#hi im back from the ded

[stratecheez]

The journey for the truth begins

+ one edit I also like

[joelsrose]

For the Hour

Being a hooker in Jackson isn’t glamorous, but it pays in coffee, bullets, and the good kind of winter gloves. So when your regular—Tommy—asks if you’d see his brother, you don't hesitate in saying yes.

omg this is literally 11k words im ded - warnings: literally porn with a plot, sex work (mention of terms hooker etc), explicit smut (18+), unprotected sex, age gap (Joel is in his 50s), subby!Joel energy, soft dom reader, emotional vulnerability, Joel has a bad back and feelings, praise kink.

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You caught your breath as the last wave of pleasure ebbed from your body, chest rising and falling in a slow, quiet rhythm while Tommy lingered there a moment longer, his breath warm against your neck as he let out a low groan, still half-drunk on the high you’d given him. The morning light filtered in through the tattered blinds, casting soft golden slats across the tangled mess of limbs and discarded clothes strewn across the hardwood floor. Somewhere, from the corridor or maybe the neighbors', drifted the scent of burnt coffee—bitter, familiar, grounding.

Tommy sat up with a grunt, running a hand through his damp hair as he muttered, “Shit,” under his breath, his voice still heavy with sleep and satisfaction. He glanced over at you with a lazy grin, tugging his jeans from the floor. “Remind me to come by more often.”

You laughed—quiet, genuine—watching him as he passed you a towel and leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t part of the deal, not really. But then, Tommy had always blurred the lines—sweet in the way men like him weren’t meant to be, not in this town, not in your world.

“You’re already my best customer,” you murmured, eyes gleaming as you took the towel and began to clean yourself up, your voice laced with a teasing fondness, the kind reserved for people who came back again and again not just for the sex, but for something else they couldn’t name.

He stood with a quiet exhale, tugging his flannel over his broad shoulders, his belly soft where it peeked above the denim as he buttoned his jeans. His eyes lingered on you a second longer, not quite lecherous, not quite innocent either—just… watching, like he didn’t want to leave just yet, like he hadn’t quite figured out what you meant to him.

He watched you, gaze lingering over the bare slope of your chest, the way your skin caught the muted morning light spilling through the cracked blinds, casting golden lines across the sheets like something sacred.

You didn’t bother covering up—not with Tommy. The two of you had done this too many times, in too many rooms, on too many mornings like this, for there to be any shame left between you. There was something quiet in it now, a kind of unspoken understanding that had formed over time—not love, not quite friendship, but an intimacy that lived in the space between laughter and the sound of a zipper being drawn.

As he buckled his belt, fingers fumbling slightly around the worn leather, he cleared his throat like he was trying to shake something from it, something heavier than dust.

“Do you, uh…” he started, then hesitated, licking his lips like the question might taste strange coming out. “Do you have an age limit or somethin’?”

You tilted your head, brow lifting in easy amusement as you smiled faintly. “Sorry?”

He laughed, soft and awkward, and rubbed the side of his nose—a nervous little tick you’d seen before, like his body gave him away even when his voice didn’t. “I mean—with what you do,” he said, trying to sound casual but missing the mark by an inch. “With your… services. You got a limit, or...?”

“For my services?” you repeated, feigning offense, a teasing lilt in your voice as you leaned back against the headboard. “You make it sound so formal.”

“Quit,” he muttered, a laugh under his breath, but there was something beneath it—something that wasn’t quite a joke.

You smiled at him again, slower this time, more real. “Not really,” you said with a shrug, reaching for the towel more out of habit than modesty. “As long as they’re sweet... can get it up... and make sure they pay well.”

Because in Jackson, payment wasn’t green bills or cards anymore—those belonged to a world that had crumbled with the last election and the first outbreak. Now, people paid in what mattered. A tin of that good jam made from the summer’s last raspberries. A half-empty bag of coffee beans that still smelled like mornings from before. Gloves thick enough to survive the frost that rolled in from the mountains. Cans of peaches, salt for the roads, shotgun shells, antibiotics, clean socks. Favors. Names. Protection. A seat near the fire.

He chuckled at that, the tension easing from his shoulders like you’d let him off some invisible hook.

You tilted your head again, watching him as you sat forward slightly, your hair sliding over your shoulder in a loose, dark curtain. His eyes caught on it—just for a second, but enough to notice.

“So,” you said softly, the teasing edge slipping just slightly from your voice, replaced by something gentler—curiosity with a tilt of wariness, a shift in the air between you. “Why’re you askin’?”

Tommy exhaled with a quiet huff, running a hand back through his hair and catching the loose strands that had fallen from his ponytail, fingers dragging through it with a kind of frustrated carelessness.

“It’s just…” he started, voice trailing off before picking back up again with a sigh. “My brother. Joel. I think he could, you know—benefit from... all this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, hand cutting through the air as his eyes flitted across your still-bare body, lingering but not ogling, like he was trying to make a point without being crude.

Joel.

The name landed with a quiet thud, familiar but unexpected.

Of course you’d seen him around—Jackson wasn’t big enough for anyone to stay invisible for long. He was older, that much was clear; wore the years like a weight across his shoulders and a scowl that never quite left his face. Always furrowed at the brow, jaw set like he was bracing for a blow that hadn’t come yet. Handsome in a rough-edged, quietly dangerous way—not like Tommy, whose smile came easy and whose touch always felt a little more like comfort than command.

Sometimes, when you looked at them side by side, you forgot they were cut from the same cloth. Same blood. Same broken world.

You let out a breath of laughter, amused and maybe a little intrigued, as you rose to your feet, the light catching along the soft curves of your body, bare and unashamed, each step toward him slow and fluid, the kind of motion meant to be watched. Your hips swayed with the ease of someone who knew exactly how she moved, your skin still flushed from the morning, the remnants of pleasure humming faintly in your limbs. Sensual without trying to be. Just a woman in her own skin.

“Your brother,” you said with a soft, knowing smirk, brushing your fingers gently through the messy strands of hair that had fallen across Tommy’s forehead, still damp with the sweat of sex and sleep and something in between. The gesture was easy, instinctive—your touch lingering only a moment before it drifted lower, settling at the nape of his neck where your fingers curled loosely, not to pull him close, but simply to stay connected. “Doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d pay a visit to a hooker.”

Your voice was teasing, light on the surface, but there was something deeper threaded beneath it—some quiet question you didn’t ask aloud.

Tommy’s hands found your waist without hesitation, as if drawn there by muscle memory more than intent. His touch was broad, familiar, grounding—palms warm against your skin, a little rough from the kind of labor this world demanded of men like him, the kind of years that wore into the bones. There was nothing hurried about the way he held you, nothing that spoke of possession in the traditional sense, but it was there nonetheless—a kind of unspoken tether, something formed not from love or lust but from routine, from comfort, from the simple ache of being human in a place that had taken too much.

Whatever this was between you and Tommy—it didn’t have a name. There’d never been promises or claims, no plans made or futures built. But the line between business and something softer had blurred a long time ago, and neither of you had ever bothered to draw it back again. It was easier this way.

He looked down at you, lips quirking into a crooked grin that didn’t quite make it to his eyes, which always seemed just a little too tired, like he hadn’t had a real night’s sleep in years. “Yeah,” he murmured, the words softer now, almost thoughtful. “He ain’t. But maybe that’s exactly why he needs it.”

You hummed quietly in response, letting your hands slide from his neck down to his chest, fingers resting lightly over his heartbeat. You tilted your face up to meet his, chin angled just slightly, and the distance between you felt at once too close and not close enough.

“He’s fifty-six,” Tommy said, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth crooked and amused, eyes crinkling just a little as he shook his head. “Old bastard,” he added with a chuckle, like he was fond of the man but couldn’t help teasing him anyway, like it was easier to speak in jokes than admit the weight behind the thought—that time had moved on without asking, and they were all just trying to catch up.

You let out a dramatic gasp, sharp and playful, one hand flying to your chest as though genuinely scandalized, though the glint in your eyes gave you away immediately. “Tommy,” you said, drawing out his name in that mock-offended tone you knew always pulled a smile from him, “what kind of girl do you take me for?”

Your voice was honey-drenched, rich with pretend indignation, all wide, fluttering eyes and arched brows, even as you stood in front of him still completely bare, the golden morning light licking across your skin like it had been invited.

Tommy’s grin tugged crooked across his lips, slow and easy, like it had nowhere else to be. “The kind of girl who says she’s shocked,” he drawled, eyes dipping meaningfully down your body, “while standin’ butt-naked in my arms.”

And then, as if to punctuate his point, he gave your ass a firm, unapologetic slap, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Now put some clothes on,” he added, voice light but still edged with that gravelly fondness he tried to hide. “Before I end up stayin’ another hour and missin’ patrol—again.”

You yelped, laughing as you twisted away from his touch, jumping back into the warmth of the tangled bedspread, sheets twisted like vines beneath you. His handprint still tingled on your skin, a reminder of how close things could still burn even after the fire was out.

Tommy bent to grab his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one arm as he turned toward the door, but then paused in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder with that half-smile he always wore when he wasn’t quite sure how to say what he meant.

“So, Joel?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t trying to care too much. “You’ll see him?”

You met his gaze, all ease and softness now, letting your weight sink back into the bed as you pulled the sheet loosely over your thighs. You smiled, slow and sure.

“I’ll see him.”

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Tommy sat at the far end of the Tipsy Bison’s bar, his knee bouncing beneath the table with a restlessness that betrayed more than he meant it to, jittery and twitchy like the truth was sitting in his lap and he didn’t know where to put it. His beer sat mostly untouched in front of him, beads of condensation sliding lazily down the bottle’s neck, forgotten. Across from him, Joel nursed his second glass of whiskey with the kind of single-minded focus that suggested he was trying not to think too hard about anything else.

Joel was mid-grumble, voice low and gravelly, muttering into his glass like it had personally offended him. “These kids on patrol,” he said, shaking his head, “they’re damn near still in diapers—think they know everything, but can’t read a fuckin’ map to save their lives. I had to double back twice today. And my knees…” he trailed off with a grimace, reaching down to rub one as if the act alone could conjure youth. “Shit don’t work like it used to.”

Tommy blinked, and then—without really meaning to, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them—he blurted, “Hey, you should go see this masseuse I know.”

Joel paused mid-sip, squinting over the rim of his glass like Tommy had just spoken in tongues. “Masseuse?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, trying to sound casual but already feeling the weight of what he wasn’t saying begin to gather in his chest. “She’s real good. Works outta her place. Kinda… therapeutic.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. You did use your hands. You did know how to relieve tension. But if Joel had even the faintest idea of the things you did inside that soft little house of yours—the same one with the blue curtains and the jasmine Tommy had planted out front in exchange for a particularly memorable morning—he would’ve spit his drink out on the floor, gotten up, and walked home on those bad knees just to scold Tommy like they were kids again.

Because Joel, bless him, would’ve done what Joel always did—squint real hard, say something like “Jesus Christ, Tommy,” then go on about morals and dignity and how the world’s gone to hell.

So no, Tommy didn’t tell him everything.

Didn’t tell him about the soft, lilting laugh you had, or the way your door was always unlocked for him. Didn’t mention the way you said his name when he showed up late, or the sweet little things you did with your mouth that had nothing to do with pressure points. And he sure as hell didn’t mention the way you made him feel—warm and wanted and like the end of the world hadn’t already come and gone.

“Why the hell would I need a massage?” Joel muttered, voice rough as gravel as he leaned back in his chair, scowl etched deep between his brows. “What I need is for people to stop assignin’ me shifts with goddamn teenagers who can’t tell north from their own ass, and a patrol route that doesn’t run me straight into a fuckin’ ravine.”

Tommy scoffed, lifting his beer but not bothering to drink from it, eyes rolling as he shook his head. “You just spent the last thirty minutes complainin’ about your back, Joel.”

Joel shot him a look—sharp, defensive—the kind that had scared men once, back when fear was still a luxury. “That don’t mean I want some stranger touchin’ it,” he said, shoulders stiffening as he reached instinctively for his glass again. “Ain’t lookin’ to have someone mess it up worse than it already is.”

Tommy flinched at the word—touching—and it landed wrong, punched straight into his gut like a sucker hit. Not because Joel meant anything by it, but because he did. And before he could shut it down, there it was again—you—bent over him, lips parted, breath hot against his neck, your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow like you had all the time in the world. The soft sound you made when you sank down on him, the way your tits bounced against his chest, warm and slick, and how your fingers dragged down his spine, nails scratching just enough to make his hips jerk. His cock twitched, hard and immediate, a pulse of heat shooting through him that had no place in this conversation.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself back to the present. “Come on,” Tommy urged, voice lighter now, too easy to be innocent. “She’s real good. Not just in the way you’re thinkin’, either. She’s sweet. Quiet. One of those girls you don’t really notice till you do, and then it’s like you can’t stop.”

Joel arched a brow, unimpressed, suspicion already creeping into the lines of his face. “That so.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said quickly, pushing past the moment. “Real good hands. Knows what she’s doin’. And I’m tellin’ you—first one’s on the house. She won’t even charge you.”

Joel grunted, unconvinced, but didn’t push the conversation away completely. He just shifted in his chair, bones cracking, and muttered something under his breath about not likin’ surprises.

And Tommy—well, Tommy just smiled into his beer again, trying not to think about how you’d looked the last time he left your place, tangled in sheets and flushed with sleep, calling his name like it was something soft.

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Joel stood stiffly on your porch, the wood creaking beneath his boots as he pressed his thick fingers into the knot burrowed deep in the side of his neck, muttering low, gravel-soaked profanities beneath his breath—half at the knot, half at Tommy, and half at himself for agreeing to this in the first place. The porch was too damn pretty for cursing—lined with flower boxes overflowing with jasmine and wild mint, and some old rocking chair that looked like it had actually been made for sitting, not surviving.

He knocked twice—sharp, reluctant—and already regretted whatever the hell Tommy had gotten him into.

The door swung open almost immediately, like you’d been waiting on the other side, like you’d known he’d hesitate and come anyway.

Joel failed—spectacularly—to hide his reaction.

Tommy had mentioned you were a woman, sure. He had not mentioned that you were the kind of woman who made men forget how to breathe. The morning light spilled in behind him, framing you in gold like some holy sin, soft and warm, the robe you wore cinched lazily at the waist like it wasn’t trying to hide anything, just loosely draped to suggest comfort—but his eyes caught the line of your collarbone, the way the fabric parted ever so slightly, and dropped, uninvited, to the swell of your cleavage.

He clenched his jaw, hard.

What the fuck kinda masseuse looks like this?

He’d been expecting someone else entirely—some no-nonsense, middle-aged woman with short gray hair and orthopedic sandals, maybe a raspy smoker’s laugh and a mug that said #1 Back Cracker, someone who would offer him over-steeped tea and tell him stories about her son in the army or her time stationed in Kabul. He hadn’t planned for this—for lace peeking out from under your robe, for legs bare and smooth in the glow of a Jackson sunrise, for you smiling at him like you already knew he didn’t have the guts to walk away.

“Joel, right?” you asked, your voice light, almost teasing, as you leaned a little deeper into the doorway, the name tasting curious on your tongue. “Tommy’s brother?”

“Oh—yeah,” Joel said quickly, the syllable catching on the rough edge of his throat as he blinked like he was just remembering where he was. His boots scuffed slightly against the floor as he shifted his weight, shoulders twitching with a discomfort he clearly didn’t know how to hide. “I, uh… Tommy said you do massages.”

The words came out like a question, like he wasn’t entirely convinced of the truth himself—and maybe he wasn’t.

You paused, something flickering behind your eyes as your lips parted—then closed again. A breath. A scoff. Quiet, sharp, and laced with a kind of tired amusement as your gaze flicked briefly to the floor. Of course Tommy hadn’t told him the truth. Of course Tommy had sent his older brother to your door with that same boyish grin and a half-assed lie, hoping Joel wouldn’t figure it out until it was far too late to back out gracefully.

He hadn’t told him that this wasn’t just a massage.

He hadn’t told him that he was coming over to have sex with a woman—with you—and not in some hurried, transactional way, but slow, deliberate, intimate. The kind of encounter that lingered on the skin long after the door closed behind them.

You bit your lip without thinking, the movement soft and sensual, more out of habit than seduction—but it was still enough to make Joel glance away, like he’d seen too much too quickly and didn’t know where to look anymore.

“Well,” you murmured, shifting your weight from one bare leg to the other, the silk of your robe whispering across your thigh like it, too, was trying to decide what kind of evening this was going to be. “Come on in.”

You didn’t confirm or deny his assumption—just stepped aside and let him walk into the space where everything might change.

And Joel—standing there on your pretty porch, fingers twitching at his sides, jaw locked and eyes anywhere but your mouth—hadn’t figured out how to say no.

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Joel stood stiffly in your bedroom, hands twitching uselessly at his sides, his body held like a man trying not to breathe too deeply in someone else's space—already half turned toward the door, as if he could will an exit into existence before you returned.

His eyes moved over the room like he was trying not to look at anything too closely, but there was no hiding the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched every few seconds like he was already regretting stepping foot inside.

The room wasn’t what he’d expected—and not just because it was your bedroom, though that alone had made his pulse stutter. That part could’ve been explained away, justified somehow—people did all kinds of things out of their homes in Jackson. But it was the way the space was set up that made his throat feel dry.

The bed, wide and inviting, draped in soft cream linens that looked freshly smoothed, was positioned at the center of everything, with candles flickering gently along the dresser, casting long golden shadows across the floor. There were no towels. No oils lined up neatly on a cart. No clinical sterility to hide behind. Just plush throw pillows, lace-trimmed curtains, a faint trace of perfume lingering in the air, and the undeniable hum of something not quite professional.

And you—Jesus Christ, you—had offered him coffee or water, your voice light and easy like it wasn’t a loaded question, and he, too dazed to think, had said yes. You’d disappeared into the kitchen, and he’d barely exhaled since. He wasn’t sure if he was sweating or just uncomfortable in his own damn skin, but every part of him was screaming that he didn’t belong here—that you were too pretty, too soft, too young to be touching a man like him.

You, meanwhile, were grateful for the excuse to step away, your heels silent as you moved through the house, trying to get your own heart rate under control.

You knew it wouldn’t take Joel long to figure it out—that you weren’t really a masseuse, that this wasn’t some wholesome back-cracking session with a side of eucalyptus oil. That lingerie didn’t belong under robes worn for healing. And yet here you were, wearing it anyway, lace brushing against your skin with every step, wondering how long it would take before he got up and left.

When you stepped back into the room, he was still standing—just as rigid, just as uncertain. “Sit,” you said gently, offering a small, practiced smile, your tone breezy enough to keep the moment from collapsing under its own weight. “Please.”

Joel nodded once, tight-lipped, and lowered himself onto the edge of the bed like it might burn him. His knees were wide, his elbows stiff, his eyes trained directly ahead—on nothing at all—like he was trying very hard not to see any part of you.

You approached slowly, extending the glass of water toward him, the condensation already beginning to bead along the side.

He took it with a quiet murmur of thanks, his fingers brushing yours for the briefest moment—just a flicker, but enough for you to feel the heat of him, the way he flinched ever so slightly like he wasn’t used to being touched without intention.

“So, uh…” Joel began, voice low and hesitant, the sound rough like it had scraped its way out of his throat. He rubbed a hand along the side of his neck, eyes flicking briefly up to yours before landing somewhere over your shoulder, already looking like he regretted speaking at all. “How long you been doin’ all this?”

The words hung awkwardly in the air between you, heavy with implication but wrapped in a poor attempt at small talk—something Joel Miller was not known for. You could tell it took effort for him to say anything at all, that his instinct was to sit in silence and let the tension pass like a storm front, but some part of him—some flicker of politeness or nerves—had nudged him into conversation.

Your eyes widened just a little, caught off guard by the question, and then you blinked, like you needed a moment to remember who you were supposed to be in this room. “Oh—yeah,” you said, stumbling just slightly over the words. “Since I got to Jackson, really. Started pretty soon after I arrived.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. You had been doing this since you arrived—though massage had never been the core of it.

Joel nodded slowly, his brow furrowing with thought, and you could see him working through the gaps, filling in the blanks with whatever image he had in his mind. “So you, uh… didn’t have any proper trainin’? From before?”

You shook your head, lips parting as your answer tripped a little over your breath. “No. I—uh. No, it’s all… self-taught.”

His eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, then shifted away again, landing on the corner of the bed, then the curtain, then the floor—anywhere but you. “Right,” he said finally, like it was the only thing he could think to say, like maybe he’d already asked too much.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold, but it was thick with uncertainty—his, mostly. His knee bounced once. His fingers tapped the glass in his hand. You could feel the weight of his restraint like smoke in the room, curling into the corners of the furniture, slipping under your robe.

You took a small step forward, smoothing your hands down the front of your robe out of instinct rather than necessity, and offered him a gentle smile—nothing suggestive, just a flicker of softness to meet his discomfort.

“Okay,” you said, voice quieter now, almost tender. “It might be easier if you take your shirt off.”

Joel’s eyes snapped back to yours—not wide, not shocked, just hesitant. Cautious in a way that wasn’t rooted in modesty but something deeper, older, worn thin over time like denim at the knees.

Still, he nodded, slow and uncertain, and reached for the buttons of his flannel, hands broad and calloused, fingers stiff with age and overuse. They moved with that steady, familiar rhythm of a man who'd spent most of his life taking off shirts for work, not for anyone watching. The ache in his knuckles—probably arthritis—tugged at him with every movement, but he didn’t stop.

He just tried not to think about how long it had been since anyone had seen him like this—shirtless, stripped down, exposed in a way that wasn’t about survival. He tried not to wonder whether his body, changed by time and burden, would make you flinch. Whether the soft at his waist, the scars, the salt-and-pepper spread of hair across his chest would make you look away.

You turned away—not out of modesty, not to create distance, but to offer him something rare in this kind of space. The grace of privacy. The freedom to choose, or not choose.

Behind you, there was a quiet rustle—cloth shifting, boots scuffing gently against the floor, the faintest creak of the bed frame as his weight shifted.

“I’m ready,” Joel said at last, his voice low and gruff, the words shaped more like a sigh than a decision, like he was forcing them through clenched teeth.

You turned around slowly, hands folded softly in front of you, gaze lifting to meet him—and stilled for just a moment at the sight.

He was broader than Tommy. Thicker through the chest and shoulders, his body weathered with age and labor in a way that wasn’t unkind, just honest. The kind of build earned from years of carrying things—wood, gear, grief. His torso was lined with muscle that didn’t try to impress, but spoke of endurance, strength without vanity. Sparse hair dusted across his chest, silver threaded through dark, and a thin scar trailed down from his left shoulder toward his ribs, pale and healed and unspoken.

You cleared your throat gently, “You can lay on your tummy,” you murmured, voice soft, quiet.

He nodded once, eyes flicking away from yours, and with a heavy breath he lowered himself down, letting out a grunt as he adjusted his limbs, clearly not used to surrendering his body to anything but pain or sleep.

You dipped onto the bed beside him, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as you knelt beside his frame, your knees brushing the sheets. He was tense—every muscle held taut, like even now, he didn’t know how to truly let go.

You reached out carefully, hands warm and deliberate, and let your palms press gently against the slope of his shoulders. The moment your skin touched his, he flinched—not sharply, not out of fear, but with the quiet recoil of a man unused to kindness. Of someone who hadn’t been touched gently in years—not without urgency, not without purpose.

“That hurt?” you asked softly, letting your fingers still against his back, giving him space to answer.

“No,” he murmured, voice muffled against the pillow, gruff and strangely quiet. “It’s just—”

You waited. He didn’t finish.

So you started to move again, slow and careful, letting your hands glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, down the rigid line of his spine, easing into the hard knots along his lower back. His skin was warm, rough in places, scarred in others, but beneath your fingers you felt something deeper—a kind of held breath, a body that had been bracing for too long.

And then—just there—just below his ribs, your thumbs pressed into a tight knot of muscle and he let out a sound. Low. Unintentional. Somewhere between a grunt and a breathless sigh, like the smallest piece of him had slipped loose without his permission.

You paused.

Not because he told you to, but because something in the room shifted—just slightly, but enough. The silence grew thicker, not with discomfort, but with heat. A different kind of tension settled beneath your palms, no longer just physical but charged.

You leaned forward, just barely—close enough that your breath warmed the curve of his neck. “That okay?” you asked, your voice low, velvet-soft.

He nodded, but didn’t speak.

So you let your hands drift lower. Slower. Testing. Exploring. And when your fingers grazed the waistband of his jeans, you felt him tense again—but not the same way. Not from pain. Not from unease.

From want.

A breath caught in his chest. His fingers curled in the sheets.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

You let your hands linger at the small of his back, then slowly, deliberately, splayed your palms across the wide stretch of his hips, fingertips grazing just beneath the worn hem of his jeans. The heat coming off him was no longer the warmth of skin—it was heavier now.

“Turn over,” you murmured, your voice barely more than breath, a suggestion wrapped in silk.

Joel hesitated—but only for a beat—before he shifted beneath your touch, his breath hitching slightly as he rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. His chest rose and fell with quiet tension, each breath like he was trying to steady something inside of him that had already tipped. His hair was mussed from the pillow, his ears flushed red, and he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze—his eyes somewhere near your shoulder, like he couldn’t decide if this was the moment he should speak or simply stay.

You looked at him—really looked—and it hit you with a kind of quiet intensity you hadn’t expected. Rugged. Shy. Ruined with restraint. For one suspended second, you felt your breath catch—your body going still with the weight of what you were about to admit.

“I’m not really a massage therapist,” you murmured, the truth threading from your lips like smoke, soft and unembellished.

Joel’s brow lifted slightly, a flicker of surprise ghosting across his features—but he didn’t flinch, didn’t yell, didn’t get up and storm out the way you thought he might. He didn’t raise his voice or accuse you or spit something cruel. He just sat there—this man you’d heard whispered about around town, the one with the sharp jaw and the sharp aim, the one who’d killed infected like it was nothing, like breathing—and he blushed. His ears pinked. His throat bobbed. And for a man who was supposed to be all grit and gravel and gunpowder, he suddenly looked so soft.

Your gaze dropped.

And there it was—undeniable, obscene even—his cock straining thick and swollen against the front of his jeans, the fabric doing a poor job of hiding just how wrecked he already was. You could see the wet spot where he’d already leaked through, dark and damp and desperate, the denim pulled tight across the aching outline of him like his body couldn’t help betraying how badly he wanted this. How badly he wanted you.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice low and cracked, almost pained, one hand dragging down his face like he could scrub the arousal off with enough pressure. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

The apology hit your chest like a bruise—small and self-conscious and entirely Joel. Like he couldn’t imagine that his desire was allowed, like he thought being this turned on was somehow shameful. Like he wasn’t sure if wanting made him pathetic.

It was so different from Tommy.

Tommy never apologized for being hard. He wore it like a joke, a badge, always ready with some cocky little line—“That one’s your fault, sweetheart��—as he adjusted himself without blinking. He got hard, you both laughed, he’d kiss your shoulder or slap your ass and go right back to whatever he was doing, comfortable in his skin, in his want, in the way he took up space.

You reached for him before that shame could bloom any further, your hand wrapping gently around his wrist—steadying him, grounding him—and you leaned in close, voice soft and sure and edged in something deeper.

“Don’t,” you whispered, letting your fingers slide slowly up his forearm. “Don’t apologize.”

Your gaze dropped again, drinking in the sight of him—his flushed neck, the way his thighs had tensed, how his cock twitched hard under your stare like it hurt to be untouched.

And then—without breaking eye contact—you sank slowly to your knees between his thighs, the sheets rustling beneath you as your robe slipped open just enough to reveal the tops of your breasts, the soft glow of your skin catching the light. Joel’s breath hitched sharply in his chest, and he didn’t move—didn’t lean in, didn’t pull away—he just watched, wide-eyed and stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he was afraid that moving might wake him up.

“That’s why I’m here,” you murmured, your voice low, velvet-smooth as your fingers glided up the inside of his thigh. You could feel the heat radiating off him now—thick, pulsing heat—and you swore his legs trembled just slightly under your touch, like his body had been starving for this, aching longer than he’d ever dared admit. “To take care of you.”

You reached for his belt then, undoing the worn leather with slow, reverent hands, letting the soft clink of the buckle echo in the stillness. He sucked in a breath at the sound alone, as though it unraveled something inside him.

Before you even freed him, you pressed your palm gently over the bulge in his jeans—and fuck, he twitched beneath your touch, cock rock-hard and leaking, the wet spot soaking through the denim where he’d already been dripping for you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word trembling out of him like he wasn’t even sure he was allowed to say it. “This—this ain’t right.”

You looked up at him from between his legs, your position deliberate, your eyes steady and warm. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t shy away. You just smiled softly, your voice velvet-wrapped and laced in heat. “Why not?”

Joel’s gaze dropped—first to your mouth, then to your hand still palmed over the thick, pulsing bulge in his jeans. His chest rose in quick, shallow breaths, like he was trying to breathe through wanting. “You’re—fuck—you’re a hooker?”

His voice cracked on the word, like it embarrassed him to say it out loud. Like it made him feel ashamed to be this turned on by someone he wasn’t supposed to deserve.

But you didn’t pull back.

You didn’t offer shame or explanations. You kept your hand right where it was—pressing gently against the thick, leaking shape of his cock—and leaned in, close enough that your breath warmed the sensitive skin of his thigh through the fabric.

“I’m here,” you whispered, slow and steady, “to make you feel good.”

Joel opened his mouth, ready to argue, to throw up some sad scrap of pride or guilt—but you didn’t let him.

You kissed him instead.

Right on the inside of his clothed knee, a soft, filthy little kiss that made him twitch beneath your palm. So gentle. So patient. So goddamn unfair to a man who hadn’t been touched like this in years.

“Stop thinking so much,” you murmured, your lips brushing against him again. “Let me take care of you.”

There was a pause. A long one. You could feel it pulse between you—hesitation, thick and tight, the kind that came from deep inside a man who hadn’t let himself need in a long time. The want was there, throbbing—pressed up against years of restraint, of pride, of silence. But then Joel looked down at you—eyes wide, pupils blown, a little wild with it—and he nodded. Once. Sharp. Like the motion hurt.

“Okay,” he said. Then, barely audible—“Please.”

God, his voice on that word—so wrecked, so raw—you could’ve come from the sound alone.

You smiled, slow and warm, something curling in your chest, deep and satisfied. “Good boy.”

The words slipped out before you even thought them through—instinctive, soft, teasing. But the moment they left your mouth, you saw it hit him. His jaw clenched, his chest stilled, his breath catching like you’d yanked the air right out of him.

His eyes flicked away immediately, like he wasn’t sure what just happened or why it made his cock twitch so hard it strained visibly against his jeans. But it did. And he felt it.

He was so different from Tommy.

Tommy never waited. Never asked. He’d grip your thighs, mutter something cocky like “Bet you’re already wet for me,” and be halfway inside before you could catch your breath. He took control like it was his birthright—rough palms, fast kisses, always in command.

“Let’s get these off, huh?” you said gently, already reaching for the button on his jeans, your fingers working with slow precision, deliberate and unhurried, like you were unwrapping something rare.

He didn’t stop you. He didn’t speak. He just sat there, chest bare, arms braced behind him, watching you with a look that was part surrender, part disbelief.

You pulled the denim down, inch by inch, and then his boxers—already damp with arousal—until both were gathered around his thighs.

And then his cock sprang free.

Fuck.

It slapped up toward his stomach with weight, flushed and hard and glistening at the tip, fat drops of pre-come already trailing down the shaft. Not as long as Tommy, no—but thicker, meatier, with veins you could trace with your tongue and a curve that made your cunt clench just looking at it. The kind of cock that filled you. That stretched you.

Your mouth watered.

And below it—God. His pubes were wild, a thick thatch of dark hair streaked with silver, coarse and completely untouched, like he hadn’t even thought to groom because he never imagined someone might want to see him like this. And that happy trail? Not neat. Not delicate. Just a messy line of hair leading down from his soft stomach to the base of his cock—feral, raw, real, like the rest of him. This wasn’t a man who prepped for pleasure. This was a man who had been surviving.

And still—he was so fucking hard for you.

Visibly twitching with every breath you took.

Your hand found his thigh first, the heat of him pulsing beneath your palm, solid and thick beneath your touch. You let your fingers trace the curve of his muscle, the hair there soft and coarse at once, and you felt the faintest tremble as you leaned in closer, your breath warming the head of his cock just enough to make him twitch.

“You’re so big, Joel,” you murmured, your voice slow, low, reverent, like you were saying it just for him and no one else. “You’re already dripping for me, baby,” you added with a little smile, dragging your thumb across the head—slow, teasing, making his hips jerk like he hadn’t even meant to move.

His breath caught, chest rising like he’d been hit, eyes locked on you in disbelief. “Christ,” he rasped, the word escaping him like it physically hurt to hold it in. His hand twitched where it braced against the bed, knuckles white, jaw tense, his eyes dragging over you like he was afraid to blink and miss anything.

Then, softly, sweetly—you tilted your head, lips just brushing the inside of his thigh.

“Do you want me to use my mouth?” you asked, the question falling from your lips like silk, delicate but charged, heavy with intention.

Joel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Swallowed hard.

“I—” he stammered, and then exhaled like it cost him something. “Shit… can I… can I see you first?”

The request was so gentle, so earnest, it cracked something inside you. There was no demand in it. No entitlement. Just the soft ache of a man who hadn’t been given softness in a long time, if ever. He wanted to see you. Not just touch, not just take—see. He wanted you to be real to him, wanted to remember how you looked in this moment, flushed and glowing and his, if only for now.

You couldn’t help but smile. “See me?” you echoed softly, lifting your eyes to meet his.

He nodded—barely—a small, shaky dip of his chin like anything more might shatter the moment. And when he spoke, his voice was rough, low, wrecked, caught between awe and the kind of ache that sat low in a man’s belly. “Yeah… if that’s okay,” he said. “I just—fuck. I wanna remember it.”

You straightened slowly, your breath soft and even, fingers slipping to the sash of your robe. The silk felt cool against your skin, a faint whisper as it slid beneath your touch. You untied it with quiet grace, letting the knot fall loose, the fabric parting to reveal the delicate lace beneath—your lingerie soft and sheer, clinging to you like second skin.

Joel’s eyes were on you now—truly on you—and the way he looked made your stomach flip. Not hungry. Not greedy. Just wide-eyed and reverent, like you were something holy he didn’t know how to touch without ruining.

You stepped closer.

His hands rose slowly, hesitantly, the way a starving man might reach for fruit he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. His fingers brushed your hips with the barest pressure—calloused and trembling, like even that much contact might be too much. His thumbs ghosted along your skin, just beneath the lace, pressing in gently like he needed proof that you were real and not some fevered hallucination his mind had conjured from loneliness and want.

“This okay?” he asked, voice rough but quiet, like it hurt to say aloud—like he was asking permission just to want you. His eyes lifted to yours, and they were so fucking open, something vulnerable flickering there, raw and unguarded, as if a single word from you might send him crumbling.

You nodded, slowly, letting your smile bloom soft and slow—something deeper than heat, something that said yes, I want this too.

Your fingers threaded into his hair—thick and unruly, streaked with silver at the temples—and the second your nails grazed his scalp, he broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. But in the way his breath hitched, in the way his knees seemed to go soft beneath him, in the way his entire body leaned into your touch like it was the first good thing he’d felt in years.

His shoulders dropped like a weight had slid off of them, like your hands alone were holding him upright. He didn’t move his own—just kept them resting on your hips, loose and trembling, like he was scared if he held tighter, you might pull away.

And when you tugged gently at the strands, he let out the softest, smallest sound—a whimper, barely there, but so raw it made your chest ache.

He tilted his head into your palm like he couldn’t help it. Like your touch was oxygen. Like he needed it more than he needed to come.

Like he’d been waiting for this—not just your body, but your hands, your care, your permission to be held—for far, far too long.

“You can take this off,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, lips brushing the shell of his ear as your fingers toyed with the straps of your lingerie. “If you want.”

He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly, his eyes flicking up to yours again—wide, hesitant, a little stunned.

“You sure?” he asked, and God—his voice when he said it, thick with that gravelly drawl and threaded with something so soft it made your chest ache. His eyes were almost pleading—puppy-dog eyes, sweet and unsure, hidden under all that gruff exterior. The kind of look that said he wanted it so badly he couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding as your teeth grazed your lower lip, voice as open and bare as the skin he hadn’t touched yet. “I want you to see me.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, dark and wide and uncertain, but he nodded—just once, soft and small—his voice barely audible as he whispered, “Okay.”

You moved slowly, carefully, like the moment might break if you shifted too fast. Your knees sank into the bed, and you straddled him gently, your body folding around his like a promise, like something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t stop wanting. His cock—hard and flushed and waiting—pressed up against the thin fabric between your thighs, heat meeting heat, and you felt him twitch slightly, breath catching in that way that made you ache for him.

He was still so nervous, so unsure, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want this, if you truly meant what you’d said—so you leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow, your mouth brushing against his like you were giving him time to change his mind.

He didn’t.

Joel kissed you back with a kind of desperation that nearly undid you—like he was starving for it, like every nerve in his body remembered what his mind had forced itself to forget. His lips were rough, a little clumsy, but so eager, so full of want it made your knees weak. His hands gripped your hips first—tight, tentative—but then one of them slid slowly up your back, the movement stiff and unpracticed.

You felt his fingers fumble at the clasp of your bra.

Slow. Awkward.

A clink. A pause.

Then another tug that clearly wasn’t going anywhere.

You smiled into the kiss, unable to help the way your lips curved gently against his. The affection in your chest bloomed too big to contain.

“Need a hand, baby?” you murmured, teasing soft and warm.

Joel froze.

Literally froze, like you’d just caught him red-handed doing something far more scandalous than trying to get your bra off.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes—cheeks flushed, lips kissed raw, brows furrowed in mortified concentration. His hand was still awkwardly stuck on the clasp like it might bite him.

“Shit—God, I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice hoarse, the shame already rising like a tide in his chest. “It’s just… I haven’t—fuck, it’s been a while. A long while.”

Your heart swelled. Not with pity—but with something softer. Deeper.

“It’s okay, Joel,” you whispered, your voice like balm, soft and steady. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

He huffed quietly, almost laughed—but it didn’t carry humor, just something strained and bruised, something that lived in the hollow of his chest. He shook his head, gaze dropping as he muttered, “I’m sure the other men you’re with…”

“Joel,” you said firmly, cutting him off before the sentence could reach its end, your voice soft but full of weight. You leaned in a little, pressing your forehead gently to his, forcing him to look at you, to feel how present you were. “I’m not thinking about anyone else right now but you. Okay?”

His breath shuddered out of him in response, his eyes closing like he was holding that truth against his ribs, trying to believe it. After a moment, he nodded, the smallest, quietest movement—just enough to say he heard you. Just enough to say okay.

You smiled at him then, slow and warm, and leaned back just slightly. “Now,” you murmured, fingers slipping behind your back with practiced ease, “let’s get this off.”

Your hands worked quickly, but not rushed—there was no shame in the movement, no hesitation, no apology. Just the quiet, practiced confidence of a woman who knew exactly how powerful she was. The clasp of your bra came undone with a soft snap, the straps sliding down your arms with sinful grace before the lace slipped away completely, falling to the floor like it had never deserved to touch your skin in the first place.

And then—you were bare.

Joel’s breath caught so violently in his chest he almost choked on it.

Your tits were fucking perfect. Full and high, soft but heavy, flushed with heat, nipples tight and begging to be sucked. Lit by the golden light filtering through the room, they looked practically edible—glistening, mouth-watering, obscene in how pretty they were. They swayed gently with every breath you took, right at his eye level as you sat astride him, so close he could’ve buried his face between them and died happy.

But he didn’t.

He just stared.

Wide-eyed, jaw slack, pupils blown so dark they nearly swallowed the color. Like he wasn’t sure whether to worship or drop to his knees. Like it was his first time seeing a naked woman and you were every fantasy he’d ever had—all of it—wrapped in silk, sweat, and sin.

And fuck, the way he looked at you?

It made you wet. Soaking. Aching.

Because his gaze wasn’t greedy. It was wrecked. Full of awe. Full of reverence, like you were something holy and he was already praying.

His tongue flicked out, instinctive, desperate—wetting his lips like he could taste you just from looking.

And finally—hoarse, broken, like it physically hurt to say it—he murmured, “You’re… beautiful.”

You smiled at him then, your hands still resting gently at the back of his head, your fingers idly curling through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re handsome,” you said, and meant it—because even flustered, even blushing, even sitting there with guilt in his eyes and wonder on his face, Joel was beautiful. In a way he didn’t know how to carry. In a way you ached to show him.

He shook his head a little at that, bashful, like the compliment didn’t belong to him, like he didn’t know where to put it.

You leaned in slightly, shifting your weight just enough to press your chest a little closer to him, your breasts soft and warm in the space between you, your skin nearly touching his. “You can touch them,” you whispered, your voice low, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear as your breath shivered across it. “I like when people use their mouth.”

Your fingers slipped deeper into his hair, gently tugging at the roots, anchoring him in the moment, steadying him against the flood rising between you.

“Whatever you wanna do,” you whispered. “It’s yours.”

His breath shuddered in response—just a single exhale—but it sounded wrecked, like you’d just undone something in him that had been locked tight for years.

His hands rose slowly, big and broad and calloused, shaking just slightly as he brought them to your chest. And when he finally cupped your tits—gently, reverently, like they might melt in his palms—you swore you saw his lips part in pure awe.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples—light, tentative—and his gaze flicked up to meet yours, wrecked and open and begging for approval.

You nodded.

And he leaned in.

Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair as his mouth closed around your nipple, warm and wet and so gentle at first, like he was still afraid he might do it wrong. But the moment he sucked—just a little, just enough to pull a quiet gasp from your lips—you whimpered, the sound leaving you before you could stop it, breathy and broken and so full of want it made his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh.

He froze for just a heartbeat, pulling back only slightly to glance up at you, lips still parted, a little swollen now, his eyes dark with something soft and searching.

“Am I…” he paused, his voice rough and low, so unsure, like the words tasted foreign in his mouth. “Am I doing good?”

God. God.

Your chest rose with the breath you sucked in, your eyes already glossed with it, your lip caught between your teeth as you nodded—hard, fast, desperate for him to understand just how much he was ruining you.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hips already rocking forward, chasing friction. “Fuck, Joel… you’re making me feel so good.”

His eyes widened slightly at the praise, his breath catching in his throat, like he didn’t know how to carry those words—but needed to.

You cupped his face then, pulled him back to your chest, your thighs squeezing tighter around him as his hands cradled your hips and his mouth returned to your breast with more purpose now, more hunger.

He moaned against your skin, low and desperate, sucking softly, his tongue flicking over your nipple just to hear the way your breath stuttered.

“Shit,” you breathed, voice barely holding together, your body already flushed and trembling from the way he touched you like you were something precious, something sacred he didn’t know how to handle but wanted to try.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your thumb brushing gently over his flushed cheek, your chest still rising fast from the weight of his mouth. “Lie down,” you murmured, the command soft but firm, wrapped in something far more tender than dominance. “Get comfortable.”

Joel obeyed without a word, shifting beneath you with a quiet grunt as his back met the sheets, but his eyes—God, his eyes—never left you. They dragged down your body like a prayer, following the way your hands slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slowly, baring yourself to him inch by inch until there was nothing left between you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw you, the heat of your pussy glistening in the low light, your thighs already slick with want, your confidence quiet but undeniable.

You crawled back onto the bed, slow and deliberate, your knees parting as you straddled his thighs again, his cock thick and flushed and waiting, twitching slightly where it rested against his stomach. Your breasts—red and swollen and slick from his mouth—bounced gently with each movement, catching the light like they’d been made for him.

And then—just as you were about to reach for him again—Joel sat up.

“Wait,” he said, voice low and rough, and a little breathless.

You stilled, your hands settling on his chest, your brows lifting slightly. “Yeah?” you murmured, brushing your thumb along the curve of his shoulder.

He looked at you—so shy, so unsure, like a man who didn’t know if he was allowed to ask. His cheeks were flushed, his lashes low, his voice softer now than you’d ever heard it.

“Can I…” he hesitated, swallowed. “I don’t think I’ll last long if you—if you use your mouth. Can I just—can I be inside you?”

You smiled, “Of course you can,” you whispered against his mouth, your lips brushing his with a sweetness that made him sigh into you, the sound barely audible but heavy with relief, like the permission alone had eased something he’d been holding for far too long. “I want you to.”

But before he could move—before he could even think—you reached down, your hand slipping between your bodies, finding his and lacing your fingers together. Gently, deliberately, you guided his hand downward, slower than necessary, not for hesitation but for effect—for connection—until his fingers rested at the slick heat of your entrance.

“Here,” you said, voice breathy, your eyes locked to his. “Feel.”

Joel’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and glassy, full of disbelief, like he hadn’t expected you to give him this, too. His throat worked around a hard swallow, the tips of his fingers twitching against the soaked warmth of your cunt, already glistening for him.

“For me?” he asked, the words almost reverent.

You nodded, biting your lip, your breath hitching as his fingertip brushed just barely against your entrance. “For you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with heat. “I’m so wet, Joel. For you.”

He made a soft, broken sound in the back of his throat—part groan, part plea—and you could feel how badly he wanted this, how hard he was fighting to hold on to whatever control he still had.

“I—” he started, and then sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “Shit. My back’s bad. And my knees—”

You smiled, warm and teasing, as you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your voice turning playful as you reached for his cock and lined him up against your soaked entrance. “Gonna make me do all the work, huh?” you teased, your hips already rolling slightly, letting the thick head of him slip just barely into your folds.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, flustered, completely undone now, blinking up at you like you’d just caught him stealing something precious.

“I’m joking, Joel,” you said with a breathless laugh, your fingers slipping into his hair, your lips brushing his as you began to sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch burning in the most perfect way. “Relax. Let me bounce on your cock.”

Joel exhaled like he’d been punched in the chest, his hands gripping your hips instinctively, not to control—but to anchor. His eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and filled with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

And then you sank down—fully—his cock stretching you wide, thick and throbbing and buried so deep it felt like you couldn’t possibly take more.

Your cunt clenched tight around him, soaked and fluttering with every inch he filled, your thighs trembling from the fullness. You held still, just for a moment—breathing with him, grounding yourself—as your body adjusted to the sweet, overwhelming ache of having all of him inside you.

And Joel?

He fucking unraveled.

His head tipped back against the pillow, jaw slack, throat arched, eyes squeezed shut as he let out the most broken, shaky moan you'd ever heard tear from his chest.

“F-fuck—oh my God,” he gasped, the words tumbling out of him like they weren’t meant to be said out loud. “Fuck—sweetheart—I—I can’t—”

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them—torn between holding you down and worshipping you. His whole body trembled beneath you, his thighs tight, chest rising in frantic, ragged bursts like he was trying not to cry.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed again, voice high and wrecked, cracking under the weight of it all—awe, hunger, helpless fucking need. “You’re—fuck—you’re so tight—so warm—I can’t—fuck, baby, I can’t—”

He looked up at you like you were about to ruin him—eyes wide and glossy, mouth open, chest rising fast.

“Please,” he whimpered, voice shaking so badly you felt it in your cunt. “Don’t—don’t move yet. I—I need a second.”

You nodded gently, cradling his face, letting him breathe through it—letting his cock throb deep inside you as your walls fluttered around him, gripping like a fucking vice.

But when he finally exhaled, when the tension in his shoulders dropped just enough—you moved.

A slow, teasing grind of your hips. One long, drawn-out rock that pressed your clit right against the base of his cock, dragging every inch of him against the softest, tightest parts of you.

Joel gasped.

His eyes slammed shut, his fingers digging into your hips like he didn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You okay, baby?” you whispered, lips brushing his cheek.

He nodded—too fast, too desperate—his head barely bobbing before he choked out, “Yeah, just—fuck, slow down—please. I ain’t gonna last long if you—”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his, anchoring him in the heat between your bodies, and whispered against his lips, “That’s okay. You don’t have to last long, Joel.”

Another grind. Wetter this time.

His breath hitched violently.

“Just let me make you feel good.”

And then you rolled your hips again—slower this time, deeper—and his hands shook on your skin, his whole body going tight beneath you as he gasped and swore again, his voice barely holding together.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, one hand slipping up to your waist, fingers trembling, the other rising to your chest like he couldn’t help it. You guided him, curling his hand around your breast, moaning as his thumb grazed your nipple.

“Touch me, Joel,” you whispered. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”

And he was—his cock throbbing inside you, his mouth open, eyes wide and overwhelmed, his voice breaking as he tried to keep himself from losing it. But your pussy was gripping him so tight, soaking and pulsing and grinding down with every slow, filthy roll of your hips—and he was ruined.

“Shit—darlin, please—I can’t—” Joel gasped beneath you, voice catching as his fingers dug into your hips, trying desperately to still you, to slow you down, to regain any control over the way your body was grinding down onto his, slick and hot and perfect around him. His head fell back against the pillow, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut like he was holding on by a thread.

But you didn’t stop.

You moved faster now, hips rolling deep and steady, your thighs trembling from the pace, your cunt clenching around him with every thrust. Joel’s hands flew to your waist, gripping you hard, like he could physically slow you down—but even as his fingers dug into your skin, his hips bucked up to meet you, chasing your rhythm like his body had stopped listening to him.

“Darlin’,” he gasped, voice fraying, wrecked, “you gotta stop—I’m serious—fuck, you gotta slow down or I’m gonna—”

But you didn’t stop.

You moved harder.

And Joel’s breath hitched, eyes wide, mouth open like he was trying to warn you and couldn’t remember how.

“Shit—shit,—stop movin’—I can’t—I’m not gonna hold it—fuck, I’m gonna come—you’re gonna make me come.”

His voice cracked on the last word, his grip trembling as he tried to slow you, tried to guide you off him—but his cock twitched violently inside you, and his hips snapped up in betrayal, chasing that edge like he couldn’t help it.

And then he broke.

With a sharp, shuddering gasp, his whole body arched beneath you, thighs shaking, eyes squeezing shut as he came hard, release spilling into you in thick, pulsing waves. His hands clamped down on your hips, not to stop you anymore—but to hold on, to anchor himself as the pleasure tore through him, brutal and sudden.

His jaw clenched, breath catching in his throat as he moaned low and hoarse, like he was in pain from how good it was.

You gasped softly at the warmth spreading inside you, the way his cock twitched with every pulse of it, the way he moaned your name—broken, wrecked—like a prayer against your collarbone, his breath shuddering as it spilled from him.

And then—he pulled you in.

His arms wrapped tight around your waist, dragging you down against his chest, like he needed you closer, needed to be grounded in the heat of your skin. His face buried in your neck, breath ragged, hot and frantic, his whole body still trembling with the aftershocks. He held onto you like he thought he might float away if he didn’t—fingers digging into your back, too tight, too desperate.

You didn’t move.

You just stroked your fingers slowly through his hair, soft and patient, cradling the back of his head like he was something fragile, like you were holding a man coming undone quietly in your arms.

And Joel? He didn’t even lift his head.

He couldn’t.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven waves, his cock still buried inside you, twitching with sensitivity, every part of him too much—too raw, too fast, too gone. He pressed his face deeper into the curve of your neck, like maybe if he hid long enough, you wouldn’t see how red his cheeks were.

“Fuck,” he rasped finally, voice hoarse, choked, mortified. “I—shit. I’m so sorry.”

The words were slurred, mumbled into your skin, thick with shame, like they physically hurt to say.

“I didn’t mean to… I mean, I wasn’t trying to—fuck, I didn’t think I’d—”

He cut himself off, groaning in frustration, still unable to look at you. Like he was bracing for disappointment. Like you were gonna laugh. Like he’d failed some unspoken test.

“I didn’t mean to come that fast,” he whispered. “That’s… not how I wanted to do this.”

“Shh,” you whispered softly, stroking his hair a little slower now, your touch more comfort than seduction. “You don’t have to be sorry, Joel.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing his sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, your gaze tender, reverent. “You did so good for me,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth, your voice a hush of affection. “Made me feel so good. So warm.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unsure, and when he looked at you—really looked—he almost broke again.

“Look at me,” you whispered, thumb brushing his cheek. “Please.”

And when he did, you kissed him—slow, deep, soft enough to make him sigh against your lips. His mouth opened to you like instinct, and he almost whimpered into it, the sound desperate and sweet, like his heart was leaking out through the press of your mouths. He held onto you tighter then, arms curling around your waist, pulling you down against him like he didn’t want any space left between your bodies.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

He just breathed.

Held.

Tried to remember what it felt like to be this close to another person without losing something.

And then—so quietly you almost missed it—he whispered, “I don’t wanna go.”

The words cracked something in you. Not lust. Not even longing. Just something bare and soft and aching.

You kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and whispered back, “Then don’t.”

And he didn’t.

He stayed.

Wrapped around you, still trembling, still catching his breath, holding you like you were the only safe place left in the world.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

TY FOR READIN - LET ME KNOW UR THOUGHTS IN THE COMMENTS !!!!

[dovesdreaming]

Hihihi!! This a kinda specific request that might not make sense but im gonna try anyway (ive like never requested anything so this also might be bad in general). Could you possibly make a Bucky Barnes or Tony Stark with a gn!reader with powers that are kinda like Hecate kids in the pjo universe (necromancy, umbrakinesis, bone control, ect) reader is like a kid who just wants their ded family back.

Family drawings

Hi thank you for your request it was amazing don’t worry! I’m sorry if it doesn’t all sound like a kid reader I’ve never written for one before! I hope you enjoy it I feel like I could have written this better <3

Not proofread

Word count: 1.1k

Warnings: talk of blood, violence

It was your average low level mission for the avengers, raiding an empty hydra base for any files they had left behind. They were more careful going into these bases now as they have had one too many blow up on them. Steve was the mission leader as usual and he was the first to scope out the area before sending the rest in. Clint and Natasha searched the outer buildings while Steve and Bucky searched the two first floors of the main building. Steve sent Tony to search the basement while Bruce stayed in the jet, ready for any medical emergencies.

Everything had been going smoothly, the comms was filled with chatter instead of orders. No one had found anything yet but they hadn’t finished searching. Tony was still in the basement doing his usual shenanigans, listening to AC/DC instead of comms. He wasn’t paying much attention knowing this area never had anything in from previous missions. He thought this particular basement looked worse for wear than some of the others he had seen. Chills ran through him as he saw child like drawings on some of the walls, they showed families holding hands and some writing that he wasn’t able to make out. He was slightly more creeped out than usual but he carried on, he turned around and continued to look around. It was quite dark and most of the wall edges were covered in darkness so when he made a figure out in one of the car corners he thought he was just seeing things. Yet as he moved closer he started to believe it may be someone more and more. They had a smaller frame and looked quite malnourished. They were sat with the head covered by their knees unmoving. Tony approached and crouched down a bit as to not scare them. Yet it didn’t seem to work as they lifted their head they scrambled away from Tony as best as they could but he had affectively trapped them in a corner. He heard a quiet strained plee of “please don’t hurt me”. It managed to send a pang of hurt through Tony’s heart, which not many things did.

Your perspective-

You had a happy childhood up until you were seven when a heavy bang came from the front door of your house one day. Men in big protective gear that covered any defining features stormed in the house, your parents trying to shield you while telling them there must be a mistake, they hadn’t done anything. Yet nothing seemed to work they were adamant they wanted you and your parents couldn’t allow that so they tried to protect you which sadly cost them their lives. You had been carried away while crying and thrashing by one of the dark men. You didn’t have anything from your childhood your last memory being a glance back into your house, seeing your parents covered in red.

It had been a while since then, you didn’t even know how long. You hadn’t seen the outside world or the sun in years. Hydra had taken you as you possessed special attributes which lended to experiments they wanted to carry out. These experiments had turned you into a weapon, they were halfway through training you when you didn’t cooperate with them anymore. You had enough of their beatings and abuse so you used the powers they gave you against them. They abandoned the mission and left you there to starve. You could have gone outside the base but you were too scared to venture into the outside world alone. You didn’t know what the outside was like anymore. So you sat scrunched up in the corner with a rumbling stomach and heart ache from missing your parents. You had scared yourself a lot by accidentally casting shadows as you didn’t know how to fully control your powers yet. You sat there alone waiting but you didn’t know what for.

You had remained in the basement where they left you until now when you were staring wide eyed at a robot. Or what you thought was a robot until he opened his mask. He promised he would help you but you didn’t know if you could trust him he could just be another version of hydra. He just asked you to follow him outside at least to meet the rest of them. So you tentatively followed behind him, keeping your distance.

As you came up the steps you were met with sunlight for the first time in a while. You were also met with the faces of the other avengers they didn’t look mean like hydra did but you were still scared.

-

They had taken you back to the avengers tower and fed you a good meal, you felt safe for the first time in ages. You didn’t trust them yet but you thought they were better than hydra.

It had been a few weeks since you arrived at the tower and everyone had welcomed you like their own child. Tony took particular interest in you. You liked to sit in his lab with him, quietly watching him work. You had even danced to his music on many occasions which made him laugh. Most nights you fell asleep in his lab and when he turned around to ask you a question he would realise and stop what he was doing to carry you up to bed. This had helped him improve his sleep schedule aswell going to bed after tucking you into yours. Tonight after he tucked you in he noticed drawings on your table. He picked them up and looked through them noticing how they were similar to the ones he saw in the basement, drawings of happy families with disproportionate limbs. He sadly smiled until he looked at the last one. It was a drawing of a man in a robot suit holding the hand of a small child. Arrows pointed towards the man scribbled out Tony. His heart melted, something he thought he was incapable of. Tony vowed to protect you like his own from that day on and that he did. He trained you how to use your powers but not to be a weapon but to protect others. However every now and then your powers took control of you due to hydras faulty work and it led you to conjure evil shadows of hydra men and your parents. It pained him to see you in such a state afterwards, all he could do for you was hold you to calm you down.

You grew up surrounded by a loving makeshift family, while you still missed your parents you were grateful for everyone around you. Tony had become a father figure to you over the years and you still spent nights together in his lab, you now helping him work on things and even creating your own inventions. You also used your powers to defeat hydra with the rest of the avengers and any bone injuries the team acquired you were always called over to heal them. You were proud of how far you had come from when you were in that basement, you were seen as a protector now instead of a weapon and you couldn’t have done it without the help of the team but especially Tony. You were always grateful looking back on the day he found you in that basement.

Everyone had also noticed Tony soften over the years, he especially had a soft spot for you and the team would use that to their advantage. They saw how he became a better person because of you.

Thank you for reading!

[rosadreams]

To see you again

Characters involved: General Lilia x fem fae reader + fem reader x Silver(platonic; mother son relationship)

CW: TWST chp 7 spoilers, reader is NOT Yuu, reader is ded duhhh

Synopsis: Silver never thought that he would be able to see his dead mother again in his father's dreams.

"How dare you harm the general! Guards, seize these humans at once!" Baul yelled, and suddenly, the nocturnal faes were surrounding Silver, Sebek, Grim and Yuu, ready to fight. "Hey you guys, Im fine. it's not like Im hurt. I only dropped my mask." Lilia said, still feeling a little mildly shocked that a mere human managed to even make him drop his mask.

"But-!"

"What's going on?" A soft, melodic voice intercepts in to the conversation. Baul and the other fae soldiers suddenly straightened their back, hand in a salute position as they greet a fae women who has just arrived.

"We greet the Lady of House Vanrouge!"

"Oh no need for the formalities! Just call me Y/N!" The fae women chuckled, and immediately, both Sebek and Silver can feel their blood running cold.

Y/N Vanrouge? As in Lilia's wife? The one who died 4 years ago?

Silver could hear his heart pounding nervously. He had prayed every single day to see you, his dead mother again. Though he knows that it was just a futile hope, he had never imagine seeing you alive in front of him - technically alive in this dream.

You looked younger than the boy had remembered. Your eyes are full of life, face free from wrinkles, looking young and beautiful. "Y/N, what are you doing here? It's dangerous." Lilia reprimands you coldly, but you know that that is his way of caring you. He does not like to show his weak side in front of his subordinates.

"I thought you needed a helping hand." You turned to look at the 3 humans and 1 cat who were staring at you with their mouth open wide, probably amazed by your beauty. "Whose this?"

For once, Silver had to hold back himself from running into your arms, calling you mother.

"My name is Silver, I am your son. I missed you, mother."

[emkaii]

in a random thought (more like this plot bunny has been living in my head rent free since this "what if" fic started and now i cant stop myself from sharing it after so many months? years? idek)

thank you to @feynites for the wonderful fic above that i continue to go back re-reading again and again

(also tagging @wangxianficrecs even though im not sure they share scum villain fics *sobs*)

! tw: death !

WHAT IF SCENARIO

og!sj dies the night of yqy & lqg wedding because of heartbreak? (because real heartbreak can literally kill in this fanfic universe) just, like, he dies. that's it. no shen yuan to transmigrate in his body as replacement.

so, og!sj was in seclusion punishment during that night right? and he was only allowed outside to attend the wedding itself. (am i right? or if not, meh)

so shen jiu dies in his bedroom, alone. lbh tries to enter his room to help him prepare for the wedding but doesn't get an answer (bc og!sj is ded), so lbh leaves bc he's obviously afraid of entering the room without og!sj's permission in fear of punishment.

the wedding is completed without sj arriving and everyone just assumes that he's bitter about the whole thing and doesn't attend as a show of rebellion.

also, since he's in secluded punishment and the servants doesn't like him, no one approaches or even tries to enter his room. lbh tries to tell the upper servants that it has been almost a full night & day that og!sj hasn't responded to anything outside his room, but of course, they don't listen to him.

so, he tries to directly report to yqy. who at this point is feeling disappointed? relieved? (even he himself doesn't know) that sj did not cause any problems to his new wedding. so, he goes to check on sj.

he tries to ask permission to enter the room, no answer.

tries to lengthen sj's punishment if he continues to be stubborn, no answer.

tries to threaten that he will break the door, no answer.

yqy gets nervous. something doesn't feel right.

sj is not the type to stay quiet.

he forcefully opens the door.

and he finds sj looking peacefully asleep.

but there's something wrong in the picture. sj was too quiet. too still.

yqy realizes that he can't hear sj breathing. he can't see any movement. at all.

he flies to sj's bedside.

tries to take his wrist to check his condition, and whole body-flinches at the cold skin. sj's body was stiff. and as a highly accomplished cultivator, yqy knows the state of a dead body more than a few hours after death.

he whispers, "a-jiu?"

sj' body would look peaceful in death, if not for the dried tear tracks in his face.

(I don't know how to describe/write it but i want yqy's reaction to be utter devastation, something similar or worse than his reaction in this fanfic's og novel when sj died in the original timeline)

minutes or hours later (yqy doesn't know, doesn't know or aware of his surroundings anymore), after mqf arrives and checks the situation after a frantic lbh tells lqg about sj and lqg flies to have mqf at their estate, mqf states:

"his body showed signs of grief sickness. in this case, his lungs decided to stop taking in air, his mind decided to stop all functions of his body, and his heart just decided to stop beating. i can say that it occurred around 24 hours ago."

24 hours ago.

24 hours ago was when sj tried to convince yqy not to proceed with the wedding for his new husband.

24 hours ago was when sj tried to tell yqy that he'd rather die than let yqy have a second husband.

yqy ignored him.

and now a-jiu is dead.

"A-Jiu couldn’t survive his husband marrying another man. That person died the day Yue Qingyuan married Liu Qingge"

AND THIS IS THE LINE FROM THE ORIGINAL FIC THAT INSPIRED THIS PLOT BUNNY.

i really do sometimes love making myself cry with my thoughts and ideas. now im sharing these to the world. and now i want to re-read, for the 8th? 9th? time, this whole wonderful series.

[spiralingemptyness]

okok look

i have this idea/comic i rlly wanna draw

in water 7 arc we get a lttle backstory on toms workers and franky plus his ship deal.. but what about iceburg.. why did he become a shipwright

so here’s what i came up with

this is pre-franky arriving. But tom and kokoro has got iceburg, this kid who is the exact opposite from what you expect from a kid, quiet, non expressive, but not in a timid shy way, just in a ‘lost spark’/‘giving up on a life that fucked u over’ wayw

Tom and kokoro wanna help this kid get his spark back without being obnoxious. So then while running errands for Kokoro, Iceburg and Tom pass by a shipyard (this is back when water seven was ded so there was a one-two ships at most being built) but while walking past the shipyard, it catches iceburgs attention, in a mesmerizing way. Tom noticed and proceeds to take him to his workshop, and iceburg fucking lights up. And after tom explains where theyre at (“this is my workshop where i build shit bc im a ship wright blah blah”) iceburg would just be like.. teach me and tom would prob offically adopt him (and later franky)

[michaelmylove]

im gonna liveblog hello from the hallowoods when i feel like it, so this is the first one

this guy sounds like Cecil but with a less deep voice

what did he say his name was it sounded ridiculous

is this like wtnv. hell yeah i love wtnv

oooh theme this is fun

so its like... wtnv + early tma?

yeah his dad was not a librarian

spoopy key :3

if i zone out for 2 seconds i miss a ton so. adhd is gonna make this fun

spoopy siren key :0

bro this dude not getting drwoned by sirens is the same vibe as that guy that straight up left the distortion's hallways bc he was gonna be late for dinner

tiny picnic sandwich my love <3 (- this guy probably)

adverts!

weird ass squirrel

the music- :DD fun! so light hearted! yay!

what is being described- ♪ൠ 𝕋ℍέ ⓂＯＮˢ𝐭𝔢г 𝓈ＱǗ𝒾𝐫ｒєㄥ ʷｉｌᒪ 𝓶ᗩᵏ𝐞 Ⓨ𝓸𝓤 𝕡𝐀𝔶 Ƒ𝓸я ⓎόỮｒ ｓ丨𝔫s

*diggory graves*?? bit on the nose

n o n b i n a r y g h o s t <333

yknow what 'diggory graves' is on par with enby names actually

2 ghost?? fun :D

not.. ghost. zombie?? boy is ghost. dig amn't.

aww even in death they're so polite

evil migrane piano?

OHHHHH *KEYS* oh thats clever

heyyyyyyy we'll track down your loved ones but only to tell them to pay for something!

DIGGORY HI HELLO AGAIN

afab enby zombie lets goooooooooo

L E S B I A N

oh no. ded lesbian? :[

persephone?

p e r c y ghost

<333 gay

LESBIAN SONG

yes you have youve got a wife

help the ghosty boy with your zombie lesbian fingers!

damnit ghost logic

why would they break it

I WANT THE ANSWER DIGGORY

its giving the not!them table and im scared

is percy their kid omfgggg

mood

you can remember like nothing dude ??

this is legit so sweet

<33333

im gonna go to sleep now, ill be back tmrw

[neptuniadoesstuff]

Abecias Malice Ref (God OC Ref Sheet Remake)

(Edit: Had to pic the drawings a bit bcs I FORGOR I HAD THE FACIAL HAIR AT 30% OF OPACITY LIKE THE MORON I AM!)

AND HES DONE!

After a few days this gae bacon-haired moron is finished & tbh I like this new ver of him more than his original design. (If you wanna see his original design the link is here- (Plz remember the post is pretty old on here as well as the pic bcs originally this fella was actually a Early b-Day gift for my frend back when this year just frikin started.)

& yes that is some wine coming out of his mouth. (He loves his wine) & of course.... Bro is flipping u off. (But it's censored, also I originally was gonna draw a bird crossed out but then I forgor SO LETS PRETEND ME FORGETTING WAS INTENTIONAL & NOT SOME GOOF I COMMITED!) Look we a bit of somewhat vulgarity even if I'm not the person who would just curse. (But I do say byastord, which this guy is, so its fitting.)

Also Lil rewrite of his bio bcs frik u:

|| Name: Abecias Malice (aka Adder'Synn Malkovich) | Gender: Male (Trans), He/Him | Age: ?? (Died at the age of 22-23) | Sexuality: Gae | Height: ??'?? ft (Possibly was 6'2 ft tall when alive) | Enithcity: ?? (Possibly was a Rozokeen/Osmort mix when still alive) | Personality: A very unhinged & crazed individual who seem to have a unhealthy obsession with men & himself?? Seems to really like seeing oeppel die yet despises getting himself dirty to the point that he will literally start avoiding anything that has a SINGLE speck of dirt! What im saying is, hes narcissistic, sadistic, & also very lazy & wants others to do stuff for him. (Also is very racist to bird ppl idk, why though) I Occupation: The King of his kingdom of Vallenfholt (This is Godhome's hew name) | Family: ?? (When alive he had a older brother, a younger sister, & 2 parent but one of them was ded) | Species: Bloopmo (Halflett type) (Formally), Ascended God | Other: Can't seem to get drunk from the wine he always drinks EVERY SINGLE FRIKIN DAY! Is literally a rich pompous a-hole who despises the porr, homeless, & ugly ppl. Also thinks the mailmen are coming for him /hj ||

(A lot of the info here is not filled on purpose bcs gods... dont really care about mortal nonsense.)

Extras: Was originally a college student (or whatever he was when he was still alive) pretty much dealing with a pretty ab*sive father who would not respect his identity & was basically a complete snake. Although one Adder just.. snapped & ran off the campus to drive to his father's house &... kill him... But that was not the end of it, by the next day he had murdered around 12 people & injuring 2 (that being his now ex- bf & his now rival) only to be killed by his once best friend, Hugo.. When he died his soul was sent into the ring of Wrath but over the years, the regret he had turned into pride... He enjoyed what he had become... Not only that but his personality had started to shift, become extremely lustful & abnormally greedy to also having his appearance be shifted also, this was normal for a Sinner, but this Sinner was different... He risen up the rank & eventually became a God, not a well known god but a God nonetheless. Eventually going up into Vallenfholt & making a kingdom there which suited his needs. He however became so obsessed with himself that he pretty much just lost it & became the thing he originally despised the most... A rich, greedy, & selfish monster like his father was. Not only that anyone was below him was eventually killed instantly in the arena that he built for prisoners (Usually bcs he didn't like bcs of their appearance) to fight to the death in. Now as for how the hell he became obsessed with men & started to h8 on bird ppl (+ the whole thing about the mailmen coming for him... idk bro-). Now keep in might he was BoRN in a time humans (the morons from earth) did NOT come to Eeross.

Also if you wanna see the uncensored puc of the guy flipping u goofs off then here- (plz click read more but if u are offended by ppl flipping u off plz don't.)

Yeh no body pic bcs this is a friend's oc (that I made for em) but it would be VERY WEIRD OF ME TO POST THAT! (Even if we are AroAce & its a *full body ref* but plz don't ask me to post it in respect of MY FRIEND!)

ANYWAYS CREDITS BCS I H8 MYSELF! (Not really but I sorta do.... I need help-)

Character: Created by ne but belongs to a frend of mine who I'm gonna keep anonymous but they are on here (I ain't gonna say who BCS THEY ARE MEANT TO BE ANONYMOUS!)

Art: MinE

Program: IbisPaint x.

Bubs' TOS: Plz don't repost/steal, trace, or recolor my art WITHOUT MY PERMISSION! If you do, I'll take yur femur and pelvis.. SO, DON'T THINK ABOUT IT! (The PNS on my blog's pinned post clearly means "Please No Steal" plz follow that rule.) If you do post my art on anything like yur blog or somewhere else (With my permission) PLEASE CREDIT ME!

[fisheito]

friend fish!!! do you have any super specific headcanons for nucarni you'd want to post about? like from the serious to the silly. im talking from like how did little yakumo deal w humans and snakes hating him and then his grandparents loving him to who are the left handed mfs and who are the right handed mfs. how did kuya handle huey disappearing vs can garukaru wink. i like your brain and i like the very specific little things that come from everyone's brains and just wanted to see if you wanted to post any sillies or seriousies :3

why, friend anon, it seems like You are the one bursting with ideas... if u wish to share with the class i shan't object ohoho

MMM>....UUHHHHH boy ain't it just appropriate that once u hand me the microphone, my mind blanks hmmm........ ............(leaves ask and comes back in several hours)

OH I got one!! yakumo and chickens

s o one day, i wished to draw yakumo holding a chicken. just snekboi holding an absolute buff orpington orb of chicken, because it would be, how u say,... grotesquely adorable, yes??

but before i could, i wondered.. is that possible? do chickens like yakumo? or would they sense his snakeyness and hate him? was it ever discussed in the story?

my immediate thought was of those chickens who get hypnotised into a catatonic state when u draw a straight line in front of them. u know all those gifs of the chickens that just go [plop] with HARD FOCUS on the line? and as soon as line was erased, chicken blinked back into existence/Killer Peck mode?

i remember ppl hypothesising that it was bc the lines reminded them of snakes and the chickens were like shhhhh play ded the snakes will want nothing to do with us.

i can;t remember if they ever actually found the answer to that behaviour. i wish i knew. but i don't. so instead i imagined eiden placing a 🧍‍♂️yakumo horizontally in front of a chicken to see if the trance could be replicated

the whole thing made me think about yakumo's relation to animals, especially farm animals, bc idk if his grandparents ever farmed animals or if it was JUST produce. the story so far seems to say vegebls only but *I* want *FARM ANIMALS* and *YAKUMO* ***toGETHER*(*(***** so we continue the train of thought

yakumo has pulled Princess-Snow-White-shenanigans in the past (Idol Fest). those forest animals didn't have a problem rolling up to yakumo just to listen to him sing. i don't remember if exact animals were mentioned in the story, but i'mma assume it was lil guys like rabbits, birds, rodents, deer. i mean... snakes have been known to share habitats with these guys... so it would make sense for some of them to be scared if yakumo's energy is more snake>human.

but then KUYA??? he's a fox. yet he's got parades of adoring forest worshippers everywhere he goes, regardless of predator/prey status. so maybe the vibe of Yokai overrides whatever trophic chain dynamics are supposed to exist in this world. So instead of EEK! A SNAKE/FOX! the animals be like Yokai=cool nature powerbeing let's hang out ?

but then i wonder if the Yokai Vibe is moderated by Yokai expertise. bc kuya of course has way more experience as yokai... he's more likely to embrace his foxy traits than yakumo with his snakey traits (what is this.... a competition of self acceptance now??).. so maybe the animals all trail after kuya bc of his confidence,,, but would they do the same for yakumo who hasn't yet transcended to that Power Strut Aura?

which relates to childhood yakumo. to surrounding animals, what was his vibe? snakey? human? yokai? did it matter? he mentioned that the other snakes used to bully him .. and that people also used to chase him away... so his vibe was. what? like the king cobra who eats other snakes, and can bite people? at this point, it's not like yakumo has the self-control or self-acceptance to consciously manipulate his outward appearance. his vibe is his vibe.

so, in this unsure, untrained, scared snake-self stage of his life, he still appeared as a Threat to other snakes (and probably other animals that typically fear snakes). i imagine that if i were to introduce yakumo to farm animals at this point, they would react like they saw a potentially dangerous snake. chickens angy. cows might stomp u. goats might eat u

and yet Grandma and Grandpa , like many humans, promptly threw convention out the window and went [lol what threat?? he scared. let's give him some soup]] -> for further proof of ppl being like that, look at. any dangerous creature. cute as heck. i'll fawn over apex predators. angry bear incapable of empathy? deserves my respect. sure i'll share my room with a snake if it looks like it's crying . self-preservation? why would i care about that if i have the chance to make the snake less sad??

i mean, farm animals are domesticated so they're supposed to be pretty chill. i like to think that once yakumo spent more time on the farm with a loving family, his energy became more stable and more human. and surely with daily exposure, those farm animals would acclimate to yakumo's presence. maybe even grow to like him if he takes care of them.

THAT IS TO SAY even if the animals initially shun him or treat him like Danger... they eventually associate his energy with the good times. and yakumo would learn how to act around each specific animal so as not to upset them (just like any good zookeeper!!). As both parties build upon their experiences, the likelihood of positive interaction between yakumo and another animal goes up up 🆙☝!!!

IN THE END, ALL THIS MEANS is that, simply bc i like animals, i'm gonna pretend that yakumo's grandparents also farmed creatures (dang, an undertaking for 2 elderly ppl. i know. but this is gay fantasy isekai). ok, maybe more believably, a neighbour farmed animals and yakumo was the only young'n around to help. and because of all that, yakumo has experience dealing with animals.

according to my made-up timeline (😄) if i drew him at human age ~7, it would make sense if it was a pic of a cow chewing on his hair (being bullied by ungulates. he's crying), or chickens pecking him en masse

and if i drew him getting ALONG with those same animals, it would more likely be a yakumo at human age -- well- older than that. he's got some working experience at that point.

(slams fist on table) SO I CAN JUSTIFIABLY Draw A FLUFFY CHICKEN RESTING HAPPILY IN YAKUMO'S ARMS AND IT COULD BE IN-CHARACTER.

i crave interspecies friendships. humans do nonsensical things to befriend other critters. why can't the chickens override their snake fear for this one special boi. it is what i want to see and i will twistturn canon until i see it.

[theharrowing]

Hi favorite author! How have you been (im back from the ded lol) 😆

KENNIEEE!!! hello, hello!!! 😍😍😍

welcome back! i am still one foot in the grave, tbh. i haven't been here much. i am well, and working on a lot of personal projects, but i have been struggling to write lately.

how have you been???

[stray-tori]

trigun stampede reaction compilation & thoughts

it is trigun stampede time. <- can't watch new link click ep

funfact: I called Meryl Merelyn for like. the entire watch. I can't hear :)

-

finally watching trigun stampede. i enjoy it a lot so far. sometimes the animation is a bit too overly animated (lol) but that's my only nitpick so far.

Meryl going "!!! journalistic integrityyyy, don't flatter meeee" was so cute, she's very endearing.

I didn't think it'd hook me that well, I just kinda wanted something to distract me a bit.

(insect bomb thingies) JESUS CHRIST

(idv reference) breaking wheel crossover spotted.

i like that the antagonist is just in this wack-ass clothed hood (how is it so big?) and is just.... slowly walking across the desert to the goal, like dude you couldn't get... a vehicle or sth? damn

a funny dude ominously terrifying but kinda funny

nvm absolutely terrifying the hood is still a lil goofy

why's there another kid that has the same hairstyle as the other two as kids......

(Kni obliterating the town) ok but why tho dude

oh hey wolfwood. oh. he ded. epic.

lmao his speech to god with that deadpan voice and wide kneel is sending me he is kinda creepy- i get that hes being nice to this traumatized child. but he comes across. as so creepy lol- "hey kid WANT A LOLIPOP" (this is even weirder in hindsight, like did he know?? he being an actor out here)

well. they ded. rip NO SPLITTING THE PARTY this show is genuinely creepy

???? they were too busy with the flir compliment to notice Roberto just fucking vanishing in front of them?? okay okay i see how it is

Wolfwood: "you fool!!" (proceeds to keep standing in front of the worm too)

HIS NAME IS NIKOLAS???

fellas does it mean sth to take the words of your thematic foil to heart and eat something again?

awww they're both sleeping in the back of the car lol, adorable

Meryl: im dying of a heat stroke Meryl: (in jacket)

Hello Norton from the 4vs1 asymmetrical game Identity V.

ooh it was a flashback :0 smooth ... mAN :( NO THIS DUDE. NOT THIS DOCTOR DUDE

why did his death actually bring the wind back i dont understand... like uh, I get that there's some religious theming going on here; but is the show saying that it's actually true and he was needed as a sacrifice? idk about that one chief. Maybe it's "sth sth natural order restored" but hmmm

Subtitles sure would be nice for this silent movie segment (dub was too incompetent to add subtitles for the text, so i had both sub and dub open and alternated as the segments happened. fun times. tbh it probably wasn't that relevant but oh well)

this artstyle and animation of this orphanage segment is SO NICE

that was adorable and way more "eyo?" than i expected from this show. dude smoked as a toddler too though, goddamn.

i…… what about wolfwood being against the cult until they blackmailed him made blue-hair think killing everyone they can blackmail him with would make him a better devotee. Like I guess he's not genuine now but I feel like killing everything he's trying to protect by helping them, is just.... kinda counterproductive.

Wolfwood: ILL SKIN YOU ALIVE AND PLAY WITH YOUR BONES UNTIL YOU BEG FOR DEATH Vash: 🥺

(the context does make sense but this fucking killed me)

ik that its literal for him bc he doesnt need it but saying he wont eat the food bc its "a waste" just hits different for me.... hng.

im gonna cry bc this "home" segment is so nice and im sure soon ill cry bc its gonna get RIPPED AWAY

LUIDA SURVIVED THAT??? HOW DID SHE SURVIVE THAT- Halleluja.

NO HIS HAIR- UNDO THIS RIGHT NOW. WHAT IS THIS- WHERE'S SOFTIE- epic callback tho (? idk what the relation to the other trigun media is.)

apparently it's sort of an semi-divergent prequel? according to the comments at least..... which..... probably means the hair is gonna stay... *sob*

okay, what is even happening-

goddamn the fucking burning animation on Knives.... they went insane, that looked so good.

I- what is happening-

I'm assuming the name of the newbie Meryl will take on is meaningful to the franchise bc it was framed like that but I just sat there like... "w-who? should i know them?"

where's vash :(

-

On characters and dynamics

So, some stuff I didn't really comment on but the whole plants thing is very cool, lots of interesting philosophical arguments. Even if the whole... scientist shows journalists around thing was a little.... well, damn, aren't you nice, huh? IDK THAT WAS SO RANDOM WHAT DHSAJD-

Also the imagery of Vash having cords to all of the plants sure was something. (not negative)

I... was really confused on what was going on with his vine thingies at the end. I'm pretty sure both him and Knives got 1 wing each with their... tentacle... thingies, but they never really focused on it well (or maybe I was too tired to notice) so I was like "?? what is this noise behind him" for like... 2 minutes.

I think the show peaked with everything except the end for me (like all the plants stuff, like everything going on with the morality aspects and all that)- which might be my lack of trigun investment going into it to be fair. I feel like.... they did set it up but then didn't really deliver on it in a way that felt impactful to me, things were just kinda... happening and people were just kinda... there. Which like, i get this is kinda beyond anyone's capabilities but. YOU KNOW-

Maybe I just don't get it (likely), but I feel like it was kind of set up well, but then also not really resolved with the same "pieces"?

Like uh. we had wolfwood and vash redirect the cannon from the orphanage, which is very similar to vash redirecting the core-space-cube-thingy from the city in the end.

And we also had the whole "reach the person inside" aspect with livio, which then kind of came back with vash. But Meryl... idk, her part in the climax felt kind of unearned or... not as impactful to me? She wasn't really involved in the livio stuff at all.

I'm not saying Wolfwood would have made sense to be there in her stead, not rly, but her being there just didn't really do anything for me. She even already had her moment of not running away in the orphanage arc too. And she also didn't really have a huge impact in the end either, because it was mostly Rem's memory? Which like, you could argue makes my whole problem irrelevant which is fair, but idk. felt strange.

So yeah, I do think that i find it a jarring that the ending kinda had this whole Meryl->Vash and Wolfwood->Meryl rescuing thing going on, when I feel like the show almost exclusively focused on Meryl+Roberto and Vash+Wolfwood.

[youdontknowe]

Okay I’m back at (hopefully) better than ever

I also have a new set up so I read on my iPad and write in my notes Instead of going between tabs on my phone

1. I forgot she got knocked tf out by mystery archangel for a sec I was like damn girlie what you gotten into now

2. Oooo who is you??? I have a feeling princess is gonna love her or want her dead(or get her ded in the next few paragraphs)

3. lol hunters being clocked by the plaid is the funniest thing in the supernatural verse

4. OHHHHH SAMS GIRL IN THE SHOW

5. oh damn the earth grew around her that’s cool (I’m never letting go of my god hc)

6. Actually maybe like mother nature meets god mix for her?

7. Not the notes those took forever to compile

8. Severe misjudgement indeed cus she doesn’t know when to quit and has a big ass brain

9. “John winchesters dead.” COLD ASS STATEMENT that alone should make people fear her cus she survived him and I bet you later on people will have rumours she killed him

10. You know im scared for the day she tells Dean she loves him cus what if that’s what triggers the sky storyline. My little heart couldn’t do that

11. Ohhhh someone good and it being her makes sense cus from what I’ve seen in little clips she’s really nice

12. LMAO not the glitter pen

13. Poor woman she doesn’t know the threat of death does nothing but atleast motivate this little freak

14. Ewwww that is seriously gross but tactical vomiting is so funny

15. “A lot of things. jury’s still out on most of them.” Howling with laughter she’s so quick with it

16. Calling Sam and Jo her siblings 😭

17. Book and blade seem to be her witchy tools

18. I hope princess learns asl for Eileen (if she doesn’t already know it big brain and all)

19. Lmao I can’t believe she actually bit Eileen she’s like a feral cat that’s reverted from her partial domestication from Dean

20. Giggling she can’t help either thinking about him or gushing about him at any given opportunity

21. I can’t with her just offering up her body for a ambush funeral 💀 it’s so very her and it’s so fucking funny

22. I wonder if this talking about Sam leads to a lil Sam/eileen side action (her and dean get to tease the shit outta him in revenge)

23. Oooo is this accidental travel In her dreams again????

24. Smooches time eheheh

25. We like library’s they have lore that gives us the secrets ✨

26. Indiana Jones mention (looking back the whole morals thing is so foggy when you look past the fact he’s fighting Nazis. Also punch Nazis being the whole film series is 👌🏻)

27. She’s made of magic ✨

28. Girl hood is sharing info that is probably illegal or atleast morally questionable

29. Heist safe is funny asf

30. Set up for Sam and Eileen 👀 (I can’t lie I’ve never watched the show but I’ve seen clips I ship them)

31. God you really know how to build tension btw it’s crazy that I’m like 😬 reading a few sentences already

32. I forget that she really does feel everywhere cus that little mention of deans gold was a perfect example of how far she can actually reach (across a big ass ocean)

33. ‘They think it means whore or bride’ wild dual meaning word there ngl (she’d be both for Dean in a heartbeat she said so herself)

34. Oh Jesus the red guys back

35. So that’s why it was so quiet he’s on a murder spree

36. Lucifer of all things the silver not thinking he’s gonna hurt her is crazy cus he’s nuts

37. “You don’t get to tell me what to do YET” 👀 I caught that I’m taking notes (literally)

38. Oh no I hope things go in a way sammy doesn’t have to go through the cage it’s so sad all the stuff that insinuated lucifer did to him

39. Now that he proposes his ideas it’s looking like if it comes to it she’s gonna take the deal 😬

40. Oh my god sammy my pookie, my son. This is all the more sad and nice paired with that one shot 😭

41. YESSS MAKE THAT FUCKER SCARED maybe it’ll put things more to right for her and the family

42. Eeee more dream scape fluff

43. Of course he’d find a way to have a no sex in dreams rule that man is really the best

44. I kind of see their love as like bloody but in a warm and I’d slay all your enemy’s for you way. Because they are so devoted

45. Poor Dean she drops off the face of the earth more than they’ve kissed while awake

46. Lmao Sam is always ready to throw out a side jab in any situation

47. Poor bobbys been stressed out for decades at this point but she’s funny so it’s fine

48. DAMNNNN 9.5 is like crazy strong right? I’m rusty on my natural disaster information (anyone else have that fase as a kid?)

49. Giggling Dean just wishes he wasn’t a better man cus all these evil women be pissing him offf

50. Ehehe he’s horrified by these books saying he’s slept with a bunch of women when she’s right there and not even in the books

51. At this rate Sam’s gonna catch hands from Dean

52. I snorted at Dean being shoved out to walk it off over a book saying he settled down with someone other than her

53. No denying it happened just corrected the information cus hell yeah he got to make out three times with her

54. The powers affecting Dean is so cool!!!

55. TOGETHER AGAINNNN

56. Wait she just teleported herself

57. Awww Sam swaying her is so cute he’s just a cutie

58. Normal people illegal or us illegal is so so real

59. Bobby being the only voice of reason*

60. Awww cuddles

61. ‘If this was what being needed felt like, dean never wanted to be anything else again.’ Did you just punch me in the heart

62. That line about Dean saying she’s the closest thing to god isnt just a cutesy little Dean being a lover boy is it 👀

63. I can’t wait for things to be easier they need to get laid so badly

64. End note: you are so so real on all three counts cus Becky your on my hit list as well as Dean/sams. Eileen you’ve taken up being my rebound girl bff. And she needs to get dicked down badly like thrown about like a ragdoll for a few hours minimum

65. I love ittttt. I’m going right over to make a start on the next chapter :p 💙💙

Chapter 22 - I'd Go Black And Blue

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I always hate saying "this is my favorite chapter so far" in case y'all hate it, but there's one scene in particular there that's a top 5 Babylon scene for me personally. If you guys can guess it, I'll... idk you can chose a bonus chapter theme. Enjoy!!

Chapter Title from Make You Feel My Love by Bob Dylan

Word Count: 18.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You make another friend, and Dean makes another enemy. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 21 - Chapter 23

Read on A03!

Your head fucking hurts. A dull pain in the back of your skull, like you’d been hit with a club and knocked out. Everything is fuzzy, and there’s a high ringing in your ears, but you’re not tied up. 

The floor is cold under your body, and you can’t feel any wind. There’s no sense of danger, but there is something shuffling around near you. Nothing’s sliced or burned you, the only additional, foreign pain existing in the sting on the tip of your finger.

You need to open your eyes and figure out where you are. But every muscle feels like it’s been threaded with lead and iron, and your head fucking hurts, and you don’t even know how you got here.

All you can remember is a blur. 

The Blue, in the church.

An archangel. 

You’d called for Cas, and the Blue showed up instead. It had said you needed to get some sleep, but you don’t feel rested. Just a little fucking sick and dizzy, despite being frozen to the floor. 

And if he’d shown up after the Blue left, you wouldn’t have been there, which means you aren’t home, which means-

Dean.

Something like electricity jolts through your body. 

And when your eyes fly open—stinging from the sudden intrusion of light—you’re staring down the barrel of a fucking shotgun. 

“God- Fucking-“ You scramble back against the wall, and the shotgun only follows you. “What the-“

“Don’t scream.” A strangely accented voice comes from the other side, and you lean to the side just enough to see its owner.

It's a woman. Pale, a little on the shorter side, with long brown hair and narrowed eyes that are never leaving your face. She's holding the gun like it's a second limb, rather than a tool. Relaxed, keeping it trained against your brow with her shoulders relax. The same way Dean and Sam do. 

Like a hunter.

“Who-“

“Don’t speak.” The woman snaps, and you blink, but obey. 

The Silver is starting to wake up, bristling from threat of the gun, but you can get out of this exact scenario before with only your knife-

Fuck. 

Your jacket is gone. Which means your knife is gone. The knife Dean gave you is gone-

“My knife-“

“I said don’t speak.” Her voice is harsh, but the words are still oddly rounded. It’s really not your biggest concern.

You open your mouth—the Silver starting to build, because this woman made the smart choice not to tie you up, but she took your fucking knife—and she shakes her head, pressing the gun forward.

“I am going to lower the gun to hear you. If you move, I shoot you. Got it?”

You raise your brows, keeping your mouth closed, and the woman sighs.

“Just nod.”

You nod, and that seems to be enough. The gun lowers, and you and the women blink at each other. 

She’s teal. A dark, pretty teal that starts near her eyes and spreads like fire out. She’s definitely a hunter—only hunters wear that much plaid—and there’s no blood stains or visible scarring, so she’s either a very good one or an incredibly bad one. 

Your money is on the former, but it could go either way. The gun might look natural in her hands, but she also didn’t tie you up, and that’s a stupid move. She did take your knife—smarter move, you need to get back to Dean so you wouldn’t have pulled punches—but she’s still lowering the gun, which isn’t great survival instinct. She has no way of knowing that, if she makes one wrong move, the Silver will explode and rip that teal straight from her body.

But she said she’s lowering it to hear you. 

You don’t know what that means. 

“I’m sorry about the gun,” the woman shrugs, but still doesn’t put it away. “When I tried to tie your wrists, you seemed distressed. I think you were screaming.”

“You-“ Your eyes narrow, and the woman hasn’t looked away from you for a second. “You think I was screaming?”

“I’m deaf.”

Oh. That explains the accent. And you might have gotten that sooner if your head wasn’t on a loop of Dean, Dean, you said you’d get home to Dean

“You’re American.”

You blink at her, and nod slowly. “How’d you know?”

“You don’t seemed shocked by the shotgun.”

“Europe has shotguns.” You counter, and she shrugs.

“Not like this. This is for hunting.”

“You can hunt without a gun.”

The woman gives you a dry smile. “Not the things I hunt, no.”

“Monsters?”

She pauses. “You’re a hunter.”

“Yep.” You hum, and she frowns.

“You don’t look like you hunt.”

Huh. “Don’t I?”

“You weren’t armed.”

“I had a knife.” You sit up slightly, and the gun moves right back to your brow.

“I said don’t move-“

“I’m not moving.” You scan around the room—dark, a little damp, probably a basement, at least the Sky can’t see you—and glare back to the teal woman. “What the fuck did you do with my knife.”

“It’s back there.” She nods into the dark, and a light weight moves off your shoulders. Not gone. That one piece of Dean you always get to have, just back there. “So you are a hunter?”

You sigh. “It’s complicated.”

Her head tilts slightly. “How do you hunt without a gun?”

“Talent.” You mutter, and the Spiderweb is straining and whining in your body. “Believe me, I’ve gotten the lecture.”

The woman lowers her gun again, frowning at you. “The lecture?”

“My-“ Dean. No proper word to call Dean that doesn’t make you sound insane. “Friend. He doesn’t like that I hunt without a gun. He’s really dramatic about it.”

“You have hunter friends?”

“Yeah. I, they’re actually waiting for me-“

“In America?”

“That’s where I left them, yeah.”

“How were you planning to return?” She’s watching you wearily, and she might think you’re lying.

For once, you’re not. 

But you also don’t know her.

So you have to be careful what you say.

“Flight.”

“Without a passport?”

You shrug. “I’d work it out. Am I here to be questioned about my travel plans, or can I go?”

The woman shakes her head. “Not until you answer my questions.”

“All I’ve been doing is answering your questions-“

“Not the ones I want to ask.” She scans over you carefully, a small frown on her face. “Would you like some water? Or food?”

It’s only when she says it that you feel it. A little faint, your throat dry, and the room suddenly spinning like now that it’s been reminded of the situation, it’s realizing you’ve been knocked out for-

Fuck. 

You don’t actually know how long you were out for. You can still only remember the Blue telling you to get some sleep, and then it’s all dreams. You might have been out for days, but you also still hadn’t been eating or drinking before, so it just might be catch up with you. 

Everything still hurts. Everything always hurts. And the Silver is waxing and waning in your body, starting to coil before settling comfortably back down. It’s making you feel a little sick.

You’d try to just pray to Cas—to appear into the room and take you home right now—but the Blue said you were still interfering. An archangel had told you to stop interfering. And you want to. You don’t want anyone else to get hurt because of you. But you promised. You’d told Dean you would go home, and then you didn’t. You’d been knocked out, and taken here. 

You still don’t know where here is. 

Or how long Dean’s been waiting for you. 

“I have some-“

“What happened?” You blurt, and the woman blinks at you. 

“That was one of my questions for you.”

Shit.

“Do you want food?” The woman repeats her offer, and you swallow, but nod. 

You’re starving. And you’d promised Jo you’d be okay, so you need to eat.

“If I walk away, are you going to run?”

You pause, then shake your head. If you need to get out, the Silver will explode, or you’ll try that prayer to Cas. Right now, you need a few answers yourself. 

And food. 

Your head is spinning, and food sounds really good.

The woman seems to decide you’re not lying, and she moves into the darkness for only a second before returning with a water bottle and sandwich. You’d be worried about poison, but if she wanted to kill you, she’d just fucking shoot you. 

And she looks almost amused, as you chug the water bottle in seconds, turning your attention to the sandwich and all but shoving it in your face seconds later.

“You’re hungry.” She says, and you shrug, quickly chewing and swallowing before you answer.

“I was knocked out.”

“Only for three days.”

Three days.

That’s not bad. You can explain three days, when you get out. You just have to get out.

“Where did you find me?” You wipe at few crumbs from your face as you speak, and the woman—you should probably ask her name—gives you an odd look. 

“I am not sure. It looked like a church.”

Something twists in your stomach. “Looked? Past tense?”

She nods. “It was covered in vines and flower and water. Pretty. Not a church anymore.”

Fuck. “Oops.”

The woman frowns. “Did you do it?”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t know her. You don’t know who she works with—you doubt Ketch, but you’re in no position to lack vigilance—what she wants from you, or why she took you at all-

“The earth was grown around you.” She links her fingers together in a wide gesture, her shotgun resting at her side. “I had to rip it up to get to you.”

You lean back, narrowing your eyes. Nobody would just rip up the earth to get to you.

Dean might.

No one else.

“Why?” You ask, rubbing over your wrists. “Were you looking for me?”

“No. Was nearby. Felt the earth shake, went looking for the source. Found you.” Her hand moves back to the shotgun. You don’t let your face shift at all. “What are you?”

There it was.

That’s why you’re here. 

“It’s complicated.”

She shakes her head. “Try.”

“I…” You take a long, slow breath. “That’s not a good idea.” 

“Why not? I know you are something.” The gun’s back in her lap, and the Silver starts to go taut again. Readying itself to snap. “I thought you were a witch, when you reacted to the iron. But you didn’t have any books or tools-“

“I didn’t?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, and it’s not helping your case, but you don’t care. “What did I have?”

“Nothing.”

“No- Fuck.” The Silver is building, and all you can do is dig your nails into your palm to keep it down. 

Everything. Gone. All your books and notes, fucking vanished, and what was it for. You left Dean, and now all you have to show for it is an ache in your chest and bags under your eyes.

And the Blue has told you not to go home. You’re betting he thought this would deter you, and you’d spend a lot of time scrambling to get everything back, or being so afraid of how you’re changing things that you’d crawl back to wherever you were made. 

But he’s made a severe misjudgment about you. 

First of all, you have most of that shit memorized. You’re not a fucking idiot, and you’re a good hunter. Everything you need to know lives in your head. The Blue took it, but now all that’s telling you is that, no matter what you do, Heaven isn’t going to be happy with you. That they won’t be happy until you’re safely chained and locked up in their care, whether you’re at Dean’s side or not.

And you’re sick. You’re exhausted and in pain and so fucking sick. You’ve always been sick, and you’ve always infected and interfered and destroyed. 

But you’d rather be sick at Dean’s side—where he can hold you in the dead of night and you drown in the Gold of him all the time—then something docile and chained up without him. He won’t be safe anyway. Between what he’s told you and what the Blue mentioned in passing, Heaven’s got plans for him outside of the seals that have nothing to do with you. And Dean’s sat with you through everything you allowed him to. All your sickness and crying and trying to claw your way out of your own skin, only holding you tight until you could breathe, and letting you go because you asked. And you’ll crawl to him and hold him in Hell, if that’s what it takes for you to return the favor. 

Second, you’re really fucking good at causing problems for people that try to control you. For people that hold you and try to pin you there, wanting you mounted high up on their wall.

John Winchester’s dead.

You don’t do checkups on your family, but they’re down one chosen, special, vile little girl forever.

Ketch has a slump in his back, and Anna’s gone.

It doesn’t never works out in their favor. 

Finally, you always end up back at Dean. You run from everything, but when you have nowhere left to go, you always end up back at Dean. No matter how sick you are, you always end up back at Dean.

And it may be the worst fucking curse of your life, how you’ll never be able to tell Dean you love him, because the Sky will hear, and it might take him away. Because Dean will hear, and he doesn’t deserve that.

But he’d said he needs you. He waited for you, even when he shouldn’t have. You promised you’d stop running and then left, and you said all the way down and stayed away until he called you, and you looked back.

You always look back for Dean. You love him. And you’d do anything for him.

But the Blue took you away from him. Knocked you out and sent you- 

He’d said he’d send you someone good. 

Your eyes narrow on the woman. “You working with the angels?”

She stares at you. “The angels? What angels?”

“Heaven angels. God angels.” You’re still only met with a blank expression. “They’re hunting for me, you might have seen a blue-“ She won’t know its color. “A blond one. At the church.”

The woman mostly looks shocked. You can’t tell if that’s a positive or not. “Angels are hunting for you? Are you crazy?”

You let out a dry laugh. “Depends on how loose you’re playing with the term crazy.”

“Fucking-“ The woman shakes her head. “What about that note? I don’t think angels leave notes.”

You frown. “What note?”

She nods, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small, blue sticky note for you to see. Move Me! is written in glitter.

“Yeah,” You mutter, rubbing your thumb over your palm. “That’s an angel.”

“And you think they’re hunting you-“

“They are. It’s a long story, but I- I have to go.”

“No,” the shotgun is back. You don’t have time for this. “I am still asking questions-“

“Like what?” You challenge, raising your chin and moving to your knees. If she shoots you, she fucking shoots you. At least you’ll see Jo again. Maybe you’ll find out if the Sky actually cares enough to haul you back out. 

And if it doesn’t, you’ve walked in and out of Hell for Dean before. Given how the Silver is starting to roll like a storm through your body, you don’t think it will be that big an issue, to claw up through the earth and return to Dean’s side. The earth might even part for you like the ocean, if you ask it right. If you scream that you have to get back to Dean, and that nothing is going to get in your way. 

This lady isn’t working with the angels.

You still need her to get out of the way.

“Listen.” You keep your words slow, taking a firm step forward and swallowing bile as the gun aims for your head. 

Bobby would kill you. 

He can get in line.

“I am going to leave. I have a few things to do, but then I’m going back to America, because my- My family needs me. And you can try to shoot me, but historically, trying to kill me has never worked out in anyone’s favor.” 

The woman’s eyes widen. “I- I will shoot you.”

“Do it.” You snap. “I-“

She doesn’t shoot you. She raises the blunt end of the gun and slams it into your chest, and sends you stumbling back as she shoots to her feet, cocking the gun and reaiming it for your foot. 

This would be a great time for the Silver to snap. To burst through the room and rip the teal from the woman’s body, so you can shove it back in fast before fucking running. But she’s not grabbing at your wrists, she’s not a demon or angel, and the only threats she’s making are to you, and apparently, the Silver is over that. 

So you have to do this the old-fashioned way. 

You dodge the gunfire, but only barely. Springing to the side and slamming into the woman’s body, right as she whacks your shoulder with the barrel of the gun. You regain your balance a little faster, and it lets you dart in the corners of the room, grabbing through the dark for-

A hand wraps around your shoulder, and you turn with a swinging fist that collides with the woman’s jaw. Blood spits in your face as her knee hits you in the gut, and you are not in good shape for a fight. The pain rushes through you and somehow causes a throbbing in your head, the sandwich letting itself up too easy, and you vomit all over her face.

She recoils, wiping herself with a disgusted expression, and there’s your window. 

The jacket had been folded fairly neat on a wooden crate, and it seems all the Blue left you was your knife and flask.

You can work with that.

The click of a safety comes from behind you, and you duck just in time. The rebound of the shotgun is working in your favor. The woman is occupied just long enough for you to roll under the barrel and-

She fucking kicks you again. A groan escapes you at the blunt pain, but you don’t give her the opportunity to reaim, sweeping her legs out from under her and knocking the shotgun out of her hands as she falls at your side. 

Neither of you can get the upper hand. Your knife gets knocked across the floor seconds after the woman’s gun, and you might be a better hand-to-hand fighter overall, but your whole body is also made of pain. When you punch her it’s weaker, and when she knees you in the gut a little more bile spits out.

You don’t have the energy to go for as long as she can.

But you fight dirty.

This woman doesn’t seem to have a problem with the ethical questions of hunting—she was about to shoot you—but she also doesn’t seem to be on board with moves like biting and ripping hair.

And when you employ said tactics, she scrambles back as if you might be carrying rabies. 

“What is wrong with you?!” Her voice is almost a screech, and you shrug, wiping your mouth with your palm.

“Lot of things. Jury’s still out on most of them.” You slump against the wall, wincing at the pain that shoots through your shoulder. “You up for a truce?”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you going to try and run again?”

“Probably.” You shrug. You’re too tired to lie. “Are you going to try and kill me again?”

She shrugs right back. “Maybe.”  

“I think that’s a stalemate then.”

“Yeah.” The woman groans, glancing down at the bite mark on her arm. “Do you need any ice?”

“I’m good. Sorry about, uh- That.”

“It’s fine.” She gives you a small smile. “You did say people who try to kill you end up regretting it.”

That pulls a short laugh for your chest, and it hurts—she must have gotten a blow there too, somewhere in the fight—but you can’t bring yourself to hate it. Means you’re still alive. And that you can laugh, because unless you count phone calls with Dean—which even in the better moments, were always lined with tears—you haven’t laughed since you left. 

You end up spitting up a little bit of blood. 

You really fucking miss the Silver not just choosing when it came out. It’s amazing that Dean, Sam, and Bobby just exist with these bruises and cuts all the time. Dean’s voice in your head is humming slow breaths, but it’s barely helping. When you get home, you’re going to steal a whole Walgreens first-aid aisle.

But you need to get home first.

You look up at the woman, examining her own injuries, and wave for her attention. “What’s your name?”

“Eileen.” She tilts her head at you. “You?”

You answer her, running a hand up and down your calf, and you’re both just watching each other now. Your knife and Eileen’s shotgun still in the dark corners of the room, neither of you moving to try and grab them.

“What does your family need you for?” She asks, and you sigh.

“My dad’s injured, my brother fucked up and I’m worried about him, and my-“ No proper word. “Best friend asked me to come back.”

Eileen hums. “Did you leave?”

“Yeah.” A lump is forming back in your throat, and when your eyes flick down, your fingertips are frosted with pastel blue. “I- I lost my sister.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Eileen pauses, before adding. “My parents died. It’s not fun.”

You huff a soft laugh. “No, it’s really fucking not. Were they hunters?”

“No. My mother knew about it, though. Is your-“ She stops herself, shaking her head. “You already said they were hunters. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You mumble. “Long day. How’d your mom know?”

“Her dad was part of a fancy group of them.” 

Your head shoots up. “Fancy group? Was he British?”

“American immigrant to Ireland.” She stares at you. “Why?”

“I- How long have you been hunting?”

“My whole life.”

You nod slowly, frowning at the air. If she’s been hunting that long, in Europe, she must have an idea. Have a rumor. Just a fucking lead you can chase, to get what you need. 

“How long have-“

“A while.” You lean forward, ignoring the aching protest through your whole body. “You heard of an asshole named Ketch?”

Her eyes narrow, her lips curling slightly into a sneer, and that’s a yes. “Arthur?”

You nod, and she scoffs.

“He’s a dick. Won’t work with me because I’m deaf, always whining about hunter pigs getting in the way.” 

You grin. He is a dick. “Is he part of the big fancy group?”

“Sort of.” Eileen’s words are cautious, but she’s still not making a move to restart the fight. “Different branch, I think. They don’t like me enough to tell me technical things.”

“What do they like you enough to tell you?”

“Not much.” She gives you an odd look, her words still slow. “Why?”

“He stole my book. And tried to kidnap me like, twenty times.”

“Ah.” Eileen smiles slightly. “How did it work out for him?”

You snort. “Bad.”

That gets a laugh from Eileen, and it’s a little spluttered like yours, but it’s nice. Full and real and a little loud, echoing around the basement for several moments, and your own smile grows. 

You haven’t talked to someone that’s not either trying to kill you—or the frustrating, insufferable, awesome love of your life over the phone—for so long.

It’s another thing that’s nice. And Eileen had just beat you up, but you both seem to be done with that. If you’re careful, you might even have an ally. She seems to hate Ketch. That alone is a hallmark of a good person. You just need to see if she’s committed to this not letting you leave thing.

“How are we feeling about the truce?” You ask carefully, and Eileen only shrugs.

“Are you going to tell me what you are?”

You pause. It’s not good to tell a lot of people. You’re not sure why, but the more people know about you in general, the worse things get. Openly sharing the fact that you’re a Magdalene, when that’s something even Heaven considers better as not known, seems unwise.

But you’re really tired. And you really want to go home. 

Getting home means getting the Book and—ideally—the Blade back. The Silver has always responded to the Blade, so maybe that can kickstart it, and get you back to being dangerous, but useful. And the Book is in Enochian, and full of weird shit. There will have to be something useful to the whole apocalypse situation. And if not, nobody had died when you’d had the Book and the Blade.

That alone can be a false comfort. 

You mostly just don’t want to be useless. Don’t want to return as just a sickness that Dean seems to be fine catching.

It’s better not to think about that. About how maybe you are infecting and hurting him, but he’s a fucking adorable idiot, so he just doesn’t care. You don’t know why he wouldn’t care.

He should care.

He shouldn’t be asking you to come home, because now you have no choice, and he really doesn’t understand exactly how much you love him. How willing you are to be sick if it’s what keeps him alive. 

It hadn’t kept Jo alive. But fighting it hadn’t kept Dean alive before.

You won’t fail a third time.

You won’t.

So you need the Book and the Blade.

Eileen might be able to help with that. And you may not be able to tell her what you are, but you can also tell half-truths. It’s better than lies. Better than full truths. 

The last person you told full truths was Jo. 

You feel fucking sick again. Bile rises in your throat, bitter on the back of your tongue and making you choke on the air. The Silver isn’t rising, but it is shifting, and you’ve started to claw the skin of your arms. 

Eileen says your name slowly, and you dig your nails in, forcing yourself to come back down. “Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You mutter. “I- I’ll tell you what I am if,” you narrow your eyes. “You help me. To find what I’m looking for.”

Eileen only holds your gaze. “What are you looking for?”

“You know that book I mentioned?” You wait for her nod, then continue. “I want it back.”

“Your book?”

“Yeah. And my knife.”

Her gaze flicks to the floor. “Your-“

“Different knife.” You mutter. “This one’s a gift. The other one is… weird.”

“Huh.” Eileen raised her brows. “Weirder than you?”

You snort. “Same amount of weird, actually. You in?”

Eileen’s scanning over you, and if she says no, you’re going to be stuck in a loop of fighting and resting until she kills you, or your escape. And she has a lot of reasons to say no. You do sound insane, she found you with the earth growing around you and a sticky note from an—alleged—angel, and you’re not winning any awards for worth helping after fucking biting her-

“You are sure Ketch took your shit?”

You nod. “Him or Davis.”

Eileen blinks. “Mick?”

“Sure.”

“If it is Mick, I know where your stuff might be.” She gives you a weary look. “But you can’t be mad at me if it’s not there. And you have to tell me what you are.” 

It’s not a bad deal.

That doesn’t stop you from pushing it, just a bit.

“Why do you care what I am?”

It earns you a flat look. “I pulled you from the earth and you talk about angels.”

“I could just be crazy, you know.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I’ll judge that when you tell me.”

She’s not backing down.

You won’t either.

“Alright, then.”

Eileen grins at you. “Alright.”

There’s a second where you’re both staring at each other, and then you’re moving at the same time. Eileen grabs her shotgun and kicks your knife across the floor, and you shrug on your jacket with a grimace at her vomit-stained clothing.

“Do you- We can stop so you can shower-“

She waves you off. “I’ve been covered in worse. I’ll change, shower later.”

You nod thoughtlessly, feeling through your pockets one last time to check that the Blue really did take your phone. You need to call someone, just to tell them you’re alive and still trying to get home. And after how your last prayer went, you’re not jumping to make another one soon. 

But your phone is gone. And when you ask Eileen to borrow hers, Bobby’s number goes straight to voicemail, and you’re a fucking idiot who never memorized anyone else’s. Not even Dean’s. 

You’ll apologize when you get home. For vanishing like that, giving him another reason to worry when he’s already got so many. You’ll fall in front of him and wrap your arms around his legs, giving him even more weight and apologizing for it every second, until he picks you up and moves you to the bed. Not to rest. 

You’ll rest when you know he understands. When he gets that—at the end of it—you’re always just his. That as long as you have hands that refuse to hurt him, you’ll drag yourself though mud and dirt to return to his side. To crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck as you prove to him that you’ll never leave.

As you show him with a hand between your bodies, or your mouth kissing down his chest. Letting him guide you like he’d promised—or at least you’ve twisted his words into promising, just in your head where it can’t hurt anyone but you—and he understands-

“How old is your brother?”

You turn and blink at Eileen. The ride has been wholly silent save for the radio—she can’t hear you if she’s not looking at you—and you’d settled too quickly into fantasy.

“I thought we’d stop and eat.” She says, and the engine has indeed turned off.

You need to get it together. “I- That would be nice.” You mumble, rubbing your thumb over your palm. “I’m hungry.”

“I know. You threw up your lunch all over me.” She reaches into the back of her car, and pulls out a Tupperware. “BLT or PBJ?”

“PBJ,” You hum, grimacing to yourself as Eileen passes you the food. “I don’t like bacon.”

“You can take the bacon out.”

“I do.” You smile to yourself, a very wide, charming smile flashing over your vision. “I usually just sneak it onto my- De- My friend’s plate. He loves bacon.”

Eileen gives you a vague look, swallowing before she speaks. “The friend who wants you to come home?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you not tell him you hate bacon?”

You shrug. “Probably could, but he’d get really dramatic about it.” How do you not like bacon, Princess?! It’s- It’s bacon! “Plus he gets really excited when he has more bacon than he thought. It’s cute.”

“Cute?” She raises her brows. “Are you- Are there feelings?”

Fucking- 

You must have a big, blaring sign on your forehead that says I love Dean Winchester.

Sure, Jo knows because she knows you, and Sam knows because he basically is your brother, just as Bobby is your dad, but they all have spent time around you. Listened to you talk about Dean, seen you turn back for him and flush at his voice and name, clinging to him like the sorry little girl he still can’t figure out you are. The one that’s going to be tosses aside and forgotten, when he finds better-

Not the time for that. You’ll have plenty of time to try and mark Dean somewhere visible so everyone knows that no matter what they do, you’ll always love him, and that should terrify them.

Right now, you need to work out how Eileen figured out that you love him from basically fucking nothing.

And you’re not saying anything. It’s not helping your case. 

“I-“ You clear your throat. “It’s complicated.”

Eileen nods, and drops it just like that. “How about your brother?”

“My- What brother?”

Her eyes narrow. “You said you had a brother. Who fucked up.”

“Oh. Sam.” You shake your head, giving her an apologetic, close-lipped smile. “Sorry. Forgot I called him that.”

“Is he not your brother?”

“No- Ye- Sorta.”

Eileen tilts her head. “Family?”

“Yeah. He is. And he’s twenty-five.”

“Younger?”

You hum a conformation, taking a large bite of your sandwich, and Eileen’s remains neglected in her Tupperware. 

“Do you have a big family?” You give her an odd look, and she sighs. “I grew up without one. A family. I’m… curious.”

“Well I- I sort of grew up without a family too.” You frown into the air, the bread of the sandwich smushing between your fingers. “I- I had my dad. And my uncle. But I only met the rest of them when I was an adult.” You shrug, looking fully back to Eileen. “What happened to your family? Parents die when you were young?”

“I was an infant. Killed by a banshee. I’ve been hunting it since, but-“

“Have you tried throwing a funeral?” You cut her off before you can stop yourself, and she frowns. “Shit, sorry, just- Banshee hunts go really well if you’re throwing funerals. All the emotion, it’s like a- uh-“ You sigh. “I can’t think of anything. But they’re good.”

Eileen nods slowly, giving you a tentative, small smile. “It’s okay. I haven’t tried that, but I also don’t know how to throw a funeral.”

“You can use my body, if this goes south and you have to kill me.”

Her smile grows. “I will.”

You tell Eileen a little more about your family, while she eats. About how Bobby thinks you don’t know about how he uses shea butter lotion, but you shared a desktop before you bought—stole—a laptop, and you’ve seen his shopping history. She hears about Dean less than most people—you’re trying to make up for the slip, but based on her amused expression as you talk about how you think he genuinely believes his car has a soul, it’s not working—but Sam plenty, with all his books but no fucking clue how to work a self-checkout machine.

You know that because you’d been standing right next to him, staring at it for three straight minutes until Dean gotten back and explained how.

Explained to you how. He’d guided you up with a hand on your lower back, and scanned two items before letting you scan the rest. Sam had craned over your shoulder, and spent the rest of the drive back to the motel grumbling about favoritism. 

It had helped, though. When you’d chosen to sit with him and read instead of watching TV with Dean. 

And Eileen listens, nodding along so you know she understands. You get to hear much about the hunter who raised her—it sounds like with less vigilance than John, but more urgency to join hunting than Bobby—and she mentions that she likes muscles cars too, as well as big, long books, because they give her a reason to ignore people waving for her attention. 

When the ride starts again, there’s a little less wired air than before. You don’t feel better—you’re not sure you remember what better even could mean right now, when it’s not home—but Eileen’s not going to shoot you, and you’re not going to try and ditch her to do this alone. You could.

Right now—with pale blue stuck on your fingers and the Spiderweb howling for Dean so loud you have to ignore it, or you’ll go insane—you don’t want to.

The radio is low and soft, all the roading winding with the same scene of grass and trees and grass and trees, to the point that you’d think you were driving in circles if you didn’t know better. And the Sky isn’t flaring, over and over and over above you, but if you close your eyes you won’t be able to see it. And when you do—with the music and wind and hum of the engine—it’s bordering on peaceful, and if Eileen’s not going to kill you, there’s nothing to help you fight the sleep as it-

You’ve never been here before. 

It looks like a camp. A military camp. All the buildings are low, and they don’t look to be all that well put together. Wooden doors and low, rotting foundations, the pavement below your feet cracked and the grass overgrown. There’s a strong, golden haze cast over everything—lit from the sun, suspended right above the horizon and never moving—and people who mill about like ghosts. Their bodies tensed and eyes heavy. 

You don’t bother to try and talk to them.

You’re looking for Dean. 

This is the type of dream you would have about him. The type of dream you’ve always had, that has only grown sharper over the years. Where everything is golden, and your mind is making up any excuse for him to be near you. This scenario seems to be an apocalypse. 

If you believed in interpreting dreams, you’d think that your mind was trying to tell you something about how you feel like the world is ending because you’re not home.

The more likely case is that you’re simply stressed about the apocalypse.

And Dean. You can’t find him. You poke your head into buildings and down alleys, and there’s a very strange Cas that stares right through you, and a small, bearded man who’s eyes feel like they’re following you–even though you know better—but no-

There he is. 

The whole world feels like it’s glowing. He’s sprinting up towards you with a wild expression, and it’s not real, but that doesn’t stop the small sound from leaving your throat. 

He always looks so real. And when he crashes into you, his hands find you the same way Real Dean’s would. Grabbing your face between his hands and quickly scanning over you for injury, pressing you right up to his chest like there’s ever a chance you’d try to run away. 

And this is the part that makes you certain it’s a dream.

Dean kisses you like he’s about to die. Like you’re about to die. Like more than the universe will crumble if he doesn’t kiss you, and hook his arm around your waist to pull you just a little bit closer. And you can’t feel it—not really, when it’s all in your head—but you can still melt into him. Curl your fingers on his shirt and open your mouth for Dean to take more.

It would be nice if he could take all of you. Pick you up and throw you over his shoulder, then take you out of the dream into the real world. And you’d wake up with the Real Dean asleep at your side, his arm thrown over your waist in his sleep. 

You could pretend like you never left. You could pretend you’re allowed to take things from him, and climb over him, waking him up with soft kisses over his face and a smile when he blinks up at you. 

For now you’ll settle for this. For this Dean hauling you fully up into his arms with barely a grunt, and burying his face in the crook of your neck when you pull apart.

The whole world smells like a phantom of cinnamon. 

If you die, right here in your own mind, there would certainly be worse ways to go.

“You’re okay.” Dean mutters against your skin, a hand combing through your hair, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince yourself. “Son of a bitch, Princess, I kept saying shit about you missing, and you are, and- Fuck-“

You lean back, just enough to see Dean’s eyes a little glossy. You don’t know how he deals with you crying all the time.

Just the sight is making you feel like your heart is being crushed into millions of pieces that you can’t figure out how to offer him, to patch up the pain. 

Instead you just wrapped your arms fully around his neck, drop your face onto his shoulder, and stay wherever he wants to move you. 

“I miss you.” He mutters. “Miss you so freakin’ much. Everything’s a mess, and Cas said he couldn’t find you, the angels are fucking douchebags, and I- I need you here, baby. Can’t do this if you’re not here.”

Baby. 

You know I love you, baby.

You swallow, turning your head to press a light kiss to his neck. You’ve always wanted to do that. 

He makes a small sound, and that’s going to haunt you louder than ‘baby’ is.

“I miss you too.” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“You wouldn’t happened to know where you are, sweetheart?”

“Nope.” 

“Shit. Worth a shot. Stranger things.”

You hum, propping your chin up to scan around the ruined camp around you. “Do you know where we are?”

“Uh-“ He sighs, holding you a little tighter. “Just a nightmare, about the end."

"The-"

"End of the world. If Lucifer wins."

“Oh.” Your fingers are digging into his skin. It’s a good thing he can’t feel it. “That… fucking sucks.”

Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, it does. Whole thing really fucking sucks. Lose Sam and Bobby, Cas' fine, but human, and you- you're-“

He cuts himself off, and you lean back to scan over him with a frown. “De-“

You let out a soft yelp as you're crushed back against his body, his grip tight enough to suffocate you, like he's trying to mold himself to you until it's impossible to tear you away.

It's already impossible for someone to tear you away. Even when Dean's not with you, he's there. Removing him would be like trying to take your shadow. Just simply fucking impossible. 

"It's fine, now." Dean presses his face into the side of your head, his breathing is deep, as if he's trying to inhale you. "You're here."

You flush. It's fine. Dean's fine.

Right now, it's all fine, because you're here.

"I- I miss you, De. A lot."

"I know, Princess. I-"

"You don't." You shake your head, grabbing his face between your hands and running over every deep line and small scar. It's all still Golden. And in here, it's yours. "You- I miss you so much. I want to come home, and I miss you, and I- I said all the way down but I don't want to go there if it's not with you- and-"

Dean mutters your name, tracing his thumb down the bridge of your nose until you're leaning into his touch, your voice evening out once more.

"I wanna come home." Your voice is almost a childish whine, and Dean's lips twitch slightly.

"I do know, baby. I promise I- I'd give goddamn anything just to know where you are." He sighs, his thumb dropping down to trace over your lips, and you think you'd be happy melting into the depth of him and never bothering to climb back out.

"Dean- I-"

"I know." He mutters, pressing his thumb on your lower lip, and you can only sit in him and pray to absolutely nothing that this, somehow, could become real. Tangible. 

Permanent.

He’s kissing you again. Slower, carefully, as if you might shatter or dissipate if he’s not careful.

You really wish you could feel it. 

And then the Sky starts to split open, and it’s all gone.

Someone’s saying your name, and it’s not Dean. 

You’re still not home. Not in a bed, but in a seat, that’s made of leather and sticking your skin, just like the glass near your face. You’d be bothered by it, but there’s still too much of your mind trying to grab the idea of Dean kissing you, being happy you’re there, missing you half as much as you miss him, and you don’t want to move.

The voice is close to your ear now. Round and oddly accented- 

Eileen.

“We’re at the place.” She’s saying, and you appreciate that she’s not trying to jostle you awake. That could have ended poorly for everyone. “If you want to get home, you should probably get up.”

That’s the right thing to say. Your eyes shoot open, and you push yourself off where you’d slump on the door.

“You fell asleep fast.” Eileen offers as you rub your face, watching you with the same amusement from before. “Seemed like you could use it. But we’re here.”

“Where’s-“

“They have a big, important, secret library.” She nods out the window, and you follow the direction to see-

It’s not a castle. You’ve never seen a castle, but you’re pretty sure that’s too small to be a castle. But it’s got all the fancy architecture and surrounding gardens and a fucking iron fence to keep people out—that’s going to be annoying—and the scream of I think I’m more important than you are all over it.

“Secret.” You repeat, your tone dry, and Eileen shrugs.

“They think it is. It’s where they keep artifacts they gather on their travels.” 

“You mean steal, don’t you.” 

She nods, and you let out a heavy sigh, dropping your voice under your breath.

“Fucking- It’s not fun when it’s real.”

“Wha-“

“Movie I like that’s not great with morals. Don’t worry about it.” You reach into your jacket, shifting around the flask and pulling out your knife. “Is it warded?”

“Against what?”

“Uh…” You. “Witches?”

“I think so.” She says, watching you as you take a few, long breaths, trying to test where the Silver is in your body.

It’s not set to explode, but it’s also not entirely down. There’s a slight edge to it, that’s bumping up against the Spiderweb and making it ripple and throw light all over your body.

Something might be off with this. Something will go wrong, even if Eileen doesn’t intended it to.

You’ll get through it.

You have to. 

“Are you a witch?”

You sigh, and shake your head. “Sort of. I’m made of the things witches use.”

You won’t tell her the name. If you tell her the name, she might look into it more, and the Sky is beating above you. It won’t like that.

Half-truths. 

Only the pastel blue on your fingers—running with you wherever you go and never trying to do anything will help—will know full truths. Jo might be the only non-angel or demon who understands just what you could do, with the Silver. She’s the only one who knows you’re a virgin, too. Who knows just how much you love Dean.

She’s the only one who really knows you love Dean. You all but broke that last rule and told her. 

And she’s the only one who will ever know. 

Because she’s the only one who gets the whole truth, forever, all the time. 

But she made you promise you’d be okay. And okay means talking to people that aren’t the sky, demons and archangels come to taunt you, and Dean. 

So you tell Eileen the half-truth, and it doesn’t itch on your tongue. She doesn’t react too much, either. You think she knows it’s not everything, but just like about Dean, she doesn’t push it.

“Do you want help in there?”

You pause, the Silver rolling once more, and shake your head. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“No problem. I’ll try that funeral thing, too. Might work.”

“Will work.” You correct, spinning your knife in your hands. “Trust me.”

Eileen gives you another amused look. “Alright, crazy. Heist safe.”

“I will.” You offer her a smile in return, and it’s not full, but it’s not strained either. “If you’re ever in the states, call my dad. His number should be in your phone. Say you’re looking for Sam, then tell him you’re looking for me. He’ll pass it on.”

Bobby and Dean wouldn’t. They’d snap that they’ve never heard that name in their life, then hang up the phone. 

Sam will. 

Eileen nods, and neither of you are all that interested in long goodbyes. She seems like a practical person, and you’re really fucking sick of goodbyes all together. Given your luck and odd habit of meeting people then never being able to avoid them, you’ll see her again.

And now, you have a job to do. 

The Silver is starting to build. You hop the fence—biting on the inside of your cheek as blister form on your skin from the iron—and get into the library without a hitch, but the Silver still builds. Nothing is happening as you wander down the hallways, but the Silver just keeps building.

Maybe it’s because this is too easy. Because you’re just walking inside, and there’s nothing and no one stopping you. 

There should be someone stopping you. Ketch and his people don’t seem like the lax security types, and Davis was better, but he did seem to love his lore.

You’d think there’d a least be a guard, but there’s no one.

Not even a librarian. 

And the blur kicks in.

If you were smarter, you’d turn around and run. Damn it and pray to Cas now, them get the fuck out of here. The Silver is already winding too tight, and you might tear through more than the building when it snaps.

But you’ve come this far. And you’re not smarter.

It doesn’t help that you know they’re here. The Blade and the Book. They’re calling you forward, reminding you that they’re made for you. Made for the Magdalene to have, as a gift. Promised to you, just as you’re promised to Him. Take them, because they’re yours. 

The Silver is glowing. Starting to fall out of you without destruction—until you’re the wisdom of all the books on the shelves and the grief of the spaces between the Sun and the earth, and very, very far away, something perfect and Golden and your more than anything else—all while continuing to wind up inside of you. It feels a little like being a galaxy, consumed in the black hole but still everywhere. Still everything.

You still can’t figure out what’s wrong. There’s not a bloodstain on the floor or a dent on the wall, no alarms or cries for help making it through the blur.

Only the Book and the Blade, calling you forward.

And it’s in a glass case, when you stumble into the room. 

Just the Blade. 

They might be separated, and you’re not stupid enough to leave the Blade until you find the Book. You only pause to read the small placard they’ve added, noting that it’s a witch-blade that causes insanity, marked with Latin, Hebrew, Arabic, and Enochian. 

They know about Enochian. 

That’s going to have to be a problem for later.

Right now you’re scanning over the rest of the placard, lingering on how most of the Blade has been translated, save for one word, that they’ve reprinted on the metal.

Magdalene. 

They think it means either whore or bride, which is a fascinating dual stance to have. 

Not the time. 

You glance around, and rip a curtain down from the wall to wrap around your knuckles, and—before you can think twice—slam your knuckles into the glass.

Nothing slices your hand open. No one screams at you for destruction of property. 

Something is really fucking wrong, and you need to move.

But it happens in a flash. 

You grab the Blade—it still fits perfectly in your hand, it still belongs to you—and just like the first time, you’re lost.

It’s quicker this time. The moment where you’re everything from the hope of the soil, buried under the too fancy building to the blinding fury of the loneliest stars, wishing for something to orbit around them.

And then you crash back down, and you feel it. 

Shadows, creeping towards you before curling away. 

Fuck.

“Finally.” A voice sighs from behind you, and your grip on the Blade tightens. “I’ve been waiting forever. Almost thought I missed you, but nope.” It laughs, and your skin crawls. “That’s a fun little trick you’ve got there. Well, fun for me. For you I’d bet it’s a bit of a problem.”

You turn, and there he is.

The Red. Slammed and violent inside his vessel of some poor asshole that’s already gone.  

Grinning at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted to see. 

“I knew you’d come for that.” He nods to the Blade in your hand. “Even took care of the whole building for you. And don’t make that face.” He rolls his eyes, dismissing you with a hand. “There were like, only forty people in here. And most of them were boring, and mundane, and really? Kind of stupid. Seven of the men were rapists! So you’re welcome.”

You swallow, and still don’t speak. Just like with the Blue, the Silver is being frustratingly uncooperative. Growing up before shrinking down again, like it can’t decide if it should attack the Red.

The Red is vile, but it’s not here to hurt you. The Silver doesn’t seem to believe it’s here to hurt you. Which is fucking insane, because this is-

“Do I need to introduce myself? That song says I do. But you,” it frowns at you, tilting its head. “You should know. Do you know?”

You nod, dragging your voice from your chest. “Lucifer.”

“There we go!” He claps his hands together, his grin growing. “I’d offer you a prize, but y’know. For you, it would be pointless.”

You don’t know. Before you can ask, he’s moving on.

“Here’s the deal, doll. Can I call you doll?”

“N-“

“Well I’m going to. It’ll grow on you, trust me.”

“I-“

“Shh.” Lucifer hold a thousand fingers up to his lips, shaking his head. “You don’t get to tell me what to do yet. And I’ve had no one to talk to for so long. Listen, or I track down that new friend of yours and stab her just like the Angel stabbed that sweet girl that followed you like a fucking puppy. Got it?”

The Silver still doesn’t react. All you can do is nod, and swallow your vomit when Lucifer grins.

“Okay. Like I was trying to say, here’s the deal. You and me?” He gestures between your bodies, raising his brows. “We should be friends. And I know, being friends with Satan, spooky. But if you help me, I help you.”

You open your mouth, and he shakes his head.

“No, I know what you’re thinking. How could I help you. Well, doll.” His mouth pulls into a wide, horrible grin, and he has teeth. Sticking out of him and his wings like horns, tinted with red like he’d been eating himself.

It’s fucking disgusting. And he just keeps talking.

“All I’d ask for you to help me get little Sammy Winchester to say yes to me playing puppet with him, and that’s it.”

“I-“ You blink at him. “What?”

Lucifer sighs. “There’s a whole game being played here, doll, you don’t have to understand it. What’s important is that you know I will not hurt you. Michael’s a little pussy, if he wins he’s going to lock you up to keep you safe. All wrapped up and ready, a perfect, sweet present. But I’ll let you roam however you want! I’ll free you from all the stupid fucking plans! You can stay with me, just to fuck with him, or I- I’ll even make you a deal! That’s a classic, right? Deal with the Devil? That’s what killed Dean, too, it’s artful-“

The Silver flashes. Quick, spurred by the Spiderweb, whipping out until glass shatters, and Lucifer cuts himself off with an amused look.

“Alright. Touchy about Dean, got it. Hey,” he grins at you again. “Good thing that’s the deal, right? Heaven wins with Dean, he’s gone. And Mikey is way too much of Daddy’s boy to try and touch you. If I win,” he spreads his arms in a wide gesture, grin widening. “I’ll let you keep Dean around, as a pet! All you have to do is get Sam to say yes-“

“Sam won’t listen to me.” You whisper, because it’s all you can fucking think to say, but Lucifer just shakes his head. 

“Wrong. Oh, that’s- It’s actually kind of sad, how wrong you are-“

“I’m-“

“I’m sure Gabe told you, but Sammy adores you. You made him hold on so long.” Lucifer pouts at you, and the Silver rushes through you, right under the surface, making no effort to break out. “I mean, if Heaven hadn’t been such dicks, and you’d toughed it out, Sammy might have stopped drinking demon blood all together. You made him like Ruby less. Want to be around Dean more.” Lucifer laughs, and every time is worse than the last. “You know, out of everyone, you shook him the most. He didn’t want to disappoint you, maybe even more than his strong big brother. You chose to stick with them. You never treated him like less because of what he was, and he’s only ever seen the best things in you. How happy you make Dean, how you’ll talk to him about anything, how you always saw right through John’s lies and big man shit. If you said it was a good idea, he’d do it. Dean trained him well. You’re never wrong.”

But you’re always wrong. You so fucking wrong, all the time.

You’re not sure you’re breathing, and if you aren’t, you’re only being kept awake by the Silver. 

You need to go home.

“I-“

“No!” Lucifer cuts you off with a tsk. “Don’t answer now! Take some time and think about it, because you and me together? We could do great work. But if I were you, I’d make a choice fast. Before it’s too late for the Dean part of our deal to go through.”

“The-“ You’re choking on the Silver. It’s trying to burst out of your throat, or your fingers, or your back. You can’t even really tell. “What do you-“

“Nothing.” Lucifer shrugs, taking a step back, his expression on your unreadable. Tense. “But I can’t control all my demons. Just like Heaven couldn’t control all their angels, and Dean? He’s prime hunting meet right now-“

That’s it. 

That’s what the Silver explodes for.

And just before it does, you realize what the expression on Lucifer’s face is. 

Fear. 

Real, pure fear.

But then he’s gone, and the Silver doesn’t care. It just wants something to hurt. Something to change. 

And it’s not coming back down. Not fully. So you still can’t really think. Whatever you’ve turned the library into, whatever awful beauty you’ve created, you can’t really see it, either. It’s all just fucking Silver.

You have to run. 

Home.

To Dean.

——————

“I’m not goin’ crazy! There’s some weird fuckin’ shit happening here, Rufus!”

Dean frowned, Bobby’s voice echoing up the stairs of the house. The paint on the walls was different—a darker color, a little more chipped—and the carpet was brand-new. 

He remembered when Bobby got that new carpet. Dad had dropped them off, Sammy had liked how soft it was, and Dad had mocked Bobby for his new girly obsession with interior design. Bobby had waved it off then, and only scowled when Dean asked if he had a new girlfriend, because Dad said men only did stuff like that for their girlfriends.

Now, Dean could know he’d been an idiot. Dad probably never would’ve done stuff like that for a girlfriend, Sammy had been right—the carpet was soft—and Bobby had done it for Her. Because someone would have to be insane to not try to make everything as nice as possible, for Her.

Even in a dream, Dean couldn’t stop missing Her. And Dean would bet a lot this was a dream, because Bobby wasn’t in any position to buy a new carpet right now, out in the waking world. 

Son of a bitch, She was going to be pissed about that. 

“Bobby, you’re sayin’ the plate exploded-“

“Yeah, I am!” Bobby sounded like he was arguing with someone. It was probably Rufus. “I’m sayin’ I didn’t sleep, got pissed she didn’t do the dishes-“

“Got pissed-“

“Yelled, Rufus. I fuckin’ yelled, and I know that wasn’t right, so save it. Went to walk it off and get her somethin’ to apologize, but when I got back the dishes were broken.”

There was a loud sigh, and Dean started slowly down the hall. Whatever fight was happening, he kind of wanted to see it.

“Don’t gimme that face, asshole-“

“You’re bein’ paranoid, Bob. Maybe she just smashed the dishes-“

“No. You ain’t listenin’. She broke all of them. Even the ones in the cabinets she can’t reach. It was like they’d just burst on freakin’ the spot.”

Dean turned to the top of stairs, and froze.

There She was. 

It was a smaller version of Her, with hair in complex braids and little fingers, grabbing at the bannisters of the staircase. She was wearing a dress, and fuzzy socks, and Dean was pretty sure that if Dad had dropped them here all those years ago and She hadn’t hidden, he still would’ve crashed down into Her. Still would’ve worshipped the ground She walked on. He might have gone insane about it, trailing after Her like the shadow he was. Back when he couldn’t even properly shoot or fight yet, and she could probably still have made the tides bend to Her will. 

Then She turned and looked at him, and whatever fight Bobby and Rufus were having wasn’t important anymore.

It was all just Her.

It was always just Her.

She waved him over, and Dean obeyed without a thought. Scrambling down the steps until he was pressed right at Her side, crowding all Her space because in here, he was allowed to. He didn’t have to worry about failing Her or pushing Her away. He could just wrap his arms around Her and kiss all over her neck, before resting his chin on the top of Her head. He was punishing no one but himself, with how She giggled in his ear and held his arms against Her. 

And God, it was the best torture there could ever be. It made Dean feel like he was being ripped in half and fused back together all at once. Made him feel useful, when She leaned back into him with a hum, then like the lowest piece of shit in the mud when it hit him again that this wasn’t real, and he was making Her something she might not want to be. 

Sammy called it lucid dreaming. 

“What’s lucid mean,” he murmured Her name in her ear, She twisted to smile at him, and he might as well have been hit by a damn truck.

“In full control of your own actions or thoughts.” She said, still peering through the banister at what was probably the kitchen. “Like when you sign a will, you have to be lucid.”

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Her in his arms. He was a little worried that if he let go of Her, and all the light in Her body, She’d turn into nothing, and Dean would wake up in the dark. Alone.

So he held on tight, and buried his face in the crook of Her neck. Even in his dreams he could smell that fucking fruit. It was becoming a little like an anesthetic.

“What happenin’ out there?”

She hummed, a hand moving up to comb through Dean’s hair as She spoke, and he held Her a little tighter. “This is when Bobby started to figure out I wasn’t just a little crazy. He’s going to fight with Rufus for ten more minutes, then I’m going to have an episode because I think he’s going to kick me out.”

Dean froze. “He doesn’t-“

“No. Never.” She sighed, leaning Her head against his. “He calms me down, makes me hot chocolate, and tells me that we’re going to figure it out. Tomorrow he’s going to take me to a Psychic friend of Rufus’, and I’m going to- Uh-“ She swallowed, Her grip on Dean tightening as Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She loses all her senses. Literally. I think she lives in a facility in Chicago now, because she can’t hear, or smell, or feel anything but pressure-“

“Hey.” Dean let his lips ghost over her neck, and she let out a soft, breathy sound that was going to make his hard rule of ‘no sex in dreams, because She was still his best friend, and he had to respect that’ real fucking difficult to follow. “I get it. Don’t hurt yourself.”

She laughed softy. “Don’t tell me what to do, Winchester.”

“Sorry, Princess.” He leaned back, pressing a kiss to Her cheek and trying not to feel too proud when She giggled. “Can’t boss me around all the time.”

“Try me-“

“I’d love to.” He smirked, carefully grabbing Her chin to tip it back. “You have no idea how much I’d love to boss you around for once, baby.”

Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lip.

He was the luckiest son of a bitch alive, just to even know Her. To have seen Her enough to have her memorized, even if it wasn’t in every way he wanted. Hair tangled, but still glossy. Eyes brighter than the fucking universe, skin smooth against Dean’s. 

But he paused. There was a cut on Her lower lip, and a few visible bruises on Her face, and while Her features had been growing gaunt in his head—a lot of tension in his body seemed to exist from the worry that she wasn’t eating or sleeping, lately—She’d looked like this.

“What’s-“

“Nothing.” He grunted. Just a dream. She wasn’t actually hurt. He was pretty sure She wasn’t actually hurt. And he wanted to think about Her, here. In this dream, where She wanted him. 

“Dean-“

“I just miss you, sweetheart. Never gonna stop missing you.” He brushed a little hair from Her face, and Her face split into a wide grin.

“You miss me?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Course I freakin’ miss you, you know that-“

“How much?”

“More than fuckin’ oxygen-“

“But you have oxygen right now-“

Dean moved his hand lightly to Her neck, keeping her gaze fixed on him, and She let out a soft squeak that was going to drive him insane. “Princess?”

“De?” She whispered, bright eyes doing that flutter thing that always made Dean’s cock twitch, and he groaned.

“I miss you more than anything, baby.” He lowered his mouth to ghost over Her’s, and this was pushing it right to the line. “You’re never gonna be able to understand how much I fuckin’ miss you, but I do. I’d rip out my heart, if it made you come back to me.”

She swallowed and nodded, almost fully melted into Dean’s body, and it didn’t matter what Heaven offered him to take Michael in. Nothing could ever be better than this. 

And then something shook the world, and it was all gone.

“Dean, wake up, dude-“

“Fuck off.” He rolled over, moving the pillow to block over his ears. He didn’t want to hear Sammy right now. He just wanted to pass out and go back to Her siren voice, haunting him just as it always had.

“C’mon, Chuck texted me-“

“Don’t care. Let the angels have him, Sammy, what’s the asshole ever done for us anyway.”

Sam sighed from somewhere off to the side. “He did help me escape Lilith. And I know you don’t mean that, Dean.”

“You don’t-“

“I miss her too,” Sam’s voice had dropped to being impossibly soft, and Dean’s gut started to twist. “And we’ll find her. But we have to keep going, Dean.”

No, they didn’t.

They needed to be looking for Her. She’d said she was going to pray to Cas, but Cas said it never came through. She was fucking missing, again, and when Dean tried to call Her it just went to fucking voicemail. He didn’t give a shit about Chuck and his life-or-death situation. 

He just wanted his fucking girl home, so he could snap at Her about being insane and then hold Her until everything in the world was finally okay again.

“Dean. We gotta go.”

Dean let out a long, slow groan, and forced himself up. The morning was so fucking bright. And not Her bright, guiding Dean down, down, down and making the pit feel like it was full. Painful bright, that made him squint and rub his eyes.

Sam was, annoyingly, right. 

With all the angels running around, if Chuck was in danger, that was going to be a problem.

But that didn’t stop Dean from scowling and stewing into, for the entirety of the ride. Wasn’t like he had anything else to do. 

The trail on Her was all but dead. When She hadn’t appeared with Cas, after the last phone call, Dean had called for him instead. Just to check.

Then, it had been just to check.

“Dean, you know I am busy looking for-“

“God, yeah, I know.” Dean had been white knuckling his guns as he cleaned them, scowling at the air, and Cas had paused.

“Something is troubling you.” He’d said Her name slowly, and Dean might have almost broken his jaw. “I have told you, Raphael was likely just trying to provoke you-“

“Well, it fuckin’ worked.” It had. After they’d summoned the feathered asshole, Raphael had hummed that She’d make a good motivator, when it came down to it. Dean had almost shot him, and only managed not to because of Cas physically stopping him. But that wasn’t the goddamn point. “Cas, she-“

“I am not going to betray her trust and-“

“No, it’s-“ Dean had run a hand over his face, shaking his head. “She said she’d call you, man. I asked her to come back, and she said she’d call you.”

Cas had blinked, a small frown of his face, and Dean had felt something to the right of his heart clench.

Cas hadn’t needed to confirm it with words. Dean had understood. 

She was missing. 

Fucking again. 

And Cas couldn’t find Her. It had been damn near a week, and they hadn’t heard one word. When Dean pushed him, Cas said he’d lost the scent—whatever the hell that meant—so how She couldn’t be tracked unless she wanted to be.

But She wasn’t avoiding them. She’d promised She’d come back home, that She wasn’t running. That She’d return to Dean, and everything could be okay again, so She wasn’t running. 

Dean was pretty sure She wasn’t running. He hadn’t done anything to drive Her away that he could think of. He’d been just as careful with Her as always, and She’d been calling him, and She’d- She’d fucking promised. Pinky promised. Dean owed Her a dance, and She wasn’t running from him anymore, and they’d said all the way down. She had to come back to him. That was how this was supposed to work. 

And if She was missing, it couldn’t be anything good. Lucifer was out and running around. Heaven clearly knew things about Her they weren’t sharing.

She was in danger. They needed to be looking for Her, not saving Chuck. He had a whole douchebag archangel to do that.

The only thing that kept Dean from turning the car around was Sammy. He needed a win, and saving Chuck would be one.

And Dean was a little worried Sammy was blaming himself. For Her being gone. 

“I don’t know, Sammy.” Dean had muttered a few days ago, frowning at his burger in the diner booth. “I just got a bad feeling. I can’t stop thinking about her-“

“Which is,” Sam had raised his brows. “Different than normal?”

“Shut up, bitch. I’m being serious. Last time she went MIA like this I found her with a fuckin’ stab wound on the Mexican border-“

“Dean, I- I know.” Sam had sighed, a strange shadow crossing over his face. “But you told her everything, didn’t you. Maybe she- I mean- If she knows-“

Dean had frowned. “Knows what?”

“Lucifer. And me. How- That she was right.” Sam had bowed his head, his voice dropping. “About Ruby.”

“She knew she was right about Ruby-“

“Yeah, but- I don’t know. Never mind.”

In the moment, Dean had spiraled. Moved around thoughts of maybe She didn’t want to come home. To deal with their shit, with the burden that just being near Dean brought. Why would She let Dean, of all fucking people, even stay in Her orbit when he’d failed Her, and Jo, and Sam. 

Because he had. He hadn’t fought harder to keep Her next to him, and now She was missing.

He hadn’t been faster with Jo. Pushed harder for how he didn’t like the plan, gotten away from the demons to trade himself in her place. Jo was gone gone. If Anna had taken Dean instead, the angels would just pull him right back up. They needed him. But Dean had failed, and how he’d lost Her and the closest thing he’d had to a sister. 

And Sammy. 

He’d failed Sammy.

He hadn’t saved him from Ruby’s clutches. Hadn’t gotten him to listen. The only victory Dean could claim was not letting the kid wander off on his own after the cage opened, and even that was failing. 

Because he’d missed what Sam meant, in the diner. How She might not come back, because of Sam.

It was an insane thought. She never ran because Sam pushed Her away. Sam had only ever been loyal to Her, keeping her secret and going with Her plans, and treating Her well, even when She and Dean were fighting. Just like She’d always treated Sammy well, when he and Dean were fighting. 

Dean was the common factor there. The one who fucked up, and lost Her.

And he lay awake at night about it. When he was afraid to close his eyes, because it didn’t matter if he had a nightmare or dream, the worst thing in the world would be not dreaming of Her. Not waking up with the smell of Her fruit still lingering in the air and his hand bruised from Her phantom touch. There was always a chance that this night would be the night She wasn’t there.

So he’d stare at the ceiling, and try and work out where he’d gone wrong. But he could never fucking find it. Whenever he thought of when She’d vanished before, Dean could pin a reason to it. Dean left first. Dad drove Her away. Dean drove Her away. Dad used Azazel to drive Her away. Dean’s death drove Her away. 

But Dad was dead, and couldn’t touch Her anymore.

And Dean had been so fucking careful with Her. Tried to hold Her right and be Her shadow, even when holding Her meant through the phone—choking on the lump in his throat when he listened to Her cry, but never hanging up—and being Her shadow meant waiting for Her to return. 

He’d gotten up in the dead of night, two days after the phone call. Shuffled into the kitchen just for water, and gotten a heart attack when Bobby grunted his name from the doorway.

“Son of a bitch-“

“Stop being a dramatic baby.” Bobby had rolled his eyes, glaring at Dean from his wheelchair. “It’s my house, ya idjit. I’m gonna be in it.”

“It’s 2 in the damn morning-“

“And we’re both up. So stick it.” Bobby had paused, giving Dean an odd look. “I’m guessin’ it ain’t thirst keeping you up.”

In a way, it was. 

Dean wasn’t stupid enough to say that, though.

He’d sighed, leaning against the counter, and taken the risk. He’d needed to talk about it with someone.  

Bobby might be the only person who really understood. 

“I miss her.” He’d muttered, his voice already going hoarse, staring at the water in his glass. “Shit, Bobby, I- I miss her so much. And I keep thinking about how she might be on the floor somewhere, and I won’t be able to get to her.”

Bobby had sighed, and rolled further into the kitchen. Until he was right in front of Dean. “I know. I do. And I- Fucking hell, I miss her too. House is always too big without her, and you two dumbasses aren’t half as funny as she is. But, he’d reached up, grabbing Dean’s forearm until he looked up from the glass. “Listen to me, Dean. Since she was fourteen, there have been months at a time where she don’t come home. Where I get a phone call a week and then she’s showin’ up covered in blood with another stolen car for me to scrap. But she always shows up. Always comes home.”

Dean had shaken his head. “But-“

“I know you wanna look for her. And if you think you can find ‘er, trust your gut and go. But wherever she is, don’t think she’s not tryin’ to get back.” Bobby’s voice had dropped, and in the dim light of the kitchen, Dean could’ve fucking sworn he saw something like pain all over Bobby’s face. “She’s a fighter more than a runner, when she’s pushed to it. And if she wants to come back, I don’t think God himself would do well standin’ in her way."

Dean could agree with that. 

And he tried to replay it, whenever he wanted to jump out of the car and rip up the world until he found Her.

She always came back. 

And She’d promised, so She would.

She had to. 

“There was an Earthquake in France.” Sam said, jerking Dean’s attention back from his thoughts. “9.5. Bobby thinks it’s another omen.”

Dean grunted, glaring out at the road. “Omen for what, this time? Just more freakin’ death?”

Sam shrugged. “Don’t know yet. There’s still damage assessment happening, and the press is saying that the earthquake might have been a result of something else.”

“Something like what? Lucifer?”

“Still don’t know, Dean-“

“Then why are we talking about it?”

Dean could feel Sam’s flat look. “Because we need to be paying attention to his stuff. And you brooding isn’t going to help anyone.”

“I’m not brooding-“

“Yeah, you are.” Sam said Her name, and Dean was going to strangle him. “She’d say it’s brooding.”

“Shut up.”

“Dean-“

“No. Shut up, and listen to the music.”

Sam sighed, and listened. Dean wouldn’t strangle him. He was trying to help, even if he was being a little fucking bitch about it.

But Dean was going to strangle someone. 

Chuck wasn’t in danger. He was using those stupid books to throw a costume party that exploited their lives, and not even the good parts. Fucking Becky—Chuck’s messenger girl, the one that was obsessed with Sammy—had tricked them into coming here, and now they were losing valuable time to look for Her-

“Dude, you gotta relax.” Sam muttered, scanning around the room of nerds, and Dean scowled.

“This is fuckin’ stupid, we should just go-“

“It’s not gonna help her, Dean-“

“You don’t know that-“

“Yes, I do.” Sam gave him a firm look. “If Cas finds her, he’ll call us, and if she ends up back at Bobby’s he’ll make sure she’s fine-“

“Who are you talking about?” Becky appeared between them, looking back and forth with wide eyes. “Is it Anna? Are you looking for Anna?”

Dean shouldn’t hit a girl. His fist still curled to punch this chick’s face in.

It was good Sam answered first. “It’s not Anna. Anna’s dead.”

Becky frowned. “No, she’s not-“

“How the hell do you even know about Anna?” Dean snapped, and Becky just shrugged.

“Chuck told me. And she’s not dead, she escaped Castiel and Uriel-“

“Then she turned around and sided with heaven again.” Sam muttered. “Anna might not be dead in Chuck’s version, but she’s dead in our lives."

“In your- Are things different than in the books?” Becky’s eyes widened, and Dean gave Sam a flat look.

“Nice going, dumbass.”

Sam sighed. “She’d probably find out anyway, Dean-“

“Well, she did, because you fuckin’ told her-“

“Wow.” Becky was looking between them, shaking her head. “You guys swear a lot more than in the books.”

Dean scowled. “There’s a lot more to swear about in real life, lady.”

“Like the mysterious she that you lost?” Becky was smiling again. Punching her was quickly becoming a very real option. “Is it Lisa? Bela? No, Bela’s dead too. Jo?” Dean felt his chest ache and twist, and he must have visibly tensed, because Becky’s smile widened. “Oh my gosh, it’s Jo, isn’t it! Did you go back to Jo, Dean-“

“Jo’s dead too.” Sam grunted. “Anna killed her.”

Dean got a very firm don’t shoot the crazy lady look. He rolled his eyes, and moved his hand off his gun. 

“But- Anna killed Jo? Then who killed Anna? Was it Dean?” Her voice dropped to a whisper as a few more idiots dressed in leather jackets and open button ups moved past them. Dean wasn’t allowed to shoot her. “Did Dean kill her in revenge- Murdering one lover in the name of another-“

“One lover?” Dean spat, and Sam let out a long sigh. “What the fuck are you talking about-“

“You and Jo had a thing.” Becky stood her ground, although her voice was suddenly a lot smaller. Good. “And- And Chuck said you slept with Anna-“

“With Anna-“

“Dean.” Sam grabbed his shoulder, shaking his head. “Not worth it. It’s- It’s probably better nobody knows.”

Dean scoffed. “That’s pretty fucking easy for you to say, Sammy-“

“It is.” Sam held his gaze, keeping his words steady, even though fucking Becky was still listening. “If she was in the books, her family could find them. Chuck might not have used last names, but- I don’t know, dude, they could connect the dots and track her down. She’s safer not being a part of this, Dean, and you know it.”

Sam was right. God fucking damnit, that was a good point. And if She had been in the books, all of Dean’s thought about Her would be available to the public. There would be people dressed up with glossy hair and jackets and knives, trying to imitate her bright eyes and siren voice, like a crude, faded knockoff of one of those fancy statues in museums. It was bad enough to look around the room and see all the reminders of the worst parts of Dean’s life—there were three yellow-eyes, and Dean wanted to march over and rip out their stupid contacts—so he didn’t need people fucking up the best part. 

He already had to put up with Becky.

He really wished he was allowed to shoot her.

“Is there… a secret person?” Becky pried in a hushed whisper as some guy with a clipboard rambled into the microphone. “Who’s not in the books? Who Dean’s sleeping with instead of Anna and Jo?”

“Yes.”

“Sam-“

The bitch just shrugged, smirking slightly as Becky turned to Dean. 

“You have a girlfriend?” 

Dean ignored her, and shot Sam a very firm I am going to murder you later look.

Sam didn’t seem as worried about it as he should be.

Becky still wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

And Chuck was taking Q&As. But as much as Sammy was right, a lot of the questions were pretty fucking simply answered by Her.

Everything was better with Her.

A guy dressed as Bobby asked why Sam didn’t explore witchcraft as an option to save Dean. Chuck shot Dean a nervous look, and mumbled that Sam had been too stressed to think of everything. 

Becky gasped, moving herself right into Dean’s view. “Did your secret girlfriend do the witchcraft? Did you not die in real life-“

“No, uh,” Sam swallowed, his voice dropping slightly. “He died.”

“Oh no.” Becky gave Sam a sympathetic look—not Dean, which was pretty fucking rude, cause Sammy hadn’t died—and placed a hand on his chest. “That must have been so hard for you, Sam.”

“Yeah, uh,” Sam coughed. “It was rough. Think it was worse on-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted, shooting him a firm glare, and Sam nodded.

“Right. Sorry.”

It continued all afternoon. Through the Q&A—someone asked if Dean would ever settle down with Lisa, and Sam had to shove Dean outside to walk it off—and their conversation with Chuck. Becky kept fucking pushing about it, and Chuck didn’t seem all that happy about the situation either.

“I- I didn’t include her for a reason, Becky.” Chuck gave Dean another nervous glance, and Dean just narrowed his eyes. “There’s a lot of complicated things going on, and I don’t fully understand them, so I wanted to just focus on making the books enjoyable-“

“And I’ve enjoyed them! But I want to know everything, Chuck, please.” Becky pouted again, and all Dean wasn’t sure how the expression could look mind-blowingly perfect on Her, and constipated on Becky. “Haven’t I earned it-“

“No.” Dean grunted, and Becky rolled her eyes. 

“You just want to keep your secret girlfriend all to yourself-“

“Girlfriend?” Chuck cut in, gaping slightly at Dean. “I- I didn’t know you guys were dating-“

“We’re- It’s complicated-“

“No, it’s not.” Sam rolled his eyes. “They’ve made out. Twice.” 

Dean scowled, and he should punch Sammy right in the jaw—what the fuck happened to better as a secret—but before he could, the words fell right out of his mouth. “Three times.”

“Three- When did the third time happen?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“Why didn’t you tell me-“

“Because of this,” Dean gestured to the shocked faces of Chuck and Becky, and Sam sighed.

“Yeah, but- Alright. That’s fair.”

There was a second of silence, and Becky broke it with a cough. 

“Is she pretty?”

Sam snorted. “She’s way out of Dean’s league, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She was. Son of a bitch, She was out of everyone’s league. She was playing a wholly different game, and it was made of being the brightest thing in to every exist. Playing in Her league would probably mean killing God or something.

And She’d still been kissing Dean. 

Chuck gave Dean an odd look. “But she- likes him?”

Dean opened his mouth to snap something—he wasn’t sure what, but it would be made of didn’t matter, because Dean was the only one who got to be Her shadow and he’d rather jump headfirst into Hell than be anything else—but Sam laughed first.

“You have no idea-“

Dean stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m going for a walk.”

He wasn’t telling anyone in particular. And a walk meant going outside and pacing around the lawn, glaring at the dirt under his feet and breathing slowly until he wanted to kill someone less. 

Sam was such a fucking shit. Dean was going to put hot sauce in his underwear again, or shave half his head in his sleep, or throw him off a cliff. 

But it was less the snitching, that was fueling the fury in his body. 

It was the ache. Missing Her. Just fucking wishing She was here, because if She told Sammy to shut up, he’d listen. He never teased Her about anything. And if She was here, Sam wouldn’t try to stop Her from killing Becky. She’s spin Her knife in her hand and give Becky a firm glare when she got to close to Sammy, and the bitch would back the hell off, Dean could even put a hand on Her lower back and she might lean into him, smiling up at him as they traded whispered jokes about how fucking stupid this whole thing was. 

She wouldn’t put up with it. Any of it. At the end of the day She was Bobby’s daughter, so She didn’t put up with any of this fucking bullshit.

And maybe when Chuck asked if She liked Dean, he’d get to watch Her flush, and her breath hitch with parted lips, and he’d get to know. That She felt some of it. That She would still give Dean those pretty, fluttering eyes when he teased Her. That there was a chance—if he grabbed Her chin and smirked down at Her like he’d done in so many dreams—that She’d whisper his name, and Dean would get to kiss Her in front of everyone. And they could all know that Dean was Her shadow. That there was no one who would touch Her or protect Her like he could.

Fuck, he missed Her. 

And it didn’t matter how much he called for Her in his head—looking up at the sky like it might take his plea for her, and throw it across the universe—nobody was listening. 

Then something to the right of Dean’s heart pounded. Strained. Echoed around his rib cage in a way that way borderline painful, growing and growing and growing as it only got worse. All the world was Technicolor, and air was shifting into that sticky warmth that came before a storm, and Dean could fucking swear he could smell Her on the rushing wind, could see the sparkling glass in the pavement growing brighter and all the flowers on the edge of the forest start to bloom in seconds. 

Something was coming. Dean knew something was coming. And he should run back inside and tell Sammy, but his legs wouldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. Every single fiber of his being was keeping him rooted in place, like he was anchored there by that pain in his chest, and then-

He almost fell to his knees.

She was there. 

Here. 

In front of Dean, blinking at him with slightly glazed eyes and silver pupils, but here.

It wasn’t a trick, or a replica. Dean should probably be more vigilant of that, but he knew. Nothing else made the world look like this. Made every color brighter and every edge sharper. Nothing could ever duplicate the sheer beauty of Her, as if all the stars and waterfalls and gardens and storms and fireplaces had been shoved in one woman.

It was all Her. 

Dean whispered Her name, and she just stared at him. 

Not speaking to him. Not moving for him. But not moving away, either. Just looking at him as Her hair seemed to float around Her face, and when Dean took a slow step forward—the pain in his chest easing slightly as he moved to Her, and it was the only place he could ever think to go—She didn’t flinch. 

Her pupils were still sheer silver, and Dean felt a little like he was looking at something he shouldn’t be. It should be hurting his eyes, how bright She was.

But it was more like looking at a lighthouse, or the North Star. There was nothing to do but follow it.

Nowhere to go but home.

Dean reach out a hand to touch Her, to trace over Her face and She was real. Soft and warm under his fingers. Leaning into his touch. 

And the silver in Her eyes flared, when he tried to move away. Her hand darted up to hold Dean against Her, lip parting as she shook her head. 

“Princess, are you-“ 

She took an unsteady step forward, until She was pressed right into Dean’s chest. Fingers tracing over his face so gently as he just stared at Her, and looked perfect, but still a little gaunt, and there were bags under Her eyes, and she still wasn’t speaking-

Dean muttered Her name, catching her hand in his, and Her eyes fluttered as she looked up to him. .

“It’s okay.” He whispered, squeezing Her hand three times, over and over and she leaned a little further forward. “I’ve got you, but- Shit- Wait-“

The beauty of the world was only growing brighter, as Her eyes grew glossier. More and more silver.

Dean moved his hands to hold Her face—there were not visible injuries, but it was only a small comfort—and did the one thing he’d only ever done right.

Calmed Her down. Running his thumb over the bridge of Her nose and mutters low words about how he was here, and She was fine, holding Her until she came back down to him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” He muttered Her name, keeping his gaze fixed on Her’s, even as Her eyes fluttered closed. “I’m here. I’ve got you. All the way down, Princess. Come back down for me.” His voice was a rasp. He didn’t try to fight it. “Please come back down.”

She let out a shaky breath, and when She blinked Her eyes open, her pupils were blown out and glazed, but black. 

She was back. She could see him. And slightly swollen lips parted as She scanned over his face, Her voice barely a breath when she spoke. 

“Dean?”

“Yeah,” he whispered, offering a small smile. “It’s me. I’ve got you, Princess.”

“Are- Are you-“

“I’m okay.”

She made a sound like a whimper, and suddenly Her face was buried in into him, Her arms wrapping around his shoulders.

She was shaking as another choked sound was muffled against his chest. 

Dean felt like he was being split in half by lighting. Like he’d stepped into the middle of an electric storm, and everything was moving too fast and too slow all at once. She smelled like fruit and fit so well against him, and She wasn’t vanishing, but She was sobbing, and it was making Dean’s heart split and fracture.

But he just kept holding Her, combing his finger through Her shiny hair, right up until the sounds stopped, and Her breaths became even. 

She’d passed out.

Good.

He could just carry Her home. 

Dean hooked his arms under Her knees and hauled Her up his chest, glancing around the yard one last time to check that this really was just it. That he’d asked Her to come home and She had, without demons or angels on Her tail. 

And it would be so easy to miss it. To mistake the way the air seemed to be shimmering as a trick of the light, or decided that the way the flowers and moss seemed to be bursting out of the trees was just a natural phenomenon. Yet there was no mistaking how—growing out the walls on the inn, like an odd limb—there were branches hanging with iridescent apples that glowed. 

But it was all Her. 

No trap.

Just Her, fit perfectly into Dean’s arms, and knocked the hell out. 

Dean said Her name as he turned back to the inn. Just to make sure She really was down. She didn’t even shift or stir, and he sighed, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Her head. 

She moved further into him at that. But Her eyes barely even fluttered, and Her grip didn’t tighten. She just squirmed until Dean could feel how fucking warm She was—too warm, bordering on a fever with the way sweat was clinging to Her brow—and keep his cheek pressed to Her’s as he marched back inside.

“You’re gonna be alright, baby.” He muttered, turning to let his lips ghost over Her skin. “You’re home. It’s gonna be okay.”

She didn’t so much as hum.

And She was still so fucking warm. 

The smart thing to do would be put Her in the car, then go find Sammy and tell him what was going on. But every time Dean so much as shifted Her, She’d make that whimpering sound, and something to the right of his heart would ache. It would be easier to just show Sam. Easier to just keep holding Her, because she wanted him to, and Dean couldn’t deny Her anything if he tried. 

“Dean!” Sam called from behind him, somewhere in another freakin’ hallway. “Look, dude, I think there might be a case here, and I’m sorry for teasing you about-“

Dean turned, and Sam’s voice trailed off as he said Her name, his eyes growing almost comically wide.

“I- You-“ Sammy’s eyes were fixed on Her sleeping form in Dean’s arms, his voice almost a whisper. “How?”

“Don’t know.” Dean grunted, and Sam’s eyes shot back up to him.

“What do you mean, you don’t know-“

“I mean I was standing outside, thinking, and then she was fuckin’ there-“

“Thinking about what-“

“That’s not important-“

“It seems pretty important, Dean! People don’t just fucking teleport-“

“Shut up.” Dean hissed through his teeth, and Sam snapped his mouth shut as She twisted slightly in Dean’s arms, settling down after a few, long moments.

“Fuck.” Sam whispered, looking back to Her, sleeping peacefully once more. “That’s- Are we sure it’s not a trap-“

“Yes.” He grunted. “And if you wanna hear the truth, I don’t really give a fuck if it is.”

Sam let out a long breath, then nodded slowly. “I’ll stay and take care of this. Probably just a salt and burn, and with all the fake us’s around here, one of them has to end up being useful.”

“Thanks.” Dean started his walk back to the car, and Sam quickly fell into pace. “I can have Bobby send someone-“

“I think Bobby’s gonna be occupied, dude.”

Dean huffed a dry laugh, glancing back down, because even though he could feel Her, he still had to check She was real. “Yeah, I’d bet that too.”

“You gonna call him?”

“I’ll do it on the road.” Dean ducked through the door as Sam held it open, giving a short nod. “Text him if you need something, though, I-“

“I know. I-“ Sam took a deep breath, and Dean glanced at him with a frown. His face was turned down, his eyes still fixed on Her. A little like he was trying to will Her to wake up.

Dean understood the feeling.

His keys were in his jacket, and he couldn’t hold Her and get the car started. Passing Her into Sam’s arms felt a little like his heart was trying to move out of his chest to go with Her, but he’d survive. He’d managed this long not touching Her at all. Managed longer. And She didn’t fold into Sam the same way She had with Dean, but she didn’t wake up or fight it.

And Dean didn’t miss the way Sammy’s shoulders relaxed, when he realized She wasn’t going to try and push him away. 

“I’ll call you when I’m back,” Dean muttered, unlocking the Impala as Sam swayed Her slightly, like he was cradling a baby. 

She’d be pissed about that, if Dean told Her. She’d pout and scowl and mutter that She wasn’t a fucking baby.

Dean just found it kind of adorable. Like some weird, twisted image of a kid singing their parent a messy lullaby. 

“Okay.” Sammy nodded, still swaying Her as Dean opened the door. “If I’m done before then I’ll call around and see who’s nearby-“

“Sam!” Becky’s shrill voice echoed through the parking lot, and Dean really wished Sam had let him shoot her. “Oh my gosh, Chuck told me that you think there’s a real case, did you find- Who is that?”

Dean didn’t fucking appreciate the venom is Becky’s voice. The lady was lucky to even be in Her presence.

“It’s- Uh-“ Sam looked to Dean with almost a desperation, and Dean sighed, reaching out to take Her back.

She fit right back into him. 

The real struggle might be getting Her into the car. 

“Sam, you have to tell me if you’re with someone else-“

“I- Why?”

“Because it’s not fair-“

“To who?” Sammy was spluttering as Dean maneuvered Her onto the bench, Her grip impressively tight for a woman who was passed out.

“To me!” Becky whined, not seeming to give a fuck that Sammy wasn’t even touching Her anymore. “It’s stringing me along, Sam, and that’s not very nice-“

“Becky?” Awesome. Chuck here too, now, and Dean still couldn’t get Her in the damn car. 

“You gotta work with me, Princess.” He muttered, drawing back up to his full height. “I can’t drive you home in my lap-“

That wasn’t actually a shit idea. Dean had done more without being pulled over-

“Becky?” Chuck was still walking over. Dean was really leaning towards the lap plan. “Oh, shit, there you are. You know, I told you that so you wouldn’t run off- Are you guys leaving?”

“No, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat. “Just Dean. He’s got some other stuff to attend to-“

“Really?” Becky scoffed. “Listen, Dean, I know you’re too cool for all this stuff, but a lot of people worked really hard-“

“No, Becky, it’s not that-“

“Then what is it- Is it that slut-“

Dean had been ignoring most of the conversation. 

That got through. 

“Hey.” He whipped around, still holding Her tight against him, and narrowed his eyes at Becky. “You talk about her like that, I put a bullet in your fucking brain, you got that?”

Becky nodded, her face a little pale, and Dean let out a breath. 

“Good. Sammy, how illegal is driving with someone in your lap?”

Sam frowned. “Are we talking normal people illegal, or us illegal?”

“Us illegal.”

“Then I’d say like, 45%-“

Chuck cut Sam off with a breath of Her name, and they both froze to find him staring, mouth open, face a little pale. “Is- Is that her?”

“Yeah.” Dean grunted, his fingers curling slightly against Her body, and Becky frowned.

“Who’s-“

“Don’t worry about it, Becky.” Chuck said, his eyes still fixed on Her, and Becky let out a dramatic huff. 

Chuck seemed done talking, though. He just kept staring as Sam helped Dean move into the car—he figured out a strategy where he rolled Her to the side once he was sat down—and Becky tried to ask more questions that were wholly ignored. It was pretty easily chalked up to how She was the only person in Sam and Dean’s lives the prophet couldn’t read. 

It was still pretty fucking creepy. 

And Chuck was still staring in the rearview mirrors, as Dean pulled the Impala away. He seemed almost in a trace, shaking his head right before they drove out of view.

Dean had bigger worried though. 

He had to get Her home. 

She remained down, the first four hours of the drive. Dean allowed himself to press a carefully kiss to Her temple every few miles—to check Her temperature, and no other selfish reasons—and Her possible fever wasn’t growing, but it wasn’t going down, either. Likely not a side effect of doing whatever the hell that had been, but probably not a sickness, either. A sickness would mean She was vomiting, shivering, coughing slightly in Her sleep, doing something else besides burning like the freaking sun. 

But She wasn’t. She was just settled against Dean, breathing without a single hitch, even when Dean fucked up and hit a bump. 

She seemed fine, visibly. On the surface, where Dean would find cuts and bruises if someone had hurt Her. 

But maybe being in that borderline catatonic state had healed Her. And someone had been hurting Her, and when She woke up, she’d start screaming and crying and scrambling away from Dean’s touch. 

He could deal with the first two. When She screamed and cried, Dean just had to stay with Her, and sooth Her however he was allowed. But if She scrambled away, Dean didn’t know what he would do. If he had Her back, just for Her to not want him anymore. 

That was a lie. Dean knew exactly what he’d do.

He’d wait, and follow Her wherever She asked him to go. 

All the way down.

He called Bobby, around hour five. When She was staring to roll a little, readjusting Her face and wiggling closer into Dean’s side.

It took two tries. Dean should’ve used Her phone. The old fucker would’ve picked up right away.

“Dean, I’m in the middle of damn dinner, and Sam said it was just a salt and burn-“

“Bobby.” Dean muttered, glancing down at Her as he spoke. “She’s back.”

There was a long silence, and Bobby’s voice was hoarse as he said Her name. “You found her?”

“Kinda. More like she found me.” Dean let out a long breath, and She hummed slightly. “It’s- Has she ever gotten a fever? Using her thing?”

Bobby sighed through the speak. “Only for a few years, when she was real little. She used to make the floors form black mold after I cleaned ‘em, and one time the trees all started growin’ some weird glass-lookin’ fruit, then she’d get a fever. But it stopped when she started usin’ her… methods. She warm when you touch ‘er?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she’s fine. She gets cold when she’s sick. Sorta like touchin’ a dead body.”

“Alright.” Dean let out a long, slow breath, shaking that image from his head. “We’re heading back now, but Sammy stayed behind, he’s gonna work the case himself-“

“Dean-“

“Maybe send someone, just so he has extra hands-“

“Dean.” Bobby’s voice was firmer, and Dean swallowed. “Stop drivin’.”

“I-“ Dean must have misheard him. “What? I’m driving her home-“

“From Oregon, ya idjit. That’s a fuckin’ day.”

“I’ve driven longer-“

“I know, but she needs you.”

Dean swallowed. “Bobby, I-“

“Don’t play humble and stupid with me, Dean. You ain’t good at either. She needs you, and you’re already fuckin’ there. Movin’ Her around is only gonna distress her when she wakes up.”

“But-“

“No but. Trust me, I wish you could just teleport her right back to me, but ya can’t. And you ain’t been sleepin’ well, Dean. One more night without her home ain’t gonna kill me, but findin’ out your dumbass passed out at the wheel and drove off a bridge will. Rest.”

Dean opened his mouth to tell Bobby that—actually—teleporting did seem to be an option on the table, but the line clicked dead, the conversation forcibly over. 

The motel they pulled off to was nicer than Dean usually opted for. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure why. The credit cards were stolen anyway, but Dad had always insisted they sleep in the cheapest place available. 

And She used to steal all those fancy cars, before Dean bought Her the Firebird. 

Dean had a feeling She did it for the same reason She always gave about all Her skincare and makeup and hair shit. Made Her feel a little more normal.

This did feel a little more normal. They had air conditioning that didn’t rattle, and a door where Dean trusted the lock, and they were sleeping in a bed that didn’t have lumps in it.

Together. 

Dean had tried to move away. Just for his own peace of mind, he’d made an effort to pry himself away, and then She’d let out that whimper and he’d given up. She’d let him know if She didn’t want him there, when She woke up. Dean didn’t doubt that for a second. But for now She let him wrap around Her—their shoes resting near the door and their jackets folded together on a chair—and kept sleeping peacefully as Dean just watched Her. 

He couldn’t sleep. Bobby had been right, he needed to, but he couldn’t. He needed to keep watching Her, in case an angel swooped down and tried to take Her away. Dean needed to keep looking to make sure She was real, and this wasn’t just an impossibly cruel dream.

And he’d been here before. Holding Her through the night and just staring at Her like a creep. But he’d never allowed himself this close. Where his chest was all but pressed against Her’s, and Her breath fanned over his neck, and their legs were tangled together under the sheets.

Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever been this close to anyone. He’d cuddled, after sex, but this felt different. Softer. She was still trying to bury Herself into him. Dean was keeping his hands over Her shirt, but he’d allowed himself to rest his face against Her hair, and breathe in the fruit until his body fully relaxed. 

She was here. Holding him. Her fever slowly dropping and Her soft, humming noises becoming more frequent as she only burrowed in closer.

Bobby had said She needed him. 

If this was being needed felt like, Dean never wanted to be anything else again. 

And when She woke up, there wasn’t any panic. Her eyes just fluttered open and landed on Dean’s, neither of them making any move to pull away. 

They didn’t speak for a long moment. There didn’t seem to be a damn point to it. Her hand reached up between their bodies to trace over Dean’s face with an impossibly light touch, and Dean just let himself fall into Her eyes. Fixed on him. Looking so fucking tired, but still bright. Always bright. There were lights from passing cars dancing through the windows, but She was brighter. More beautiful. And a few tears were rolling down her face as She met Dean’s eyes once more, features a little puffy from sleep, but no less ethereal. 

And Sammy used to be obsessed with mythology, when he was a kid. And Dad had been sure to let him know what was danger and what was fantasy, but Dean had sat next to the kid and let him explain all the different gods until he fell asleep, and Dean moved him into the bed. 

There had been a lot of gods. The biggest thing Dean remembered thinking was that, for all of history, people had spent too much time worshipping things that didn’t fucking exist.

He knew he’d been right, now. 

Because in all of human history, nobody had ever seemed to work out what the closest thing to God actually looked like.

Her. 

It was—always had been—that fucking simple.  

It was just Her.

“Dean.” She whispered, and he gave Her a small grin.

“Hey, Princess. I-“ He had to keep it together. For Her. 

But that didn’t stop his voice from dropping to a rasp.

“I missed you.”

“I-“ Her lips tightened, wobbling slightly, and Her hand was lingering against his jaw.

Dean wished he had a good reason to turn it, and kiss Her palm. 

“I missed you too.”

He nodded slowly, holding his voice as he forced the words out. He had to ask. 

He had to know.

“Are you staying?”

Her breath hitched slightly. “Do you want me to stay?”

Dean nodded, because there was nothing else to do. “All the way down.” And before he could stop himself- “Please.”

“Okay.” Her voice was so soft. “All the way down.”

And that was it. They fought and screamed about this before, but it had ended the same way every time. 

They’d both stay.

All the way down. 

She cleared Her throat, scanning over his face. “Are you hungry?”

He’d never been hungrier. He’d never craved anything like he wanted to roll Her over right here, and claim his place fully as Her shadow. As he wanted to make Her feel good, take full care of Her, show Her how much he’d missed Her with his hands and tongue and- 

“Dean?” She whispered, and he sighed.

Not now. Not when the tears were still dry on Her face, and Dean was a little afraid She’d grow wings and fly away if he didn’t give Her enough of a reason to stay here in the mud, with him.

He’d show Her later. When things were easier, and She could pass out peacefully against him, after. 

“I could eat. Saw a gas station a mile or two back.” He offered Her a small grin. “You wanna drive, Princess?”

Her smile might have been bright enough to wipe the sun out of existence. 

Dean wouldn’t care if it did. 

At least She’d still be here, at his side. 

Right where they both belonged.

End Note: Becky I hope you know that you are now in danger. Eileen you've never done anything wrong in your life ever. Princess, you need like a nap and maybe some dick.

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

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[prettybbychim]

when i first got hu tao back in the day i didn’t like her playstyle so she was benched indefinitely . i don’t think i played her w a vape team either bc i 1) didn’t know wtf i was doing and 2) i’ve always had an issue w a lack of hydro supports

but she’s grown on me a lot as of late (wangsheng funeral parlor duo let’s get iiit) and, after having played arle so much, i’m wayyy more comfortable w her playstyle. plus i got geo daddy for shields altho i think i need to beef up his HP since i got vortex vanquisher and lost a good chunk without black tassel and uh let’s just say. she ded

anyway i had some good pieces on standby, then stole diluc’s crit rate crown, stole the staff of homa from arle (who stole the primordial jade winged spear from xiao who now has the skyward spine) all in preparation for her skin 💀

my girl is doing fantastic ngl i was very pleasantly surprised and she’s looking v cute while she’s at it

i am glad i sat on my genesis crystals tho i wasnt going to spend any money on her skin and i stopped buying welkins. was debating whether i wanted to just spend it on barbara’s skin (i think its v adorable but i never use her) or on keqing, who i use frequently but im not head over heels for it lol

so yeah i was waffling but now i got a vv cute skin and a cute girl and a new main dps and a new unit to use in the theater and just a new character to play in general ive been getting bored of my usual teams so its a win all across the board

[theuniverseawakens347]

anyways like $300 for the hair relaxer perm … then you wanted Nicole to do it I offered her she’s cheaper for ur pockets you stressing - HAIR SALAONS USED TO CHARGE BY LENGTH N TIME .. still do… so $300 to $500 to get my shit done homes before Mae .. and Mae once before …, how long I live at Mae … how ma y resets cause I got all these memories of me stuck in a specific age time … but this when you bitches really made India and the other clones … keep cashay knocked out and replaced her with synthetic half breads you can do whatever with 🙂🫤🖕🏾 AGAIN NO MATTER HOW I SEE IT TIL YOU STOP BEING FUCKING COWARS YOU HATE ME. - U WANT ME DED … state of the union … IM DED ASS HOLES .. but we go to Nicole maybe two times.. you sit and watch 3 rd time you tell me ( every 6 weeks touch up roots Brad Mandi shh Marc) … “ how about I do ur hair this time” … yeah you got curiosity but I told you NO THATS A DELICATE JOB - I got braids from Myriam right after my relaxer perm and my baby hairs broke… Nicole told me I should have waited 2 weeks or a month before cornrows .. so hi baby hairs .. SHOP KEEP SALON DIDNT TELL ME SHIT ABOUT DOING MY HAIR JUST COLLECT HER COINS N “ come back in 6 weeks”

[binkybuzz]

Dream Journal #1

TW: Blood, mild gore

I recently had a dream where I was going to the aquarium with my uncle and aunt and we were looking at cool fishes, when suddenly I was a worm and we kept getting rejected from the pottery classes (in the aquarium ofc) even though we booked in?? So I threw a fit, and some deity took pity(?) on me and granted me some sort of power. I saw Superman but apparently his power came from a green lantern esque ring, so I, the ever-powerful worm kinda just yoinked it from him and put it on my wormy finger, then I became superspeed hacker worm, I ran around the aquarium with my super speed with everyone frozen whilst trying to hack the aquarium's servers to get some data(??) bc I was angry with them. But then Super-Bat-Omni-man moved through the frozen crowd in slow mo and I was like OH SHIT, HE COMING FOR ME, but the computer wasnt loading so I had to switch, right before I moved Super-Bat-Omni-man KICKED ME AND WAS LIKE "YOU THINK I COULD USE MY POWERS WILLY NILLY?? NO I HAD TO TRAIN MY BODY TO KEEP UP WITH IT, JUST BC I DONT HAVE MY RING DOESNT MEAN IM POWERLESS" (I thought that was real cold tbh) and he beat me up, but I started flying towards a heavenly light and all of a sudden everything was back to normal and I was human again and my whole family was walking back from the aquarium but it was dark and there were creepy shadows and menacing people scuffling about. Then we needed to cross some fence thing?? But right when it was my turn to cross, some SCARY-EVIL-BEAR-SKULL-THING-WITH-LONG ARMS™ came to ATTACK ME, luckily my partner lifted me out of the way, BUT WHILE HE DID THAT, THE SCARY-EVIL-BEAR-SKULL-THING-WITH-LONG ARMS™ SLASHED AT HIM AND STOLE HIS LIPS(???) AND HE WAS LEFT WITH A HUGE GASH DOWN HIS THROAT AND WAS BLEEDING TO DEATH, then the SCARY-EVIL-BEAR-SKULL-THING-WITH-LONG ARMS™'s posse of cultists came to rob us and ONE TOOK MY KIDNEY but we were like GOD HAVENT U TAKEN ENOUGH??? And then they were like, true, here's ur stuff back. This is all because of abortion (as a concept?? LET PEOPLE DO WHAT THEY WANT, GOG. NO NEED TO TAKE HIS LIPS AND MY KIDNEY) and tossed me back my kidney but SCARY-EVIL-BEAR-SKULL-THING-WITH-LONG ARMS™ STILL HAD MY PARTNER'S LIPS AND HE WAS STILL DED™ SO I WAS YELLING AND PANICKING AND TRYING TO FIND HELP

and then i woke up :)

[nifreti-ii]

BEEN SUPER EXCITED FOR THE demo to come out, I’ve been following the blog for some time and I am very invested

SO EXCITED OMG

So have my thoughts as I played the game :>

(posting this a weeks after the game released SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS)

When you get saved by the call. I did start laughing when I heard the ringtone though

The red texts, I love it omg eheheheh

My ass do be panicking if I'm late, even by a minute T-T

VIX VIVI BABY BOY ugh am ded

Ash in the back acting like a cool kid~ (i wanna smack him, I dont care If I die)

My brain is whirling alarms looking at ash, the bad mojo is baaaaad

Ill think about ash later, I wanna look at my pookie

Im loving these sprites omg

Awww reese is a bubbly ray of sunshine (must protecc at all costs)

Ooo so many people aCK, I would be so frazzled 

Ooooh yaaaaaa ash is really good at pretending, poor fools

Lilac caring but also being so done, I love it

OH i wanna pinch vix’s cheeks UGH

Bruh vix freaking out and when we make eye contact warms my cold soul

Awww their so cute

OH NOOOOO IM AN AWFUL PERSON!! I declined the hangout and VIX LOOKED LIKE A KICKED PUPPY NOOOOOO

Im grabbing my chest I feel so awful wtf

Why did I have to choose the ‘be a dick’ route, I COULD BE NICE AND CALL IT A DAAAAY

WAAA i wanna hold them, vixie poo my loooove

TBH I HATE concerts, but vix gives such pookie vibes that I would go purely for him. I’ll wear my headphones and be miserable but seeing them makes it so WORTH IT UGH

In the end, IM DOWN BAAAAAAAD. I cant with the fact the vix turns towards you, the most disinterested look on his face till he sees you, AND THEN BLUSHES WHILE TURNING AWAY. They saw us and I could hear the flushed screaming in their head. I saw that shit and just thought ‘hmm, yes. I wish to keep that.’ Akjdgalhw 

Ash is a bitch. I have an aggressive need and want to annoy the fuck out of him. My mind drifts to giving him a shit-eating grin when no one is looking and pretending I never did it :>

I also love the group, They all seem so lovely!!!! I really wanna squeeze them all from how precious they seem to be T_T (i probably missed some thing, tis be the story of my life)