#but sometimes shit just feels so goddamn /lonely/

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[angelsdean]

the thing abt repressing things abt yourself is. you can actually be so very aware of the thing, for years. and years. but also at the same time be like, "no but i don't actually feel that way" and "i'm clearly an impostor and a fake" and "well yea i kinda feel that way but. not like how other ppl feel abt that thing. so clearly i'm not like them" and "well it's just different when it's me"

[giantkillerjack]

My sister-in-law frustrates me to no end even though we barely ever interact because she keeps inviting my partner to parties with her Christian Republican friends, even though my partner told her not to send an invite to us if those friends will be there. And even though my sister-in-law is bisexual!!

And then she turns around and complains about not knowing how to deal with her friends saying, like, horrible sexist stuff as though that is just some natural unavoidable quirk of having friends!

Like, these Christian Republicans she has befriended don't seem to be kind - they're not even nice a lot of the time! They don't make for good friends, and she doesn't seem happy or supported in relation to them. In fact, she basically only ever talks about how her friends and/or current boyfriend are making her unhappy!

Because here's the thing: The effect of prioritizing 'including your Trump-supporter friends at your parties' over 'being invested in creating a safe space for marginalized people in your home', is that people who DO care about creating those safe spaces... won't wanna hang out with you! Because if you invite both cats and mice to your table equally, only the cats will show!

She's so afraid of losing the shitty friends she has now that she allows them to act as barriers to accessing friends who are invested in her wellbeing in a capitalistic hellscape!

It makes me sad because she's basically trapped herself, and there's nothing I can do to offer help without either compromising my morals or making my partner's life way harder by starting shit with her family.

Like, I consider myself a good friend, yeah? I try really really hard to be one, and it matters to me immensely. I am ride-or-die for the folks I love, and I am invested in being open and vulnerable and radically safe to be around when it comes to building strong friendships that are mutually fulfilling. I have a unique talent for validating people that I have honed for years because I genuinely want to make sure people feel safe and loved and seen.

And if my sister-in-law and I were friends, I could give all of that to her. I would strive to be an example of what it looks like when someone decides to care about you and treat you right on purpose, without expecting anything in return but your mutual respect. She would be family. She would be [Queer] Family. I would see to it that she knew she could call on me when she needed a friend.

But like.

This asshole has invited me to hang out with Trump supporters on multiple occasions.

We ain't gonna be friends.

[mistyorchid]

Logan's Girl

Old Man!Logan x fem!reader

summary: A sentimental anniversary gift for Logan reveals your biggest insecurity—saying three vulnerable words. inspired by this ask :) warnings: MDNI, no use of y/n, fluff, some suggestive elements (gets a little steamy you guyss), established relationship, age gap, reader is 21+, insecure!reader, pet names (baby, darlin', bub, doll), I'm a hopeless romantic. wc: 1.8k

This wasn’t you. It couldn’t be. The figure swathed in delicate lingerie has to be a figment of your imagination, a misty apparition in the mirror. Surely, you were staring back at a different woman’s face. You wanted to wrap yourself in something sheer, something to heighten the overwhelming feeling of sensuality that you had learned to love and trust.

It was unbearable to watch him leave the warm oasis of your bed every night. “‘M sorry, baby. Gotta take this shift,” he sighed. He ghosted the words happy anniversary against your lips before pulling a velvet box from under the nightstand. Logan marveled at how your eyes shined just as bright as the pearlescent necklace.

You blush as you remember how his strong hands gently traced your collarbones before fastening the dainty jewelry around your neck. The romantic gesture made your heart swell with pride in being his.

He had been somewhat of a lone cowboy before you met; indulging in alcohol and one-night stands in dive bar bathrooms. You managed to rope him in and cement his life in something tangible. Every time you heard the iron door rattle against the smelting plant’s walls, you prayed to the night sky to protect him from harm.

Logan chastised your insistence on feeling so immensely—he often joked that your emotional sensitivity was a hallmark of “your generation,” a crack meant to be salved and fortified. He knew, however, that your concern for his mental well-being stemmed from a place of genuine concern.

It’s been four hours since Logan crossed the threshold of your home onto the organic gravel of the earth. An unbearable void in your heart that called for him to return is soured by an uneasy wave of dread stemming from your current predicament.

It looks like the Hallmark Channel rented your bedroom for an intoxicatingly sweet, PG-13 love scene. Although, your thoughts bordered on NC-17. The sap didn’t stop there. A fresh trail of rose petals was scattered on the floor, leading from the front door to a glossy, heart-shaped box of truffles on your bed.

Skittish tendrils of insecurity creep up your body until a surge of warmth festers behind your cheeks. In the time it took to pace a hundred laps around the bedroom, two more hours passed. A harsh clanging sound reverberates against your brain. You pray that it’s a figment of your imagination, a temporary symptom of your shame-induced anxiety.

Logan haphazardly kicks off his boots while loosening his tie. “I’m home, darlin’!”

Shit. You're totally fucked. That is the plan, but hearing Logan’s heavy steps against the linoleum floor sends you into an irrational frenzy. Your body reacts faster than your mind, quickly darting around the room to turn off the lights and dive under the comforter. “Great,” you whisper into the sheets. The room is pitch black except for the warm flicker of candles artfully placed on the nightstands. You wonder if Logan would find the dimly lit interior sexy or off putting. Surely, hiding under the covers like a goddamn vampire would get him rock hard.

He knocks to the tune of Shave and a haircut—two bits, a classic rhythm almost as old as him. Geriatric fucker.

“You decent?” he inquires. Two years together, and he still asks permission to open a closed door. He raised your standards for how a man should act from the depths of hell to the gates of heaven. He’s unbearably traditional sometimes, and you love it.

You wonder, then, why you regret the scent of lavender that lingers in the air. It’s a fragrant piece of evidence that smells too much like I love you. It was easy to lose yourself in the warm embrace of his body, molding yourself to his wandering hands. This display of romantic affection was too sappy, even for you.

“Yeah, come in,” you exhale before burrowing into the warmth of your bed. Maybe if you sink deep enough you’ll be swallowed whole.

Logan’s brows quirk upwards as he surveys the room, unable to identify the source of your voice. You know it’s time to face the music when he flicks the light on, illuminating everything.

His feet crunch softly against the petals strewn across the room, progressing towards the edge of the bed. Logan plops onto the comforter, knocking over the box of chocolates. He winces as he strains his back to retrieve it from the floor.

Logan gently peels the comforter away from your shrinking form. “What’cha doin’ under there, bub?”

You meet his eyes with a sheepish turn of your head, preparing for a judgmental gaze that would validate your insecurity. Instead, all you hear is a gruff laugh pour out of his mouth. 

“Hiding,” you reply meekly. His insistence on staring into the depths of your fucking soul is not helping. Goosebumps rise along your form as Logan slowly pulls down the rest of the blanket, finally revealing the sheer babydoll dress that clings to your breasts and floats everywhere else. 

Logan lets out a low whistle. “Jesus,” he whispers, “This for me?” 

You cross your arms over the lingerie. “Yeah, but I’m embarrassed—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” he interrupts. Logan tugs on the end of the central ribbon until it loosens, revealing the tantalizing line of your cleavage. “Lady as lovely as you shouldn’t be embarrassed.” 

You’re quick to apologize. “I’m sorry. . .”

He stalls his hand as if he’s been burned. Your immediate reaction is to apologize again, but Logan silences you with an unabashedly needy kiss.

“Hush. I’m tryin’ to open my present.” He toys with the pearl looped around your neck, admiring how the smooth texture rolls between his calloused fingers. It serves as a familiar allusion to the duality your relationship provides—softness and raw grit intertwining to form an unbreakable union.

You bite your lip, suddenly feeling insecure under his shameless gaze. “Logan?”

“Yeah?” He drops the pearl charm and grazes your chest, smirking when he hears your breath hitch. It’s almost unsettling, how fast you unravel for him.

“How was work?” You inquire, hoping it convinces Logan to focus on your face instead of your exposed skin.

He hastily removes all of his clothes save for his boxers before tossing them onto the floor. “Same shit, different day,” he mutters. The days are long, the nights even longer. You never talked about the gruesome collage of wounds and overworked scar tissue that plagued his skin. Over time, he leaned into your healing presence, allowing himself to dissolve under the tender insistence of your care.

You giggle. “Miss me?”

Logan lovingly pats your hip with an outstretched palm—a familiar signal that he wants to take up prime real estate in your bed. The more, the merrier.

He shuffles under the covers and pulls your body parallel against his own. You shiver as his lips hover over the shell of your ear.

“‘Course I did,” Logan sighs. He draws comforting patterns along the length of your arm, effectively luring a subtle shudder from your parted lips.  “Heart’s poundin’, baby—You’re breathin’ awful fast. Gives me the impression this feelin’s mutual.”

The night is quiet, laced with an unspoken yearning. A wave of anxiety tells you to move, to seek shelter somewhere else, in someone else—an anonymous man who doesn’t know anything about you other than the fact that you’re a warm body. You bury yourself into Logan instead, feeding into the restlessness that radiates throughout your soul.

He hums into your neck. The sound is so domestic that your heart aches and blooms all over again.

Logan curses as he feels your hips subtly rock back into his sturdy frame. “I guess it is,” you agree. His palm caresses the strong curve of your jaw before turning your head towards him.

The hazel pools of his eyes have borrowed the depth of the night sky. He speaks in a reserved, yet ravenous tone.

“C’mon, darlin’. Gimme some sugar,” he mumbles against your lips. You comply, not because he ordered you to, but because his insistence washes away any feelings of doubt that sullied your mind.

An airy sigh echoes throughout the room, silently parting the air and ricocheting against Logan’s sensitive eardrums. He wraps his arm around your soft stomach, earning a faint whine. “Stop, Logan,” you plead. Cheesy anniversary gifts aside, one constant source of insecurity was your belly. Logan absolutely adored it, but you loathed the physical evidence of your sweet tooth.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says while shifting his warm palm to rest on your hip. “But don’tcha love it when you’re soft an’ I’m—” Logan pulls your ass flush against his noticeable bulge. “—hard?” He continues. You feel his smirk melt into the open expanse of your neck.

You allow yourself to be manhandled by Logan. It takes your breath away every time, cliche phrasing be damned. He uses his firm grip to turn you around until you’re face-to-face with his stupidly rugged . . . face. Ugh. You don’t know what’s come over you.

Logan’s warmth is all-encompassing. His hand wanders along your body before lightly caressing the back of your head to bring you further into his embrace. You let out a soft hum that vibrates against his chest.

A few minutes pass without any words at all. This is Logan’s comfort zone—intentional silence that gives him the space to communicate with action. The only difference now is that he indulges in quietude as a form of serenity rather than hostility.

“Hey . . .” he whispers. “You fallin’ asleep?” Each tender swipe of his hand flushes your cheeks.

“Mhm,” you affirm, faintly nodding. “I’m sorry, Logan. I really wanted to give you your present.”

He quickly kneads the tense folds of your furrowed brow. Logan exhales into the peak of your hairline. “Don’t worry, doll. ‘M tired too.”

You let out a sigh that’s deeper and more sustained than Logan’s. You don’t have to look down to know that he’s still hard. A tell-tale sign of his sensual pull towards you blooms behind his chest in a kinetic rhythm. He keeps you close, everywhere except near his bulge. What a gentleman. 

Your eyes open, quietly searching in the dark for the motivation to speak, to be faithful. As much as you adore Logan, you both find it difficult to verbalize your feelings.

“I love you . . .” you whisper, directed into the ceiling and stars beyond it instead of towards Logan. 

His palm finds your jaw again. He hovers inches away from your face, allowing your breaths to meet and interlace. An inaudible request to connect. 

The kiss is unbelievably earnest. You find shelter against the plush of Logan’s lips. He leans his forehead against yours, once again playing with the pearl necklace wrapped around your neck.

“I love you.”

You have matching smiles. The allure of rest is renewed once Logan lets out a loud yawn. Then, laughter fills the room.

The last thing you hear before succumbing to sleep is, “Happy anniversary, doll.”

His pet name for you is apt. Cared for, admired, cherished. 

Logan’s girl.

an: It's been a while. Thank you anon for sending in this lovely request. I decided to not include smut because I wanting to portray something a little more wholesome than usual. These are real lines of comic dialogue that also inspired me. "Lady as lovely as you shouldn’t ever frown." "Heart’s poundin’, Jeannie—You’re breathin’ awful fast. Gives me the impression this feelin’s mutual. Wanna bet?"

tag list: @bratscave @elflutter @fairiebabey @pointyxsole @scorpiosaintt @th3mrskory

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

A Wish His Heart Made (Or Some Shit)

Prompt Day 20: Alone | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Post S4, Eddie Munson Lives, Escaping Hawkins, Starting a Whole Life on His Own

It's fucking cold. The asshole landlord never turns up the boiler enough to heat the entire building. Eddie bangs on the metal, the sound reverberating around the room, probably not doing anything other than fooling Eddie into feeling like he's doing something proactive to warm the place up.

The heat ain't coming upwards, not tonight, and Eddie knows he shouldn't have to wear gloves inside his own apartment, but that's where he's at presently.

Alone, on Christmas Eve. 

He had to work today, and so did Wayne, and it wasn't feasible for either of them to travel. It sucks. He got out of Hawkins, but there was a cost, and sometimes it feels pretty goddamn steep.

It's a shitty studio, in a shitty neighborhood, but it's his. He can afford it, barely, but that means he can stay away from Hawkins, and the townsfolk that nearly put his head on a pike. 

He's making coffee in an old, dirty maker he found at the thrift store that looks like shit but still works, when he hears pounding at the door. His rent is paid up, so either the landlord is pissed off about him banging on the radiator, or he's about to be murdered. 

Either way, both deadbolts are fastened, and he's not talking to anyone tonight. He's not in the mood. But the banging doesn't let up.

He approaches the door, gives it a thump with his fist, and yells, "What?!"

There's silence, then:

"Eddie? It's me. Us."

Eddie stills, "Steve?"

"And Robin," comes her voice, and his fingers barely work through the gloves and the cold, as he tries to twist the locks open.

It is Steve and Robin. 

Bags at their feet. 

"Merry Christmas," she says, and he nearly knocks her to the ground as he flies into her arms. She complains, but Steve doesn't, as he hugs him next.

It's a Christmas miracle. A wish his heart made, or some shit. 

He was lonely, and he manifested them out of thin air.

So. Eddie lets them into his studio that barely had room for one, let alone three. But they can make it work for a few nights.

Only, what was at first a few nights, has turned into months. Now, it's summer in the city, and they're worried about the heat in the opposite way.

His bed is in a small room that's not private at all. The pass-through cut into the wall wasn't an issue when he lived alone, but now it shows that this is a fucking small apartment. His bed is butted up to the wall, and they've moved the couch that Robin sleeps on the other side, so there's just a framed hole separating them.

Eddie and Steve share custody of the bed, just usually not at the same time. Robin deemed them too gross, too boy, to share with, and they can't afford the extra laundry to change sheets every time one of them sleeps in it.

Eddie doesn't mind crawling into sheets that have the lingering smell of Steve clinging to them. His crush, something he's tried to tamp down deep, has only grown since they've moved in.

Robin's on the couch, and Steve's sitting on the inside edge of Eddie's bed, both of them hanging towards each other in the open frame, as if they haven't seen each other in a million years. It's cute. He likes them being around, he really does. They're hardly ever all here together, so they've made the tight quarters work. Sure, sometimes Steve shaves while Eddie showers to both be on time, but that's unusual. Tonight, however, they're all home at once, and Eddie is trying to fall asleep with the warmth of Steve Harrington far, far too close as they share the bed. 

Steve's hand is on Eddie's thigh, and it feels like he's being ignited.

Eddie wakes up sweaty. Steve's laying across him, leg pinning him to the mattress. This isn't okay. This is torture, having Steve's warm breath hitting his neck. Eddie has to wiggle loose, get out from under him, but Steve's heavier than he looks. Solid, as their bare skin is glued together by sweat. 

Jesus H. Christ.

He died in the Upside Down. He's sure of it now. This isn't real life. No way. Steve Harrington would never be plastered to him in bed in any other scenario.

"Steve," Eddie says, "it's too hot."

Not that there's any place for him to go, and the only place he moves is closer. Eddie rests his hand against Steve's back. 

Steve stirs, and sits up looking through the wall, "Robin's gone. I can move to the couch."

Robin will be pissed off, but Steve's already climbing through the hole in the wall, his ass in Eddie's face before falling onto her couch with a thud. 

He pops back up, and looks at Eddie, "So, this is what Robin sees."

Eddie laughs, and leans against his side of the wall, elbow propped up, "It's like visiting a foreign land, huh?"

"Little bit," Steve answers, and smiles. They're still close, even with half of a wall between them. 

Eddie wants to say something, do something, but he doesn't want Steve to leave. He doesn't want to be all alone again. 

"I'm happy we're here," Steve says, and Eddie smiles, leaning closer.

"I'm happy you're here, too."

Steve lays his hand on Eddie's arm, and Eddie looks down at it. Hoping it means something. 

Eddie covers Steve's hand, and Steve grins, leaning towards him. His lips barely grazing Eddie's, like he's giving him an out, an easy exit, if he wants one.  

Eddie doesn't want an out, but it seems ridiculous that they're doing this now, a wall between them, but it feels easier. 

Steve moves to his knees, is basically hanging through Eddie's side of the window, hand tangled in Eddie's hair, kissing him like he's wanted to do it for ages.

Maybe he has. That'd make two of 'em.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

Notes: I realized I wrote the radiator banging into two different prompts this year, lol, my brain must be calling out for me to watch Beaches, I guess.

[corroded-hellfire]

Prompt Day 16: Struggling

Word Count: 658

Rating: T

CW: Langauge

Summary: A letter from Eddie to you. Yes, YOU.

@corrodedcoffinfest

Hello Fellow Freaks,

So, it’s come to my attention that things have been a little rough for you lately, huh? Shit, I know all about that. I’d recap some of the misfortunes I’ve had in my life, but seeing as you read and write about me, I think you’re pretty up to speed. In fact, some of you have written me struggling as a way for you to feel better about your own. And I don’t mind that at all. That’s what I’m here for, anyway. I belong to you. I’m for you. 

You all bring me to life every time you click on a new story and choose to take an adventure with me. The fact that you want to spend time with a freak like me blows my mind sometimes. 

You know I was never cool or popular. Maybe you weren’t either. I honestly never gave a shit because I had the most metal people around me. I hope that you do too. But even if you don’t, you’re more than welcome to share my friends. All us lost sheep know what it’s like to struggle. 

And if you’re struggling right now, there’s something I want to let you know. It’s okay.

It’s okay that you’re struggling right now. We all do it and we all need it sometimes to help mold us into whatever we’re supposed to be. Sometimes struggle makes us work harder. Sometimes it makes us curl up in a ball and want to hide away forever. The curling up part of that is okay, but the hiding away forever isn’t.

You’re stronger than you think you are. Wondering how I know this, are you? Little known fact is that I’m actually a pretty smart dude. Occasionally. Anyway, here’s the answer: you’re here. You’ve overcome all the struggles of your past to be where you are now. And if you could do it then, you can do it again now and in the future. That strength is inside of you. I promise. Sometimes it just takes some effort and patience to find where it’s stored. 

Know what else is awesome? Not only do you have me when you’re struggling, you have the others who write and read stories about me. Because even if it doesn’t seem like it, they’re struggling with something too. Carrying the burden isn’t as heavy when you’ve got someone to shoulder it with you. Help ease one another’s loads. I’m trying so hard not to make a cum joke right now. 

It doesn’t matter if you’re in pain, so you want to write me in pain to cope, or if you want to read about me taking care of you and helping you through it. It’s beautiful how I can be there in any way that you need me. I’m there with you to celebrate, cry, laugh, heal, and even some spicier stuff I will not get into here. Even if I enjoy it very much.

No matter how hard life tries to make you feel like you’re isolated, you’re not. Hell, I hid out in a vacant house for a few days where not a single person knew I was. Lonely? Yeah. Very. There’s only so many cans of Chef Boyardee you can look at without wanting to start up a conversation with the guy on the label. And yeah, it did get to me at times. I felt that there was no one out there who would believe me or see my side of things. Goddamn surprise to find out I had way more people in my corner than I ever would’ve guessed. I just didn’t know it yet. That group of people is there for you, too. Even if you don’t know it yet. 

And I’m one of those people. If you ever forget that, all you have to do is start a new story, and there I am. 

From

Signed

Your Dungeon Master

Love,

Eddie

[uniquementalityrunaway3]

Capricorn moon

This song strongly resonates with the capricorn moon regardless of the house placement.

But might amplify the resonance with a native having the moon in Capricorn in the 1st house abit more and hit the spot more objectively, making this song the perfect resonator for what actually goes on in their miserable, sad depressed, troubled, numb, and most DAMAGED side of their emotional internal turmoil.

It's about being so fucking lost. Like, you're drowning in the middle of the ocean, and no matter how hard you try, you just can't reach the surface. It's about feeling like you've got zero control over your own damn life, like you're just a passenger on a ship headed straight for a goddamn iceberg.

It's about all that shit you've been through, all those scars you carry, how they just keep fucking you up, even years later. It's about feeling alone in a crowded room, like you're screaming at the top of your lungs and no one even notices. It's about that deep, dark hole in your chest that tells you you're worthless, that you'll never be good enough.

The song's raw emotionality and vulnerability could be particularly impactful for someone who's usually reserved or stoic. It gives voice to feelings that are often difficult to express. It screams out all those feelings you usually bury deep down.

Sometimes you wonder if you're even meant to be happy. Feels like a deadly silent punishment, a punch to the gut. Maybe you're just supposed to carry this weight forever. Sad but true.

Lyric Analysis: COMING SOON!

This song isn't just about sadness and despair; it's also about resilience and self-discovery. The narrator acknowledges their mistakes and vulnerabilities, but also expresses a desire to break free from the cycle of self-doubt and isolation. This could offer a sense of hope and empowerment to someone who's struggling with similar issues despite the tragedy that consumed this person whole and left them SEVERLY DAMAGED.

And this song isn't just a collection of words and melodies; it's a raw and honest reflection of the struggles and insecurities that someone with a Capricorn Moon in the 1st House experiences, painting a picture of a life that feels heavy, lonely, and filled with self-doubt.

Diveders by: @miuhyein + @rmstitanics + @lilacstro

[angelyuji]

PART 2

imagine that you just fucking wake up in an eerie suburban house, and nothing seems wrong, except the sky is filled with different colours, there seems to be a ring too? when were there two stars in the sky? and why are the trees so weird, thick, fluffy and seem... alive? your panicking af. you get off your bed, very big and comfy but your only thought is where are you-

"Oh hey sweetie, awake from your beauty sleep, huh?",

Rick. Rick Sanchez.

He leans on the doorway, arms crossed, sleeves of his blue shirt rolled upwards, watching you with a sly smirk (screaming, fangirling rn) and you just know, he will play the oblivious kidnapper who has no idea why you are mad. scared. and about to hurl yourself towards him to push him and make a break for it.

but he doesn't budge. your hand is in a tight grip, as his tall form dwarves yours easily, you yell at him, curse at him but he just... brushes it off. and it continues to be that way for a week.

with you trying to find a way to escape or reason with him. but Rick seems to be in his own world. tinkering with some machines in his garage which is completely off limits to you. the house cleans itself. there are multiple machines which overwhelmed you with how... advanced they seem. and atp you are aware that he was somewhat of a very good scientist.

Sometimes, it feels too domestic. Fighting against Rick was useless. He was strong. too strong to be normal. but again, nothing was normal. I mean ffs you were on an alien planet??? How??? aliens exist holy shit??? but one day you hear him curse loudly, making you jump. there's an intimidating look on his face as he enters the living room, looking at you with a tight grin on his face.

"Sorry baby, but I gotta go for a while, okay? My gra- err -i just have some work to do."

Blinking. You watch with a carefully poised form as he leaves to his garage, hearing something similar to a car to start up. This could be your chance! Yes!

the thing is when Rick is back, he almost loses his fucking mind but do you really think he, Rick Sanchez was that stupid? He has eyes, security measures all over this goddamn planet. He knows you aren't in great danger. knows that you haven't been kidnapped. He's still pissed off and could easily find you (You have a tracker on you) but where's the fun in that yknow?

Just Rick, who decides to hunt you down by himself. no gadgets. nothing. just him and his pickaxe he found in his old place. he likes being the hunter, y'know? just giving into his instincts and genius, feeling the thrill as he gets closer to you, taunts you, his laughter echoing in the lonely forest and honestly? a good oldschool spanking might be in order too for his disobedient little girl.

18+

tw // kidnapping, noncon

FUCJCJKDKD DUDE OHMYMHOGODDD HE WOULD BE SOOO INTO CHASINF AFTER U

also imagine ur panic at seeing this old man since he def stopped taking that age-reversal stuff like

little noncon-y but he’d definitely fuck u in the forest as punishment for trying to escape and hes definitely so turned on by the whole situation???? like hes soooooooo

GAWWDJEJSJD INEEDHIM

i said this in the tags of part 1, but his laugh in the court case reading video is what im imagining rn and iolbhngmtnehgwhwiwo god i need him🤕🤕

[listofwhyyouloveher]

What would get the gang mad? (Friendship and relationships wise)

Summary: What would get the gang mad

Warnings:none

Author's Note: none

PONYBOY CURTIS

Pony is a little more lax about stuff like this but being loud in places where you're supposed to be quiet is one of his pet peeves

He also hates when his girl messes around with other guys to make him "jealous", he just finds it odd and annoying

He will not tolerate hate to his family and the gang, those are the people he's been through thick and thin, to him its bros before hoe's

If you make fun of people less fortunate than you, he knows what it feels like to be broke and lonely and he can't stand that

JOHNNY CADE

Johnny hates, just like Ponyboy, when people are loud when they're supposed to be quiet, not only is it because he likes quiet but also because he has a tinge of social anxiety

He hates people who get into fights with people who are too weak or too strong, don't pick on people you can't handle and people who can't defend themselves

Johnny also hates when you make fun of his eating habits, it's not every day he gets to eat, let him enjoy it.

Lastly, Johnny hates when his girl puts herself down to garner attention, he's just so over the "self-loathing" shit

SODAPOP CURTIS

Soda dislikes when you hurt his ego, he's spent years building it up and had to really do some self care after his parents died, having you put him down is really tough

Soda cannot stand when you put down his gang and especially Steve and Pony, his gang is his ride or die.

Sodapop doesn't like when you make fun of greasers clothes and hair, not everyone has enough money for that

Lastly he hates when his girl gets overprotective and jealous too easily, lots of girls come up to him because of his looks don't give him hell because of it

STEVE RANDLE

Steve has very few things he gets mad at one thing is if you have no respect for his parents and the Curtis's parents

If you make fun of dead people, what the hell, he was really hurt when the Curtis parents died, it's just too much for him

Something he'd find mildly annoying is If you use those nicknames where you add a y to the end of their name, i.e. "stevey". He's not a kid

If you annoy him while he eats he's gonna get so mad at you, just let the man eat for God's sake.

TWO-BIT MATHEWS

Starting off strong, Two CANNOT stand hate to his sister. That's his goddamn family

And if you don't laugh at his jokes he's going to get mildly upset, he put his heart and soul into that

He won't listen to any sort of mickey mouse hate either, you either watch it with him or get out

Please do not make fun of him for his greaser life, he tries his best to give his sister a life where she's happy but it's so rough on him

DARRY CURTIS

Don't you EVER make fun of his parents, NEVER. He's gonna kick you out right away, you'll never be welcomed back

Be kind to Pony and Soda, don't teach them bad things, he's spent so long trying to raise them good

Don't tell him he would've been better off not dropping out or anything thing like that, it's too harsh because he misses school sometimes

Be gentle with him too, his feelings are often disregarded and he's putting other first, make him feel special

DALLAS WINSTON

Don't get too clingy and don't expect him to treat you good, he'll get pissed if you act like he's supposed to be the best boyfriend

Don't make fun of his childhood, he went through a lot and he isn't ready to face it all, instead he bottles it up

Don't get protective and jealous all the time, he hates feeling like he's in a cage, especially in relationships

Don't try and pick a fight with him either, he's always going to win and with each fight he likes you a little less.

[julemmaes]

Happy birthday @simpingfornestaarcheron!! Even if I can't remember for the love of god how old you're turning (you'll always be 24 turning 25 to me) I thought I'd give you some Nessian goodies for your special day.

I swear it's not really angst. it's mostly domestic fluff.

Love you, enjoy!

(I didn't reread shit I'm sorry I started it yesterday night and then passed out cause I'm sick, so if there's any mistakes, well, I don't really care)

Nesta hated her job. She fucking despised it. 

There was not a single thing about her life that she enjoyed less than having to wake up in the morning to do something she disliked as much. She hated her colleagues. She hated her claustrophobic cubicle. She hated the stupid-hot-flavorless coffee they sold right outside her office. She hated the hours, the clothes she had to wear, the lonely lunch breaks. What she hated most, though, were the trips.

Her boss was a menace to society and why HR still hadn't fired him was beyond her. Her coworkers were so insanely dumb that sometimes she wondered how they'd even got the position. Her assistant had to be some kind of pity-hire cause there was so chance in hell he'd been interviewed and not fucked it up–he couldn't even print out a document on his own, for god's sake. 

Why was she still working that job, you might ask? 

For love. Love for her hardworking, supportive as hell, caring and lovely husband. 

She just had to endure two more years of this, while he finished his degree, and then she'd be free. Free to go back to the minimum wage job at the library. To that beautiful, silent, dusty place she loved so much. And she could start her studies.

Just another two years and it'd be her turn. Less than that, if she really thought about it. Only 18 months. 

Only 18 months. 

18 months. 

That was… 550 days, give or take. 

550 days. She could do this.

She walked into the elevator, her broken trolley dragging on the floor behind her, and only once the doors closed in front of her and the thing started moving up did she let out a sigh, sagging against the mirror. 

She was so goddamn tired. She just wanted to sleep the trip off, forget about everything that had gone wrong during it and let the even worse things she'd said go. 

She was so tired that the ding dong of the doors opening on her floor almost scared the living shit out of her. 

Walking to her apartment and finding the keys in her bag made her want to punch the front door off the hinges, but she refrained. She guessed her husband wouldn't want that.

As soon as she stepped in, a low mumbling coming from the kitchen welcomed her. It was music to her ears, even if she wanted to lay down and never have to hear a single word ever again. It sounded like home.

Cassian's murmuring only stopped when she closed the door behind her, making it known to everyone present that they weren't alone. 

“Nes? Is that you?” 

She smiled to herself, nodding silently. 

“Sweetheart, if it is, please talk, or I'm coming out with knives.” He sounded genuinely afraid and she chuckled.

“Yes.” She replied, talking loudly over her shoulder as she hung her coat. 

She heard furniture being thrown to the side and feet scuffling on the ground, and Cassian appeared a heartbeat later in the entry, his smile blinding, his eyes shining. He took two steps to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, hauling her against him. 

“It is you, my dearly missed wife,” he said dramatically.

She breathed in his washed away cologne from the day, melting on his shoulder and hiding her face in the crook of his neck. 

She'd missed him, too. 

“You're back early.” He whispered in her ear, not letting go of her just yet.

Nesta reflexively put her arms around his torso, tightening her grip to the point of pain. He squeezed her in turn, stroking the back of her head with gentle fingers. She closed her eyes, basking in that anchoring feeling of being taken care of, being loved.

Cassian knew she needed some quiet time whenever she came back from work so they stood there for minutes, just touching, no talking, unwinding from a very long week without each other.

“You're back early,” he repeated, pulling away just enough for him to look at her face. He brushed a strand of stray hair away from her nose and cupped her cheek, sweeping a thump right below her eye. He smiled, even if a concerned wrinkle appeared between his eyes.

She nodded, leaning in his touch. 

“Are you tired, sweetheart?” He asked, his voice a faint lullaby. 

She could only nod again. 

“Why don't you go into the bathroom and I run you a hot bubbly bath, uh?” He suggested, touching a knuckle to her chin.

Another nod. He cleared his throat and leaned in, placing a soft soft kiss to her lips. Nesta sighed when he stepped back and let him go reluctantly when he started walking towards the back of the house. 

“There's still hot water on the stove, if you want some tea.”

She took a deep breath and bent forward, starting to open her luggage. Cassian made the short jog back to her and tugged on her blouse, making her rise again. Her back cracked as they both laughed.

“Leave it, I'll take care of it while you bathe. Go get the tea and come meet me in the bathroom.” 

Nesta smiled up at him, touching his chest, tiptoeing to kiss him again. He met her halfway, placing a hand on the small of her back to keep her close. 

“Thank you,” she said against his lips, noses brushing.

“I love you, now go.” He said, pressing another kiss to her forehead. 

“No bubbles, please.” 

“No bubbles coming your way, I swear.”

He left at that, swinging his hips left and right to make her laugh. It worked.

She was still boiling over in her hatred towards her job when she made her way to the kitchen and what she saw there put everything into perspective again. The table was basically collapsing under the weight of what was at least twenty textbooks and thousands of papers. A myriad of colored pencils and highlighters was scattered on every surface and from what she could see, Cassian had at least fifteen tabs open on his laptop. The floor was a canvas of written post-it notes and more papers, organized in what seemed to be a map.

He really was doing his best. 

Her heart tugged a little as she poured the water in her favorite mug. The bone-deep exhaustion and lack of will to live were not for nothing. She was doing this for him and that was enough motivation not to quit. 

She walked to the living room, warm beverage in her hands, and looked around to see if there was anything she'd have to do tomorrow. Maybe tidy up, go grocery shop, clean the whole house. But no, everything looked perfect as usual. 

She was about to go look in their bedroom, when Cassian called to her, “Nes? It's ready.” 

Slowly, she dragged herself to him. He was standing next to their tub, looking at the water filling up and when she finally stopped next to him he curled his arm around her shoulders, kissing her temple.

“You eaten anything yet?” 

She shook her head, “No, my boss asked me if I wanted to come back with him tonight while I was about to head to the restaurant. Didn't have time to order take away.”

He hummed. “Are you hungry? Do you want me to cook you something?” 

“Not really, no,” she tilted her head to the side, facing him. “Thank you, though.”

Cassian looked down at her then, bringing her closer to him. “Are you okay, baby? You look exhausted.” 

The unsease in his voice made her want to cry. 

“Just tired, don't worry about it.” 

He nodded, kissing her again. It didn't look like he was going to stop anytime soon, either. She didn't mind. 

“I'll let you decompress a little,” he murmured against her cheek, leaving yet another peck on her lips. “You sure you don't want food? Not even grilled cheese? A tiny sandwich?”

“A hundred percent sure,” she chuckled. 

“Well, then, in that case,” he kissed her again, this time deepening the kiss, drinking from her mouth, breathing from her lungs. He kissed her bottom lip and left her there, stunned.

***

Nesta was crunching up her hair as she exited the bathroom and strode for the bedroom, her feet freezing on the stone cold floors. 

Cassian grinned at her from his perch on the pillows when she stopped at the foot of the bed. “You feeling better?” 

“Reborn,” was her only reply.

She tied her hair up in a towel and crawled on the sheets to him, where she laid across his body: her head on his heart, a leg slung over his hips, her arm around his waist. 

His chest rumbled with laughter.

“Are you comfy like this?” 

“Mhmh, so good.” 

She almost moaned as he put down his book and moved so that their bodies intertwined. One of his legs went between hers, an arm under her head while the other around her waist and to her back, where he pushed her flat to his chest. He put his lips to her head and stayed in that position long enough that Nesta thought he'd fallen asleep. 

She certainly had been on the gates of unconsciousness when he talked.

“I know I don't say it often, but thank you.” 

Nesta had to put actual effort in staying awake, so she only ran the hand that wasn't stuck between their bodies down his back in soothing motions.

“I hope you know that I'm grateful for you and what you're doing for me.” 

His voice sounded rough, as if he was worried what her reaction would be. That was enough to make her worry, and even though sleep was calling her under, she couldn't shake off the feeling that something was off.

Gently stroking his sternum with her knuckles, she said, “I know you are, Cass. You don't need to tell me.” 

He shuffled a little, rearranging limbs and pulling her tight to him. 

“I just don't want you to think I'm slacking off or chilling in between classes and exams while you work your ass off.” 

At that point, Nesta tried to free herself from his grip. That he thought–

“Let's… can we, please, stay like this? I really missed having you home. Can you stay here?” 

It was barely a whisper and Nesta's heart seized. Her stomach bottomed. Her head twirled.

“Of course we can. I can.” She put her hand flat on his chest, feeling his wild heartbeat. “Cassian, what's going on? Are you okay?” 

“Yes, yes. I am. I swear. I just,” another pause, a deep breath. “I see you getting home every night and you look like death, no offense. You just look so fucking tired, Nes, all the time. Whenever you come back from another trip you look so done with everything. And I really don't want you thinking I don't appreciate everything you're doing for us. For me.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her head to his collarbone. This didn't sound like something that'd just come up. It felt more like something he'd been sitting on for a long time. 

“How long have you been having these thoughts?” 

He sniffed, “That's not the point.”

“It is for me,” she said firmly, but gently.

She gave him a moment to think, to gather his words. They stayed silent so long she seriously thought he'd fallen asleep on her, again.

“A few weeks. Since your last trip to Adriata,” he admitted.

Nesta hugged him closer. “That's almost four months ago, baby.”

“I know.”

“Why only bring it up now?”

“What would have changed? Short of me quitting uni and finding a job myself, there's nothing I can do to fix this for you.” He sounded pained. Like he truly believed he was the cause of her every malaise.

She moved back then, even when he tried to keep her in his embrace. She still lay down on her side, but she was now looking him in the eyes, a deep scowl on her face.

“What would have changed?” She parroted him, skimming her fingers down the side of his face. “Everything, Cass. I'd have told you this isn't on you. That we literally flipped a coin to see who would go to university first, while the other worked. This is not on you. It never has been and it never will.

“I don't want you to think you're causing me any kind of stress. Or pain. You need to focus on your classes and you taking care of that and the house in the meantime is enough. You're doing enough, love.”

He looked frantic, like he couldn't, wouldn't believe her words. She breathed in, offering what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

“You've already come such a long way. You're more than halfway through it. Yes, I am tired and I don't like my job, I'm not gonna lie, but do you have any idea how happy and proud I am of you, every time you walk through our front door and tell me your results? Or simply start ranting about your latest paper?  I love it. I love you.” 

He sprung forward, catching her lips between his, taking everything she was offering and giving back twice as much. 

He touched his forehead to hers, “I just wish it was me.”

“And I don't, and we've had this conversation far too many times.” She reminded him.

That was true. They had fought months over who, between the two of them, would sacrifice five years of their lives by carrying the economic expenses of their little family on their backs while the other studied. 

At the end of the day, after hours listing pros and cons, weighing every option in the universe, they found that the only reasonable solution was to flip a coin. Nesta's relief when it'd landed on head (her choice) had been so palpable that it didn't leave room for discussion. 

And while she really, really, really didn't like her job, she never had a day of regret.

Cassian settled down after that, an arm bent behind his head and the other around her shoulders still. Nesta knew it was all pretense and he wasn't convinced, but she had no fight left in her right then. 

She just needed her husband to hold her and let her sleep for at least ten hours. So she told him as much and Cassian chucked that rocky, low laugh of his. 

She turned her back to his, letting him engulf her with his whole body. His mouth brushed her ear and right before she finally fell, his words pierced through her heart. 

I love you.

[valerieblue]

Ok so like, I'm never on tumblr anymore, but....

I heard it's asexual sunday for the ofmd fandom, and I have: girl, I have THOUGHTS.

Because going into this fandom as like, one of THE most sex-repulsed aro/aces out there (which I am not getting into the history of why I am, except that it is related to my OCD and if you know anything about OCD it's bad), I was not anticipating. Uh, a horny fandom. Which is what I got.

So that was. Well, let's just say I have a lotttt of words and accounts blocked to prevent myself from being triggered, and I avoid E and several M fics like the plague.

So when I started writing ofmd fics, (posting the first chapter of my first fic two years ago today EXACTLY), I was doing it for me. And by "it" I mean posting sex-repulsed ace4ace gentlebeard. Because I wanted it, neeeeeded it sooooo badly, I did not want to think about those two fucking in any way at all, and at that point I'd seen very few ace-rep fics, or ace-rep fics that were on my dumb little level.

Anyway, where was I going with this?

I can't quite remember, except that now that I'm in the ofmd aro/ace discord and now that I have FIFTEEN fics featuring ace4ace gentlebeard, long and short, under my belt, I feel better about being in the fandom. EVERY Sunday is Asexual Sunday for me, every fucking day is asexual sunday, shit.

I started writing these fics for me, honestly. I am, first and foremost, my target audience. I write what I want to see, which is sweet sweet asexual love with absolutely no sex, but also cheekily subverting allosexual norms here and there.

But I get comments from people who actually really like my asexual rep, and that makes me feel GOOD. That people who had the same idea as me--girl, can I please get some more ace content up in this fandom?--are finding a little of something they like.

And now I'm finding MORE ace4ace content too that I like, and it doesn't feel so lonely over here.

I still hermit from a lot of y'all. Like I said, nsfw content is kinda triggering for me, and I do not interact. I have to distance myself. I get bitchy about it sometimes (because my OCD makes me a little bitch in a lot of situations).

And sometimes I really, really wish I didn't have to dodge a goddamn minefield of horny content most days.

But I don't feel so alone here any more.

By the way, if you're interested in ace4ace gentlebeard content (and if you're seeing this because of this tag, then maybe you are, but if you aren't, I literally could not care), if you like not necessarily good writing but entertaining writing, I have a whole series on ao3 of ace4ace gentlebeard, and let me tell you, I am NOT done with them yet.

[st4rsnf1cs]

Fox w/ a Baby

Pairing(s): Commander Fox x Fem!Reader

Summary: Commander Fox has a baby, here's a taste of what it's like!

Genre: Mostly fluff, SOME ANGST.

Word Count: 940 (bullet points)

Warnings: Pregnant reader, birth (but no description), kinda secret relationship, kinda distant parent? ITS NOT ON PURPOSE 😭

A/N: Literally love this au it's so cute.

- When Fox found out you were pregnant he had two emotions: “OH MAKER,” and “OH SHIT.”

- He hugged you with so much emotion and passion, yes you guys have always wanted a child but you guys didn't know it was happening now!

- There was only one other person Fox was more loyal to than the GAR, that person being you. Because you were pregnant he was on full protection mode. He was usually more chill, letting you do your own thing but now he was protecting you like you were more important than the emperor.

- Fox was VERY STRICT he’s was a freak and made sure you ate the right food and didn't do anything that was bad for the baby.

- “Fox I’m fine!” You half yelled to him as you continued to lift weights. “No! You know intense exercise is bad for the baby!” You huffed putting the weights down, “maybe *you* should be the one carrying this baby.” You poked him in the chest sarcastically, all you got was a huff and an eye roll from the commander.

- You guys told very few of your pregnancy because Fox worked closely to the Emperor. It got lonely sometimes during your pregnancy because he was constantly working.

- “You're never here Fox!” You gripped your leg firmly, tears welling up and blurring your vision. “Cyare-” You cut Fox off, “no, I done with your excuses, I’m tired, I’m in pain…” You trailed of and you finally looked up. Fox had his head down staring at his feet. His shoulders were tense and he started to huff. You wiped your tears and slowly hoisted yourself up from the chair. As you approached Fox there was a glimmer to his cheek, your eyes softened. “Y/n…I’m doing the best I can, I do want to be there for you and our child but everything is pulling me in different directions,” Fox muttered out. You pressed your hand to his cheek wiping away his tears, you heart broke. You have never seen the man cry so this must be devastating for him. “Oh honey…I’m sorry.” You lifted his face gently, his eyes filled with regret and sadness. “I know you're trying, I just got upset I’m sorry there's a lot happening right now for the both of us,” Fox pressed his face into the crook of your neck and hugged you gently, you reciprocated the embrace. “Only a couple more months and the baby will be born.” He sniffled into you, “I love you Y/n.” Your eyes began to feel warm as tears dared to drop, “I love you too Fox.”

- It was kind of an angsty pregnancy but the two of you were strong. Because being friends with Senator Amidala had it’s perks you gave birth on her home planet of Naboo. Padmé and Fox where there for your birth.

- You and Fox had a beautiful baby boy. Only a few Jedi knew like Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Adi Gallia. They gave you gifts and obviously swore to secrecy.

- If you think Fox was already sleep deprived already? It just got A LOT worse. The two of you barely slept at times where all three of you were together. Fox had bags but goddamn they had grown. He was often the one to put the baby back to sleep because he felt bad he was gone, you gladly accepted it.

- The baby's first word was “mama.” Although Fox was ecstatic, he was kind of sad because it reminded him that he was away a lot. “Honey baby’s tend to grow closer to thier mothers, don't take it personally.”

- That day and from now on Fox made his mission to have the baby say “dada.” He looked like an adorable fool saying it the baby and it made you giggle. “What are you giggling at?” You sealed you lips, “nothing…”

- As the baby grew up more Fox became a control freak. He is definitely the kind of father to be worried all the time. It’s his job to worry, not only because he’s a dad but because he’s a guard.

- You knew that if you wanted too you could leave Fox with the baby and they would both be fine. One time you came home from a well deserved girls night out, and Fox and the baby were fast asleep. The baby drooling on Fox’s chest as Fox sleeps on his back. It was the cutest thing ever.

- Fox also loves explaining complicated topics that the baby wouldn't even understand. For example: Fox is teaching your child how to properly put on trooper armor at the age of 3. Fox being (of course) the lovely model.

- As your son began to grow he started to intensely look like his father. “He looks like me.” You chuckled, “yeah baby's are *supposed* to look like their parents.” However Fox and really any other clone had no idea considering he was grown in a tube.

- Right when your kid hit age 5, Fox began teaching him how to fight. Considering your kid has Fett genes he was thrilled. It was fun bonding time for them.

- If you can't cook that's ok because Fox is probably worse and couldn't cook to save his life. So when you tell him he has to cook dinner because you’ll be gone, he almost blows up the apartment. Sweat dripping down his face, eyebrows furrowed. Apron on a little too tight. Luckily for Fox, your guy’s kid will eat pretty much anything so he wasn't complaining.

[yuurivoice]

since you love to write, does your job ever feel like actual work? Kinda like that saying “if you love your job, you’ll never work a day of your life.” Kinda question.

also, how much free time do you normally have?

It felt like actual work from pretty early on. The moment I crossed over from doing it for funsies to sometimes taking commissions I didn't really feel strongly about for money, it was work.

I've had to drag my ass into the booth and record on days when I couldn't even take care of my basic needs because of ADHD struggles, and that sure felt like work.

I've had to write like absolute dogshit and just accept it because I had deadlines and people waiting on me. That felt like work.

I've had to spend hours breaking down different shots needed for visual projects, like a caveman painting on a wall for a renaissance artist to reference. That definitely felt like work.

I've had to deal with community moderation, personal betrayals of trust, harassment, goddamn pr crises, tax nightmares, and shipping hundreds of orders by hand. That was work.

That old cliche of if you love what you do, you'll never work a day in your life is a crock of shit. But all of that being said, even though it is work, and even though it can be really difficult sometimes?

Wouldn't trade it for the world. There is no other calling for me, my heart is not satisfied if I am not telling stories, and for some reason the universe decided that this was the path forward. I didn't plan on it. I never loved voice acting, but I learned to. I wish there was less bullshit over the years that robbed me of my joy. I wish I wasn't fighting my brain for so much of the time I've been doing this.

But the good will always outweigh the bad.

It's a dream fulfilled. I never needed or wanted to be some sort of massive sensation, or have broad renown or appeal. I didn't need to become a best selling author, or create a hit video game, or do anything like that. I am happy that I've found even a small group of people who love to get lost in my worlds, or spend time with my characters, or hear them get railed in pumpkin patches.

I get to experience the magic of creating something I didn't know was within me. Again and again. Projects like BitterSweet, Shattered, and Echoes of Evalas are precious to me because of the wondrous feeling creating those stories gives me. They could all flop, and I'd do it anyway.

I was creating art when no one was ever there to listen or watch. In that regard, it's never been work. It is a function of my existence. I was made, raised, and shaped to tell stories. It's the one thing I can do. At a table of friends, an audience of hundreds, or on long drives by myself. It's like breathing. It just happens.

Being able to call it work is a privilege. I'm thrilled that I've got the chance to work. I'm happy that I even have the opportunity to have days where I have to push myself. Because it has given me more than I've ever thought it could. I was on food stamps living with family under constant threat of getting kicked out. I was lonely, isolated, and scared of the world. I was considered lazy.

Finding my lane, getting traction, and thriving was something I considered out of reach. I was ready to tap out and accept that I just wasn't quite right for life. Like maybe I just didn't have all the right parts. I was okay with it, even. I was tired.

So yeah. It's work. But I spent a long time desperate to find work I was suited for, and with a lot of recent life changes I've removed many of those points of friction that would make it tough to work. So I'm thrilled.

And that, my friends, is what happens when you ask a professional yapper if they love yapping. 😂

As for free time, it's hard to say. So much of what I do being my own boss and shit, plus creative stuff just constantly churning in my brain, I struggle to clearly define what is and is not "free time". I basically have to be on call. At any given moment something might need my attention, or creativity comes knocking. It's hard to completely disconnect.

I've done a good job of getting into the office about four times a week. That has helped me find some sort of balance, but even recent writing I've done was on my laptop at my little breakfast nook having coffee.

I think the big thing is, I can create my free time whenever I need or want to.

Anywho, this is why you don't open Tumblr when you wake up to pee in the middle of the night because then you spent 30 minutes staring at your phone writing a whole ass essay. I'm gonna go get out of bed and make something awesome now. 💖

[sylvianightshade]

Back in my unhinged Jawyer era: the way that they are so feral and ferocious with each other on the island, but in the dharma setting and back on the mainland their energy is sooo gentle. Like I do wish we’d seen more hurt/comfort for these two (we already get a lot tbf but I can always do with more hurt/comfort it is my CRACK). 

For example: I think sometimes Sawyer looks at Jack and wants to hold his face and cradle his head against his chest and fall asleep with Jack in his arms, and Jack sometimes looks at Sawyer and wants to be held, wants to brush his hair out of his eyes and kiss him right on the mouth, or on the wounds he’s patching up while scolding Sawyer for being too goddamn manly and impulsive, and Sawyer will grumble about being taken care of, but Jack will catch him with that look in his eye, like he’s never seen anything quite like Jack and wants to spend every day of the rest of his life figuring this man out.

And then I think sometimes Sawyer wants to see how much he can tease Jack, how many buttons he can push, how far he can take things to truly ruffle Jack’s feathers, because he’s so fucking hot when he’s annoyed— but then if Jack actually gets upset for real, Sawyer will either a) get angry in response because he was “just teasing come on” or b) back down and apologize with the energy of a kid who’s known abuse, but usually both. And Jack will tease Sawyer the same way, sometimes when he’s bored or when Sawyer has pissed him off a bit more than usual. He’ll see if he can trick Sawyer into believing very untrue medical facts, or fabricated surgical stories that get progressively more wild as he goes along, until Sawyer figures out he’s not serious, and then he gets moody. But Jack never gets upset when Sawyer’s moody because of him. He just sits with him in silence, or waits for him to walk it off, or kisses him until he calms down, smiling softly through all of it. 

And then I think sometimes they each try so hard not to ask for what they want. Like, Jack loves to look at Sawyer with his glasses on so he’s always passing him shit to read like “look at this” or “I don’t understand this” or “you could use this advice” and then watches Sawyer’s brow furrow over the top of the frames every damn time, and it checks a little box in Jack’s mushy-ass heart. And maybe Sawyer pushes himself extra hard on purpose, doing any type of physical activity or labor, because a) he always wants to prove himself (he is macho macho man), but more importantly, b) he likes it when Jack gets concerned, if he ends up with sprains and cuts and bruises that Jack has to fix, because he’s obsessed with that spark of concentration and the condescending way Jack teases him, so he can tease back (and maybe he likes the feel of Jack’s hands literally anywhere on his body, so sue him).

And then sometimes I think they do ask for what they want. Sawyer says “talk dirty to me, doc” anytime Jack is about to/in the middle of explaining something technical, and the first few times he does it Jack is confused, but then he works out that Sawyer just likes to listen to him being all smart and doctor-y and hot (and neurotic), and these instances almost always escalate to sexual territory, so Jack doesn’t mind too much either. And Jack will just enlist Sawyer’s help when he’s feeling extra lonely, tossing whatever inanimate object corresponds to the task at hand without a word to get him to join in, and he says shit like “I was gonna go get groceries/go for a run/go to the park” which is Sawyer’s cue to ask if he wants company, because if Jack wants to be alone, he’ll just leave. But even when they are both displaying what they want full-force, it’s still so vibe-based. They’re constantly reading each other and making judgements based on the subtextual signals they receive.

And then sometimes I think Sawyer looks at Jack, in a suit and tie at a formal event, or in his lab coat at the hospital, or in his pjs either getting out of bed or getting ready for bed, and he just. Has to have him, right there and then. And Jack is literally always surprised anytime Sawyer initiates flirting, kissing, sex, anything— despite the fact that it is usually Sawyer who initiates— because Jack operates on a different (autistic) wavelength and still thinks it’s weird that Sawyer’s into him. But if Jack gets horny? Oh, boy. It’s a whole thing. He’ll go quiet, and do a lot of staring, but will wait until it’s an appropriate moment (once they get home, once Sawyer has put down his book and taken off his glasses, once Jack has his full, undivided attention) to pounce. And Sawyer is also literally always surprised whenever Jack initiates, because he doesn’t usually, but the surprise turns to smug pleasure so fast, because he’s thinking “hell yes, I got this man all riled up” and that’s constantly his goal.

And neither of them drink. They aren’t each other’s sponsors but they do attend AA together. No alcohol in the house ever, and sometimes if they’re out somewhere and it’s being served and one or both of them gets a craving, they have to distract each other with something (such as a delicious food, or a funny story, or a penis). And they’re there for each other’s breakdowns, and they know every single trigger the other has. And with the whole sleeping together thing, we’ve got textbook nightmare comfort: Sawyer’s are typically loud and full of groaning and flailing limbs and they wake Jack up every time, and he has to bring Sawyer back to consciousness and remind him where he is, that he’s okay. But Jack’s are more suppressed. He goes still, wakes up either gasping or completely silent, heart hammering out of his chest. And Sawyer doesn’t always wake up with him, until he feels the cool spot on Jack’s side of the bed, and then he does always get up to find Jack, out in the living room or kitchen or bathroom, either losing it or just barely holding it together, and then it’s hug time. Hugs always make it better. Long, long hugs and whispered words of reassurance, because Jack might not think he needs physical touch as much as Sawyer does, but it really fucking helps and he’s notorious for depriving himself.

And yes, they do still argue over stupid shit, and they do still self-sabotage, but they always come back to each other. They actually can’t stand to be apart for more than like. Three days, or they start spiraling and losing touch with reality. And they do still compete over every fucking thing, until they’re fucking on top of every thing, because they’re ridiculous.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

What If?

Prompt Day 15: Time Travel | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Mentions of Other Relationship | Tags: Time Travel, Fix-It, Second Chance, El is Meddling, Eddie POV

Eddie is sitting alone in his spare bedroom that he turned into a music room, long ago. He fiddles with his guitar, but he's lonely. He thought he'd have more time to make his feelings known. More time to get his shit together, but now forty years have gone by, and he's all alone. His friends grew up and moved on.

Steve moved on.

They're all still friends, sure, but Eddie thinks of himself kind of as the always single, loner uncle that shows up at holidays. He's a little like Wayne, honestly. That makes Eddie smile, even if he has regrets about how he closed himself off from everyone after everything that happened in the Upside Down.

How he closed himself off from Steve.

Steve had been by his side, with a look in his eyes that scared Eddie. Eddie didn't want that kind of responsibility. He couldn't even take care of himself, how was he supposed to take care of Steve's heart? Impossible.

So, Eddie had pretended not to see the looks, or feel the slight touches. He ignored Steve's small advances, like they weren't even happening. 

And, eventually, Steve stopped trying. He met a girl who became his wife, and everything worked out for the best. 

Eddie doesn't resent Steve for getting on with his life, for going after what he wanted. A wife. Kids. Eddie gets the postcards, the emails with pictures attached. It's all cookie-cutter perfect. Right down to the fluffy dog.

Eddie ran from his feelings, had locked them down tight, so he has no right to be mad. 

But he wishes…

Sometimes, he wishes and wonders: what if?

Eddie goes to bed alone, and falls asleep alone.

When he wakes up, suddenly startled, he's not alone at all. 

It looks like Dustin, sitting on the edge of the bed. Only, not the current Dustin. No, this is the Dustin from then, from before.

Eddie reaches for his glasses, to pull everything into focus, yanking on the light chain for good measure. And sure enough, sitting there looking at him, is Dustin. About twenty years old, in a disheveled dress shirt, tie and slacks. 

Eddie recognizes the outfit, because he's seen it in pictures a lot over the years. This is what Dustin wore to Steve's wedding, as one of the groomsmen. Steve's best man. 

"I'm dreaming," Eddie says, because that's the only explanation.

"You're not," Dustin says, "but I might be?"

"You're not," Eddie echoes. And if he's not dreaming, and Dustin's not dreaming…

"How'd you get here?" Eddie asks.

"I was talking to El about how dumb you two had been, and now I'm sitting on the edge of your bed. And you're old."

"I'm not that old, you little shithead," Eddie says, and Dustin turns and grins.

"At least you're still you, I guess," Dustin answers, but he looks on the verge of tears.

"You were at Steve's wedding, right?" Eddie asks, and Dustin nods. 

He had to be. That was the moment this timeline really shifted. Eddie had run out of chances, and Steve was lost to him for good that day.

Eddie sits up straighter, "Did El send you into the goddamn future to fuck with me?"

Dustin shrugs, "I think so. She told me to talk some sense into you, and if I succeeded, she'd bring me back. She was drunk. We all were. Still am. I thought she was kidding. I didn't even know she could do that. Time travel? She never mentioned time travel being in her bag of tricks."

Eddie laughs, that woman is never to be trifled with. Not then, not now. There must be no limit to the powers she can harness. Eddie reaches for his cell phone, finds her number and dials.

"Yeah, you sent me a present?" Eddie says.

"I did what?" she asks, clearly drowsy on the other end of the line.

"Dustin. From Steve's wedding. He's here and I need you to send him home," Eddie says, and isn't this just a stupid situation to find himself in on a random Tuesday.

"Oh, I forgot about that," she says, and there's a long pause, "has he talked some sense into you yet?"

"No! He's drunk, freaked out, and he wants to go home."

"Only if you agree to go back with him and get it right this time."

Eddie laughs, bordering on hysterical, "I'm not going back to Steve's wedding and objecting like some sort of asshole. He has children, El. I'm not risking taking his kids away from him!"

"Oh, none of this is real," she says, as easy as she'd give him the time.

"That's impossible," he says.

"Really not," she insists, "and you cannot go back to the wedding. You need to go further. To right after Vecna."

Eddie thinks this is crazy, impossible. But he finds himself nodding. Okay. Why not? If she's right, he gets a second chance. And if this is all a dream, he'll just wake up in the morning and get a good laugh.

"Okay, send us back," he answers, then hurries to add, like she's some sort of trickster instead of just El, "After! Make sure it's after! I'm not getting attacked by bats again. Not even for Steve."

He can nearly hear her eyeroll over the phone.

"Yes. After. Get a hold of Dustin's hand, he is the one I can move, not you," she says, and Eddie reluctantly does it. Takes both of them, just to be safe. 

And then there's an unpleasant yanking sensation, and when he regains his bearings, he's in a hospital bed.

Steve Harrington at his side. 

Steve's young, only nineteen. And he's looking at Eddie with those eyes that he used to use on Eddie for a long time before finally giving up, moving on.

"Hi," Eddie says, giving him the eyes right back.

This time when Steve reaches for his hand, Eddie grabs on, and doesn't let go. 

Being brave.

Not running.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! ⏳

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[not-poignant]

Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing? with the understanding that no advice is universal of course

28. Any writing advice that works for you and you feel like sharing?

So I have a ton of stuff in the Pia on Writing tag that goes into a lot of detail but (with the caveat to ignore anything that doesn't work for you):

Learn to love your mistakes, because you must make a lot of them to get good at writing, so if you hold back because you're worried about your writing being bad, your shooting yourself in the foot. Your writing HAS to be bad for it to get better. Or: You need manure/shit (bad writing) to grow a really good garden (good writing). You want a good garden? Start shoveling the shit in, lol.

Clever marketing won't solve not putting the hours in to hone your craft.

In fanfiction, make sure it's fun. That doesn't mean it can't be hard sometimes, that you can't dread editing sometimes or drafting, that you can't have sadder times, but make sure that the overall net is always positive. Otherwise, take a break.

In professional writing, learn how to stop waiting for inspiration to strike, and learn to turn up on that dance floor on your own. Inspiration is a fickle dance partner, it often won't turn up unless you develop the discipline to turn up first.

Sometimes the writing you absolutely slog through that feels stilted and bad is some of your best writing. Just because it feels clunky when you're writing, doesn't mean it reads clunky. Just because it feels smooth when you're writing, doesn't mean it reads smooth. Your emotional state at the time of writing does not determine the quality of writing. Feeling good while you're writing =/= good writing. Likewise feeling bad while writing =/= bad writing.

You do not need a daily habit to be good at writing. Develop one if you want one, but personally I don't have one and I'm super happy that way. Take your weekends, have your leisure time, goddamn it, don't be a terrible boss to yourself.

Writing can be both lonely and exhausting - make some non-douchey writer friends (or artist or creative friends), and make sure you take breaks. Because writing is so cerebral, you'd be surprised how much physical activity can help with recovery, like stretching, gentle walks, workouts, etc.

Eat brain food. Snacking during writing is actually normal. I have nuts on hand for protein boosts, but I'll also eat chocolate or snack on quick energy boosts.

Stay hydrated.

Ignore any writing advice that goes 'you must do this in order to be a writer' or 'you have to do this one thing to be successful.' They're wrong. There is no one-true-path in writing with the exception that you do have to write in order to like...be a writer, imho.

You are going to want to compare yourself to others, but be very aware of who you're comparing yourself to. If you're new, why are you comparing yourself to someone with 10-20 years of experience? If you're disabled and fatigued, why are you comparing yourself to able-bodied writers? Stop competing with people outside of your metaphorical weight class, they're not your competition. I'm not going to tell you not to compare yourself to others, but be very careful of how you compare yourself to others. I've had new writers be like 'I could never do your wordcounts (so I'm not as good of a writer)' and like, no friend, neither could I 10 years ago. This is literally a decade of hard work and practice. Some skills really just come with time. (Also most writers are more successful after writing less words than me so y'know lol).

If you get shitty comments/critiques, remind yourself that if you wouldn't take personal advice from a complete stranger like this (and you wouldn't), then their shitty comments/critiques aren't worth your time either.

On AO3, the delete, block, moderate comments function and mute buttons are all free. USE THEM. Don't bother giving haters airtime on your fics. Elsewhere on the internet, as much as you can, try and ignore review sites. Like seriously.

Learn your writing style. Practice planning, plantsing and pantsing! Practice writing one thing or more than one thing at a time. Practice different genres. You might be surprised at what fits you as a person! Think of it like being a musician, you're not trying to be a band that already exists, you're trying to be your band and you're trying to find your sound.

You're probably very good at noticing your weaknesses, get good at noticing your strengths, and use those to shore up the places where you're still building skills.

Do writing prompts. I cannot stress this enough, but learn how to write settings. Describe the dialogue of a friend. Write a character dossier on a television character. Practice worldbuilding, practice character building.

Fill the well. Read broadly across many genres. Watch many different types of media. Listen to many audiobooks. The best way to not sound derivative of a particular order is to saturate yourself with inspiration from hundreds of different places.

That's probably enough! dklsjfdas

~

From this meme!