#he doesn’t care that it’s better then his because a) he gets to read it and b) it’s bringing in readers to pidw

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ CARAMEL HONEY ✸ nrk

爱,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀───⠀⠀⠀𝗋𝗂𝗄𝗂 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋.

𝟭𝟬𝟯𝟴─────hockey captain bf! riki x fem! reader ， cutesy fluff ✶ kissing mentions ꕀ 𝑉𝑂𝐺𝑈𝐸 ｡

riki has a new hobby— being your personal lipstick tester.

no, this isn’t him.

you swat his arm, brows furrowed. “focus,�� and he can only abide by your words.

this is anything but him.

he is the hockey team’s captain, he is the campus crush, he is the certified heartthrob who spends his mornings in the field and evenings at the gym.

cue one fated meeting at a flower shop— he would never go there willingly. it was for his sister’s birthday. and well, riki was never the same again.

because right now, he is skipping practice to help you shop for makeup and skincare. his toned, veiny hand is covered in tints and shades of an entire palette range, and he’s wearing a sanrio bracelet that matches the one dangling around your wrist.

the sight itself makes his heart flutter in his chest.

riki has never been happier.

he looks at you with heart eyes when you grab another gloss from the rack and put another swab on the back of his palm. “what about this?”

and god, he might just spend his entire savings on every shade you have tried in the past fifteen minutes.

“it would suit you,” he clears his throat, brushing a stray hair off your pretty face to get a better look. “and, that brown one too,”

honey caramel, you correct with a fond smile. he thinks he is going to make more mistakes to be corrected by you. boy, he might just screw a few of his tests, only to be tutored by you.

his eyes follow his reflection in the mirror— your boyfriend almost forgot about the matching panda head bands on both of your heads.

the tint on his cheeks could be darker than the lip tint you’re wearing. he can picture his entire team pointing fingers and making fun of him. the riki from two months ago would have scoffed, but the riki now couldn’t care less.

the riki now is in love, he can thump his chest and shout it to the world.

he hears wedding bells when he sees you putting the lip gloss on your lips, meticulously so. riki, nineteen, is certain he wants to wake up to the sight of you dolling up every morning.

the colour pops off your plump lips with such perfection that he finds himself falling for you again. your eyes find his nervous ones— he gulps at your smile.

“how do i look?”

“good,” he says slow— dazed. “great,” i’m one more smile away from kissing you on the mouth, he wants to add, but he manages to find a semblance of control.

you wipe off the extra from the edges, so blissfully unaware of the butterflies in his chest. “really? or should i try something else—”

“it doesn’t matter,” your boyfriend intervenes, grabbing a tissue to help you. “you look pretty in everything, baby,”

he doesn’t even know where these words are coming from.

just the shy smile on your face does the magic— he is a goner, fallen far too deep to find a way out. he wants to stay in that pit forever, actually.

he finds it the cutest when you tip toe to kiss his cheek, like right now, before storming off to the perfume section.

he looks in the mirror, there’s your lip mark on his cheek.

hockey can wait, this is his favourite thing ever.

ㅤ◞ ⩊ ◟ㅤ — sporty bf riki who turns into a loverboy for his gf is my roman empire. happy reading >< for riki oomf @sourkiki

[zaynezone]

while you were sleeping

synopsis: Zayne can't sleep when you're next to him warnings: well it's me so...tooth rotting fluff pairing: Zayne x fem!reader wc: 1.2k an: this one feels a little different to me, idk but I hope you like it! It's very loosely inspired by something my friend once wrote

Zayne should really go to sleep.

The rational part of him is very aware of the time ticking away, each minute dragging him closer to the moment his alarm will scream at him to get up, throw on his work clothes, and face a long, draining shift. He knows he should be catching up on some much needed sleep. But he isn’t.

Because you’re here.

Because you’re sleeping next to him, soft and warm and tangled up in him like you always are when you’re too tired to notice how clingy you get. Not that he’s ever minded. Your cheek is smushed gently against his chest, your breath brushing slow and steady over his skin. One of your legs has wormed its way over both of his, and your arms are wrapped around him like you're afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He can feel the weight of you, the heat radiating off your skin. You always run hot when you sleep. It used to surprise him, how much you gravitate to his naturally cooler body temperature. Now it’s one of those little facts he tucks away and holds dear, like the knowledge of your favorite tea or the way you need a sweater whenever you’re reading, even in summer.

His hand rests lightly on your back, fingers tracing lazy circles against the curve of your spine, up and down, over and over. You make a little sound in your sleep, soft and muffled, and it makes his heart do that stupid thing where it trips over itself for you.

He remembers the very first time you’d ever slept next to each other. It wasn’t even supposed to happen.

You had fallen asleep on his couch after a movie night, face buried in a throw pillow and your feet tucked up awkwardly. He didn’t have the heart to wake you, though he did try. You just blinked up at him groggily, whispered something incoherent, and promptly collapsed against his chest. Somehow, that evolved into the two of you curled together under the thin blanket he kept on the back of the couch. His neck was sore for a week. But the memory of it had stayed warm in his chest for far longer.

The first night in an actual bed was even worse for his sleep. You’d curled into his side so naturally, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Your arm flopped over his stomach, your knee nudged between his. He was too nervous to move a muscle. His body ached by morning, but he didn’t regret a second of it. That was the night he learned you talk in your sleep sometimes, mostly nonsense, but once you said his name and sighed like it was a prayer. He’d laid awake the rest of the night, hand over his heart like it could hold the feeling in place.

So many little things stick in his mind.

The time you fell asleep on his shoulder at the theatre after he had taken you to see a movie after a long mission. The time you dozed off mid-sentence while curled up on his lap and he just sat there, perfectly still, afraid to wake you. Even now, he remembers how your lashes fluttered against his shirt and how you mumbled something about “noodles” in your sleep.

He loves that you’re like this with him, unguarded and easy. He never realized how rare that was until he found it with you.

He shifts slightly, just enough to watch the rise and fall of your breathing. You’re wearing that worn-out shirt you stole from him, the one with the faded graphic and the tiny hole at the hem. It’s way too big, hanging off one shoulder, but you always choose it from the pile like it’s the only thing that feels right. It does feel right. His clothes always look better on you anyway.

Your hair is a mess, half fanned across the pillow, half sticking to his neck. He doesn’t care. He lifts one hand and gently brushes a few strands behind your ear. Your skin twitches at the contact, and you shift, nuzzling closer into his chest like you’re trying to climb inside him. He lets out a breathy, soundless laugh.

How is it that he feels more himself when you’re holding onto him like this?

Zayne remembers the time you both got caught in the rain on the walk home and he offered you his jacket, even though you insisted you were “tough.” You were soaked, cold, and grumpy when you finally made it inside, and he wrapped you in blankets and made you tea while you pouted at the window. Then you fell asleep with your wet socks still on and your head in his lap, and he didn’t dare move for over an hour.

He remembers the weekend you spent rearranging his living room, turning it into a strange little nest of pillows, books, and half-sipped mugs of cocoa. You’d declared it a “cozy zone,” and he had just nodded and let you do your thing. That night, you fell asleep with your head against his stomach, and he ran his fingers through your hair until he could barely keep his eyes open too.

And then there was that one morning when he woke up early and you were already curled into him, whispering sleepy, nonsense compliments while half-awake. He didn’t even bother moving. Just lay there and listened, letting the words soak into his skin. You said he felt safe. You said you liked how he always smelled like fresh laundry. You said his heartbeat made you feel calm.

No one had ever said things like that to him before. Not like that. Not like it mattered.

You mattered to him. More than anything.

He realizes now that there are entire chunks of his life that he doesn’t remember clearly anymore, the years without you, the weeks and months that blurred together. But in every memory with you, everything’s sharper. Brighter. Slower in the best way. You fill the room, even when you’re asleep. You change the way the air smells. It’s like being next to a fireplace when it’s snowing outside.

He doesn’t even notice his thumb is stroking slow arcs against your spine. He just knows he doesn’t want this to end. Doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss a second of this closeness.

He looks down at you, his whole chest close to bursting.

Your breath catches slightly, like you’re shifting into a new dream, and your hand flexes against his ribs. He holds you a little closer, presses a kiss to the crown of your head, light as a secret, and tucks you in tighter against him, like he can protect you even in sleep.

It’s late. It’s quiet. It’s perfect.

And for once, the words come easily.

He doesn’t say them loud, just a whisper into your hair, barely carried by the still air between them. But he says them.

“I love you.”

[impishjesters]

Caught smoking hot

content warning(s): reader smokes cigarettes, polysaja x reader, reader (me) is lowkey a brat A/N: Sometimes I pretend what it's like to have someone who loves me and cares about my health. But then I remember that'll never happen because I'm not dateable (but if I were dating someone and they sat me down to try and get me to stop smoking, I'd do it in a heartbeat). This is essentially a self-insert, but I figured I'd share it anyway. Also, I absolutely live for the boys' bickering. I think this is one of my favourite writings as of late, and that even if YOU don't smoke (don't smoke, period), this is still a super cute read.

You sat in your living room, tucked out of the way. The couch and floor are taken up by the five big bone heads that make up the Saja Boys, who are all currently yelling at one another while playing Mario Kart. You don’t even own a switch, and when you asked them why they brought it here to play?

“No offense, but your place is boring… if we leave the switch there, we at least have something to do.”

It doesn’t really bother you, the apartment isn’t meant to fit five grown men and yourself. Which is why most hangouts don’t happen at your place, or at least they didn’t until recently. At the end of the day, it’s easiest to chalk it up to them wanting to get out, and your place just so happens to be the best place to get away from work.

The sudden spike in volume breaks you from your daydreaming, and briefly, you’re stuck worried about your poor neighbors. Abby and Baby are both arguing, poised to start throwing hands at any second, while Romance and Jinu are stuck wedging themselves between the two. Romance’s soft voice reminds them that they aren’t at home, their roughhousing will only break something here.

Mystery stands off to the side, and the two of you make eye contact. He shrugged and turned his head back to the TV and started the next round, whether they were ready or not. The countdown caught their attention just in time for at least Abby and Baby to stop bickering and focus on Mario Kart.

The dull throbbing in your head from their bickering never goes away, you love the boys more than anything, but when Abby and Baby get into it, you want nothing more than to throttle both of them.

With their attention drawn back to the game, you quietly got up and grabbed your pack of cigarettes and lighter before carefully stepping onto the balcony, silencing their voices the moment the glass door slid closed.

A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you sit down at the small chair and table, the cool air on your face helping ease the throbbing in your skull. After lighting up a cigarette, you sat there, the muffled bickering turning into background noise while you smoked.

Mystery is the first one to notice you’re gone, the sudden scent of cigarette smoke hitting his nose. His sudden, abrupt movement causes the rest to look at him in confusion, which goes ignored as he shoves Jinu’s face out of the way to get past him and heads straight for the balcony.

The balcony door catches your attention, and before you can even finish your hit, the cigarette is being ripped out of your hand and crumpled in someone’s hand. “Hey! That’s hot, shit head!”

“So that’s why you smell like cigarette smoke…” Mystery flatly replies, opening his palm and letting you grab the now-smashed cigarette.

“Why else would I smell like cigarette smoke?”

“Someone else is smoking around you.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, unable to find any words of argument as you drop the crushed cigarette into the ashtray. Another arm reaches out from behind you and yanks the pack of cigarettes before you can even grab them.

“Jagiya,” Romance’s voice is soft, but there’s a tone of concern in the pet name, “You smoke?”

You know better than to look at him and stupidly did so anyway, Romance’s crestfallen expression stabbing you straight in the heart. Mystery certainty wasn’t helping, looking like a kicked puppy with his bottom lip slightly sticking out. You grab your chest dramatically and look away, unable to look at them.

“Aish…” You wave your hand at the two of them lazily. “You two worry too much, I’m not gonna just keel over.”

Romance grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you up from the seat and back into the house, while Mystery grabbed your lighter and ashtray, bringing them back inside. The others watched in confusion as Romance pulled you to the front of the group, blocking the TV and earning a quiet ‘move’ from Baby.

“Really, Romance?”

He watched you cross your arms and mimicked your annoyed stance. “Yes, really.”

“Someone want to explain why your flat ass is blocking the TV?” Baby grumbled.

Romance shot Baby a glare, and somehow that’s enough for Baby to ease up and take it seriously. “Did any of you know that our little soul was smoking?”

“What?”

“Smoking hot.” Someone smacked Abby in the back of the head, “ow”.

Jinu looked at you, confused, until Mystery walked over and showed them the pack of cigarettes like it was a show and tell.

One of them says your name, but you’re too busy trying to sink into the floor, even as you gradually try slipping to the ground. Romance’s grip on your wrist keeps you on your feet. “I’m a grown adult, ah, older than all of you!” You scolded.

“Then why are you acting like a fussy child, trying to slip out of my hold?” The bitter tone in Romance’s voice has not just you, but the others flinching as if they were the ones being scolded.

Jinu, ever the angel, comes to your rescue, sort of. “How long have you been smoking?”

“You haven’t always smelt like cigarette smoke…” Mystery tacked on.

You idly fuss, moving your arm this way and that while Romance’s hold remains firm. “Uh, almost a year?”

“Why?”

The question makes you blush in embarrassment, Romance tugging you forward when you try to hide behind him. “You’ll laugh at me…”

“Jagiya, my soul, we would never laugh. This is a serious discussion.” Romance’s grip loosens on your wrist, and he takes your hand in his, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Aiya…” You sigh and rub your face with your free hand. “Boredom.”

“Boredom?” Baby repeats. “You dead ass?”

Jinu reaches over Abby and shoves Baby’s head down in a crude apology. “Ignore him. What do you mean by boredom?”

“Well,” you sigh, uncomfortably shifting foot to foot. “I’m not dumb, I know smoking is bad. It’s not something I do all the time, though I have been smoking more lately…”

“Stress?” Mystery chimes in.

“Eugh, don’t remind me.” You jokingly wave your hand towards the pack of cigarettes, and Mystery crushes the box in his hand. “My cigarettes! You!” Romance holds your hand tightly, your leg and free arm flailing at Mystery as an empty threat to kick his ass.

“Focus,” he scolded, his free hand coming up to hold your chin in place. “Have things really been that bad that you turned to smoking?”

Unease bubbles in your chest at the forced eye contact, knowing that all of them were staring at you with varying expressions, no doubt judging you. “I mean, I could be doing worse things…” His grip tightens on your chin, and your eyes close. “I don’t know what you want to hear! You know how I am! I was offered, said screw it and gave it a try, and figured why not. If it works for others, maybe it’ll help me, but it didn’t!”

Romance’s grip loosens enough for you to push yourself away from him. You chew on your bottom lip, immediately drawing blood, and back up enough to sit on the edge of the TV console. “It hasn’t done a damn thing but make me feel sick, frankly, it’s a miracle anyone stupid enough thinks that shit helps.”

“You thought it’d help.”

“No, I said I gave it a try to see if it did anything. I never once expected it to actually help me, little shit.”

Baby stuck out his tongue and looked at the now-crushed box of cigarettes in Mystery’s hand. “How come you don’t taste like cigarettes?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

You cringe at his question, looking at him in minor disgust. “Excuse me?”

His eyes roll, but the smirk doesn’t disappear. “Not like that, I meant you’re mouth. Kissing, dumbass.”

“Oh, uh…”

Romance grabbed the back of your shirt at your attempt to sneak away, as if there weren’t four other grown men capable of stopping you. “Don’t try and slink off, jagiya. Answer his question.”

“I mean, like I said, I don’t smoke that often, and it’s not like I’m smoking a whole cigarette every time. It’s just a few puffs, plus I brush my teeth afterwards.”

Jinu stood up, startling everyone briefly as he walked over to you and pulled you into his arms. “I think that’s enough questions for now…” Romance and he share a few looks, Jinu shaking his head as he finally pulls back enough to let you stare up at him. “No more smoking, if you feel like smoking, then tell one of us.” He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear and looked between the others.

Everyone shared a nod before staring expectantly at you. “Okay…”

Tensions in the room still lingered, and in an attempt to lighten the mood, Baby waved his half of the controller around. “Alright, now move your asses out of the way. I wanna get back to kicking Abby’s ass.”

“I got ahead of you, jackass!”

“Only because lover boy’s flat ass blocked the TV!”

You didn’t need to look up at Romance to know what expression quickly consumed his face, his skin briefly flickering out of the corner of your eye. “I’ll show you flat, munchkin.”

Jinu pulled you out of the way and returned to the couch, tugging you along. He ignored your curious expression and sat down. When you did not attempt to move, he pulled you onto his lap and made himself comfortable. Or as comfortable as one could get with three people arguing over a dumb game two meters away.

Mystery threw away the pack of cigarettes before taking Abby’s spot and sat beside Jinu, pulling your legs up onto his lap. His fingertips idly stroked at your ankle while you melted into Jinu’s hold, an unknown weight leaving your shoulders.

Now, a new weight fell on your shoulders. What on earth were you going to give your neighbors in apology for their loud asses?

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ KINKY LOVE

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: hotch doesn’t appreciate you writing up your not-so-fictional fantasies about him

warnings: SMUT - MINORS DNI, mean!dom!Hotch, spanking, age gap, power imbalance, ‘sir’ kink, edging, grinding (fingers, clothed and unclothed)

word count: 3.1k

a/n: the fanfic writing makes this kind of meta and i rewrote this a million times because i wasn’t sure about it but, nevertheless, enjoy some filthy hotch thoughts!

Working at the BAU could be intense. That was a fact.

It seemed that, as the days went on, the cases were getting worse. Any faith you had left in humanity was becoming increasingly hard to maintain as you encountered the minds of people whose crimes you never thought would be possible.

Recently, you and Garcia had found an unorthodox way to relieve the stress: Writing ridiculously out-of-character, over-the-top fanfiction about your coworkers.

The nonsensical half an hour of your day that you got to spend with your painfully colourful friend, writing all sorts of strange, fictional things was enough to offset the nightmares of yours that were becoming increasingly more frequent.

It had started out harmlessly. Reid as a seductive vampire. Morgan rescuing a (suspiciously blonde and colour-loving) damsel in distress from a burning tower. But lately you’d gotten reckless.

Your contributions were becoming too specific. Too real.

“Let’s see… who shall be our victims today?” Garcia hummed, fingers dancing across her keyboard.

You leaned in, squinting at her screen. A sly smile tugged at your lips as you noticed a very specific name that had yet to make the cut, “You know who we haven’t done yet?”

Garcia’s eyes scanned the ridiculous list of file names - ‘Reid’s Recurring Romance’ and of course, the infamous ‘Morgan’s Midnight Mission.’

Her eyes lit up as she looked back at you, “Hotch.”

Maybe you had selfish reasons for pointing out his absence but you couldn’t be blamed.

The two of you had been seeing one another for a few months now. In secret.

Hotch’s divorce had been finalised and one thing had led to another. It had only been a matter of time. Your feelings for him had been there for a long time, lingering and simmering beneath the surface.

Waiting for their time to boil over.

One drunken night had sealed your fate. You belonged to Aaron Hotchner.

But you couldn’t tell the others, even if you wanted to.

There was the age gap and the power imbalance and the fact that he was your superior. The whole situation was far from HR-approved.

You’d decided that, if you wanted to keep each other, as well as your jobs, secrecy was the only option.

The thrill of sending him fuck-me eyes from across the conference table, knowing full well there was nothing he could do in public gave you a bigger kick than you cared to admit.

And as much as he pretended to be frustrated by it, you knew better. You knew exactly how much he relished in the tension.

How, when he came home to you, he’d unwind and take it all out on you until the early hours of the morning.

It was addictive.

And maybe that’s why, when you and Garcia sat down to write, you didn’t spare any details.

The way his breath hitched when you whispered sir in his ear.

The way his large hand always cupped the side of your head when you swallowed him whole.

Things that could easily read as fantasy, but you knew, better than anyone, that they weren’t.

“Okay, how do we start this?” you laughed softly, huddling closer to Garcia and resting your hands on her shoulder as she opened a new document.

Without even looking back at you, Garcia began frantically typing. She read aloud as she wrote:

Y/N lingered in the doorway of his office, her blouse clinging to her frame. She could feel the tension in the air, tightening like a coil, bound to snap at any second.

“Pause,” you tugged gently at her arm, raising a brow, “Why is it me that’s seducing him?”

Garcia smirked over her shoulder, “Would you rather he seduce you?”

You gave her a pointed look, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away, “You know that’s not what I meant, dearest.”

She sighed, folding her hands over her stomach with mock patience as she answered, “My sweet, I chose you because the two of you clearly have the most chemistry in this office.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

“Ah!” She raised a perfectly-manicured finger, effectively cutting you off, “Don’t even think about denying it.”

You rolled your eyes, but she was dangerously close to figuring you out. You needed to keep your cool.

Except couldn’t hide the nervous wobble in your voice as you admitted, “Fine, maybe there is a little something there.”

Garcia smiled like she knew exactly what she was doing, before diving back into her keyboard, “It’s settled then. You’re our femme fatale, my dove.”

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Y/N purred, draping herself over the chair, opposite him.

Hotch’s eyes darkened. He stepped around the desk, close enough for her to taste the danger in the air, with his every calculated step, ‘Agent,’ he murmured, his voice a gruff warning, ‘You know this is against protocol.’

You watched over her shoulder and squinted, reaching out to stop her, “He wouldn’t say it like that.”

Garcia blinked up at you, letting out a surprised laugh, “Excuse me?”

You shrugged, “Just…”

You fumbled for a way to excuse the reason why you knew exactly how Aaron would behave if he had you locked away in his office.

He was controlled and level-headed at the best of times. But around you? His restraint dwindled very quickly.

“I mean, you’ve seen the way he gets when he has to talk to people. He’s blunt but he’s not so clinical about it.”

Garcia tilted her head, one eyebrow arched and a grin that could rival the cheshire cat on her face, “Wow, okay. Someone’s been paying close attention.”

“It’s called character consistency, Penelope. Do you want realism or not?”

Garcia chuckled, “Realism, Miss Method Writer. Give it to me.”

‘You’re making this difficult,’ Hotch said, his voice barely eking above a whisper. His eyes never left hers, locked in a standoff, ‘You know what this could mean.’

That sounded more like the man that you knew.

He’d said those exact words to you your first night together.

‘You’re making this difficult.’

You’d been determined. A hunter with one target - Aaron Hotchner. The whiskey burning in your veins had given you the confidence to straddle his lap, like you’d imagined so many times before, and dare him to push you away.

He hadn’t.

How could he when you looked so delicious with your thighs bracketing his hips? Or when he’d spent almost every night thinking of you, with only his hand and the memory of your voice to keep him company?

“This is really good…” Garcia giggled, nodding approvingly as you brainstormed, “I’m thinking we go down the sexy punishment route…”

Unbeknownst to either of you, however, in his own office, Aaron Hotchner had paused mid-sentence on a call, distracted by the sound of your hushed voices echoing down the corridor.

“…Yes, I’ll review the file,” he said into the receiver, but his eyes were narrowing towards the cracked door of the tech lair, analysing the sounds.

Girlish shrieks of laughter.

Then, his name.

Followed by a very audible, “Punish me, sir.”

His jaw ticked. His head practically snapped around the doorframe.

“Hotch?” the voice on the phone repeated, slightly static.

He blinked, lips parting, “Right. Sorry. I’m gonna have to call you back.”

And, without another word, he ended the call, already rising to his feet.

He strode to Garcia’s office purposefully, folding his arms across his chest as he reached the doorway.

You didn’t hear him.

You were still laughing, leaning against Garcia, like the two of you were teenage girls gossiping at a sleepover, not federal agents at Quantico writing smut about your boss.

“Yes, and we have to use the verb ‘growled’ at some point. How could we-“ you looked up and froze.

Hotch was standing there, watching you both with an unreadable expression. His gaze flitted between you and the monitor.

You could feel your stomach drop.

Garcia’s hands froze on the keyboard.

You instinctively shifted to block the screen, but it was pointless. It was too late. He’d heard (and seen) everything.

“Agent.”

You blinked, “Sir, I-“

“My office. Now.”

He turned and walked away, without waiting for a response.

Garcia’s mouth hung open in silent horror as she looked up at you, whisper-yelling, “What’re you going to do? You don’t think he’d fire you over this, do you?”

“I don’t know!” you said in reply, throwing your hands up as you cast a glance at Hotch’s retreating figure, “I’m about to go find out, aren’t I?”

Having disappeared inside of his office, you were left with no option but to follow Hotch down the hall.

Suddenly, you’d forgotten how to walk. Your chest was tight. You felt like you didn’t know how to breathe.

Your mind raced as you tried to remember how to stand like a normal person. His door clicked shut behind you.

Your eyes locked onto the back of his head as he moved towards his desk. He didn’t sit. He didn’t speak.

Instead, he braced both hands on the edge of his desk, spine straight, his head bowed in an attempt to collect himself.

You were terrified.

You’d had close calls before. You knew how rocky things got between you afterwards.

How would he react, knowing you’d been sharing, and writing, sexual fantasies about him with another member of the BAU?

Aaron’s jaw tightened once again. The air between you felt thick. You’d didn’t dare to move.

“Why would you share something like that?” he said, his knuckles taut and bone-white, “With Garcia? With anyone.”

“What were you thinking? It doesn’t feel like you truly realise what‘s at stake here.”

He didn’t think you understood your relationship. And, by desfile, him.

The words stung like a slap.

They hung heavy in the room. Hotch’s usual calm, measured demeanor was quickly deteriorating, replaced by a storm you hadn’t ever seen before.

“You wanted to get under my skin? To cause me problems?” he asked, holding up a hand, his voice rising, “Well, congratulations. You have.”

You swallowed hard, fiddling with your fingers like somehow they might save you, “I wasn’t trying to-“

“Yes, you were.” he snapped, the edge to his voice growing sharper, “And now you’re going to tell me exactly what you wrote.“

“What?”

“You heard. I want to hear it,” he said, stepping even closer.

“Because, if you’re going to write about me like that, then you better be brave enough to say it to my face, Agent.”

This was unmarked territory. You weren’t sure if this was punishment or foreplay.

Maybe it was both.

When your voice finally returned, it came out hoarse:

“Where do you want me to start?”

So, you showed him. You didn’t just recite the words, you became your fantasy.

You reentered the office and pressed your back against the doorframe. You let your eyes linger on his lips, then back up to meet his gaze.

“Sir,” you breathed sultrily, making Hotch’s own breath hitch.

You spread your legs deliberately, just wide enough so that he could catch the faintest glimpse of your panties beneath the hem of your skirt.

You knelt at his feet, eyes wide and pleading, and uttered those devilish words:

“Punish me, sir.”

The carefully controlled man you knew was slipping away right before your eyes, replaced by something raw and ravenous.

His hand came down, cupping your face in a tight grip, tilting it up to look him in the eye, “You put us at risk when you say things like that.”

“I know,” you whispered, “But I mean them.”

Hotch’s gaze locked onto yours, studying you, before his voice grew deeper. His patience was hanging on by a thread.

“Turn around,” he said.

You obeyed. Your palms landed on the edge of his desk as he stepped behind you.

“You understand how reckless this is,” he said, his breath slightly uneven, “You’re part of my team. You know what’s at stake. We can’t-“

He cut himself off with a frustrated groan, “And yet you keep doing it. Why?”

You stayed quiet. He wasn’t asking you. He was asking himself.

He pushed your skirt up slowly, almost reverently, exposing the soft skin of your thighs.

He bent you over the polished wood, his hand pressing firmly between your shoulder blades to hold you in place.

Then, his other palm came down, hard, against the back of your bare thigh.

The sharp sting rippled across your skin and you gasped, but you didn’t pull back.

He paused, rubbing his hand over the spot, briefly, just enough to soothe, before he struck again.

“Count,” he said, voice even once again.

You took a sharp intake of breath, “One.”

He struck again.

“Two.”

Hotch leaned in, close enough that his breath touched the back of your neck, “If you’re going to tempt me like that in my own office, Agent…”

“Then you need to understand what it means to be held accountable.”

“For what, exactly?” you huffed, resting your weight on your forearms.

His eyebrows shot up, and a brief, dry chuckle escaped him, “For what? Sweetheart, do you ever listen to a word that I say?”

Another sharp slap landed against your thigh.

“Three,” you sighed softly, heat already beginning to pool between your legs, “And… not always. Sometimes I get distracted.”

His thick fingers dug into your skin, kneading away the sting just enough to heighten the ache. Your mind wandered to what else his fingers could be doing…

Another slap.

“Four.”

“You think I haven’t noticed how you look at me? At board meetings, on planes, where anyone can see?”

His hand slid down from your shoulder to your hip, fingers pressing firmly into your skin, grazing past where you wanted him most.

“You do it because you know it drives me mad, and because you know I can’t do anything about it.”

He straightened his back, towering over you, “Well, tonight, I’m going to show you what it feels like… to be left on the edge of what you want, over and over again… until it becomes unbearable.”

“Because that’s the only way you appear to be able to learn.”

With one precise motion, he flipped you over, pressing you firmly against the desk. Your thighs cried out in protest as they were forced against the wood, but you didn’t dare complain.

Hotch’s hand, which had been trailing almost absentmindedly, moved deliberately between your thighs. His fingers brushed firmly against your clit through your panties, rubbing in circular motions.

“Tell me, Agent,” he said lowly, “How long do you think you can last… like this?”

Your body trembled, thighs instinctively clenching around his hand. You began to rock slowly against his fingers, eyes falling shut as you sighed, “Not very.”

“Good.”

His fingers never faltered, their steady rhythm pushing you closer to the edge, without even touching skin.

Then, Hotch stopped just short, letting the tension coil tightly inside of you, and then dissipate again.

“You’re going to hold it. When you can come, it’ll be on my terms. Do you understand?”

His eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When all you could offer was a soft whimper, his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear and tugged it down to your knees.

He pressed a kiss beneath your ear, breathing heavily now that his fingers had free rein, “You will learn control tonight, Agent. Even if it kills you.”

One palm settled firmly on your back, holding you upright, whilst his fingers dipped teasingly between your slick folds.

You whimpered, hips arching toward him, off of the desk, “Aaron…”

But his fingers only traced lazily over your lips, barely brushing your cunt, never quite giving you what you wanted.

“Not yet,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, “You begged for this punishment, Agent. Now you’ll learn what it means to wait.”

Your breath hitched in desperate need and mounting frustration. You pressed back harder against his hand, craving more, needing the release.

But Hotch was relentless. His control was absolute. He slowed his pace, then stopped completely, leaving you trembling and aching with an unsatisfied desire.

You groaned out loud, barely resisting the urge to stomp your foot like a petulant child.

“Behave, Y/N,” he said coolly, wiping his fingers on your thigh without even glancing up at you, “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To be punished?”

You shook your head with a broken sound, somewhere between a whimper and a protest.

“No?” he echoed mockingly, “Then how do you apologise, sweetheart? How do you make it stop?”

“You know the answer, honey. Tell me.”

Your breath was shaky, you struggled to steady it. Every nerve in your body screamed for release, but Hotch’s unwavering gaze held you captive.

“I’m sorry. For testing you. For crossing the… metaphorical line.”

His large hands squeezed your hips gently, laughing softly to himself, “Thank you.”

But he made no move to place his hand back where it had been. To relieve you. Instead, it rested at your side.

Would it make you a dick to say something? To ask politely, ‘Hey, please put your fingers inside of my pussy!’?

Hotch seemed to notice your internal dilemma.

“I’ll deal with you properly when I get home,” he mumbled, smile audible, as he kissed your lips in a quick, but tender, peck.

“What?” you gaped at him, clutching his forearms, “You’re just going to dismiss me? Back to work?”

“I am,” Hotch nodded, his lips tugging into a rare smirk, “If all goes well, I will see you at 17:00 sharp.”

“You’re horrible.” you groaned, shoving him away from you halfheartedly.

He merely laughed, placing a strong hand around the curve of your waist and pulling you back to him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I’ll make it up to you.” he promised with a grin, pressing a warm kiss to the delicate skin at the side of your neck. You shivered at the contact.

“No, I’m back to work mode now. Fuck you.” tou sighed dramatically, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

“Fuck you, who?” he raised an eyebrow at you, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fuck you, sir,” you shot him a sarcastic smile over your shoulder as you headed towards the door.

“That’s what I thought,” he patted your ass and opened it for you, tilting his head down towards yours, “Besides, I did tell you I was going to teach you to be patient, honey.”

You only grumbled in reply.

He lowered his voice, his eyes on you and you only, but now acutely aware of the other agents passing by, “I love you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the warmth in your voice as you replied, “Yeah, yeah, love you too.”

One thing was for sure, it was going to be a long four hours.

[orellazalonia]

Buckyxfem!reader based on the song 'When You're Gone.' by Shawn Mendes? With a happy ending. Maybe for your chronic illness verse or something. idk. The song came on and I thought it would be a cute fic.

-🫖

Hello! I haven’t heard of this song, but I tried to create something similar to the lyrics with the chronically ill!reader I’ve done before. Though, I apologize if this wasn’t quite what you were looking for. Nonetheless, I thank you for the request and hope you enjoy!! Happy reading!!!

When You’re Gone

Summary: After leaving Bucky to protect him from the weight of your chronic illness, you realize that being without him only makes everything harder. When he shows up at your door, you finally let yourself believe that love doesn’t mean being perfect. (Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.2k+

Main Masterlist

You’d always tried to be low-maintenance.

Polite, apologetic, and smiling when the pain was bad enough to blur your vision. You trained over the years to make your suffering quieter, easier for other people to digest. Even your illness had rules: don’t complain, don’t cancel plans too often, don’t scare anyone, and definitely don’t fall in love with someone who already carries enough of the world on his back.

But then there was Bucky.

He noticed things most people didn’t.

The way your fingers trembled after standing too long. How your eyes dulled when the fatigue crept in like fog. He didn’t flinch when he saw the pill bottles lined on the bathroom counter or when you couldn’t get out of bed until noon on your bad days. He adjusted and cared. Not out of obligation, but out of love.

Which made it worse.

At first, being with him was like finally breathing right, like something inside your chest had been wound too tightly for too long and he’d managed to loosen it with just a look. But as weeks turned into months, the guilt began to seep in through the cracks. You saw how he dropped everything when you texted I’m not okay. How he missed dinners, sleep, and even missions just to be there, just in case.

You hated yourself for being relieved every time he showed up.

Because eventually, the voice in your head started to whisper: He deserves better. He deserves easy. He deserves someone whose body isn’t a battlefield.

You tried to push it down though. You tried to believe him every time he kissed your forehead and told you he didn’t mind. But that voice was louder than reason, especially on nights when your bones felt like they were splintering, and you couldn't hide the winces anymore.

So, one night, when the pain hadn’t let up for days and your head felt heavy with dread, you made a decision.

You waited until he went out for groceries, packed your essentials, left a note you couldn’t bear to watch him read, and went to stay with a friend across the river, somewhere he wouldn’t think to check right away.

You told yourself you were protecting him.

But the first night alone, you couldn’t sleep. Every creak in the old apartment made your body jolt. Every shadow looked like his silhouette in the doorway. You missed the sound of him brushing his teeth. Missed how he checked on you without asking, just by sitting nearby with a book and waiting for you to breathe easier.

You told yourself the tears were from pain. That the nausea was from meds.

But deep down, you knew.

You weren’t okay without him.

And Bucky wasn’t okay either.

He didn’t come banging on the door even when he found out where you were. He didn’t yell or call you selfish, but he left things. Small things like a box of your favorite tea on the porch, a new heating pad when your old one has been left behind, groceries, and more. He even left a note that said Call me when you’re ready. I’m not mad, just worried.

But you ignored it for days. Because if you called, you were afraid you’d go back. And if you went back, you’d hurt him all over again.

But Bucky?

He was already hurting.

He woke up reaching for you even now.

His arm would stretch out across the bed before his eyes were open, hand seeking the warmth of your back or the edge of your thigh, only to find cold sheets. No dent in the pillow beside him. No quiet breathing. Just the thud of disappointment settling deeper in his chest.

And the silence, it was unbearable.

You used to fill it without even realizing. Humming under your breath in the kitchen, tapping your fingers in distracted little rhythms, or cursing softly when you dropped something. Even the silence with you had felt full, shared, and intentional. But now it echoed and reminded him of everything you took with you when you left.

At first, he thought you needed space. A break. A few days to sort through whatever fear had sunk its claws in you.

But the longer the silence stretched, the more it broke him.

He kept the apartment clean, just in case. Put your favorite snacks on the grocery list even though he never ate them. He bought a new bottle of your shampoo even though you weren’t there.

He kept your glass on the nightstand, folded laundry the way you liked, and more because some part of him still believed you’d walk through that door like you forgot something, and everything would fall back into place.

He left things at your door because he didn’t know what else to do. Because waiting felt like drowning. Because not knowing if you were okay made it hard to breathe.

And because loving you, even from a distance, was better than pretending he didn’t.

What no one told him was that love could hurt like this. That missing someone could become a second skin. That walking around with your absence could make the world blur at the edges like nothing was real without you in it.

He tried not to be angry.

He told himself you were scared. That maybe you thought you were protecting him, but it still gutted him knowing you were in pain, and you didn’t let him stay. Knowing you thought love was something that only existed when you were healthy.

He wanted to scream. To shake you and say I never asked for perfect. I just asked for you.

But instead, he waited.

He started carving things, out of habit, out of hope, out of desperation to do something. Little wooden birds, because you liked the ones in the park. He left one on your porch one morning, even though it made him feel ridiculous. He imagined you picking it up, holding it, and maybe even smiling.

He missed that smile so much, it made his heart ache. He didn’t know how long he’d keep waiting or if you’d ever come back.

But the worst part? The part that kept him up at night?

You’d become his comfort, his peace, his everything. And now that you were gone, nothing made sense. All he knew was that he wanted you back.

As time moved without the two of you together, you started counting things in your head because it helped the days feel measurable.

How many steps it took to get from the bed to the bathroom without bracing against the wall. How many pills left in the orange bottle. How many nights it had been since you’d heard his voice.

Twenty-four.

It didn’t feel like time anymore, just one long stretch of quiet that kept echoing.

At first, you thought you could adjust. That if you surrounded yourself with new routines, new walls, new things, the hollow would feel less loud. You even told yourself the pain wasn’t worse. That it just felt worse because Bucky wasn’t there to distract you from it. You told yourself a lot of things.

But it didn’t stop the ache.

You missed things that made no sense to miss. The weight of his dog tags brushing against your shoulder in bed. The smell of his gloves, always faintly like cedar. The way he said “you okay?” without it ever sounding like a burden.

He used to brush your hair when your arms hurt too much. Sit on the floor beside you and work through the knots in silence, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He never made you feel fragile. He just made space. Quiet, steady space.

Now, even your own body felt heavier. Like without him there, every flare hurt a little sharper. Every breath was something you had to convince yourself to take.

And still, you didn’t call.

Because if you heard his voice, you’d break. If he said your name, soft and careful, you’d undo every reason you left in the first place. And if you went back without being better, without being strong enough, or whole enough, you weren’t sure you’d ever forgive yourself.

But you were beginning to realize something.

You weren’t better now. You were lonelier, sicker, and numb in places you hadn’t known could go cold.

The truth crept in when you weren’t looking: You missed him the most at night.

When the city dimmed and the shadows stretched across the room and your chest tightened for no reason at all. When the pain came in slow, sharp waves and there was no hand reaching for yours. No voice murmuring You’re okay, I got you.

And maybe… maybe you weren’t protecting him at all. Maybe you were just afraid of being loved this deeply when you didn’t feel like you deserved it. Maybe he had known that from the start.

So when the knock came the next day, three soft raps against the door, your heart jumped.

Your hand hovered over the doorknob, your body still sore, your throat tight. You didn’t know if it was going to be him. You didn’t know if you could survive it if it wasn’t.

But something in you moved anyway.

Because you were tired of trying to be okay without him. And when you opened the door—

There he was.

Bucky, standing there like the last twenty-four days had bruised him too. His hoodie zipped up to his neck, knuckles red from the cold. No accusation in his eyes. Just grief, hope, and something rawer than either.

“I don’t care if you’re sick,” He stated, before you could get a word out. “I care that you’re not here.”

And that was it, the unraveling.

You didn’t even try to hold it in. Because missing him had hollowed you out. And now that he was here again, you remembered what it felt like to breathe.

You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. Maybe it didn’t matter. Because the next thing you knew, you were in his arms.

You didn’t say anything yet, just crumpled into his chest like your body remembered him better than your mind did. Your hands fisted into the fabric of his shirt, and he held you like he had no intention of letting go.

You heard his heartbeat before anything else. Steady and familiar. Your anchor.

His hand slid up your back, careful not to press too hard, but firm enough to say I’m here.

“I missed you,” You whispered, barely audible.

He just let out a breath, shaky and uneven, and tightened his arms like that was answer enough.

You didn’t move for a long time. Not until the cold started to settle into your skin and your legs started to tremble from holding so much weight: grief, pain, and everything you hadn’t said.

Wordlessly, Bucky nudged you inside. His eyes scanned the room like it was unfamiliar, like he didn’t want to assume he was allowed to stay. But he didn’t ask and you didn’t tell him to leave.

The air was quiet, thick.

You sat first slowly and carefully as he followed. Close enough for comfort, not close enough to smother.

You didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” You began. The words caught in your throat. “I left because I was too much. And I thought if I stayed, I’d just… drag you down with me.”

You braced yourself for silence. Or worse, agreement. But his voice was soft when it came.

“You weren’t dragging me down,” He said. “You were the only part of my day that made sense.”

Your breath hitched.

“I watched you hurt, Buck. I saw how tired you were. Always looking after me, dropping everything.”

“I wasn’t tired of you,” He said quickly. “I was just scared.”

You blinked, finally turning to face him. “Scared?”

He gave a quiet laugh, not cruel or sharp, just exhausted.

“Scared that I’d wake up and you wouldn’t be next to me. Scared you’d think you had to go through this alone just because your body’s different. And then you did.”

You looked away again.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” You whispered.

“I know,” He said. “But loving someone doesn’t mean never needing them.”

Silence stretched between you again but this time, it didn’t feel so unbearable.

“Do you… still want me?” You asked, quiet as a breath.

He looked at you like you’d just asked if the sun still rose in the morning.

“I never stopped,” He said. “Even when it hurt or when it scared me, you’re it for me, sweetheart. Whether we’re laughing on good days or pushing through the bad ones.”

You swallowed hard.

His hand found yours, gently curling your fingers together.

“We figure it out together. Okay?” He spoke. “No more disappearing, no more leaving me behind. You don’t get to protect me from loving you.”

You nodded, tears hot behind your eyes. “Okay.”

And this time, when he pulled you against his chest, you didn’t cry out of guilt. You cried because it felt like coming home.

Because you knew, whatever came next, you didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

And neither did he.

Taglist: @yasmin12312 @herejustforbuckybarnes @eeveedream @wingstoyourdreams @figtreesandmoonlight @happygalaxymilkshake @hits-different-cause-its-you @the-galaxy-fiend @ordelixx @mouseratface @mel-reads @itsmejen

[kuronarnze]

Hi Aika, its me again! Hope you get better soon :( Feel free to take your time with this request and do it once you're better! Is it alright if I ask for a headcanon with the usual Kurona, maybe add Charles and Isagi and whoever you want, where the reader is sick? It can be a treat for yourself until you get better! Again, please take your time and take care of yourself. Love reading your fics, hope you get well soon <3

-🦈⭐

a/n: HELLLOOOO 🦈⭐ ANONNN ‼️‼️ AAA TYSMMM I recovered like a few days agoo, THIS REQUEST IS SO CUTE OMG, I did only three characters for this one buttttt each of them have longer headcannons, enjoy reading 🫶💗

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

BLLK boys when their s/o is sick

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Isagi yoichi

- It starts with a sneeze. One sneeze during your late-night call. You try to play it off.

- But Isagi immediately sits up in bed like:

“…Was that you?? Was that a sick sneeze? A real one??”

- The second you admit you feel “kinda warm,” this man goes into ACTION.

- “Did you eat?”

- “You took medicine?”

- “What’s your temperature?”

- “I’m coming over. No, I don’t care—stay awake.” (bro is becoming momsagi for real)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

- He arrives in under 20 minutes with:

· two bags of groceries

· sports drinks in three flavors (in case you hate one)

· a new thermometer

· a giant water bottle

· your favorite fruit, already peeled and cut

· and a hoodie of his that smells just like him

- “I don’t trust your immune system,” he says while pulling your blanket up.

- Then gently presses the back of his hand to your forehead like your mom would do.

- “You’re burning up. I KNEW IT. Okay, I’m officially in charge.”

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

- Immediate mom-mode. He starts reorganizing your pillows for optimal neck support.

- “If you sleep with your head too low, your sinuses stay blocked.”

- “I Googled it. I watched two videos. Trust me.”

- He doesn’t even let you walk. Like, you try to get water and he just goes:

- “NO. Sit. Stay. You’re not allowed to move unless it’s an emergency—or if you’re peeing. I’ll carry you if you want.”

- When you apologize for being gross and sniffly, he cups your face so gently it makes your heart hurt.

- “Don’t say that. I’m here because I care about you. Not because you’re perfect.”

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

- Feeds you soup spoon by spoon. Blows on it. Tests it first.

- “Not hot anymore. Try this one.”

- Wipes your lips when they’re messy like it’s nothing.

- And when you start coughing at night and can’t sleep?

- He climbs into bed with you, tucks the blanket around you both, and whispers:

- “I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere. Sleep, okay?”

- You mumble that he might get sick, and he just smiles like:

- “Then I’ll get sick. We’ll be sick together. It’ll be cute.”

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

- You finally fall asleep with your head on his chest, and he just watches you for a moment—your flushed cheeks, sleepy breathing.

- He kisses your temple and murmurs,

- “I’ll take care of everything. Just focus on getting better.”

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

- In the morning, he’s already cooked breakfast and printed out your class notes.

- “Also, I emailed your professor. I told them you’re sick and recovering under professional supervision.”

- You: WHAT HELP

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Kurona ranze

- You send him a text:

- “Think I’m getting sick :(”

- He replies with:

- “Virus. Contagious. Stay still.”

- You’re not sure if he’s mad or concerned.

- 30 minutes later, your doorbell rings.

- It’s Kurona. He’s wearing a medical mask and holding a convenience store bag in one hand and a shark plushie in the other.

- “For you,” he says, handing it over. “Sick shark. Sick you.”

- It’s dumb. It’s adorable. You almost cry.

- He awkwardly hovers at your doorway, eyes scanning your flushed face. Then, in the softest voice:

- “You… look warm. Like… microwave warm.”

(He’s trying to say you have a fever.)

- He doesn’t say much at first. He just unpacks everything carefully:

· those vitamin drinks 😭

· throat lozenges

· cold compress

· porridge he made (kind of ugly, but smells good)

· and a tiny bottle of shark-shaped vitamins??

“Saw it. Funny.”

- When you weakly ask him to sit with you, he tenses up like you just proposed. “Sit. Sit next to… you?”

- He does it. Stiffly. Like a robot at first.

- Then, when you lean on his shoulder, he goes red but doesn’t move for three whole hours.

- While you’re half-asleep, he just starts talking.

- Quiet, steady, rambling like a calm sea.

- “Nurse sharks rest together in piles… like cuddles. They don’t need to move much. Like you.”

- “Greenland sharks live 300 years. You should try.”

- “Some sharks vomit their stomachs out to clean them. You… don’t do that.”

- He’s trying to soothe you with shark facts. And it works.

- When you cough, he immediately freezes, then goes:

- “Die. No. Wait—don’t die.”

- You burst out laughing, even while sniffling, and he flusters hard. “Don’t laugh while sick. It’s—bad. For air. Lung.”

- You laugh harder.

- Eventually, he lets you pull him down beside you. You use his lap as a pillow, and he’s too stunned to move.

- Stroking your hair gently like it’s some ancient art form.

- Murmuring random sea facts and your name under his breath like a prayer.

- You sleep with the shark plush clutched in your arms and Kurona reading sea creature trivia beside you until he falls asleep mid-page.

- He wakes up once, sees you drooling a little, wipes your cheek with his sleeve, then whispers:

- “…Cute. Sick. But cute.”

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Charles Chevalier

- You text him that you’re sick.

- He replies with: “NOOOO MY PRINCESSE D’AMOUR IS PERISHING?? 🙀”

- Then shows up at your door 10 minutes later with four bags of snacks, three scarves (he doesn’t know which matches your eyes best), and a toy thermometer he thought was “cuter” than the real one.

- Immediately goes, “Don’t move. I am your doctor. And also your nurse. And your emotional support boyfriend. I do everything here.”

- He pokes your forehead with his gloved finger like, “Temperature? High. Cuteness? Higher.”

- Brings a bell and says: “Ring this if you need anything. Even if it’s just my presence. Especially if it’s my presence.”

- Refuses to let you get up. “No, no, no—lie back down. Your legs are weak. Your soul is weary. You are fragile right now.”

- Dramatically lays a blanket over you like you’re Sleeping Beauty.

- Brings you soup, but draws a heart in the bowl with sriracha. Then insists he has to “taste-test it first to make sure it’s worthy of your royal tongue.”

- When you doze off? He takes selfies next to your sleeping face and captions them “my poor sick babygirl 😞 pray for us both” (he does NOT post them unless you say okay though!!)

- When you wake up and try to sit up:

- “Non! You are too delicate! What if you collapse?! I would cry! Actually, let me cry now just in case—”

- pretends to sob next to your bed.

- But in between the goofiness, he actually has your medicine perfectly timed, fluffs your pillow without asking, and lowkey texts your teachers to get your deadlines pushed.

- He gives you the forehead kiss and says:

- “No need to thank me, mon bébé. I thrive under chaos and fever.”

- Then tucks himself under the blanket with you like he didn’t just scold you for breathing too hard earlier.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

TYSM FOR READING AND HAVE A NICE DAYYY, omg I had sooo much fun writing this, I MISSED WRITING FOR KURONAAAAAA 🫶🫶💗 tysm for requesting 🫶

[littledykeblue]

▶ 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊 (𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄)

♫ word count: 4.2k | tags: panic attacks, drug use/abuse (weed and alcohol), brief mention of death, a singular mention of sex, vomit/mentions of throwing up, ellie is just very sad and very anxious pretty much, angst obvs, ellie and cat are dating.

♫ notes: i am sooo incredibly excited to be starting this omg! i hope you guys enjoy reading this prologue as much as i enjoyed writing it (it will get sadder before it gets happier). rip joel, you were a real one. the first chapter is already up on ao3 for your viewing pleasure!

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𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 (𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒)

I COULD FEEL THE ALCOHOL INSIDE OF ME HUM; PICTURED THE LOOK ON MY STEPFATHER’S FACE READY FOR THE BAD THINGS TO COME…I AM GOING TO MAKE IT THROUGH THIS YEAR IF IT KILLS ME.

“So, when are you gonna tell your dad?” Cat asks, wiping a smear of excess ink from Ellie’s arm with practiced fingers, her tone light with curiosity.

The question lingers in the air for a bit. The scent of disinfectant clings to the room, sharp and sterile, undercut by the faint musk of sweat and ink.

Ellie furrows her brow, gaze fixed on the raw, reddened and newly inked skin of her forearm. “About the tattoo? I don’t really think it’s that big of a deal.” 

“About you dropping out,” Cat clarifies, setting the machine down gently beside the tray of wiped-clean needles.

She leans back in her stool, studying Ellie in that way that makes her feel like a bug under a magnifying glass. “I mean, it’s like a band-aid, right? Better to just rip it off.”

Ellie’s mouth goes dry. She hates how fast her brain jumps straight to Joel, to the imagined weight of his silence over the phone, the soft disappointment he never really tries to show.

That look he gets when he’s trying to be supportive but can’t quite manage to hide the hurt underneath. Like she’s shrinking right before his eyes and there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

She doesn’t want to have this conversation. Not here, not with Cat, not now.

Ellie stares down at her lap, at the way her fingers twitch and curl against her jeans like they’re trying to vanish into the seams. The tightness in her chest creeps in slowly, like fog crawling over the edge of a field, and there’s a burn gathering in her throat she refuses to let become anything more.

Still, she pulls in a breath that doesn’t feel like it reaches her lungs and manages, “M’gonna tell him soon. Probably.”

Cat hums, clearly not paying full attention. She misses the way Ellie’s voice hitches or the way her thumb rubs a raw spot against the edge of her jeans.

She presses a kiss to Ellie’s temple as she risese from her seat, already halfway back in the present, distracted by the thought of dinner.

“I was thinking of pasta for tonight. That cool with you?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” Ellie replies automatically, her voice a ghost of itself.

They leave the shop a few minutes later. Cat laughs at something one of her coworkers says and waves as they head out into the golden spill of early evening.

The sidewalk outside still carries the warmth of the day, and the sky is softening into that lavender-blue gradient that always reminds Ellie of endings.

She lingers near the door, hands jammed into the pockets of her jacket, careful not to bump her new tattoo.

Cat is already halfway to the car, scrolling through her phone, completely at ease. Ellie follows quietly after she takes a stabilizing breath, the familiar ache still tucked beneath her ribs.

At the restaurant, she hangs back by the curb as Cat ducks inside to grab their food. Ellie stares down at her phone, thumb hovering over Joel’s name.

For a moment, she imagines the conversation. She imagines the dread before he answers, the way he’ll probably clear his throat and say her name like he’s bracing for bad news.

Because when is she ever calling him with anything else?

She could do it now. Get it over with. Say the words fast before they can hurt more than they already do. "Pull the band-aid off."

But her thumb never moves. The screen dims in her hand.

She slides the phone back into her pocket and looks up at the sky, counting stars that haven’t quite appeared yet.

Cat’s apartment is only a ten-minute drive from the restaurant, and Ellie spends most of it staring out the window, her thoughts noisier than the radio playing low through the speakers. The sun’s almost fully set by the time they pull into the lot behind the building. 

Cat talks on and off about a customer who tried to haggle over the cost of a full sleeve, laughing to herself as she locks the car. Ellie follows without a word, her stomach tight, and mind cluttered.

The apartment is a cramped second-floor walk-up that always smells like incense and cigarette smoke. Inside, it's dim and cluttered in a way that feels curated…artfully messy, Cat would put it. 

There are canvases stacked in corners, ink-stained cloth draped over the futon, and a coffee table littered with guitar picks, mismatched lighters, and half-burned candles. Band posters paper the walls—some of them Cat’s own, all with that gritty, DIY edge.

There’s a corkboard above the desk in the corner, and Ellie’s eyes flick to it out of habit. A handful of her sketches are tacked there, curled at the edges and smudged with graphite.

Nestled between them are Polaroids of her and Cat at house shows or kitchen parties, a couple of blurry ones with Cat’s friends whose names Ellie can’t always remember. 

Which is fine because, after all, they're only tolerating each other. Some of them with genuine warmth, others like she’s just background noise. She always gets introduced as “Cat’s Ellie,” and that’s supposed to mean something, but all it ever does is make her feel a little smaller inside her own skin.

Dinner is their pasta. Microwave-warmed in chipped ceramic bowls, eaten cross-legged on the couch with an old show playing in the background. Cat talks the whole time, animated, laughing through mouthfuls, throwing in casual touches here and there.

Ellie nods and smiles when she should, forces a few small laughs that come out too thin. The food sits heavy in her stomach, barely touched.

Underneath the conversation, Ellie’s body is screaming. Her chest feels tight again, too tight, like every breath takes work. There’s a ringing in her ears that rises and falls with the pitch of Cat’s voice, and her hands keep clenching around her fork until the metal starts to shake. She tells herself to get it together. To relax. But something in her is coiled and trembling and too close to the edge.

When they finish their meal and the TV flickers through the credits, Cat stands and stretches. “I’m gonna hop in the shower,” she says, voice light. “Think I’ll turn in early tonight. Got that morning class, remember?”

Ellie nods, hoping it looks more casual than it feels. “Yeah. Cool. I’ll clean up.”

Cat flashes her a quick smile, soft and a little tired, before disappearing into the bathroom. The sound of the water running does nothing to soothe the pounding in Ellie’s head. She takes her time clearing the dishes, stacking them neatly in the sink, wiping down the counter even though it doesn’t need it. She moves through the apartment on autopilot, stretching out each task like it might ground her again. It doesn’t.

By the time Cat’s out of the shower and retreating to the bedroom with damp hair and a yawn, Ellie is still thrumming. Her heart won’t settle. Her hands won’t stop twitching. The tightness in her chest is back in full force, an invisible hand pressing against her sternum.

She heads to the bookshelf, pulls out the floral tin she keeps tucked behind a row of old zines. The grinder’s already got a bit left in it from the last time. She grabs her lighter, her small glass bong—green with a crackled glaze Cat bought for her at a music festival last year—and slips out onto the balcony.

The night air is cool, a little damp. The city below is mostly quiet, save for the occasional car rolling past or the far-off thump of music from someone’s open window. Ellie sits down hard on the rusting patio chair and starts packing the bowl with trembling fingers.

Ellie exhales slow, watching the smoke curl upward into the dark. The bong rests between her knees, warm in her lap. Her fingers still tremble a little, but the edge is dulling now, softening into something looser and floatier. The ache in her chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels farther off, tucked behind the quiet hush of the night and the hum in her head.

She thinks about Joel, like she always seems to when she’s like this. Alone, high, and too cracked open to keep the memories at bay. 

The day he adopted her is one of those stories he used to tell like clockwork, usually after a few beers, sometimes when someone new would ask about her, and once when she got suspended in eighth grade for fighting and he wanted to remind her she’s worth the trouble. 

Ellie can’t remember the day itself, but he’d told it so many times it felt like hers. He always said it was the first and last time she ever shut up, that she clung to his leg like a baby possum and didn’t speak a single word for the whole drive back home. He’d smiled when he told it, but there was always something soft and sad in it, too.

She never called him Dad. It just didn’t feel right in her mouth. She’d picked up his name from Tommy one day, and when she’d said it, Joel had just looked at her, kind of amused, and laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world. So, Joel it was. 

And he never called her his daughter, not once that she can remember. She doesn’t think he means anything by it. He probably doesn’t even notice. But she’s always been kid to him. Sometimes kiddo, when he’s feeling sentimental. And it’s fine. Really.

Because she knows about Sarah.

There’s a hole in his chest shaped like a girl he never got to watch grow up, and Ellie’s never wanted to try and fill it. If Joel’s keeping the word daughter safe for Sarah, if that’s something sacred, then Ellie’s happy to be kid.

She smiles now, just a little, thinking of the good times. There were plenty, even if they got harder to come by the older she got. Trips out to get pancakes on Saturday mornings. Joel trying to teach her to drive and snapping at every red light like it personally offended him. Birthday cakes with candles that never lit right, and the way he always made her one out of boxed mix, no matter how much he hated baking. The guitar lessons. The inside jokes. The dumb way he’d call her “Eleanor” just to piss her off.

She lets out a small, surprised laugh—more of a giggle, really—then covers her mouth like someone might hear it. The high is settling now, warm and heavy behind her eyes, smoothing the edges of everything. For a moment, things feel okay. Not good, but less awful.

But her brain, traitorous as always, doesn’t let the feeling last. It circles back to the cracks, the fights, the silence. Her senior year is where it all started to rot. When school became unbearable and the only way she could get through the day was by going numb. 

When Joel started pushing for plans and structure and backup options, and Ellie didn’t have it in her to care. They’d fought. A lot. About everything. College. Her attitude. What the hell she was going to do with her life.

She only went because he wanted her to. Because she wanted to give him something to be proud of. And now she’s dropped out. Failed out. Whatever label you want to slap on it. She’s got nothing to show for it but a busted car and a sinking feeling in her gut that she’s going to break his heart all over again.

Ellie presses the bong to her lips again, inhales, holds. Her eyes are glassy, not just from the weed. She lets the smoke out slow, watching it disappear into the night, wishing she could go with it.

The sudden vibration of her phone nearly sends the piece tumbling off her lap. Her heart kicks, a sharp jolt in her chest. She fumbles for it, thumb clumsy as she pulls it from her pocket.

The screen glows against her palm. One name.

Joel.

Against the part of her brain that is screaming at her to ignore it, Ellie answers the call. Because her heart feels like mush and she misses him.  She lifts the phone to her ear, already trying to run through how to sound sober. Normal.

“Hey,” she says, voice thick with smoke she’s still trying to hold down.

Joel’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Hey, kid. Hope I didn’t catch you too late.”

“Nah,” she replies quickly. Too quickly. “Just, uh…winding down.”

There’s a pause. Not tense, exactly, but full of that familiar static they’ve had for the last couple years. It’s like there’s always a canyon between them now, and neither of them knows how to build a bridge back.

“I know you’re probably busy as all get out,” he says. “Busy time of year and all. Just wanted to check in.”

Ellie nods, even though he can’t see it. “Yeah. No, it’s…it’s been a lot, but it’s good.” She bites the inside of her cheek. “I, uh. I got a new tattoo today.”

Joel lets out a low whistle. “As long as it’s not on your face.”

Ellie smiles despite herself. “Nah. It’s small. On my arm.”

“You gonna send me a picture or do I gotta guess what it is?” he teases, voice warming. “It better be a portrait of my face, or I’m gonna be real disappointed.”

She lets out a quiet laugh, the sound catching her off guard. “Sorry to say it’s not that sentimental.”

“Damn shame,” he says, and there’s something so familiar about the way he says it—just a touch of sarcasm, a whole lot of love beneath. “But I still wanna see it. Text it to me later, alright?”

“Okay,” she says, her voice soft now. “I will.”

They fall into something easier after that. Joel tells her about the new dog Tommy’s trying to train, how it chewed up one of his boots and he swears it did it just to spite him. Ellie tells him about a guy who set off the fire alarm in the dorms trying to cook a frozen pizza directly on the oven rack.

They laugh. Real, genuine laughter. The kind that stretches something in Ellie’s chest she hadn’t realized was wound so tight. But eventually the conversation slows, the silences between topics getting longer. Joel’s voice quiets.

“You doin’ okay? You know there ain't nothing you can't tell me.”

Ellie stares out over the balcony, blinking against the sting that creeps up the back of her throat again. Her fingers twitch against the phone. This would be the moment. The perfect opening. She could just say it. She could tell him she’s dropped out. That everything feels like it’s slipping sideways and she doesn’t know how to stop it.

But the words stick. She can’t get them out.

“Yeah,” she lies. “I’m good. Just tired. Got an early class tomorrow.”

Joel’s quiet for a second. She can practically hear him weighing it, deciding whether to push. But when he speaks again, his voice is gentler than before. “Alright. Well��get some sleep then.” A beat. “Love you, kid.”

Her chest squeezes. She shuts her eyes, holding the phone tighter. “Love you more.”

They hang up. The screen goes dark.

Ellie sets the phone down on the patio table and reaches for the bong. She takes one last hit, the smoke burning a little on the way down. It settles warm in her lungs, hot in her chest. For a few seconds, she lets it blur everything out.

Then she stands, shoulders heavy, and heads back inside.

Ellie changes in a blur of movement before settling into bed beside Cat who stirs and drapes her arm around Ellie’s midsection. Cat angles her neck up to place a kiss to the underside of Ellie’s jaw, and Ellie moves to capture her lips in a kiss. 

“You’re such a bad influence,” Cat says, sighing against her lips. 

“We can be quick,” Ellie promises. 

The two of them touch each other with purpose. Sex is something Ellie knows well enough; she lets the familiar motions carry her and the orgasms that follow to white-out any lingering thoughts. She passes out like that, tangled up in her temporary peace.

♫♫♫

Despite the lies still clinging to her tongue, the phone call with Joel does something to her nerves. Soothes them. Calms the pressure in her chest just enough to keep her above water.

She doesn’t feel fixed afterward, but it’s easier to breathe for a while. Easier to fall back into the slow, dull rhythm of her days.

She goes to work at the gas station, a cramped little box lit by buzzing fluorescents and reeking of burnt coffee and slushy syrup. She stands behind the counter for hours on end, half-listening to the radio and the creak of the door whenever some bleary-eyed customer shuffles in.

Most days, she clocks out with her shoulders aching and her thoughts scattered. After work, she either stares at a blank page in her sketchbook until her eyes blur or avoids it entirely, telling herself she’ll try again tomorrow.

At night, when the hum in her head gets too loud and her body won’t stay still, she smokes until her limbs go heavy and her thoughts start to slow.

Then, she sleeps. Or drifts, at least, caught somewhere between restless dreams and the kind of half-conscious panic that makes her wake up with her heart racing and no idea why.

She talks to Joel sometimes. Not often. Only on days when she feels strong enough to keep her voice steady and her guilt tucked neatly behind her teeth. When she does call, their conversations are light.

Joel talks about home and the weather, whatever game was on last week, the fishing trip he and Tommy have planned. Ellie lies about classes and assignments and swears everything is fine.

The days pass in a blur of sameness until the weekend hits. That’s when Cat comes alive.

Friday night, they head to a house party thrown by one of Cat’s friends. Ellie can’t remember which one, and it doesn’t really matter. She knows how the night will go.

She’ll have to reintroduce herself to half the room. Pretend like she remembers names. Smile and nod and drink fast enough to loosen the knot in her chest before it has a chance to strangle her.

The basement is packed when they arrive, dimly lit by string lights and already humming with heat. Cat’s band is setting up in the corner, instruments plugged in, someone tuning loudly over the chatter. The air smells like sweat and cheap vodka. Ellie feels the first edge of discomfort start to creep in—too many bodies, too much noise—but she pushes it down and heads straight for the drink table.

There’s a cheer when she pours herself a full solo cup. Someone shouts that Ellie Williams knows how to get the party started, and she laughs on instinct, even though it feels like the sound belongs to someone else.

The truth is, she’s not getting trashed for the fun of it. She just doesn’t know how to exist in a room like this without it.

The alcohol kicks in quickly. The basement gets hotter. The band starts to play, and Ellie loses herself in the music. Jumping, shouting, her body moving freer than she ever lets it.

Her shirt clings to her back with sweat, hair sticking to her temples. She knows she probably looks like hell, but she doesn’t care.

“Hey, Ellie, take a pic of us real quick?”

A blonde girl—glowing with sweat, hair damp and curling around her face in a way that somehow makes her look radiant instead of wrecked—thrusts a phone toward her. Ellie nods, barely registering the question, and lifts the phone with both hands.

She snaps a few blurry shots, fingers unsteady, framing the girl and her friends with the band in the background. They’re terrible photos. She doesn’t even try to fix them.

“Here you go,” she mumbles, passing the phone back. The movement jostles her stomach and suddenly everything shifts sideways.

Shit.

Her mouth floods, and she barely manages a tight-lipped smile before turning away.

“Be right back,” she lies, voice thin.

She pushes through the crowd. Past grinding couples, drunken greetings, people she barely knows trying to pull her into conversation. Her eyes are watering now.

The bassline pounds in her head and her stomach lurches with every step. She shoves past someone on the stairs, maybe two someones, muttering something that could be an apology before she reaches the main floor.

She barely makes it to the bathroom in time.

The door slams behind her and she drops to her knees, the toilet seat cold against her arms as she empties the contents of her stomach into the bowl. It’s violent and ugly. Her hair sticks to her cheek, and her hands shake as she braces herself against the tile.

When it’s over, she doesn’t move.

She rests there, cheek against the porcelain, the chill offering a small measure of relief despite how gross it is.

Her mouth tastes awful. Her eyes sting. Her head has started to pound again, slow and rhythmic, and she can't fucking do this anymore.

Her hand moves before her brain catches up, fingers fumbling with her phone. She scrolls past her recent texts, past Cat’s name.

She taps Joel's contact, and brings the phone to her ear.

The call connects with a soft click, and for a beat Ellie just breathes into the silence. The bathroom spins gently around her. Her cheek is still pressed to the cool rim of the toilet, her knees aching against the tile. The weed and booze churn in her gut like poison, but it's the guilt that really makes her sick.

“Joel,” she says, a breathless, broken laugh catching in her throat. “Fuck, Joel, I dropped out. I dropped out like four months ago and I didn’t tell you. I was gonna. I swear. Like, every day I thought about calling but I—I just couldn’t. I couldn’t do it.”

Her voice breaks immediately.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and then again, louder, more desperate: “I’m so sorry.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Her throat burns, and the words pour out in a rush, tumbling over each other, disjointed and heavy.

“I know you wanted me to go. I know you thought it’d help. And I tried, I really did. I thought I could, like, figure shit out and make you proud for once. Not just skate by or fuck things up like I always do. But I couldn’t. It was too much, and I hated it, and I didn’t want to waste your money or your hope or whatever.”

She lets out a choked, wet laugh that turns into another sob.

“I didn’t wanna disappoint you. I just—I didn’t wanna be this thing you had to take care of all the time. I know I’ve always been a lot. Too much. And I know I'm just, like, a fuckin' replacement, or whatever. Fuck, I'm not even a good one but…you stayed. And I don’t know why, but you did. And I fucking love you for it. I love you so much and I’m just—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to mess this up too.”

She’s crying hard now, ugly and heaving, her hand curled into a fist against the bathroom tile. Her voice is barely holding together.

“I love you, Joel. Please don’t be mad. Please don’t—”

She pauses, sniffling, waiting for something. Anything. But there’s only silence on the other end.

Her heart stutters. A new kind of panic starts to rise in her chest.

“...Hello?” she asks, voice small and wrecked.

A pause. Then a voice.

Not Joel’s.

“Hey, Ellie.” It's Tommy. Ellie's brows furrow together, and she pulls back the phone to make sure she's called the right number. She did. "I think you should, uh, come home."

His voice is tight, something very clearly wrong. And Ellie doesn't want to think about why he picked up Joel's phone, why she needs to go home.

If anything, she sort of just wants to throw up again.

★─── ⋆⋅ ★ taglist (comment to be added!): @honeyylovee, @pariiissssssss, @sewithinsouls, @newjupiter, @vahnilla, @elliewilliamsluvrr, @kousanosgf, @1i1z, @senjukawaragitr, @ferxanda, @kamaluhkhan, @tsujifreya, @liasxeatt, @eriiwaiii2, @ssshhh-imreading, @autisticratbagtm, @chappellroankisser, @diddiqueen, @elliewilliamsrealgf, @sophivstheworld, @savagestarlight28, @dannysarcade, @mcqueeferson

[forevvermb]

chris sturniolo’s girlfriend dumped him—that's great for all his “fangirls”. but for him, he was heart broken, he lost the supposed "love of his life", and there was no way to get her back.

at least that's what he thought. his ex was known to be pretty envious and petty, so what better to do than begin dating her rival to get her to come back. and chris knew exactly who, he was aware that it was selfish, and maybe even stupid, but he was blind at that time and love can make you do stupid things.

-

you were a quiet girl, completely different than middle school. you were friends with this girl for years—then near the end of junior high she started spreading rumors about you, and when high school started, you already knew you had no chance of making friends. not only doesn’t she like you, but she made half the school not like you too.

so you were surprised when you saw chris in front of your desk, smirk plastered onto his face and his eyes, only on you, you didn't trust him at all knowing that he was your rival's boyfriend—ex? you didn't know or care enough. so you ignored him.

you gave him a chance the second time he went to talk to you. what could he possibly want? is it important?

your head lifts up the moment he says your name, you couldn't read his face—it didn't look like he was forced to talk to you, but it didn't look like he wanted to talk to you either. chris looked confident but his body language was the opposite.

"i'm sorry for ignoring you the other day.." you mumbled, "what did you want to say to me?"

he smiled, not really, his teeth weren't showing but the corners of his lips curved up. "well, i know you aren't really the best person," chris went on, of course he fell for the rumors, his girlfriend started them and he just agrees to whatever she says—said. you stay silent, nodding as he spoke. "but i still want to try being your friend."

“..what?"

chris cleared his throat, speaking more clearly so the people around them could hear, "you heard me, i want to be your friend."

you were just as more confused than the people looking at you and chris. you've never had a friend before, not since junior high, not since she ruined your entire high school experience. your mouth slightly opened, before closing it, "why?"

chris responds with a chuckle, it went on until he finally made up a reason, "well for starters, you're one of the quietest girls in school, i want to know more about you. and, i like it when you move your head down to hide your smile—and when you get nervous whenever someone tries talking to you, and-“

"okay, okay, okay." you cut him off, waving your hands to stop him. you didn't know whether to be flattered, or weirded out. "we can be friends." you answer with an awkward smile.

step one was checked off for chris. "great."

the next step was to get closer, and hopefully it catches the attention of his ex—and he honestly didn't plan that far after this. chris was praying on a miracle that she would run back to him.

that's what he would do if someone he loved moved on.

so, he started hanging around you more often. the solo trips to the school library became a duo one. he was the only person willing to talk to you after a long three years of being alone. it was nice, it was nice to finally have a friend.

-

who doesn't fall for chris’s charm? you did eventually. maybe because he purposely sat closer to you during lunch, or when he actually listens to your rambles, something you weren't able to do in a long time. chris listens, and he remembers. he slowly wins your heart over by doing that.

for chris, strike one happened when he realized he was subconsciously spending money on a gift for you. it was expensive—but the moment he saw your eyes light up when he handed you the present made him not regret the purchase at all.

strike two, while walking to lacrosse practice, chris overheard a group of girls talk about you and him. he listened in, every insult they said about you just made him more and more tense, and he didn't know why. he stepped into their conversation, "i thought you girls were better than just mean words and lies." chris glared but his plastered on smile remained. "she's a pretty cool person if you get to know her. don't tell her i said that though." his smile dropped, staring daggers into each girl before stomping onto the field.

then, it happened, strike three. the forbidden rule chris set for himself broke instantly the moment he saw you watching one of his games—something his ex never did.

you were always known as the gloomy student, but when your around chris, you show your true colors. you run up to him the moment you see him walking out the stadium—before any of his “fangirls” found him. "i've never seen a lacrosse match before." you awe, watching chris wipe the sweat off his face with a towel.

chris’s face was red, it wasn't from playing.

"now you have. what'd you think?" he smiled, his eyes softened when he saw you smile back.

you nod excitedly, "it was great. i was a bit confused though. but still, great!" you notice chris staring at your face—no, your lips.

without even thinking, the two of you moved closer, "do you think you can come to my games more often?" his head tilts.

"i'd love to!"

then, he kissed you. it was short, but sweet. it was your first kiss. your fingers brush your lips, "what does this mean now?" you ask, looking back up at him with flushed cheeks.

"your choice." his hand rubbed the back of your head, chris's eyes were on you now.

-

"i've never had a boyfriend before." you tell chris while the two of you were on your first official date.

"glad to be your first." his thumb rubbed your knuckles. by this time he completely forgot about his plan. the only thing on his mind was you.

chris thought you were the one, he even introduced you to his family and you met his older brothers. he loves taking sunset pictures, except this time, you're in the photos too.

he was a careless guy—the type of guy to sneak into your window late at night just to cuddle you for an hour or two. he made his relationship obvious to the people around him and he would immediately defend you the moment someone talks bad about you.

he was the one that calmed down all the rumors about you, people started worrying less and less about it and you even made some friends because of that.

but chris was a bit, loud about the relationship. so much that his ex finally heard about it. needless to say she was pissed, surprisingly, more at chris than she was at you.

it's been a week, chris took you on yet another date again but you weren't complaining, "i reserved us seats at your favorite cafe." chris flexed as he showed off the receipts on his phone.

"i'm excited!" you hug his arm, "i really appreciate this, chris. i mean it." you hug him tighter, the most chris could do was stutter.

"no problem, anything for my girl." he ruffled your hair, "let's go."

he opened the door for you, as you entered you passed her. "what are you doing here?" she sharply raised an eyebrow, then she looked at chris. "hi, chris."

"hi." he gulped, you felt chris’s hand holding yours tighter. he instinctively moved you behind him, almost as if he was protecting you. "what do you want?"

"relax, i was just here for a cup of tea." she rolled her eyes. "but, now that you're here, we might as well talk. mind if we go somewhere quiet?"

you looked at chris, but he was already looking at you. he didn't say a word, but you knew he was asking for permission. you sighed, then nodded. "great." she smiled, taking chris’s arm and leading him away to the alleyway next to the cafe.

curiosity got the best of you, and you followed closely behind.

"you talk loud." she chuckled.

chris kept his distance, "what do you mean?"

"my friends heard you talking to your teammates. something about how you were going to get with her so i can come back to you."

your lip began to quiver, it was all the way in the back of your head, but you knew something was up with him. you should've known. all of it was too good to be true. still, you stayed, waiting for confirmation.

he stammered, "how'd you- damnit..."

that's all you needed to hear before you ran away. home was far, you didn't know where you were running but it was anywhere away from chris.

"well this so called plan of yours is working. i miss you, chris." she leaned on the wall, her eyes narrowed as she stared at chris.

"yeah? well i don't. that plan was just something stupid. it's over between us." his voice was stern, that's when she knew he was being serious about this. "she told me everything, you ruined her life and you're the only reason why she stopped trying to make friends. you're selfish, and i was blind to see that."

"geez." she scoffed, "but you seriously think she's better than me?"

"her existence is one of the only reasons why i'm still so motivated. i hope that's enough for your thick skull." chris glared before walking out the alley. he looked around, but you weren't there.

-

he called, no answer.

he called again, no answer, at first, chris thought you were in danger. that was until you picked up on the third call. "oh, you picked up, i was getting worried-"

"stop calling me, chris." your voice soft, but he knew you were crying. "it's over, we're over."

“what? what do you mean?" chris knew you weren’t around, but he still looked around. he felt his stomach twist into a knot.

"i heard it. you were using me? are you kidding me?" you cried out, before he could say another word, you interrupted.

"i don't want to see your face ever again, go back to her. that's what you always wanted anyways." you hung up, and threw your phone before you began sobbing into your pillow.

chris tried calling again after a few minutes—maybe you were calmed down by then. but he couldn't call you, you blocked his contact.

he stood still for a long minute, people passed by wondering why such an attractive man was just... standing there, some asked what was wrong but he didn't answer.

-

it's been only a few days, but for chris it felt like months. he used to see you walk down the hallway—you two would make eye contact before he grabs your waist and hugs you tight, you go a different route now.

he missed hearing you talk and laugh—he missed seeing you smile. chris wanted to apologize but you'd avoid him everytime he went too close.

but there was a place where you couldn't really escape him.

"someone's here to see you." your mom smiled as she peeked her head into your room.

"who?" your head lifts up from your pillow—your eyes were pearly and you covered your entire body with a big blanket.

your mom opened the door wider, and chris stepped in. your eyes widened before you immediately hid under your blanket. "get out."

“i just want to talk." chris sighed, your mom closed the door—leaving you and chris alone.

you adjust your blanket, so only your eyes are visible. chris lightly chuckles at the sight, it was cute. "say it, and leave."

"listen, it was a plan—originally. but when i saw you laugh for the first time i felt something different, something i've never felt before compared to any other girl i've met. i still love it when you move your head down to hide your smile and when you get nervous whenever someone tries talking to you—except that doesn't happen anymore now that you started making friends."

your gaze relaxed, you sat up—blanket still around you as you look at chris. "i've never had anything like this before and i know you never had this either." chris gently grabbed your face, it was enough for you to finally let go of your blanket. "i love you."

there, right there, maybe it was his puppy like face—a face that dogs make when they know they're guilty of something. you knew he was being honest. you softly smiled, "you couldn't survive a whole week without me?" you raised an eyebrow as your hand was over his.

"i was already suffering on the first day." his arms wrapped around you, "i hate seeing you cry."

"i can't believe you came over just to apologize, you're stupid, chris." your face dug into his shoulder as he rubbed your back.

"love makes you do stupid things."

i honestly don't know if this is good or not, but it's definitely something!! I hope you lovelys liked it!!

xoxo, truly

🏷@bernardsbendystraws @mi-co-uk

[4barbatos]

✦ as if i could ever be gentle

kazuha x fem reader

cw. dead dove do not eat. dubcon, emotional manipulation, trauma bonding, self-harm (graphic cutting, blood mentioned), suicidal ideation / threats, psychological abuse, toxic codependency, obsessive behavior, mental illness

an. old fic i wrote about a month ago !! decided to polish it up a bit because i love toxic kazu too much </3 art is from nekorin_chu on twt :3

of course you met him in a library. where else could it have been?

kazuha always looked like he belonged somewhere quiet. soft-spoken. well-read. the kind of boy who carried poems in his pockets and left pressed flowers between the pages of books he returned late. he moved like silence incarnate — careful, deliberate, like he didn’t want to disturb the air around him.

he smelled like old paper and ink and the kind of rain that doesn't soak you, just lingers in the air. and he always spoke like he was writing a poem just for you. like every word he said was chosen, curated, wrapped in silk and handed to you with reverence.

you thought he was gentle. you thought he was kind.

he never raised his voice. never told you no. never looked at you like you were too much.

and the first time you cried in front of him — about a failed exam, or maybe your father, or maybe just the way the world felt too sharp some days — he didn’t flinch. didn’t recoil.

he just looked at you with those faraway eyes and said, “i understand.”

but he didn’t.

he never did.

kazuha didn’t feel things the way other people did. he studied them. mirrored them. learned kindness like a second language, a mask he stitched into his skin. he learned how to smile with his eyes, even when they were empty.

he watched the way you trusted him. the way your hands would find him in sleep — fingertips grazing his chest like you were afraid he might vanish. the way you called him soft. good. safe.

and somewhere, between your whispered i love yous and the way you fell asleep tangled in his shirt, he started to believe he was.

but there were nights — god, there were nights — when you didn’t touch him. when you rolled away in bed without meaning to. when you forgot to kiss him goodbye because your head was heavy with other things.

and those were the nights he bled. quietly. methodically. in the bathroom, with the door locked, like a ritual. like penance. like the only way he could prove to himself that there was something inside him — something real, even if it only knew how to hurt.

you stop checking the windows. stop wondering what time it is. days melt together — slow and quiet and padded in cotton.

you forget how long it’s been since you left the apartment. the curtains stay closed. the clocks are turned around. you start measuring time by the tea he brings you and the books he reads aloud.

he says you’re calmer now. that this is the best version of you.

you don’t know what that means. only that the quieter you get, the more he smiles.

so you let yourself disappear. inch by inch. until even the mirror doesn’t remember you.

your breathing is slow. deep. quiet. his favorite sound in the world.

you sleep like you trust him. you always have. and that’s the worst part.

kazuha sits by the bed, legs folded beneath him, arms tucked close to his chest like he’s trying to disappear. like even now, even here, he thinks he’s taking up too much space. blood stains the cuff of his sleeve — a fresh, clean line along the inside of his wrist. it’s shallow. deliberate. practiced. he’s getting better at that.

the room is still. moonlight drapes across the floor, spills onto the sheets, catches in your hair like silver thread. the fan hums in slow, steady circles. it brushes across your bare shoulders, your back, the soft slope of your waist where the blanket slipped down.

you’d fallen asleep waiting for him. fingers curled into the pillow where he should’ve been. like you missed him even in dreams.

he climbs into the bed carefully. like he’s afraid to wake you. the mattress dips beneath his weight — and still, you don’t stir.

his fingers skim across your skin. barely there. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish under his touch. like this is an apology he can’t say out loud.

you’re so warm. so soft. so real.

"i love you," he whispers. voice thin and shaking — like breath over broken glass.

you don’t hear it. you never hear the first time.

his mouth presses to your shoulder, barely a kiss, more of a need. he just needs something. anything.

and when he pushes in — slow, careful, bare — it’s not lust. not anymore.

it’s need. it’s grief. it’s the hollow place in his chest begging to be filled with something human.

you shift in your sleep. breathe in, slow and deep. your brows twitch �� the faintest sign of a dream turning.

and for a second, his heart stutters. he panics. he stops. but you don’t wake.

his hand glides up your spine. his face buries into your neck. he moves just enough to stay present. to feel you. to pretend this is love.

every thrust is quiet. measured. it feels more like prayer than sex. a desperate offering to something that won’t answer him.

"i’m sorry," he breathes. over and over, lips pressed to your skin. "i love you. i’m sorry. i love you."

he doesn’t know which one is the lie anymore.

and then — you stir.

your eyes flutter. not fully open, just a sliver.

and your voice — small, cracked with sleep — "kazu…?"

he goes still. he’s still inside you. your body trembles. just slightly. recognition settles in slow, like drowning.

and when he starts to move again — slow, aching — you don’t stop him. you don’t pull away.

you don’t say anything at all.

your eyes glisten in the dark. but you don’t cry. you don’t scream. you just take it.

and that — that hurts more than anything.

"please don’t hate me," he breathes, voice cracking open like a wound. his fingers grip your hips like a child holding something warm and breakable. "please…" "i’ll cut deeper if you do."

and he means it. god, he means it.

you wake up with your back to him.

your body aches. your thighs stick. your chest is tight in a way you can’t name yet. a hollowness tucked beneath your ribs — like something was taken and nothing put back.

kazuha’s breathing is steady behind you. too steady. his arms are wrapped around your waist like he’s protecting you from a storm he built with his own two hands.

and for a second — just one — you pretend it didn’t happen.

you pretend you asked him to. pretend you wanted it. pretend the silence between you isn’t loud enough to shatter glass.

but your body tells the truth. the soreness says otherwise.

"you’re awake."

his voice is soft. warm. you hate how gentle he sounds. how quiet. how careful. like he’s tucking a lullaby into a bruise.

you don’t say anything. you just stare at the wall.

like if you stay still long enough, maybe you’ll disappear.

there’s a pause. a shift in the air — heavy, like the moment before a downpour. then:

"do you hate me now?"

his voice is smaller this time. barely there. you still don’t answer.

you don’t owe him that.

but he gets up anyway. moves toward the desk with slow, practiced steps. you hear the drawer open. the clink of metal.

your breath catches. your eyes snap toward him just in time to see his sleeve roll up.

and then — slowly, carefully, like he’s slicing through a memory —

he cuts.

clean. deep. deliberate. a single line down the inside of his wrist, and the blood rises fast, bright red blooming against pale skin. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t look away.

"please don’t hate me," he says again. quieter now. his eyes locked on yours, not the wound. not the blood.

just you.

"i told you i’d cut deeper if you did."

you sit up fast — blanket slipping from your chest, heartbeat a scream caught in your throat.

"kazuha—"

but he doesn’t move. doesn’t panic. he holds the razor in his fingers like it’s nothing. like it’s a pen. like it’s just another way to write himself into you.

"i didn’t mean to hurt you," he says, watching the blood drip down his arm, calm like he’s describing a dream. "i just wanted to feel close to you."

you stare at the wound. you stare at him.

and worst of all — you feel sorry for him.

your stomach turns with it. guilt twisting like a knife you didn’t know you were holding.

and he knows. of course he knows.

that’s the part that cuts the deepest.

not the razor. not the ache in your body. not even the silence.

it’s the part of you that still wants to make him feel better. even now. even after.

you shouldn’t move. your legs still ache from last night. your throat is tight. your chest is heavy with something you haven’t named — not yet. not out loud.

but the blood is dripping down his arm. fast.

you stumble out of bed — half-naked, half-numb — grab tissues, an old sleep shirt from the floor, anything. you press it hard against his wrist, watch red bloom through the fabric like it's punishing you for being slow.

your hands are shaking.

he watches you with glassy eyes. soft. like he’s grateful. like you’re saving him.

"i didn’t think you’d get up," he says, quiet.

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

"what the fuck is wrong with you," you whisper. not angry. not yelling. just cracked.

shattered glass trying to hold shape.

"i love you." his voice is steady. too steady. like he’s been practicing it in the mirror. like he’s already said it to himself a thousand times and finally believes it.

you press harder. the blood keeps soaking through. you should be screaming. should be calling someone. should be running.

but then —

he cups your face. gently. tender. with the same hand that just bled for you.

"i didn’t mean to scare you," he murmurs. "i just… couldn’t stand it. the thought of you waking up and looking at me like i ruined you."

his thumb brushes your cheek. there’s still blood on it. you flinch. but you don’t pull away.

you should.

"you didn’t ruin me," you whisper. a lie. a prayer. maybe if you say it enough, it’ll come true.

he leans forward. rests his forehead against yours. his breath is warm. wet. trembling.

"then stay," he breathes. "please. stay. don’t leave me alone with this."

and when he kisses you — you let him.

not because you forgive him. not because it’s okay.

but because you’re afraid of what he’ll do if you don’t.

his lips taste like salt and copper. his fingers tremble against your skin. you pull away just enough to breathe. just enough to think.

"i need to clean your arm," you say. your voice doesn’t sound like yours anymore.

he nods. obedient. like he didn’t just bleed to keep you here.

you guide him to sit. gather gauze, antiseptic, tape. your hands are steady now. they have to be.

and as you wrap the bandage around his wrist — as he rests his head against your lap like a child — as he whispers soft apologies into the skin of your thigh, over and over, like prayer, like confession, like punishment —

you finally understand.

he’s not afraid of hurting you.

he’s afraid of you leaving.

and that makes him dangerous.

you don’t remember how long you stayed in the bathroom. wrapping gauze around his wrist. wiping blood from the tile, from his skin, from your own hands. he kept holding your fingers. kept whispering “thank you” like you’d done something brave.

but you weren’t brave. you were scared. you still are.

you didn’t leave. not because you forgave him. not because you loved him.

but because his eyes looked like an open wound — raw and begging — and you’d already learned he’d rather bleed out than be alone.

he doesn’t touch you that night. not at first.

he lays behind you, soft and careful. arm over your waist, nose tucked into your hair like he’s trying to memorize your scent. his heartbeat feels steady against your back. too steady. rehearsed.

he plays the part so well. you almost believe it.

you try to sleep. but your body remembers too much. the silence. the weight. how deep he sank into you. how you didn’t stop him. how he cried after.

"you’re shaking," he murmurs. you lie. “i’m cold.”

his hand slips under the blanket. warm palm against your stomach. his lips brush your shoulder.

you go still.

"can i…?" his voice is so fucking gentle. so soft. like asking for your body is something sacred. something earned.

you don’t answer. you just nod.

and that’s all he needs.

he rolls you over. hands shaking slightly — like he's the scared one. like this hurts him.

he kisses you slow. like it’s a love story. like you’re something holy.

acts like you’re his first and only. like this is a poem he doesn’t want to end.

and when he fucks you, it feels like mourning.

like he’s burying the boy he could’ve been if he didn’t have to bleed to feel.

he moans your name like a prayer. presses his forehead to yours. holds you like he’s sorry.

“you’re the only one who makes me feel real.” he whispers it like it’s a gift. like it’s not a curse.

you’re too numb to answer. your body gives in, but your mind floats somewhere else. drifting. detached.

when he comes, he trembles. clutches your hand tight — almost desperate.

and breathes out a quiet, broken “thank you.”

like you just saved him. again.

you cry in the shower the next morning. not loud. not ugly. just quiet tears.

the kind that slip down your cheeks before you even realize they’re there. salt mixing with the steam. with the soap. with the ache between your legs.

you press your forehead to the tile. breathe through it. try to pretend the water is washing everything away.

it isn’t.

he waits outside the door. doesn’t knock. just sits there.

you hear him hum a soft tune — one he knows you like. or maybe one he heard you hum once and decided to keep.

"i made breakfast," he says gently. "do you want tea?"

you say yes. because you don’t know how to say no anymore.

not to him. not when he’s quiet. not when he’s kind.

and maybe that’s the worst part — the way he makes cruelty feel like care. the way you’re too tired to tell the difference.

it’s been a while.

your best friend texts you: are you okay? you’ve been quiet lately.

you stare at the screen for a full minute. kazuha’s asleep beside you, arm heavy over your waist, his breath slow, soft, like he’s dreaming of peace he doesn’t deserve.

you type:

yeah just tired lol <3

you delete it. rewrite:

yeah all good !! just been studying a lot

you send it. put your phone face-down.

then you lean over. kiss his forehead like nothing’s wrong.

at lunch, you skip again. you text the group chat: he’s sick, i’m taking care of him.

they all send 🥺 emojis. “you’re such a good girlfriend.” “he’s lucky to have you.”

you don’t correct them. you can’t.

later, in class, one of them pulls you aside. not forcefully — just gentle. just concerned.

"you okay?" they ask.

you nod. "just tired."

"you’ve been… different."

you laugh. the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes. "it’s nothing. really."

but then you reach for your pen. and your sleeve rides up.

they freeze. "what’s that?"

you yank it down fast. "nothing. i scratched myself. it’s fine."

but it’s not fine. and it’s not a scratch.

it’s the dried stain from when you held his wrist too long, pressed too hard, didn’t clean it right.

you hadn’t noticed it smeared your sleeve. hadn’t noticed how visible it was.

your chest tightens. panic blooming like a bruise behind your ribs.

you text kazuha after class: i think they’re getting suspicious.

he replies instantly: baby. come over. please. i need you. i’ll be good. promise. i’ll show you how much i love you.

so that night, you’re back in his bed. wrapped in his sheets. in his scent. in him.

he holds you close, breath warm against your ear. "did someone say something?" he asks softly.

you nod. once.

his hand tightens — just slightly — around your hip. "do you still love me?"

you hesitate. and for a moment, something breaks in his eyes.

he flinches. pulls back like you hit him.

but then — like always — you say yes.

he exhales like he’s been underwater. presses his face into your neck.

"thank god," he breathes. "i don’t know what i’d do if you stopped."

his hand drifts to your thigh. slow. familiar.

you let him touch you. because it’s easier than saying no. because you don’t want to see what he does when he hears it. because this is love now — and you’re too deep to crawl out.

it starts with your phone. you leave it on his nightstand once, during a shower. just for a few minutes. steam still on your skin, towel wrapped tight, you come back and everything looks the same. nothing out of place. no alarms in your chest.

but later, scrolling through your texts, you see a message you never sent.

yeah! totally fine. he treats me really well. thanks for checking <3

sent to the same friend who asked about your wrist.

you stare at it for a long time. long enough to feel your heartbeat crawl into your throat. long enough to hear the question echo before you even ask it.

"did you touch my phone?" your voice is soft. almost casual. like you’re not afraid of the answer.

but kazuha looks at you like you’ve shattered him. eyes wide. hurt blooming fast and loud across his face. like betrayal.

"do you not trust me?" his voice cracks. just barely. but he doesn’t raise it. he never raises it.

you backpedal instantly. "i didn’t say that." you smile. like that makes it okay. like you’re not swallowing panic behind your teeth.

his smile returns — slow, careful. the kind he wears when he wants you to feel safe. "i was just helping," he says. "you seemed overwhelmed. i didn’t want you to lose anyone else."

and there it is again. the quiet threat hiding under something sweet. the implication: they’ll leave you if you don’t play along.

so you nod. you let it go. you never bring it up again.

but you never leave your phone unattended after that. not once.

and still — you never change the password.

because part of you wants him to look. wants him to see that you’re not lying. that you’re still here. still his.

because maybe if he sees that, he won’t bleed tonight. he won’t cry. he won’t make you say yes when your body says please don’t.

then it’s your schedule. "i can pick you up after class," he says. "i don’t like the way they look at you when you walk alone."

you don’t argue. you nod. smile. let him drive.

he’s waiting outside every lecture before the bell even rings. you see his car parked at the curb, engine running, eyes on the door. your classmates start to notice.

you stop staying after for questions. you don’t study in the library anymore.

when you’re three minutes late to text him back:

where are you. did someone talk to you. i’m worried. why won’t you text back.

your phone buzzes like a pulse in your pocket. he calls twice. by the time you make it outside, he’s gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white.

you say sorry. he doesn’t yell. just exhales shakily, then kisses your hand.

"i just want you safe." "you’re safest with me." "they just want to take you away."

you start skipping classes. he holds you tighter for it. acts like it’s a gift. like your absence is proof of devotion.

then it’s your friends.

"they don’t understand us." "they’re jealous." "they’d hate me if they knew. do you want them to hate me?"

he’s crying when he says it. showing you his wrists again. old scars like faded ink. new ones — red, raw, not even scabbed over. you flinch. he sees it.

"i thought about doing it again," he whispers. "when you didn’t answer."

your chest twists. your eyes burn. you cry — like always.

he kisses the tears. kisses down your neck, your collarbone. fucks you slow. tender. like he’s mourning you already.

"this is love," he whispers, again and again. like a prayer. like a curse.

and you believe him.

because if it’s not love — then what the fuck are you still doing here?

you stop replying to everyone. no more texts. no more calls. no more are you okay? no more i miss you.

you shrink your world down to him. and he makes sure you never forget — "i’m all you need."

the control slips in like smoke. you only notice it when you can’t breathe anymore.

it’s in the way you stop unlocking your phone. the way you flinch when it buzzes. the way your body tenses when you hear footsteps, even when you know it’s just him.

your world becomes smaller. his apartment. his touch. his pain. his needs.

you stop checking your old group chats. messages pile up like static.

where are you are you safe? this isn’t like you.

you scroll past them with numb fingers. you want to answer. but what would you even say?

“i can’t leave. not when he needs me this much.” “he’ll hurt himself if i do.” “he says i’m the only thing keeping him alive.”

none of it sounds like freedom. but it sounds like love. and that’s enough to keep you.

and then — one night — it ends.

not with a scream. not with a break. not with blood.

just silence.

you lay in his bed. his arm draped around you, heavy and familiar. his breath steady against the curve of your spine. his warmth pressed into you like a brand.

and something inside you goes still. clicks into place.

this is it. this is your life now. quiet. controlled. contained.

"i love you," he murmurs against your shoulder. you nod. "i know."

and maybe that’s the worst part. not the hurting. not the crying. not the control.

but how normal it all feels now. how soft his voice is when he breaks you. how easy it’s become to let him. how easy it is to stay.

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines !

[laylayschipzz]

Head cannons .𖥔 ݁ ˖

Black cat!reader who gets up 30 minutes or an hour before Malachi to make him a fresh breakfast so he doesn’t have to eat cold eggs and stale toast in the morning. (Idk what they eat)

Black cat!reader who not only makes Malachi breakfast every day, but also makes him and the rest of the cast lunch so they don’t have to eat sandwiches every day. (The cast loves them for it!)

Black cat!reader who massages any sore areas on Malachi’s body, even though they claim they don’t want to.

Black cat!reader who makes sure Malachis well rested so he doesn’t come home with an attitude or headache.

Black cat!reader who is a traveling model (as said in the fic) and sometimes doesn’t come home for a few days, leaving Malachi by himself..alone..

Black cat!reader who will take almost any modeling job but refuses to do anything remotely sexual with another man, even if it’s something like this. But they’ll never admit they feel guilty touching another man.

Black cat!reader who won’t actually invite Malachi to her events but will leave the invites on a random table, hoping he’ll find them.

Black cat!reader who always keeps her wallet stacked with cash, two lipsticks, chapstick, lotion, roller perfume, bandaid’s, and a random snack in her purse.

Black cat!reader who would drop Malachi off at his studio because they had “nothing better to do” but just enjoy’s his silent company in the early morning.

Black cat!reader who purposefully puts on their most pigmented lipstick when kissing Malachi.

Golden retriever!Malachi who tries to come to every photoshoot you do, and feels terrible when he can’t make it.

Golden retriever!Malachi who will BEG to do a photoshoot with you for any brand, and will always end up doing a cute pose like this.

Golden retriever!Malachi who worships the ground you walk on.

Golden retriever!Malachi who will no matter what you cook, eat it all, even if it’s not his favorite dish.

Golden retriever!Malachi who will have you as his lockscreen background and a picture of you and him as his homescreen.

Golden retriever!Malachi who will call you IMMEDIATELY after he finishes a scene to tell you about it, and to make sure you’re not mad at him when he does a flirty scene with his coworker (You never are.)

Golden retriever!Malachi who is a sucker for head massages and will whine when you tell him no.

Golden retriever!Malachi who will giggle like a schoolgirl when you complement him or use pet names on him (You use them on RARE occasions, or you just use them to mess with him.)

Golden retriever!Malachi who NEEDS to be skin-to-skin with you when possible, his dumbass read a baby article talking about it, forgetting it was meant for babies and complaining that you don't do it enough.

Golden retriever!Malachi who loves being a gentleman for you, but loves who you take care of him.

Golden retriever!Malachi who will never wipe off your lipstick from a kiss, doesn’t matter where it is.

[tryandbehappy]

Belly’s love for Jeremiah is epic — and there’s no way to top it.

Let’s break it down by facts.

We’re not just talking about cute scenes or teenage butterflies. We’re talking about a full-spectrum, soul-shaking kind of love — the kind that explodes in every category: actions, words, thoughts, emotions, physical connection, spiritual and emotional bond. And I dare the writers to write something louder than this.

Actions 100/100

She actively chooses Jeremiah. And it’s not easy. He doesn’t fall into her arms. She has to convince him, reassure him, fight for him. She goes after him, because she wants him, and that is already epic.

(She’s here like PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE)

And on top of that?

We got a TON of parallel moments with Conrad — except this time, she chooses Jere.

• Like when she pulls her hand away from Conrad because she doesn’t want to hurt Jeremiah

• When she puts her thing with Conrad on hold — because she knows it would hurt Jere

• When she WANTS Jere to kiss her during truth or dare — while CONRAD is literally sitting right there

• And she’s confused he didn’t!! That’s all she cared about!!

• She even chose her college to be near him 24/7

• When she forgives Jere for things she wouldn’t forgive anyone else for

• When she DEFENDS Jere in front of everyone and literally screams “I love him”

→ And how do you top that?

Words 100/100

“I can’t imagine my life without you.”

“I’m proud to be your fiancée.”

“Life’s too short not to be with the person you love.”

“I love him. He’s my family.”

And what more can you even say to express love stronger than that?

→ And how do you top that?

Thoughts 100/100

“I wanted him all seasons, not just summer.”

“He’s the one. My Jeremiah.”

“I got lucky. I found my soulmate before college.”

“It feels inevitable.”

“We want to be together forever”

This is not some confused girl who’s unsure of her heart. She’s certain. She’s grounded in this love.

→ And how do you top that?

Emotions 100/100

She radiates joy when she’s with him. She squeals with happiness. She glows. Even when she’s alone, just thinking about him, she can’t contain her joy.

It’s like watching a firework go off inside her chest. Like her heart’s overflowing and she can’t hold it in.

→ And how do you top that?

Sexual connection 100/100

She wants him. All the time. She moans with him.

Oof, that scene. How wildly inappropriate and inconsiderate it was to kiss literally on Conrad’s car, with his brother, knowing he could show up any second. But she just couldn’t hold herself back anymore. She was begging for it — like someone who hasn’t had water in forever finally diving into it.

They have so much sex it’s canonically a running fact. Even early on in s1 — she said Steven was jealous of Jer’s body (=she liked it)

She literally climbed on top of him in the pool like three seconds in. And don’t even get me started on how she squealed remembering that kiss.

Just look at her eyes. They’re saying, holy sht, that was insane —I was one second away from combusting 🥵)

→ And how do you top that?

Spiritual bond 100/100

They get each other without having to explain. They finish each other’s thoughts. They don’t even need to speak — the energy says everything.

→ And how do you top that?

Emotional connection 100/100

She needs him when she’s falling apart. When she was shattered after the fight with Conrad on the beach, all she wanted was to be in Jeremiah’s arms. Because he always takes her pain away. You can see it so clearly in that scene — she just wanted to run to him.

When Steven got in the car accident, she cried because Jeremiah wasn’t there. She said, “If he were here, he’d know exactly what to say to make me feel better”

They regularly ask each other “What are you thinking?” because they love reading each other’s moods — and they can immediately tell when the other is hurting.

And they have a history of that emotional connection — they even had a little nighttime ritual, where they would tap on the wall between them, because it mattered to them to know they had each other. It’s like they missed each other even at night, so they needed that little signal.

Or their ESP game, where they loved reading each other’s minds… and kept getting better at it. That’s how much they matter to each other.

→ And how do you top that?

We know they’re probably going to ruin it all. We know the show will end with her going back to Conrad. But here’s the thing.

If you want us to believe that she truly loves Conrad more — then that love has to exceed what she felt for Jeremiah.

Not match it. Not be more “logical.” It has to be louder. Stronger. Deeper. More undeniable.

If you want us to believe that Conrad is her real endgame — if you want us to think he’s the better choice — then it can’t be just because he went to therapy. It can’t be just because he’s more stable now, or looks good on paper.

It has to top every single box she already filled with Jeremiah — the actions, the words, the thoughts, the emotions, the intimacy, the connection. 100 out of 100.

And how do you top 100/100? You don’t. And they won’t.

They gave up on building that kind of love with Conrad. They didn’t even try.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 31 - It All Comes Around

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Okay you guys know I hate saying something is my favorite in case you hate it, but this chapter has two of my favorite lines of dialogue so far. One for Dean, one for our girl. If you guess one, you can... idk do the bonus chapter thing again. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from The Unknown by Imagine Dragons

Word Count: 19.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean has a weird week. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 30 - Chapter 32

Read on A03!

Dec. 17th - 2010

Princess, 

You’d be pissed at me right now. That was the kind of thing you’d be pissed at me about. Knew that going it. Kinda always know it, if i’m telling you the truth. I hate it when you cry or get mad, but sometimes there’s a middle where you’re just glaring at me, and it’s adorable. You don’t get that wrinkle in your brow, but your nose scrunches and you say Dean like

Guess I can’t do an impression of it on the paper. Imagine you can hear me saying Dean, but it’s in my voice, pretending to be you. If you’re confused, just come find the me that’s with you now, and he’ll show you. 

Son of a bitch, I hope there’s a me with you. Lucky asshole. He loves you too, so you know. He’s me, and he’s not gonna say it out loud very well, but he loves you. I love you. Always love you. All the way down.

That’s why I did the stupid thing. I’m not gonna write it down, cause if I do, you’ll stop reading and go beat up future me. But he did it for the same reason I did. So don’t be too pissed at him. Me. 

Forgive me. That’s why I’m trying to get out here. Please fucking forgive me, for everything. The stupid thing. Everything I did while you were gone. Letting you fall in the cage. I’m so fucking sorry, Princess, but you gotta forgive me. But you were gone, and it hurt. Still hurts, right now. 

I guess it doesn’t hurt for future me. If he gave these to you, that means he got you back. Douchebag. Probably gets to kiss you too. I’ve kissed you. Six times. I’ll do it more, if you let me. I’d do whatever you let me do. Nothing means more than you, baby, you gotta know that. If future me is being an asshole and hasn’t told you that, I’m telling you now. Everything he does is for you. That’s how much he fucking loves you.

Fuck, there probably isn’t a thing you could do that he wouldn’t let you get away with. He’s been a goner for years. Punch him in the balls for me, if he hasn’t told you. Then you can show me this, so I know I told you to do that. But don’t do it too hard. He still wants a future with you, and probably values his balls more than I do. 

He probably values a hell of a lot more than me, if he’s got you back. 

And it’s not your fault, baby. I know you, I know you’re gonna read this and start thinking that you messed something up. Maybe go sit next to future me, so he can calm you down if you start freaking out. You don’t have to do anything to make me feel better, ever. If I’ve got you, I know everything is good. Just let him take care of you. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. 

It’s been you from the start, sweetheart. And I did something stupid, but you need to forgive me because it’s getting dark out here. I miss you, and I need you to tell me what the hell to do. How I’m supposed to get you back without doing something stupid. Whatever got Sammy out isn’t doing an encore, Cas still won’t pick up the damn phone, and Bobby’s a little better, but he ain’t good. None of us are good without you.

I’ve been having these new dreams, about you. Have I mentioned that I dream about you? I do. They stopped for a while, but they’re back now. Different from before, but back. In one of them, we were just one of those normal couples. We worked and had a house, visited your dad on weekends, had a dog and a cat.

I’ll let you get that cat, if you come home soon. The one Cas never got to give you. Shit, I’ll help him pick it out. We’ll get you a cute one, I’ll get those allergy meds you mentioned, and it can stay at Bobby’s. But it can’t sleep on the bed. I’m not fighting for your attention with a fucking cat, sweetheart.

Sam says I’m bargaining. But he’s also an asshole still, cause of the soul blocker thing. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, just because he took one psych class at Stanford. And even if I am bargaining, nothing wrong with that. Whatever the hell gets you back, right?

You need to come back, baby. I can get a whole lot stupider. 

Yours, 

DAW

——————

Dean dropped his head against the table—squeezing his eyes shut as he gritted his teeth—and took a long, deep breath. 

He finished the letter. That’s what was important. 

There wasn’t even a single bloodstain on it, because he’d washed his freaking hands. 

There was blood leaking through his shirt, though.

He should probably deal with that, before he lost all of it and had to deal with another lecture from Sam about this behavior not being useful, Dean.

Easy for Sam to say. He hadn’t lost anything. And anything that he should’ve lost, he didn’t give a shit about anymore. His soul. All their goddamn peace. 

Her. 

Sam still didn’t seem to give a shit that they’d lost Her. 

And Dean was trying real damn hard not to be pissed about that. Sam didn’t know how things like emotions worked anymore. Just couldn’t grasp that the most important person in both of their lives—the woman who had believed in him through the whole demon blood thing, and kept them from fighting countless times—was stuck in hell. That they needed to get her out, because otherwise Dean was going to start doing some pretty fucking dumb things.

Dumber things. 

He’d already done something pretty fuck dumb. 

And it hadn’t even had the nerve to goddamn work.

Dean folded the letter into a neat square, and left it on the table as he pushed to his feet with a groan. This was going to suck. This was going to suck so goddamn much, but he couldn’t call Sam back from his hookup just to give him stitches. Sam would have questions like are you an idiot, Dean—yes—and how they hell did you get your stomach ripped open. It looks like you didn’t even fight back. 

He hadn’t. 

Dean had let the demons rip into him. There wasn’t any reason not to. The plan had failed anyway.  

And this was why he needed Her. This was Her type of plan—the insane ones, that nearly gave Dean a heart attack whenever She looked at him with bright eyes and said I’ve got something—and Her ability to calculate the risks and danger to herself might be horrible, but she got results. 

Dean had just got the shit beaten out of him, and nothing else. She wasn’t home. He wasn’t closer to getting Her home. He just had a goddamn pit in the cavity of his chest, splitting him open, and a gash in his side.

He made it to the bed. Sam’s bed. Bitch wasn’t using it anyway, he’d deal with the blood stains. 

And there was a whole lot of blood. Maybe the shallow breathing was from the way he was bleeding out, or just how he was thinking about Hell. The rivers of blood, and all of it on his hands. 

Her, drowning in that blood. Stuck in the place that had turned Dean into more of a monster than he’d already been. Or just somewhere worse, if the damage to Sam’s soul said anything. 

Maybe She was out. Maybe whatever got Sam grabbed Her too, but Cas couldn’t find her because of the Bride thing, and now She was curled up and shivering and alone. Waiting for Dean to come save Her, while he ran around like a fucking asshole. Trying plans that didn’t work, touching women he didn’t love just to feel something, drinking and drinking until he was numb enough to breathe. 

He wasn’t numb now. 

Son of a bitch, between the way the pit was swallowing him whole and the sting of the rubbing alcohol on his wound, there wasn’t enough booze in the world to make him feel nothing. 

He needed to lie down. Half for the stitches, half because if he didn’t, he was pretty damn sure he’d fall over and start sobbing like a pussy. 

Dean clenched his jaw, lay flat on his back, and got to work. His hands weren’t steady, but he could patch himself up. Enough for it to look like a normal hunting accident, at least. 

Enough that nobody would try and ask questions, and lecture him about self-destructive behaviors.  

He tried to hum to himself, to calm down. Ramble On, then Hey Jude, the just fucking anything to fill the silence when he couldn’t carry either of the tunes. If he closed his eyes tight enough, he could pretend She was there with him. That these were Her hands, and the static sound of the heater was Her siren-like voice. Telling Dean it would be okay. That She was here, and everything was going to be okay. 

He could almost believe it. When he really goddamn focused, the smell of blood and dirt faded, and he could smell Her apples. Her voice on the wind was less of a phantom, and more of an echo. A little far away, and not really Her, but closer. Had been Her before. Would be Her again. And he could pretend that when he wiped the sweat from his brow, it was a gentle hand brushing through his hair. That the warm feeling in his chest wasn’t more than a reflection of what had been there before. That he wasn’t using smoke and mirrors to pretend the pit was flooding with silvery light, and when he turned his head into the mattress and took a deep breath, he wasn’t just lying to his own mind that he was breathing against Her skin. 

He might be groaning Her name. He didn’t really care anymore.

He just wanted Her to be here. 

And She wasn’t. 

When Dean pulled the last stitch through, he opened his eyes, and there was nobody at all. 

He tipped his head back with a groan. He just needed to lie down, for one second. Then he’d get back to work. Start looking for new ways—maybe ones that didn’t get him beat up,  but he didn’t really care—and maybe that cat. Maybe it was what he needed, just an incentive for Her to come back to him. He’d get Her five cats. Ten, and rent a house on a beach. Maybe Cape Cod. Pretty damn far from California, still the beach. They could get all the sugary drinks and snacks She wanted, then lie in bed for a week. 

He’d watch whatever movie She wanted. Read a book for Her. Do fucking anything, just as long as She came home-

There was a rustling sound, and Dean let out a heavy breath, opening his eyes to glare at the cracked ceiling. He should’ve known better than thinking he’d get away with that. 

“Cas. You gotta knock.”

“You wouldn’t be able to open the door, Dean.” Cas’ voice was low, and filled a tension Dean didn’t appreciate. Cas wasn’t the one who had been dying. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll live.” He muttered, craning his neck to see Cas staring at him from the edge of the bed. “That it?”

“You know it is not-“

“Awesome.” He dropped his head back down. “See you next time you decide I’m injured enough to check in on.”

Cas sighed. “You know I am busy, Dean, I do not enjoy not talking to you-“

“But you only do it when I’m bleeding out.”

“You bleed out quite often, lately.” Cas muttered, and Dean rolled his eyes, pushing his words through his teeth.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Cas, I don’t got a whole lot going on for me other than bleeding out. So if we could skip the telling me I’m a freakin’ idiot part and cut to what you want-“

“I do not want anything, Dean. And I would not call you an idiot.” Cas said Her name, his voice suddenly soft, and Dean’s hand curled into fists. “She would be angry. That you are doing this for her. I do not think she’d like any plan that gets you hurt like this.”

Dean was going to break his jaw. “Don’t tell me what she’d want-“

“You know I’m right.” Cas’ voice was gentle, and it just made the ache in Dean’s chest worse. “She would not be happy to know that you have been on this path-“

“What path.” Dean rolled his eyes, leaning back down on the mattress. “The one where I get her the hell out of the cage? I’m not apologizing for trying to save her, Cas-“

“Dean,” Cas muttered, but Dean shook his head, and pushed on. 

“I won’t give up- No, I can’t give up. She didn’t give up on me, and we didn’t even know about angels or all her magic shit. If Death himself can’t goddamn touch her, that means there’s gotta be something up here that needs her, which means there’s going to be some sort of fucking loophole. Some- Fuck, there has to be some goddamn way-“ His head hurt, and it was spread to his throat. He wouldn’t stop. “Son of a bitch, Cas, there has to be a way-“

He had more to say. About how the world had to need Her, because he’d seen the way it bended for Her. How all colors were vibrant around Her, and the grass seemed to grow under Her feet. He’d seen the gardens She’d make, he knew God himself watched Her and wanted her the same way Dean, so if God needed Her like Dean needed Her, there had to be a way.

And if there wasn’t a way, he’d make one. She said there was always another way, so he’d take whatever gamble he had to, if it might get Her home. If it might fix Sammy, might bring a light back to Bobby’s eyes, might make the house stop being so damn quiet and haunted all the time. The floorboards creaked louder without Her. The night was darker. And nothing was how it should be, without Her there. 

But the words died in Dean’s throat. If he said them, the pit would turn into a cavern, and it would be all he was. He’d break apart, and none of Cas’ angel mojo would fix him.

“There may be another way, Dean.” Cas murmured, and Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “But this is not it. That was reckless, and I believe you know that.”

“Doesn’t matter what I know.” Dean grunted. “I’d call that the right amount of recks for this situation.”

“You tried to open a seal, Dean.”

“Didn’t try. Opened it.”

Cas let out another dramatic sigh. “You do understand how that isn’t comforting. I do not approve of Crowley’s methods to deter you, but-“

“You actually siding with freakin’ Crowley here?” Dean glared at Cas under his eyelids. “He sent a bunch of demon goons to kick the shit out of me-“

“And you are lucky they didn’t kill you, Dean. I know what you are planning, and if you proceed with it, I will have to stop you-“

Dean muttered Her name, and Cas fell silent. “She’s down there, Cas. Down there with Michael and Lucifer, in God’s fuckin’ time out corner.”

“I am aware,” Cas muttered, and Dean snorted. 

“I’d think you are, but you’re willing to leave her down there-“

“Dean, you know I’m not-“

“I don’t know!” He roared, ignoring the rush of pain through his head as he shot up. “You can say that, Cas, but you don’t gotta live with it like I do! I’m doing what I have to do, I’m doing the only goddamn way I can think of, because she is down there alone with two archangels, and she needs us to get her out, but I’m the only one who’s goddamn willing to fucking do something.”

Cas stared at him for a second. “She would not want you to open the cage, just for her-“

“Stop saying what she’d want.” Dean hissed. “If she hates it, she can tell me herself. When she’s free.”

“Dean.” Cas gave him a sad look, and Dean’s throat ached. “Crowley will continue to attack you. His position as King only lasts as long as Lucifer remains in the cage-“

“I don’t give a shit about Crowley-“

“I am not worried about Crowley.” Cas snapped, voice raising and narrowing his eyes. “I am worried about him killing you, Dean. And Raphael holding your soul hostage. You cannot help her when you are dead.”

Dean scowled, and a lot of the anger was starts to drain from his body. His muscles felt sore, every inch of his body tired, and he might have fucked up his stitches. It didn’t really damn matter. He’d failed. Again. Gotten the shit kicked out of him, gotten yelled at by Cas, and he wasn’t a single step closer to getting Her back. 

He’d dream of Her, tonight. He always dreamt of Her, smiling at him like he’d never done anything wrong at all. Like all the sins he’d committed were nothing more than stumbled steps, like he’d never lied to Her or let Her get hurt. Never hurt Her himself, because everything he touched turned to fucking sand in his hands. And She’d been the most precious thing of them all, made of life and light and dancing in the dead of night, and he’d just let Her slip away. 

It didn’t matter how hard he swam against the current, trying to get Her back. She’d never been Dean’s to begin with. And when God pulled Her out and took Her to Heaven, She shouldn’t looked back. Heaven was what She deserved.

But there would be no place for a Shadow. 

It would be better that way. He was being fucking selfish, wanting Her all to himself. To touch and love and kiss until She giggled and squirmed in his arms. He’d always known he’d never be worthy of Her. And Christ, he was doing all he could be wrong. But no scale was tipped in his favor. And there’s no world where She looked at Dean—acting without thinking, reeking of booze and lonely sex—and decides that she’d have him over paradise.

But he didn’t know how to do any of this without Her. 

He was a selfish son of a bitch. 

It didn’t matter if he never got Her back.

Dean’s head bowed, breathing heavy as he tried to keep the pit from opening further, from taking whatever last vital organ was still cruelly keeping him alive, and it didn’t matter. 

A choked, low sound left him, and nothing mattered.  

Two fingers pressed to his brow, and the splitting headache faded with the stabbing pain in his stomach. The pain in his chest didn’t heal, though.

When he looked up at Cas, standing over him with a soft, almost wounded expression, it only stretched a little further, and made the world a little darker. 

“I miss her as well,” Cas muttered, scanning over Dean’s face carefully. “Things are… Far worse. When she is not here. There is a sense, wherever I go, that something is missing. It is…” Cas trailed off, frowning at the air. “As if my wings have been cut off, though they are very much still there.”

“Human’s call that grief,” Dean said under his breath, dropping his gaze to his own knees. “That’s what’s you’re feelin’, Cas. But she’s not dead-“

“She is not with us.” Cas murmured. “And if my wings feel as if they are missing, I can only imagine what you are experiencing.”

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t have the words for it, not one that would sound right. It wasn’t like a part of him was missing, or as he’d just been cut in half. That would’ve been far too simple, too easy to get past. 

It was like he was missing. Like he’d been plunged underwater, dragged away from the entire world, and it was just above the surface but no matter how he clawed to get back to it, he was never able to breach the waves.

And Cas sighed, taking a slight step back. “I do not expect you to give up on her, Dean. But you cannot do that again.”

“I won’t.” He grunted, and if he was stronger, he’d just damn the consequences, damn his own soul, and open the cage to get Her back. Cas said Raphael wanted to start the apocalypse again, Dean could get a sponsorship or something. 

But She’d never forgive him, when She got out. She’d curse his name, and Dean would lose Her all the same. 

Selfish. 

It didn’t matter. 

“Thank you. I am handling it, Dean. I promise.” 

Dean frowned at him. “It?”

“Crowley.” Not Her. “He will not touch you like that again, and I will work to try and make him…” Cas sighed. “Calm down. But I cannot handle Crowley, Raphael, and you making stupid, unmeasured choices.”

“I said I wouldn’t do it,” Dean grumbled, taking at deep breath as he scanned over Cas’ face. 

He looked tired. Worn, will parts of his trench coat stained with things Dean didn’t really want to know about. 

“Cas.” He muttered, words still low. “You know we can help, man. If there’s anything with the Heaven shit you need-“

“No, Dean.” Cas shook his head. “I told you, I am handling it. I have support.”

“Support?”

“Other angels. Who have chosen my side.”

Dean frowned. Something about that sounded off. Cas wasn’t blinking at all, but that was normal. His voice was firm and deep, but that was also normal. Cas was pretty hard to read, no matter what. And Dean’s own exhaustion wasn’t helping. 

“You got anything for us?” He tried one more time, and the soreness was giving way to tension. “Just- a hunt? Any way we can help you gank Raphael faster?”

Cas shook his head, and Dean took an unsteady breath. He couldn’t keep doing nothing. Looking for another way to get her out and coming up empty handed. Maybe this would help. Maybe just one hunt that amounted to more than broken bones and the smell of gasoline would get him back on track. He’d get all his energy back, find whatever angel thing Cas sent them to take care of, and it would be the way to get Her out. 

Or maybe he’d just get the shit beat out of him again. 

Either way, he wouldn’t just be waiting for Her to appear in the bathroom doorway, or moaning Her name while he fucked some nameless chick. He’d be doing something.

“Dean-“

“C’mon, man.” Dean gave Cas his best winning grin, ignoring how his face felt sort of swollen from crying. “Give us something. I get you’re a big shot angel now, but there’s gotta be like, an errand me and Sam can run for you. Help in this war with Raphael thing.”

“I do not have any errands. And in your current state, I don’t think involving yourself in my war would prove useful.”

“Cas.” He muttered, letting his voice crack slightly. He couldn’t just sit here, in the pit. He’d fall into it, and not have Her light to guide him back out. “Fuck, I’ve got my foot on the pedal, man. I know that. At least give me somewhere to steer.”

Cas paused, watching Dean so intently he could feel in searing over his skin, and he needed this to work. For Cas to see that he wasn’t just begging like a bitch. He needed this. Otherwise, the place he drove might be off a goddamn cliff. 

And whatever Cas saw—as Dean let a little bit of the pit show all over his face—seemed to be enough.

“Fine.” He sighed. “But you have to be careful, Dean. No one in Heaven or Hell is your biggest fan right now-“

“I don’t care about them, Cas, I got you.” Dean grinned, and Cas didn’t return it.

“If you die,” Cas muttered Her name. “She will break out of the cage, just to kill me. And,” he shot Dean a glare. “That is not a suggestion. You will have to be careful, Dean-“

“I will be. What’re we lookin’ at?”

Cas sighed again, frowning at the air as he spoke “I have sources that tell me Crowley is looking for something. Something powerful. I am not sure what, but if you must do something, figuring out what would be helpful.”

“What Crowley’s looking for?”

Cas nodded, and Dean sat up a little taller. 

Finding something. He could find something. He’d always smoked Sammy at hide and seek, and he was a pretty awesome snooper. Cas left—with another warning to Dean not to do something stupid, which wasn’t really necessary—and Dean had something to do. 

In the morning. When Sam got back, and he could use the next day to actually be useful, instead of a drunken, selfish burden. 

But maybe this was selfish as well. Maybe he should be spending time trying to think of the next plan to get Her out, instead of running around doing shit Cas could probably do himself. That might get done faster, with a handful of angels on the case rather than Dean. 

Or She’d be pissed at him, for not helping Cas. She’d help Cas. Shit, if She was here, Cas might have already won the war in Heaven. 

But She wasn’t. Here. 

Wasn’t with Dean. 

And he would get Her back. As he took the letter off the table, carefully tucking it into the box—kept at the bottom of his bag, right next to Velma the stuffed cat—Dean had to remember that he kept writing because She would come back. And he’d give Her the letters, and everything would be fine. 

Right now it wasn’t. Right now it was like sitting in some sort of stasis, downing the last of the whiskey bottle he’d gotten at the bar, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out how he’d get through the day. 

Thinking of Her, probably. Not the pain She might be in, but how the better moments. Her on his chest as they slept, or under Dean’s body as he kissed Her softly.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get to kiss Her again.

The bottle was empty. The motel room was empty, and there wouldn’t be any more company for him tonight. He didn’t see that hallucination of Her anymore, not since late September. It didn’t matter if he was wasted enough he didn’t know his own name—only the pain in his chest and the lack of Her at his side—Dean just couldn’t get Her back. 

He couldn’t get Her back.

It would be good to help Cas. Cas had helped him, and Dean had pleaded for it. But the longer Cas was gone—the longer it was just Dean and the rattling sound of the heater—the more he wanted to just fucking damn it. If he couldn’t get the seals and open the cage, he’d find another way. Death wouldn’t help, but maybe another archangel could. Maybe there was some sort of Cage guard, that could slip her out. Maybe another spell he could try, a back entrance he could use.

But Bobby had looked for all of that, and there wasn’t a single damn thing. 

He’d find something. And Crowley was looking for something powerful. Maybe he’d been right the first time, and this would help him get on track to free Her. 

Or maybe She’d just get out some other way tomorrow, and think that Dean had given up on Her.

He felt sort of sick. He was way too damn tired to be trying to figure this out. His head was spinning, and it felt like his heart was withering in his body. He couldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter how he paced around the room, sat and stared at the laptop screen, or lay on the bathroom floor. The bed was too stiff, too cold, and when he stretched his arms out a new, straining pain—just to the right of his heart—ripped through him at the empty mattress at his side.

He couldn’t sleep with a replacement, though. He hadn’t be able to stomach it, since the dreams of Her had started up. There was something fucking wrong about waking up with a passing body—some woman who had looked like Her in the shadows of the bar, enough for Dean to pretend, but then looked like a faded mockery in the morning light—when he’d just been holding Her in his sleep. When he’d spent the whole night dreaming of kissing Her and dancing in some old west saloon.

It made him feel something, at least. Something like poison, in his veins and eating at his hands. 

They shouldn’t be allowed to touch Her, when She returned. 

If She even wanted to touch him. 

She might, if he went through with helping Cas. He didn’t have a damn clue where to start, though. She would. So maybe he could get Her out first, then help Cas. Or he could keep wading through the mud, letting it drag him further under, and never actually save Her because he just kept wandering in damn circles. Or She’d think Dean wasn’t burning himself to ash to get Her out.

Dean pushed up with a groan, fumbling for his phone. He shouldn’t be trusted to make any choices, or even do any right now. Most of his thoughts just always looped back to Her.

The call rang about six or seven times, before it was picked up. 

If She was here, it would’ve been answered in three.

“Hey, Dean, everything alright?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut again. “Hey Jody. Yeah, uh- Is Bobby there?”

Jody sighed. “Not here, no.” 

He paused. “But… his phone is?”

“He left it at the house. I was over to make some food, heard it ringing in the library.” 

“Where’d he go, town?”

“No.” Jody’s voice went heavier, and Dean braced himself. “He’s headed up to the waterfall, tending to that girl’s grave, said he’d be back in a few hours.”

A lump was forming in Dean’s throat. “He take the truck?”

“Um,” there was a pause, and Dean heard something shuffle on the other end of the line. “Don’t look like it. Firebird is gone, through.” Dean could hear the frown in her voice. “You boys need something from him? Anything I can help with?”

He shook his head, fighting down the strain in his voice. “Nah, I was just hoping to get his advice on something-“

“Something about hunting?” Jody cut him off, Her voice shockingly firm. “Or something about feelings and good choices. Cause if it’s the latter, I don’t think it’s a good for you and Bobby to be bouncing any ideas off of each other.”

Dean frowned. “It was hunting, sorta- What do you mean, not a good idea?”

“I mean you both lost the same person, Dean. And any calls either of you make, you’re not going to be making them with a clear head.”

“I got a clear head-“

“How much have you had to drink.”

He scowled. “That doesn’t matter.”

Jody barked a laugh. “Alright, kid. Tell what you think Bobby can help you with, and I’ll make the call if he needs to hear it.”

“Just a book.” Dean muttered. “For the library. It’s- I think she’d like it. Wanted to know if we already had it.”

Jody didn’t ask what she Dean was talking about. She’d seemed to pick up pretty quickly that when Dean or Bobby said she like that—a lower tone, with a slight edge to their voice but something smooth and gentle in the word itself—it was only referring to Her. And Dean had found Her a book, so that wasn’t technically a lie. It wasn’t what he’d called about, but it could be. 

Jody didn’t seem to believe that, though. 

“Dean,” she said, tone sort of stern, and Dean frowned. “I know you don’t like talking about your feelings, and I’m not trying to make you or whatever, but I know you didn’t call Bobby at 1am to talk about a book.”

“I-“ Dean frowned. “Why are you there at 1am?”

“Nice try. What’s wrong.”

Dean sighed, setting the phone to speaker and placing it on his knee. “It’s nothin’ important, Jody. I can talk to Sam about it, or call back in the morning-“

“If you’re calling now, it’s important. And don’t hang up on me, I’ll call you back until you pick up and tell me I’m not about to witness one of those hunter funerals y’all have talked about.”

“I’m not going to kill myself-“

“Dean.”

There was no winning this. And he had called for advice. 

Goddamnit. 

“Talked to Cas, today.” He muttered, fidgeting with his watch, and Jody just waited for him to continue. “Asked him about the war, going on in Heaven. How we could help. He said Crowley’s after something, and if we have to help, we could look into what.”

He could hear the frown in Jody’s voice. “If you have to help. He not want it or something?”

“I sorta- I asked him. A lot. I’m out of leads, for the cage. Last thing I tried went to shit, and I- Fucking-“ He rubbed his brow, trying to force his words out in a way that didn’t sound pathetic. “It still hurts, Jody. And I feel like I’m just sittin’ in it. And I damn near forced Cas to let me help, but then he’s gone and it’s all-“

He cut himself off, and son of a bitch it was a lot easier to talk about it when it was with Her, in letters. Dean wasn’t even sure there were words to describe it. The way the world was just worse, and the only way out of it was Her coming home. He kept trying, and it never felt like enough. 

“You know about my family, Dean?” 

He frowned, and grunted an acknowledgment. 

Jody let out a slow breath through the speaker. “You know how they died?”

“Jody, if this a lecture about grief or whatever, I’ve gotten enough of them-“

“Well shut up and hear one more.” Jody snapped Her name, and Dean mouth closed. “I don’t know a lot about her, expect that you and Bobby love her. That you’re willing to do anything to get her home. But you know what the definition of madness is?”

Dean paused. He did. She’d told him once, in some diner a few years ago.

He’d poked Her nose with a French fry after, and then she’d almost bit his fingers off. 

He loved Her so fucking much.

“Repeating something.” He grunted, and Jody sighed. 

“And expecting a different result, Dean. That’s important. All you do is drink and torture yourself while trying to get her out, you’ll go insane. And you think you’re of better use to her insane, or with a brain that’s actually working?”

“Working.”

“Good.” Jody sighed, and Dean slumped. “You get what I’m telling you?”

“Yeah.” He muttered. “Jody?”

She hummed, and he took a heavy breath. 

“I can’t stop trying to get her out. If I do- I- I can’t-“

“I know, Dean. I got that a while ago.” Jody said Her name, and the world was sort of blurring. “Doing one thing for your friend isn’t going to keep her in the cage longer. The break might be good of you. Focus on something with a reward at the end.”

Dean nodded, and Jody cleared her throat. 

“This helping?”

“Yeah.” He muttered. “Thanks. You think you can mention to Bobby that I called? Tell him we’re looking for something Crowley might want. Maybe to try and find some demons?”

“Course.” Jody’s voice went soft, but not the way Cas’ had been. That had been more in a reflection of Dean’s own pain. Almost pity, mixed with Cas’ own loss.

This was just soft. It made Dean feel sort of small, but not like he could be stepped on, or was weak. Like the sky was falling, but there was still going to be something to cover him, and keep him safe. 

“Let me know if you need anything else, Dean. I’m here.”

“Thanks.” He muttered. “Night, Jody.”

The line dropped, and he let out a slow breath. 

Something with a reward at the end. They’d find what Crowley was looking for, and—on down time—Dean could keep working on how to get Her home. He wasn’t abandoning Her. He’d never abandon Her.

He wasn’t sure how to do that if he tried. 

This place had really high ceilings. 

High like a church, but all stone and less light. Almost dead feeling, with how empty and quiet it was. Dean’s steps echoed, as he walked down the hall, hand on his sword. 

He had a sword. That was fucking awesome. He had a sword, and a suit of leather and metal armor, and whenever he passed the someone—all them women in long dresses or men in weird, fancy outfits—they bowed their heads in his direction. Like they respected him, enough to see he was there. 

This was a pretty great dream. If not just because he got a sword, because he’d had something like it before. And he knew exactly where he was going. 

His pace picked up, until he was almost sprinting through the halls. Nobody spared him a glance as he ran, but they were all fading into color anyway.

The only important thing was ahead of him, not behind.

When he skid around the corner and up the steps, he could almost feel it. The way something just to the right of his heart felt like it was glowing, and how time began to slow. 

The air smelled liked Eden apples, more and more every second. 

And there She was. Standing on a balcony and turning around Dean called Her name, her face splitting into a wide, bright smile. 

She looked like She was going to run to him, but Dean was faster. He slammed into Her, lifting Her up into the air and spinning her around with a grin so wide it hurt. When She laughed, he wanted to bottle the sound. Maybe put it on a mixtape, so back out there he could hear it over and over again. 

It would ring in his ears when he woke up. Follow him like a hungry stray, begging for Dean give it more attention when he tried to look away. But he’d let it. 

He’d do damn near anything, just to keep hearing the sound of Her joy. 

She wrapped Her arms around his neck, as he set Her down, and Dean crashed his lips into Her’s. She tasted like Her apples, and a little bit of cherry and soda. When he reached down for Her thigh, She let him grab it and hook it around his waist. Moaned into Dean’s mouth like a song, when he angled his mouth over Her’s to deepen the kiss.

And She was entirely relaxed in Dean’s arms. Letting him move Her however he needed to feel Her a little more, tugging on his hair as She whined a sound like his name, and he felt his pants grow tight. 

He had to pull back, with heavy breaths and a high feeling over his head. Still holding Her tight to his chest, because She’d stay there until he was forced to let go. 

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, ghosting Her lips back over Dean’s, and he grinned.

“Hey, Princess.” He said, bumping their noses together, and Her eyes shined on his. 

A little glossy, but still so fucking bright.

“Dean.” She whispered, and he’d never not lose it over how She said it. Long and sweet and sort of like it was a note in a song. “You shouldn’t be kissing me like that in daylight. Someone could see.”

He snorted, dropped his mouth to Her neck. “Let ‘em. Everyone should know how I worship my girl.”

“But-“ She made a tiny noise as Dean lips latched on Her throat. “Oh- Dean-“

He hummed, and She took a deep breath. 

“I- It won’t be good if someone catches us-“ She moaned as he kneaded Her waist, and Dean grinned against Her skin. 

“I know, baby.” He kissed along Her collarbone, and Her head tipped further back. “But I think you like it, right. Like people knowing you’re mine-“

She melted into him with another soft sound, and son of a bitch, Dean couldn’t tell if his brain was doing him a favor or not. She looked like something higher than an angel, when he leaned back pressed a sloppy kiss to Her cheek. And he got to hold Her like this in here. Have Her slumped against him with complete trust and control, as if She didn’t understand that Dean would probably rip his heart of out his chest as an offering, if she told him Her’s was hurting. 

He got to watch Her blink at him slowly, a dazed and happy smile on Her lips.  

But it was only in here. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmured Her name, and Her breath hitched, that pretty flush spreading over Her cheeks. 

“Thank you, De.”

“Course, baby.” He dropped his brow to Her shoulder, almost clinging to Her body. This dream wouldn’t be ripped away, if he just held on tight enough. “Can I ask you something?”

She hummed, petting Dean’s hair, and a deep breath escaped his chest with ease. 

“If- Y’know in all those drama, soapy shows you watch-“

“I watch?”

He sighed. “Fine, I watch. But you watch them with me-“

“Because you’re cute. I don’t actually like them.”

He pulled back to frown at Her. “You don’t like Dr. Sexy?”

She shrugged. “I like you.”

“But-“

“Is that your question? If I like Dr. Sexy?” She gave him a pointed look, resting Her chin on his chest, and he rolled his eyes.

“No.”

“Then ask the real question, Deano-“

He nipped at Her nose, and She wiggled against him with a squeak. That wasn’t helping his dream boner. Neither was the way Her nails dug into his arm, or how She threw Her head back with a tiny moan—eyes fluttering and body going slack—when Dean picked Her up and pinned Her against the wall, his lips returning to Her throat.

“So bossy,” he muttered, and Her mouth fell open with a gasp. “Look at you, so fuckin’ pretty.”

He reached up with one hand, trying to brush the hair out of Her face, and She caught his wrist with a desperate expression. 

“Dean,” She whispered, squeezing Her hand three times. “Please. Please, just-“

She rolled Her hips with another tiny sound, and he had to take a slow, long breath. 

Not in a dream. Not when it wasn’t even real, and She was still his best friend, trapped in Hell. 

“Out there, Princess.” He pressed as soft kiss to Her lips, letting Her chase him to a deeper one when he tried to pull away. “But I know, sweetheart. I know.”

She sighed, shaking Her head as She leaned back to scan over Dean with an unreadable expression. 

“What did you want to ask me?”

He swallowed, reaching up to cup Her cheek. She was pressed right against his body, with Her legs hooked around his torso and Her arms resting back over Dean’s shoulders. She was so close, close enough that Dean could feel the rise and fall of Her chest, feel Her heartbeat under his fingers when his hand moved to Her neck. And She didn’t flinch or pull away. She just looked at him with bright eyes, and the air felt too thin. 

“In the shows,” he mumbled, playing with the hair near Her neck. “They always got an episode where someone’s gotta choose. The world or-“

“Just one person.” She whispered, and he nodded. 

“You know what you’d choose?”

She stared at him, and suddenly, Dean was terrified of Her answer. She was going to tell him that She’d always chose anyone but him. Maybe suddenly morph into Dad, who’d start shouting at him that he was being an idiot, that he shouldn’t even feel any guilt about Her in the cage. That he was free of some woman weighing him down, when Dean was pretty sure the was some sort of iron chair wrapped around his throat, and it only got tighter the longer She was gone. 

But She didn’t turn into Dad. Or tell Dean She hated him. 

She just gave Dean a sad, small smile, and held his hand against Her face.

“I do. But I wouldn’t let it get to that, De.” Her voice broke slightly, and when Dean’s thumb moved to the bridge of Her nose, she let out a soft sigh. “I wouldn’t.” She mumble, nothing but putty in his arms. “I promise, it’s not gonna get to that-“

“I know, baby.” He muttered. “I know. You know I’d choose you, right. You don’t gotta tell me yours-“

“I’d choose you.” She cut him off with a soft breath, eyes fluttering slightly, and the world did a sort of stutter stop. “All the way down.”

He nodded, and opened his mouth to tell Her again. That it was still all the way down, always all the way down, and he’d love Her until he didn’t have anything left in his body. 

But the world was starting to flicker. Wave in and out. 

And Dean barely got to crash into one last, desperate kiss before She was gone. 

The door slammed, and Dean had a headache again. It was always so goddamn bright into morning, it was like the sky was angling the freakin’ sun right into his eyes. There was birdsong, drifting through the air outside and the smell of coffee somewhere close. His throat was dry, his stomach feeling like it was filled with acid, and Goddamnit he had to get up. 

He didn’t want to. 

But he was even more useless, just fucking lying here with the covers over his face and the pit gaping in his chest. 

“You’re up.” Sam said, not glancing up from his laptop, and Dean grunted. 

“How long you been back.”

“Few hours. It’s almost noon.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t freakin’ wake me up?”

“I’m not your clock, Dean.”

“Yeah, and now we’re running behind-“

“Behind on what?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Your drinking schedule?”

“Sam.” He grunted, rubbing his brow. “I’m not in the goddamn mood-“

“Because you lost your girlfriend. Yeah, I know.”

Dean stared ahead blankly, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths through his nose. He couldn’t beat Sam up. For one, he hadn’t tipped far enough over the edge to not pull punches, and Sam was a fucking fridge without a soul. He’d get his ass kicked. But this wasn’t Sam’s fault. Wasn’t even Sam. And Dean had been on board with the soul blocker plan. It was sort of his fault. 

But Sam could sneer at Dean all he goddamn wanted. 

She was the line. And Sam was freaking toeing it. 

“Dude.” Dean said, forcing his voice to remain even. “What did we talk about.”

“Waking you up-“

Dean snapped Her name, and Sam finally looked up. “What did we talk about, with Her?”

Sam gave him a dry look. “Nothing, Dean. We haven’t talked to her in like, a year.” He frowned. “Are you seeing hallucinations of her?”

“No- I- Not for-“ Dean sputtered, pushing himself to his feet. “Goddamnit, Sam-“

“I don’t care if you are, Dean. Sort of guessed you were. You call her name when you sleep.” Sam shrugged, looking back to the laptop. “But you probably shouldn’t drive, if you are.”

Deep breaths. Dean needed to take deep breaths. “Sam.”

Sam hummed, and Dean’s fist curled. 

“Look at me.”

Sam sighed, and gave Dean a dramatic, pointed stare. “What, Dean. I’m trying to get us ready for our next case-“

“Well, don’t. I’ve got what we’re doing, and we still need to talk about her-“

“Oh, for-“ Sam groaned, giving Dean an almost pitying look. “Look. I know you’re like, in love with her. And you miss her, or whatever. But I’ve got an actual case, Dean, and literally everyone has told you that the cage can’t be fucked with-“

“Someone fucked with it for you.” Dean snapped. “Got you out just fine.”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t know who. I’m not wasting time on this-“

“It’s not-“ Deep fucking breaths. Don’t punch the wall. “Sam, I’m not talking about that-“

“You’re always talking about that, Dean. All you do is drink and bitch about how you love her-“

That was enough. 

Dean stomped over to the table, grabbed out his pistol from his pillow, and slammed Sam’s laptop down with a scowl. Sam blinked at him, shoulders squaring, and he could beat Dean up all he fucking wanted. He’d get to feel something, and then he’d just get up after and keep going until it either killed him, or he actually got to fucking speak.

“What did we talk about.” He hissed Her name through his teeth. “What did I tell you about her.”

Sam sighed, voice was too neutral for Dean’s liking. “That I should think about what I’m going to say before I say it, three times, and if you wouldn’t say it about her, I should shut the hell up.”

“Right. Good.” Dean pushed back up, tucking the gun away and crossing his arms over his chest. “Pack your shit up, Sammy, we’re heading out.”

Sam frowned at him, not moving. “Out where.”

“To find a demon.” 

“A demon?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, if you want a demon, we can you one later-“

“I don’t want- Christ, Sam, we’re interrogating it.”

“Why would we do that.”

Dean sighed. “Because Cas has got something for us to do. Crowley’s looking for something, we need to work out, what,” he made a wide gesture. “Demon.”

Sam just stared at him. “No.”

“Sam, I ain’t asking-“

“Cas can handle that himself, he’s an angel. I have a case for us, the hunters-“

“I don’t care.” Dean grunted, turning towards his bag. They packed a little heavier than before—crashing at Bobby’s less—but it was still quick to gather. He just needed his shoes. “We’re doing the demon thing, not some salt and burn.”

“It’s not some salt and burn, Dean, it’s a pretty massive vamp nest in Cadillac, South Carolina, which isn’t even that far.”

“Cadillac? Like the car?”

“Yeah. If we hit the road in an hour, we’ll be there before sunset-“

“No.” Dean grunted, double checking that he had Velma and the box, and Sam let out a bitch sigh.

“Dude, I think they’ve got, like, an infestation.”

“Other hunters will deal with it.”

“Haven’t we been talking about empathy, Dean?” Sam said, tone smug, and Dean drew back up. 

He looked fucking smug, as well. Like he’d just done a freakin’ genius chess move or something. 

Dean had never known how to play chess. She’d known how the pieces worked, but Sammy said She was impossible to play against because she just moved the pieces in a way She thought looked cool, and won every time. 

He fucking missed Her. 

He was also going to kill Sam.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean.”

“Empathy is helping people, right dean?” Sam raised his brows. “This would be helping people. A lot more than all the shit you’ve been doing to get her out.”

Dean took a long, heavy breath. “And?”

“And I told you, Cas can handle Crowley without us. We should be helping people.”

“Hunting the fuckin’ King of Hell will be helping people-“

“It’ll be helping you.” Sam said Her name in a bored tone, and that wasn’t how it should be fucking said. “She’d choose to help people.”

“She’d help you. If this is about gettin’ her out, does it even matter? If you were in the cage alone, Sam, she’d be doing everything to help you. To shut the hell up, and let’s go.” Dean could hear his own voice, dropping to almost a growl, and Sam glanced up with a small frown. 

“So?”

Dean stared at him. Not Sammy. That wasn’t Sammy, not his Sammy, because his Sammy would never question helping Her. Normal Sammy would be pissed at the idea of leaving Her in the cage. 

He had to try a different approach, before his head exploded. 

“Don’t you wanna know what the hell Crowley’s so interested in?”

“Not really, no.”

Dean took a long, slow breath. Maybe he’d just freaking leave Sam here, and they’d split up. They’d done it before, and that had always turned out sorta fine. 

“I’m going for a walk.” Dean grunted, and Sam sighed, looking back down. 

“Okay. Take your phone, you have a missed call from Bobby.”

“A-“ Dean cut himself off with one, last, slow breath. Not his fault. “Whatever.”

He grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and stomped outside as he dialed Bobby. 

“Dean?”

“Hey, Bobby, it’s me-“

“You alright, boy?” Bobby cut Dean off, words tight. “Heard you were callin’ past midnight, yesterday.”

“Yeah, I-“ Dean sighed, tipping his head back to frown at the tree branches. “Rough night. Better now. What’d you call me for?”

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead, ya idjit.”

“Well, I’m not, so-“

“Did you seriously try breaking a fuckin’ seal?”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. “Uh- Who told you about that-“

“Cas.” Bobby grunted. “Think he wants me to keep an eye on you. Said you don’t seem to be doin’ too well.”

Dean scowled. “Bobby, I’m fine-“

“That was a dumb fuckin’ move, Dean. You coulda gotten yourself damn killed-“

“I’ve heard-“

“You have any idea what the hell that would do to her?” Bobby snapped, and Dean’s spine went rigid. “If she got out, came back, then I had to tell ‘er you went and got yourself killed while she was gone? You know what she’d fuckin’ do?”

“Bobby.” Dean muttered. “I don’t-“

“She’d make the apocalypse look like a goddamn tea party, dumbass. I know I don’t got legs to stand on, but if you keep fucking actin’ like she ain’t gonna give a shit whether you live or die, she’s gonna kill you before Crowley gets your sorry ass.”

Dean swallowed, and that sore lump was back in his throat. He was getting pretty fucking sick of it. “I know, Bobby. I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be sorry, Dean. Stop trying to kill yourself.”

“I’m not-“ Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “Bobby, did Jody pass on my message?”

Bobby grunted. “Yeah, lookin’ for demons. Dean, if you go and die, I’ll drag you up from hell and lock you in your room ‘till she’s home.”

He shouldn’t like that idea. Just waiting in their room, surrounded by reminders that She really did existed, and had really cared about Dean and—at least in a few ways—wanted him, until She got home. And one day She’d just walk through the door, straddle Dean’s lap, and he’d get to hold Her until she understood how goddamn sorry he was. Maybe he’d show Her, with his hands and mouth and-

“Dean.”

“Yeah, I got it.” He grumbled. “Can I get a demon, please?”

There was a moment of silence, then Bobby’s rough voice. “I got wind for you that there’s a lotta them, down in Cadillac.”

Dean froze. “Cadillac? South Carolina?”

“Yep. Why, you heard of it?”

“Yeah, like an hour ago.” Dean glanced back to the motel. This conversation was gonna freakin’ suck. “Thanks, Bobby.”

The call ended, and someone out there had to be goddamn fucking with him. Making everything some kind of big fucking joke, on Dean himself. He didn’t know what the hell he’d done to who, but now he had to go apologize to Sam about a fight he should’ve won, and drive to town called Cadillac.

Cadillacs fucking sucked. 

“Sam.” He grunted, pushing back into the room. “Get it the car.”

Sam sighed. “Dean, I’ve told you I’m not doing this goose chase-“

“I’m not either.” He muttered, grabbing his bag. “You win. we’re going to Cadillac.”

It wasn’t until they were on the road, that Sam started to question why Dean was suddenly all in on South Carolina. And he didn’t seem to have enough emotion to care anyway, when Den told him about the demons. Just shrugged, and muttered guess you got lucky, huh.

Dean used the drive to practice his ignoring skills. When he took a sharp turn and Sam let out a bitch sigh, Dean ignored it. When he turned up the volume and Sam made a sour face, Dean made it a point to keep his gaze fixed out the window shield. It didn’t how many times Sam grumbled about wrong turns and Dean being dramatic, he wasn’t going to react. He’d keep getting Her snacks at the gas stations, because not doing that would be another form of giving up on Her, and Dean simply damn refused to. He’d drum all the wheel all he wanted, because it was his fucking car. 

He’d even ignore Sam’s look of disbelief, when a pop-punk song popped up on the mixtape. 

“Really, Dean? I have never once heard you listen to this song-“

“I don’t listen to it.” He muttered Her name, and his grip tightened on the wheel at Sam’s dramatic sigh. “She likes it.”

“I know that, Dean, but she’s not here-“

“Sam.” Dean gave him a firm, unwavering glare. “You can either be in the car and shut the hell up, or sit of the freakin’ roof.”

“C’mon, man, it’s not a good-“

“What did I say.”

Sam scowled, but muttered, “Don’t talk about her if it’s not something you’d say.”

Dean gave a sharp nod, and looked back to the road. He knew it was pathetic, to play the music just to torture himself with thinking about Her. But he loved Her, and he was past pathetic. Pathetic started with dreaming of someone, and Dean had been doing that for freaking years.

He just missed Her. And as long as shit kept not mattering, he’d keep listening to Her music until it did. 

Until She was home, and he could look at his motel bed and know She’d be sleeping on the other side. 

Pontiac wasn’t a huge town. Easy to find a cheap motel, and stay within walking distance of a bar. And the place was really freaking green. Sam said it was a wetland, but that just seemed to mean nice looking swamp. Plants and trees and a whole lotta birds, singing in overlapping notes as the sun started to set. 

The bugs came out. Dean had barely stepped out of the car, when he got a back. Sam looked at him like he was insane, when he whacked his arm, but Sam wasn’t getting freakin’ eaten alive. Sam didn’t have a bunch of fireflies try and land on his face, when they walked out of the lobby. 

And maybe Dean was losing his goddamn mind, but he could swear he was smelling it. 

Her.

“We’ll keep an eye out for demons,” Sam said as they unpacked, and Dean felt through his bag for Velma and the box. “But this is a vamp case, Dean. We need to treat it like one.”

Dean nodded. “Whatever. You gonna use the shower, or can I take it.”

Sam stared at him. “It’s Six pm.”

“And?” Dean scowled. “A man isn’t allowed to keep himself clean in freakin’ bug country?”

“A shower will actually attract more bugs.” Sam shrugged. “I’m going to the bar. You can…” Sam gave him an odd look. “Shower.”

Dean waited until the door was closed, and grabbed one of the paper sheets from the motel desk, along with his own pen, and shoved them under his pillow before heading to the bathroom. 

He still didn’t look in the mirror. But when he stepped into the shower, he glanced down at his dick between his legs, and let out a heavy sigh. 

There were two choices here. Neither of them made him a good man. 

He could chase distraction in some girl at the bar, and stray one step further from the holiest thing he’d ever know. Betray Her even more, when it would barely make him feel anything at all. 

Or he could take care of himself—with thoughts of Her, as if she wasn’t getting tortured in hell as they spoke—and drink the rest of the pain away.

And just the thought of Her was already doing it. He could smell Her apple through the steam of the shower, and his was making his cock twitch all by itself. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he could almost see him. Smiling at him, with bright eyes and shiny hair, framing every feature so well Dean wasn’t sure how She was human. Touchable, by shadows of men like him. 

He was a shadow of a man. Barely even something from the mud, anymore. 

Because he wrapped his cock in his hand, and started to pump, letting his brain carry him wherever it wanted to go. 

Her. On all fours in front of him, eyes fluttering as She gave him that sweet smile, right before taking Dean in Her mouth. She’d look so fucking perfect like that, lips swollen and drool falling out of Her mouth. She’d blink lazily up at him as he played with Her hair, sliding Her up and down until She was moaning, and he was right on the verge of snapping in half. Ass in the air, tits bouncing. Something sent down from a little above heaven.

Then Her hand would slide between her legs as She sucked Dean’s cock, and he’d pull Her off with a popping sound. Lay Her back down on the bed—he’d have to use a bed, it was what She deserved—and run his fingers between her soaked pussy lips. Wrap his lips around Her clit, or just slide himself inside of Her, and watch Her mouth fall open as he bottomed out, and she squeezed around him.

He came with a grunt, hand slipping slightly against the shower wall. 

The air still smelled like apple. 

When he walked out of the bathroom, there was an apple on the sink.

“It just appeared?” Sam frowned at him across the table a few hours and several drinks later, turning the apple in his hand. “Are you sure it wasn’t there when you walked into the bathroom.”

“Had to have. I would’ve noticed a random apple on the freakin’ sink.”

“Huh.”

Dean glowered. “Really? Huh?”

“Yeah, Dean, I don’t know what you want me to do about it-“

“I don’t know, something-“

“It’s just an apple, dude.” Sam rolled his eyes, gaze wandering somewhere over Dean’s head. “I’m gonna go to the bar.”

He didn’t wait before he was standing, leaving Dean alone the apple. When Dean glanced over his shoulder, Sam had cozied up with a brunette in about five seconds, and didn’t seem to be all that interested in anything else. 

Dean sighed, glancing back to the apple. It was just an apple. Not an Eden apple, a freakin’ Pink Lady or something. But he could still smell Her-

“Hey,” a hand landed on his shoulder, and Dean tensed. “Drinking all alone?”

“No.” Dean grunted, grabbing his bottle and the apple, giving the chick a tight grin. She was pretty, a huge rack that was almost falling out of her top, but not Her. Dean only fucking wanted Her. “I’m heading out. Uh- Good luck.”

He wandered back to the motel in the dark. The streets were long, and the night was longer, and by the time he got back to the room, he wasn’t sure if he was losing his damn mind, or seeing a million fireflies dancing around his body. He had downed three shots and half a bottle of whiskey. Sleep would fix it. 

But he had something more important to do, first.

——————

Dec. 18th - 2010

Princess,

Been a long day. Most days are long days, without you. Everyone’s pissed at me, all for different shit, and it’s exhausting. Sam’s still being a dick. I swear to god, baby, you’d stab him for half the stuff coming out of his mouth.

You wouldn’t stab him. It’s Sammy, far as you know. Hell, you might just walk back through the door, and he’ll turn into Sammy. Start talking about some nerd shit and showing you books, like he hasn’t been whoring around in every town we go to. 

I’ve been thinking about if we’d known you, before the moroi. Maybe we would’ve met on some other case, or just all had normal lives. Probably just Bobby, introducing us to you as kids. You and Sammy would’ve been best friends, and you wouldn’t have even looked at me. Bobby’s been telling me and Jody (the sheriff lady) about what you were like as a kid. We have to get him drunk, first, but that’s pretty freaking easy lately. 

He says you loved books and animals and other girl stuff. But Sammy liked girl stuff, too. Bobby mentioned that you used to mix plants in the yard to make potions, and I remember Sammy doing that.

Only Bobby said one your potions turned a bunch of his cars into pure gold, and the other one attracted all the stray dogs in the neighborhood. Then he said you had a tea party with them, but I’m not sure if he’s making that part up. He was pretty freaking drunk.

Sammy’s potion tasted like ass. He asked me to drink it, and I couldn’t say no. He would’ve cried, Princess, and you’ve never seen Sammy about to cry. It’s like a whining puppy. So I drank his potion, and then I started throwing up for like a week. Dad was pretty pissed, thought I ordered them food, and it could have gotten Sammy poisoned too. Turned out the kid just put a bug in the potion. He liked bugs. Bobby says you liked bugs, too. 

Bugs are gross, sweetheart. But if being honest with you, I can see you asking me to hold a bug, and I do it. For you. I’d just be happy you were giving me the time of day, when you’d be spending all your attention on Sammy. 

What I’m trying to tell you is that I think I love you every time. I think if you were an actual Princess, I’d keep loving you from afar, like if you were Sammy’s bug friend and I was just his stupid older brother. And if you looked at me one day and asked me to do something for you, I’d make the moon move backwards. If you loved me back (because I love you. Just in case you frogot forgot) I’d figure out a way for us to be together. If you wanted me. 

Yours, 

DAW

——————

“What the hell is up with this place?” Dean muttered, frowning at his pancake. “First I wake up with a bunch of flowers on my pillow, then they give me one fucking pancake? Do they hate me?”

Sam sighed, poking at his own eggs. “I don’t think they are that much, Dean. And you’re the one who said you fell in the bushes last night.”

“It looked like a garden vomited on my pillow, Sam.”

“It was two milkweeds.”

“I don’t know flowers.” Dean glared at his plate, grumbling Her name. “She’d know flowers.”

She’d look at the flowers, and go Dean, this is clearly the work of the flower-moth, a moth that vomits flowers on handsome men who love their girlfriends. And then he’d kiss Her. 

Instead he was stuck with Sam hogging all the syrup for his sausages, and a waitress who kept staring at him.  

“I’m tell you, Sammy, this place is strange-“

“It has a case, Dean. Of course it’s strange.” 

“No, man, like- Weird-“

“That means the same as strange.”

Sam was going to get punched. “You know what I mean. Weird shit keeps happening-“

“Someone gave you a free apple.” Sam gave him a flat look. “And you got blackout drunk, picked flowers for your girlfriend, then started crying when you realized she was stuck in hell. That’s not weird shit, Dean, that’s you needing a therapist.”

Dean scowled. “Shut up. Couldn’t get a therapist anyway, they’d think I was freakin’-“ He whistled, twirling his finger, and Sam shrugged. 

“Sure. You go over the case, or do I have to-“

“Big hidden vamp nest.” Dean stabbed his fork into the pancake, and the syrup pooled like it was bleeding. “Talk to locals, see who knows what, gank all the sons of bitches the moment we catch wind of where they’re holed up. Look for a demon, too. Grab it if you see it. Laser tag rules.”

Sam frowned. “Laser tag?”

“First person to hit it gets the point.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dean shrugged, and it sounded pretty simple. Vamps were easy enough, and someone was bound to snitch with the right pressure. And Bobby said the town had a demon problem. They’d run into one eventually. 

Only they didn’t. 

And this wasn’t easy at all. 

These people were fucking crazy. Everyone kept blaming flooding season for the deaths, as if it wasn’t almost freakin’ Christmas. Dean went to the bathroom in the sheriff’s office, and opened to door only to trip over a pile of books. There wasn’t a single demon in sight, but whenever they interrogated someone about it, people reported smelling sulfur and seeing black eyes.

And all of the interrogations were going to make Dean pull out his eyes. But this one was a special kind of fucking insane. This one was going to make Dean have a goddamn seizure. 

“You two look like lovely boys.” The old woman said, pulling out the third tray of chicken nuggets from the oven. “I mean, at first I thought, oh, how spooky, big FBI agents wavin’ around their guns and askin’ questions, but y’know.” She beamed at them. “First impressions are often wrong.”

Sam gave the woman a grimacing smile and Dean stared at his drink. It was a Shirley temple. Three cherries, with half the damn drink just pure grenadine.

If She was here, Dean would slide his over for Her to drink, in trade for one of Her chicken nuggets. Actually, She loved chicken nuggets, too. And these chicken nuggets were half ketchup, which She’d love even more. 

Son of a bitch, he missed Her. 

“Ma’am,” Sam said cautiously. “We heard that you found one of the bodies, a few weeks ago-“

“Oh, yes, but it’s just flooding season.”

Dean glanced up. “Y’know, we’ve heard that a few times. Flooding season happened every year?”

“Oh, yes.” The woman nodded with a vague wave of her hand. “Or months.”

Sam frowned. “That’s- Not how seasons work-“

“Oh, sure it is. Lollipop?”

Sam shook his head, but Dean leaned forward. She had root beer. And cream soda. And blue raspberry. 

He took one of each, then a cherry one for himself. 

Sam raised his brows, and Dean shrugged, shoving them in his pocket.

“How many people usually die?” He asked, unwrapping his lollipop. “During flooding season?”

“Oh, about a dozen.”

“A- Dozen?” He sat up, shooting Sam a what the fuck look, and Sam sighed. 

“Ma’am, exactly how often does flooding season happen?”

“Whenever it pleases.” The woman sat across from them, pushing forward a huge bowl of purple ice cream. “Purple cow?”

Dean stared at her. Maybe it was a code. Christ, he was too tired for code.

“Blue chicken.”

“It’s the ice cream flavor, Dean.”

“Oh- Uh,” he gave the woman a tight grin, holding up his lollipop. “I’m good. Flooding season-“

“Sweetie, it ain’t nothin’ for you to worry about.” The woman sighed. “Every once and a while you FBI boys get interested in it, then you give up when you see the bodies washing up the river. Nothing for y’all to worry about. Not that you could understand.”

Sam sat up, and Dean had heard it too. “That we could understand?”

The woman nodded, humming as she set the ice cream off by a third, empty seat.

A seat with chicken nuggets, and a Shirley temple, and a bunch of blue raspberry lollipops on the placemat. 

Dean frowned, raising his hand to cut off any of Sam’s further words. “Can I ask you something, ma’am?”

“Course. Ain’t that what you’re here for?”

“Yeah, uh- Who’s that plate for?”

Dean pointed to the empty chair, and the woman sighed. 

“Ah- Nothin’ for you to worry about, sweetheart.” She rose up, moving back into her tiny kitchen. “Y’all want some mac and cheese?”

“Yes-“

“No.” Sam cut Dean off with a glare. “Ma’am, we would really like to know about the plate-“

“I told ya’, it ain’t anything you’re gonna understand-“

“We’re open minded.” Dean jumped in, giving her a winning smile. “Promise. The occult? My partner here is into that magic stuff it in like, that way,” he winked, and Sam could glare at him all he fucking wanted, Dean was past giving a shit. “And my girlfriend loves weird things, we got paintings of Death on the fridge at home.”

The woman raised her brows. “Really. So-“ She looked back and forth like someone might be watching, then shook her head. “No. I shouldn’t say.”

“Ma’am, we need you to tell us-“

“Aliens.” She whispered, and they both blinked. “They been comin’ around, for a few days. I always thought this town was somethin’ special, and I knew it. Aliens been tellin’ me that their goddess was here, and they’ve been helping me get ready.”

Sam just stared at her, and Dean cleared his throat. 

“So… Aliens told you their goddess would want purple ice cream and chicken nuggets.”

The woman nodded eagerly, and Dean gave her an awkward smile. 

“They say what kind of music she likes?”

“No!” Her eyes widened. “But shoulda been askin’. Good idea, boy, I’ll tell them about you, agent-“

“Perry.” Dean turned to Sam, giving him a firm look. “Can I talk to you?”

Sam nodded, and they were barely a step out of the house before Dean whirled around, glowering at Sam.

“I fuckin’ told you, there’s something weird going on here-“

“One crazy woman doesn’t mean weird, Dean.” Sam sighed, pulling out his phone. “We’ve got a few more interviews, try and see if we can figure out this flooding season thing-“

“Aliens, Sammy.” Dean shouted. “We just gonna ignore aliens-“

“Yep. We don’t hunt aliens. They’re not real.”

“But-“

“I know you think something is up, dude. But until we get proof, it’s still a vampire case. C’mon.”

Dean scowled as Samy stared back to the car, and couldn’t stop himself from muttering Her name under his breath. “She thinks aliens are real.”

If Sam heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. But Dean was right. Strange fucking shit was up, in this town. Everyone kept doubling down on the flooding season thing, and when they looked at old records, that was the cause of death for nearly a hundred people in the past eight years. They didn’t get another old lady talking about aliens, but Dean noticed shit. The drawings of oceans and night skies on the pavement with chalk. The people looking up at the sky, and doing fancy, colorful makeup that makes them look like birds of paradise. He passed a stoop, and there was a knife taped to the door. 

And a knife on the sink, when he went to the bathroom. 

He needed to stop trying to shit. It kept making weird things happens. 

Sam hadn’t been wrong about the vampire case. All the old auto spy files about the flooding season victims were dead ringers for vamps, but there had to be more. People didn’t just start worshiping alien goddess out of nowhere, in a town where people died all the goddamn time. 

“We haven’t seen a single demon,” Dean muttered over the library table, and Sam sighed.

“What am I supposed to do about that, Dean.”

“I don’t know, I’m just saying it’s-“

“Don’t say strange.”

“It is strange! First we got this flooding season shit, then no demons-“

“No demons is good-“

“Not when a town is supposed to be drowning in them.” Dean hissed, leaning forward. “That means they’re hiding, Sam, that something bigger is happening-“

“Like aliens?” Sam’s tone was bored and mocking, and Dean scowled. 

“Yeah, Sam. Maybe.”

“Aliens that eat purple cow ice cream and Shirley temples.” 

“I’m not a freakin’ alien expert-“

“You need to sleep, Dean.” Sam sighed, flipping a page. “You sound insane.”

Of course he sounded insane. Their job was insanity, that wasn’t Dean’s fucking fault. They’d spent the whole day making no damn progress on anything, and Dean might be tired, but he mostly wanted to get this over with, and find a demon. He’d only taken this case for a demon, and now there weren’t any to be found. 

Maybe demons were the ones fucking with him. Dean wasn’t sure why the hell they’d target him over Sam—or why they seemed to know the exact things that would making something thing to the right of heart strain—but they were. He was walking down the sidewalk, and almost tripped over a bunch of crayons. He went for a bottle of whiskey, only for it to turn into a pina colada. The fucking fireflies kept dancing all around him—he wasn’t even that drunk this time—and when he started the walk back to the motel, he was pretty sure that whatever part of his brain hadn’t gone banana’s when She and Sammy fell in was finally slipping. 

The whole town had smelling like Her apples, all day. He hadn’t even been able to look at the lady hitting on him, because it made him feel sick. It was as if Her ghost—presence, if he thought ghost he thought dead, gone, never in his arms again, and then he had to run to the bathroom to vomit, then find a sugary peppermint resting on the doorknob—was wrapped over this entire town.

And on the wind, coming from somewhere in the swamps, he could hear it. 

It wasn’t the birdsong, from yesterday. 

It was a voice he knew. That vibrated in his chest and made his head feel light. That something deeper than his bones and blood seemed to recognize, even though Dean had never actually heard it before. 

But he knew it. 

More than anything, Dean knew it.

——————

Dec. 20th - 2010

Princess,

I got you some lollipops. Cream soda, root beer, and blue raspberry. When you get back, you can have them. 

You gotta come back. Just for this case, sweetheart. You’d love this case, you’d be bouncing off the damn walls. It’s got aliens, chicken nuggets, mac and cheese and free street knives. Like it was designed for you. 

I guess everything was designed for you. That’s the Bride of God thing. You’re the universe, and I’m just some asshole you watch TV with. 

Guess I always knew that. I know that you don’t want to be the Bride, but I can’t see how this life is any better. I’m not saying I want you to go, I’m saying you deserve better. Better than what any of us have ever been able to give you. Better than your family, or me, or Dad. 

I don’t know if I ever apologized to you, about Dad. What he did to you. If I didn’t, I’m sorry, baby. I told you, that’s never been what you deserved. And I’m never gonna be able to make up for the shit he did, for what I did when he told me, but I need you to know that I’d choose you. If I could go back and do it all again, I’d never leave you. I’d stay until the morning, ask you on a proper date, then give you whatever life you wanted. 

I don’t care if that ends with God coming for you anyway. Least I got you for a while. 

Any amount of time with you is more than I could ask for.

I love you. I think it’s driving me insane, how much I love you. Sam thinks so. And Bobby seems to think you feel some of it back, but I don’t think he understands what this is like. It doesn’t feel like normal love, Princess. It sorta feels like I knew it forever, even when I’ve been pissed at you. Like is so fucking deep in my body I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried. 

I don’t know if you feel it like that. But Bobby told me a couple days ago that you’d be broken up about it, if I died. I hope that’s not true. You’re worth a whole lot more than my sorry life, baby girl.

Yours, 

DAW

——————

He couldn’t sleep. 

The singing wouldn’t stop. All fucking night it carried through the windows, dragging Dean up from any rest, soothing him and driving him out of his mind all at once. Sam got about around 4am, and it was still going. 

“You been hearing that?” He grumbled into his pillow, and Sam let out a loud, dramatic sigh.

“Hear what, Dean.”

“The freakin’ singing.”

“The- Do you have headphones on?”

“Do I look like I have headphones on, bitch?”

“Well, there’s no singing-“

“No, there’s-“ Dean let out a long, heavy breath. “Never mind.”

It was gone by the time the sun was up. And then they had to get back on the case. The vampire and demon free vampire and demon case, with an extra side of aliens, in a city that wouldn’t just let Dean goddamn rest.

“They found another body last night,” Sam said over breakfast, and Dean grunted. “We should go to the coroner’s office, check it out.”

“Thought we knew it was vamps.” Dean muttered. One pancake again. He was going to drive off a cliff. “What’s the fuckin’ point.”

“Conformation.” Sam shrugged. “I’d bet on vampires, but maybe it’s something new like vampires. We have to cover all our bases before we go in swinging, Dean, you know that.”

He grumbled an agreement, his gaze wandering aimlessly over Sam’s shoulder. There were two little girls, sharing a milkshake that looked pretty goddamn good. If She was here, Dean would buy Her a milkshake. Then She’d tell him that she could buy it herself, both of us are using stolen money, Winchester, and Dean would convince Her that it was actually pretty fucking important that Dean but the milkshake. It was about chivalry. 

And in his fake dream world, She’d give in with a giggle, and he’d get to wrap his arm over Her shoulder. Kiss the top of Her head, then watch her drink with a big innocent expression, adorably unaware of how Dean was watching Her lips wrap around the straw, thinking of all the things he was going to do to Her when they got back to the motel. 

She’d makes Dean drink some of it. And he’d get little bit of whipped cream on his nose—on purpose, but She wouldn’t be able to prove that—so She’d kiss it off. Then it wouldn’t matter what Dean had been planning, because he’d kiss Her fully, She’d climb into his lap, and by the time people were coughing and staring at them making out in the booth, Dean wouldn’t be able to wait for the motel. He’d just bring Her right to the backseat of the Impala, find a shady corner to park, and bury his face between Her thighs-

“Dean.” Sam waved in front of his face, snapping Dean out of the daydream. “Stop thinking about her and focus.”

“I wasn’t-“

“You make the same face, whenever you think about her.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “The hell I do-“

“Yeah, you do. It’s better than Her Dean face, though. C’mon.”

“Her-“

Sam stood up, and Dean’s words died in his throat. 

Right where Sam’s massive fucking head had been blocking, was a huge Indiana Jones poster. 

And Dean would be all the stolen money on his credit card that it hadn’t been there the days before. 

Sam wasn’t interested in any of Dean’s theories, though. He hadn’t heard the singing, couldn’t smell Her apple, didn’t seem to notice how this whole town was drenched in Her. 

“Maybe we should go back to the Alien lady.” Dean muttered, staring blankly at the vic’s body. “See what the alien goddess thing is about.”

“No. That would be a waste of time.” Sam turned the vic’s neck, and gave Dean a smug look. “See?”

He angled the neck for Dean to see, and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I never said it wasn’t a vamp. I just- Something’s up, Sam-“

“Yeah, vampires.” Sam dropped the neck, picking up the arm with a frown. “The bodies are bloated, though. And they’re always found in the river. Maybe the vamps dump them, after feeding fresh-“

“Sure. We haven’t seen a single demon-“

“Maybe there never were demons. Bobby can be wrong sometimes.”

Dean scowled. Bobby could be wrong. But usually when Bobby was wrong, they had Her there to say what was right. And that was always on cases with weird fucking shit.

“Let’s check upstream.” Sam said, grabbing his jacket off a chair. “See if we can find the nest-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted, grabbing his arm. “Look, I know you don’t have feelings right now, or whatever, but you gotta at least admit something’s up here. That this isn’t a normal case.”

Sam nose wrinkled slightly, but he let out a long sigh, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s strange. But we know there are vamps, Dean. And if we gank them and still see some weird shit, then we can start thinking about- Aliens.”

Dean nodded slowly, opening his mouth to make some sort of point about the demons—three things in one town was kind of a lot, so maybe there was a bigger root problem that needed to be dealt with—that was cut off by a knock on the door. 

The coroner—a round faced, smiling man—waved at them from the window, and Dean sighed, pulling the door open. 

“Hey, boys!” The coroner breamed between them, and Dean had never met anyone who was happier to be working with dead bodies. “You find what you needed? Anythin’ else I can do to help?”

“No.” Sam said, giving the coroner a close-lipped smile. “We got it. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Hey, anything for the big timers, right?” The coroner laughed. “The FBI bein’ this interested in our little town-“

“Yep. Well, we should head out-“

“I mean, three feds, lookin’ at my dead bodies? This is the best week of my life.”

Dean froze, his body going rigid, and he didn’t have to look at Sam to know he’d done the same.

“Your dead bodies?” Sam asked, and Dean scowled.  

“And,” he shot Sam a glare. “Three agents? I don’t know if you’re seeing double, buddy, but there’s only two of us-“

“Well, there’s you guys, and the lady.”

Sam frowned. “The lady?”

“Yep. Scary looking gal, real looker. Started walkin’ around my office like she owned it, talked like a book had a baby with a pirate.”

Dread started to twist in Dean’s gut. Dread and something worse. Something with soft light that could be fucking hope. “Her eyes.” He muttered, gesturing to his own face. “Were they- What’d they look like?”

“Huh.” The coroner tilted his head. “Kinda sparkly. Like stars.”

Son of a bitch. 

He didn’t wait for Sam, before stomping out of the office. He couldn’t goddamn breathe, or see anything but blurred color, and it felt like he was having a freaking heart attack, with the strain to the right of his heart. She couldn’t be here. Dean would fucking know if She was here. She was still in the cage, because he couldn’t get her out, but that meant-

“Dean.” Sam called, jogging after him. “Slow down-“

“I’m not gonna fucking slow down,” Dean sneered, whirling around. “I told you, Sam, something crazy is happening in this town. Someone is messing with me, making me- I can-“

Sam braced his hands on his hips as Dean took a deep, unsteady breath. “Dude, I know that sounded like her, but-“

“No.” Dean snapped. “You don’t get it, I can smell her and hear her, and- She loves chicken nuggets, Sam. She loves chicken nuggets, and candy, and Indiana Jones, and- Son of a bitch, she loves that purple cow ice cream, I remember her giving Cas some- And the bar has been playing all her favorite songs and she loves flowers and- Christ, Sam, I think I’m gonna open the shower tonight a find a kitten in the bathtub-“

“Dean-“

“Someone is fucking with me, Sam. Someone is trying to drive me insane-“

“Dean-“

“And I’m gonna- I’ll fucking kill them-“

“Dean!” Sam shouted. “I think you’re right.”

Dean blinked. “You do?”

“Yep. It’s-“ Sam sighed, keeping his gaze firmly locked on Dean’s. “Don’t look. But there’s a child watching us.”

“A-“ Dean turned, Sam groaned, and there was a child watching them. Not in the way children watched adults fight, but with a strange sort of intent. 

The moment her eyes locked with Dean’s, she took off down the street. 

Dean sighed. “Are we chasing a child.”

Sam shrugged. “Guess we have to.”

They took off after her. Down the street—fast fucking kid—and around the block, before she turned into an alley- 

Something slammed over Dean’s head, drove into his gut, and the world went black. 

Stayed black, for a little while.

Dean’s head fucking hurt again, when he could think. The low groan that left him wasn’t dignified, either. 

But they had bigger problems to deal with. 

The room was pretty dark. Windowless, with a soft carpet Dean’s face had be dropped against. Everything goddamn hurt, and between the throbbing in his skull, ache in his jaw, and sticky, wet feeling in his gut, someone had beaten the shit out of him.  His hands were tied behind his back, and when he glanced over, Sam was in the exact same position, with a gash on his arm and black eye blooming on his face.

His eyes slowly started to adjust, as he forced through the pain and pushed himself up on his knees. The whole room was full of fancy shit. Polished wooden tables and plush chairs, with the stupid, cream and red design you’d see in a grandmother’s house. There were paintings on the walls, and crystal glasses filled with something red, and a man. 

One man, bald and bored looking, sitting on the largest chair with one leg over the other. Watching Sam and Dean try to get their bearings with vague amusement, swirling the red stuff in his own glass. 

Blood. 

“Sam.” Dean groaned, scrunching his nose as another pain stabbed through his skull. “Think we found the vamp nest.”

Sam glared at him, and the man chuckled. 

“You are Dean, I presume?” He hummed, his voice smooth and dry. “Which makes the big one Sam.”

Dean smirked at him. His gun was gone. Best bet was getting the evil plan, then finding a way out. “So you heard of us?”

The man sighed. “Every Alpha has heard of the Winchesters. At this point, every monster has heard of the Winchesters. I’ve always heard you travelled in a herd of three...” The man raised his brows, and Dean tensed. “But I guess the brains couldn’t grace us with her presence, being trapped in the cage.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and Sam cleared his throat. “Alpha?”

“Yes, Sam Winchester.” The man sighed. “Alpha. You’re a smart boy, I’m sure you can work out what that means.”

Sam blinked. “Alpha is the first letter of the greek alphabet. So, uh-“

“He’s the first vampire.” Dean grunted, eyes narrowing. “Or he’s saying he is.”

The man—Alpha Vampire—gave Dean an amused look. “Interesting. Not just the beauty, are you, Dean.”

Sam frowned. “He’s right?”

“Oh, yes.” The Alpha hummed. “I am indeed the first vampire. The father of the greatest race my mother ever created-“

“Mother?”

“Yes, Dean. Mother. We all come from somewhere, just as my children came from me. And you two have killed many of them-“

“Sorry, Dracula.” Dean shrugged, and the move split his spine. “They were killing people-“

“They were eating food.” The Alpha snapped. “Just like a hunter, to speak of things they don’t understand. I was hoping to speak to the Magdalene-“

“You know about Magdalenes?” Sam cut in, and the Alpha sighed. 

“Of course I know about Magdalenes. I have met several, in my life. But you have the Magdalene.” The Alpha laughed to himself. “Had the Magdalene.”

Dean’s fists curled, and even that movement hurt. “Listen, Count Chocula, you better shut your goddamn mouth-“

“Or what, Dean.” The Alpha drawled. “You are not at the advantage here. And I would not go making threats when I am already very displeased with your presence in my town.” He leaned forward, glaring between Sam and Dean. “I have spent almost two hundred years in Cadillac without disturbances. Do you have any idea how long it takes to convince a town that flooding season is a genuine reason for people to die en masse?” He sighed, lips curling. “Very long. And it was all going just swimmingly, then suddenly there are demons and fairies, and it is all the Winchester’s fault.”

“Demons?”

“Fairies?”

The Alpha sighed. “Yes, Sam. Fairies. They are rare, in our world, which makes the fact that about three dozen of them have been running around my town all week all the more annoying. And-“

“Uh, can we go back to the demon thing.” Dean said over the Alpha, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Cause we’ve been here a few days, and I haven’t seen a single demon-“

“And we’ve never heard of fairies.” Sam added. “We’re here to hunt vampires.”

The Alpha gave Sam an amused look. “And is that supposed to help your case?”

“No.” Sam shrugged. “But demons and fairies aren’t us.”

Dean really wanted to circle back to demons—they hadn’t even fucking seen one—but they also had to get out of this alive. So it could go on the back burner for now.”

“Sam’s right.” He said, throwing the Alpha another grin. “You’ve got the wrong guys, buddy. Sucks.”

The Alpha scowled. “You cannot trick me, Dean Winchester. I know it is you. My people have been on lockdown, since they arrived, and none of them are foolish enough to deal with a hoard of demons in this political climate. Not when the new boy-king of Hell is trying to make me open the door to Purgatory-“

“Purgatory?” Sam cut in, the room was sort of spinning as the Alpha sighed.

“Yes, Sam. Purgatory. Even our souls deserve a place to rest, when vermin like you bite.”

“But why would Crowley care about that, he’s the King of Hell-“

“I have not been asking him,” the Alpha sneered. “While he’s been trying to kidnap me. And as I was trying to say, demons are unruly, but fairies? They can be controlled.”

“That’s great, dude.” Dean grunted, straining slightly at the ropes around his ankles. They were fucking tight, and every movement send a new wave of pain through his body. “The hell do you want-“

“I want you to listen.” The Alpha snapped. “You claim you are not behind any of this, but I know otherwise.”

Sam frowned. “We’ve been here three days, we couldn’t-“

Sam cut himself off as one of the curtains moved, revealing the little girl that had been watching them on the street. Dark hair and big eyes, a blank expression as She stood so goddamn still Dean didn’t know if she was breathing or not.

“This is Ella.” The Alpha hummed, standing to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “She’s a young good fairy, bound to my service.”

“She a kid.” Dean hissed, and the Alpha laughed.

“Do not act like you wouldn’t hunt her if she was only a few years old, Dean. And she has been quite helpful, telling me exactly what’s going on.”

Sam gave Dean a tense look, Dean swallowed, and something seemed to bang outside.

“Ella,” the Alpha drawled. “Tell me why you’re here.”

The girl pointed. 

To Dean.

“Dean?” Sam said, and Dean was confused as well, but the tone wasn’t fuckin’ needed. “That can’t be why she’s here-“

“I assure you, fairies cannot lie-“

“But they’re here for their goddess.” Sam snapped, and Dean felt kinda heavy

“Those were the aliens, Sammy-“

“Fairies that woman probably thought we aliens, Dean.” Sam gave the Alpha a glare. “It can’t be Dean. He’s not a goddess. Or a god. He’s just a guy.”

Dean scowled, and the Alpha tilted his head.

“What about the fairies cannot lie do you not understand-“

“The part where you think they’re here for Dean.”

Sam held the Alpha’s glare, Her apple smell was getting stronger, and Dean was starting to feel sort of lightheaded. Might be the blood loss, or just the fairy doing something to him, but-

“If you’re planning on do somethin’ to me.” He muttered, and the Alpha frowned at him. “Can it happen now, before I bleed all over your fancy freakin’ carpets?”

“The injuries won’t kill you,” the Alpha, snapped and Dean groaned, shaking his head. 

He was going to bleed out in fucking Cadillac. The one thing Bobby had told him not to do was die, and he couldn’t even fucking manage that. And Sam was saying his name, but it didn’t sound all that worried, and if he went maybe he could be a part of that flooding season thing. 

And Her apple smell was consuming him. Maybe he was already falling into hell. 

Maybe She’d meet him there. All the way down. 

He could already hear a lot of shouting, but it didn’t sound like hell shouting. That was more just screams of pain. There was a muffled urgency to this shouting, and Alpha was frowning somewhere over Dean’s head, and the ringing in his ears got louder. 

“I may have to cut our audience short-“

“Father-“ A tall, broad man slammed open the doors of the fancy room panting heavily, and the Alpha frowned.

Dean’s knees felt weak, just keeping him upright. Everything fucking smelled like apples. 

“Jonas, what-“

“It’s- Fuck, it’s-“ The man shook his head frantically, and the Alpha took a long step forward. 

“Jonas, speak plainly-“

“It’s her!” Jonas screamed, and the Alpha flinched back. “It’s the girl-“

Jonas’ word died in a gurgle of blood, his throat slit clean open with a bubbling wound that spread, before his head fell clean from his shoulders.

And Dean must be dying. Or just already dead.

Because Jonas fell to the floor, and standing right behind him was Her. 

She was fucking here. Out of the cage and right in front of him, the light from the hallway seeming to cast around Her like She was something ethereal from the night sky, come down to guide Dean home. All the color in the world growing vibrant, and the air in every ragged breath cleaner. Wind seemed to be blowing through Her shining hair, making Her look even more like a goddess from above heaven. But Her skin looked soft. Touchable. And She was still wearing Her usual jacket and dress, spinning Her blade in her hands, as she frowned down at Jonas.

“You know.” She drawled, nudging his body with her foot. “I’ve wanted to be the girl.”

She still sounded like a siren. It was the only noise in the world that wasn’t far away anymore, the only thing Dean could hear at all. 

“Magdalene.” The Alpha hissed, and She looked up with a sweet smile. 

“Hi. Do you like my trick? I-“

Her words died, and She was looking at Dean. 

Right at him, with bright eyes. 

He didn’t even know if this was real, but She was looking at him, and he couldn’t stop himself from groaning Her name. 

If She was here because he was dying, it could only go faster. The sooner the pain ended, the sooner he’d be able to hold Her. 

“Dean- Dean-“ She took a stumbling step forward, and the Alpha was faster. Dean felt himself be yanked up be the neck, another low sound of pain escaping his throat.

He probably didn’t look very heroic. If She was just another hallucination, it wouldn’t matter, but just in case She somehow wasn’t, Dean tried to puff out his chest and look like he wasn’t dying. It only made the Alpha’s sharp nails sink a little further into his neck, and another low groan leave his body. Somewhere in his periphery, Sam started to move, then let out a sharp grunt as the Alpha kicked his gut.

“The rumors are all true, it seems.” The Alpha said, voice mocking. “The Magdalene has a soft spot for the angel’s toys.”

She was frozen in doorway. Dean could see Her grip on the knife tightening, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. 

She was freaking out. Dean needed to get to Her and touch Her—to make this all better—but he didn’t even know if he’d be able to, or he’d just fall right through the air. 

“I’ve heard rumors that you’re particularly fond of this one.” The Alpha squeezed Dean’s neck, and his vision started to dance with spots. 

She took another staggering step forward, Her voice far softer than only a moment before. “Don’t-“

Something sharp was starting to poke at Dean’s throat. “Another step, and he dies.”

Her eyes were locked onto Dean’s, and they were the only bright thing left in the world. Glossy and desperate, and he didn’t understand. He’d be fine. Once he was gone, he’d be able to touch Her again. 

“No- Dean-“

“Knife down, darling.” The Alpha hummed, and she raised Her hands, shaking her head desperately. 

“I- I can’t- Please, don’t-“

The Alpha roared, and nothing split open Dean’s throat, and the world didn’t go dark. All the pressure was released, and he fell onto the ground, flat on his back. 

He could swear, through the fog clouding his head, he could see the little fairy girl wrapped around the Alpha’s head, clawing and chewing at his skin. But they fell out of his view, and Dean wasn’t sure if he was dead. There was too much pain for it, but he also couldn’t really feel his own body, and people were shouting around him, but he couldn’t make out the words. 

He was being dragged. Across the ground, then hauled up into the air. When his head turned, he was pressed against something that smelled so fucking good. Then there was a harsh light that made him groan, then he was somewhere softer, a rumbling below him. Smaller arms were pulling him up, and he slumped forward against a warm body that fit his so perfectly. Familiar, gentle hands were grabbing his face, but he couldn’t control his own body, and he slumped down forward. There was a beautiful voice, calling his name, and it sounded so sad. When a tension released from Dean’s wrists, his arms moved to hold the source of it—the warm body—as he tried to mutter soothing words, but they just came out like nothing. 

“Dean,” She whispered, prying him away from Her neck. “Dean, I need you to stay awake, no-“

She sounded like She was crying, and he couldn’t let that happen, either. Dean mumbled Her name—the word a little clearer than all the others—but She still wouldn’t let him fall down.

“I- Fuck- Don’t move-“ A hand pressed to his chest and he covered it, trying to keep Her there. 

It worked.

Dean was touching Her. 

He might still be dying, though. He could see that light people were always talking about, as he forced his vision to focus. Forced himself to see Her. 

She looked so sad. Almost broken, with Her hair stuck to Her brow and Her eyes darting between his face, and Her hand on his chest. Her brow was wrinkled, and there were bags under Her eyes, and She’d never looked more beautiful because She was here. Real, and touching Dean in a way he could feel as more than a phantom shiver.

And Dean could touch Her.

It was slipping so fast. The word was getting sharper, and the pain was easing, but now he just felt so tired. He had to touch Her, though, before exhaustion pulled him under. He had to, just so he knew this wouldn’t have to become another nightmare where She slipped through his fingers. 

Dean grabbed Her face between his hands, and She stared at him. Wide eyed and pretty. Flushing slightly.

Real.

“Hey, Princess.” He tried to sound collected and charming, but his mouth was swelling, and the world was still spinning. “You look pretty.”

His brow dropped to Her shoulder, the exhaustion settling into his bones. But he grinned, as it washed over his body. 

Because he could hear Her. 

Saying his name. 

Home.

This wasn’t one of those dreams. 

It was like he was back underwater, reaching up to try and get to the surface, his hand scraping over the waves but never breaching the surface. He couldn’t breathe, or see, or even roar Her name, to make sure she was still there.

But then it was different. 

Suddenly the water was warm, and the world started to glow with light.

He was swimming. Drifting even further down. 

But it didn’t hurt anymore. And when he blinked around, there was something bright and silver and beautiful, like a star fallen right into the ocean, watching over him in the dark.

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Anything?” There was a light pressure on Dean’s chest, and it went still. “Not even- Anything?”

“That’s what I said.”

It started moving again. “Well, where did you wake up?”

“Cas said Kansas. You didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t.”

There was a lot of light, here. Behind Dean’s eyes, softer than the light when he’d been dragged around earlier. This was also a softer surface, and everything still smelled like apples, but there wasn’t a ringing in his ears, or more than a stinging pain in his chest that his body was too tired to fight. 

He’d been injured. The pain was stitches, because he’d gotten the shit beat out of him. And most of what he could remember was a blur, but there had been the Alpha, the fairies, and- 

Her.

She was here. Home. This was probably Her hotel, because there wasn’t any rattling of the heater. It was Her and Sam talking, and Her hands on Dean’s chest. She’d tensed, because Sam didn’t remember the cage, and they’d been in there together. 

But they were both out. Dean hadn’t died, She was real.

“Are you going to tell me-“

“Jerusalem.” Her words were short. Tight. Dean wanted to curve over Her, until She relaxed, but he couldn’t really find enough strength to move. And selfishly, he just wanted to keep Her hands on his chest. 

“Huh. Alright.” Sam paused. “Why were you hunting alone?"

“I was looking for you guys.”

Lie. That was a lie. Dean didn’t know why, but that was a freaking lie, and he was too fucking tired to understand it.

“What the hell happened, back there?”

“I don’t know.” She murmured. “The- Fairy?”

“Yep.”

“The fairy,” She sighed. “Attacked, and I didn’t pause to take an audit. I- I had to-“

Her words died off, and Dean fought his shiver as Her fingers trailed up his chest. 

Sam cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go call Bobby. Give him the rundown. Vampires, fairies, demons-“

“Demons?”

“Bobby said there were demons, and Dean was looking for one, to help Cas with find what Crowley’s after or some shit. But we didn’t see any.”

“Oh.” She hummed, and there was something strange to Her tone Dean was too tired to place. “Okay. Tell Bobby we’re a star up and three over, he’ll know what it means.”

Something scraped on the floor, the wood of the floor creaked, and a door slammed. 

She was still touching Dean. 

It lingered, every time She brushed over Dean’s skin. Like a brand he didn’t want to heal from, or something hot sinking under his muscles and taking root in his gut. He’d never try and remove it. 

He never wanted Her to be gone again. 

When She finished the stitches, there was rush of panic through his body. She’d stop touching him, and he didn’t want Her to. He shouldn’t have played passed out, now he couldn’t tell Her to stay without freaking Her out. He couldn’t even pretend to grab Her wrist in his sleep, She hated that- 

She didn’t move away. Light fingers ghosted over the wound, a soft sound came from somewhere above him, and his hand was pulled into Her’s. He felt Her touch his fingers so delicately, tracing over every callous and line, before they were tangled together, and Dean’s hand was set back down as the mattress dipped. 

She was lying next to him. Holding his hand, even though She didn’t know he was awake. 

Like She couldn’t bear to leave either.

Fuck it. 

Slowly enough that She could stop him if She wanted, Dean pulled Her into his chest. He heard Her breath hitch slightly, but She was still relaxed in his arms, right until She was almost curled over him, free hand resting on his chest. 

When he opened his eyes, She was there. Right next to him, blinking up at him with wide, slightly puffy eyes. Her lips were swollen from chewing, that little wrinkle between Her brows. Dean held Her gaze as he moved his arm over Her head, and around Her shoulders, swallowing the grunt the movement caused and reaching around to rub his thumb down Her nose. 

Her eyes fluttered, slightly, and he couldn’t stop his small grin. 

“Morning.”

Her throat bobbed, voice perfectly soft. “It’s 1pm.”

“Brunch time.”

“That’s just lunch, De-“

“Brunch is a feeling, Princess.”

“You’ve never even had brunch-“

“I ate eggs with you at 2, that one time.”

“That was 2am.”

“Yeah, and it felt like brunch.” 

Her lips twitched as She sniffed, turning Her face into Dean shoulder, and he chuckled. It hurt. 

He didn’t care.

“Hey, Princess.”

She hummed, not moving, and Dean sighed. 

“Sam’s soul is blocked, by the way. That’s why he’s being such a dick.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“He tell you?”

“No.”

“Then how-“

“Demon.” She mumbled, still not moving. “In Iraq.”

Dean frowned into the air. Iraq. That was halfway across the freaking world, not just a few days to South Carolina. And Sam was right, She had been hunting alone. Lying about why. 

Not wearing the clothes She’d fallen in with, like Sammy had been. 

And suddenly his throat hurt again. She wouldn’t be so calm, if She’d just gotten out of the cage. She might not have been a shattered mess like Sammy, but She wouldn’t be spinning Her blade and carving through vampires. She’d be too tired, from being dead. 

He had to ask. 

Even when he didn’t really want the answer. 

“You’ve been out-“

“Since September.” She whispered, and Dean felt the ache from his chest move to the pit of his stomach. 

Three months. 

Three fucking months.

“Why.” He grunted, unable to think of anything else to say.

She pushed up on Her palms, looking at him with a pleading expression. “I- I had to.”

She didn’t say more. And looking at Her, Dean couldn’t bring himself to push for it. 

She looked so fucking tired. All the lines of Her face were sharper, Her eyes holding new strange depth to them that he couldn’t name. As if She’d seen all the stars in the sky, been blinded by them, and done something horrible to keep seeing. 

To keep looking at Dean. 

But it still fucking hurt. And he couldn’t stop the bitterness of his tone.

“Bobby know?” He muttered, holding Her palm over his chest because he loved Her, and if She turned into mist above him, he might snap in half. “That you’re back?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, scanning over Dean’s face. “I- I just got back a few days ago. I lost my phone, his number is the only one I know. And he- He told me you were here.”

Truth. That was the truth. 

And She looked so fucking sad.

“So you came,” Dean muttered, and She nodded. A small, nervous movement, Her whole body tensed above Dean’s. Like She expected him to shove Her away. 

And it was boiling in the cavity of his chest. She ran again, when She swore she wouldn’t. 

But she was here now. Looking at Dean like he was the most important thing in the world. Like he could possibly hurt something as vital as Her. And he doesn’t want to break Her. Touchable. In Dean’s hands, with one still covering Her’s and the other on Her waist.

He knew that, the longer he sat in it, the pit was only going to split further open.

But She was filling it with light.

And right now, he’d been in the dark too long to care.

“I missed you.” He said, his voice barely a rasp, and something flashed over Her features.

“I missed you, too.”

She squeezed his hand three times, with the words. 

Okay. Everything’s okay. 

It wasn’t. He wasn’t even that angry with Her. It just hurt. It goddamn hurt, that She hadn’t come back. Maybe She’d known what he was doing, while She was gone, and decided She wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he’d been insane to think She’d ever want to crawl back to him at all, when he was still from the mud.

But She’d saved him. And he could see it, haunted in Her eyes. All those stars behind Her gaze, crashing back down to Earth to only look at Dean. Look at him like She loved him. And maybe She did, but Dean couldn’t have that be a burden. An obligation. Something that made this all worse, to be loved by something as low as Dean.

So he would be better. Do better. Figure out where he went wrong, and never be something She ran from again. 

She was still looking at him. And he was out of words to say it. How he’d missed Her, and how he loved Her, and how fucking sorry he was for all of it. 

But when he reached up to cup Her face, She leaned into the touch, and Dean knew. He was bad at saying it. He’d fuck it up.

He’d just have to show it. 

She stared at Dean, as he guided Her down, but melted into him all the same. 

Pressed Her lips against Dean’s, as his hand glided up Her back, and made a soft, blissful sound as he kissed Her with a little more than he’d ever had before. Then She kissed him back—wrapping Her legs carefully around his torso and crashing so deep into him he couldn’t really think past Her apple on his tongue and warmth in his arms—and it was like breathing. 

Simple and natural and thoughtless. The most crucial thing, to move his lips against Her’s and press his tongue between Her lips. To keep holding Her as she made a high, sweet sound and ran Her fingers through his hair.

She was still fragile in his arms. Dean still felt the weight of the whole year, hanging over their heads. But it wouldn’t matter, as long as he got to hold Her and kiss Her like this. Like he’d been made to do it, with his mouth slotted perfectly against Her’s and every sound Dean pulled from Her like music. He was still Her shadow, and not time would wipe him away. 

He’d love Her in the dark, as long as She kept being light.

And it wasn’t something She could stop being. She just was. Even with Her body shivering under Dean’s touch—his hand dipping under Her shirt to skim up Her back, Her neck being angled by his careful hand—and way Her nails dug into his shoulders, She was still light. 

Her light had never been pure white enough for it to just stop shining. It was made with a little bit of darkness. Made of silver. 

So She’d last. 

And Dean would stay Her shadow, nipping at Her lips as they drew back for ragged breaths, until She left him in the dark.

“Don’t leave.” She whispered against his lips. “I- I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-“

“I know.” He murmured, bumping their noses. “I know, Princess-“

A sob shook Her body, and Dean could taste the salt of Her tears. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me-“

“Hey.” He ran his thumb down Her nose, and those pretty lashes fluttered. “I’m not leaving, sweetheart. Just- Don’t run again.” His voice was hoarse. “Please.”

“Oh- Okay.”

She said it like it was simple. Hooked Her pinky with Dean’s and silently swore to it, as if it was nothing. And when She spoke, Her words sounded like a plea.

“All the way down?”

He leaned back to look at Her, and there it was again. That look. 

And Dean had tried being mad at Her. Tried hating Her, as well. 

It never worked in his favor. 

And She always came back.

“Yeah, Princess.” He squeezed Her hand three times, giving Her a small—but so painfully fucking real—grin. “All the way down.”

End Note: I'm sorry for edging you guys, thank you for trusting.

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[samazing0831]

Teenage Dirtbag - Eddie Munson x Reader ONESHOT

TW - mentions of alcohol, minor language

Eddie Munson never expected the quiet girl at the jock tablet to know Iron Maiden, let alone invite him to a concert instead of going to Homecoming with her jock boyfriend. But one skipped gym class, a shared detention, and a life-changing night at a metal show later, Eddie's realizing maybe he's not just a background character in someone else's high school story. Maybe he's your main event. And maybe, just maybe, the dirtbag finally gets the girl.

3.5k words

Lunch at Hawkins High is a sociological experiment.

That’s what Mr. Clarke called it once, anyway. Social hierarchies, patterns of movement, predictable behavioral norms. Eddie thinks it’s more like a zoo.

The jocks claim the middle tables, naturally. Center stage. Theatre in the round. Their laughter echoes like a laugh track from some cheap sitcom Eddie refuses to watch on principle. They wear varsity jackets even in the September heat, as if the rest of the world might forget they play football unless it’s sewn onto their chests.

And you - you - you sit right there with them.

Not a cheerleader. Not a loudmouth. Not cruel, at least not in the obvious ways. Just… there. Always there. Smiling at the right time. Quiet when you’re supposed to be. You bring lunch from home, always in a neat little bag, no cafeteria tray. Sometimes you read between bites, like you’re above it all. Like you don’t need them. Like you could be somewhere else.

And yet, you’re still there.

Eddie watches from his spot on the edge. One leg up on the bench, biting the tip of his straw like it’s a cigarette, pretending to listen while Jeff and Gareth argue over whether Black Sabbath or Metallica has the better sophomore album. He pretends not to notice how often his eyes drift your way. Pretends not to care that your boyfriend - Chad or Brad or Tad or something equally cursed - is laughing too hard at something someone said, a smug arm thrown over the back of your chair like you’re furniture.

You’re laughing too, but softer. A little delayed. It doesn’t reach your eyes.

He sees that.

Eddie rips the straw wrapper into tiny pieces under the table.

When did this start, anyway? This stupid fixation? Maybe it was last year, when you dropped your book bag and he helped you pick everything up. You said thank you. You looked him in the eye. You didn’t flinch.

Or maybe it was two weeks ago, when he heard you humming Iron Maiden - actual Iron Maiden - in the hallway before English class. Just a few notes, barely audible over the slamming of lockers and the shrill bell, but he knew it. Recognized it like a secret handshake.

And then, like a coward, he ducked into the bathroom before he could say anything.

You probably don’t even remember it. But he does.

He remembers everything.

You shift in your seat now, crossing one leg over the other, leaning away from Tad-Chad and staring out the window. Sunlight catches in your hair and for one second, Eddie lets himself imagine something insane.

You at his table. Sitting here, next to him. Eating cafeteria pizza and trading band recs. Laughing for real. Maybe even leaning into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He snorts out loud.

Gareth stops mid-rant. “Something funny, Munson?”

“Yeah,” Eddie mutters, popping a fry into his mouth. “Just thinking about the cruel irony of the high school caste system.”

Gareth blinks.

Jeff says, “Dude, what?”

“Nothing. Just -” Eddie gestures vaguely toward the jock table, where Tad-Chad has moved on to pantomiming a wrestling move with one of the other gorillas. “One day, we’re gonna be rich and famous, and they’ll all be working in tire shops or selling insurance.”

“Or dead,” Gareth adds cheerfully.

Eddie grins, but it’s thin. Forced.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t care what Tad-Chad does with his life.

He just cares that you’re sitting next to him.

And not even seeing him.

Eddie stares at the clock on the wall of the detention room like it personally offended him.

It’s ticking too slow, which is a metaphor for his whole damn life.

Mr. Callahan, nose buried in The Old Man and the Sea like it’s the world’s most riveting thriller, hasn’t looked up in twenty minutes. A dead fly spins lazily on the floor near the heater vent. Someone in the back row is breathing too loud. The overhead light flickers like a dying star.

It’s hell.

And then the door opens.

His pen drops.

You walk in, solo, a little breathless like you ran down the hallway. Hair a little out of place. Pink in the cheeks. You’re holding a pink slip like it’s dipped in acid. Disbelief is written all over your face.

You scan the room - and see him.

Your brows lift slightly.

Eddie blinks. He looks behind him, like maybe there’s another freak you were looking at. But it’s just him. Alone in the front row. He offers a two-fingered salute.

You roll your eyes - but you also smile.

The chair next to him is the only one open. Naturally.

He swears the universe is mocking him.

You walk over, your shoes squeaking on the tile. Sit down with a soft sigh and lean your cheek into your hand. He watches you out of the corner of his eye for a full minute before he can’t help himself.

“So,” he says, voice low, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

You snort. An actual, real-life snort.

He files it away in his mental scrapbook.

“Coach caught me skipping gym,” you mutter. “I was in the library.”

“Rebel,” Eddie teases.

You glance at him. “What about you?”

“Littering,” he says, proud. “Threw a Hot Cheetos bag at Jason Carver’s head.”

That gets a full-on laugh. It’s soft and surprised, and you catch yourself halfway through like you weren’t expecting to enjoy his company.

He wasn’t expecting it either.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s… charged. Buzzing. Eddie fiddles with his rings and tries to keep his leg from bouncing off its hinge.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say eventually.

He tilts his head. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

You smile again, this time with teeth. “I haven’t decided yet.”

He swears, he actually swears, he feels it in his chest when you say that. Something curls and claws and wants.

“Can I help you decide?” he asks, half-joking.

You rest your chin on your hand and stare at him like he’s a puzzle you didn’t mean to start but now have to finish. “You know Iron Maiden?”

Eddie blinks. “Do I know Iron Maiden?”

You smirk. “I figured that’d get a reaction.”

“Sweetheart,” he says, leaning closer, “that’s like asking Dracula if he’s into blood.”

Your smirk grows. You reach into your bag and pull out your spiral notebook - lined paper, doodles in the margins, and the unmistakable edges of song lyrics scratched into the bottom of the page.

You tear off a piece. Slide it across the desk.

“I have two tickets,” you say. “Homecoming’s next Friday, and I’m not going.”

Eddie’s heart skips like a scratched record.

“Iron Maiden’s in Indy the same night,” you continue. “I was going to go with Brad, but he’s a douche and I finally broke up with him. Thought I’d ask someone else.”

He blinks. The world feels like it just tilted sideways.

You.

Just asked him.

To Iron Maiden.

Instead of Homecoming.

He tries to play it cool. Really, he does.

But his voice cracks when he says, “Are you serious?”

You shrug, like it’s not a big deal. Like you didn’t just reach into his chest and squeeze his teenage dirtbag heart until it lit up like Christmas.

“Think about it,” you say, turning your back to your notebook like you didn’t just rearrange his entire week.

He doesn’t think about it. He knows.

He knows he’s saying yes before you even finish the sentence.

Your bedroom is a war zone.

Sweaters hang from the headboard. Black tights dangle from a drawer. There’s a suspiciously sparkly scarf on the lampshade, and your bed looks like Hot Topic threw up on it. At the center of it all is you, standing in front of the mirror, one boot on, one boot off, eyeliner half-done, and a growing sense of doom simmering in your chest.

“I look like a poser,” you say flatly.

“No, you don’t,” says your cousin Marley from the floor, where she’s cross-legged in your discarded jeans. “You look like a hot poser. There’s a difference.”

You groan and flop back onto the bed. “That doesn’t help.”

Marley rolls her eyes and chucks a studded belt at your stomach. “You’re going to a metal concert, not your wedding. It’s Eddie Munson, not Robert Smith. Just pick something black and tight and maybe rip it a little.”

You sit up and glare. “It’s not just Eddie Munson,” you mutter, tugging at the hem of your vintage Iron Maiden tee. “It’s Eddie Munson after I dumped Brad the Jerkface in front of his entire football team and then asked Eddie to a concert instead of Homecoming.”

Marley shrugs. “Sounds iconic.”

You sigh. She’s not wrong.

You study your reflection again: black ripped jeans, your combat boots (finally both on), and the Maiden shirt you’d half-forgotten you owned. You tied it at the waist just to make it look cuter. Added a cropped black denim jacket and just enough eyeliner to make your eyes look deadly.

You look…

Cool.

Not cheerleader-cute. Not prom-date ready.

Just you. And maybe a little bit of Eddie’s version of you, too.

Marley grins at your expression. “There she is.”

Your stomach flips. “Do you think he’s nervous too?”

“Oh, definitely,” she says, hopping up. “He’s probably pacing around his van blasting Dio and rewriting his pickup lines.”

You laugh - and then freeze when you hear the beep-beep of a horn in the driveway.

Oh God.

He’s here.

You bolt for the window and peek out through the blinds.

Sure enough, Eddie’s beat-up van is parked in front of your house, the side still bearing a faded “Hellfire Club” decal and a bumper sticker that says My Other Ride is a Demogorgon. You can just make out his silhouette in the driver’s seat, drumming his fingers against the wheel.

“I’m gonna throw up,” you whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Marley says, handing you your bag and shoving you toward the door. “You’re gonna go outside, get in that van, and have the time of your life with a guy who looks at you like you’re his favorite guitar.”

You pause at the top of the stairs, heart thundering.

“Do I really look okay?”

Marley gives you one last once-over, then grins. “You look like someone who’s about to ruin a metalhead’s whole life.”

You snort, roll your eyes, and head down the stairs.

—

Eddie wipes his palms on his jeans again.

The van smells like cheap air freshener and nerves. He double-checked the tire pressure this morning, vacuumed the front seats (twice), and even took down the plastic skeleton that usually hangs from the mirror. He’s chewing his lip and trying not to rehearse what he’s going to say when you come out the front door.

You look amazing.

That shirt is criminal.

I would commit crimes for you.

All too much.

The porch light flicks on. The front door swings open.

And then you step out.

Eddie forgets how to breathe.

You look like every teenage fantasy he’s ever had - confident, dangerous, and completely real. That shirt, those boots, the way your eyes meet his and crinkle just a little like you’re happy to see him…

He might die before this night even starts.

You slide into the passenger seat with a grin. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he echoes, stunned stupid.

You pull your seatbelt across your chest. “Ready to blow out my eardrums?”

Eddie grins, fingers already drumming against the wheel. “Only if you promise to scream-sing every lyric.”

“Ironclad deal,” you say.

As he pulls away from the curb, Eddie lets himself glance over at you again, just for a second.

You’re taping your fingers on your knee. Your hair’s catching the last of the sun. Your knee bumps his as the van hits a pothole, and you don’t pull away.

Oh yeah, he thinks.

Tonight’s gonna be legendary.

The road stretches out ahead of you, all cracked pavement and the golden blur of an Indiana sunset. Eddie’s van rattles a little when he shifts into fourth, but it’s a comforting sound - something you’ve come to associate with him. With this.

He’s got an Iron Maiden cassette in the deck. The Number of the Beast. It roars through the speakers, a little scratchy, a little warped from love and overuse.

You tap your fingers against the passenger window in time with the drums. He taps the steering wheel.

It’s easy. Strangely easy.

Until you glance over and realize he’s way too quiet.

He’s usually buzzing by now - running his mouth about Maiden’s setlist or how much he hates stadium merch prices. But instead, he’s chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes on the road like it might do something interesting if he stares hard enough.

You nudge his leg with your boot.

“Earth to Munson.”

He blinks and glances over. “What?”

“You good?”

Eddie hesitates. Then, with a sigh, he kills the volume. Bruce Dickinson fades into the background, replaced by the hum of the tire and the sound of your breath catching.

“I just…” He shrugs, drumming lightly on the wheel. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s you, so it’s not dumb,” you say gently. “Spill.”

Eddie exhales. “You ever feel like someone let you into a place you’re not supposed to be? Like… like you’re just playing dress-up, and sooner or later, everyone’s gonna figure it out and kick you out?”

Your eyebrows knit. “Like imposter syndrome?”

“More like…” He smiles without humor. “Teenage dirtbag syndrome.”

You pause. “You think you’re a dirtbag?”

“I know I am,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I mean, c’mon. You just dumped a perfectly normal jock boyfriend, and now you’re in a deathtrap of a van with a guy who sells bootleg tapes in the school parking lot. I get it if it starts to feel like a downgrade.”

You stare at him.

Then, without a word, you reach over and flick him hard on the arm.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“You moron,” you say, grinning despite yourself. “Brad was the downgrade. You’re the upgrade.”

He blinks.

You keep going, quieter now. “He never listened when I talked. He never asked about the music I liked. Never made me laugh so hard I cried. You did all of that before I even thought about kissing you.”

Eddie’s grip tightens on the wheel. “You thought about kissing me?”

You raise a brow. “Eddie.”

He smiles, slow and stunned.

And you let the silence sit, humming between you like the soft, secret start of a song.

—

The venue isn’t huge - some outdoor pavilion on the edge of Indianapolis, tucked behind a strip mall and a gas station. The smell of fried food and spilled beer hits you before you even hand over your ticket. The air’s already pulsing with the first opening band, and people are yelling, laughing, jostling for a better view.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Eddie’s hand brushes yours as you make your way toward the middle of the pit, and you don’t even flinch anymore. It happens again. And again.

By the fourth time, you hook your pinky through his.

He looks down, and his face softens.

Neither of you say anything about it.

It’s loud - too loud, really - but in a way that wraps around your ribs and shakes loose everything you didn’t know you were holding. People are already jumping. Screaming lyrics. Throwing devil horns. You do the same, and Eddie throws his arms around your shoulders, drawing you into him like it’s instinct.

It doesn’t feel like acting.

It feels like arriving.

By the time Iron Maiden takes the stage - guitars screaming, lights blinding - Eddie’s hand has moved to your waist, your fingers are tangled in the fabric of his jacket, and you’re so close you can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his collar.

“Best seat in the house,” he yells in your ear.

You tilt your head to look at him.

“I’m not even looking at the band,” you shout back.

Eddie goes still.

And then - then - his grin cracks open, big and unfiltered, and his forehead bumps yours like it’s the only way he can stand not kissing you.

You dance. You scream. You forget about the dirtbag voices in your head and the douchey ex-boyfriends and the fact that this moment might end. You don’t think about any of it.

You just think about him.

And how you’re standing in the middle of a sweaty, swaying, ear-splitting crowd with a boy who once called himself a dirtbag -

- but who, right now, feels like the main event.

The night gets louder, hotter, faster.

Iron Maiden storms the stage like they own it - because they do - and the crowd answers back with that kind of wild, desperate joy that only comes when your favorite band plays your favorite song live and loud and real.

You and Eddie are right in the middle of it, a tangle of limbs and laughter and leather. His arm wraps tight around your waist when the crowd shoes forward, and you grab the front of his jacket to stay upright.

You don’t let go.

He doesn’t either.

Bruce Dickinson screams something into the mic and the first notes of Run to the Hills hits the speakers like a thunderclap. The crowd erupts. You shriek with them and Eddie throws his head back and howls, so alive it makes your chest ache.

Then - boom. Fireworks. Real ones, from the stage.

Your heart jumps, and you flinch, just a little - and Eddie leans down, mouth near your ear, voice low.

“You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Perfect.”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second too long.

And still - he waits.

The kiss doesn’t come. Not yet.

But the night is full of almosts.

You dance like no one’s watching. He watches like you’re the whole damn show. You scream until your throat’s sore. He throws a devil horn in the air and grins at you like you’re already his.

By the end of the last song, your head is spinning and your body is sore and sweaty and so full - of adrenaline, of heat, of the very specific kind of happiness that only ever happens by accident.

You don’t even mind when he threads his fingers through yours on the way back to the van.

You squeeze back.

—

The highway is quieter now, stars blinking over dark cornfields. Your ears are still ringing. Your heart’s still beating double time.

Eddie’s got a half-crushed bottle of water between his knees and both hands on the wheel. He’s humming something under his breath - maybe one of the songs, maybe just the sound of contentment. It’s too dark to see much of him, but his expression is soft in the passing streetlight glow.

You tilt your head against the window, watching him.

“You know,” you say, “this was the best night I’ve had in, like… ever.”

He glances at you, smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Didn’t think I’d be here a week ago.”

Eddie chuckles, dry. “Me either.”

There’s a pause.

Then:

“You remember when I said I felt like a teenage dirtbag?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He drums his thumbs on the wheel. “I always figured people like me - we’re the guys girls only notice when they need something. A ride, a party, a good story. Not a… not a real date.”

You sit up straighter. “Eddie -”

“I know, I know,” he rushes. “You said I’m not. But tonight? That’s the first time I actually believed it.”

You reach over and place your hand on his thigh - just a grounding touch.

“You’re not a dirtbag, Eddie.”

He looks over at you, a flicker of something real in his eyes.

“You’re the guy I chose.”

That shuts him up.

He stares ahead again, biting his lip.

And then, in a voice so low it almost disappears under the hum of the road, he says, “I wanted to kiss you all night.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Because it felt too good to be true. Like if I did, you’d vanish or wake up or tell me I was dreaming again.”

You smile softly.

“Guess you’ll have to kiss me now,” you say.

—

He pulls into your driveway, the porch light throwing gold shadows across your front lawn. The engine dies with a shudder, and the van goes still.

You’re both quiet, looking at each other.

Eddie leans forward, slow and uncertain and reverent, like this moment is sacred. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, calloused thumb brushing your cheekbone.

And then -

Finally -

He kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Testing. Like he still doesn’t believe you’ll let him.

But you do more than that.

You kiss him back, firm and sure and full of everything you didn’t say at the concert, everything he felt when your pinky hooked through his in the crowd. He tastes like sugar and smoke and sweat and him.

It’s not a firework.

It’s a slow burn - the kind that starts in your bones and spreads like heat under your skin.

When he finally pulls back, breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmurs.

You smile.

“Good.” 

[sebstanaddict]

Please Stay

Bucky Barnes x You One Shot

Summary : When Bucky Barnes stays with you through the darkest time in your life

Warning : suicidal thoughts

Word count : 636 words

Read more soft Bucky / Sebastian scenes in Scenes for The Soul (A series of soft, fluff scenes between you and Bucky / Sebastian to help you get through the day)

Read more of my stories here.

---

You don’t cry.

Not at first.

You just sit there, staring at nothing. Knees to your chest. The air is thick and quiet in the apartment, like the whole world has stopped spinning and no one told you.

Everything feels too heavy. Too much. Like trying to breathe through wet concrete.

You’re so tired.

Of trying. Of pretending. Of holding yourself together with duct tape and desperate hope.

A thought creeps in - quiet, cruel, convincing.

“Maybe they’d be better off without me.”

That’s when the door opens.

Not dramatically. No dramatic bang or heroic crash. Just a soft click, a familiar step. Bucky always knocks, but today… today he must’ve sensed something. Some shift in the wind.

He steps inside.

You don’t look at him.

"Hey, doll," he says softly, like you’re fragile porcelain. Not the kind that cracks - 

The kind that’s already shattered on the floor.

Still, you don’t move. Your voice is a ghost when you speak.

"I don’t want to be here anymore."

A silence falls.

A long, careful silence.

Then, the sound of footsteps. The weight of him settling down beside you on the floor. His warmth is immediate - radiating off him like a quiet hearth. You don’t look, but you feel him there.

"I know," he says. Just that. No lectures. No false cheer. Just truth. Raw and gentle.

You blink, and the tears come fast. Hot. Angry. You bury your face in your arms.

“I’m so tired, Bucky. Soo tired. I feel like every bad thing known to man are happening to me at once. Like I tripped, fell down, then the ceiling crashed over me and the whole house crumbled to the ground. Burying me in it. I can’t - ”

Your voice breaks. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He doesn’t rush to fix it. Doesn’t fill the silence with empty promises.

Instead, his hand finds yours. Big and scarred and warm. He threads his fingers through yours like an anchor.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he says, his voice a whisper of steel and sorrow. “You’ve got me. Always. I’m not going anywhere.”

You shake your head, choking on your breath. “You don’t get it. I feel like I’m drowning. Like I’m screaming inside and no one hears me.”

His other hand lifts, brushing gently through your hair, resting at the back of your neck like he’s trying to hold you here - to tether you to this earth.

“I hear you,” he murmurs. “I hear every scream. Every silence.”

Your walls begin to crumble.

“I’m broken,” you whisper.

“So am I,” he says.

And there it is. That crack of truth. That scarred vulnerability in his voice, in his grip. It breaks something inside you - breaks the isolation.

“I don’t want to die,” you sob. “I just want the pain to stop. I just want.. peace.”

He pulls you into his arms then. No hesitation. You collapse into him, and he holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers against your hair. “I know. But please stay. Just one more minute. One more hour. One more night. Stay with me.”

His voice trembles.

“If you go, where do I go? I don’t - ” he stops, breath shuddering. “You’re my home.”

You cry harder.

But for the first time in a long time, the crying feels like release. Not punishment.

You stay in his arms until the shaking stops. Until the darkness ebbs just enough to breathe again. Until the idea of one more day doesn’t feel quite so impossible.

And when he pulls back to look into your eyes, his own are shining.

“We’ll get through this,” he says. “Not because it’s easy. But because you’re not alone anymore.”

And you believe him.

Because for the first time in forever - you’re not alone.

[pluielotus]

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ ─── I'M THE MESS THAT YOU WANTED

synopsis. ravenclaw!albedo headcanons and the side effects of him staying up all night. characters. gn reader x ravenclaw!albedo tags. hogwarts au, headcanon format with writing below, mentions of drinking, albedo stayed up all night, tired!albedo word count. 1.4k a/n. okay so excited for this piece actually. i love the hp universe and what better to do than mix hp and genshin. still do not like jk rowling tho! anyways, i hope you enjoy! reader doesn't have a set house or age, i wanted to leave that up to you guys <3! not proof-read! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated !

ravenclaw!albedo who isn't from a major family in the wizarding world. he's a half-blood, his mother being the witch in the family.

ravenclaw!albedo who became your first friend at hogwarts after you accidentally stumbled across him while exploring the astronomy tower.

ravenclaw!albedo who didn't see the point in making friends until he met you. you attached yourself to him after you met and he didn't have the heart to tell you off.

ravenclaw!albedo who wants to be a potioneer when he graduates. there's a reason he's always reading some kind of potion book or brewing something in the middle of the great hall.

ravenclaw!albedo who you have to force to eat sometimes because he gets too wrapped up with his makeshift potions.

ravenclaw!albedo who is the top of his class, to no one’s surprise, despite his strange methods of study. he also happens to be many of the professor’s favorite.

ravenclaw!albedo who offers to study with you in the library, only for you to end up talking his ear off the entire time. he doesn’t mind; he likes to listen to you.

ravenclaw!albedo who sent a nasty hex towards the gryffindors who were mean to you. albedo never told you this, and he never got in trouble for it.

ravenclaw!albedo who doesn't have many friends, but he's more than happy to be able to call you his friend. he's friends with slytherin!kaeya too, but kaeya usually hangs out with his other friends.

ravenclaw!albedo who absolutely cannot hold his firewhiskey. there's a good reason you almost never invite him to your house parties for that reason.

ravenclaw!albedo who you took to a party once, to celebrate exams, but albedo ended up accidentally getting a glass of firewhiskey, causing him to black out within the first 30 minutes.

ravenclaw!albedo who doesn't care for quidditch but will go to the games if you ask him to. or if you're a quidditch platyer, he'll be thrilled to come and cheer you on regardless on if you're playing against his house or not.

ravenclaw!albedo who loves hogsmeade during the winter time. he stays at hogwarts over the winter break just so he can go. if you stay as well, he invites you to go with him.

ravenclaw!albedo who paints when he goes to hogsmeade. he likes to paint you if you come with him, but he never shows you the final result.

ravenclaw!albedo who doesn't get cold often, but started to carry his scarf with him, just in case you got cold.

ravenclaw!albedo who is definitely the reason you get sick during the winter time. especially since he wanted to stay outside in the snow longer.

"just five more minutes, i promise."

ravenclaw!albedo who felt bad after he got you sick, and promised to share all of his notes with you for the classes you missed.

ravenclaw!albedo who realized he was in love with you after you scolded him (again) for staying up all night. he realized just how much you cared about his well being.

ravenclaw!albedo who did not want to tell you how he felt. the only reason he told you was because gryffindor!kaeya threatened to ask you out if he didn't.

ravenclaw!albedo who panicked when he saw you talking to kaeya and asked you out right then and there. kaeya wasn't even asking you out, he was just asking for homework answers.

ravenclaw!albedo who has never been in a relationship before, so you probably have to lead a lot of things. but after he gets used to it, he'll start initating things.

ravenclaw!albedo who kisses you when you're talking to much. of course, he'd never say that. but he thinks it's cute when you forget what you were saying just because of a quick kiss.

ravenclaw!albedo who spends a lot of late nights and early mornings in the common room, experimenting with “new” potions.

if there was one thing you knew about albedo, it was that he would do anything to further his research. even if his research was a little bit unorthodox.

unfortunately, this included not taking care of himself.

“albedo.” you warned, narrowing your eyes at the blonde in front of you. “tell me the truth.” you said, crossing your arms as you stared at him.

“i swear.” he was interrupted by a yawn. “i didn’t.” albedo responded before fiddling with his sleeves. a habit you had learned that he subconsciously did when he was lying.

“’bedo, you’re a horrible liar.” you sighed, “the end of your sleeves are singed.” you grabbed his arm, holding it up to see the ends. “not to mention” you continued before releasing his arm. “you can barely stay awake.”

everything you said was true. well, except maybe the part about him being a horrible liar. you had just been around him long enough to pick up on his tells. the rest of it, however, was true. you would love to see him try and deny it. especially when you had the evidence to back it up.

his sleeves were slightly singed (honestly if he had just changed you wouldn't have even noticed), not to mention, you caught him falling asleep during charms class. it would have been cute if he wasn’t so exhausted. not that you told him that.

at least albedo wasn’t stupid enough to argue with you. despite how stubborn the man could be, you knew that he knew you were right."i'm sorry. i got-"

you cut him off. "yeah, yeah, yeah. i know. you got distracted. i've heard that one before 'bedo." you gave him a small smile. despite how angry you were that he wasn't taking care of himself, you didn't have it in you to chew him out further.

you sighed, “come on, we have some time before potions.” you sighed grabbing his arm before dragging him through the busy corridors.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

after dragging him through the halls, you had finally made it to the ravenclaw common room.

what has an eye but cannot see?

"a needle." albedo mumbled the riddle's answer before you could even form a thought, and with that, the door opened, allowing the two of you to enter.

the common room was empty, most ravenclaws opting to study in the library or they were still in classes. it wasn't uncommon for the common room to be empty, as studying in the common room often resulting in sleepy ravenclaw's struggling to stay awake to finish their assignments.

albedo knew exactlty what you wanted him to do, and well, if you were going to make him take a nap, then he was going to force you to lay down with him. it was the least you could do.

unfortunately, albedo took it upon himself to lead you to the couch. "albedo, the dorms are that way." you motioned towards the entryway to the actual dormitories. "you would think you would know that." you muttered, tugging on his arm slightly.

albedo didn't budge. "too sleepy." he mumbled before plopping down on the couch, successfully pulling you down on top of him. what an ass. you thought with a sigh and a small smile before readjusting yourself to make the two of you more comfortable.

when albedo woke up after his nap, he was shocked to find you asleep, still laying on his chest. truthfully, he hadn't expected you to fall asleep as well, but he couldn't help himself from admiring your sleeping form. you looked so comfortable, so at peace. unfortunately, if you didn't wake up soon the two of you would be late for class.

albedo wrapped an arm around you, before gently shaking you, attempting to wake you up.

"five more minutes." you muttered into his chest.

"as much as i'd love to admire you for the next five minutes. we're going to be late for potions." albedo said, shaking his head with a fond smile.

shit. he was right.

with a groan, you forced yourself off of him. "did you have a nice nap?" you asked before quickly fixing your hair.

"i did, thank you, darling." albedo smiled, watching you with a fond expression. "it was just what i needed."

after you were satisfied with your hair, you smiled back. "good. now please, don't do that again." you said before walking over to kiss him on the cheek.

"i can't promise that, but for you i'll try my best." albedo said before he grabbed both his bag and your bag from beside the couch. he shouldered both bags ignoring your protests (he just wanted to carry your bags for you). "ready to go?"

you nodded, not bothering to argue for your bag, as the two of you made your way down to the dungeons for class.

7/30/25 || © pluielotus ♡ 2025. please do not copy, translate or repost my works to any platforms.

[mmatchadd]

please do more of the who would leak ur nudes i loved reading it LMAO, if possible could i request inarizaki?

WHOS MOST LIKELY TO LEAK YOUR NUDES?

a/n: Yeasss!!🥰 hi, how are you? I’m g🥁🥁d, you? Also I don’t like suna at all. Idk I feel like Aran should be just as popular as suna, dare I say TAKE HIS PLACE. bro barely has any relevance to team unlike Aran WHOS important 🤤 (haven’t watched haikyuu since 2022 btw) but I’ll try to be more lore accurate for him I guess..😞 *toots* @y-darrling

part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

INARIZAKI

Atsumu: ….mm YES, WAIT WHO SAID DAT? Wtfucky 😅🌚 he runs those expose pages and tbh you don’t even have to be his gf or ex to get exposed💔 THISSS guy is hella messy. Him, konoha and suna would be like 3 fat funky peas in a pod just goin around wrecking havoc🫩 also if you confront him about it he’ll act clueless or block you irl

Osamu: he’s not better than his brother but also not worse..if that makes sense? I don’t think he’ll leak you or show it to his friends but he will definitely hint it in front of them and just overall will throw it in your face JUSTTT like yaku.

S*na: I’m getting lazy, do y’all know where I’m going with this? I mean..cmon it’s S*NA..S*NA R*NTAR*U. Okay but in all honesty, I don’t think he cares about nudes THAT much? Well he makes it seem like he doesn’t and may send one back depending on if he fw you or not. He’s definitely a hoe and a weirdo, like weird kid who had a glow up and think they the shit and some dip😭 okay I’m going off track, but he does show atsumu..theyre like, locked in. Tight like ovarian tubes. But he won’t send it to atsumu..UNLESS he doesn’t fw you cause if he realllly likes you or LOVE you he wouldn’t do it. But if you were just one of his huzz that he was getting annoyed or bored of..he would. He’s like quiet but sneaky, his schools mascot is a FOX if I’m not mistaken💔Sorry if this is mischaracterization I just don’t like this guy 🫩 I’m TRYING he’s just like a background character to me (with too much screen time)

Aran: COME ON GUYS..come on. Just look at my brotha, my BLACK KING. Sorry. But he gives off mature, emotionally intelligent, empathetic but not naive or overly emotional. Someone who treats others how he’d want to be treated and he would never go against your trust like that. And if you two were having sex he wouldn’t even tell his friends about ESPECIALLY not the twins dear god 😭 osamu is messy and atsumu is messier, when it comes to his friends. Doesn’t tell kita either, not that he doesn’t trust him but because things like that are meant to be kept secret between two people, he believes.

kita: JUSTTT like Kageyama, no socials and the socials he does have he rarely uses them. Only gets on there to check for any school event or message his friends about volleyball. He’s a first timer and I won’t call him innocent but he’s sorta..easily influenced by people he REALLY trusts and love like you duhh. So expect one back anddd he’s also like Aran. Thinks those moments and picture should be kept private 😌

SHIRATORIZAWA (however you spell it damn)

Ushiwaka: he definitely uses social media and it’s only instagram or WhatsApp, but then again he’s not chronically online and doomscrolls like his fellow teammates. Whenever you send one back he IMMEDIATELY hearts it or ask if he should come over. He thinks you sending nudes=being needy. And he will satisfy his sweetheart whenever he can or has the time. Doesnttt tell anyone about the things that go on behind closed doors or his on his phone. When tendou asks if you two have done anything yet he uprights dismisses him and says that’s none of his business. But tendou being tendou, he can tell

Tendou: Jesus Christ, no. But he definitely teases you about sending them as if he doesn’t send one back and jerks off to the ones he sends you. Whenever someone asks about you twos personal or sex life, he doesn’t directly tell them but he doesn’t really beat around the bush either😭 if that makes sense.

Semi: I don’t really like him nor do I gaf about his character but for my Semi Eita fans..I’ll try my best. He definitely receives a lot of nudes from crazy fans, ex gfs and his side chicks. I don’t think he leaks them or shows his friend cause he doesn’t too much care but low-key those nudes boost his ego if that makes sense💔 so I don’t think he’d be one to leak them but his silence and the “read” under your image makes you feel ashamed and embarrassed like “why tf did I do that?”. His silence is deadly 💔

Shirabu: same thing with eita, his silence and dryness leaves you wondering if he liked it or not (he did dw) but hypothetically speaking, if he didn’t like you..you could be an ex gf or some girl that’s crushing on him that he does NOT like— uhm yeah goodbye to your reputation. Theres like a 50/50 chance you’ll wake up to 20+ notifications of you getting tagged or leaked..OR you might block him out of pure annoyance cause he’s threatening to blackmail you (which even if you were his gf he’d still throw it in your face, just with some remorse)

Goshiki: another one who falls to peer pressure..lord save these 1st and 2nd years guys😭. Dare I say tendou kinda pushed him but his other classmates definitely knocked him over the edge 😞. He thinks he’ll look cool and would rather have his friends validation than yours apparently 💔 uhm but will YOU give him another chance after he’s begging you to take him back..? Yes? No..? Okay whatever frick You