges his nose into the air, once, twice, three times, eyes half closed.

"Kiss me?" he asks.

You look around. "People are watching, Obi."

"Let them!" He rises to nudge his snout into your lips, the chastest of human kisses, then goes to rub the side of his face into your cheek. He purrs and clicks and runs his hand down your side, slidingyour dress down ever so slightly.

"Obi!" you giggle. "Obi, my hair!"

His horns are tangled in your braids.

"I will not stop until you kiss me back," he demands. He's being borderline lewd for dragonborn standards, especially since you two are not officially mates yet.

The memory of earlier suddenly rings through your teeth. There is no 'yet'. You two are not mates and will never be. Sadly, you give in, nudging him back. Obsidian's scales are so smooth against the sensitive skin of your face.

"Will you dance with me, my love?" he asks as he pulls away. "I will teach you the steps."

It's a group dance, the kind that has partners switching every couple of moments. You've danced like this before, it's nothing you can't learn on the fly, but you still shake your head.

"Maybe later," you say. He stands and starts backwards towards the dance floor, arm extended towards you the entire time. Truthfully, you want him to stay, but you couldn't ask Obi to stay by your side all night. He deserves fun, he deserves to dance, he deserves-

"My heart will be with you," Obsidian coos.

He deserves more than you can give him.

He slides into the rhythm of the dance without trying. It's beautiful to watch how they all glimmer in the firelight, their scales and jewelry glittery and shined to perfection. Obsidian shines brighter than any of them all, of course; it may be bias, but you swear that he's the prettiest one of them all, with those emerald green eyes.

You're so sweet on him that you almost don't see someone else had joined the dance, but a flash of white snaps you back to reality.

The girl is just as pretty as you had been told, even for human standards. The way she holds her head is regal, with a lifted chin and an upturned smile. Her build is small for a dragonborn, but it seems to be perfectly sized when Obsidian's hand slides around her waist. The two of them step in, step out, then twirl, eyes never leaving each other's as they dance. There's a shared laugh before they separate, moving on to the next partner, but the moment repeats in your mind, over and over again.

His hand on her waist. Black scales against white.

You don't belong here.

.

It's less than an hour later when Obsidian comes back to your chair and finds you gone. He pokes around the festival, expecting to find you pulled away by children or women, but every corner is empty of you.

"Sorghum-" Obsidian is suddenly sober as he approaches his sister in law. "Have you seen my fawn? She's not where I left her."

Sorghum huffs, bothered by the interruption. Her group of friends chitters on without her.

"Humans have legs, Obsidian. Maybe she used them."

That sets Obsidian's teeth on edge. "Malachite is a saint for dealing with your attitude."

There's a retort as he walks away, but he can't focus on that, not when his mind is on the brink of panic. Where could you have gone in this little town?

By the time he makes it to his family home, real, deep worry has started make his hands quiver.

"Fawn," he calls down the hall. "Princess."

He checks his room first, mostly out of muscle memory. He had gotten used to waking up beside you; sleeping alone made his heart ache.

Your room is empty as well. Too empty. It takes him a moment to realize your bag is gone, along with your coats and boots.

On the nightstand is a single earring, his own scales staring back at him like two little black voids.

[luffydotcom]

Ok I might die requesting this /j (it's just embarrassing.

But can you write Luffy x reader but they both like each other and they're oblivious to it. Reader also has something that's very special to her like a weapon that the crew knows to leave alone but one day Luffy asks for it and she gives it to him like she hasn't fought someone over it.

(is it weird to request something that has been rejected by somebody else?😔)

anon, you don't have to ever worry about something being embarrassing on my account!! and it's not weird at all!! i did what i could with this, i hope it's enough!! and sorry for the wait, i was on vacation and only just got back haha.. OK ENOUGH YAP FROM ME

safe in your hands (luffy x reader)

pairings: luffy x gn! reader warnings: none! word count: 656

you and luffy had been stepping around each other for what felt like months now, utterly oblivious to your feelings for each other. despite knowing each other very well, you always failed to notice the other's true feelings.

despite your love and trust for the crew, the love and trust for luffy you kept was much more. you would feel safe trusting him with your life, but also afraid to trust him with your feelings. would he be happy? upset? surprised? annoyed?

luffy is just so damn unpredictable sometimes. the fact that you can't anticipate how he would react makes you want to hide your feelings all the more.

sitting against the mast of the sunny, you turn around your dagger in your right hand, your eyes squinting as you observe the various scratches it's collected over the years. you've had it for a very long time, years before you even joined the strawhats.

once usopp found it on your bedside whilst looking for you and he was about to touch it, before you entered the room and sharply snapped at him to keep his hands away. seeing his alarmed expression, you hastily apologised and explained that you never let anyone touch it because of how precious it is to you. it's saved you hundreds of times, and you can't bear to ever lose it.

as your fingers trace over the blade gently, you feel a thump in front of you as luffy sits down to join you.

"why do you always carry that around? we're not in battle right now," he asks, leaning forward towards you.

"just because i do," you say, your eyes attempting to drift away after seeing how close he is to you.

luffy nods, not understanding why you're speaking so cryptically, but finding it strangely endearing. he can't help smiling as he looks at your features as you're concentrating on what you're holding. then he looks at the dagger itself, noticing all the different marks covering the blade.

he remembers when you first joined the crew, you would always be double and triple checking if it was on you in case it was lost. and it certainly wasn't as scarred as it is now. have you really been through that many battles together with him?

"hey, can i hold it?" luffy's eyes shine at you as he looks up from your weapon.

you blink in surprise, taken slightly off-balance by the sudden question. but then you do something you never imagined you would do - you simply hand it to him without a word.

luffy takes it in his hands as if it's glass. your mouth drops slightly - you've never seen him be this careful with anything before. as you're about to comment, you hear a nearby voice.

"LUFFY!! that's y/n's, you know you shouldn't be touching that!" nami folds her arms as she crosses over to luffy to take the dagger, until she notices you. "y/n? didn't you see that luffy has your dagger?"

"yeah i know... i actually gave it to him." you breathe out, as nami's expression turns to surprise.

"really? are you sure you trust luffy with something as important as that?" she cocks an eyebrow.

you both turn around as you hear the galley door opening. usopp enters, his eyes falling to what luffy's holding as he sits opposite you. "hey, luffy! you can't -" before he can finish his sentence, you wave your hand to let him know it's OK.

"seriously? it's so cool-looking, but not even i was allowed to touch it..." usopp sulks as he stands over luffy. "luffy, you're lucky y/n trusts you that much."

"why not? it's not like i'd ever break something that important!" luffy says as he hands your weapon back to you carefully. usopp and nami share suspicious glances.

"it's alright, i believe you," you nudge luffy playfully as you slide your dagger back into its scabbard.

© luffydotcom

[sadiesdoll]

DEVOTION.

obsessed!vi x reader | just pure smut, emotional vulnerability, yearning, and obsession. (mdni ♡) wc: 1681

contains: worship kink, strap-on use (r!receiving), vi refers to her strap as her dick, oral sex (r!receiving), cockwarming, just vi being very pussydrunk.

a/n: sorry guys I’m just too obsessed with pathetic vi </3

Enjoy ♡

The room was quiet, lit only by the dying orange glow of the streetlight outside the window.

The air was thick— sweet, heavy with the scent of your cherry perfume.

Vi stood in the doorway like a storm barely restrained-lean muscles taut, fists flexing like she was holding herself back from touching you too soon.

"You don't know," she murmured, voice hoarse, "what you do to me."

She crossed the room slowly, boots quiet against the worn floorboards, her gaze never leaving yours.

There was something reverent in her stare—like she wasn't looking at a person, but something sacred. Something she'd kneel for.

When her fingers brushed your waist, it wasn't rough, despite the power in her frame. It was tender. Careful. As if you might break under her touch—or worse— vanish.

Her hands skimmed lower, curling at the hem of your skirt, dragging it up slowly—revealing the delicate stretch of your thighs.

And then she saw them.

Pink.

The softest, sweetest little pink panties, clinging to your pussy like a prayer, a wet spot forming on the center.

Vi's breath hitched sharply.

She traced a single calloused fingertip along the lace edge, barely daring to touch.

"Pink," she whispered to herself, her voice husky with need. "Of course. Sweetest color. Sweetest fucking girl."

You whimpered, thighs twitching slightly under the weight of her stare.

Vi sank to her knees before you, worshipping you without even touching you yet.

She hooked her fingers gently into the waistband of your panties and tugged them down-slow as death, slow as devotion.

She didn't say anything at first. Just looked-eyes dark, almost in awe.

"You're so pretty," she breathed, voice raw and breaking.

And then she kissed you. Not your mouth. Not yet.

Your thighs. The hollow of your hips. The soft skin just above your aching cunt.

She kissed you like you were a prayer she'd spent her whole life learning by heart.

You whimpered again, hand threading through her messy hair.

"Vi..." you whispered, a half-moan leaving your lips. Voice shaking with need and something else—something fragile.

That snapped her last thread of control. She groaned low in her throat, desperate, and dug her tongue into your soaking wet cunt without hesitation.

She devoured you—messy, starved, frantic. The sounds were filthy—wet, obscene, echoing through the quiet room.

"God, baby," she gasped against your folds, "your pussy's so fucking sweet. Could stay buried in you forever, fuck— m'gonna get you so ready for my dick-"

"Oh— fuck." You sighed out. "Fuck me— please. Fuck me." you whined in desperation.

You felt it then—her trembling.

Her whole body shuddered as she mouthed at you, hands gripping your thighs like you were the only thing anchoring her to the world.

Your hand tightened in her hair, tugging gently, pulling her up until her flushed face hovered over yours.

"Baby.." you whispered, your voice full of soft concern through the haze of pleasure. "You're trembling."

Vi's chest heaved, breath broken against your lips. Her pupils were blown wide, eyes wild, as if she barely recognized herself anymore.

She looked wrecked.

"Can't—“ she choked out, voice thick and shaking, "can't help it. You make me feel so much—pretty thing—pretty fuckin' thing— mine, all mine."

She collapsed against you, pressing her forehead into your stomach, voice cracking into desperate, messy, beautifully vulgar worship.

"I'm so fucking obsessed with you," she babbled, trembling harder now, "your pussy's heaven, you're heaven—you're the sweetest thing l've ever tasted, you're perfect, you're fuckin' mine-"

You cupped her face, coaxing her to look at you again, your thumbs stroking her damp cheeks.

"I'm right here," you whispered against her skin. "I'm yours. It's okay, baby. Let go. I've got you."

That was it.

That was all it took.

Vi let out a choked sob of relief and crashed her mouth to yours—kissing you like a drowning woman clinging to the surface.

She shoved her strap against you—thick, hard, already slick with your arousal—grinding it along your soaked folds until you gasped into her mouth.

"Tell me you're mine again," she begged into your neck, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like she could mold you into her.

"Please— you're mine, right? Mine to worship. Mine to fucking love."

You wrapped your arms around her back, nails dragging down her shoulder blades.

"I'm yours," you whispered into her ear. "All yours, Vi."

She whimpered —whimpered— a broken, desperate sound, and pushed inside you with a slow, aching thrust.

"Can't stop—won't stop—gonna stay inside 'til you're leakin' down my thighs, fuck—“ she whispered. Slurring on her words and sounding so fucking pussydrunk.

She fucked you slow, deep, her trembling body pouring everything into every filthy, reverent motion-whispering broken prayers into your skin.

"You're perfect, perfect, sweetest thing, made for me—fuck—so fucking good, baby—“

Your nails bit into her skin, your body arching into her. Every thrust, every wet sound, every tremble, every gasping, messy confession from her lips sent you spiraling higher.

"Soaking f'me—you're so good to me, baby—‘s all for me, right?" she slurred, voice wrecked against your ear.

You nodded frantically, whimpering, tears brimming at the edges of your lashes.

"A-All of me, Vi—“ you gasped, clinging to her like you'd drown without her—“everything I am—it's all yours. I promise."

Vi groaned like you'd torn the last piece of sanity from her, pounding her dick harder and deeper inside you, her hands fisting the sheets around your head like she needed to anchor herself to you—or else she'd fucking fall apart.

When you finally came—clenching tight around her, crying out her name like it was sacred—Vi came undone right with you. Her hips still slowly grinding against you.

Tears in her eyes.

Lips pressed to your throat.

Her whole body shaking with the force of how deeply she loved you.

And even after the pleasure shattered into pieces, she stayed wrapped around you—still trembling, still murmuring half—senseless things against your skin.

Still worshipping you like you were the only salvation she'd ever found.

And the world was slow to return.

The room was heavy with the scent of sex—slick heat, sweet musk, the overwhelming perfume of you still clinging to Vi's trembling body.

She collapsed against you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, her breathing ragged and uneven. Her whole body was shaking—small, uncontrollable tremors running through her as she clutched you like a lifeline.

You ran your hands down her bare, flexing back, soothing her with slow, careful strokes.

"Baby," you whispered against her hairline, your own voice still wrecked with aftershocks. "...What was that about?"

Vi shuddered against you. She tried to answer—tried to find words—but all that came out was a broken whimper, her mouth pressing desperately to the side of your neck like she needed your pulse to survive.

"You were shaking so bad," you murmured, rocking her gently in your arms, feeling the slick mess between your thighs-the sticky, dripping proof of how thoroughly she had worshipped you.

"You're still shaking."

Vi pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight broke something open in your chest.

Her face was flushed, slicked with sweat and the lingering wetness of your pussy around her lips. Her pupils were still blown wide, drowning in black. She looked fucked out, wrecked, starved for you even now.

Her voice cracked when she finally managed to speak.

"Couldn't stop," she whispered hoarsely. "Couldn't stop touching you, tasting you. You're—“

She swallowed hard, hand finding yours and bringing it to her heart, where it thundered violently against her ribs.

"You're everything," she rasped. "You smell like heaven, taste like a fuckin' dream... your pretty little cunt... dripping for me, soaking my face... it's all I see when I close my eyes."

You exhaled shakily, overwhelmed by the rawness, the violence of her tenderness.

"I thought I broke you," you whispered, a faint giggle spilled from your lips, brushing her sweaty hair back from her forehead. She laughed—a broken, soft sound—and nuzzled into your palm.

"You did," she said. "You broke me. Ruined me. Made me yours."

You pulled her into a kiss—slow, messy, lingering—you moaned into her mouth while tasting yourself on her tongue, feeling the quiet, desperate way she clung to you like she'd never let go.

When you finally pulled back, you brushed your fingers lightly over her hip, where her strap was still buried deep inside you, hot and unmoving.

You shifted your hips slightly and gasped softly at the feeling—thick, full, the girthy silicone pressing deep against your tender walls.

Vi groaned low in her throat at the tiny movement, her arms tightening around you like a vice.

"Baby," you whispered against her lips, "Fuck— you wanna pull out now?"

Vi shook her head fiercely, voice trembling with need.

"No," she breathed. "No. Fuck no. I wanna stay inside you. Wanna feel you clenching around me. Stay buried in your lovely pussy all fuckin' night."

You whimpered at the filthy desperation in her voice, at the way her strap twitched inside you like it could feel every flutter of your sensitive, pulsing hole.

"You're still so wet," Vi muttered, almost delirious, her forehead dropping against yours. "So warm. So perfect. Feels like you're suckin' me in, princess. Like your pussy knows it's mine."

You kissed her again—gentle, worshipful—rolling your hips just a tiny bit so the strap ground slow and deep inside you, your swollen, dripping folds clenching around it like you never wanted to let her go either.

Vi moaned brokenly into your mouth, her whole body melting into yours.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whimpered against her lips.

"You can ruin yourself on me all you want, Vi."

Vi whimpered again—wrecked by your words—and pressed herself closer, trembling in your arms, the slick heat between your legs sticky and beautifully shameful between you.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself believe it.

That you were hers.

That you wanted to be worshipped like this.

That you were never, ever going to leave her.

Critcism and ideas are heavily appreciated (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

thank you for reading! ♡

[baocean]

Hi! I love poyp so much!

Could you do a blurb of JJ finally winning over Y/Ns parents? They've come to terms with the fact that he's not going anywhere and they invite him for another dinner but they start making digs and Y/N snaps at them in anger and leaves, but JJ stays just to tell them something like "I know I'm not what you wanted for your daughter but if you think I will leave her you're crazy" or something like that?

Also, can't wait to see what you have in-store for Boys Like You

this is so cute! thx for sending <3

your parents invited you over after only a week home from your freshman year.

after an entire year of cold stares, passive-aggressive comments, and backhanded compliments, your parents inviting jj over again almost felt…hopeful. maybe they were finally starting to see what you saw. maybe they were finally giving him a chance.

but the second you sat down, it started.

your mom’s smile was too tight. your dad’s questions too pointed.

"so, jj," your dad said, cutting into his steak, "still working at the marina?"

jj smiled politely. "yep. full-time now, actually."

"and… is that the goal, then?"

you stiffened. jj didn’t flinch. "it’s one of them."

"mm. well, not everyone needs a college degree, i suppose," your mom chimed in with a sip of wine, not meeting your eyes.

you could feel your blood boiling. but jj just nodded, jaw tense, swallowing his pride like he always did.

and then your mom added, "i guess it’s good you’re so loyal. some people just cling to what they know, right?"

jj’s hand brushed yours under the table, grounding you, but your patience snapped.

“okay, you know what?” you said sharply, standing up. “if you brought us here just to talk down to him again, you could’ve saved the wine and spared me the drive.”

your mom blinked, startled. your dad set down his fork.

“he is kind,” you continued, voice shaking. “he is loyal. and he is so much more than the assumptions you’ve made about him since day one. i don’t know what more he has to prove to you, but i’m done watching you make him feel small.”

you grabbed your bag, looked at jj, and said quietly, “i’ll wait in the car.”

he nodded, eyes soft on you. “i’ll be right there.”

and once the door closed behind you, jj stayed in his seat.

“look,” he said, setting his glass down, voice low and steady, “i know i’m not who you pictured. i know i come with a past you wouldn’t have chosen for her.”

he leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze hard and honest. “but i love your daughter. i would go through hell for her. and if you think for one second that i’m gonna leave her just because you’re uncomfortable with how i got here… then you don’t know me at all.”

he rises, slow and steady, and nods politely.

“thank you for dinner.”

he turns toward the door, already expecting to walk out into the night alone.

and behind him, after a pause, your dad clears his throat.

“next time… maybe you could bring that potato salad you made last time,” he mutters gruffly.

jj turns slightly, surprised. your mom’s still watching him, guarded, but softer now. like maybe, just maybe, she’s starting to see what you do.

he doesn’t smile wide or celebrate.

he just nods.

“sure,” he says. “i’ll bring it.”

and with that, he slips outside into the quiet, heart thudding with something dangerously close to hope.

the second dinner invatation came as a surprise to you both.

it wasn’t a fancy dinner this time.

just a sunday afternoon, backyard chairs, lemonade sweating in plastic cups, jj's potato salad he spent all day working on. your dad at the grill. your mom in her gardening gloves. the kind of casual gathering where expectations were lower, and walls started to come down without anyone noticing.

jj had offered to help your dad with the grill, completely unprompted, and to your surprise, your dad said yes.

you were sitting on the back steps, talking to your mom about the flowers blooming too early this year, when you caught sight of them, jj and your dad, shoulder to shoulder by the grill, laughing about something. real laughter. no tension. no tight smiles.

jj flipped a burger one-handed while holding a conversation about tools and fishing trips like he was born into it.

then later, while everyone was eating, your mom went inside for something and the screen door stuck on its track. without missing a beat, jj hopped up, fixed it with a screwdriver from his pocket (along with three lighters, a hair tie he always kept for you, and a cigarette he didnt tell anyone was there), and then sat back down like it was nothing.

your mom stared at the door for a second longer than she needed to.

and maybe the moment it really shifted was after dinner, when jj was doing the dishes. no one asked him to. he just stood there, sleeves pushed up, joking with you and your mom as he scrubbed a pan. like he belonged there. like this was always part of the plan.

your dad came in with a fresh beer, leaned in the doorway, and watched him for a second.

“he’s good with his hands,” he said quietly. not to you, to your mom. and she just nodded.

later, on the drive home, jj glanced over at you. “i think your dad smiled at me.”

you laughed. “he did, i saw it.”

“and your mom gave me leftover pie in tupperware. that’s gotta be some kind of approval.”

you leaned over, kissed his shoulder, and smiled like the sun was inside you.

“told you, they’re coming around.”

jj just grinned, eyes on the road, heart way too full.

note from the author - ok guys! i know i havent introduced yn being comfortable with jj driving yet but im going to lol just pretend you see that blurb before this one. also, im hoping i can put out another chapter of boys like you/first chapter of tbt but im working all day so pray for me lol

masterlist

taglist -  @dr3amgrlll /  @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 /  @abigailovesz / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily /  @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias / @4jjsbank / @blythee1

[echo-exco]

GRAAAAAH⁉️ HELP‼️ You wrote such a masterpiece, I'm already so HYPED for the next chapter ONG.

With the batfamily's personal agenda and inability to reach out, their past forever haunting them.

I imagine that the realization that their present, where they actively ( idk if intentionally ) ignore the reader, now "past", will haunt them forever.

Especially Bruce's reaction, his internal struggle with the fact that if he was just a little bit warmer, the chaos caused by the future villain who used to be under his roof, could've been prevented.

Question tho, how would they all eventually turn yandere? They seem to have all never interacted before, so I can't see them suddenly feeling the need to be there for the reader. Either it would be self-righteous beliefs or they'd just think she overreacted. ( bring in the angst LMAO )

— "BEEDALEAF." 🥬

Aww! Thank you so much! I’m really glad that what I wrote was good for you, the readers 😌 I also hope to bring the next chapter soon!

The batfam has their own problems and responsibilities to deal with. Even healer!reader is aware of that, which is why she tries to avoid bothering them with her needs, whether emotional, intellectual, educational, social, or even sometimes financial.

Healer!reader has always been able to take care of herself, with or without a family. What truly affects her is the fact that she can’t use her powers while in Gotham, out of fear that someone from the batfam might find out.

Now, no one in the batfam ever intended to ignore healer!reader on purpose. Some of them might even think they never ignored her. It’s just that everyone assumed she probably had something else to do—or they simply forgot about the requests and questions she had made.

Because, for better or worse, the batfam sees healer!reader as too… ordinary for the family.

Since no one knows (yet 😼) that healer!reader has extraordinary healing abilities, they genuinely believe she’s just the most normal and average daughter of Bruce Wayne.

As for Bruce, he’s definitely going to regret everything. Healer!reader’s future doesn’t look very warm or pleasant for anyone involved.

If only she had had a father, someone to remember, someone she could trust and feel safe with… would that have changed anything? Would she have stayed?

Does Bruce even know his own daughter?

I can’t say healer!reader will be a villain in the future, but she definitely won’t be a hero either. Just think of her as, quite literally, a “human machine made to save thousands of lives.” Of course, depending on your point of view, you could see healer!reader as either a villain or a hero…

As for how they’ll all eventually become yanderes… Well, I like to think the yandere instincts were already there, buried deep inside. They just needed a (massive) little push to finally activate.

Like I said before, they all believed healer!reader was just a very “normal” child for the family. No one ever bothered to look past that.

That’s partially why they kept their distance from her… as if they genuinely thought she’d be better off not getting involved in family matters. Because, to them, healer!reader is someone who hasn’t seen the worst of the world yet, someone who hasn’t been through anything truly traumatic.

They think she’s better off where she is. They believe that way she’ll be safe from everything bad.

And to be fair, healer!reader herself wouldn’t have let anyone dig too deep into who she really is.

She doesn’t want the batfam to know her. She just wants to leave Gotham and go back to the medical field with Masashi. Healer!reader wants to use her powers. Being in the mansion makes her feel restrained and useless. She doesn’t like being there.

She can endure the neglect— it’s something she’s always survived through. What she can’t handle is the thought of not knowing when she’ll be able to use her powers again.

So you can imagine what’ll happen in the future when the Batfam finally learns about healer!reader’s powers. That revelation is going to hit them hard—with guilt, with regret.

I can absolutely picture them noticing healer!reader’s disappearance and brushing it off as a typical tantrum from a child (even if they don’t understand why she’d act that way). But as time goes on and she gives no sign of life… well… that’s when the first alarms start to go off.

And of course, we still have to see Duke and how his presence will affect healer!reader.

Sorry if the response was a bit long. I just hope it cleared up all your doubts.

[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. 

—

previous part || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

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[wisteriasymphony]

The year is 1979, and 17 year old Emilie Graham de Vanily walks into the office of Gabriel Agreste with something to prove.

---

Emilie sits in front of her mirror, staring coldly into her own face. Her fingers pull the navy ribbon off of her braid, then piece through her strands of golden hair and begin to undo the plait. Pulling the strands of the braid apart, then breaking it and pulling down with small mechanical rhythms, almost like knitting—unknitting, more accurately. The braids make her look younger than twelve, and that's too young. Emilie isn't satisfied with any of it, not the ribbon nor the plaits nor the matching dresses with Amelie. Emilie can look into her own green eyes (bright and green and sparkling with ambition) and know that her eyes are meant for more. All of her is meant for more than this house and this father and this mother and this sister.

"Father doesn't want me to act because he's scared," Emilie says to herself.

"What was that, Emilie?"

She turns back to face Amelie—Amelie's vanity and mirror are on the opposite wall, the girls' backs perpetually turned whenever they go to fix themselves. Keeping themselves identical has been something that neither of them needed to look at each other to do; It was something innate, Emilie thought. Emilie had just never bothered to look back and notice Amelie watching over her shoulder.

"I have to play in The Diamond Lady. Father knows what I'm capable of and it scares him because he doesn't want me to be capable." Emilie turns back to the mirror to catch her own face and her own smile in the mirror, the way her own confidence only encourages itself. "I'm going to run off to the studio again. You can pretend to be me for the day if you'd like. The director said I look perfect for the part, so I know they'll be disappointed if I don't show up."

"...Right."

A slow boil of resentment festers in Emilie's gut as she imagines Father. The way he'd blustered about leaving her without supper for a week for running off. He's going to be sorry one day, Emilie thinks to herself. He's going to see just how much of a star his poor little Emilie is and Father is going to finally be sorry for everything. Fathers can hurt anyone they like, but when they turn out to be stars they can't, because stars are loved by everyone and you can't hurt anyone that everyone loves, or they'll all chase you down with pitchforks.

"What do I say if Father notices you're gone?"

"He won't."

"...Yes, but what do I say anyways?"

"Uhm, Tell them I'm in the garden looking for dead birds again. I don't really care."

"Okay."

Emilie shakes her curls loose and then grabs a brush to style them, hoping to get something closer to Sylvie Vartan than Shirley Temple out of her locks of gold. She'll take the train down to Graham de Vanily Productions and walk onto that set with something to prove.

[dyns33]

Devil may care

I needed to write a Dad Matt, because I love Dad Matt stories, this man would be the best and the worst of a father for so many reasons.

Oh and Born Again never happened here. Nope, nope.

Y/N had only had two great loves in her life.

The first, Matt Murdock, during their college years. They weren't really together. Matthew was gallant, but he didn't want to commit to a serious relationship, yet they saw each other regularly.

His best friend often teased him when he saw them together, that it was ridiculous to refuse to name what they were when it was so obvious, which made him groan.

Without going into detail, Matt had told her about his childhood, his mother's abandonment, his father's death, the loss of his vision, his ex. He had a hard time trusting after all that, getting attached to people.

Y/N had tried to understand, to accept. But she was in love, she could feel it, and it wasn't healthy to continue like this if he wouldn't agree to give her more. She'd tried to talk to him about it after graduation, and of course, he'd immediately shut down. That night, it was over.

Three months later, Y/N met the second love of her life. A stunning, surprising entrance, after several weeks of vomiting in the morning and being tired.

"… I can't be pregnant."

"Oh, but you are !" the nurse repeated happily. "The blood test is infallible, you're having a baby ! Congratulations ! The daddy will be delighted !"

Having not been in a relationship since graduating, she didn't have to think twice to figure out who the dad was, and that he wouldn't be delighted.

Y/N could have called Matt. If he hadn't answered, she could also have called Foggy, who had wished her well after the breakup, with a sad smile. They always said they were going to work together, avocados at law.

But he didn't want a serious relationship, much less a child. However, as a good Catholic and a man of honor, Matthew would take responsibility. Unhappy, stuck, he would agree to support her. She loved him too much to inflict that on him.

It was too late to have an abortion, otherwise she might have considered it. There was always adoption too. It wouldn't be easy raising a child alone, with her job and her tiny apartment.

But when that little boy stared at her with his big eyes, Y/N knew she would never leave him. It was love at first sight.

She named him Jack. It came out without thinking, a connection to his father and grandfather, whom he would never meet. He looked a lot like him : the hair, the eyes, the nose. That mischievous little smile, which you couldn't refuse anything.

As expected, it wasn't always easy, despite the help of her family and friends. But she didn't regret it. Every moment with her son was wonderful.

Walks in the park, trips to the pool, birthdays. Even grocery shopping became a game with him, talking to everyone and jumping up and down the aisles, asking to buy everything.

Normally, he stayed close to her, obeying, but that day, the five-year-old boy was probably in an adventurous mood. Y/N had turned her head for a few seconds to grab some cereal and he had disappeared. Panicked, she had checked everywhere, calling his name louder and louder, until she spotted him talking to a stranger.

Except it wasn't a stranger.

If you could say he had changed, it was only to point out that he was even more handsome, with his suit, red glasses, and neatly styled hair.

Head tilted to one side, gripping his cane, Matthew Murdock made a funny face as he concentrated on the long story the little boy was telling him.

He couldn't know. He had no way of knowing, and Y/N slowly approached to hug his son, whispering an apology, hoping he wouldn't recognize her voice.

"Y/N ! No way, what a coincidence ! It's been so long, you… Oh, hello, little man ! Is that your son ?!"

"… Hello Foggy. Yes."

"He's adorable ! Matt, he's adorable ! You should see him ! It's funny, he looks a lot like you, it's like…"

Despite what some might think because of his flashy appearance, Foggy was smart. His sentence cut off abruptly, his smile frozen, and he looked from Jack to Matt, and finally to Y/N, fully understanding what was happening. Forgetting her groceries, Y/N stammered excuses to quickly get out of the store with her son, not giving them time to react.

Perhaps she should have known this would happen when she moved near Hell's Kitchen. Matthew was proud of his neighborhood, born and raised, and never wanted to leave. But it had the cheapest apartments, allowing for a room for Jack.

Maybe he hadn't understood. Maybe he only suspected, but he would choose to forget what had just happened.

But Y/N knew Matt. He was stubborn, he was curious, and above all, he wanted to do good.

So it wasn't really a surprise to find him on her doorstep. She wondered how he'd found her address, but three days of panic attacks seemed about right for him before he presented himself to her.

"… Can I come in ?" he asked nervously.

"Of course. Jack's napping."

"You named him Jack ?"

His lips trembled, betraying his emotion. It touched him that she had chosen his father's name for their son. He admired his father.

Not knowing where to begin, Y/N invited him to sit down, offering him some tea so she could gain more time to find the right words. Beginning with an apology seemed logical.

"I didn't want to force this on you. I won't force it on you. I'm not asking you for anything. If you wanted to see him, I wouldn't object, but I would understand if you…"

"Of course I want to see him." Matt said, his voice full of confidence. "I want to be there for him. For you."

There it was, the famous duty of sacrifice she dreaded so much. Y/N bit the inside of her mouth, unsure how to push him away without hurting or insulting him. Because it was really nice of him to want to be there. But he hadn't asked for all this, it wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

"Look, Matt… You don't have to."

"It's my decision."

"I know, and I thank you. I'm sure you'd be wonderful with Jack, that he'd adore you, but… You don't love me. You didn't want anything serious, that's why we broke up, and why I didn't call you when I found out I was pregnant. I didn't want to put you through that. Think carefully, because if I tell him you're his father, then it'll be forever."

Matt listened patiently to her speech, swallowing each word and nodding, before placing his hand on hers.

"I don't need to think."

"Matthew…" she sighed.

"I loved you. I… I want you to know that. I was young, stupid, scared. I'm probably still pretty stupid and scared, Foggy told me that often. He yelled at me a lot when I left you, the biggest mistake of my life. I thought it was for the best. That I didn't deserve you, that I was bound to lose you or hurt you. Y/N… I don't feel obligated at all."

It was too good to be true. He wasn't a liar, she knew that. She'd always been able to trust him, always count on him. But as a mother, Y/N had to be careful.

Swallowing back a sob, she simply squeezed Matt's hand, and he tenderly stroked her fingers.

After a long silence, he resumed his thoughtful pout, indicating that maybe she wasn't entirely wrong to be on her guard.

He mumbled, before saying there was something he needed to tell her before deciding if she wanted him in her life.

Jokingly, she asked if he was married, which made him smile. No, there wasn't anyone else. Good thing, but that didn't mean he wasn't about to tell her something huge.

"So… I… I'm Dar…"

"Mommy ?"

Rubbing his still sleepy eyes, Jack trotted over to the couch to grab Y/N's leg. Frozen on his spot, mouth open, Matt didn't finish his big revelation, flustered.

"Who's that ?" the child asked in a small voice.

"Um… It's, uh…"

"I'm one of your mom's friends. We met at the store, remember ?"

"Oh, yeah."

Jack then flashed a big smile, considering his mom's friends to be his friends, and so he let go of Y/N to cuddle Matt's leg, gripping tightly like a little koala.

This could have panicked Matthew even more, but he couldn't help his beaming smile, patting his son's head before turning his attention back to Y/N, his face lit up with happiness.

They would take their time to catch up, then tell Jack the news, but everything would be fine, she could feel it right now.

Matt would also have to finish telling her his secret, but that couldn't be that important, right ?

[stuckyslut8]

the chief's mate.

Summary: your newly wed husband orc Bucky has to leave for war immediately,his best friend and the chief of the clan steve offers to take care of you in the mean time.

Warning: (poly relationship?) cheating? Kinda. It's complicated.Smut. Smut . Orc stucky is a warning. MINORS DNI. 18+ .

"but Bucky you can't leave me here...alone i don't know anybody here except you" you plead with your orc husband. It was true you were very new to this clan, and you were not an orc so you had no idea on what to do here and you were pregnant above all.

"I have to go my little witch, for my clan, for my chief steven,for my loyalties lie with him, understand me please" he pressed a kiss to my forhead.

"but..."

"he will take care of you in the meantime, anything you want he will do that for you and our unborn child.." that were his last words as he left for war.

anything you want.... those words lingered in your mind, what did he mean by that . Surely not 'anything ' ,you understand they were best friends and shared everything but not...no way it's not possible y/n ,stop with your fantasies.

Although the chief orc ,the blonde man was making it hard for you to think of anything else.

With the way he would unexpectedly show up to your cottage, asking you if you were doing well, checking on you, resting his hand on your growing belly,kissing it. Last night he even offered to massage your shoulders as you told him youw were feeling very tense.

He didn't do a good job of keeping his hands to himself either, always lingering around you, always brushing past you. Even now as he was talking to one of the maidens sharon ,his left hand stayed around your waist, he was explaining her on how he wanted the feast tonight,it was the feast before the orc mating season, of course it had to be huge .

You just stood there breath heaving, you could feel sharon glaring daggers at you, it was very clear the she wanted the chief, but he always seemed to ignore her , choosing to focus on you instead.

"and that is all sharon you may go " says steve.

"oh alright and what about y/n..." she asked accusingly.

Steve glared at her ,"what about her?" He gritted through his teeth.

"well, uh what will she be contributing to the feast, it's not like her husband is here to hunt and bring meat for the ceremony,nor does she grow any crops ,neither can she cook soo what exactly is she doing-"

"shut up you will not talk of my best man Bucky or his mate that way, Bucky has done so much for this clan and as his wife she can just stay her and enjoy everything, don't ever talk about her like that." Steve said sternly.

"oh im sorry chief steven i" sharon started say.

"apologize to her" said steve

"I'm sorry y/n" she murmured a fake apology as she left .

"you shouldn't have said anything steve its fine.." you say to him, he pulls me closer ,hands going lower on your back till it reached your ass, he gripped it gently.

"what do you mean ,she will disrespect you and Bucky and i should tolerate that , never."

"hmm alright calm down chief" you place a hand on his chest. He moves your hand to his lips and kisses it. You blush at that, you know he's probably being chivalrous.

"i am calm my sweet witch, you're here aren't you, you keep me calm"

"hmm good to know . "Your eyes linger on his lips you knew it was wrong.

Later that night ,you were laying in your bed , unable to sleep, both from the absence of your husband and because your needs haven't been taken care of in a while.you were frustrated.

Just then steve enters your cottage "y/n...?" He calls for you.

"yes steve.."

"there you are sweets.." oh fuck why was he here now.

"what ...do you need something chief?"

"no I came here to check on you sweets, ...still have trouble sleeping?"

You nodded .

"i bet it's lonely for you without Bucky next to you."

"uhmm yes" you look anywhere but at him

"would you mind if I ...kept you company?" Steve asked .

"uhmm you mean..."

"I'll lay next to you, that way you can sleep peacefully."

Say no say no. "yes I guess that would be nice."

So steve got under the covers with you

Steve's arms hold you tight against his chest under the covers, his strong muscles enveloping your body in a comforting embrace. As he lies there in bed with you, his head starts to slowly lower, his nose gently nuzzling against your hair as he processes the situation"A baby... You and Bucky... you're going to have a child together... I just can't believe it. I just...I'm still trying to process the idea of it all..."

"hmn yes it is very exciting steve"

Steve's hands start to slowly wander over your body as he holds you against his chest, his body still pressed against yours under the covers. His hands are gentle and slow as they move over your body, slowly tracing over your arms, your back, and your sides in a comforting manner.

You couldn't help but moan at his touch, you hope steve didn't hear it .

As you let out a gentle moan, Steve's body goes taut again for a moment, his arms holding you against his chest as he absorbs the sound. His hands continue to gently wander over your body as he replies in a low grumble"Hmm? What was that dove?"

"uhh nothing" you tried to brush it off.

Steve lets out a grumbled huff at your response, still holding you against his muscular chest in a tight and protective embrace. There's a hint of teasing in his voice as he replies "You don't want my attention, hmmm? Then....why did you let out that sweet sound?"

"uhh don't be ridiculous, I don't want your attention..."

Steve's long fingers rub your clothed pussy, which was only covered by a thin layer of clothing. "Your pussy needs it , I'm sure ... she's been very lonely." your wetness grows and coats youre clothing, steve is very aware of the effect he has on you.

"no steve ...uhm we can't" you begin to protest, your words die down as steve kisses your neck, lips trialing down your spine.

"shh sweetheart,i know this is what you need, and this is what I promised Bucky , that I'd take care of your every need.."

"I'm sure he didn't mean "every " need..."

"oh yes, every need ...can't let my best friend's wife go unsatisfied now can i?" Steve's fingers travelled to your nub rubbing it skillfully, making you grind shamelessly. "That's it little dove let me take care of you...let me hear those sweet sounds." You couldn't help but moan, steve overstimulated you until you were on the edge, and just as you were about to come he removed his fingers, making you whine.

"tsk what was that little witch? You want more..?" He knew exactly how to play this.

"yes...yes I need to come please, " you begged patheticallly .

"then spread those pretty legs for me, I'll make you come" you did as he asked.

Steve's long orc tongue licked your pussy , making you wet before he started fucking you with it., it didn't take long before you came all over his face. "Fuck now that's what I want little witch," he said licking up every last drop. Of your release, he wasn't done yet he went back to his ministrations again.

"steve please...i can't , we can't - bcuky" it was like a post release Clarity for you knowing this is wrong.

"shh - I know this is what Bucky wouldve wanted , little witch, don't tell me what my best mate would want." He said continuing to abuse your poor pussy with his big tongue but not it felt good that's why you had a hard time explaining to hi.m this was was wrong.

"steve - uhhh ughh"

"shh just enjoy it little witch , I know you need this, and I need you, " he said making you come for the second time .

This time he gathered all your cum with his fingers, pulling down the loin that was covering his modesty, his cock was hard , not as thick as Bucky's but it was longer., he pumped it a few times , lubing it up with your release.

"not sure if you can take me little witch, I'm sure Bucky used your hole so good it's stretched enough but I have a couple more inches than him" how does he know that?

"steve -"

"tell me you want me - tell me you need my cock my sweet witch and I'll give it to you" he said already running his top over your pussy, making it flutter.

"yes please Steve need your cock" you say trying lift your hips to meet his, steve chuckled at your eagerness.

" be more specific, what part of you needs it ?"

"my pussy my pussy needs it," you say as you watched him pump himself once again

"this needy cunt needs my cock huh? Need your chief's cock because you're husband isn't home?" God why does he have to say it.

"yes yes please chief need your cock splitting me open"

"of course sweets I'll give you my cock, after all I'm the chief and need to take care of my clan, especially my best friend's pregnant mate, can't let her go unsatisfied can ?" Steve slowly fucks his length into you, you could tell he was patient and careful you can see it in his face.

"god you're so tight, didn't know witches we're this tight, you know I'm only used to orc cunts this is - fuck look at how you're gripping me" he said as he almost got all of him inside you.

You moan his name. "So good sweet girl, taking me like a good little mate." He encouraged you as you managed to take all of him, steve slowly began rocking in and out of you in a rhythm that was the most pleasurable to you, something you've never experienced your whole life.

"you look so pretty my little witch, so big and round ,growing Bucky's child, ...can't wait till you bear mine..."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

One by one again. Here we go!!!💖💖

* LMAO

* she was 100% gonna raw dog the drive without headlights.

* fr like you're gonna leave your CAR??? for a GIRL??? whore.

* he's really pushing it😭 one more "i was dead" and he's gonna be dead AGAIN.

* I love when woman are insane and also adorable. Like she'll stab you but first she needs to nap on her not-boyfriend

* and Dean thought she wouldn't cry for him🙄

* Most dad of all time, Mr. Robert Singer.

* He keeps growing😔 one day she's gonna come back and he'll be a million ft tall.

* LMAOOOO Her and Cas yapping in Enochian and Sam and Dean are just there like 🧍🏻🧍🏻

* someone tell him NOW he needs to KNOW

* Thank youuuuuu that's one of my fav details

* girl i SHOULD be able to quote you I wrote it😭

* Ruby causing ISSUES. never trust a bitch named RUBY (sorry to any Ruby's reading this y'all are chill this isn't about you)

* Thank you!! And also can you imagine being Bobby. Wife dies. Demons real. Ghosts real. Monsters real. Adopt a little girl off the highway. She has superpowers, now your friend might kill her. Protect her from your hand, she fucks around and falls in love with his son, who's also kinda your son. Friend dies. His other son also has magic powers. Other son dies. First son saves him, but now he's gonna die. He does die. Your daughter vanishes. She only comes back when Her not-boyfriend comes back to like. (someone help Bobby NOW)

* heheheh ✨secrets✨

* Cas my king he's never done anything wrong.

* He's doing it a little faster in this story cause let's be real. Cas is a nosy little drama queen and he wants to know what the hell is going on with Her. Plus she's scary. Love that for her.

* he's got PRIORITES

* .... fair

* Ruby needs to sleep with one eye open. Bitch.

* That is 100% a girls trip.

* Thank youuuuuuu.

* She's trying fr.

* Oh yeah 100%. Jo and Sam have a whole text thread about "god can they just fucking KISS"

* and that's how it was meant to be read <3

* Jo #2 shipper (1 is Sam but he's been dealing with this for longer)

* GIRLBOSSES!!!

* oh yeah. he's got a cheat-code fr.

* I like to imagine people think they're dating, and then need to like. Take five when they find out they're not. Like what do you mean. They're just doing all THAT and NOT dating???? (and america is big. Google maps is ALWAYS open when i write cause I gotta track logistics.)

* Oh Dean was 100% already there.

* Bobby top Dad of all time.

* THANK YOU THAT WAS A FAV SCENE

* Sam literally said "i can't keep doing this bro go hang out with her"

* Noted <3.

* ....... ✨secrets✨

* Big sad nightmares :(

* Every day Dean wakes up and finds a new reason to get on his knees for Her. Love that for him.

* She IS. A Princess fr (Dean clocked Her good with that one. Chapter 1 he went "oh! Royalty!")

* ... sorry

* yep.

* THANK YOU I REALLY LOVED WRITING IT

* And sorry again.

* LMAOOOOO he's gotta take five at any given moment to go "wow she's awesome". Blasphemy if he doesn't.

*....

* SORRY

* I KNOW

* THEY DID IT

* thank you i try

* Jo just there like "they've gotta be done soon..... now. now. now. oh they're still going shit"

* Here :)

* THANK YOU I HAVE SO MUCH FUN WITH THOSE

* Cas is doing his BEST leave him ALONE.

* ... you'll see

* End note: he does he's going THROUGH it someone help him.

* And it's okay!!! as long as you're still enjoying it, that's more than enough for me. Although I will say your comments make my whole week, so as long as you can/want to do them, please do💖💖 see you next week!!

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)

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[nostromo13]

Emily Prentiss doesn't get written much of a life outside of the BAU in the show. I was about ready to critique this, but I've been on a season 7 kick recently, and honestly, I think it makes a lot of the trajectory of her character. JJ, Hotch, and Derek get their families, Derek his houses, Spencer his mum, Pen her support groups, and Rossi his books and wives. Meanwhile, Emily gets old friends she hasn't seen in 20+ years, and her only major life changes are job related.

In season 7, she says her reason for leaving is not the BAU. The BAU is great. She just can't grab onto the rest of her old life like nothing ever happened. Initially, I thought the lack of social life given to Emily compared to the others made this feel jarringly disconnecting because we have zero clue what exactly she has to grab onto. However, I think it serves giving her a goodbye because it means we get nothing to cling onto with her. She's trying so hard, and the BAU is slowly righting, but the rest of her life is like walking on a sheet of ice without the grit of details to stop from slipping off.

Emily is mysterious and driven and and if we can't get a proper sense for how lonely or not she may be in her social life, then Emily Prentiss gets to keep her resolve. It infers that her life revolves around work and not just in the sense that the BAU is a heavily demanding job. She moves for a new job, her only family is her job (rip my heart out that scene that says this is nothing to live for), heck even her mother is only utilised to give insight into how Emily approaches her job. Her relationships always die out because the series doesn't invest in them enough. She gets away with with being a workaholic where Aaron couldn't because she chooses career over a partner (And that's a little bit why I love their pairing so much because theyd ground each other in this aspect where the series never properly tried to). Emily mostly gets a past. The only future ever presented and then followed through for her is work.

I'm currently working on an analysis post (a stupidly long one, save my soul) and fic on how we get to season 17 Emily from s2 and s15, and I think s7 plays a big part in establishing her workaholic tendencies.

[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.