#it just doesn’t make sense for anything to be real.

[erwinsvow]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew's northern star.

pairing: andrew cody x babysitter!reader

word count: 13.3k

warnings: read carefully! age-gap dynamics, reader is said to have recently graduated college, i basically ignore anything from the show that wouldn't make sense in my perfect little world. smut—arm humping, oral sex, penetration, the tiniest bit of breeding if you squint real hard.

author's note: and here she is. also known as shea wants to write about doing things to pope's arms.

you used to complain if someone called you their nanny. you’re just a babysitter. this would not—could not—be your full time job. it’s just so demanding. you love the kids you take care of but the idea of saying that you’re a nanny makes it a little more real. like you wouldn’t be able to get out of this, despite how hard you’re trying.

you just don’t want to be a babysitter forever. 

but the first time mister cody introduces you as lena’s nanny, you don’t think you mind it all that much. 

babysitters are temporary—girls in high school looking for money to pay for coffee and nail appointments, covering date-nights and overtime at the office.

nannies are permanent—it’s a career. you’re responsible for the kid pretty much twenty-four hours a day. kids with nannies are rich, mom and dad too busy at work to be at home. from the little you deduced, nannies buy groceries and make three meals. they go to doctor’s appointments and organize play-dates with other nannies. 

you do some of those things for lena. her uncle tries to take her and pick her up from school when he can, and when he calls to tell you that he won’t be able to make it every now and then, he sounds so sorry about it, you don’t know what you can do to reassure him that it’s okay. lena’s young, she doesn’t care about stuff like that so deeply. and she likes you, which helps matters a lot.

you had finished the last few classes you needed to graduate a couple months ago. before that, you’d have to tell mister cody no, i’m sorry occasionally, something that you really didn’t like doing. he seemed like he had enough going on without the babysitter cancelling.

and besides, after you had told him that your classes were done, you were supposed to tell him that you would be looking for a real job, something with your degree, that he should start looking for a real nanny for lena. you were supposed to politely, yet firmly allude to how you’d been scrambling with classes, finishing assignments in the car in between picking up his niece and after she’d fallen asleep at night. how you missed an important lecture because the pediatrician’s office was running behind an hour and lena’s grandmother wasn’t available to take her.

instead, the second you had met his eyes (which were terribly green and incredibly sad), you had folded, and told him you’d be available whenever he needed. and you thought maybe that would garner you a smile—and you’d been wrong. he had looked your way for about five seconds, muttered thank you, and walked away. 

and maybe if you could resist those terribly green and incredibly sad eyes, you wouldn’t have wound up as a full-time nanny. life could always be worse—that’s the motto you’ve grown up with. there are so many worse things in oceanside than spending every day in a pretty house by the beach and taking care of a quiet little girl. 

if not anything else, you could start making payments on your student loans, if you wanted. mister cody paid you in cash, and he paid you way too much, probably his way of apologizing for how much you had stepped up in the last couple months. but again, you didn’t really mind anymore. maybe if it was another family, you would care more about finding a real job.

but you like lena. you like her uncle, too, you think, as much as you can like a man who is virtually silent and stares at you like he’s boring into your soul when you’re making dinner. you like him because he’s good with her, you can always tell he’s trying his absolute best, his hardest with her. (it doesn’t help that he’s cute—cute in the way that strays are, like you wish you could fix everything wrong with him and reassure him that he’s doing enough, and tell him to stop staring and just come tell you what he’s thinking instead.) 

the first couple months were the hardest. lena wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. she hated school, hated all the things she had still cared for when her dad was alive. you’d tried bribing her with trips to the beach, the playground, ice cream with extra fudge and sprinkles. all the things that kids liked. but she wasn’t just a normal kid—and it seemed that you and her uncle were the only ones who understood this. 

you didn’t realize you had such a maternal instinct inside of you. maybe it’s because the other kids you’d babysat in your life had been brats, sticky handed toddlers going through the terrible twos and making your life hell while you were trying to pass your classes. lena is the opposite. 

she’s the saddest child you’ve ever met, and you know nothing that you or her uncle do is going to fix it overnight.

but progress comes in stages. the first step had been getting her to want to eat again. you’d sat on the couch next to her, watching a nature documentary that her uncle had probably left playing on the tv.

(he is a whole other can of worms—he doesn’t sleep or eat that much either, and one time you had come in really early to get some work done before getting her to school. he’d been awake, watching something just like this, at five-thirty in the morning. and when you’d asked him when he’d gotten up, he had shrugged, and murmured something that sounded suspiciously close to i don’t sleep. that’s your next mission, because you can only focus on one at a time.)

“you hungry, sweetie?” you didn’t want to be pushy. she wouldn’t like that, would only retreat further into herself. you wanted her to come to you when she was ready to eat. lena shook her head and focused back on the television. “okay. well, if you get hungry later, i’ll eat with you.”

lena says okay in her quiet voice, holding onto a stuffed animal and staring ahead. you wait a couple of hours—there’s always something to do in the house. you clean up, wiping counters and sweeping while she stays on the couch. you check in every now and then to make sure she didn’t fall asleep. 

and then, thirty minutes before her new bedtime, she comes and sits on the chair by the dining table while you’re wiping it down.

“can we get pizza?” she asks, and you nod right away.

“of course we can. what kind do you want?”

another thirty minutes later, the pizza’s there, and you’re both eating slices of pepperoni and spinach. you’ve formulated your plan for the rest of the night—her uncle’s still not home, which means you can crash on the couch or stay awake. you decide to stay awake, since there’s no follow up text from him. if he wasn’t going to come home tonight, you’d expect the standard, concise message; won’t be back tonight. is lena okay? 

and you’re stupid, because you think it’s sweet that he always asks if she’s okay. like you wouldn’t call him the second something went wrong, like he doesn’t believe that you’d trust him with that information before anyone else. but there’s no texts tonight from the contact you’d saved as andrew cody (lena’s uncle). 

lena’s finishing her last slice and you’re cleaning up when you hear it—the rumble of his truck pulling up to the house. then a minute later, footsteps and the front door opening.

“what’s all this?” he asks, and you have to remember to find the words. 

you don’t know why that happens when he comes around—you’re usually great with dads. maybe it’s because he looks tired, more tired than usual, at least. his copper curls are messed up, like he’s been running a hand through his hair all night. lena’s uncle is always stiff, but it seems worse today, somehow.

(another thought seeps in, an uninvited guest in your mind, about how you’d really like to take care of him. he just needs some sleep, a little peace of mind. that’s it. you’re still trying to figure out the best way to give it to him.)

“we got pizza, uncle pope,” lena fills in, setting down the last piece of crust you knew she wouldn’t finish. 

“there should be enough for you,” you add, smiling at him. he doesn’t smile back, but you’re used to that at this point. and you can tell what’s about to come. “lena, can you go brush your teeth and get your pajamas on for me?” 

she nods and climbs off the chair, running into her room. 

“it’s past her bedtime,” he starts, taking a few steps closer to you. “and pizza for dinner-”

you interrupt him, even though you probably shouldn’t. you close up the box, setting it on the island and you go back to wipe the table.

“she’s not eating, mister cody,” you put the paper towel down, getting your bearings in order to face him, make the dreaded, never-ending eye-contact. “when kids don’t eat you have to meet them halfway. i thought this was better than her going to bed without eating at all.” 

he keeps looking at you. you think you should be a little nervous, but you don’t get like that anymore. flustered, sure, but not nervous—lena’s uncle is just kind of a starer, and you’ve gotten used to it by now. 

“i’m sorry. i’ll run it by you next time, i promise. i just wanted her to eat something.” he’s silent for a while, like he’s processing what you said. 

“yeah. okay. thanks.” 

you smile again, a small one. the kitchen’s clean now, or at least as clean as you can get it. you’re sure that when you’re back in the morning, it’ll be spotless, which you can only assume is one of mister cody’s nocturnal activities. you have a routine before leaving—you say goodnight to lena, make sure you didn’t leave anything behind, and tell her uncle you’ll see him in the morning.

he doesn’t normally say anything back, maybe a grunt of acknowledgement. so you’re surprised tonight, when you grab your bag and your keys and hear—

“have a good night.” 

“you too, mister cody.” 

+

it took time, but you’ve gotten her schedule better. she eats dinner with you now, whatever semi-healthy thing you can think of with the stuff in the pantry and the groceries you picked up while she’s at school. her uncle leaves money for that sort of thing—an envelope filled with hundred dollar bills. it’s labeled lena’s babysitter in stiff, neat handwriting and he told you to use it for copays and ice-cream and anything else that lena needs. but it feels wrong to use his money when he already overpays you, so you just use your own. 

you thought he might not have noticed that the envelope isn’t getting any thinner, until one morning when you arrive and see him counting the notes in it with his head down. now you’re the one staring—watching his arm flex and the muscles move as he flips through the bills. he wears the same kind of shirts every day, short sleeve button-ups, and every day, you are subject to watch his forearms while he does whatever he does. it’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

the worst had been when you needed a box down from the cabinet, the one with the muffin tins and cookie cutters. he had appeared behind you and taken it down for you in seconds, carrying it to the kitchen for you. you had been staring then too, uncomfortable and slack-jawed and wondering why his arms had your mouth dry. (you know the answer, it’s just better to live in denial, you think.)

“good morning, mister cody.” you set your bag down on the sofa, heading inside to get started on breakfast. you open the fridge, taking out a carton of eggs and orange juice and avoiding looking right at him. you don’t need to be flustered before seven-thirty am.

“you haven’t been using this money,” he states. you wish you could figure out what his tone means—there’s no inflections, no emotion simmering behind the words. it’s just cut and dry, stating a fact.

“well, i-” you turn back and look up from the stove and your words die on your tongue. he’s standing up, looking right at you, a fist full of cash like he’s going to make you use it one way or another. a single vein running through his arms tenses. your gaze flickers from it to his eyes quickly, looking at you like he wants you to start listening to him.

“i, um, i had enough.”

“you should use it.”

“but you already gave me a lot, so i-”

“i want you to use it.” the way he says it, it’s not a request. 

“right. i-i will. is lena awake?”

“she’s getting ready.”

“great. thank you.” you turn back to the eggs with a flushed face. and even though you’re not facing him anymore, you can tell he’s still staring at you. 

“i might not be back tonight.” you turn around and meet his eyes again. terribly green, incredibly sad. you’re too far now to see the brown, but you know it’s there. “i…i’ve got some work. it’ll be late, if i do.”

“thank you for the heads up. i, uh, i’ll crash on the couch then.” you think he might say something else, but you’re not sure. it’s silent for a moment, while you get the eggs onto a plate and hurry into the hallway to get lena.

she comes out first, carrying her backpack. you follow with her hairbrush for once she’s done eating, getting her already packed lunch out from the fridge to sort into her bag. there’s a whole routine that you had learned when you first started babysitting her, and now it’s just a way of life. filling up her water bottle, checking the calendar on the fridge to make sure there’s nothing you’re missing, pulling her jacket from the closet if it’s cold outside.

you get the bottle out, glancing back at her uncle. he’s leaning in while lena takes a bite of the eggs, probably telling her that he won’t be home, and to have a good day, and all the other things you’re sure he says to her. then they hug, and you feel like you’re intruding.

he picks up his keys, which rest in the small blue bowl by the door where yours sit too. and without thinking, you call out after him.

“have a good day at work.” he doesn’t say anything back, but he looks at you before he leaves. you don’t even know what he does for work.

“ready for school?” lena shakes her head no like always.

+

the days are long, but the weeks are short. you bring lena to school, but they have a half-day, so there’s no point in going home for the day if you need to be back in a couple of hours. so you head back to mister cody’s place, focusing your attention on cleaning the remnants from breakfast. you check the fridge, making note of how much fruit and milk you have left, scribbling onto a piece of paper for later. and for once, you listen to him, taking a single bill out of the envelope and putting it into your wallet. there’s other hundred dollar bills in there too, ones you need to deposit.

it hasn’t been making sense lately. a lot of nannies live with their families because it avoids the wastefulness of paying rent for an apartment you hardly ever visit. you pay internet and electric for a one-bedroom that’s empty the entire day. and now that you’re done with classes, you don’t even need to work on anything late at night or even at lena’s house. you carry around a book with you, and you think you’ve even left a couple on the coffee table, just for the future. 

you don’t know why you still have your apartment. well, you know why—mister cody has never mentioned you moving in. and he probably never will, because he doesn’t want you to. but it just doesn’t make sense the more you think about it. you show up between six and seven and sometimes you don’t go home until ten. sometimes you don’t go home at all.

after making your list, you rack your head of things you can do to occupy lena’s time today. the library has a weekly reading, and there’ll be other kids there. you like to pick things so she can get some company from kids her age, so she’s not only stuck with you and her uncle all the time. 

closer to when school gets out, you get in the car, bringing in your emergency bag with a change of clothes and your toothbrush since you’ll be staying the night. it’s not an entirely uncommon occurrence, which is why the bag, and a couple others like it, is always ready to go. you go to the bank first, depositing everything except the single hundred-dollar bill you took today. then you drive by the park, see if they’re having any of those pet-therapy sessions today. and then finally school to pick up lena.

the rest of the day goes how you planned. you forget how exhausting it is keeping a little kid entertained for hours on end, unsure of exactly what her uncle pope and his brothers do with her sometimes, when you struggle to fill up a couple of extra hours. the grocery store—where you splurge and buy ingredients to make stove-top smores because lena asks and you’ll take your wins where you can get them—then the library, where you take out a couple of books for lena to read at home and smile when she’s talking with some of the other girls there, then the playground for an hour, before home for dinner.

you make spaghetti while she finishes her homework, and review her homework while she changes into pajamas. and then it’s time for the routine she loves so much, just like her uncle, a nature documentary about penguins while you toast the marshmallows on a fork. 

an hour later, lena’s asleep in bed, and you’re scrubbing hardened chocolate off the counter next to the stove. you don’t want more work for her uncle when he’s back, and you’ve learned lena’s a heavy sleeper, so you get to cleaning. it’s not like, as pathetic as the thought is, you have anything better to do. 

and then about two hours after that, it’s eleven-thirty. it’s right around the latest that mister cody has ever come home, so you’re pretty sure he won’t be back tonight. 

the only thing you have to look forward to in your apartment is the shower you take after a long day. you’ll have to make do with the shower inside the room where mister cody sleeps, since lena’s is close to her room and filled with products for an eight year old, and at the very least, you need adult shampoo and soap. 

the room is bare—you would have guessed it’s a guest room if you didn’t know better. you’re not nosy, but you look around, trying to see if there’s anything there that makes the room her uncle’s. you know there’s still another bedroom, the one her parents used to share, since lena sometimes goes in there when she can’t sleep. so this was a guest room, and now it’s mister cody’s, and now you’re lurking in it.

besides for a closet full of clean-pressed button up shirts and organized shoes, you can’t discern anything that makes this room his. there’s not a single thing out of place, from the garden-variety decor that someone else had picked to the artwork to the sheets. the bathroom is more of the same, the entire place having that lemon-cleaner smell to it. 

you turn the water on and strip, trying to avoid thinking about how you’ll be sleeping on the couch after this. and even inside the shower, you stare at the two-in-one shampoo bottle and the old spice body wash—old spice. who would have thought?—like you can’t believe what you’re looking at. you inhale the scent for longer than you need to. wrap yourself in a clean towel that doesn’t belong to you. brush your teeth with his spearmint toothpaste. and then you open your overnight bag, and find nothing but sundresses and bathing suits.

it’s past midnight, and you’ve grabbed the wrong bag. you need to get up in about six and a half hours to get lena ready for school, and you’re not positive you have the correct bag in the back of your car. 

hesitantly, you open one of the dresser drawers. there’s black and white t-shirts folded precisely, tucked in evenly. one drawer up there’s folded socks and boxers. 

you chew on your cheek. he did say that he won’t be home tonight. there’s no way he would know you took anything if you ran a load of laundry as soon as you woke up and folded it after morning drop-off. he might not even be home until the afternoon or evening, for all you know.

your tiredness makes the decision for you. the couch isn’t that comfortable, and you refuse to sleep in the shirt and jean skirt you spent all day in. you take a white shirt and black boxers, and then sneak back in for a pair of black socks because the living room is cold at night. and then you set your alarm, turn on another documentary—this one about hummingbirds, wrap yourself in the throw blanket on the couch, and close your eyes. 

andrew comes home at quarter to three. it would have been a lot sooner—he doesn’t like leaving you alone here at night with lena if he can avoid it—but he doesn’t always have control over it. a bullet had grazed deran and he’d spent two hours cleaning up that mess, and then they had to organize their splits before leaving. he had to make sure to stay for that—he needs the cash to pay you, rent for baz’s place, money to put into lena’s savings account. 

but he hates leaving you alone in the apartment with lena. not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he knows now it’s not safe, not without him there. he likes to get you home early but it’s rarely the case, and then he feels like he should pay you extra since he’s making you drive home alone in the dark.

telling you to stay is a better option. you can sleep in his room—it’s not like he’s going to sleep in there anyways. but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t need the nanny thinking there’s something wrong with him too. so he settles for telling you to stay the night, and letting you decide where you’ll sleep. 

you always pick the couch. and sometimes, he’s not back early enough, sometimes you’re already up making breakfast or gone out for the day with lena by the time he’s back.

 but tonight, you’re asleep on the couch. he sets down the bag with the cash on the couch, hovering over you. the television is still on, stuck on a are you still watching? screen, covering up a photo of some birds. a breath leaves him when he realizes you’re watching what he always watches. you’re knocked out—he can tell since the front door opening didn’t wake you like it sometimes does. you’ve kicked away the blanket you usually use, and he thinks for a second he should just cover you up and let you sleep.

but he doesn’t. he stands over you, staring at your sleeping form. he doesn’t like it—how pretty you are when you sleep. it’s a distraction that he can’t escape, knows that the next time he closes his eyes, he’ll think of you. that the next time he sits on this couch, he’ll be able to smell your skin. you snore softly, chest rising and falling evenly. 

and then he notices it—the plain shirt, black socks with a familiar logo. are those his boxers? and now he definitely can’t look away. he puts the pieces together—your hair is wet, meaning you must have showered and then put on his clothes before coming back out here. if you were going to do all of that, why didn’t you just sleep in his room?

yes, pope decides, he needs you to sleep in his bed. he needs the couch anyways, since he won’t be sleeping, so he might as well bring you inside. 

he lifts you carefully, not wanting to stir you accidentally. his shirt is a little big on you, hanging off your shoulder. you stay sound asleep the entire short walk to his bedroom, not stirring even when he sets you down. you must have been really tired, but that makes sense, given the fact that you’ve been out all day with lena.

he thought about sticking a tracker on your car, but the first time he was taking care of lena, after baz, you had shared your phone’s location with him so he could keep track. you had offered it, voluntarily, saying something about how that’s common with babysitters now, and that you never go anywhere without your phone so he won’t have to worry about you leaving it at home.

you thought reassuring him that he would always have lena’s location in his phone would make him feel better. and maybe it had, but he’d never mentioned it again after that day, never brought up if he actually checked it or not.

(it’s not like you would know if he was using it, it doesn’t work like that. deran had explained it to him.) he did check it, pretty frequently, actually. he checked it after you’d leave when he got home, after lena was asleep. he’d watch your little circle drive home and pull into the parking lot of your apartment complex. it wasn’t as bad of an area as it could be, but it wasn’t that safe either. he liked to check it every now and then too, middle of the night, saturday evenings when he was home with lena and you got to leave early or had the day off.

he assumed, somehow, that you’d be in bars or parties at your college, maybe. but when he looks at your location late at night, you’re always at home. he checks other times too—but he’s just trying to keep you safe. (that’s what he tells himself—that finding another babysitter than lena liked and that he trusted would be a hassle. he needs to keep you safe.)

but it doesn’t seem like you like any of that stuff. he’s never seen you drink the beer in the fridge, though you offer one to him every now and then. you’ve met smurf and deran and craig before, like when you’d go to drop off lena before one of your classes, back before you had finished school.

you were smart—he knew that much. that was the kind of good example he needed around lena, someone who had gone through school and finished. he didn’t know what your degree was in, but it must’ve been something smart, something important. you were always typing on your computer and reading books. whatever it is that you studied, he wants someone in lena’s life that can help her with that stuff, stuff he doesn’t know much about, when it’s time.

you were smart enough to turn down every joint or bump that craig offered. you never accepted a drink from smurf that didn’t come from a can that you opened yourself. and baz used to tell him that you were just a local college kid, that you didn’t have any family nearby or anyone to occupy your time, really. 

it didn’t make sense—pretty girl like you. he would have thought you had a boyfriend, but if you do, you’ve never brought him around. and if he didn’t live with you or live at that coffee shop you liked that was down the street from your apartment, then he didn’t know if you even had one. maybe he shouldn’t spend any time thinking about your hypothetical boyfriend, but that’s just what comes up sometimes when he thinks about you for too long. like right now.

you look peaceful lying in his bed. your eyes flutter quickly like you’re having a dream, and he sits on the bed next to you, watching you sleep. your hair falls across your face, and his finger twitches. he almost moves his hand to brush the hair away, but he decides not to, settling for just watching you for another minute or two. 

the bed creaks slightly when he gets up. no one uses it much, so it’s a little weary. he doesn’t think the noise is anything, but your eyes blink open. the door’s open, light from the living room illuminating a sliver of the space.

he thinks he should get out before you can ask any questions, but he doesn’t, hovering over the bed while you look around. 

“andrew?” and god if it doesn’t sound different coming from your lips. you’re too tired to remember that you usually stick with mister cody, which is so formal it hurts. it sounds real, sincere, not filled with fear or anger or anything else. you haven’t even said anything and he thinks he’s losing his mind. 

it’s just the way you say it. there’s no question attached, no demand, no sacrifice. just you, making sure it’s him. 

“that couch is bad for your back,” he says. 

he knows it is, the couple times he tried to lay down and stare at the ceiling. he’s always sore, muscles screaming and joints aching but he knows how to ignore it. he doesn’t think you should start feeling like that. feels angry at the very idea that you would be sore after spending a night on the couch, taking care of his niece, looking after baz’s house. doing all the things that he’s too busy to do.

you take care of things. you do a good job too—figuring out how to get lena to eat and sleep again. making sure her routine doesn’t go awry just because he’s gone on a job all day. you remember things that he doesn’t even know about—activities with kids after school and how the school has soccer practice starting soon. you think a couple steps ahead when it comes to lena, and sometimes, he doesn’t think you see it as a job. 

like when you make enough breakfast for the three of you. leave dinner on a plate inside the microwave with a note on the counter. when you clean like it’s your house, make sure things stay in the place they’re supposed to, which is so much harder when there’s a kid around. he’s not stupid—it’s why he gives you so much money each week, shoves an envelope into your hand despite your protests. why the first thing he does after he gets his cut is make sure you get yours. 

and as hard as the thought is to swallow, he doesn’t think he could do all of this without you. 

“mmh-” you agree, making a soft noise. he wishes he could engrain it into his brain and replay it whenever he wants. “i thought you don’t sleep?” you ask, and he sees your lips turn up into a smile. he wishes the lights were on.

“i try,” he replies, realizing that he’s still hovering over you. he wonders why you weren’t scared the moment you woke up. “sometimes. i try.” 

“do you wanna try now?” you ask, whispering. and he goes silent—because what is he supposed to say that? 

you reach out in the dark for his hand, and he flinches, taking it back. but you don’t retreat, reaching out again until you’re grasping his fingers. 

“try for a couple hours. i set an alarm,” you say, and the way you say it, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea. you have a way of convincing him, or maybe it’s just late and you’re tired, and your sleepy voice isn’t helping matters. nor does the fact that you don’t seem even remotely concerned that you’re inviting him to come sleep on the bed next to you.

you sit up a little, and he regrets even staying as long as he did. you need your sleep, unlike him. you’re still holding onto his hand, and your skin is warm on his. it couldn’t really be, but it feels like it’s burning his, where your palm rests against his, where your fingers twist with his. 

“hey,” you start, slow and soft. “don’t think about it. just sleep for a little.” 

“yeah,” he says. “okay. a little.”

you move over, and when he lays down—back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling—it’s warm where your body was resting. you’re still holding onto his hand, not letting go. your grip is loose enough that he could free his hand easily, and even if it wasn’t, he could overpower you if he wanted.

but he doesn’t want to. and somewhere between your slow breaths and how you rub his knuckles, running your soft skin against dozens of old scars—because that’s his punching hand—andrew falls asleep.

you can hear it, his breaths getting steady, evening out. your hands stay together in the middle of the bed, between you, and you wonder for a split second how you’re going to deal with this in the morning, how you’ll make sense of this in daylight. the semblance of a professional relationship you had maintained this entire time might turn into dust in a couple hours. and then you breathe in andrew’s comforting scent, clean linen and saltwater, and fall back asleep.

the best thing about this house is the light and the waves. golden rays pour in through the half-way open blinds and you can hear the ocean crashing against the rocks in the distance. it’s the perfect way to wake up, even if it is six-thirty and your alarm is going off in the living room, where your phone must be.

you need to get up. you don’t want lena to wake up from the noise, even though you know she won’t—that girl can sleep through anything. it’s a problem for when she’s older, when she goes to college and there’s no one besides a roommate to make sure she doesn’t miss class. even half-asleep, you smile thinking about it.

and somehow, when you look on the other side of the bed, it hits you that it wasn’t a dream. andrew is asleep next to you, still in whatever clothes he was wearing throughout the day. a short sleeved button up and pants. you’re surprised that he didn’t fall asleep with his shoes on. 

he looks very calm when he sleeps. the lines of tension on his forehead and around his eyes are soft when he’s like this, his hair a mess and cheek smushed against the pillow, against your hand.

he’s still holding your hand. it makes a certain kind of warmth rain all over you, flooding you from inside out. he’s on top of the covers and you’re under the throw blanket, and you don’t remember doing that, which means that he did.

an exhausted, half-asleep andrew cody covered you up before he fell asleep on top of the covers. he fell asleep holding your hand and your chest hurts because he won’t wake up holding it still, since you need to go turn that stupid alarm off. 

he never sleeps, you know this. he’s never been asleep when you show up early, never heading to bed when you leave for the day. this bed is pretty much always made, sheets never rustled and not a pillow out of place because no one sleeps here. you hope you can start changing that.

you don’t want to pull your hand away from him. it’s so simple, so sweet that you can’t bring yourself to do it. that this whole time, andrew just needed someone to sleep beside him. you rest your head back on the pillow, continue staring, creepy as it is. you’ve never been able to study him like this before, have never been close enough. 

the hand holding onto yours is softer than you’d imagined. the veins running through his forearm are thick and tense, even when he’s like this. you think it might be from how tightly he’s holding onto your hand, like even in his sleep he’s worried he might lose you somehow. 

andrew cody has freckles—all across his arms and on his hands too. there’s a splatter of them across his nose and cheeks, places where he must have gotten burnt as a kid, maybe when he was lena’s age. the tips of his ears flush pink while he sleeps, and he snores. all things that make you smile, things that are so personal you feel your face getting warm, like you shouldn’t have access to that information. 

you need to turn that god-damn alarm off, before it wakes him up. you think you’d rather die than disrupt the few hours of peaceful sleep he’s getting right now. so you wriggle your hand, trying to find the best way to get it out of his grip and make sure you don’t wake him in the process. nothing’s working, even in his sleep he’s thrice as strong as you. the generic alarm tone keeps going in the background.

you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss to andrew’s cheek, whispering that you promise to be right back. and for a split second he moves around, and you regain control of your tingling hand.

the bed creaks a little when you get up, but you do it slowly so it’s not too loud. walk to the couch as fast as your bare feet will take you, looking down and realizing you’re still in andrew’s socks.

(his shirt and boxers too, but you’re choosing to ignore that for now. if someone walked in through the front door in this moment, it would look like you and him were something other than a guardian and babysitter. you think you’d actually enjoy trying to see him explain to his brothers why you’re in his clothes head to toe. you might like this more than you think you did.)

you can hear the ocean again once the alarm is turned off. it’s a beautiful thing to wake up too, you think, pulling open the curtains and looking outside on the street. people are on runs, doing yoga on the beach, watching the sunrise with their dogs.

and inside, andrew cody is sound asleep.

the first part of your day is waking up lena. she grumbles and takes five, sometimes ten, minutes to get up after you go in there. in that time, you set out clothes for her and then head back to the kitchen. you have a habit of making sure her backpack has everything—the colorful pens she’s always telling you about and yesterday’s homework. if she forgot something at home, the school would call andrew, and then andrew would call you, and you hate adding more work to his life. so, you make sure it’s all there before she leaves.

then breakfast—eggs and toast if you’re running late, pancakes if you got there early. it’s seeming like a pancake sort of day.

you make the batter and then pull out the bag of chocolate chips and head back to lena’s room. you use the semi-sweet morsels as an incentive to get her up, which works like a charm. while she’s changing and brushing her teeth, you make three pancakes. two for lena, and the first one you peeled that’s never quite as good is for you. 

lena comes to the table to eat her pancakes, and you tell her to stay just a little quieter than usual because her uncle pope is still sleeping.

“really?” she asks, and you feel something inside of you twist in discomfort. as if you had imagined before you met him, maybe he was sleeping, that maybe this was something recent. you smile at lena.

“yeah, sweetie, really.” 

you bring lena to school, come back home, and check on andrew—who is still sleeping. you cover him up with the blanket you’d slept under and then make three more pancakes and some scrambled eggs. there’s no bacon in the house or you would have made that too.

you scribble it on the grocery list and then head back inside the bedroom, carefully perching yourself on the edge of the bed and maybe a little too comfortable, too quick, run your fingers through his messy hair. he sighs against the pillow and it makes you smile immediately. you keep going, fingers not stopping until you see his eyes fluttering open. you don’t want to make him uncomfortable, though you don’t want to stop either. 

“i made breakfast,” you say quietly. andrew looks up at you, and then to your slept-in side of the bed. he moves, sitting up in the bed and you take back your hand tentatively. his hair is soft like you’d imagined.

��he wipes his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes. and when he looks at you, you feel any prudence that once was inside you melt away. well-rested, sleepy andrew cody, waking up in the bed you shared last night, while you tell him about the pancakes you made for him. you couldn’t have imagined this, for some reason, which makes it feel all the more real. 

“what time is it?” he asks, in a gruff, sleepy voice.

“almost nine, i think.” he looks up at you quickly.

“lena?”

“i brought her to school already. you-you were sleeping. i didn’t want to wake you.” 

“when did you get up?” 

“six-thirty. my alarm. remember?” you do remember telling him about it before you fell asleep, one of the last things you had said in a conversation that feels like it was light-years ago. 

“yeah.” you know better than to expect anything right now. he’s always been quiet, sentences curt and expressions relatively blank. you’ve had a few hours to simmer in it—think about what’ll happen tomorrow and next week and what it means to sleep in the bed next to the man whose niece you babysit. he just woke up a few minutes ago.

“well, there’s pancakes. and eggs. there’s no bacon but i’ll go get some later-”

“did you eat?” you catch his eye. perched on the bed next to him, you can see more than just green. brown too, around his pupils. not nearly as sad as they had seemed yesterday. 

“yeah. i had one.” 

“just one?” you don’t have an answer for that, but unusually confident, you stand up. 

“i’ll have a bite of yours if you come eat with me.”

and though you couldn’t have imagined it last night, you end up leaning against the counter with andrew, splitting bites of chocolate-chip pancakes (yours drenched in syrup, his comparably dry as a bone), and luke-warm scrambled eggs. 

he washes the dishes, and you put them away. it’s incredibly domestic. 

“i’m sorry about your clothes,” you say, sliding a plate back into the cupboard. “um, i’ll wash everything today.” you had to bring it up at some point.

and then andrew turns to look at you. head to toe, he stares, gaze flicking up and down for what seems like eons. you don’t have a guess for why, maybe he’s trying to decide if he’ll accept your apology.

(he’s trying to memorize it, capture it like a picture in his brain, seal it up and hold onto it forever. how you look right now—his white shirt, with nothing underneath, which must be why he can see the outline of your breasts when you turn to put another dish away. his boxers, that you bunched up around your waist, his socks, one rolled up around your ankle and the other halfway up your calf. did you go to the school drop-off in his clothes, too?)

“and i can wash your jacket too, i’m sorry. it was kind of cold and i don’t know where my hoodie is. i-i’m sorry.”

he turns to look at you again. you seem worried, chewing on your cheek, waiting for his answer.

“don’t wash the jacket,” he says, and turns back to the sink. he doesn’t want it to stop smelling like you, but you don’t need to know that.

“yeah. sure. i won’t. sorry again, andrew.” 

his heart thuds in this chest at the realization that you might never go back to calling him mister cody. 

the two of you finish the dishes. he wipes up the counter while you put away lena’s things, and then he grabs his keys and puts on his shoes. you stand there watching, feeling awfully close to something like a wife watching her husband about to leave her for the day. and when you open your mouth, you can’t stop it from coming out.

“do you know when you’ll be back?”

“i’ll be here for dinner. can you pick up lena?” he doesn’t want to leave you, but there’s about ten texts and three missed calls on his phone that he needs to deal with. when he shrugs his jacket on, it does, in fact, smell like you. it might be enough to keep him calm the rest of the day.

“yeah, of course. well.. i’ll go start the laundry.” a vision of you peeling off your—his—clothes plagues his mind momentarily. “i’ll see you later?” you say, smiling hesitantly. 

and without thinking too much about it, andrew comes up close to you, leans in a little awkwardly, and kisses your forehead.

“i’ll see you later.” he leaves you there in his shirt and socks, blinking stupidly at the door. 

+

andrew does come back for dinner. you make an attempt at chicken parm at lena’s request, which really just turns out to be a sort of chicken parm-casserole situation, but lena likes it and the garlic bread tastes good, so you will call it a win for now.

while you’re simmering sauce and frying the cutlets, your mind flicks through everything you know about lena’s uncle. he’d never once been anything but nice to you—nice is one way to put it. polite is another. courteous, appropriate, reserved. 

one night you had been waiting for him so you could leave, and he’d come home with lena’s other uncles. you had introduced yourself and smiled nicely, and when you left and gotten into your car, it hadn’t turned on. you remember debating if you should go back inside or just call triple a and wait, but somehow, andrew had known something was wrong. he had come out a few minutes later, told you that he would drive you home while his brother stayed at home and that he’d be back in a minute. 

he’d dropped you off at home and told you he’d come get you in the morning. and you had slept anxiously that night, wondering what was wrong with your car and how much of a disturbance it would be to andrew to come get you. 

but after the two of you had dropped lena off at school—again, disturbingly domestic—he brought you back to the house. and without any words at all, he worked on your car while you sat and watched. you held a flashlight when he needed it, and he said it shouldn’t happen again when he was done. 

and you guess that’s the kind of man andrew cody is.

true to his word, andrew comes home in time to eat dinner with you and lena. after dinner, since it’s friday, you let her have a brownie and a half, the ones you’d made earlier that day. you have one too and you offer one to andrew, but he shakes his head, and you’re only mildly disappointed.

you haven’t been home, so you’re wearing one of the dresses from the wrong overnight bag you’d brought here. (your disappointment goes away when you notice that he hasn’t stopped staring at your exposed thighs since the minute he walked through the door.)

lena watches a cartoon before bed and you try to clean up the rest of the kitchen, but it’s hard, since andrew’s done most of the leg-work already. he tucks lena in and you gather your belongings—and true to your word, you did laundry and put his clothes back in the exact place you found them. 

(you did steal another pair of socks, but you hardly think he minds now. he kissed you goodbye this morning like he was actually your husband, or something, and every minute you spend in this house washing dishes and scrubbing counters next to him is not helping. he stares at the straps of your dress like he could slip them off your shoulder with his mind, like it’s the only thing he’s thinking about. you don’t mind.) 

“she’s out,” he says, coming back into the living room. you’re sitting on the couch, knees tucked to your chest while you change the channel to one of those documentaries you’ve been so fond of recently. you turn to smile at andrew and he comes and takes a seat next to you. 

“that’s good. i can go soon.” but you make no effort to move, staring at the screen in front of you. this one is about sea-life, shades of blue flooding ahead of you both. 

“you can stay,” andrew says, quiet like always. “if you want.” his voice is deep and gravelly, and the words he says scratch an itch somewhere deep inside of you, and the relief is visible on your body. you sink a little further into the sofa, knees falling next to andrew’s, thighs touching. 

“if that’s okay with you.” you whisper it, as if saying it too loudly might make the entire idea crack open and fall apart.

you two stay like that for a while. you don’t know when, but andrew swings an arm around your shoulder, and you rest your head against his chest, collapsing into his comfortable grip. you can hear his heart beating, can feel every breath he takes. his hand brushes the top of your shoulder every time you breath, and his other hand is clasped with yours. you watch schools of fish and pods of dolphins, and you think that any other night, you could fall asleep like this. 

“andrew?” you ask, still staring straight ahead. you brush your fingers over his knuckles like you had done last night, and you can feel his hand tense under your touch, until it finally relaxes. “do you want to go to bed?” 

“yeah, kid,” he says. “let’s go to bed.” 

and you’ll be damned if the domesticity doesn’t kick you in the stomach, sucker punch you in the chest and knock all the wind out of you. andrew turns the tv off, puts the remote back in the right place. and then he picks you up, and you make a quiet noise of surprise, underestimating him momentarily. you should know better.

one hand wraps around your legs and the other around your back, bridal-style (fitting, you think), and he sets you down on the creaky bed. you worry, how loud it’ll be and how you’ll have to be quiet but then andrew hovers over you, nothing but a tiny lamp brightening up the room, and you lose your train of thought.

“you sure you wanna do this?” he asks, that rough voice again. like you’ve thought about anything else for the last twenty-four hours. you nod quickly, bringing your hands to his chest, and then his arms, fingers tracing the sinewy veins and thrumming muscles up and down on both sides. his eyes shut while you do it, breaths getting heavy and deep. but you keep going—it’s only fair. you’ve only thought about it a million times. 

“does that feel good?” you whisper, and he lets out a quiet, almost painful groan.

“y-yes,” and you smile, fingers moving on their own while you lean in for the kiss you’ve been waiting for. 

andrew’s mouth is hot, and his kisses are like fire. as soon as your lips touch, he pins you all the way down, his body weight on top of yours. he kisses you the same way he had held your hand last night, the same way he held you on the couch, like you’ll slip away if he stops for even a second. your lips start to ache, but you moan quietly into his mouth, letting him swallow them while you still stroke his arms. one day, you’ll crawl into his lap and play with his hands until he’s sick of you, but today, you need to feel him. 

you can’t do much from your position, but you can wrap your legs around his waist, one hand going towards his chest to pull at his shirt. he takes it off in one motion, yanking the fabric at the back until it comes off, messing up his hair while he pulls it. your free hand goes there, running through his hair again. you use it to steady yourself, gaining leverage while he keeps kissing you like there’s nothing else for him to do. like his life depends on it. he thinks it just might.

“an-andrew,” you get out in gasps, moving your mouth away for a second. “i need to breathe,” you pant, but he doesn’t stop, kisses your cheek and your jaw and buries his face in your neck. you feel the skin there between his lips, then his teeth, and you grip hard on his arm while he keeps going. you want him to keep going, you want to see the marks he leaves tomorrow and every other day. you want everyone to look at you and know that he’s the one who left them. and you think your wish is about to come true.

your fingers let go of his arms and he groans against your skin—there’s no words but you know he didn’t want you to stop. instead you guide them to both sides of his face, staring up at him and then bringing him back in for another kiss. you think you’d be perfectly content to do this forever, that you could spend hours, days, weeks in bed kissing andrew cody. that you’d be stupid to ever leave this bed, leave this house, when there’s a man here who kisses you like each touch of your lips is a prayer, like he’s here to worship. 

he’s not hesitant anymore, not wondering if you’re going to pull away and walk out and ask to pretend this never happened. you keep your hands on his face, and then work down to his jaw and neck, clasping your arms around to keep him in place. 

and his mind is empty. he thinks he should know what to do with you, with your labile body flush against his, all the things he’s been thinking about for the last months, if not at least what he was thinking since this morning. you’re still in your little dress, one of the thin straps fallen over your shoulder and dangling on the skin of your upper arm. he pulls away and you whine, another noise he wishes he could capture somehow. it’s a melody, one he wants to keep hearing. 

you wish he hadn’t stopped the kiss, and you expect him to lean right back in after you both catch your breath, but he doesn’t. andrew’s hovering over you, eyes fixated on your shoulder, staring intently at the strap of your dress. 

“andrew?” you whisper, the hand on his neck rubbing the tense skin there, wondering if you could get your kiss back. “is something wrong?”

his lovely eyes flicker up to you, staring while you swallow and wait patiently. maybe you’d been too eager, maybe he was having regrets—after all, you’re the nanny and he’s the dad and maybe you’d been too presumptuous in assuming that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him—

“no. nothing’s wrong.” you sigh a tiny breath of relief, it comes out before you even notice. but andrew is nothing if not perceptive, and he wraps his hand around your back and lays you back on his bed. 

“why did you stop?” you question, flustered and embarrassed as the words come out, sounding like a spoiled child. but you suppose you had been spoiled these last few hours, getting everything you wanted—his hot touch, breathless kisses, the ability to finally see what the veins on his arms feel like under your palm. 

he doesn’t answer your question, just flicks his eyes back to your shoulder. and then he leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the end of your collarbone, tracing more kisses down through the length of your shoulder, stopping when he reaches the skimpy cotton of your dress. you take deep breaths, watching it happen in front of you. he repeats the same with the other side, pulls the strap down like he’s unfolding a gift, kisses your skin like you’re his present. and you think you are.

there’s nothing between you two except your thin dress, and you pull on it eagerly, trying to get it off, when his hands come and stop on top of yours.

“you’ll rip it,” andrew says, fingers going towards the zipper in the back, undoing it slowly.

“i don’t care,” breathless, eager, unable to wait even another minute to get what you want. he pulls the zipper all the down, your dress falling off as your shrug out of it. 

and you want another kiss, you want his touch, you want something, anything—but all you get is andrew staring at your naked body. and you think somehow this is worse than anything else, anticipation burning in your belly painfully. your thighs feel sticky and sore and your underwear is soaked through. and all he’s done is kiss you. 

“you’re perfect,” he says quietly, and you feel your entire face burn hot. you don’t think you’ve ever felt like this before—and you know how andrew is. he doesn’t lie, he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. 

you tilt your head up, pressing your lips to his for a moment, a soft kiss in contrast to the ones from earlier.

“so are you,” and you kiss him again, smiling against his mouth. he feels it, though he doesn’t smile back. and when he pulls away, he looks down at you, naked and willing in his bed, smiling up at him and telling him he’s perfect, when you don’t even know half the monster he is. “you are,” you repeat, watching andrew’s eyes as he thinks a million thoughts in his head, carries a million burdens on his shoulders. “even if you don’t believe me. i think you’re perfect.” 

you feel cheesy saying it, though you know there isn’t another man in the world who needs to hear it more. you can hear him make a noise of protest, like he doesn’t think you mean it, and incredibly desperate for him to believe you, you sit up.

your hands go to sturdy shoulders while you try to get him to move, until he’s sitting back against the headboard and you can crawl onto his lap. he’s silent, watching you as you do it, exposed body flush against his skin, and yet, you don’t feel scared. you don’t feel embarrassed, or worried. you just want to make him feel good.

you start with a kiss to his jaw. andrew’s body tenses under yours, the slightest bit of contact making him groan and buck up, his hands tight on the soft skin of your waist to keep you both steady. you work your way down to his neck, pressing kisses everywhere in your path. 

“do you want to know what i’ve thought about you?” you ask, though you don’t wait for an answer. you kiss down his chest, stopping at the strong muscles of his chest and the old bruises and scars that cover some of them. “i thought that you’re so good at taking care of your family.” you move down to his abs, more kisses, hearing more noises from andrew that you never would have thought he would make for you. he takes shuddering breaths, not replying to you but grunting from pleasure while you keep going. “i thought that you’re so good to me. that i don’t have to worry since i know i can always come to you.” you think of your car and the money he gives you and how you woke up in bed despite falling asleep on the couch. 

finally you make your way to the waistband of his jeans, undoing the belt with surprisingly steady hands. he reaches down, his hands covering yours for a moment, but you stare up at him with your glassy eyes, not even pulling the entire belt off, just enough to get you what you need—what you want. and then you undo his zipper, tug down his boxers, and take his girthy length into your hand, stroking up and down while still staring up at him. 

“can i take care of you, andrew?” and you don’t realize how it must sound to him, his head thudding back onto the pillow. you press a gentle kiss to his leaking tip, both hands wrapped around his dick and stroking while you wait for your answer. 

“y-yes, yes-” and you don’t wait any longer, taking as much of andrew into your mouth as you can fit. you drive your mouth up and down, your hands twisting around the base, everything wet and warm and sticky from your spit. and you think you would do this forever, that you would do this everyday if you could hear the noises he makes and how his body takes the pleasure you give him. you gag around him, feeling his hand snake into your hair, pulling you off gently. you smile up at him, though you’re sure you look like a mess, hot tears running down your cheeks and lips shiny and wet. 

but you don’t stop—licking up and down until you bring him back into your mouth. you can feel how embarrassingly wet you are right now, can feel yourself leaking onto your thighs and the sheets, wanting friction as badly as you wanted to make andrew feel good right now. and then you hear it—andrew’s moan, louder than any of the other noises and full and from the chest. he bucks up into your mouth and you take it, ready to hear what he sounds like when he finishes, when he pulls you off of him. 

“andrew—” you whine, as though you were the one about to come. he pulls you up, naked bodies pushed against each other, and kisses you until you feel light-headed.

“not until you do,” he murmurs, and you feel dizzy all over again.

“but i’m not done,” still eager to kiss the rest of his body and tell him how good he is, until he starts to believe you. you wrangle out of his loose grip, knowing full well if he wanted to stop, he could have. he could pin you down and do whatever he wanted to you and you wouldn’t be able to fight him, a thought that makes you feel like you’re going to faint. but you resume quickly, starting at his shoulders—stopping to admire all the sunspots spattered there—and starting your journey again, working down his bicep and to his freckled forearm, the ones you stared at whenever the opportunity presented itself, the one you thought about all the time.

andrew doesn’t know about that, and you’re not sure you can bear to tell him. it feels too revealing, despite how you’re naked on top of him, your breasts pressed against him and wet pussy on top of his hard, leaking dick. but sure—that’s what you get nervous about. 

you stop and trace all the veins with your fingers, feeling him pulse underneath you, repeating on both sides. he’s got his head tilted back, soft groans filling the empty space between you as you keep going. if they’re this sensitive for him, you can only imagine what it would feel like for you, especially the one leading down to the middle of his wrist—and then the words slip out before you can realize you had said them out loud.

your face goes hot again. he looks up at you a little confused, and you have to stop yourself from collapsing and burying your face into the pillow next to you.

“andrew?” you ask, shy and embarrassed and yet not stopping yourself at all. 

“you… you like my arms?” he says, and you feel your face heat up.

but so many things have happened already that you couldn’t have even dreamt about twenty-four hours ago, so you think it’s worth a shot. (that’s a lie. you have dreamt about this, so many times that you’ve woken up in your bed covered in a cold sweat, that you’ve burned through a vibrator and ruined pillows imagining what it would be like to rub yourself against his veiny arms. you guess you’re about to find out). 

your fingers trace the length of them again.

“i like everything about you,” you say quietly, understanding just how silly you sound. “but we don’t have to do anything.” you try to cover your tracts, worried you’ve just messed up the incredible time you’ve been having so far littering his body with kisses and feeling butterflies in your cunt from the fact that andrew will be inside of you soon. 

“how would you-” andrew starts, and you watch him carefully as he gets out the next few words. “do it? how?” and it’s just cut and dry way he speaks, though it’s really going to your head (and other places) right now. 

“well, i-”

“show me.” oh. 

you feel yourself pulse and throb in response to his words. even below you, you can still feel how hard andrew is. you try to start positioning yourself, but you must be moving too slowly for him, and you feel his hand on your ass, grabbing you and pushing you up to his chest, face to face. he lays his arm next to you, watching your naked body as you try to balance yourself between it, his free arm on your hip, keeping you steady. 

when you lower yourself, just an inch or two, just until you feel the ridge of his forearm and you can decide what to do after realizing that you are, in fact, doing this, andrew curses under his breath.

“fuck, you’re so wet.” he can feel it. feel you, on his arm, leaking, for him. you take a deep breath, pressing your hands against his chest to keep your balance, moving your hips up and down slowly. and your eyes flutter shut because fuck, if it isn’t better than every fantasy you’ve ever had.

you hadn’t known that your pathetic attempts to recreate this at home would have never lived up to the real thing, and now you realize you’ll never be able to go back to anything else but andrew, that no one else could make you feel this way. months of pent-up desire leave your body as you rock yourself against him, finally getting the stimulation you’ve been craving.

when you open your eyes, just for a second, you see andrew, his eyes glued to where your pussy meets his arm, his breaths heavy and deep, like he wouldn’t look away from the sight before him for anything.

and then you feel the veins rub against your clit, and your eyes roll back into your head. you keep going, trying to muffle your moans and sighs, but you can’t get the image out of your head—andrew staring at you, like he wanted this as much as you’ve wanted it, like he needs to see you cum like this. you start going faster, the friction and the slide from your juices making it easier and the veins rubbing at you just the right way—

he leans in, putting one of your peaked nipples into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it, before letting go and repeating the same with the other one. but it’s really when andrew starts talking that you’re pulled over the edge, his hand hot on your back.

“please,” he says, and you feel yourself falling into it, hanging onto every raspy word, so much better than you could have ever dreamed, “-i-i need you to cum for me. i need to feel you, i need to see it, please-”

and you do. you always listen to andrew, all the white-hot tension wound up in your belly releasing, flooding your entire body with the relief you’ve been wanting all night. your body tightens up, stopping, but he moves you with the huge hand on your hip, makes you rub on him all through it, pulling your body like you’re a toy for him.

your mind is empty while your toes curl and uncurl, thighs aching and sore in this position. andrew ushers you towards him, and you collapse on his chest, heaving and sweaty and tired—and the realization hits you that he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

he kisses you while he has you trapped in his arms, your eyes shut as you breathe him in, moan into his mouth and let him swallow it. 

“y-your arm,” you get out, realizing you’re not speaking in coherent sentences. “i’m sorry-”

“why?” he asks, and you shut up instantly. “didn’t know you liked them that much.” 

he laughs quietly, a sound you have only heard a few times. you laugh against his chest for a moment, before pulling him in for another kiss. this time, it deepens, and he gets you on your back in front of him before he pulls away. you stare up at him, mind empty and chest heaving, seeing how his eyes stay on your tits, and you reach up, putting your hands on his chest while he hovers over you.

“it might hurt,” he says, and you feel your entire body tighten, your walls clench at his words. there’s nothing but truth behind his statement—it’s not meant to be arrogant or boastful, he’s warning you. it’s going to hurt, you know it is—you could barely fit half of him in your mouth and it took you both hands to be able to comfortably stroke him.

but the way he says it elicits a fire in you, and suddenly you need him now, no matter how much it hurts. 

“i don’t care, andrew, please,” you beg, staring up at him. he still hovers, licking his lips and staring at your how tits bounce while you beg him to fuck you—a thought that he cannot process, even with you splayed out in front of him. he brings his arms out, fingers teasing your sensitive nipples until you’re covering your own mouth to avoid being too loud and you think you’re going to black out. (even in the dim light you can see the shine on his forearm from you, and the memory of it takes over your mind like a twister.) 

“i have to stretch you out first.” the words possess your body like a demon. andrew takes your knees and spreads them apart, and no matter how hard you try to close them, you can’t compete against him. when he slides in one huge finger, your eyes roll back. he slips in so easily, the noise is obscene. the second finger goes in just as quickly, but there’s more resistance. two of his fingers are at least three of yours (if not more, you think, and then you want to faint again). the stretch is delicious, your pulsing walls realizing that this has been what you’ve been craving all along. that no toys or pillows or fingers of your own could ever compare.

when he slips a third finger in, he doesn’t change the pace. just keeps pushing them in and out of you like you’re a toy he’s testing the limits with, seeing how much you can take before you break. there’s no instructions for you besides to sit back and take it—and your toes curl and your head spins at how good he feels. the stretch hurts, but you want it so badly, you hear yourself crying out and saying incoherent things. you think you see andrew smile from where he is, watching your cunt suck his fingers in, his entire hand coated in your juices.

and when he hovers over you, bringing his tip to your entrance and prodding against you for a moment, you think you’re in heaven. he’s so flushed, tips of ears and his cheeks pink, sweat coating his body, just like yours. you can only imagine how hard he is, how you’ll get to feel how hard he is soon enough. his eyes stay at your pussy, pushing in, just barely, but you need more. you bring your hands to his arms, holding onto him while he slides in, and when you feel him push all the way in—so much bigger than you could have imagined, three of his fingers is nothing compared to this, nothing, nothing, nothing—he’s on top of you and kissing you. 

whatever noises you make are tuned out—your ears are ringing and you can’t hear anything besides andrew’s grunts and moans as they come into your mouth. you keep kissing him, pulling on his lower lip and feeling his tongue on yours, but your entire body goes slack when he starts on a brutal pace, pulling all the way out and slamming into you. the bed is creaky, and the only noise besides it is the obscene one—the squelch of your soaking wet cunt taking andrew all the way, the repetitive slap of his skin meeting yours. you feel everything—the pressure of his hands while he holds you incredibly tightly, the fullness in your cunt that makes it feel like you can’t breathe.

and then andrew kisses your lips and makes a noise that makes you leak even more, and you know you’ll be just fine.

“i-i want-” he starts, and you feel him slow down the pace slightly.

“please, andrew,” you beg, and he resumes, fucking into you with an intensity that reminds you how badly he wants you, how long he’s wanted this. it reminds you of every time you caught him staring, every time you smiled at him wondering what he was thinking. and now you think you know—maybe he was thinking about something like this.

“i want another one,” he says into the skin of your neck, feeling him lick the sweat there and kiss the skin. “i want to feel it while i’m inside-” and god if you can’t comply. you want to do every single thing he tells you for the rest of your life, you don’t want to make another decision without andrew cody. 

he changes the position, pulling out of you for a second and making you whine again. (spoiled, you think, he’s spoiled me for anyone else forever.) he holds both of your knees up and spreads them wide and wraps your arms around them, keeping them in place. and then he slides back inside of you in one swift movement, making your eyelids flutter shut. he doesn’t get right on top of you, leaving space between you that makes it impossible to lean in for a kiss, and you keep whining, impossibly and irrationally angry that you can’t kiss him, wondering why he wants you like this, when you feel his fingers circle your clit slowly—then quickly.

your head falls back onto the pillow. andrew can feel you pulsing around him, walls clenching every time he rubs your sensitive clit, and that’s what he wants, that’s what he needs, wants to feel you cum around his dick and squeeze him even tighter than you are right now. wants to see how you look completely fucked out, wants to see if you can give him a third. (he’ll get it, he decides, later. he’ll give you a chance to breathe, get you water after this. all the things he would do to take care of you, just like how you deserve, how a husband would take care of his wife.) 

because at the end of the day, isn’t that what you two basically already are? you couldn’t be a girlfriend, because you have to get comfortable around a girlfriend. 

no, he thinks, watching your fucked-out, flushed body take him like you were made for it. you already know him, know what he likes and doesn’t like, know how to make him feel good like you had been inside of his head already. you have been inside. you’re all he thinks about. that’s a wife, that is something that is forever, what the two of you have. 

he doesn’t realize how hard he’s going, how fast, or how you’ve been squealing with your entire body tensing while he was stuck in his thoughts about you. this time when you finish, it explodes through you, the electric current staring from your core and spreading to every finger and toe. you jolt, legs shaking and head heavy, the after effect rolling through you while andrew keeps fucking you, keeps going even though he should probably stop. you’re incoherent, writhing and crying and feeling completely numb and like your entire body is burning all at once. 

and when you blink open your watery eyes at andrew, smile sweetly and reach out for a kiss, one that he happily gives you, you say it quietly.

“i love you, andrew.” and you feel his thrusts stutter, his body weight almost collapsing on you. you feel andrew cum, feel it filling you up while you listen to his quiet moans and run your hands over his tense muscles, saying sweet things that he can barely understand in this state. 

he rolls over minutes later, not pulling out until you were done kissing him. the room is filled with nothing but your heavy breaths. you need a shower, and you need to sleep.

you curl up on andrew’s chest like you had been on the couch what felt like a lifetime ago. you play with his fingers and he runs his other hand up and down the expanse of your arm. you can hear birds outside—and you know you need to get up soon, but you can’t find any words. 

“you think that was enough?” andrew asks, and you look up at him with a confused expression. he looks at you with so much sincerity you feel like crying. your andrew.

“what do you mean?” you ask quietly, still not sure what he’s even talking about. your head is spinning and your eyes are tired—every part of you is tired.

“we can go again after you get some sleep. it might take more than once.”

“andrew?”

“you don’t have to worry about it. i’ll figure it out. i won’t stop until i put a baby in you.”

♡ thank you for reading

[bluemerakis]

being approached by a tipsy soldier boy at a bar while playing pool with your friends, large palm edging into the corner of your vision as he cups the rim of the pool table with intent. his large frame hovers beside you at a distance far enough to be considered mindful—but not shy—the cool beer bottle he’s got in clutch ghosts up your back as he casually beckons for your attention. his lips find your ear almost effortlessly, a charming smirk perking the corner of his lips once you spare him a glance over your shoulder.

“next game’s on me, sweetheart,” he declares loudly through the bustling atmosphere, hot breath caressing your temple while the scent of one-too-many beers strangle your senses. he’s intoxicatingly bold, that’s for sure. “if i win, there’s a bathroom round back that you ‘nd i can get real cosy in. but if you win, feel free to tell me to fuck off like every other sorry dickhead who’s tried their luck this evenin’.”

you’re an inch away from being nose-to-nose with the unknown, albeit attractive man, but for some reason, you don’t attempt to put any space between your bodies. if anything, there’s a magnetic air to him that keeps you drawn in—close and personal—like a planet doomed to crash into the centre of it all.

was that what he was—trouble? you don’t need to ponder that question for long, not when you’re close enough to study every hypnotising feature on his face—the devilish look to his eyes, the beckoning glint to his perfect teeth, and the way his lips hover ever so loosely, like he’s waiting to claim a taste of you.

and just for tonight, you’re offering.

you angle your torso to face him more directly, but he doesn’t move to give you the space. doesn’t even attempt to. and he’s got a lazy, lopsided smirk plastered to his lips as he studies your every feature, head tilting slightly, like he’s just waiting for your inevitable fall into his arms.

“please,” you huff mockingly, hand clutching your pool stick firmly. “i come here enough to know who’s the reigning champion of the game, and it’s kinda hard to miss your face when it’s plastered to the posters stuck in every corner of this joint,” you point out. “you’ll win me for sure.”

he listens closely, head subtly lowering into your space—like he’s latching onto your every word, and then cocks an eyebrow at your statement that tells you he has zero intent to be humble about his title.

“well, that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me, now would it, sweetheart?” he drawls with a throaty chuckle, chin perking as he glares you down with silent resolve. “c’mon, all i’m askin’ is that ya entertain a bored man on an even more borin’ night—i’ll take it easy on ya. promise,” he adds with a sly wink, gaze narrowing expectantly as he lifts his beer to his lips for a greedy swig.

for a moment, neither one of you say anything further, but the air between you thickens with the silent tension. you return his calculating stare with your own, like you’re weighing the risks of his offer. not that it mattered, really, because the answer had already been decided. you’d come here for a night of fun, and you’d be damned to let the first exhilarating opportunity slip away.

“okay,” you say finally, head tilting mischievously as your hand tightens around the tip of the pool stick. “challenge accepted,” you chirp, to which he raises his half-emptied bottle in a triumphant cheers. “but don’t you dare take it easy on me,” you add with a challenging smirk, your hand making a suggestive stroke down the stick. “i can handle myself. i’m not a sore loser, but i am a generous winner.”

his eyes track your motion intently, his motives rather focused despite the way his pupils are blown wide with liquor and irrationality alike. he drags his lazy stare back up to eye-level, the corner of his lips quirking. “was only ever being courteous, doll,” he says lowly, finally pushing himself from the support of the table.

he twists around briefly to grab a stick from the opposite table before facing you with a jut of his chin. “my bad for thinkin’ that a gal like you needs the easy handout. i’ll be sure to sport my fuckin’ a-game,” he says with a wink, shifting to brush past you before he reappears at your other side. his lips find your ear once more, beer-adorned hand coming up to brush your hair out of gloat’s way. “easiest win o’ the night,” he murmurs smugly before retreating from your space with the tip of his tongue poking out between his teeth.

you whip around to face him with an amused shake of your head. “oh, it’s so fucking on,” you chuckle in disbelief, the grip on your pool stick firming up.

“now that’s what i’m fuckin’ talkin’ ‘bout!” he says loudly—like he’s announcing it to the rest of the bar. a few heads turn to look, but he doesn’t spare them a second of the night. he’s got all his focus on you. and his gaze doesn’t once stray, not even has he brings his beer to his lips to drown what thawed beverage remains to free his hands for the game.

and then it finally commences.

he didn’t go easy on you, that’s for sure. hell, he doesn’t even go easy on you now as he practically drags you along to the bar’s bathroom, large hand clasped around your wrist. his free hand comes forward to push the door open, and it swings back in an effortless surrender before he slips inside and you’re tugged along after him like a dog on a leash.

he spins around and pulls you into his torso with a practised ease, taking full advantage of your position to reverse you into the door until it slams shut like a blaring announcement to all the bar’s inhabitants to stay clear of this space. your back presses against the cool wood, his hands trailing from your waist to grip at the hems of your dress, where he tugs until it’s lifted over your head. it’s tossed aside almost instantly before his hands find your underwear, and his lips dive in to find the skin of your neck.

his lips slur kisses along the flushed skin while his fingers hook into your waistband, tugging in a notion for you to shed the coverage. he breaks away only to allow the shimmy of your legs, your lace bottoms pooling at your feet before he dives right back in to claim ownership of your lips with a kiss that leaves you utterly ruined. his hands slither back up to your hips to grip and squeeze the fat, eventually pulling you from the kind support of the door.

he breaks off the kiss with an impatient grunt, twirling you around and ushering you toward the counter with a palm to the small of your back. your hips collide with the rim, and he wastes no time in bending your bare body over the cool marble, your stomach pressed flat against the surface.

“now ain’t this a familiar view,” he laughs darkly, hand gliding up your back to hook a finger under your bra. “help a man out, would ya, doll?” he asks with a pointed yank of the clasp.

normally, you’re content to let men suffer and figure it out. but right now, you’re impatient and squirming, eager to have your own win of the night. so obediently, you twist your hands backwards to grab ahold of your bra’s clasp, where you work to undo it while his touch retreats and he shifts behind you to match your effort in undoing his belt.

it’s not long before his erection slips between your thighs and burrows into the slicked heat of your cunt, the cramped space echoing with the strained grunt that brews in his throat. his hands take up grip on either hip as he hollows you out with the first of his thrusts, the motion brutal as it snaps your lower half into the counter.

“you’re a mess down here,” he chuckles, the sound somewhat impressed. “a hot, wet mess. thought you seemed all worked up out there. guess you’re more o’ a sore loser than ya thought,” he adds with a satisfied scoff, squeezing your hips to add to his point before he pulls your body further his exploration and thrusts up into you.

you let out a broken gasp as your cheek presses against the marble, eyes fluttering closed around the sensation of your walls being stretched out—his to mould whichever way he pleases. and he seems hellbent on doing just that—internally branding you.

he glides one delicate hand over the curve of your ass before settling at the small of your back, where he presses your stomach into the countertop to maximise the pressure he’s subjecting you to. the sensation is godsent in combination with his thrusts, and you find yourself clenching around his every movement.

“told ya you’d be the easiest win o’ the night,” he taunts lowly—the sound strained and slightly breathless.

you strangle a moan before finding your tongue. “i’m not easy,” you protest indignantly, but the sound comes out weak. flustered. your palms find purchase atop the slippery field of marble as you arch your hips into his with enough force to temporarily subdue his thrusts, lifting your cheek to cast a challenging glare over your shoulder.

he meets your stare with one of warning, but the gesture hardly has time to translate before the hand on your back glides up your bare skin and over your shoulder, where it wraps around the front of your neck. there, his grip on you firms up enough to choke the air—and the nerve—right out of you, before he uses the unfair leverage to tug you off the countertop.

your back crashes back into his clothed chest, the contrast in modesty burning your cheeks hot. but the grasp on your throat doesn’t leave you enough air to complain—about the crudeness of it all, or about the way he’s gripping you as surely as he’d held his pool stick during the last round.

his head lowers to your level, his lips wrapping around the lobe of your ear for a quick nibble before retreating to whisper, “you’re easy enough.”

your hands wrap around the arm that imprisons you, your throat bopping beneath his grip with the silent plea for air. but he’s surprisingly quick to relent as he finally loosens his hold on you, hand tracing over your collar bone and across your breast for a snarky squeeze before he shifts to bend you over the counter once more.

“you look better bent over the bathroom counter than you do over the pool table—sure as hell perform better here, too,” he remarks suddenly, hands finding a steadying grip at your waist as his thrusts make a brutal comeback. he lifts a hand only to whip it across your ass cheek in a spank, urging a strangled moan from your lips. it’s a sound ridiculous enough to make him chuckle before he rubs a soothing line over the skin, almost gentle enough to make you believe it was an apology.

“not a sore loser, huh?” he recalls your words from earlier. “i want ya to show me that ya ain’t all talk, sweetheart. i want you to come for me—all over my fuckin’ dick. can ya do that for me, hm?”

you wince at the rapid pace he adapts, and the way he seems to excavate your core like a starved man searching for gold—like he’s already made up his mind for you. your palms sprawl across the counter before you, your vision becoming blurry with the mingle of pain and pleasure that burns your eyes teary. at this rate, it’s not if you can come completely undone for him—it’s when, and how many times.

“god—yes,” you sputter out breathlessly, your walls clenching around him with every second that passes.

“atta girl,” he praises gruffly, fingers tightening into the flesh of your hips as he drives your body into the counter. “god, you feel so fuckin’ good. so fuckin’ tight,” he breathes into the space, folding over at the waist to press himself against your back—like you’re finally wearing him out for a change. his jaw finds the slope of your shoulder as he settles his full weight over you, but his pace below doesn’t stutter. it wouldn’t dare. “knew i was right to take a fuckin’ chance on ya. prettiest girl in the room with a cunt slicker than any o’ my shittiest pickup lines. gonna come inside o’ ya—fill ya up real good. you want that, huh?” he grunts against your slick skin.

you utter a string of moans in acknowledgment, but your high is too close to allow any tangible words to part your lips. you’re overwhelmed with the pleasure, your body completely surrendering to him with a malleability that rocks your forms in unison. it’s a clear enough answer that has him grunting with every thrust, desperately chasing the high that’ll finally snap the string that winds both your bodies taut.

and then his tip finds your cervix in one final bruising motion, forcing a broken gasp from your lips. “oh, fuck!” you breathe out, and he harmonises with his own broken grunt, the grip on your body bruising as he latches onto something—anything that’ll ground him in the midst of his climax.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he pants against you, one hand releasing your waist as he lifts it to brush back the hair cascading over your collapsed head. he lets out a soft chuckle as he catches a glimpse of your red-tinted cheeks, his head tilting to get a better view of the absolute mess he’s reduced you to. “now that’s what i call a real fuckin’ win,” he says haughtily. “looks like i’m two-for-one this evenin’.”

“so charmingly humble,” you scoff weakly against the counter.

he leans in to place a kiss on your neck before retreating from your proximity, leaving your back bare and exposed. the inner of your thighs are slick with the mingle of your juices, seeping through the crevices of your plugged entrance like a testament to the pleasurable moment. for a few seconds, he hovers within your warmth, hands lingering against your back, before he finally pulls himself from your entrance with more caution than he’d exercised this entire evening.

behind you, the sound of his belt clinks into the space as he makes himself proper, and you push yourself off of the counter to face him. he catches your eye with a douchey smirk, hand coming forward to pinch your chin.

“you’re a shitty soloist, sweetheart,” he says, and your face contorts with an affronted expression, but he cuts you off before you’re afforded a comeback. “but a goddamn good team-player. i’d wish you better luck next time, but for my sake, i hope you suck just as much.”

he drops a suggestive wink before releasing your chin, briefly trailing his knuckles down your jaw before turning his back on you. he reaches for the bathroom door, clicking it open and slipping through the crack without so much as a second glance back.

a/n. not proof read soz

[lululocomo]

The new past AU: The attack

CW: blood (not very visible)

Finally sharing this art✨ the shiny stuffs are magical/celestial spearheads, don't question too much how this work or how this could cause fire, it just did-

Writing of the scene under the cut! Enjoy!! (angst with a happy ending ofc)

It was a peaceful and calm day on Flower Fruit Mountain, and today, MK was with his dad and the pilgrims.

Macaque was taking his usual stroll in the peach orchard, appreciating this beautiful corner of his home.  when this uneasy feeling slowly crawled under his skin. He could feel it, something was about to happen.Wanting to know the source of this feeling, he used his enhanced hearing. But even with it, he wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact origin of the disturbance; only that it was coming from the celestial realm.

The next moments all happened so fast: focusing all his attention toward the sky high above, Macaque never expected the sound of commotion coming from his very home. 

How was this possible?? He was convinced the problem is with the celestials, there is no way the mountain was the target- oh - oh no- now everything made sense.”Heaven is attacking”.

How could this happen?? How could the Six Eared Macaque not hear an incoming attack?! He’s supposed to protect this place! This couldn’t be real, this was a nightmare, and he can’t wake up. 

He rushed to the source of commotion, hearing only screams and noises that will forever haunt him, forgetting his shadow power in his panic.

Finally leaving the forest and at the border of the clearing, his heart sank with the scene his eye lay upon:

The mountain is covered in flames, the village is destroyed, and monkeys are escaping the chaos the best they could.

With a shaky breath, Macaque looks around, he needs to find the author of this monstrosity, and make them regret their actions.That’s when he looked up: there he was “Erlang Shen”, attacking his beloved home. 

Macaque was ready to jump at his throat, but Erlang summoned another round of his celestial spears, aiming what was left of the village. Rage clouded his mind, but before he could unleash his wrath, he got distracted by a noise: a small chirp ; barely audible even with his hearing.Then he saw: in the middle of the celestial aims, a cub, curled up in a ball, so small that Erlang mustn't have seen her. And if Macaque doesn’t do something, the spear will kill her. So, without thinking twice, Macaque jumps to protect the cub, not caring about getting hurt. Ignoring the throbbing pain coming from his shoulder, he look down at the cub, relieved to see they are unharmed.He turns his head toward the attacker, baring his teeth and glaring at him with eyes filled with rage.

Erlang high in the sky, stopped his attack upon noticing Macaque.He open his mouth and start talking to him:

 “Consider this a warning, do not even try to go against heaven ever again”.

 “What’s the meaning of this- this unjustified violence Erlang?!EXPLAIN YOURSELF!” 

Erlang, look down, no visible emotion on his face “ I have nothing against you, Six eared Macaque, I was only doing what I was ordered to do.”

“Ordered?? What, are we seen as a threat to receive this kind of destruction?? Does the stupid Journey mean nothing to you Celestials?!”

Erlang paused, then answered with a more serious look : “The heaven knows of your child. From what was seen when he’s in company of the pilgrims, he’s not a threat for Heaven” 

macaque: “... then why this horrible warning?”

 Erlang sighted; “ Li Jing was the one who ordered me to do it. Your kid may behave well now, but to ensure any of you don’t do anything against the celestial realm in the futur, he saw deems that a warning had to take place”

Macaque, whispering between his teeth “ what a load of crap..”

Erlang: “If this cub still behaves until the end of the journey, Heaven will officially leave him alone and not do anything to your little family. Now if you excuse me, I need to report back. Goodbye Six ears Macaque, and sorry.”

The celestials left as fast as he arrived. 

Macaque, still shocked by what happened, looked around him, still holding close the cub in his arm. So much was lost, not all monkeys managed to escape in time. The small cub, after being paralyzed by fear this whole time, starts to cry and sob uncontrollably, chirping for her parents. 

The shadow monkey, wanting to help this lost kid, asks her where the last place she saw them: with her small shaky paw, she points to the right. But when he looked in this direction, the only thing he could see was what used to be a house, devoured by flame. Using his enhanced hearing all around,his ears only met the sound of fire and things burning. There was no sign of life, everyone who’s alive was already far from here, and there is no way parents would leave without their cub.

 It could only mean one thing, and Macaque hates everything about it: the poor kid lost both her parents in this stupid attack from Heaven.

Macaque’s mind started to become hazy from the blood loss, but he had to check the house for the cub's parents, he wanted to believe they were somehow still alive. But it was too late, the house completely collapsed and it was only an inferno of flames now. 

His legs gave in, all hopes for possible survivors are now gone; the cub and his heartbeat are the only things he can hear right now. 

He doesn't know what to do, he is here, alone with the cub, doing his best to calm her down, surrounded by flames. Using his shadow power was not an option, he’s too unstable right now and it might put the kid in danger. 

His vision is slowly fading, and the only things he can see in the distance is… Xiaotian? What's he doing here? And is that… Wukong? Why are they both on the Mountain..? Shouldn’t they be on the journey..?

They both rush to his side in a panic:

 “BABA! OH GOD WHAT HAPPEN HERE–” MK shouted in panic, “YOU’RE HURT! AND VERY BADLY TOO!! Dad what do we do??”

 “Xiaotian.. don’t worry it’s okay-”

 “ MOON!” Wukong immediately crouches down to look at his face and injuries “WHO DARE DO THAT!? TELL ME AND I WILL KILL THEM-” he said with a voice filled with venom, ready to unleash his power to whoever did that.

“Sun.. please don’t.. it will only cause more problems… “Macaque said while caressing his lover face, “just please can you check if this cub’s parents are alive? she told me they were over there-” 

Wukong calms down and looks in said direction, using his golden vision to find who they are looking for. But as expected, no lifeforce could be detected. Macaque looked at Wukong, waiting for an answer, which Wukong gave by simply shaking his head.

 “...I see.” Macaque takes a deep breath, wincing from the pain “.. Why.. are you both here?”

MK answered with a shaky voice: “I- I felt that something happened to you. It was as if my shadow power was screaming to me to get to you. So that’s what I did” 

“What’s important is that we are here! But no more talking!” Wukong interrupts, lifting Macaque and laying him down on his nimbus, “We need to treat your injuries first! Let’s get to our house, it should be fine being behind the waterfall-” 

“Wait, what about the kid?! we can’t just leave her here!”MK ask.

“Of course we bring her too! Come on MK, I thought you were smarter than this” Wukong lightly chuckles “also she is firmly gripping Mihou, I doubt she will easily let go”

Macaque let out a weak laugh, relieved to have his family around him.

__________

Oof okay so I ended up writing more than I anticipated (also if there is any error please ignore them lmao) sdfdsf

BUT FINALLY!! THE MEIHUA LORE!!

Don’t worry Macaque recovered pretty quickly and Wukong and MK take good care of him during his recovery✨ I have brain more stuff for what happen next, but it will be in another post✨

Masterpost

[oscinhaslandito]

Could you please write something with Lando when you’re Bradley Coopers daughter and you met Lando during an Grand Prix and have been dating for a few months and now it’s time for him too meet you’re dad for the first time and as you get ready you sense that he’s nervous you saw it on his face when you told him that you have a dinner at youre fathers house with him and his girlfriend Gigi. You’re dad wanted to meet him as soon as he found out that you dated someone but Lando had some grace period with the season but no that the season came to an end he has no other chance you’re not particularly concerned about you’re dad you told Lando as long as he doesn’t say anything against the Eagles he will be fine. Lando and you got caught up in a little make out session which almost ended in you being late. As it turns out Landos concerns where groundless after some introducings you’re dad gets dinner ready and god bless Gigi for being such an sweetheart for asking him questions about his family and F1 too get him comfortable. Later the evening when you talk with Gigi she tells you that if Lea and Khai get too meet him they will undoubtedly love him and you can’t help but smile you saw him with his nieces and it’s just too easy too imagine him with you’re sister and Gigi’s daughter it would be so much fun you tell her if they ever need an babysitter they know who to call and as you look at her bright grin you know that you probably got yourself in trouble there.Much love❤️

omg anon aaaaahhhhh this request is too good!!!!! omg i haven't had a request in so long also gurl the vision?? omg adorbs i hope this is what you were looking for. even took the day off from uni for ya (priorities💀). anyways hope you like it. i had so much fun writing it. enjoy!!♥♥

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (y/n cooper, daughter of that bradley cooper) word count: 3.7k

The First Time She Met Him…

The sun was way too bright for someone who'd been up since 7 a.m. on a media tour. Y/N Cooper tugged her cap lower over her sunglasses as she slipped into the chaos of the paddock. Her dad was in Monaco for some actor-y event, and she’d somehow gotten talked into attending a Grand Prix. Alone. With zero idea what Formula One actually was besides “hot guys in fast cars.”

She wasn’t expecting the loud engines, the way the air buzzed with electricity, the sea of orange-clad fans holding up weird signs like “MCLANDO 4EVER” and “MARRY ME, NORRIS 😘.”

She definitely wasn’t expecting him.

Lando Norris — sweaty, grinning, race suit tied around his waist, curls an actual crime against humanity — nearly crashed into her while jogging toward the garage.

“Oh, sorry—! Didn’t see you there.”

She looked up, caught the breathless smile, blinked like a confused deer, and blurted, “You look like you’ve just finished running from the law.”

He laughed. Actually I laughed. “I mean… kinda. These engineers are scarier than Interpol.”

She had no clue what that meant, but his voice was warm and his eyes sparkled and—okay, damn it, she was interested.

“You’re American, huh?” he asked, tugging at the towel slung over his shoulder.

“You’re British, right?” she shot back. “We can both identify accents. Yay us.”

“Feisty. I like it.”

She tilted her head, clearly amused. “I’m not flirting with you. Just so we’re clear.”

“Shame,” he replied with a grin, “because I totally am.”

Weeks Later…

He DM’d her that same night. 

| didn’t get your name. not very gentlemanly of me.

She couldn’t believe the text he just sent.

| you’re literally dming me and you didn’t catch my name?real smooth dude.🙄 

Even with Lando’s rocky start, they started texting. Just casually. Memes turned into late-night calls. Her face lit up on his screen more often than not. It didn’t take long before she was sneaking into races just to see him. No paddock passes. No press. Just her in the background, always in a hoodie two sizes too big and a smirk that drove him insane.

It happened in Silverstone.

Not on the podium. Not in front of the fans. But in a back hallway behind the garage, just after he’d come P3. His race suit was zipped up to his waist, curls damp, energy buzzing through him like a live wire. She was waiting, leaned against a wall, arms crossed like she hadn’t been holding her breath the entire final lap.

He reached her in three strides and pulled her into a hug before she could even say hi.

“You were amazing,” she murmured into his shoulder.

“You came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Even if I’m still figuring out what different color flags mean.”

He chuckled, pulled back, looked at her like he was thinking too hard. She raised a brow. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he started.

“Dangerous.”

“I want to call you my girlfriend.”

She blinked.

He panicked.

“I mean—not just call you that. I want you to be that. Like—would you be okay with that? With me? And the whole circus that comes with it? Because I don’t want this to be some casual, stupid thing. Not with you.”

Y/N stared at him. Long enough for him to shift uncomfortably and almost take it back.

But then she smiled. Soft, real, Hollywood-girl-in-love kind of smile.

“Lando Norris, are you asking me to go official behind the McLaren garage in a sweaty race suit?”

He flushed. “Yes?”

She pulled him in by the collar and kissed him.

“Good. Because I was getting very tired of calling you my ‘friend’ when my dad asks who I’m texting at 3 a.m.”

Cut to the present day…

Lando had known this day was coming — like a slow-approaching DRS zone you couldn’t avoid even if you slammed the brakes. Ever since Bradley Cooper had found out his daughter was dating someone, the clock had been ticking. Not loudly, not in an aggressive "I’m gonna kill him" kind of way — no, Bradley was too smooth for that. It was subtler. An arched brow when Y/N laughed at her phone. A pointed, “Is that him?” whenever Lando’s name popped up on the screen. The kind of tone that said I’m not mad. I just have questions. And maybe a shotgun.

Lando had been given a temporary grace period, courtesy of the relentless F1 calendar. Races, press, simulator work — all valid, all real, all conveniently spread out across continents that made meeting your girlfriend’s Oscar-nominated father logistically... complicated. But now, with the season over and the last trophy handed out, Lando had run out of places to hide.

“You’ll be fine,” Y/N had said, curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled with his like it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’s chill. I swear. Just don’t say anything bad about the Eagles, and you’ll survive.”

Lando had blinked at her. “The band?”

She laughed so hard she almost fell off the couch. “The football team, Norris. Philadelphia Eagles. You slander them, you die.”

So, here they were, getting ready for potentially the most important dinner of Lando’s life.

The bathroom mirror reflected Y/N’s focus as she adjusted her dress for the fifth time, a leopard print that hugged her figure in all the right ways, falling just below the knee. She was so casually stunning that it was borderline unfair. Her hair was in soft waves, effortless like she didn’t care that every strand seemed to fall exactly how it should. It wasn’t even the dress that had Lando’s blood rushing; it was the way she moved — the little twirl of her fingers as she checked her lipstick in the mirror, the way her eyes fluttered as she brushed a stray hair behind her ear.

Lando, who was just in the other room pulling on his jacket, couldn’t help but watch. He knew he was being a little obvious, but honestly, at this point, he was beyond trying to hide it. He was looking at her like she was some kind of magic. Like the universe decided to throw all its best creations into one person, and she was standing there in front of him.

She turned, catching him staring, and gave him a playful raise of her eyebrow.

"What?" she asked, her voice low, teasing.

He blinked rapidly like he’d been caught in some forbidden act. "Nothing, just... you look..." He paused. Couldn’t quite get the words out. "Incredible."

Her lips curled into a smile. “You think so?”

His eyes darted down to her lips before snapping back up to her eyes. “I think... I think I’m gonna have a hard time leaving this room.”

Her smile faltered for a second, a flash of mischief dancing behind her gaze. “Oh? How come?”

He stepped closer, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile himself. “Because this,” he gestured to her, his hand hovering like it wanted to reach out but was fighting the urge, “is pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted in front of me.”

Y/N’s breath hitched just a little. Lando, the world-famous race car driver, was standing in front of her, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered, and... God, did it make her heart skip.

Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them, his hand brushing against her waist, and suddenly the air felt thick, like a storm was brewing but neither of them was willing to acknowledge it.

“Baby... we’re gonna be late,” she murmured, her voice thick with something else.

But it was too late.

He kissed her. Just one simple, gentle kiss that felt like an electric jolt to the chest. No more words, no more hesitation — just a soft brush of lips that made everything else feel unimportant. But it didn’t stop there. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, his lips pressing a little harder against hers, and God, he couldn’t stop himself. The tension, that irresistible, magnetic pull between them was too much.

Y/N didn’t try to pull away either. In fact, she melted into him, her fingers trailing up his chest as she deepened the kiss, a slight hum of pleasure escaping her throat. It was just a kiss, just one... but it felt like so much more.

Her hand slid up to his neck, her nails lightly grazing the skin beneath his shirt, sending a shiver down his spine. He gripped her tighter, his lips moving against hers with urgency, the sound of their kissing soft in the otherwise quiet room. They weren’t thinking about the dinner, or Gigi Hadid waiting, or Bradley Cooper being possibly the most intimidating man to meet — all they cared about was the magnetic connection they couldn’t pull away from.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavy, faces flushed, eyes wide.

"Okay," she said between breaths, “I guess we really can’t be late now, can we?”

Lando let out a breathy laugh. “That was your fault,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

“Me? You’re the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me!” she shot back with a grin.

Y/N stood at the bathroom mirror again, now less goddess and more hot mess — her lipstick was thoroughly smudged, her gloss gone rogue, and her once-perfect curls? One side was doing some tragic post-make-out limp thing. She gasped when she caught sight of herself.

“Lando Norris, look what you did to me!”

From behind her, he leaned in, arms circling her waist, chin resting on her shoulder like he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes being an absolute menace to society. His smile was shameless.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, lips brushing her neck.

She slapped his hand away with a huff, trying to stay focused as she reached for her makeup bag. “No. No. I’m not showing up to dinner with Gigi Hadid looking like I just rolled out of your bed.”

“I mean... we could just go back to bed,” he offered, nuzzling into her neck again, the audacity of this man. “Reschedule. Rain check. I’ll email Gigi. Or DM. Something professional.”

Y/N groaned, dabbing at her mouth with a makeup wipe. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

He grinned. “So are you. Devastatingly.”

She tried to reapply her lipstick with trembling fingers, his hands now casually wandering — purely innocent, totally coincidental contact, obviously. She looked at him through the mirror.

“You touch my hips one more time and I swear we’re going to be fashionably late in a way that involves me fake texting my dad ‘Sorry, food poisoning.’”

He looked unbothered. “He’d probably understand. We can tell him it was shellfish. Or my fault.”

“It is your fault!”

“Exactly. And wouldn’t it be tragic,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “if you ruined that beautiful dress... in bed?”

She froze mid-mascara.

“Lando Norris, we’re meeting my father in twenty minutes!”

He leaned in, smirking, voice low and cocky, “I can work fast.”

She groaned again, turning around and pushing him back toward the bedroom door, palm on his chest. “Out. Out. Out. I need ten uninterrupted minutes to de-sexify myself.”

“Impossible,” he said with a wink, holding his hands up in surrender but walking backward out of the bathroom like he was being dragged away by security. “You can’t turn off that kind of hot.”

She shut the door in his face. “Go iron your shirt, menace.”

They were a little late, but they didn’t care. Lando kissed her one more time, just a quick peck, before taking her hand, leading her to the door. Because no matter how much time they lost to their tension, they knew they’d never regret that stolen moment.

Lando was driving, hands suspiciously steady on the wheel considering the absolute chaos they’d just escaped from. Y/N sat beside him, legs crossed tightly, trying not to spiral. Her lipstick had been fixed, her hair re-curled in record time, and she’d even managed to touch up her highlighter like a pro. But her neck still had that faint heat to it, and every time she glanced in the mirror, she swore she could see kiss aftermath energy radiating off her.

And Lando? This man was way too smug for someone about to meet Bradley freaking Cooper.

“You good?” he asked, not looking at her, but with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You nearly made us an hour late,” she hissed, smoothing down her dress for the third time. “I have setting powder in my cleavage right now, Lando.”

He chuckled, soft and low. “Worth it.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, cheeks still warm.

As they turned into the long, absurdly elegant driveway of the Cooper residence — and yes, it had an actual gate code, she entered it like she’d done it a thousand times before — the nerves really hit her. Gigi’s car was already parked outside. There were lights on inside. People were home.

Lando, suddenly a little less cocky, sat up straighter. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at her.

“Okay. Just to confirm — no trash talk about the Eagles. Anything else I should avoid?”

Y/N turned to him, deadpan. “No, just keep talking good about them. And for the love of God, don’t flirt with Gigi accidentally, because she’s genetically engineered to be ethereal and you have no self-control.”

He looked mildly offended. “I have some self-control.”

She arched a brow. “You tried to seduce me with my own lipstick fifteen minutes ago.”

He grinned again, looking out the window. “Okay, fair.”

The car stopped.

Silence.

They sat there for a beat too long. Y/N let out a breath. “Ready?”

Lando nodded, but his voice was soft. “I just really want him to like me.”

And suddenly she wasn’t teasing anymore. She reached over, squeezing his hand.

“He’ll like you,” she said, voice gentler. “Because I love you.”

Their eyes met. He gave a tiny smile — the real kind, the one that didn’t try to be cool or cocky. “Okay. Let’s go meet the legend.”

They stepped out of the car, the night air cool against their skin. Y/N fixed the collar of his shirt like a mom at a school recital and whispered one last thing as they reached the door.

“If he asks why we were late…”

“Traffic,” Lando nodded seriously.

“Heavy traffic.”

“Like, six-car-pileup levels.”

The door swung open to reveal Bradley Cooper in the most Bradley Cooper fit possible — soft grey henley, navy joggers, barefoot, holding a wine glass like he was both the host and the afterparty. Behind him, Gigi Hadid padded into view in what could only be described as a cloud disguised as a cashmere matching set. Her hair was in a bun, she looked like a Pinterest board, and somehow she glowed. Disrespectful.

“You two are late,” Bradley said, raising an eyebrow and a glass in greeting. “Traffic?”

Lando, trying to be on his best behavior, nodded with all the sincerity of a man absolutely not thinking about making out in the hallway mirror ten minutes ago. “Yes, sir. Bad traffic. All the way through Beverly Hills.”

“Brutal,” Bradley said, already turning and walking back into the house like he was just commenting on the weather. “We started without you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Gigi waved. “Hey Y/N. Hey Lando. I opened the merlot. Your dad’s on glass number two, so you’re probably safe for the next hour.”

Y/N laughed, shooting Lando a see? told you so look as they stepped into the house. Lando was taking it all in — the modern decor, the subtle Oscar shelf in the corner (casual), the vintage guitars on the wall. It was the kind of house that said “I’ve made it,” but also “I surf sometimes.”

Bradley gestured to the living room. “Make yourselves at home. Food’s on the way. I ordered from that Chinese place you like, Y/N. I figured I’d play nice.”

Y/N grinned, flopping onto the couch like she owned the place. Lando sat next to her, just a little too upright.

“So, Lando,” Bradley said, sitting opposite them and crossing one ankle over his knee. “You any good at darts?”

Lando blinked. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I’m decent—"

“Great. Loser does the dishes.”

Y/N cackled as Gigi passed Lando a glass of wine and patted his shoulder.

“Don’t worry. He’s just messing with you. Also, he’s really bad at darts.”

Lando finally exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and leaned back into the couch, letting his fingers brush against Y/N’s. Okay. He could do this. It wasn’t a formal dinner. No speeches, no glares. Just darts, good Chinese food, and the coolest dad in America casually evaluating if his daughter’s boyfriend was worthy.

“So,” Bradley said, sipping his wine with a smirk, “tell me, Lando. Do you follow the Eagles?”

The conversation flows smoothly. But, turns out Lando’s really bad at hand eye coordination.

Dinner had arrived in sleek, eco-friendly takeout containers, all artfully arranged like a lifestyle blog photo. 

As it turns out, Lando’s nerves were wildly overestimated. His deep-rooted, soul-consuming panic about disappointing Bradley Cooper evaporated somewhere between his even worse skills than himself and the dad jokes that he was cracking.

Y/N was already stealing bites from Lando’s plate like it was her birthright, and Bradley was elbow-deep in Kung Pao chicken, cracking one-liners like he was hosting Hot Ones.

But it was Gigi — ethereal, barefoot, sipping her wine like a goddess — who really set the tone.

“So, Lando,” she began, propping her chin on her hand, “Y/N tells me, you have a brother and two sisters, right? Does your family still live in the UK?”

Lando blinked, slightly stunned by the fact that Gigi Hadid knew about him. “Yeah! Yeah, they’re back in the UK. We moved around a bit when I was a kid, but—uh, yeah.”

Gigi smiled. “I watched Drive to Survive. You’re quite funny.”

Lando flushed slightly, a small grin spreading across his face. “Thank you.”

Bradley glanced at Gigi with a smirk. “She did her homework. She’s been prepping for this dinner like it’s a Vogue cover story.”

“I just don’t want him to feel like he’s being grilled,” Gigi shrugged, passing Lando the bottle of wine like they were old friends. “F1’s intense enough.”

Y/N beamed. She squeezed Lando’s knee under the table, and his hand instinctively found hers, giving it a gentle squeeze back. His shoulders had dropped a full inch since they walked through the door. The tension in his jaw? Gone. The panicked thoughts of “what if he hates me” and “what if I accidentally say Verstappen instead of Eagles” were now replaced with “I think Bradley Cooper just laughed at my joke” and “Gigi Hadid thinks I’m cool.”

By the time dessert — a chocolate cake that had zero business being that good — rolled around, Lando was chatting away about life on the paddock, what team meetings were like, and the chaotic energy of being on the road nine months out of the year.

Bradley was listening. Gigi was sipping. Y/N was glowing.

“You know,” Bradley said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “I get it now.”

Lando raised a brow, fork still mid-air. “Get what?”

“Why she likes you,” Bradley said, totally casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “Takes someone pretty grounded to survive that world and still be this… decent.”

And just like that, Lando’s brain short-circuited.

Y/N smiled into her water glass, pretending she wasn’t melting from how soft Lando looked at that moment.

“Also helps that you didn’t talk crap about the Eagles,” Bradley added with a wink.

The dinner plates were stacked, the wine glasses gathered, and soft jazz floated through the living room as Y/N and Gigi slipped into the kitchen with practiced ease. It was a quiet sort of comfort — the kind that came from shared girlhood and a few glasses of very good red.

Gigi hummed as she rinsed a plate, tossing a grin Y/N’s way.

“So… he’s kind of perfect.”

Y/N snorted, leaning against the counter with a sponge in one hand and a dopey smile on her face. “He’s really not. He leaves socks everywhere and eats spring rolls at 1 a.m. like it’s a religion.”

“Okay, but still,” Gigi said, nudging her hip. “You hit the jackpot. He’s sweet, respectful, clearly obsessed with you — and did you see the way he handled your dad?”

Y/N let out a laugh. “Handled is a strong word. He nearly combusted when Dad brought up the Eagles.”

Gigi smiled, more fond than amused. “He’s a good one, Y/N. If Lea and Khai ever get to meet him… oh, those girls would adore him.”

That stopped Y/N in her tracks — not in a dramatic way, just enough to let it sink in. She had seen it before: Lando crouching down to sign little race flags, letting tiny fans try on his cap, giving his niece piggyback rides around the garden. And now she was picturing it again — this time with her baby sister giggling on his shoulders, and Khai braiding daisies into his curls while he pretended he was being held hostage.

She blinked back the soft rush of warmth.

“They’d love him,” she said, quieter this time. “And honestly… if you ever need a babysitter, you know who to call. Lando’s a total natural.”

Gigi raised a brow. “Not you?”

Y/N laughed, handing her the last plate. “Me too. But you’ve seen that man’s face — if he asked a toddler to do a backflip, they’d try.”

Gigi giggled, flicking water at her. “So true. He’s got the Disney prince effect.”

Out in the living room, Bradley’s voice rang out.

“Norris! You can’t leave until I win one round, man. I don’t care if it takes all night!”

Lando’s laugh followed, warm and boyish and entirely at home.

Y/N and Gigi shared a look. No words. Just one of those girl-to-girl, I-see-you kind of glances.And in that moment, with the sink full of bubbles and their hearts full of something even warmer, Y/N realized… maybe she had hit the jackpot after all.

guys reqs are always open!! please feel free to drop one for your favorite driver. always happy to write♥♥

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: reunited

WORD COUNT: 3.8K

SUMMARY: What happened right after you finally reunited, when you truly believed Caleb was dead

NOTE: If I reunited with my lover after I thought he was dead!!!! I would be a wreck!!!!

WARNING: smut, they're both crybabies (understandably) unprotected sex, oral, fingering, emo/angst, Caleb loves youuuuuuuu

AO3 caleb masterlist

I also made a CALEB sweater if that’s your thing ♡

“So, this is my place.” He holds the door open for you to step in first, when you’re ready. “This is where I’ve been.”

It’s strange…surreal. Even his voice hits you like a memory that never aged. This is Caleb. His tone, his rhythm, the tiny movements he makes when he talks. It’s all exactly the same. Like no time passed. Like he never died.

Except you know he did.

You held the grief like a second spine. You felt it twist and ache under your dead weight. You barely made it out with your breath intact. He was gone. You mourned him in pieces. The old voicemails, through pictures you couldn’t delete, through dreams that ended with you waking up sobbing into your hands.

But now, standing here with him in this ordinary, cozy space. It’s like none of that happened. Someone reached into your chest and pressed the undo button on the worst thing that ever happened to you.

It’s messing with your sense of reality.

You remember that you were in pain, but are no longer able to access the sharpness of it. Just a dull echo. A bruise of a memory.

The room around you smells faintly of cedar and the remnant of a bread or something baked. He must have made breakfast for himself this morning. It’s warm in the way places are when someone actually lives there. The space itself is sleek and almost too clean, but he’s turned it into a his own, effortlessly. There’s a rhythm to the dust and the clutter. A worn blanket is tossed over the back of a couch that looks like it’s hosted a thousand naps. Books on his side table, open to different pages, mid-thought.

“This doesn’t really look like a place you would like,” you say, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, normal.

He shrugs, like he knows exactly what you mean. “That’s not true. You know money has always been what I care most about. Everything I do is for material gain.”

You laugh, just a little. Because of course. That biting humor. That’s him. That was him. Still is.

“Yes, yeah. How could I forget.”

But you did forget. Or maybe you tried to. Maybe that was the only way to survive losing him in the first place.

And now here he is, in front of you again. Real. Breathing. Joking.

You’re not sure what hurts more. His death or this impossible return?

Your eyes catch on something small, something that doesn’t fit with the rest of this altered version of him. Something that doesn’t belong to this sterile, sarcastic, maybe half-stranger standing in front of you.

A music box.

It’s tucked on a shelf, almost like an afterthought, but your gaze locks onto it instantly. Carved wood, edges smoothed by time and touch. The finish is chipped at one corner, just slightly. You remember when that happened. A summer storm, a mad dash indoors, and Caleb had dropped it in the wet grass. You’d both cried.

You step toward it, drawn to it’s magnetic force. It’s calling your name in a language only the two of you spoke.

Delicately, you reach out and twist the knob.

The soft click of the mechanism turning awakens it’s heartbeat.

A tiny airplane, its wings worn at the tips, begins to spin slowly. And then the melody starts, thin and clear. So familiar. It burns.

The tune coils around your ribs, winding tighter with every note. You can feel it. In your history.

That was your life. That was him.

And now it’s here. In this room. In this house where he supposedly rebuilt himself without you.

Your Caleb, the one you loved, the one you lost…he lived here. Not some ghost wearing his skin. Not some cruel imitation.

He sat here. He touched this box. He listened to this melody. He was here, breathing, while you were somewhere else, cracking apart under the weight of his absence.

The realization doesn’t ask permission.

It surges forward and steals another moment from you.

A silent sob punches through you, breaking your wave of ache against the sharpest rock. Your knees buckle, and before you can catch yourself, you're sinking, into the sound, into the past, into everything you never got to say.

He was here.

And you weren’t.

You cover your mouth, the emotion too much, too sudden. The ache of mourning, the sheer weight of what you lost, and didn’t really lose, floods you into a storm you can’t outrun.

Then he’s there. No hesitation, no questions. Just arms around you, pulling you in. He holds you and tries to find every shattered piece of you lost the moment he left.

He pulls you in, arms strong and sure, cradling your body like something sacred, if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish again. His grip trembles, not from weakness but from the unbearable relief of holding what he thought he lost forever.

You cling to him just as tightly, fists curled into the fabric of his shirt like anchors. Your tears soak into him, silent and shaking, and he doesn't flinch. Instead, he buries his face in your hair, breathing you in like it’s the first breath he’s taken in years.

“I’m here,” he whispers, the words breaking over your skin. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m so sorry, God, I’m so sorry.”

His apologies melt into the curve of your neck, whispered like prayers he doesn’t expect to be answered. You feel the heat of him, the trembling restraint in the way he holds you.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice catching. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, trying to speak, trying to form words that don’t exist yet. But he goes on, because he has to. Because if he stops now, maybe it’ll swallow him whole.

“I tried to find safe ways to get word to you,” he says. You feel the tremor in his chest, the regret dragging his words down.

You pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His eyes are glassy, like he’s been holding it in for years. Maybe he has.

“I thought you were dead,” you say, your voice cracking. “I grieved you. I buried you. I didn’t just miss you, I lost you.”

“I know,” Caleb says, like the words physically wound him. “And I should’ve died. I should’ve. But I didn’t. And every day I was alive and not with you… I was living someone else’s life.”

You blink fast, trying to stay grounded, but your hands are shaking. “Why didn’t you tell me once you were safe? You could’ve found a way. You had to know what it was doing to me.”

“I thought I was keeping you safe.” His voice is so hoarse. “I thought if I stayed away, you could heal, move on, build a life that wasn’t tangled up in everything I’d ruined.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you snap, voice sharp through the tears. “You were everything. You still are. You don’t get to decide for me what I can handle.”

Caleb swallows hard, looking away like it hurts to hold your gaze. “I know. I know now. Back then… I wasn’t strong enough to face you.” He kisses your forehead. “I didn’t even want the strength to leave you behind. I still don’t.”

You’re both quiet for a long beat, just breathing each other in.

Then softly, “You’re here now.”

His eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m here. And if you’ll let me… I’ll never disappear again.”

His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye with a tenderness that draws your gaze. The pain is still there in both of you, mangled with want.

You close your eyes, forehead pressed to his, the soft warmth of his breath brushing your lips. It’s too much, his return, the way his hands tremble just slightly on your knees This lingering heaviness

He draws back, just far enough to see your face. There’s a stunned silence that settles between you.

When his lips finally find yours, It’s not gentle. Not hesitant. It's a collision. The time of silence and sorrow and longing crash into you, pouring out in a kiss that’s too full of feeling to be quiet.

It’s everything you couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t send. The ache of loss. The fury. The desperate joy of finding each other again.

You press into him with that same hunger, matching the urgency in the way his hands fist in your shirt, pulling you closer, like he's still not convinced this is real. You taste the salt of your own tears on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters against your mouth.

There’s no logic here. No plan. Just heat, emotion, and the fragile sound of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again.

He breaks the kiss only to look at you. His forehead resting against yours, eyes searching like he needs confirmation that this is still happening.

“I thought I’d never get this back,” he murmurs, his voice frayed and low. “Not even a piece of you.”

You tilt into him, fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish again if you let go. His breath stutters when you pull, a low, helpless sound slipping from his throat as he kisses you deeper, hungrier. There’s a kind of reverence in the way he holds you, like he’s rediscovering a language he once forgot how to speak. You’re the only word that matters.

His hands splay wide across your back, palms warm and firm as he presses you fully against him. It’s familiar but heavier this time, threaded with all the ache of everything unsaid, every second you thought he was gone. You feel it in the way your mouths move together, in the way your bodies don’t just touch, they cling. breath returning after years underwater.

When the kiss finally breaks, your foreheads stay pressed together, panting softly in the dark hush between you. His thumb strokes along your cheekbone, lingering as though your skin might vanish if he looks away.

“You’re still the same,” he says, wonder thick in his voice. “Still my person. Even after all this time.”

His hands slide lower, palms sifting under the hem of your shirt, his touch dragging like warm static over your spine. The room shifts around you, distant and quiet, the only things that matter are the points where your bodies meet.

The stars stretch wide through the high windows, Skyhaven glittering below like a city made of memories. And somewhere between those clouds and the weightless quiet of space, you’re suspended together, still, yet undone.

Caleb trails his fingers over the small of your back, drawing slow, searching shapes, then dips lower. His grip tightens on you, possessive and sure, and the soft growl that hums from his throat makes you shiver.

His mouth finds your neck, kissing and grazing until his teeth brush the delicate skin. You gasp, your head tipping back into his hands as he lingers there, just long enough to leave a memory on your skin.

“How did you miss me?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His lips brush your pulse. “Did you miss me… or how I made you feel?”

Your breath shakes. “What kind of question is that?”

“A dangerous one,” he says, chuckling softly against your throat. “Because I already know the answer.”

You arch into him, fingers gripping his shirt, needing something to hold onto. He drags his mouth up to your ear, his breath a slow exhale that sends a tremble through your spine.

“Did thinking of me do this to you?” he whispers, hand sliding down to grip your thigh, your hip, pulling you even closer. “Tell me.”

He trails kisses down your chest and down your stomach, occasionally his gaze locks with yours, and in it, there’s devotion. You don’t intend for him to silence you like this. He’s in awe. Like he’s watching a dream move beneath his hands and is terrified it’ll dissolve. Even when he pulls your underwear down, his expression softens. And when pulling your knees over his shoulders, lthe tension sparks dangerously between you. 

He kisses your heat gentle at first, savoring the fact that you’re real and his and here. You breathe his name, voice wrecked and unraveling, and his smile at the sound is everything. Lazy, knowing, devastating.

He looks up at you with fire and wonder in his eyes.

“I’m going to make up for every second I was gone,” he promises, voice a quiet vow against your skin.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and warm, sending shivers up your spine, racing down a fuse. His shoulders, once always held too tightly, now loosened. Like he can finally breathe again. Like you are the breath he’s been holding for far too long.

Your hands slide up into his hair, fingers twisting at the roots, tugging until he groans. Deep and needy. The vibration of it floods straight into your core. You’re trembling, heat pooling in your belly, legs already unsteady from the way his mouth moves over you, each deliberate stroke of his tongue dragging you closer to the edge until he slows, just when you need more.

"Caleb," you whisper, your voice cracking open around his name, desperate and soft and wrecked.

He lifts his head just enough to let your name fall from his lips in return, voice thick and unsteady. “You have no idea how much I missed hearing you say my name like that.”

His breath, warm and teasing, ghosts across your skin. There’s that smirk again, cocky and confident, but tinged with something deeper. Something in love. His tounghe dips just enough to make your breath catch, teasing your entrance before pulling away again. You sob softly in frustration.

But Caleb only smiles against you, the curve of his lips making your skin burn. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always did.

With maddening slowness, he slides his thumb to your bundle of nerves to tease you, pressing just the barest pressure. Your body jolts, muscles tightening around him. You whimper, thighs clenching around his head as your hips grind into him.

“and all this time you haven’t been with anyone else?” he murmurs, almost smug, almost reverent. “God, how lucky I am.”

And then he presses harder. His tongue flickers and lingers, alternating between kissing you softly and licking you with purpose, until your back arches off the floor, your whole body trembling in his hold. Every nerve is alight. Every sound you make fuels him.

His eyes, dark with want, are shining with something else too. Wonder. Like he’s still not convinced this isn’t a dream. Like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll vanish all over again.

“I almost lost this,” he says, voice rough, aching. “I almost lost you.”

“Come for me, love. I need you.”

You let go with a gasp that splits the silence, pleasure ripping through you in waves so strong they shake you through your core. You dissolve under his hands, under his mouth, under the weight of being seen, of being wanted with such intensity. Caleb holds you through every second, grounding you as your body shudders, your chest heaving with each breathless moan.

Before the aftershocks have even faded, he’s already kissing you, slow, tender, full of awe. He drinks in every sound you make, every tiny shiver, his mouth moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your soul.

His fingers remain between your thighs, now soaked with your release, drawing lazy, featherlight circles that make your legs twitch from the oversensitivity. He’s savoring this. Every inch of you, every reaction.

You barely get the chance to breathe before he shifts, steady hands gripping your thighs as he slots his hips between them. He works at his pants with a smooth efficiency, kissing you when he can because he can’t bear to stop, and before you know it, he’s guiding you onto his lap.

Your knees slide to either side of him, bracketing his hips. The heat of him, thick and hard against your slick folds, makes you shiver. You gasp, startled, overwhelmed all over again.

Caleb groans, deep and broken. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in as if anchoring himself to the moment. “God, I missed this. Missed you.”

He grinds your hips down, slow and deliberate, dragging your body against his, letting you feel just how badly he needs you. His forehead falls against yours, and he breathes you in.

“I’m never leaving you again,” he murmurs. “Not after this. Not after knowing what it’s like to go without you.”

And then, with a look of complete heat and worship, he sinks you onto him.

The roughness of the carpet brushes against your knees, a faint burn you barely register. All you can focus on is the way he draws you close, grounding you in the quiet rhythm of his body, the soft gasp that escapes your lips as he wraps you in his warmth. His breath catches too, his hands strong at your waist, steadying, anchoring.

He groans low, lips pressed against yours, swallowing the trembling sounds you make, and your forehead falls gently to his, breaths mingling. His fingers flex at your side, trying to memorize the shape of you, and when he brushes his mouth over yours again, slow, tender, it’s a delicious contrast to the weight of his grip, he’s afraid to let go.

You hear him laugh softly, the sound vibrating in your chest where your heart beats wildly against his. One hand finds the back of your neck, tilting your head back so your eyes meet his.

Your chest aches in the best way. You cradle his face in your hands, guiding his lips to yours. The kiss that follows is unhurried and deep, filled with all the words you don’t need to say.

"Goodness," you whisper against his mouth, teasing again.

He only grins, then gently lifts your leg higher around him, deepening the angle between you both. You gasp, your head tipping back, his name escaping your lips before you can stop it.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he murmurs, watching you with quiet intensity.

His rhythm is deliberate, drawing pleasure from you like a melody he knows by heart. The windows blur behind you, starlight scattered across the sky, but none of it compares to the warmth shared between you, the connection humming through every nerve.

Suddenly he moves, sitting up and sweeping you beneath him in one fluid motion. You gasp, startled, but he’s already leaning over you, his weight settling into you in his controlled gravity. His gaze is fire and softness all at once, his lips brushing yours as his rhythm shifts, slower but deeper, as though he’s searching for the very center of you.

You hold onto him, your arms around his shoulders, hands clutching at his back like you might fall apart without him. When you say his name again, it breaks something open in him, a sound torn from his throat as he presses his forehead to yours, his voice rough with emotion.

"God, please never stop," he breathes, reverent.

His lips find your skin, tasting each moment like a promise, while his hand finds yours again, grounding you both in that steady connection. His touch is sure, guiding you to the edge and catching you when you fall, because you do, unraveling beneath him, every part of you undone by the depth of what you feel.

He follows with a low groan, his body shuddering with release, and for a moment everything stills, your breath, your thoughts, the world itself.

You cling to him as the wave passes, hands clutching fabric, breaths catching. His arms stay around you, firm, desperate to hold on.

And you let him.

You both stay, hearts racing, bodies trembling, until the world returns, slower, softer, together. The world feels quieter.

Light spills through the windows in long, golden beams that stretch across the floor like warm ribbons, casting gentle shadows that sway with the breeze. There’s a stillness in the air, not empty, but full. The breath you take after crying.

The plane carousel creaks as it turns lazily. Its chipped red paint glints faintly in the light, worn and weathered, but still beautiful in its resilience. You watch it spin, a slow, stubborn circle, wobbly and imperfect, and your heart swells for it. For everything it is, and everything it still tries to be.

You reach out and give the plane a gentle push. It spins a little faster, and you smile to yourself.

Caleb eases down beside you with a low, familiar groan, his body’s trying to keep up with his heart. His knee bumps yours, and he lets it rest there, anchoring you, grounding you both in the present.

He exhales, quiet. Then, in that smooth, unhurried voice of his, he says, “You know… I used to think moments like this weren’t meant for me.”

You glance over.

He’s not looking at the carousel anymore. He’s looking at you.

“That real peace…” he continues, his tone honey-warm, low and steady, “real love… always felt like something for other people. Something I could look at, maybe touch, but never keep.”

There’s something in his gaze that hits you deep,  he’s looking through you, past everything you’ve built to protect yourself, and still chooses you anyway.

“But I get to have my this,” he says, the words like velvet, soft and sure. “I get to have you.”

You swallow hard, throat tight with emotion. Before you can reply, he leans in, brushing a kiss against your temple, slow, lingering, like he’s imprinting the shape of you into his memory. Like he’s telling you, wordlessly, that he never wants to forget this.

“I’m just…” he breathes, still close, his lips barely grazing your skin, “so thankful. For all of it. Even when we’re just sitting here… watching this old, wobbly carousel try its best to keep turnin.”

You smile, soft and amused. “It’s not broken,” you murmur. “It’s just… loved.”

A quiet laugh shakes through his chest, and he wraps his arms around you from the side, pulling you against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His embrace is gentle, sure, with a kind of protective softness that says he never wants to let go.

He leans in again, voice brushing your ear like silk. “Yeah”

For a while, you don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because the way his fingers trace idle shapes along your arm, the way his breath syncs with yours, the way his presence wraps around you like a favorite blanket, this is everything.

[taeswifeisikram]

Chapter 2 - We meet again

Y/N POV

What does he mean by ‘handle it..?’ whatever he’s probably just joking with me. “No sir please let me take you out to coffee someday!” He responds “We’ll see about that. I have to go see you soon pretty girl.” I feel my heart skip a beat when the compliment leaves his mouth. He quickly shuffles past my body, leaving me with widened eyes and an open mouth. “Wait I didn’t get your name or number!!”and just like that he’s gone.

I finally make it home after a long day of running around doing countless errands. The smell of freshly baked pasta enters my nostrils as I travel past my living room straight to the kitchen. My mother’s voice speaks out to me “Y/N, come say hello to our guest!” A guest? No one told me we would have company. I would’ve dressed better for the occasion as I’m still in my blue washed jeans, and a black tight fitting long sleeve.

I slowly step over to the dining room. My eyes lurking until they finally meet with the familiar dark seductive eyes from earlier. He had beautiful unmarked tan skin. He wore a wore a black full suit with the first two buttons of his white button up undone, exposing a gold chain laid onto his neck.

His body turns to me scanning me up and down with a smirk placed on his face. The same man from earlier was now sitting right next to my sister, and directly across from both my parents. Okay now what the hell was going on. With a small smile I slowly step over and take a seat at the head of the dining table. “Y/N don’t be rude greet him.” my mother says as she gestures to the handsome man.

I flash my best fake smile “I’m Y/N, it’s nice to meet you.”

That same familiar raspy voices calls back out to me, “Likewise, my names Kim Taehyung.” He reaches his hand out to me, indicating a hand shake. His hands are warm, soft, calloused as I can tell he works. He shakes my hand but then keeps it there for almost 10 seconds just staring into my eyes. I clench my thighs as his stare intimidates me.

Unfortunately, our eye contact is cut short as my father lets out a cough breaking the silence. “You see Y/N, Mr. Kim here will be marrying your sister Melissa. He’s 29, owns his own business and is perfect for your sister.” This cannot be real. This breathtaking man is marrying MY SISTER? My older sister Melissa who is now 27, used to be my best friend, we were inseparable. That was until she started seeing everything as a competition. This included grades, sports, praise, even our parents love. The more approval I got the more and more she resented me.

I never thought badly of her though she was my sister how could I. She never tells me anything including that she was planning on getting MARRIED. Melissa finally speaks out “Yes, the weddings in July and me and Tae-bear are just thrilled!” My face immediately cringes at the pet name. Seriously Tae-bear?

“That’s great, how did you and Mr. Kim meet?” I can’t help but question out of curiosity. I mean seriously where did this all come from. My father remarks “Taehyung is a business partner of mine and he was already looking for a wife, I recommend Melissa and they already look like a great couple.”

“Yes, they do,” I lie straight through my teeth. Of course I wanted to be happy for my sister but the thought of her marrying a guy she first, barley even knows. Second he doesn’t even look too pleased to be marrying her. My mind blocks out all the chatter in the background as I zone out on Taehyung. His side profile so sharp, high defined cheekbones, and damn that chiseled jaw.

He was devishly handsome.

I zone out of my thoughts when a voice calls out to me. “So how old are you Ms. Y/N?” That same deep voice questions me. “You can just call me Y/N, and im 19.” I say confidently. “I’m surprised.” he says calmly with a sense of hidden meaning behind his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I respond with sass. “Well, you seem more mature for your age, that’s all.” I nod and return back to eating the pasta sitting in front of me. Suddenly a strong knee brushes against mine. The friction of the clothes rubbing against each other, made me think about how it would feel without the layers blocking our bodies. This causes me to choke on the pasta and cough visiciously. I try to call out for some water but it causes me to choke even more. Immediately Taehyung rushes to my side wrapping his muscular arms around my small waist, slightly above my belly button. His chest pressed against my back. “Stay calm, let me help.” He demands. He presses into me, thrusting upward into my stomach. In one swift motion I manage to cough out the pasta. He loosens his arms around me, but he stays pressed against me. His tall build almost hovering over me, his thighs meeting my behind, I can almost feel his imprint through his pants. I look over my shoulder, “T-Thank you so much.” He saved my life. “No need glad I could help.” “Oh my goodness honey are you okay?” My mother questions in worry. “Yeah I’m fine mom, thanks to Mr. Kim.” “She was probably faking it, that attention seeker.” My clearly jealous sister rolls her eyes. “You can let go now.” I ask of the tall man. He leans down meeting his lips to my ear, “You sure you want that sweetheart.” Before I can respond he lets go and takes his seat next to my sister with a stank look on her face. “Well I’m heading back up to my room,” I announce. My parents dismiss me with goodbyes and I turn to Taehyung and Melissa. “I guess I’ll see you soon Mr. Kim” “Yes, very soon,” he reprimands with that same darn smirk. Exiting myself from the room I go up the stairs to my only happy place. My room. I change into a sleep set of silk pajama shorts and a silk tank top. I chill on my bed for about an hour until I hav ego get up and use the bathroom. I quietly step out of my room as the house sounds awfully silent. I guess Mr. Kim went home. I travel down the corridor until ONCE AGAIN I bump into something or should I say someone. Seriously how could a girl be so clumsy. I look up and apologize, “I am so sorry I was not watching where I was— oh Mr. Kim its you again.” “This gives me deja vu of earlier don’t you think.” His places his hand against the wall right by my head almost leaning on top of me. “Yeah, haha you’ve saved me quite a lot today.” I lean closer into his bodies as we fit like a puzzle piece. “I can think of some ways on how you can repay me.” He grins. “Yeah l-like what?” He places his hand under my chin lifting my head to be at level with his. He whispers out,“You’ll find out soon Gongjunim.” (Princess) Hearing him speak a language foreign to me gave me butterflies as I felt a heat washing over my body. His face comes closer to mine remaining intense eye contact. I don’t even think to look away from his gaze. Just as our noses are about to touch the sound of footsteps coming our way interrupt. He lets go leaning back acting like nothing was going on. “I guess we’ll continue this another time Gongjunim.” He brushes past against me starting to walk towards the oncoming footsteps. I turn around facing his back “Wait! What does that mean?” “Once again you’ll find out soon.” He disappears into the dark hallway. I finally make my way to the bathroom. “God did he have to be so mysterious all the time” I say to myself. I’m now left hot, aroused, and bothered with no one to fulfill my desires with. If only Mr. kim- what am I thinking he’s 10 years older than you, not to mention ENGAGED to your sister.

2 hours later, 11 pm

Taehyung POv She looked so vulnerable under my touch. I will have her and I’ll make sure of it. No matter what, no one will get it my way. I walk past a slightly ajar room, I peek in and see her perfect body in that sleep set. The silk cloth clings to her body. Tan skin unmarked and flawless. I can’t wait to for her to be under me screaming my name…

[secretgardensinmymindd13]

the episode titled “don’t drink the water,” with that eddie and priest dialogue, has such great potential to be the “eddie begins again” episode some people are dreaming of - but also to be bobby’s resurrection soundtrack

there’s just something about it

especially since i can’t stop listening to both songs by dave matthews band and tears for fears with this title

considering this show’s love for old songs, i wouldn’t be surprised if this is a reference to one of them, but idk anything at this point

dave matthews band’s is about europeans taking the land away from native americans and building a home on their deaths - and not to be disrespectful to the real-life tragedy, but it’s kind of on brand with bobby being dead and the show trying to move on without him

but i think it’s not the one the episode title references, ’cause it’s kind of too controversial to use it in a tv show

so if we pretend for a minute that this is a tears for fears song, then… i don’t really understand its meaning. it’s too cryptic - or maybe it genuinely doesn’t make sense and they were more focused on the music, so they didn’t care much about the lyrics’ cohesiveness

but anyway, this interpretation is more tied to religion

it has lines like:

and

if i understand it correctly, the phrase “thank god for simple truths” means “let the simple truths of god draw you out of the complexities of your life to follow him like never before”

but the song is saying DON’T thank him, actually - considering the first lines kind of say religion is a drag

like, don’t believe everything you see, don’t take the words for it, don’t follow blindly

but “don’t drink the water, baby” actually does coincide with the bible, because it has verses like:

“stop drinking only water, and use a little wine because of your stomach and your frequent illnesses,” and “so go ahead. eat your food with joy, and drink your wine with a happy heart, for god approves of this”

i just find the connection between the water, the wine, and the joy interesting - especially with the episode title and that eddie and priest dialogue

and bobby and eddie are the only two religious characters on the show, and it was explored in season 7

again, i have no idea where i’m going with this and i’m just grasping at straws, especially since i did watch the 8x17 promo. plus this song has a slur in it so it’s controversial too

but i just can’t stop thinking about how much this show loves to use song lyrics as titles and as soundtracks quite literally in its scenes

so for this title not to reference anything and be just about the water catching on fire? idk, feels weird

but this promo actually did confirm my biggest fear - that the show just lost its spark with bobby’s death

gerard being captain and them all just moving on with their jobs like nothing happened??? nope, this feels like a completely different show - the one i don’t want to watch

’cause even though it was always about crazy emergencies, at its core, it was about found family

it started with buck and bobby’s father-son relationship, and it grew bigger and bigger from there

so for the show that created such great background stories for characters (the “begins” episodes) and explored them quite a lot throughout the seasons with reoccurring themes (athena, emmett, tanya / bobby and the fire he caused / hen and eva / eddie, the shannon grief, the army grief, his parents / maddie and doug’s abusive relationship / chimney and kevin - they don’t forget the past storylines and they revisit them often) to now turn into one where they just have a side-plot funeral for the main character/father figure - and all the characters are kind of lackluster in their reactions and move on that quickly?

literally what did i just watch. definitely not 9-1-1

this didn’t feel like my show. it’s like i had a bad and inaccurate dream about it

but then again, you can’t really say much based on a 30-second promo, so i’m gonna hope that they use this episode to “bring bobby back to life” - as in, say he was taken by the government and the body in the bag wasn’t actually his, or explore eddie’s identity further. or both

but i don’t know

like, it feels both permanent (because of all the interviews and burying him with his family in minnesota) and impermanent - because it was so terrible and out-of-character… or should i say “out of show’s character” - that i just can’t accept it as something that really happened

if the last episodes of the season are literally just about water and earthquake emergencies, with gerard as captain, and the characters being sad but also like “whatever” about what happened, and bobby doesn’t come back… then it’s really the end

which is sad, ’cause i won’t want to watch season 9 if it’s going to be like this

i just want my family back. i want the characters’ arcs to reach their conclusion

like, s7’s final two episodes were packed with events too - henren losing mara and madney fostering her, eddie being caught with kim and losing chris to his parents (which led to his s8 storyline), bobby trying to leave the 118, the fire at athena’s house, bobby in a coma but waking up - and lines like “this life you have… maybe you’ve earned it,” and him coming back to the 118

i’m just saying, you can fit a lot of things into 2 episodes

so, yeah. i’m not giving up till the very end

but i’m also afraid i’ll have to

just having too many thoughts, too many feelings

this is probably the only way i’ll accept this storyline. i really need bobby alive, the show doesn’t make sense without him

[euphoricdr3ams]

Untitled (4/?)

A simple game night turns into something deeper when Y/N loses more than just rounds of Smash Bros. With each defeat, the pressure of perfection, family wounds, and fear of being left behind start to unravel her. But Felix sees through it all — past the jokes, past the anger — and refuses to let her spiral alone.

genres: written, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, angst,unrequited love, senior year (highschool), felix and Y/N are aged up to 17, pre-debut,

Trigger Warning: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Protected Sex, Cursing, Underaged Drinking

Word count: 5,615

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

You set up Smash Bros next. Same old rules — loser takes a shot. Several rounds in, and it's loss after loss. Each one stings more than the last, a sick kind of symbolism that’s hitting a little too close right now. You take a deep breath, aware of Felix watching you quietly, sensing the way your sanity is starting to fray at the edges. But your frustration is peaking — not just with the game, but everything. Your mom. Your future. Your dad. The growing fear that Nana, Gramps, Hana, Faith, your friends — even Felix — might all leave you behind. Just like Kirby flying off-screen in sudden death. Gone. No warning.

It’s all too much. You want to be great, but your fingers aren’t syncing with your mind. You’re here, but you’re not.

And you snap.

You throw your controller and hits the wall with a loud, sharp crack.

“I can’t get anything right. Fuck—of course. The permanent disappointment.”

Felix freezes, wide-eyed. You’ve rage quit before — but this? This was different.

“We should take a break,” he says softly, putting down his controller and turning off the TV.

“No, it’s fine,” you say quickly. You footsteps are heavy as you go to pick up the Gamecube controller on the other side of the room. “It has to be fine. Let’s go again—”

“Y/N,” he interrupts, voice firmer this time. He grabs the controller out of your hands and puts it on the table. “Is that really what you want? Is that really how you feel about yourself?”

You freeze. Your jaw tightens as you struggle to come up with an answer. Truthfully, you don’t think much of yourself at all. Some days, you feel invisible. Other days, you’re convinced you’re too much — too loud, too lost, too messy to be loved the way you need. Today? You just feel like a failure. Ugly, unmotivated, disgusting. A mistake your father never really wanted.

Felix shifts closer.

“Be real with me,” he says, scooting closer. “I know you like to be perfect for everyone. But it’s me. I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to be you.”

His hand finds yours, thumb tracing soft, steady circles. You don’t even realize how hard you’ve been gripping him until the ache in your fingers sets in. Slowly, the tension in your body begins to release. Your shoulders drop. Your breath evens out.

The shame spiral fades — but in its place comes something quieter. Heavier.

Emptiness.

And something inside you finally breaks.

Maybe it’s the dim lighting. Maybe it’s the drinks. Or maybe it’s just him — the quiet steadiness of him.

Your eyes burn. Tears swell.

“We don’t have time for this,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We won’t have many nights like this anymore. I don’t want all our memories to be about whatever’s falling apart in my life again. So yeah — let’s just have fun.”

But Felix doesn’t move away.

“We won’t have many nights like this anymore,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “where we can be completely open... and trust that the other person actually sees us. Cares without some ulterior motive.”

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m leaning into this. Because this? This is precious to me.”

You let the single tear fall.

“I… I’m okay. I promise. Just—today was rough,” you say, trying to hold your breath steady. “You’d think I’d stop expecting something different, but it’s always the same. Every time.”

Felix’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. “What did he say?”

There’s a disgust in his tone that makes your head lift slightly, startled—but not surprised. He already knew.

Of course he did.

Felix had never liked your dad. Not since he bailed on your art show right after your mom passed. Not since he remarried and acted like you were just an awkward footnote in his shiny new family.

Felix never understood why you still cared. Why did you keep trying? Why did you hold out hope that one day, maybe, he'd look at you and see someone worth rooting for.

But he never said much. He held his tongue. For you.

Because he knew that, no matter how broken the man left you feeling, his approval still meant something. Still hurt to go without.

Still mattered.

Felix exhaled, his jaw tense, like he was chewing on the rage behind his teeth. “You know,” he said, quieter now, “you remind me of Jasmine sometimes. From Aladdin.”

You blink at him, confused.

“Because one day,” he continues, “I know you’re gonna look that man in the eye and tell him exactly what he deserves to hear. And when you do? It’s gonna be legendary.”

“I actually have a picture of me and Mom meeting her,” you say softly, your voice thick with the weight of memory. “I wish I could go back. I miss her so much.”

Felix doesn’t respond with words — just inches closer and pulls you into his arms.

His hug is quiet but solid. Grounding. You don’t try to fight it. You just let yourself fall into the stillness. Curled up with him on the couch, the world finally goes quiet. So does your mind.

He plays with your curls — the ones he’s always loved. He wished your wore them out more often — and traces soft lines up and down your arms.

For a moment, nothing exists except the sound of your quiet crying and the unspoken truth sitting heavy in the room.

“I know,” he says gently. “It must’ve been awful. Him being so dismissive of something that was literally made for her. I’m sorry. You deserved better than that. You always will. And no matter what happens—” he hesitates, “I’m not going to leave you.”

“I know,” you whisper. Then, with a watery laugh: “That’s why I didn’t wanna cry, but you did this to me.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, lips twitching at your joke. “Yeah, well. You needed to cry. You can’t keep carrying all this on your own.”

The warmth in his gaze, the closeness of his hand still resting on your back, the soft lighting — everything about this moment feels fragile and fleeting. Like something borrowed from a dream.

So you take the leap.

You lean in, your lips brushing against his, unsure if it’s the comfort, the pain, the alcohol, or just you — finally wanting something for yourself.

Felix doesn’t hesitate. He kisses you back like it’s the only thing that makes sense in the chaos of the moment. Like he’s been waiting.

And for a second, it’s easy to forget everything else.

“Sorry,” you chuckle, brushing your fingers under your eyes. “That was random.”

Felix lets out a soft laugh, but there's something tender in his eyes — something a little sad. He wishes you hadn’t pulled away from the weight of the moment, but he gets it. You’ve always had a habit of diversion. 

“I actually got you something today,” you say quickly, standing up and fumbling with your phone to put some music on the speakers — something easy, something nostalgic.

He tilts his head. “What? You got me something?”

You disappear for a moment and come back with a small box  in your hand. You sit beside him again and carefully place the compass in his palm.

“It’s a compass,” you explain. “And on the back… it has our names, and the coordinates of the game club where we first met.”

Felix’s fingers run over the engraving, his jaw tight. You watch his face shift — the quiet recognition in his eyes, the weight of everything left unsaid crashing into the present.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

You almost speak again, try to fill the silence, but he finally breathes out, voice a little shaky, “This is… this is probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

He pulls you into a hug — tight, warm, a little desperate — like he wants to press pause on time.

When he pulls back, he holds your hands in his, thumbs brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I’m serious,” he says, looking straight at you. “I’ll hold onto this forever. And I want you to know… I know a lot’s going to change soon, but I’m not going to leave you behind. I care about you, Y/N. So much.”

Your smile softens, and without even thinking, you lift your pinky and tap his hand twice — the little hand sign you both made back on the playground, years ago, when you promised you’d never stop being friends no matter what.

Felix swallows hard, a flicker of something else in his eyes — like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he whispers, “You always know how to make me feel like I’m home.”

And silently, he’s screaming at himself for not being brave enough to tell you the truth.

You both switch into your PJs, laughing and joking as you finish your third bottle of soju. Somewhere between the laughter and the warmth of the room, you start to reflect — on Hana’s words, on Felix’s presence, on how he’s always been there. Safe. Supportive. A quiet constant in your life. You’re only just beginning to realize how much that means to you.

Felix slips the compass into his bag while you keep the energy light. Something about getting those feelings out earlier seems to have shifted something. Now you’re giggling over UNO, working through your fourth bottle of soju, and everything feels easy again. Comforting.

Felix can feel the change too. He notices how your once-frozen demeanor has melted into soft laughter, lit up by the spark in his own eyes. It’s all so simple, and the words you said earlier — “we don’t have many more nights like this” — echo in his head. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure, knowing the next move will end the game. He doesn’t want any of this to end.

You see the draw four card staring back at you. You stick your tongue out and laugh wickedly.

“What?” Felix furrows his brow.

“You see the cards. Pick up the four.” You smirk, already feeling your win coming.

Felix sticks his tongue back out at you, getting ready for his fake victory lap — only for his face to drop as you slam your own draw four on top of his.

“Pick up eight,” you cackle, full-on belly laughing until tears roll down your face.

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” Felix groans, but he’s laughing too. Your chest hurts from how hard you’re laughing. You stumble up and walk toward the room, only to see a text from Faith:

Bestiiiieeee: Hey are y’all coming rrrrrrrrr nahhhhh?

You call out, “Did you still wanna go to that party Faith is hosting?” Secretly hoping he says no.

While Felix usually lives for a good party — any chance to show off his social butterfly charm — he looks up and sees how at ease you are, curls perfectly resting, cheeks flushed from laughter, and the room so warm and familiar. He tosses logic aside and leans into the moment.

“Nah, I’m good. Unless you wanna go… but considering you’re, like, two steps from your room, I don’t think you’re heading in there to change into a backyard party outfit.”

“I mean, I could. We’re young, wild, and free.” You sway a little, tipsy. “Let’s not be boring!”

“It’s 45 degrees outside. And raining.”

“Oh, no. F*** that. I’m putting on my PJs.”

Felix laughs — full, easy laughter. He thought he’d have to convince you to stay in, but of course not. That’s why this works. That’s why you’re close. You know each other.

You grab your phone and reply to Faith:

Y/N: Heyyyy I'm gonna passss, Felix and I are hanging at Nana's for the night. I think he's gonna stayyyy???

Bestiiiieeee: o.000 ohhhhhhh ok. He’s been around a lot more. You sure there’s nothing going on?

Y/N: ewwwwww it’s Lix, don’t play like that

Bestiiiieeee: lmaooooo sureeee. Y’all be safe please 😉 I’ll call you sometime this weekend for the recap.

As you're changing, you can’t help but feel the rush creeping in—first from Faith’s not-so-subtle text, then from your own spiraling thoughts. It’s the same flutter you felt when Hana brought it up weeks ago. Felix is your friend. There's no reason to escalate things… but lately, things with him have felt so much more intense.

You wonder, Is there really ever a right moment? Or a right person? Maybe it’s just about the feeling. And right now, Felix feels like the right guy.

You slip on your nightshirt and shorts and walk back out to hand him the set of clothes he keeps over. Then you duck back into the hallway to give him a little privacy.

While he changes, Felix glances around your room—your real room—and takes in all the things that scream you. Your creativity is on display across every wall: photos, sketches, concert tickets, quotes you scribbled in the corner of a mirror. His eyes land on a picture of the two of you from two summers ago, laughing in the middle of some inside joke. It all feels warmer now. Different.

He tries to keep it together, but it’s getting harder. His feelings for you have been complicated for a while now—something about the way you trust him, how you move through the world together like it’s the most natural thing. Somewhere along the line, he realized he probably has a crush on you. And now, it’s a war in his head: should he say something, or keep pretending it’s nothing?

His thoughts are interrupted when you come back in, slightly tipsy, flopping dramatically onto the bed with a giggle. It’s all so cute. So fucking cute to him.

He slides under the sheets beside you, the air between you growing heavier.

Maybe it’s the drinks. Maybe it’s the silence. But instead of grabbing a pillow, you reach for Felix.

And he lets you.

Your body fits perfectly against his, like a puzzle you’ve both been quietly avoiding. He strokes your curls gently, carefully, like you might shatter if he touched too hard. His gaze lingers—on the crescent shape your eyes make when you laugh, the way your skin glows in the low light, how your lips look soft and impossibly kissable.

He tries to keep his eyes respectful, he really does—but then they drift lower.

The swell of your chest rises and falls, steady and slow. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough to fill his hand.

Or his mouth, a reckless voice whispers in his head.

Felix blinks, trying to shake the thought, but it lingers. Sticky. Dangerous.

The room feels too warm. The R&B music playing through the speaker pulls him back to the present, grounding him just enough to remember: You’re his friend. Not his girlfriend. No matter how blurry things have gotten. No matter how many stolen kisses you’ve shared when the alcohol makes everything feel softer, easier.

He inhales slowly. Tries to focus on the beat. The rhythm of your breath.

But it doesn’t help.

Because in the quiet, everything he’s trying to push down gets louder.

His fingers drift across your arm, careful and slow. And suddenly, something in you clicks. 

“Hey,” you say softly, “do you remember that convo we had the other day?”

He shifts gaze now fully on yours. “What convo?”

“The one about sex.”

Felix sits up slightly, more alert. “Yeah. Not exactly our usual topic, so… yeah, I remember.”

You study his face, the comfort of his presence, the familiar tension that’s grown too obvious to ignore. “Are you still down?”

He blinks. “When?”

You roll your eyes. He knows what you mean. He knows.

“Now.”

Felix swallows, hard. “Seriously?”

You nod, not breaking eye contact. “Yeah. I trust you more than I trust anyone else. And with everything you’ve been for me lately i am, I just… I want it to be with someone I care about deeply, you know?”

He stays quiet for a beat. Then—“Yeah,” he says softly. “I care about you so much. And if you’re okay with it… I want to show you that.”

“I am.”

You lean in, and your lips meet.

The kiss starts soft—sweet, careful, like a question. But this time, you don’t pull away. And this time, Felix doesn’t hold back.

You pause only for breath, eyes fluttering open just long enough to catch the flicker of something in his expression. Like wonder. Like hunger. And then he kisses you again, deeper this time, cupping your face like you might disappear if he lets go.

It builds slowly, deliberately, with every stroke of his thumb and graze of his lips. He’s studying you, adjusting, learning. The room feels warmer—your skin, flushed. His touch, reverent.

You think you open your mouth to take in air, but instead, a soft, involuntary moan slips out—so full, so unfiltered it surprises even you.

And that? That’s when Felix completely loses it. The last shred of self-control he was holding onto vanishes.

“Sorry—” you start, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” he cuts in, voice low and wrecked. “That was so hot. Let me make you do it again.”

He kisses you again, and your hands find their way under his shirt. His skin is soft, warm, and firm beneath your fingertips—his “idol” body slowly coming in, carved and perfect. Your hands are everywhere at once, chasing sensation, craving closeness.

Your moans get louder, less controlled. Felix has one hand on your cheek, the other somehow slipping under your shirt. You don’t even know when it happened, but you don’t care. Not when he’s making you feel this good.

“Fuck,” you whimper as he begins to kiss your neck, lifting your shirt just enough to see your hardened nipples.

He takes one into his mouth, and your body arches. It’s heaven. He teases one side with his tongue, then circles to the other with slow, calculated movements. Gentle. No biting. Just pressure. Pleasure. He’s clearly done his research—and tonight, he’s praying it works.

Because all he wants to hear is you. Your sweet, broken moans.

He pauses just long enough to flash you a smug little smirk.

You roll your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs playfully, grinning. “Just nice to know,I know how to make you feel good.”

There’s something about the way he says it. Something about this moment. It feels natural. Meant to be.

“You wanna keep going?” he asks, fingers now tugging lightly at the tie on your shorts. He leans close, whispering the words into your ear—and you can feel just how hard he is under his sweatpants.

A soft kiss lands on your neck, and you let out a breathy, “Yes.”

Felix doesn’t waste time. He undoes the drawstring of your shorts and slips his hand inside. His fingers slide through your slick warmth, and he groans.

“Fuck… you’re so wet.”

“Well,” you whisper, teasing, “whose fault is that?”

You want to keep playing the game—hold onto your cool—but he starts rubbing slow, purposeful circles on your clit, and it’s getting harder to keep up the boss-girl facade he’s already dismantling.

“Mine,” he mutters. “Keep going. I wanna drown in you right now.”

He increases the pressure just slightly, just enough to make your hips buck. You bite your lip, grasping for any sort of release from the overwhelming tension building inside you.

Every inch of you is buzzing, unraveling.

“Fuck. Oh my god.”

You pull his shirt down, needing him closer, needing him to kiss you again. He obliges, lips warm against yours, whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“Can I push in now?”

“Please.”

Felix starts with just his index finger, watching your reaction closely. He's tipsy, but his focus is all on you. He doesn't want to mess this up. He knows how important this moment is.

He waits for any sign of discomfort, but instead, you let out a frustrated little moan. “More,” you whine. It's too gentle—it’s not enough.

He chuckles, amused. “No problem.”

At some point, your shorts have disappeared. You didn’t even feel him take them off. Now, he slips two fingers inside you, pumping them slowly. Your wetness is spilling over, coating his fingers, and he’s mesmerized. Your pussy is pulsing in front of him and he just stares, captivated.

It’s one thing to see it in porn. This? This is different. It’s real, and it’s beautiful.

“You sound so sexy,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on you. “I just wanna see how you taste once. I know it’s gonna be so good.”

“Then don’t have me waiting, Yongbok. Fuck. Oh my god—”

He gives your clit one single, teasing kiss.

“MMMHMMM, God,” you cry out.

You taste like heaven, like sugar and sin, and now it’s all over. Felix goes in with his tongue, licking and sucking like he hasn’t eaten in days. You grab at his hair, pulling it back so you can see him. He’s worshipping you—your pussy, your moans, your body—and it’s so fucking hot you can barely breathe.

He pauses for just a moment, lifting his head for air.

“You okay down there?” you manage between your ragged breaths.

“I’m amazing. How are you?” he says smugly, using his fingers to spread you open again, going right back in like he’s got a mission to finish. And he does: making you cum on his tongue.

You thank the universe that no one else is home. The sounds you're making are downright obscene. But he doesn’t care. It’s perfect.

“Hmm? I didn’t get an answer,” he teases.

“Mhh… Memreurwurbw—”

“What was that?” He grins, still teasing.

“Miehreiheanfemfan—” you mumble again, before he slips his fingers back inside you, cutting your words off completely.

You're grinding down onto his hand, and the noises between your bodies are wet, sticky, loud. His tongue swirls just right, sucking your clit into his mouth at the exact angle that makes your toes curl. You feel your climax coming, fast and overwhelming. Your thighs start to shake.

He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. And then—you break. Your back arches. Your moans are loud, unfiltered. You come undone completely, pulsing on his tongue, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry.

When you look down at him, he’s got that same smug look again, eyes twinkling with pride.

He chuckles. “I don’t know what that sound was. Is that code for thank you?”

You shoot him a look, still breathless. “Lix… fuck you.”

You try to sound annoyed, but you’re laughing. You don’t want to admit it, but he did exactly what he set out to do.

You sit up slightly, reaching into the drawer beside you and pulling out the condoms Hana left behind. You shake your head with a tiny smile. Of course she knew.

He catches you grinning. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… she’s gonna be so smug.”

Your eyes drift to his sweatpants—and yeah, that’s definitely a tent. Your breath catches when you realize just how big he is. You let out a small, nervous laugh.

He raises an eyebrow. “What? Does my dick look weird?”

“No. I’m just shocked you’re that big.”

He laughs, pulling you closer. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

You hand him the condom, but your fingers linger. Instead of giving it to him right away, you shift, leaning down slightly. You start to play with it in your hands, teasing, before gently wrapping your hand around him. He props himself up on his elbows, eyes fluttering shut as you start to stroke him.

And then—you take him into your mouth.

You gather some extra spit, let it drip, and go even deeper, humming around him.

“Ufrhugjmgri—fuck, babe—aihfiefm—”

Felix’s words are broken, scrambled. He knows he probably shouldn’t be calling you babe… but fuck it. This moment? It’s unreal. You, with that sharp mouth of yours, now using it for the exact opposite of arguing—giving him the kind of pleasure he’s only dreamed about.

His dick is throbbing, hard and alive, pulsing against your tongue. You can feel his heartbeat in it.

You pull back slightly, looking up at him. “Am I doing this right?”You’re nervous. His moans were softer than expected, more fragile than filthy, and you weren’t sure what that meant.

But he reaches out and cups your cheek, his cock still warm in your mouth. “Yes,” he breathes. “You’re doing so good.”

He gathers your curls in his hands, gently pulling them out of the way so he can see your face. “Keep going, babe.”

Something about the praise—his voice, his eyes, his touch—it sends a jolt of confidence through you. You suck him deeper, bobbing your head, working him with your tongue and lips. His moans are getting louder, more desperate. He’s not holding back anymore. They’re raw, animalistic—like he'd give you anything you asked for in this moment.

He grips the sheets with one hand, your hair with the other. His abs tense. His hips jerk slightly forward.

But then, just as he’s getting close, he pulls you off him, breathless. “I’m gonna cum if you keep that up any longer.”

You watch as he tears open the condom wrapper, sliding it down over his length with practiced hands. He climbs over you and gently adjusts your position, making sure you’re comfortable on the bed. A pillow under your head. A kiss on your lips. And then—his fingers again. Just to make sure you’re ready. He stretches you gently, watching you.

When he pulls his fingers out, he looks you dead in the eyes.

“You sure?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Your body, your mind, your soul—everything wants him right now. And nothing's going to stop that.

He slips inside your wet folds, slowly. Your eyes widen. He’s… bigger than the dildo you tried once during a moment of curiosity. But thicker too. It’s a little uncomfortable at first, but his fingers are on your clit, rubbing slowly, easing you into it.

“Fuck—oh my god,” you gasp, clutching the bedsheets. Your moans break up your breath, and before you even realize it, he’s fully inside you.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Move.”

Felix starts with slow thrusts, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But all he sees is how your body’s reacting—how wet you are, how your moans grow messier, louder, more desperate with every stroke. Your pussy tightens around him, clenching so sweetly he swears he might black out.

You’re sending him. Every little sound you make is burning into his brain. And you look unreal—so beautiful like this, taking him, wanting him.

“F-fuck yes,” he pants. He finds a rhythm that syncs with the beat of the song playing in the background, and it drives him insane.

“Please… more.” He smirks.

You’re slipping around him so easily, soaking the sheets beneath you. The headboard is knocking against the wall. You’re perfect. The way you take him is perfect.

“Shit,” he groans. “You’re so perfect. Tell me—how am I doing? Tell me how you want me. I’ll do anything for this body. I’ll do anything for you.”

“Deeper.”

He pushes in further, slowing his thrusts so you feel everything—every inch, every vein dragging against your walls.

“Like that?”

You try to respond, but it’s just a string of sounds, breathless and broken.

“Huh?” he teases, thrusting deeper. “Use your words. How do you want me to make you cum?”

“it’s so good. Shit.”

“Flip over. I’ll make it even better.”

Before you can process, he’s bent you over the mattress. Your ass in the air, hair gently adjusted by him using the mirror nearby. He slides back in and grabs your waist, thrusting so deep that all you can say is:

“Yes, please. Oh my god. More.”

He lifts your head so you’re looking at your reflection. “Look at yourself. It’s beautiful.” He kisses you again. “My perfect view.”

You can feel it building—your orgasm, rising fast. The music, the bed, the heat, all of it blurring together. That spot he keeps hitting? It’s going to push you over the edge any second now.

“Shit, I’m—” Your words crash into a moan.

Your ass is clapping against him, the bed creaking under the pressure. He could fuck you through the mattress and neither of you would care. The moment’s too hot. Too real.

He pulls out again, flips you onto your back, and stares into your eyes as he sinks back in. This time, his thrusts are fast, erratic—hungry.

“Lix” you gasp. “I think I’m gonna.”

Felix kisses you, shifts his angle just slightly—and that’s it. Your moan rips out of your throat, full of need, full of surrender.

“Fuck yeah, babe,” he groans. “Cum on my dick. I know you can.”

His fingers rub your clit while his lips kiss your neck, dragging you closer and closer.

“Shit—oh my god—”

You come harder than you ever have. Your body trembles, your voice catches, and for a second, nothing else exists.

He’s still moving, still inside you, whispering praises.

“Perfect. You’re so perfect. So wet. So cute. So fucking nasty.”

His thrusts get sloppy, his moans lower, drawn out. You’re touching him everywhere—his hair, his back, his chest—pulling him closer.

Then he grunts, his cock throbbing, and you feel the heat of his release pumping into the condom. He collapses gently against you, both of you breathless.

He pulls out slowly, and you glance at the condom, giggling. It's full.

“Wow.”

“Yeah… You okay?” he asks, eyes soft now.

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. I’m amazing. That was… amazing. Thank you, Felix.”

He grins, brushing your hair from your face. “It was everything I’ve ever wanted. Thank you, Y/N.”

Felix kisses you and walks off to the bathroom. You follow not long after, taking your turn to clean up, still buzzing from the afterglow. When you step back into the room, he’s already back in his sweats, shirtless, hair a little messy from your hands. He’s looking at the starry light display on the ceiling, face soft and unreadable in the dim glow.

You glance around for your clothes.

“It’s here,” he says, quietly, holding up your shirt and shorts.

You chuckle, padding over to him. “Thanks.”

You dress in silence, but it’s not awkward. Just... full. Heavy with something neither of you are quite ready to name. You crawl into bed beside him, both of you lying on your backs now, watching the stars dance across the ceiling. The silence feels sacred. Safe.

“It’s two a.m.,” you murmur. “We should sleep.”

“Yeah,” he says. But he doesn’t close his eyes.

A few beats pass, and then, “Y/N, I won’t ever leave you. Thank you. You mean everything to me.”

You turn toward him, your heart expanding all at once. You smile, a sleepy, emotional sort of grin.

“I know... and thanks. It was perfect. I’m so glad it was you.”

Felix leans over to kiss you — slow, gentle, a promise he can’t put into words. And as he pulls back, his eyes linger on yours like he’s trying to memorize this version of you: soft and safe, curled into his side like it’s where you belong.

At the edge of his tongue is the confession he’s been holding in for weeks. The truth that could shift everything between you.

But it stays there, stuck, buried behind fear and the countdown he can’t ignore. He glances at the clock again. The date. Only two months left until he has to leave. 

His chest tightens.

What if this is the best it ever gets?

What if saying it makes it real—and makes it end?

So instead, he kisses the top of your head. Pretends the ache in his throat is just from being tired. He tells himself this is enough. That even if this doesn't turn into something more, he’ll always have this night. This feeling. You.

You, tangled in his sheets with the galaxy reflecting off your skin.

You, whispering “I’m so glad it was you” like he’s more than just a person in your story—you’re glad it was him.

And you — you’re lying there with the happiest ache in your chest, tracing little shapes on his stomach with your fingers. Your heart feels too full to hold. You don’t even know what you’re holding onto so tightly, but you’ve never felt more wanted. More safe. More understood.

For once, you don’t need to overthink anything.

You just let yourself exist in it. In him.

You don’t know what will happen tomorrow. But right now, the boy beside you is everything, and your last thought before sleep is simple.

______________________________________________________

Author's Note: Lol i hope y'all like <3, Please let me know what u think

[daddymaster21]

I like the one by one comments/reblogs that @youdontknowe makes, so I’m trying my hand at it.

-The Horny is also my favorite part of slow burns, just for the record.

-NOOOOOO WE HAVE TO WAIT FOR MORE KISSES

-lmao Dean really like ‘what if I make her cry’ babe that’s hilarious she’s SO down bad

-Awwww them grabbing snacks for each other before anything else is so cute

-HE’S ALMOST CALLED HER BABY TWICE NOW DON’T THINK I DON’T SEE YOU

-I also get sleep-drunk. Catch me spilling life secrets just because I’m gonna take a fucking nap.

-“I’ll have you however” WHY ISNT HE REALLLLLLL

-WOOF the horny is happeningggg

-get fucked Sammy, she plans better than anyone. You should know this by now.

-HAH SHE REALLY JUST SHUT HIM UP LIKE THAT

-absolutely hilarious that she can sense everyone’s horny but him. Or she is sensing it and it trying to tell herself a) he’s not horny for her, or b) it’s just physical, he doesn’t actually want her like that.

-Sam really out here about to get bitch slapped. Or shot. Or stabbed.

-awwww, look! Character growth! He wants her so much! Bring back male yearning fr

-actually, Dean, you’ve only seen her fuck me eyes, because she’s literally wanted you from day one

-Dean, I promise you’re not hiding it well, she’s just blind when it comes to you. Literally every person around you realized this before you did.

-if you write the scene of Alistair being tortured, I so hope princess gets to do it. I know, I know, the NDA.

-“eat my fucking balls,” man, Ben really possessed her for a second there

-i may be wrong but i fully believe Princess is a virgin bc she doesn’t trust herself (or anyone else for that matter) enough to have sex

-“I’m doing this for you” and also me because I’m losing my fucking mind

-KISSING DEAN IS ABOUT BOTH OF YOU, MAKE OUT

-god ain’t real, but Chuck is, and boy howdy is she gonna have WORDS for him

-oral fixation for the win!!!

-hyperfixation for the win except for the part where you forget to do basic human necessities

-all the way down EXCEPT FOR ALL THE WAYS IT COUNTS CRASH INTO EACH OTHER IM BEGGING

-girl he’s so down bad for you it’s not even funny, you’re literally getting jealous of yourself rn

-ah yes, my least favorite part of slow burns (that inevitably always comes with the horny) the DENIAL

-oh my god it was her first KISS????? EVEN BETTER HOLY SHIT IM EATING THIS FOR BREAKFAST (more like dessert it’s late by now)

-Dean constantly talking about everyone around them thinking she’s perfect vs her saying no one has ever really looked at her. You’re killing me.

-HAHAHAHA THE THING HES BEEN TRYING NOT TO DO THIS WHOLE TIME IS THE THING THAT TIPS HER OFF

-YOU’RE NOT MAKING US WAIT ANYMORE!!!! I LITERALLY CANNOT TELL YOU HOW HAPPY I AM THANK YOUUUUU

Chapter 19 - That's Nothing New

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Welcome to my favorite part of any slow burn: horny

Chapter Title from Vertigo by Griff

Word Count: 18.4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: A very special valentine’s episode. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 18 - Chapter 20

Read on A03!

They hadn’t talked about it. 

Dean wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it. He didn’t know where that conversation led. 

It could be simple. He could corner Her in Bobby kitchen, ask Her what it meant to Her, and they’d have to have The Conversation. And Dean—for once in his life—might get pretty damn lucky, and She’d say it meant the same to Her that it had meant to him.

Everything. 

The kiss had meant everything. It what most of what he was made of, now. The memory of it playing on a heavy loop in his head, the taste of Her lingered on his tongue—he was starting to develop a small habit of licking his lips every single freaking second, trying to gather up whatever little bits of Her remained like some sort of creep—and his hands were itching to touch Her again. 

He didn’t have a goddamn clue how he’d managed to go so long without touching Her. Kissing Her. Trying to find out every single way She could possibly moan his name, because son of a bitch, that was the best thing he’d ever heard.

She was the best thing Dean had ever had. 

And he didn’t even know if it had meant anything to Her.

There were a lot of ways that conversation could go, and Dean had played out most of them in his head already. It was a like planning for a hunt. He’d grab her in the kitchen, because that would give Her more of a warning than if he started The Conversation in Her bedroom, and a better place for him to escape than if he used to Impala.

In some versions, he started The Conversation, then pussied out and ran away. He was a fucking coward. Dean knew how to talk to ladies. He was good at talking to ladies. He was good at talking to Her.

But not about this. 

“Why’re you up, Princess?”

Dean had woken up a few days ago, and She hadn’t been in bed. The only thing that kept him from freaking out was how he could still smell Her on the sheets. And She wouldn’t have just left. She’d pinky promised him She wouldn’t just leave.

He’d found Her in the library. Of course he had. Absentmindedly scratching notes on a small piece of paper as she read, Her brow furrowed in the cuter, less painful version of Her little wrinkle, not even flinching or starting as Dean made himself known.

“Couldn’t sleep.” She’d muttered, and Dean had shrugged.

“You’re not gonna sleep, if you’re down here.”

“I’ll be fine.” She’d written down another note that—when Dean had craned his neck—was obviously in Enochian. She’d been doing that more lately, and Dean didn’t really want to think about why. “Go back to bed, De.”

He could’ve. But that would mean leaving Her, and Dean had promised not to do that. And this had been the perfect time. For The Conversation. No Bobby to try and shoot him, no Sammy to tease him, no Jo to make little jokes about it. Just Her and Dean, in the dead hours of the night.

In the moment, he’d really thought he could do this. 

“So, uh,” He’d cleared his throat, and She’d glanced up from Her book. “Angels.”

She’d frowned. “What about them? I- Nothing has tried to break through the wards, right? Because a lot of those sigils are experimental, but they should start like, glowing, if something is coming-“

“Nothing’s coming.” Dean had mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just. You know. Lotta stuff happening.”

“Like…” She raised Her brows, and Dean wasn’t sure how She always managed to look so perfectly put together. “Angels?”

“Yeah.”

She’d hummed, scanning over Dean with an unreadable expression, and he’d felt like She was looking right into his soul-

Son of a bitch, She probably was. She could see Dean’s soul, and if Hell somehow hadn’t made Her run, this was going to. He didn’t know how it worked, but the want in his body for Her wasn’t pure, and if She saw it and hated it, Dean would end up alone-

“Are you feeling okay?” Her voice had been soft as She cut off Dean’s thoughts, and he’d blinked. “De, you- You’re really red.”

“‘M fine.” He’d mumbled, and She’d shaken Her head.

“Did you get sunburned or something? I know it’s winter, but you’re outside all the time, and I have aloe if it hurts-“

“Nothing hurts.” He’d thrown Her his best, widest, most charming smile, and moved to drop at Her side. “What are we reading?”

She’d smiled slightly, pulling Her book away from Dean’s gaze. “We’re not reading anything.”

“I can read-“

“Not this.”

“But-“

“It’s a girl book, De.” 

He hadn’t known what a girl book was. He still wasn’t entirely sure. 

He’d stayed anyway.

“C’mon, I did those face masks with you and Jo. I can read your girl book.” He’d reached out a hand, and Her eyes had widened.

“Dean-“

“I’m not going back to bed.”

She’d stared at him, and Dean had known She’d heard the silent words. 

Without you. I’m not going back to bed if you’re not there.

“Do you…” She’d swallowed, Her eyes never leaving Dean’s, and maybe he should’ve damned it all and kissed Her again there. “I’m hungry. Are you-“

“I’m always hungry, Princess.” Dean had grinned, and offered Her his hand. “Gas station?”

She’d given him a small smile and nod, The Conversation hadn’t happened, and Dean had decided that bringing it up naturally—which had, somehow, been the plan in the library—had to be taken off the table as an option.

But he didn’t know how to do it otherwise. 

Hey, Princess, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me and if you want to kiss me again, I won’t stop you. Wrong. She was beautiful being that was above goddamn heaven, Dean couldn’t ask Her out like it was a suggestion to get him more pie. Like this wasn’t the most important thing he’d ever done. 

I’m a piece of shit, sweetheart, but I want you, so I’m sorry about that, but could you please fucking kiss me again before I lose my mind. Wrong again. She shouldn’t have to. It didn’t mean anything if She kissed Dean to keep him from losing his mind. She had to want it.

I think you’re fucking awesome. She knew that. It had never gotten Her to kiss him before.

Every single time I dream, it’s about you- 

He wasn’t a teenage girl.

Do you have any idea how fucking hard I get whenever you smile at me? How many times I’ve imagined grabbing you and pinning you to the wall, or bending you over the table, or getting on my knees and-

Bobby would shoot him. He’d deserve it.

You’re like the universe, and I’m sorta like the stars, so how this should work is I fill you up-

He was going to shoot himself.

And there were too many variables for what She might say. Maybe it really had meant nothing to Her, and She’d tell Dean that, and he’d just have to fucking live with that. 

Worse, maybe it had meant everything to Her. Maybe Dean really, fully had Her if he wanted Her, and now he could lose Her. Break Her. Maybe She’d say Deano, of course I’m the universe, but you’re somehow the best thing that happened to me too, and climb on his lap and kiss him again, and he’d get to hold Her, but know angels were hunting Her and Alistair might try to take Her away.

Even if that was the case, even if She did—against all odds and reason—want Dean, he had to have The Conversation about it, first. 

He still didn’t know how to do that. Because it was exactly like planning for a hunt. And the number one rule of making plans for hunts was that you were going to have to improvise. Move on instinct, and stay alive. Speak on instinct, and keep Her by his side.

Dean did not know how to speak on instinct. And if he stumbled or tripped in a hunt—he didn’t, really, ever, as killing monsters was a whole lot easier than trying to tell Her that he’d kill and die to kiss Her just one more fucking time—the only thing it would cost Dean was himself. He never hesitated, when it was Her or Sammy on the line, so the only person that ever ended up hurt because of Dean fucking a hunt up was himself. And that was acceptable.

He didn’t know how to do that for The Conversation. How to find his way with all the right words should he lose them. He could say something horrible, say something wrong, fuck it up and lose Her forever. There were no bullets or blades to jump in front of, if She started to get upset.

Son of a bitch, what if She started to get upset.

What if She started to cry, and Dean wasn’t allowed to calm Her down because he’d fucked it all up. He couldn’t live with himself, if that was how it played out. Dean could barely tolerate himself now, when he’d down and swear that there was blood on his hands once more. She’d stayed when She knew about the blood. If Dean lost Her now, because of his words, there would be no one else to blame but himself.

He was supposed to be Her shadow. And this was part of being Her shadow, but the most important part was keep Her safe and never let anything hurt Her.

Dean could have hurt Her.

But She’d kissed him back. Over the past few weeks, whenever Dean would roll over and look at Her in bed, he’d remind himself that She’d kissed him back. She’d wanted it. He was a piece of shit, but not that low and ugly in the mud. He’d never do that to anyone.

But he was still fantasizing about Her. And it was wrong, so fucking wrong to look over Her in the night and brush hair from Her face because he was allowed to, only to turn around and shuffle into the shower in the morning, and replay the kiss over and over in his head until his cock was raw in his hand.

Even now, sitting in the dark of a parking lot with Her at his side, Dean was having too many fantasies.

They’d been doing it every other night, since the library. Going out to the gas station in the dead of night, just them, together, whenever one of them couldn’t sleep. Tonight She’d even woken Dean up with big glossy eyes and a sad little furrow on Her brow. 

“I- I’m sorry.” She’d whispered, looking a little too much like the exact image that had been in Dean’s head only seconds before. Where She was hovering above him, but his hands were on Her hips, and his mouth was wrapped around one of Her nipples as She rode his cock and screamed his-

He'd been dangerously close to getting hard, and forced himself to focus on the soft nervousness of Her voice—obviously distressed and, for reasons he'd never understand, seeking his comfort—to calm down.

"You can go back to bed, if you want, but-"

"No, 's alright." Dean had rubbed the sleep from his eyes, holding Her against him before she decided to run away. "I was up anyway."

That was a lie. They both knew that was a lie, but She smiled, and it was worth the consequence of another sin added to his roster. 

"You need a ride?" He'd asked, and She'd flushed, giving him a small nod.

"I- Um, yes. Please."

It hadn't been until they were in the car that Dean caught his own wording. Or the fact that holding Her to make sure she stayed had meant grabbing Her by waist and pinning her to his body.

That would be a good way to start The Conversation.

Baby, if I had kissed you right there, would you have stabbed me for real this time, or let me take care of you.

Dean wasn't brave enough to say it. But he could think it, over and over until he drove himself insane. And he could stare at Her in the soft shadows and lights of the parking lot, and know that he'd never be able to have The Conversation. 

He couldn't afford to push his luck. When he didn't dream about kissing Her, he dreamt about Hell. And She'd started to infect those dreams too, since Boston. Since Dean found out She'd been there, and still hadn't left him. He would've left him, if that was an option. Shit, Sammy and Bobby still didn't know, and he dreaded the day they looked at him and saw him. Saw that vast fucking pit that had been in Dean his whole life, ripped open into a chasm by his own hand, and knew what he was.

Worse than a monster. Lower than the mud. 

Never fucking worthy of anything, let alone Her. The drop-dead gorgeous, ethereal, literally fucking magical woman made of stars, who could see him, and was staying.

Dean couldn’t take more from Her than she was already offering, just by staying and letting him care for Her at least like this. He'd gotten to kiss Her once, and that was more than he deserved. He got to be the one She came to in the dead of night for comfort and company. She wasn't leaning against anyone else in the car. Wasn't holding their hand like it was a lifeline as they wandered through the gas station. Didn't stand on Her toes to whisper in anyone's ear but Dean's, because he was Her shadow. No one else.

She'd asked if they could get ice cream. Asked it like Dean wouldn't give Her the fucking Sun if he could figure out how to grab it.

And now She was curled up at his side, a little bit of it stuck on Her nose, and Dean would be fine never kissing Her again, as long as he got to be the one who wiped the splotch away with his thumb and licked it clean. 

“Do you want some?” She held the tub out with raised brows, and Dean gave Her a small grin. 

“Nah, I got my pie.”

“But you gave me some of yours-“

“Cause you were staring, Princess, and I’m a-“ Dean paused, frowning at the air. “What do you call those guys who give people all their things?”

A small, soft smile covered Her features. Dean had never seen anything prettier. “Samaritans?”

“Yeah, that. I’m one of those.”

She giggled, leaning Her head back on the bench. “You know, Sam told me you threatened to exorcise Ruby if she tried to take your ice last week.”

“Well, the bitch didn’t fucking pay for it.” Dean grumbled. “And it is Ruby. You’d have threatened worse.”

“Touché.” She turned Her head to the side, watching Dean through the dark, and he knew She could see it. If She could see his soul, She had to see the chasm as well.

And She was still looking at him. Staying at his side. He didn’t fucking understand why.

“Dean?”

He grunted, fiddling with his jerky bag. She’d grabbed it before anything else. They’d barely been in the store for ten seconds before She’d shoved it into Dean’s hands, the same way he’d grabbed a root beer and passed it to Her without a thought. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. 

“I’m worried about Sam. He’s- You know I don’t trust Ruby, and they’ve been hanging out a lot-“

“I know.” Dean muttered. “I am too, but- I don’t know, sweetheart. He’s not listening to me about it anymore. Says I’m blinded about-“

He cut himself off, because the end of that sentence was Her. That Dean was blinded in his worry about Her, and how because She and Ruby didn’t like each other, they couldn’t bring Her on the seal cases. 

They’d gotten in a fight about it, last week. On the drive back, Dean had grumbled something about missing Her, wanting to bring Her on the next one because She’d fucking nail it—these were Her exact types of cases, weird and impossible to understand until she gave it a once over and got it in ten seconds—and thinking it was unfair that Sam got to bring his untrustworthy demon everywhere, but Dean couldn’t bring his awesome, brilliant, perfect Her.

Sam had sighed. “It’s not that I don’t want her here, Dean, you know I do, but- Ruby’s worried she’ll kill her-“

“Good.” Dean had muttered. “She will.”

“She shouldn’t! Ruby’s the only demon we’ve got completely on our side-“

Dean had snorted. “Jesus, Sammy, I really thought you were smarter than thinking a demon would ever be on our side-“

“Ruby is, she’s proved over and over that she is-“

“Proved to you.”

“She’s tried to prove to you as well, man, but you’re just never wrong about people, I guess-“

“I am wrong about people! I know I’ve been wrong about people, but you know who’s never fucking wrong about people?” Dean had spat Her name, and Sam’s mouth had snapped shut. “I don’t need Ruby to prove herself to me, she needs to prove herself to-“

“The woman who wants to kill her?” Sam had mumbled, watching Dean carefully, and he’d been damn near close to strangling the wheel.

“To the woman who can see fucking souls. She’s not wrong. And I want her on the next seal.”

Sam had sighed. “Dude, if you just want to stay with her, you can skip the next case. I- It’s not just about Ruby.” Sam had said Her name gently, giving Dean a sympathetic look he didn’t fucking want. “If we put her on a seal case, the angels will notice. It won’t be safe for her-“

“I’d protect her.” 

“But what if you can’t, Dean.” Sam’s voice had been too fucking soft. “It’s- The seals are a lot, but all the Magdalene stuff is… different. You told me Cas doesn’t understand it, and Ruby-“

“Don’t.” Dean had pushed the words through his teeth. He was done with the conversation, because he would protect Her. That was the whole point of being Her shadow. If he couldn’t touch Her, at least he could protect Her. And if He couldn’t do that, he might as well just be another asshole in the mud. 

“Dean-“

“No. Don’t tell me what Ruby thinks of my-“ Dean had snapped Her name, and if Sam caught his slip, he didn’t say anything. “Ruby called her a bitch. You know that, Sam? Ruby called her a self-important bitch.”

Sam had—wisely—looked down at his hands with a shameful expression. “I- Dean, I’m not trying to-“

“I don’t care. You know she’s better than Ruby.” She was better than all of them. “And I want her. On the case. Got it?”

Sam had nodded, and that had been the end of it. If She wanted, they’d bring Her on the next seal case. 

If She wanted.

Dean hadn’t asked yet. He hadn’t found a time for it. She was already dealing with enough. 

Yet was another reason they hadn’t had The Conversation. Between the seals, his fights with Sam about Ruby, and the whole dangerous bringer of change thing Cas had dropped on them, this was simply not a good time to start begging Her to tell him what he meant to Her, like he was some kind of pathetic little yipping dog. Trying to get Her attention and affection, when she needed to be working. 

They all needed to be working. 

Dean still spent too much time staring at Her lips, and wondering if just licking them would let him taste the fruit again. 

He’d been staring at Her for too long now. Where She could see it. She’d asked him a genuine question, Dean had been a piece of shit and lost himself in thoughts of licking Her. 

“I, uh- At least you’re coming with us. Instead of Ruby.”

She frowned at him. “What?”

“Next seal case. You’re-“

“Dean,” She sighed, and he’d done something wrong. She was pouting at him a little, and rubbing the scar on Her palm—She’d never actually told him how She got it, but it would once again be far too greedy to take more—so Dean had done something wrong.

“If you want.” He added, trying to keep his voice perfectly even and natural. “They’re just a lot of weird, crazy shit, and you love that stuff-“

“It’s not that.” She whispers, giving him a sad smile. “You remember what Cas said. I- Sam’s right, keeping me away from the seals. That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Dean had a lot of issues with that. To start, Sam was not right. She should not be kept away from anything. Second, and more importantly- “What are you worried about, then?”

“I- I think she’s doing something to him.”

“Ruby? To Sammy?” Dean frowned. Sam was the same. A little angrier, and more exhausted, but the same. 

But She nodded, the movement nervous. “I- I don’t know how. Or what. But I’m really worried about him, Dean, I shouldn’t have run when you-“ She swallowed, and Dean hadn’t missed how She’d been doing that. Aside from their fight in Texas, She never said dead, or died, or death. And Her lips were being chewed raw by her teeth, and Her eyes were a little glazed as she stared at Dean, and- 

There was the wrinkle.

Dean pulled Her fully into his arms without thinking about it. If She wanted to shove him away, She could, and he wouldn’t fight it. But she just dropped Her head into his chest with a long breath, shaking Her head against his body.

“We’re past that, Princess.” He murmured, not sure what else to say. “You’re not running anymore. Remember, I’ll catch you if you try.”

She sighed, the sound a little shaky. “You still need to explain that, Winchester.“

“I’m good.” He shrugged, smiling a little into the air. “I’m not blaming you for what Sam did while I was gone, same as I’m not blaming Sam for you.”

That was a little bit of a lie. But it made Her relax, and She didn’t need to know that he’d shouted at Sam and Bobby for losing Her, so he let it go. 

“Sammy’ll be fine. He’s an idiot, but he’s the smartest little idiot on the planet-“

“He is not little.” She mumbled, and Dean chuckled.

“His soul is little.”

“No, it isn’t.” She buried Her face a little further in Dean’s body. He couldn’t think about it. “It’s big and shiny.”

“Huh.” Dean frowned down at Her. “What about-“

“You’re big and shiny too.”

Warmth inflated in his chest, and that shouldn’t have made him as proud as it did. He was big and shiny. Even if She was obviously hitting the point of sleepy where Dean would think She was drunk if he didn’t know better, She’d called him big and shiny.

And golden. She’d said Dean was golden, and no matter what She could see on his body after Hell, she hadn’t taken it back. 

“What are you?” He asked, running his fingers through Her hair and making his voice soft, and She shrugged. 

“‘M not anything.”

“You-“

“But I can feel it. Everything.” 

“Oh. Of course.” Dean smiled down at Her. “You ready to go home, b- Princess?”

She nodded, but didn’t move. Her fingers curled into his shirt. “What about the next case?”

Dean sighed. He wanted Her there, so fucking much. 

Almost as much as he wanted Her to get what She wanted.

“You don’t have to go-“

“I want to go!” Her voice was almost a whine, and Dean couldn’t let himself think too hard about it as She leaned back, looking up at him with big eyes and shiny hair falling around Her face. “I wanna go Dean, but I- What if the angels don’t want me there?”

“Who gives a shit what they think?”

“I do.” She whispered. “What if they put you back in Hell?”

Dean didn’t know if they could do that. “They won’t.” He hoped he sounded more confident in that than he felt. “They need me for all the seal stuff, and you’re gonna be great at it, so they need you.”

She shook Her head. “They don’t need me. They don’t want me interfering. Cas said they’d take precautions.”

“I don’t care.”

“Dean, I care. I- I’m not already pushing it just by staying with you at Bobby’s, I don’t want to-“ She took a shaking breath, staring at Her hands on Dean’s chest. “We still don’t really know what I am. And if the Magdalene who brought the Roman Empire was barely even five percent…”

“Magic?” Dean offered as She trailed off, and she nodded.

“What am I going to do?”

They hadn’t really talked about this either. The Magdalene thing. Dean didn’t really have anything to say about, because it really hadn’t been an actual answer. They had a name, but no matter how many books She and Sammy read, how many contacts Bobby and Ellen reached out to, nobody had ever even damn heard of it. And angels and demons freaking out about Her wasn’t anything new, and nothing had shifted where She was suddenly some sort of lamb to be sacrificed, or monster to be caged.

She was still just Her. As far as Dean cared, no matter how they framed it, She was Herself, and nothing else really fucking mattered. He’d keep looking for answers because She wanted them, but for Dean, She was enough all on her own. 

“You’ll do whatever you want.” He muttered, holding Her gaze. “And if you want to come on this next one, that’s it.”

She sighed. ���Dean-“

He hummed Her name back, and grinned at Her glare.

“What if I’m a seal?” She grumbled. “Have you thought of that?”

“Nope.” Dean slid Her back into her place, pressing a greedy kiss to her brow at the last second. “And I’ll have you however, arfing or not.”

She giggled, shaking Her head. 

It was resting back on his shoulder.

He’s not allowed to think about it.

“That’s not funny.”

“You laughed.”

“I’m tired-“

“And I’m trying to get you to bed.” Dean started Baby’s engine, and She let out a soft hum. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow, Princess. Let’s get you some rest.” 

She didn’t fight it. When Dean pulled Her out of the car, she slumped into his side. He got to all but carry Her up the stairs, and help her back into bed, before crawling in right beside Her. And that was more than anyone else got.

It would have to be enough. For Her to let Dean touch Her at all, when she’d seen what he’d done. For Her to listen to him at all, and agree to go on the case, when all She’d have to say was no, Dean, and he’d drop it. He’d suck it up and deal with Ruby for another week, forcing himself not to grab his phone and call Her every ten minutes. 

But She’d agree. 

She was going on the case. Dean wouldn’t have to deal with Ruby, and—more importantly—he’d get to see Her. All week. In the rearview mirror on the car ride and on the other side of his motel bed, across from him in the diner and next to him at the bar. 

“It’s good we know this is a seal going in.” Sam said, watching Her draw on a paper napkin. 

She’d been doing that a lot, lately. In Enochian, without bothering to tell Sam and Dean what she was doing.

Dean really wasn’t sure how he’d ask. The best he could offer himself was pressing right into Her side and staring over Her shoulder, only half listening as Sam tried to talk about the case.

In his defense, none of them were really paying attention. Dean was staring at Her, She was focused on her napkin, and Sammy kept getting distracted by a redhead making fuck-me eyes at him. Then he’d make the eyes back, before coughing and trying to continue the conversation whenever Dean glanced over and caught him.

She paused, glancing up with a small frown. “Do you usually not know?”

“Sometimes Cas drops in and gives us a heads up,” Dean leaned a little further forward. He didn’t know what he was looking for. He wasn’t magic, and he definitely couldn’t speak angel. “Told us that heaven knows Lilith’s making moves in Florida, and whatever she’s starting, we need to squash.”

She gave Dean an amused look. “Cas did not say making moves.”

“You can’t prove that, sweetheart.” Dean winked at Her, and Sam cleared his throat. 

“We also know what she’s doing-“

“What moves she’s making-“

“Shut up, Dean. A lot of couples have been murdered at the resort we’re headed to.” Sam wrinkled his nose. “Like, a lot. Too many to be normal.”

She hummed, looking back to Her paper. “How many is a lot?”

“Eight.”

“That’s not a lot.”

Sam frowned at Her. “What number would be a lot?”

“I dunno. Fifteen?” 

“That is not a-“

“Yes, it is.” She looked up to Dean. “Fifteen’s a lot, right Deano?”

Sam scoffed. “You can’t ask Dean, he’s just going to agree with you.”

Dean scowled. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are, dude-“

“Well, you’re not giving him a chance to answer, Sam-“

“And I wasn’t going to agree with her-“

She turned to give Dean a pretty, wide-eyed look, and son of a bitch, his cock twitched in his pants. “You weren’t?”

“I- Uh.” Dean coughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t really think about it! You and Sam started yelling and shit, I wasn’t really paying attention-“

“Why?” Sam raised his brows, suddenly looking a hell of a lot more smug than earlier. “What were you looking at instead, Dean?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Shut up, Sammy. Go flirt with the redhead who’s been making eyes at you and leave us alone.”

Sam sighed. “We’re in the middle of a case, Dean-“

“Technically the case hasn’t started,” She hummed. “And we get it. Dying couple, resort, Lilith, figure out exactly what the seal is and stop it from being broken. Easy.”

“It’s not easy, and you haven’t even heard the actual plan yet-“

“We’ll go undercover,” She refocused on Her napkin, voice smooth and bored. “We’ll need a patron, a bartender, and a staff member. Optimized access to the facility, a lot of good reasons to talk to people, none of us too out of place for talking to each other.”

Sam frowned. “How would staff and patrons talking not be conspicuous-“

“Staff could be work friends. Patron could be just nosing their way into the conversation. As long as we’re careful, it’ll be fine. The patron will have to stay in their room, to keep appearances, but I doubt Lilith is wire-tapping phones.”

Sam’s mouth opened and closed, and he finally gave in with a sigh. It was a good plan. Of course it was. It was Her plan.

Dean let that show all over his face, as he shot Sammy a smug look. They hadn’t even gotten to the seal yet, and his girl was already killing it. Ruby would’ve talked about sneaking around and breaking in and other stupid shit. She was smarter than that. 

“Go flirt with the redhead, Sam.” She didn’t look up from Her napkin, and Sam sighed.

“I’m not- It’s almost valentine’s day, guys, I’m not trying to be. You know. The guy.”

She looked up. “The guy? What’s the guy?”

“You- Dean knows. He’s been the guy-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted. “Shut it. Go flirt.”

She shook Her head, frowning between them. “I- Sam, what’s the guy-“

“It’s a dude thing.” Dean snapped, and She scoffed.

“I thought we were breaking gender barriers, Winchester. You did me and Jo’s girl things-“

Sam grinned. “What girl things?”

“Nothing. Both of you, shut the fuck up. Sam,” Dean pointed firmly at the red-head with the fuck-me eyes. “Flirt. And you,” Dean turned his glower down to Her, and she covered his mouth with a hand.

That shouldn’t have been as effective as it was. Dean was suddenly too consumed by Her hand—warm and soft and over his mouth—to keep protesting.

“Sam, what’s the guy.”

At least Dean got an apologetic look first. “It’s, uh- The valentine’s day bar guy. Who sleeps with lonely women, because he knows that’s all they want. And,” Sam was still talking. Why the hell was Sam still talking. “Dean hasn’t been that guy in a long time, I promise, I was just making fun of him.”

“Oh.” Dean couldn’t read the expression on Her face. “Okay. Go.”

Sam frowned. “Go-“

“Redhead, Sam.” Her hand dropped from Dean’s mouth. He wanted it to come back. He could kiss Her knuckles, then pin her arms over her head and-

Dean could not get another boner in public, just from thinking about Her. He needed to pull it together.

“But, uh-“ Sam was still protesting, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m not-“

“Maybe she’ll be your soulmate or something.” She shrugged, looking back to the napkin. Dean couldn’t read that tone either. “Go.”

“I, I haven’t done that,” Sam rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down the bar. “In a while. What if-“

“You’ve got this, Buddy.” She gave Sam a thumbs up, and Her voice was bubbly. Dean’s never heard Her be bubbly before. “Go.”

Sam nodded slowly, scooted out of his chair, and the moment Sam was out of earshot, she sighed and rolled Her eyes at Dean.

“Thank god. I could like, fucking feel her.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“The redhead.” She nodded to where Sam had disappeared in the crowd, Her attention back on the napkin. “She’s been staring at him all night, and god, she’s horny, Dean. It’s like, all over the table.”

She wasn’t tired. She’d actually slept really well last night. And She still didn’t drink, so Dean didn’t need to be worried about that.

He still didn’t have a clue what She was talking about.

“What.”

She sighed, looking up to Dean. He couldn’t breathe. “Her soul. When someone want companionship, they put out like, pheromones. Kind of. It’s hard to explain when you can’t see them.”

“Oh.” Dean paused, then tensed as it hit him. She could tell when people were horny.

Dean was horny all the fucking time.

“Son of a bitch.”

“Are you-“

“Yeah, Princess I’m-“ He swallowed. “Can you just like, see it? When people are, uh. Lookin’ for action?”

“No. It’s, like- It’s not a smell, but it’s not not a smell, and they’re kinda like tentacles-“ 

“Tentacles-“

“No, but yes, and-“ She sighed, shaking Her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to explain it-“

“Hey,” Dean grabbed Her hand before he could second think it, and Her lips parted. Hitched breath. 

Shit.

“You’re fine.” He muttered. “I was just wondering. Don’t hurt yourself, Princess.”

She nodded slowly, still staring at him, and Dean could feel the heat on his face. This was getting too close to something that might cause The Conversation. Dean was not ready for The Conversation.

“Uh, since when can you see that shit?”

She let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know. Being around people is doing… A lot.” She frowned at the napkin. “It’s kind of messy.”

“Messy-“

“Colorful.”

Dean nodded slowly. He didn’t really fucking understand—with Her, he never did—but he knew what mattered. “It’s it too much?” He tried to keep his voice soft, and he was rewarded with a small nod. 

“Too much.”

“Alright.” Dean pushed off his stool, moving his hand to Her lower back. “Let’s go. We’ll pick up Sammy in the morning.”

She blinked at him in adorable confusion. “Dean-“

“C’mon, we’re going back to the motel.” Dean smirked over at where the redhead was half in Sam lap. “Think we’re done here anyway.”

Dean was certainly done here. He was done anywhere that would make Her curl up into Herself, and there was nothing else for him to do—in this bar or anywhere in the world—but care for Her. 

Sammy seemed happy with his fuck-me-eyes redhead, but Dean was going to have to punch him later for bringing up how Dean used to be one of those guys. It didn’t matter that he had been. Dean had—very purposefully, for a long time—been one of those guys, and he’d been pretty fucking good at it. He wasn’t such a fucking asshole to deny that he had very much thrived on being one of those guys. It had kept him satiated in the dark, the brief touches and lies of permanence and possession. It may have been an artificial light—leaving him hungrier and lonelier than before, once the effects wore off—bur it had worked. He’d done it. And he wouldn’t take it back, because the pit might have swallowed him otherwise. 

But Dean wasn’t one of those guys now.

He really hadn’t been for a while. He hadn’t been that guy on Valentine’s day, but he also hadn’t been that guy at random bars, or the roadhouse, or on the cases. And he didn’t know when it had stopped all together-

That was a fucking lie. 

He knew exactly when it stopped.

It was sooner than he’d ever admit to anyone. It wasn’t after he got back from hell, or he found out about Her magic stuff, or when she learned about the deal and stayed. It wasn’t even when he’d started sharing Her bed.

She’d settled into the backseat of his car like She belonged there, decided to stay for the first time after those witches in Utah—when they’d been looking for Jo and found Her—and Dean had been done with bars and fuck-me eyes. Done with artificial light to keep him from falling into the pit.

And She’d told him about photosynthesis, a while ago. He didn’t know how the hell that had worked itself into a conversation, but She said it’s how plants eat, Deano. They absorb the sunlight and turn it into energy. 

Dean might be a plant. 

She might be the sun. 

And he couldn’t go back to artificial light if he tried.

He did still make fuck-me eyes, though. As he stood alone in the shower—Her long asleep in their bed—Dean could admit he made fuck-me eyes a lot. At Her.

She never seemed to see them, though. Even when they’d been obvious, and he’d been so fucking worried he’d been caught, nothing on Her features had ever shifted. 

Other people made fuck-me eyes at Her, as well. They have to be insane and blind and stupid not to. Everyone should want Her. Dean just didn’t want anyone else to have Her. Not like that. Not less than She deserved, without complete fucking devotion and a feral kind of feeling in their bodies Dean knew he had. And he wouldn’t have any logical reason to stop Her if she took up their offers—he could try no, I’m yours, take me instead, but he didn’t think it would work—and he’d gotten really good at not destroying himself about the idea, because She never did.

Dean had never seen Her fuck-me eyes, now that he thought about it. Not where he could see. 

But he knew She did give him the fluttering, blinding wouldn’t it be good to die for me eyes. 

She might not know she does that.

She can’t know the way that just picturing them is making him so hard it’s a little painful. Just like She can’t know that, before he crawled into bed at Her side, he’d beat his cock into his hands until he came with a groan of Her name.

Dean shouldn’t have kissed Her. 

The knowledge of how She tasted, felt, sounded—gasping his name like She wanted him—was making his decade long practice of best friend, don’t think about Her like that in the daylight, because you don’t deserve it and could never have it a little fucking impossible.

But he was hiding it well.

Dean was pretty fucking sure he was hiding it well.

“There’s no fucking way she’s being the patron, Sammy.” 

She glared at him in the rearview mirror, and Sam looked really fucking amused and pleased for a guy that had stumbled back twenty minture late without underpants.

Dean would’ve ever been proud of him—if he had to be stuck in the orbit of some sort of fucking Goddess he couldn’t touch, at least Sammy was getting some—if he hadn’t just suggested something fucking insane. 

“I can be the patron.” She snapped, Her eyes narrowing. “I’d be a great fucking patron. I can wear a swimsuit, and order stupid drinks, and- and I can act ditzy! And sit on the beach!”

Son of a bitch, She was adorable. Glaring at Dean, mumbling about how She could be ditzy—ditzy people didn’t use the word ditzy—and completely fucking missing the point. Dean knew She’d be a good patron. Between the three of them, She’d be the best patron. She already looked the better and fancier than everyone else part, all the time. She already carried Herself like an angel fallen to Earth—better, actually, because the angels tended to walk all stiff and angry—and She already spoke like if She told the ocean to stay at low tide forever, it would. She’d just need to lose all the softer light in Her eyes and blinding smile that told people She was crafted only from good things, to stop using Her manners, and be a whole lot less adorable and caring, and they’d have their perfect patron.

But Dean was, once again, a selfish piece of shit. 

The patron would have to sleep in the resort. Alone.

Away from the other two.

She’d have to sleep away from Dean.

“I’m not worried about your talents, Princess.” He muttered. “Sammy’ll be a good patron, I can tend bar, and you can be staff.”

Sam raised his hand. “I’m not going to be a good patron. There are like, different forks I’ll have to use, and I never learned those-“

“I did!” She leaned forward, almost propping Her chin on Dean’s should. It wasn’t helping. “I took etiquette lessons until, um- Well, until I made all the cups explode because I needed to pee and no one would let me, but I remember all the forks!”

God fucking damnit. Of course She knew all the forks. “You’re not going to a gala, Sammy. You don’t need to know about the forks.”

Dean’s grip on Baby’s wheel was white, and his last plea for this to end in his favor failed.

He lost the argument. Sam wasn’t comfortable trying to act all fancy,  She had what Sam called a sort of scary pretty face that important people have—She’d flushed and mumbled a thanks, but Dean agreed with Sam’s assessment—and Dean wasn’t allowed to just shout that he couldn’t sleep without Her. 

He fucking couldn’t. He didn’t know how anymore. At least not useful sleep, where he woke up alert and rested the next morning.

Sleep where he woke up panting and swinging at the air came just fine without Her. 

It thrived on the lack of Her, actually. It festered and spread over Dean’s skull, when he didn’t know She was across the mattress, safe and sound.

He somehow made it through the first night. The day had been filled with quick set-up—this resort didn’t seem to be run all that well, given how Sam and Dean didn’t even have to lie that hard about why they needed jobs right now—and recon, and it meant Dean collapsed on the bed barely a moment after he and Sammy returned to the motel. 

But then the morning came. And Dean turned to look and check that She was there and peaceful, because he did that every morning, only to find Her missing. 

He panicked.

Sam said he panicked.

Dean didn’t really remember it at all. There was a blur of ripping up the motel room and grabbing his gun, Alistair’s voice muttering in his ear that he’d find her, Dean’s lovely little Princess, and make Her beg for death ringing in his ears. It didn’t help that all he could really see was an image of Her from Texas, with ragged hair and hollow features and dark stain on Her stomach, red markings imprinted on Her wrists and a skeletal expression on Her face that made Dean want to dice and carve whoever the hell had done that to Her. 

He couldn’t scrape that image from behind his eyes. Sammy had brought him down—reminding him that She was fine, and at the resort, and had literally texted Dean twenty minutes before he woke up that she was going to try and sneak him some good coffee—but he couldn’t fucking relax because all he could see was Her. In pain.

When She’d needed Dean, and he hadn’t been there.

The day was long. Sam stopped by on his breaks, saying that he’d been looking for signs of demons everywhere but found nothing, and She gave by at random points through the day, giving Dean a bright smile from across the bar and making something to the right of his heart fucking howl. 

“Sam slipped me all the vics reservation records.” She said, eyes focused on Her little paper umbrella as Dean cleaned a glass. “And he says he can’t find any demons.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah, I heard. You seeing anything?”

“Nothing.”

Dean risked a glance over. Her lip was between Her teeth.

He had to rip his gaze back away.

“We looked at the files last night.” He muttered, trying to pretend he didn’t want to grab Her over the bar and kiss Her until she moaned his name. “None of them had the same last name. Not married couples.”

She paused. “That’s- huh. I was eavesdropping-“

Dean couldn’t stop himself from shooting Her a grin. “That’s pretty freakin’ rude, Princess-“

“Shut up. There were these two old ladies, and they were saying one of those poor girls had such a bright future, too. They mentioned finding the ring on the beach, and, you know, how big and shiny it was.” 

Dean frowned. “The ring?”

“Yep. So not married, but-“

“Engaged.” He muttered, glaring down at his well-polished glass. “Shit, I’ll pass it to Sammy later.”

She nodded, and was gone before Dean could say anything else. . 

Night fell, Dean left Her at the resort, and the nightmares were back in full fucking force. 

This time She was sitting on the edge of the bed in Boston, Dean rose up to kiss Her, and she turned into ugly mold and dirty water, seeping into the bed, then down, down, down into the floor. Vanishing like She’d never been there at all.

That one was going to be reoccurring. Dean had been getting a lot of new nightmares lately, and he’d gotten really good at telling which ones were going to haunt him for a long, long time. 

It kept going like that for a few days. Valentine’s Day itself was creeping up, and they hadn’t found any evidence that it was itself important to the seal, but they hadn’t really found any evidence at all. 

Sammy still hadn’t found any demons, but he had heard rumors from the other staff that some of the girls had been see cheating, hours before their deaths. And after She heard similar rumors, they decided to focus their energy there.

“Maybe it’s like…” Sam had trailed off at the motel table that night, frowning at his laptop. “The seal opens if enough girls cheat on their partners.”

Dean scowled, turning his beer bottle between his hands. She’d smiled at him today, and Her lips had looked glossy, and he couldn’t tell if his head was fuzzy from want or drinking. “That doesn’t make sense, Sammy.”

“No.” Sam had sighed. “It doesn’t.”

Dean’s next nightmare was another frequent flyer. One where Azazel flayed Her and Bobby alive, and but it kept flicking between Azazel and Dad, then it ended with Her broken body in Dean’s hands and Azazel-Dad telling him that it was for his own good.

They still had fucking nothing.

Dean’s job sucked. They found another set of bodies, but he was stuck behind the bar. He had chicks making the fuck-me-eyes at him, but whenever She’d stop by for their briefings, She barely met his gaze. 

It was for their cover. In case something was watching that even Her magic shit couldn’t detect. 

It still made his stupid heart whine. 

And at least Dean got to see Her. Got to chance quick, assessing scans over Her body, just to make sure She was still okay. There was no dried blood on Her lips or caking her nails, and no scratch marks visible on Her arms. Her wrists looked a little odd, but that might be sunburn, or chafing. She was wearing Her jacket, which meant she had Her knife.

It also meant he needed to be worried about Her getting heatstroke.

“You need some ice, sweetheart?” It was an acceptable thing to ask. Sometimes Shirley temples needed ice, and Dean was a bartender.

“No, thank you. If I eat ice, my fingers will get cold. And I won’t be able to hold my pencil.” She gave him a small, pretty smile under Her fluttering lashes. “Thank you, though.”

He couldn’t help himself. “You already thanked me, Princess.”

“Eat my fucking balls.”

Dean had to cough to cover his snort. 

At least he got to hear Her voice in something other than a fantasy or nightmare. 

“I got confirmation about the cheating.” She continued like nothing had happened, although it felt a little more like she was telling Her napkin rather than Dean. “I talked to a woman who was friends with one of the vics, and apparently she’d been talking about leaving her fiancée for some random new guy.”

Dean frowned. He’d been doing that a lot this week. “And this lady is still on her vacation?”

She shrugged, a small smile tugging on Her lips. “Get your money’s worth, I guess.”

That was all he was getting, it seemed. Maybe all She had.

Dean cleared his throat. “So, uh-“

“Text me.” She gave Dean a soft, dark smile that made his knees weak, and slid Her napkin across the counter. 

Those weren’t Her fuck-me eyes. They were a cover, so She could tell him not now, call me later. The napkin didn’t even have one of Her burner phone numbers. It was just a bunch of Enochian, with one specific word-thing repeated over and over.

That night, Dean had one of the older nightmares. A green demon grabbing Her, driving it’s knife right into Her stomach, and Dean unable to move or do anything as She bled out on the motel floor. Then Bobby would burst through the door shouting things that Dean couldn’t hear, but still hurt, before pulling out his shotgun, aiming it at Dean’s head and never pulling the trigger.

The nightmare never ended with Bobby pulling the trigger. Usually they’d just stare at each other for a long time, and Dean would see all his own pain and devastation from Her loss reflected on Bobby’s face, and then—after an eternity—he’d wake up. 

And he’d been right.

Dean made the mistake of falling back asleep after hour, and the kiss-death nightmare returned.

This day was the slowest yet. Dean hadn’t seen Sam since they split up this morning, and he hadn’t seen Her all day. He’d been doing nothing but turning over the case in his head, and he didn’t even have anyone to tell his ideas.

He missed Her. He didn’t know how he was going to go another fucking night without Her, he didn’t know how he’d ever gone a night without Her, no wonder Bobby had told him he looked like shit every single day She’d been gone, he wasn’t fucking sleeping-

“Hey.” She dropped onto the stool across from him, almost conjured—maybe they should revisit that angels thing, because what Dean had been doing did feel a little too close to prayer—and Her hair falling over her eyes. “Anything?”

Her voice was a little shaky, but the bar was loud, so Dean pressed on. “Yeah, uh- I was thinking about how they’ve all been cheaters, right? But it’s only been the chicks.”

“That’s… right.” She paused. She still wouldn’t look Dean in the eyes. “Shit.”

“Yeah, and you know the girl that died second day we were here?” He picked up a new glass. He’d gotten better at pretending to be busy. “All her friends were gossiping about stuff, and one of them said that it was real sad she died a virgin.”

She sat up at that. He had Her attention. “What?”

Her voice was definitely shaky. And a little smaller.

Dean would ask Her about it after. “And you told Sam that those ladies said they couldn’t believe the other mister and missus corpse waited so long, and we thought they were taking about like, engagement-“

“But they were talking about sex.” She muttered. “Fuck.”

“Is that, uh, that’s a good fuck, right?”

“Dean.” She whispered, and he wished She would fucking look at him. “I know what we’re hunting. Fuck, it’s, one shouldn’t even be here but maybe that’s the seal, maybe she gamed it and there aren’t any demons or angels because- but I’ve been- Fuck-“

Dean grunted Her name, throwing cover out the window. “Breathe. You’re fine, you’ve got it, and we’ll gank it and go home-“

“No, Dean, it’s-“ She had started to shake Her head, the movement almost frantic, and She was rubbing her wrists like she was trying to scrub something away. “Fuck- It’s a Pink Boto- I should’ve known, they lure in young women and seduce them, then kill their- Fuck-“

This was getting away from them too fast. Dean damned it further, and grabbed Her face between his hands over the bar. She stopped shaking Her head. Her breathing didn’t slow. “Listen, you’re gonna be fine-“

“I can’t remember, Dean, I- Fuck- I don’t know what to do- I need to know what to do- Why can’t I fucking-“

“Cause you’re tired, Sweetheart, we’re all tired-“

“But I- No-“

“Hey.” Dean made his tone firm, and She froze. “Look at me, Princess. Please.”

She slowly glanced up, and Her eyes were a little glossy. Puffed. Red.

She’d been crying. 

Dean moved faster than he thought.

He tangled his fingers in Her’s, abandoned the bar—it was a shitty bar anyway, and all their whiskey that Dean wasn’t supposed to be drinking tasted like piss—and pulled Her into a small backroom he’d found on one of his breaks. 

“What happened.” He grabbed Her face between his hands, trying to gently angle it so he could find the damage. It was probably on Her body. “Where’s- Shit, I didn’t grab the rubbing alcohol- Stay here and keep it elevated-“

“No- Dean-“ She grabbed his arm before he could move out of the closet, Her eyes wide. “I’m not hurt. It’s just-“ She let out a long, slow breath, and Dean’s heart might have stilled in his chest. “It’s been a long day.”

He nodded slowly. “You gonna tell me about it?”

“I- I can’t.” She whispered. “It’s not that bad, Dean, it’s stupid- I shouldn’t have even, and Sam-“

Dean’s jaw clenched. Sam wouldn’t hurt Her. Even if they lived in a world where Sam didn’t like Her—which he did, the kid fucking adored Her—he cared about Dean too much to hurt Her. They might be fighting about Ruby and the seals, but Sammy was his brother and wouldn’t fucking hurt the only person Dean-

“Sam was trying to help.” She sniffed, and Dean’s fists relaxed. Of course he was. That was good. “But I- Dean, I’m so tired-“

“I know. ” He muttered, letting his hands move back up to frame Her face. “We’re almost done, sweetheart. Then we’ll go home.”

And it was a lie. They both knew it was a lie. They weren’t going to be done. Even if they stopped this seal, there were more. Lilith didn’t seem like the type to roll over and go quietly, and Ruby was still a fucking problem, and She was still something the angels were hunting for insane and cryptic reasons.

Dean hadn’t forgotten what Cas told them. 

Her existence heralded danger. Change. Something big, that they’d have to deal with after this.

But they’d deal with it, and She’d still be here.

And Dean would stay at Her side, all the way down. Her shadow however She wanted it, running his thumb down the bridge of Her nose until She relaxed into his arms. 

“It’ll be okay, Princess.” Dean muttered, and for Her, he’d believe it. 

Even though they had to pull apart, and separate once more. At least they had a name. A better idea of what they were dealing with, so this fight could be done.

But this nightmare was the worst one yet. It was another new one, and Dean didn’t even know what was happening for most of it. There was just a lot of noise, a big crowd, and everything was so fucking colorful. It was like a hurricane, and he was screaming Her name but he couldn’t find Her. She screamed back, but it always echoed around and Dean couldn’t figure out where She was, where did She go, She needed him but he couldn’t find Her-

He burst onto an invisible edge, and started to fall.

Everything was big. Too big. Dean could see a whole lot of the sky, and not much else, and son of a bitch it felt like something was watching him, but She still wasn’t there-

Dean woke up in another cold sweat, and She wasn’t there. 

His phone found it’s away into his hand, and he couldn’t stop staring at the little letters of Her name, a promise on his screen. She was just on the other side of a button. 

It would be dangerous to call Her. Dean couldn’t call Her. He couldn’t risk it.  

He couldn’t take another night of this, and they were always safer together, but the case-

Dean nearly chucked his phone into the wall when it started to buzz. 

It was a good thing he didn’t.

Because She’d called him first.

He’d have to have lost his mind to not answer

“Dean?” Her voice was soft over the phone, and he muttered Her name in response.

“Are you-“

“I’m okay. I, um- Can you…” She trailed off, and for a moment it was only static through the phone. 

“Sweetheart, I need you to talk for me-“

“I don’t want to- This room is really big.”

Dean froze, shooting a quick look over to Sammy. Dead asleep and comfortable. “It is, huh?”

“Yes.” She whispered. “There’s- I have a minibar. It has the chocolate you like. If you’re hungry.” 

“I’m always hungry, Princess.” Dean grinned into the dark. “Parking lot?”

She hummed, Her voice still so soft. “Thank you, De.” 

“I know.”

“Say you’re welcome.”

“Bossy-“

“Dean-“

Dean bit down his snort as he pulled on his shoes. “I’m not saying it. I’m not doing this for the thanks,” He drawled Her name, and he could almost hear Her frown.

“Then what-“

“I’m doing it for you.” Dean didn’t let Her respond. He’d said it for himself, and so She’d know. All She needed to do for him was know. “See you soon.”

They didn’t talk about it, when She grabbed his hand in the parking lot and pulled him into the resort hotel. They didn’t speak at all in the elevator, when She wrapped her arms around his body and pressed Her face to his chest. And when Dean moved Her into bed, dropped on the impossibly soft mattress at Her side, he let out a groan that made Her smile.

He could see it in the dark. 

Same as he could see Her crawl slowly over to his side, drape Herself cautiously over his body, and settle down like the fanciest, smartest, hottest cat in the world.

Dean could be Her shadow like this. Holding Her through the night without a word, drowning in the smell of fruit, and sleeping easy because She was there. With him. 

They never had to talk about it. 

As long as She was with Dean, he could make it into enough.

——————

It’s been a weird week.

You might not have been fully yours for half of it. You’ve been the anxiety of all the guns in Bobby’s house, and the exhaustion of all the roads and bridges you drove over, and the heaviness of the ocean right out your window. The Silver is growing and infecting everything, and you can’t control when it decides to want to become the whole fucking universe, or when it slams back into your body.  For almost every waking moment you’ve been suffocating in it, the fear that it will hurt something and the terror that—as you rub your wrists and try to just focus the Silver, even without pain—something will hurt you.

You really haven’t been yours at all. All the time.

Almost all the time.

You’ve been yours with Dean.

In the Impala at midnight, bumping his knee and shooting you small grins across diner tables, all but carrying you out of the bar when you get exhausted and your brain starts to get fuzzy. Whenever he’s slept next to you in bed, even if he wasn’t touching you.

And you get that.

You wouldn’t touch you either.

It doesn’t matter how much you want Dean to touch you. How you can’t stop thinking about his lips against yours, about how he tasted a little like coffee and the apple you’d made him eat that morning, but he mostly just tasted like Dean. Salt and spice, sort of earthy, and Dean.

He’d been warm above you. You remember him being so fucking warm and safe above you, and he had touched you like he wanted you—with a lot of rough hands on your skin and soft groans and all his weight pressed over you—but he hasn’t touched you since. Not like that. His hand still rests on your lower back when he guides you around, and sometimes you’ll wake up with his fingers tracing over your stomach like he’s worried your long-gone stitches are going to rip, but he hasn’t touched you.

But it really doesn’t fucking matter how much you want to tackle him and kiss him until you’re both just sunken down to the floor, you can’t.

Rule one is this isn’t about you. Kissing Dean would be about you, not him. Rule two is you can’t overindulge. He thought you were dying, and he kissed you, and you didn’t break anything because Dean kissed you, but you’re not allowed to grab that and run with it. He hasn’t kissed you since, and you’re not allowed to kiss him, so now you’re here.

Loving him. Silently.

And fucking hating this stupid fucking case that’s going to make you fucking stab someone.

You shouldn’t have let Dean talk you into this. But you’d missed him, whenever he and Sam went off on a case without you and you were stuck at home. And it’s not about you if Dean asked you to come.

Plus, you were getting what Bobby called hunter fever.

“That’s not a thing.” You’d muttered when he’d brought it up, and he’d scoffed.

“I ain’t just makin’ it up for shits and giggles, kiddo. It’s real and you’ve got it.”

“I feel fine-“

“No, you fuckin’ don’t.” Bobby had given you a flat look. “You been runnin’ around like a headless dog all week-“

“That’s not the saying.”

Bobby had ignored your mumble, pushing on with narrowed eyes. “You’ve started readin’ on the floor again. You only do that when you’re losin’ your damn mind.“

“I am not losing my mind.” You’d snapped. “I’m trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to do now that we know. What if I start the end of the fucking world? What if my thing is like, the sun explodes, or the moon decides it want to be part of earth again, or- Fuck, what if I kill God-“

“God ain’t real,” Bobby had said your name firmly, dropping down at your side. “And if he is, you’re not killin’ him.”

“But Cas said that Lilith was a Magdalene, and she started demons, and- shit, what if I start something worse than demons? What if I start super-demons?”

Bobby had sighed. “You ain’t gonna start super-demons. We don’t know what your thing is gonna be, but we’ll work it out when it gets here-“

“But what if it’s really bad.” You’d whispered. “He called me the Magdalene. That- I don’t know what that means-“

“I don’t either. And it sounds like Cas don’t have that big a clue either.” Bobby had run a hand over his face, letting out a long breath. “You’re not helpin’ anything by worrying about it. Or doin’ this.”

He’d tapped the papers scattered over the table, all covered in Enochian, and you’d swallowed.  

Some of it was just the soul exercise. Trying to map out Bobby’s soul, watching Sam and Dean when they were home and trying to figure out what the hell they were made of. A lot of it was new rituals or attempts to figure out who other Magdalene witches could’ve been—Cas had made it sound like they could be born anywhere in the world, which really didn’t narrow down anything—and an embarrassing amount of it was just trying to figure out how to write Dean’s name. 

Your excuse was that writing something on purpose would help you distinguish Enochian in your head. 

The real reason was that you loved him, and needed at way to show it where no one else could see. 

“When was the last time you went this long without a hunt.” Bobby’s voice had been soft. Cautious. 

And you’d sighed. “I’ve never gone this long. You know that.”

“Hunter fever. You’re gettin’ sick of being still and not doin’ shit, and it’s makin’ all this,” Bobby had tapped one of the notes. “Worse.”

“That’s so fucking stupid.”

“Hey,” Bobby had given you a glare, the expression massively undercut by the small smile he was failing to fight. “Don’t be rude, kiddo. Raised you better than that.”

“No you didn’t-“

“Tried to.” He’d shrugged, moving back to his feet. “Not my fault it didn’t take.”

You’d rolled your eyes, glanced down at your chewed up pencil—another new habit, because apparently if you couldn’t bite yourself you had to bite something—and you might have had hunter fever. Between the notes, and the restless itch. settling over your bones, sinking deep and deeper every second, it makes sense. You’ve always been moving until the pain made you drop. Now you can’t move, and goddamnit Bobby really was right.

Hunter fever. 

That was a stupid name. You’d told Bobby that, and he’d said that if you come up with a better one he’s all ears, but until then he invented it, so he gets naming rights. 

And the hunter fever had only gotten worse, the longer Sam and Dean were on that case. You’d gone to the library and checked out so many history books you’d had to make two trips to get them all in the Firebird. You’ve been watching so many documentaries that Bobby set a three per day rule, and started making you stop between them so you remembered to eat and use the bathroom. You’ve run out of paper to write on, so you’ve switched to pen and started drawing on yourself. It pricks your skin, but it’s better than carving with your knife or nails when the Silver gets set off by nothing and you can’t reign it back in. 

And you’ve started to keep track of all the times Dean could’ve kissed you and didn’t. 

Every night in the Impala. Whenever he’s been a little drunk and you’ve helped him to bed, letting him hang around your body before pouring the rest of his beer down the toilet. When he’s grinned up at you from the couch, and any time he’s called you Princess, and every waking second where you’re in the same room, and he could grab you and do whatever the hell he wanted to you, and you’d be fine with it because it’s Dean.

It’s most likely for the best that he doesn’t. For so many reasons. You’re dangerous. You’re a Magdalene, and knowing is better than not knowing, but you still don’t fucking know a lot. You’re not exactly stable, and neither is Dean, but letting yourself crash into him isn’t going to make him more stable. It would only make the Spiderweb glow, and fully consume you with Gold, and this isn’t about you. It can’t be about you.

And only a few days before you left for Florida—when Dean was still gone and your room was colder and lonelier—Cas appeared in the middle of your room, the only warning of a glowing sigil on the wall.

He’d said your name with a deep, serious tone, and you’d sighed.

“Hi, Cas.”

“You told me we needed to speak again. About my timing.” He glanced around your room, a small frown pulling at his features. “I am here to do that.”

“I don’t care about your timing.” You’d sighed, moving to lie flat on your back. “That was a cover.”

“A cover over what?”

“Over why I needed to talk to you. It’s a phrase.”

“Oh.” You’d craned your neck up, and Cas blinked at you. “What talk are we covering?”

You’d rubbed at your wrists, lying back down. “Can you sit, please?”

“This body can sit, yes-“ Cas had cut himself off, and you’d let him work through that one himself. “You are… asking me to sit.”

“Yep.”

“I do not need to-“

“Cas. Please.”

You’d expected more resistance. Instead he’d just dropped awkwardly at your side, shifting uncomfortably on the edge of the mattress. “This is... better. Thank you.”

You’d hummed an acknowledgment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me.”

“I cannot promise-“

“You have to.” You hadn’t cared if he could hear the desperation in your tone. “Please.”

Cas had paused for a long moment that was tight over your lungs, then sighed. “Alright.”

He’d folded with such little resistance, again.

That didn’t really feel like a good sign.

“Thanks.” You’d mumbled. “Ready?”

You glanced over to see him staring at you, giving a small nod, and you’d taken a long breath.

“You said I could be what you’ve been waiting for.” You’d muttered, running your thumb over your palm as you spoke. “What does that mean.”

Cas had been silent for a long second, only staring, and you’d briefly wondered if this was what it felt like for everyone else, when you’d look at them and see their souls.

It was a little unnerving. 

“When I said that.” He starts, his words slow and measured. “I was not aware of what you were. However, I am… not sure that matters.”

You’d frowned. “What, that I’m a Magdalene? I thought that was the whole thing-“

“You are the Magdalene.” Cas had corrected. “But that is not the… reason, I guess. I was not considering that, when we spoke before.”

“So am I not whatever you’ve been waiting for?”

“No.”

“No, I’m not, or-“

“You are.”

You’d sighed, pushing up on your palms to fully meet his gaze. “Cas. What have you been waiting for.”

“God.”

Maybe you should’ve had a bigger reaction to that. Cas must have noticed the complete neutrality on your face. But even in the safety of your room, where the Sky couldn’t see you, you’d still been able to feel it. The Silver had started to seep out, and you had been the fear of the vines on Bobby’s house, and they had felt the Sky watching them.

So you’d just swallowed, and taken a long, slow breath.

Why not. Between angels and Dean rising from the dead and the Sky, why not have God be a fun, new problem too. 

“There will be consequences. For you being the Magdalene. And I do not think even my superiors fully understand them.” Cas paused, holding your gaze. “From what I have found, you have long been thought to be a lie. A sort of… myth, is what you might call it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about how my kind aren’t real-“

Cas had shaken his head. “Not the Magdalenes. You.”

“Oh.” You’d swallowed, and Cas had sighed.

“That is what I meant, before. It is not the Magdalene in you. It is you.” He’d said your name, still watching you so carefully. “There is something… holy.”

You’d blinked at him. “About me?”

Cas had nodded. “It is more than an angel grace. Or a soul. I have only seen it once, a long, long time ago.”

You’d had a pretty good sense of where this was going, and you really hadn’t wanted to hear it, but you were so tired of not knowing. Of only ever having more questions. “Where did you see it?”

“The only time I met my father.” Cas had muttered, frowning down at you, and maybe he’d been able to see it then. In the dark of your bedroom, at midnight, there was an impossibly high chance that Cas looked at you and saw something holy. 

That was more terrifying than anything in the world.

You aren’t holy. You’re barely more than a monster. You’re sick and in pain and exhausted, and you don’t know what looking at you and seeing holy means, but you know it can’t be good.

Nothing you ever do leads to something good. 

Dean will never get to know it, but you’re starting to think John really should’ve saved everyone a whole lot of trouble and put a bullet in your brain. You’re making everything harder. You’re not good for anything but hunting, and you can’t even really do that anymore. You’re going to hurt or break or infect something, because that’s what you do, and just because the Darkness is gone doesn’t mean you’re cured. If anything it means you’ve evolved, like a pathogen or bacteria, and now you can press further and further into the world without resistance. 

You’re not good for Dean. John was right about that, too. You just take from him—his time and sleep and attention—and you’re not going to leave because you promised, but one day Dean’s going to find someone better for him, who never makes him yell or cry or worry, and they’re going to demand you’ll leave.

It’s another reason you fucking hate this case. It’s full of sweet, pretty women with no scars and toothy smiles, humming syrupy words to Dean, right in-front of you.

And they have no way of knowing that you even know Dean. And he doesn’t even look at them. 

But one day he will. 

Then you’ll have to live with that. 

For now you can cling to how Dean brushes off the better women in favor of giving you small, cocky grins. You can feel the bright, colorful rush of the Spiderweb glowing under his attention. You’re addicted to it. 

And God, it’s going to kill you when he finds the woman that makes you leave. Who makes Dean happy, but gets uncomfortable about the weird freak who keeps following him around like they don’t know what else to do—you don’t—and then you’ll have to leave, because Dean loves her and not you. 

You already hate her, and it’s not even her fault. She’s not real. She didn’t do anything to you except not be you. You can’t blame her for not having scars littered in odd places across her body, for having the type of softness and experience and ease that Dean deserves. It not her fault she never makes him kill things for her, or forces him to carry her to safety when she loses her mind like some weak fucking problem. 

And she won’t depend on him. Not like you do. She won’t be a parasite or leech that wants to wrap around Dean and drench herself in gold. She’ll be able to sleep without him, because she’ll be kind and normal and stable. She’ll never draw her own blood or vomit from grief, because Dean will settle down in a simple, white-picket life with her and forget all about how he ever even considered wanting you. 

She won’t be a sickness that’s not strong enough to cure itself. She won’t try to get better, just to make everything so much fucking worse. 

Things won’t be complicated with her. She’ll deserve Dean, and all his Gold.

You don’t. You’re not even close to deserving Dean. He never fucking falters, even under all the crushing weight of everything. All the blood on his hands he had to shed, and every worse thing he’s done was because he had to. 

Dean was pushed into everything. It wasn’t his fault that John made him hunt. He made that deal to save Sam because he’s a good, selfless man. He broke in hell because anyone would’ve broken in hell, and he’d still held on for so fucking long before he gave in, because he was strong.

You’re not.

You’re just like this. 

The first day without him is the worst. You’re alone for most of it, save for when Sam finds you and hands you a towel, the vic records folded into them. He mutters that there’s been no sulfur or temperature drops, and you nod, mumbling an agreement.

You see Dean once. Smiling at a one of those better women from behind the bar.

And his grins goes wide and boyish, the moment he spots you, and it sets off fireworks over the Spiderweb, but you can’t get addicted to that. It’s not going to be permanent. 

But it’s not overindulging if Dean’s grinning at you.

So you smile back.

And that night, you try not to think about it too much. About Sam’s words at the bar, when he’d called Dean one of those guys.

You’d known that. You’ve never been bothered by it. He’s never done it in front of you—where it would’ve ripped you in half—and you’d never had a claim over him that could’ve made him stop. It hadn’t mattered that you’d follow him all the way down, or that you love him, or that there’s a whole part of you that just for Dean. You’d never thought there was even a chance of him wanting you like that until that amazing, stupid fucking kiss, so you’d simply forced yourself not to think about it.

It’s all you can think about now. Dean sliding a woman that’s not you his motel card, telling Sam to find somewhere else to hang out for a while, then kissing her. And she’d kiss him back without any fear or anxiety, because she’d know how. She’d have an idea of what could drive him crazy, and he’d fall on his knees for her with only joy on his pretty face, and then they’d-

This is torture. The whole night is fucking torture, because all you can wallow and sink into it the loneliness, and the reminder that Dean deserves better. Someone who will match him.

Not someone he’ll have to take care of and guide through everything. 

The morning breaks, and you’re not sure you slept at all. 

The second day is worse. You don’t see Dean at all, and there are so many fucking people, everywhere,  all the time. You hadn’t realized how fucking horrible that would be until you were in it. There had been a lot of people, on the lich case with Jo. But the only time they’d all been in one, loud place was the last night, and you’d been more focused on Dean. On keeping him safe and alive. You’d almost tethered yourself to him, because as long as he was there and Golden, there hadn’t really been much else to look at. 

But then you’d spent those weeks between cases letting the Silver grow and grow, letting Dean soothe it into something easy you didn’t want to fight, and it seems to have bloomed. 

You’ve lost control. You can’t remember the world ever being like this in your life—so loud and consuming and overwhelming—and you barely been able to handle it when you were a child, and it was just single colors lined with quickly fading imprints. 

Now it’s so much. You’re a little bit everything all the time and there’s so much. Why is there so fucking much. This is worse than the bar, when souls had simply been loud and amplified by the drinks and emotions. At least there you’d still be able to cling to Dean’s Gold, to breathe in the smell of spice and try not to think about how a whole lot of desire was blaring out from all the souls in the bar, directed to where you and Dean had been sitting.

It was a new trick. It had started after the kiss. You can see souls creeping and drifting out of their bodies, trying to latch onto other people. Trying to sink into them. You’d been able to see the redhead’s hot pink, almost bubblegummy-ness aiming over Sam, and it had been fucking sickening and pungent. Not for Sam—all the parts of him that were still purple had been vibrating from the attention—but for you, and you’d needed to get it away from you. 

And this is so much fucking worse. There are so many people, so many souls, and twining and burning and washing over each other, and you can still smell Dean’s spice when he’s not here, and you’re going fucking insane.

They found another body, that morning. You didn’t see it, but Sam did, and he said it was ugly. Looked like they got beat up by the ocean, and that some of the staff were whispering about how the girl had been seen cheating before her death.

“I’ll ask around.” You mumble, pretending to be busy with the coffee while Sam takes an impossibly long time to grab the trash. “There’s this group of ladies who have been trying to talk me into going to the beach with them, and I think they knew the vic.”

Sam nods. “I’ll pass it onto Dean.”

You swallow, and the Spiderweb whines. “Tell him I say hi.”

Sam gives you an odd look and his mouth opens, but you walk away before he can speak. You don’t want to hear it. You know Dean wants you, at least enough to kiss you once, but he hasn’t kissed you since.

Maybe it was horrible for him. It was perfect for you, but he’s not in love with you, and he probably has a higher standard for good kisses. He’s hasn’t changed since the kiss, but he hasn’t tried to do it again. 

There’s a chance he’s waiting for you to kiss him, to make the scores even. He kisses you once and puts it on the table. You kiss him again and then you get to have him.

You don’t deserve to have him. And you’re not allowed to kiss him first. 

“What about you?” One of the women—the ones you’d told Sam about, with long nails you really wish it would be practical for you to have—says your name, and you blink at her.

They’d already confirmed that the girl had cheated, and you’d mostly been tuning out the rest of the gossip after that. It was too colorful, and thinking about Dean was better than drowning in the vastness of the Silver, so you’d just focused on that.

But now you had to participate. You hadn’t been ready to participate.

“What about me?” You ask, throwing on a small, nervous smile and slipping back into your role. Ditzy. You’d told Dean you’d be ditzy. 

“A man.” A second woman—Monica? You’re pretty sure her name is Monica—grins at you, leaning back in her chair. “You have one?”

Pretty green eyes and soft hair and full lips and Gold- “No.”

“Oh, come on.” The first woman—Halle? That sounds right—rolls her eyes. “You’re so pretty, babe, you’ve gotta have someone, or there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

“I- I don’t-“

“Is it a girl?” Monica whispers, leaning forward. “It’s okay, you can tell us. We’re like, super chill about that.”

You sigh. “It’s not a girl.”

The last girl—Karen, that one’s easy to remember—grins at you. “So there is someone?”

“No, it’s not- It’s complicated-“

Halle scoffs. “If it’s complicated, he’s an idiot.”

You scowl at that. “No, he’s not-“

“Ha!” Karen grins, and this was a mistake. You should’ve just eavesdropped on their conversation like a normal person. “There is someone! What’s his name?”

“I- I’m not-“ You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to find a way out. “It’s really complicated. There’s like, a lot of moving parts, and we’ve known each other a really long time-“

“Awww.” Monica gives you a sweet smile. “Childhood friends? That’s so cute!”

“No- It’s more-“ You choke on the word complicated. “I have to go.”

Halle shakes her head as you stand up. “No, wait, we’re sorry, you’re just cool and we thought there had to be someone-“

She’s still talking. Still apologizing. 

But she grabbed your wrist to stop you from leaving. Right where Ketch had tied you up. Right where the lich grabbed you. 

You can’t breathe. The Silver is bursting and burning through the world because no, no, you’re so tired and it hurts and no-

Something shatters, an impossibly large wave sweeps over half the beach, and the wind picks up, ripping through the air like you’re at the top of a mountain.

The women are shrieking in fear, because this shouldn’t be happening, and you run. Not forever. Just until you’re back in your room, staring at your phone and forcing yourself not to call Dean. 

Half of that had been you. The shattering and wave had been you.

The wind had been the Sky. It had been watching. And the cold had bitten your skin, and it had been more of a warning to you than a defense for you. 

And you’re falling apart. You miss Dean, and it’s worse than when he’d been on a case, and you’d been at Bobby’s. At least you’d been a little useful, there. At least you’d had company, and could think about things that were better women, touching Dean in the dark while you were alone in bed. 

Here, you’re useless. You can’t figure out what the hell you’re supposed to be hunting—which is supposed—to be something you’re good at—because it’s all so loud and colorful and you’re not sleeping, and you miss Dean.

Maybe he’s spending this night with another better woman, again. There are plenty to choose from, this luxury resort filled with people to know how to have something and not infect it. And it’s almost Valentine’s day, so they’ll want company, and anyone—whether they can see the Gold or not—should want Dean. Will want Dean. 

You torture yourself with that for another night. The idea of Dean in bed with someone else, touching someone else, kissing them the same way he’d kissed you, but this time they go further, and then the next day you’ll see that the rivers of silver had been painted over with another color.

Embedded. Cas had said you were embedded in Dean, and that couldn’t go away easy, but what if it does. What if only a gentle, knowing touch cures Dean of you forever, and it’s that easy, and he leaves. 

You’d promised you’d stay, but he didn’t. You both said all the way down, but that was before he kissed you. 

It would be smart to want to take it back. To go back to never thinking about that, because you didn’t think it was an option. To not be getting withdrawals from something you never even fucking had, not really.

You know that.

Knowing never helped.

And at least you still have the Gold lingering on your lips. It’s never been there before, and it makes you feel a little like that holy thing Cas had called you. 

You really are fucking useless. Staring at mirrors and trying to write Dean’s name in Enochian and imaging that he’ll burst through your door and sweep you away. 

It doesn’t help that the wrist thing is looking like it’s here to stay.

The next morning, Sam pulls you into an abandoned room for a meeting.

But he grabs you by the wrist.

And you can’t stop yourself from swinging.

Blind, frantic punches thrown into the air, uncoordinated from exhaustion and landing on nothing, someone is shouting your name but there’s a lot of red in them—red like blood, red like poison—and the fists aren’t enough so you grab your knife and start slashing-

Sam shouts your name, and the blur fade enough for you to know it’s Sam, but then he grabs your wrist to stop the fall of your knife, and the Silver explodes.

There’s a crash, and a ringing in your ears, and-

“Holy- Ow.” Sam stumbles up from the floor, his hands raised in the air and the wall a little dented behind him. “What the hell was that?”

You blink at him, the blur fading, and all that’s in its wake is pain. Pain and a gnawing fucking guilt, because you hurt Sam, why the fuck did you hurt Sam, what’s wrong with you and why can’t you control this without trying to kill yourself-

Sam frowns at you, something softening in his gaze. You don’t deserve how gently he says your name. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-“ You swallow, drawing yourself up tall and forcing your voice to stay even. “I’m sorry. You startled me. Is your back-“

“It’s fine. I mean, it hurts, but I’ve have worse.” Sam pauses. “Are you sure-“

“What do you need, Sam.”

He stares at you and—in a small mercy—doesn’t push it. Whatever Sam can see on your face, he’s able to work out that now is not the time to talk about how he just touched you, and you tried to kill him. 

Sam only sighs, and moves on. 

“I think we’re dealing with some sort of sex demon.” He says, shuffling back to your side. “All the vics have been cheating, but every single thing I’ve heard about them makes it sound like they were really in love. There has to be some kind of manipulation going on.”

You nod slowly, letting out a long breath. “How do you know they were really in love? Just online snooping?”

“They did all just get engaged. And I mean, people make mistakes with that sometimes, but it’s usually a sign of… you know.” Sam shrugs. “A future. Together.”

“Okay.” You frown at the air. “You pass it onto Dean, and I’ll keep looking for what the seal actually is, so we can stop it.”

Sam shakes his head. “I, uh- I’ve actually got the seal, too. Bobby called me.”

“Oh.”

“He would’ve called you.” Sam rubs at the back of his neck, and suddenly the air is wired. “But this is- Um, it’s sort of better to have in person.”

You narrow your eyes. He’s being weird. “Sam. What’s the seal.”

“Bobby thinks.” Sam won’t meet your eyes. “Based on some old texts that be found, some of yours, actually-“

“Samuel-“

“It’s making a true love stray.” Sam mumbles, his gaze locked on the floor. “And Bobby’s theory for the murders that none of them have been a true love, so after they strayed, they got.” Sam winces. “You know.”

“Yeah, okay. That’s- It makes sense.” You pause. “Why does that need to be said in person?”

Sam glances up, something cautious in his eyes. “Because you and Dean need to be careful.”

The world stills a little, like a heart murmur, but you must have just heard him wrong. “What.”

“You and Dean.” Sam mumbles. “Any two people with, um, strong emotions are in danger.”

“Sam.” You keep your words slow and careful. You can’t really hear them over the ringing in your ears. “They’ve been targeting engaged couples. Dean and I are-“

“You’re really obvious!” Sam almost shouts, and you flinch like he’d stabbed you.

“No.” You whisper, shaking your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach, and the Silver isn’t even growing. This isn’t a danger to it. 

It should be. You’re a danger to Dean.

“Sam, we’re just- I’ve told you-“

“Jo told me about the kiss.” Sam’s voice is gentle. You’re going to claw out your own eyes. “And I know you guys are dealing with other things, but you’re not just friends. And I- I’m sorry,” he mutters your name, and a little bile creeps up your throat. “But I knew a long time before that. You guys are obvious, and I’m not trying to tell you want to, you know, do about it. But you have to be careful.”

No. You don’t. Dean doesn’t love you, but you’ve never even looked anywhere but him and the Gold and that deep life in his eyes, so not only is Sam wrong, he’s cruel.

Dean doesn’t want you like that, and if he loves you, it’s not the truest love. It can’t be. You’re you, and you’re a danger, and you’ve never brought him anything but extra work, screams of his name, and your own tears for him to eat. 

You can’t live on tear and names. You could—you could conquer the world if Dean offered you tear and your name from his lips—but nobody sane and easy can. Dean will live off of good food from a better woman.

And you’ll die with the Sky watching you, alone in that high, cold, lonely place it had promised you when you were young.

“Sam.” You whisper, your hand wrapping around your throat on an old instinct, but the Silver still dormant in your body, because it’s lined with the Spiderweb, and the Spiderweb loves the idea of Dean’s love. “Please don’t say that.”

He says your name, and it’s gentle again. You think you’re choking on the air.

“Don’t-“

“I’m really not trying to push you guys to do anything.” Sam’s voice is almost desperate. “I just- I can’t lose you both again. This demon is taking the couples-“

You make a weak sobbing sound, and Sam catches his mistake.

“Pairs, it’s taking the pairs and if you both go, I don’t know- Shit-“ Sam pleas your name, moving to reach for you, and you take a step back.

“I- I’m going to go tell Dean.” Your voice is strained, and you don’t care about the irony of your own words. “Bye.”

You’d promised Dean you wouldn’t run. 

You haven’t promised Sam fucking shit.

And you were running to Dean. You didn’t care if that made you a hypocrite, or liar, or a whore. You needed to see him, because it made the Silver feel good, and the world manage because you could cling to Dean’s Gold, and know it was going to be okay.

Then you break twice. Once at the bar, when you were supposed to be working, but Dean needed to calm you down because it was all too fucking much and you’re useless. Then again when you caved and called him, just to hear his voice—overindulging—and ended with him wrapped around you in bed.

You’d slept. Well. Easily. And Dean looks peaceful, in the shifting light of dawn, starting to break through the windows. 

He’s perfect. The newer, stronger Gold seems like molten lava in the morning light, but it’s still not fire. And it’s moving rapidly through his body like air, but it’s not. And there a power to it like water, and strength to it like earth, but it’s never enough of one and far too much of the others for you to pin it down.

You don’t really need to pin it down. 

It’s Dean.

You love him all the same.

He tries to hold onto you, when you twist to get out of bed. He makes a cute, disgruntled sound, and tugs you right back into his body before you know what’s happening.

It takes ten minutes for you to slowly swap yourself with one of the pillows. And you don’t want to leave—it might be a dream, to just stay where Dean is holding you for the rest of your life—but you need to think. And you can’t do that when a big, warm hand is spread over your stomach again, and Dean’s breath is hot on your neck.

Your thoughts had kicked back into gear, after Dean calmed you down yesterday. And you’d made some connections.

Connections you’re going to have to tell Sam and Dean about, because they mean you’re good. You can gank the Boto Monster and fuck off. Go home. You don’t even have a seal to deal with.

And you’re going to have to find a way to convince them of that without the truth.

Because under no fucking circumstances can you actually say the truth.

Dean had said the first vic was a virgin, and it had hit you in small, fragmented pieces you’d strung together in the hours after.

Sam had been wrong about the sex demon. This has to be a Pink Boto. You’d hunted one, while you were in Brazil, and this is their exact MO. Make a young, virgin woman cheat on her partner. Then kill them both, with symptoms similar to drowning. You’d remember how to spot one, too. They’d be in a human form of their choice, designed to lure the woman in, but they’d always wear a hat. Their true forms were pink dolphins—botos—and they could shift however they wanted, but they could never get rid of their, so they’d have to cover it. With a hat.

And that was great. Simple. 

It also wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Lilith brought the boto here, to make the true love stray.

True. Not pure. 

The seal won’t care about any virgins. But the boto will. It will target them, smell it on them, fucking see it. The same way that they can sense when humans have emotional bonds, so they can sniff out couples.

At least, that was how it had been explained to you, in Brazil. 

It was how they’d assured you.

You were single. 

You wouldn’t be a target.

And this is where Sam was right. You and Dean were in danger. You were the target. Lilith brought the boto here because she needs the seal broken, and she knows about your love for Dean, and she probably fucking knows about you. The other deaths haven’t been about the seal. It’s just been the boto feeding. You and Dean have been the endgame from the start.

The good news, you decide as you sit alone on the beach, your toe right on the edge of the water as the sun climbs into the sky, is that Lilith is fucked. You’ve really never even thought about anyone but Dean. Not like that. You missed the window of experimentation in your teens, met Dean at eighteen, and then there was just no fucking point to anyone else. It was Dean. It’s always been Dean. All the way down.

It’s not saving yourself, because that makes you sound fucking pathetic, like a midwestern church girl who won’t show Her ankles because Jesus will get mad. You just don’t think about it, if it’s not Dean. And it’s not like anyone else has ever really looked at you.

That was your first kiss. 

You are never going to fucking tell Dean that.

And you’re staring down at the sand—at the water slowly climbing over your ankles—when you hear him clear his throat behind you. “Hey, sweetheart. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Sorry.” You mutter, not looking up from the sand. “I should’ve texted. I just needed to- you know.”

“Yeah. I do.” You hear the sand shift at your side. He’s sitting down. “Just got worried. I mean, woke up. You weren’t there. Damn near ripped up the room looking for you.”

That gets a small smile. “You think I was going to be under the couch, Deano?”

“No. I’m just saying I was worried. Don’t run off like that.”

There’s a long, heavy silence, and something is wrong. The air is wired and tense, and it’s never like that with Dean. And the Silver isn’t exploding, but it’s not soothed. 

“I’m sorry.” He mutters suddenly, and it really sounds like Dean, but you’re still staring at the sand. “I just got worried, you know? You shouldn’t be out here, the sun is barely even up.”

Dean would be worried. But he wouldn’t say it like… that. 

You suddenly really don’t want to look at him. He’s rubbing strong circles on your back but they’re only making your breathing labored. He’s right at your side, but you don’t feel any of Dean’s gravity.

But it sounds like Dean.

And you’re frozen. 

“Don’t be mad at me.” Dean’s voice hums, close to your ear, and you squeeze your eyes shut. You feel fucking sick. “You know I love you, baby. Let’s go back to bed.”

Baby.

Dean only calls his car Baby. 

But that was his voice. Calling you Baby. It’s echoing around in your head, and you can’t fucking breathe, and you have to open your eyes.

It looks like Dean, too. Pretty features and a boyish grin and green eyes, it’s skin a little more tanned, but only in a way that’s noticeable to someone who’s insane and in love with him.

You don’t need to rip its stupid baseball cap to know it’s not Dean.

It’s not Golden.

And you can still hear it, as you explode.

Baby. You know I love you, baby.

You’re scrambling back, as the Silver presses into the boto. And it not killing it. Not simply sucking up its life and throwing its soul into wherever monsters go after they die.

You’re eliminating it. The same way you’ve eliminated Hell’s Assassin’s.

But you’ve never done it to something with a functioning soul again. A soul you can see. Sense.

Hear.

Those aren’t the screams of the boto, when it’s turned into pure fucking nothing. 

It’s the soul. Begging you for mercy.

Baby.

There’s a last, weak sound, and then the boto is gone.

You fall flat on your back, and stare at the Sky.

It stares back. 

You can’t fucking breathe. The tide is starting to rise, but you can’t fucking move, and you can’t tell what salt is your own tears and what’s the ocean.

And the Sky is just fucking watching.

Dean roars your name, somewhere down the beach. And that’s how your Dean roars your name, and the Spiderweb is glowing, and he’s Golden when he appears over you like some sort of knight, sent to save you from the monster in the water.

You’re the monster in the water. If Dean’s a hero—and he is—he should let you fucking drown.

But he doesn’t. He’s perfect, so he scoops you into his arms with only a grunt and carries you away from the beach. 

When you look over his shoulder, there’s not even a fucking body. It’s like the boto never even existed at all.

“You’re okay.” Dean’s muttering in your ear as he sets you down somewhere with flowers and a small marble waterfall. “Son of a bitch, Princess, you can’t just fucking disappear. I- You weren’t there and I fucking thought- Godamnit-“

Dean grabs your face between his hands, starting to wipe the linger saltwater from your cheeks. You’re blinking at him. In a firm pattern on once, over and over, trying to tell him everything is wrong. But he’s too focused on checking you for injury to see. And that’s how your Dean would be worried. 

Touching you so carefully while shouting at you with a distress you can hear.

You sob before you can stop yourself, and Dean’s eyes widen.

“Fuck, wait-“ He pulls you right back against his body, walking backwards until his back is pressed to a white-brick wall, and you’re still held in his arms.

He wants to be able to see anything coming. He’s trying to keep you safe.

Your tears start to flow.

“No- shit- Don’t cry, Princess, you’re okay, it’s okay, you’re- Fuck-“

Dean’s thumb starts to run down the bridge of your nose, over and over until you’re almost slumped against him. 

It’s peaceful here. Against Dean. Warm and safe. Home. 

And exhaustion is already starting to pull you down, but you can still hear it.

Baby.

“Talk,” Dean mutters your name, brushing away the hair that’s been stuck to your brow. “Shit, I- I need you to talk, I can’t fucking do anything if you don’t tell me what happened, why the hell were you drowning yourself-“

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and Dean stares at you.

He thinks you’re sorry because of the vanishing act and state he’d found you in.

He’s wrong.

You need to know. Just in case this is a more sophisticated trick, or a dream, or the last chance you ever get. Just in case the angels swoop down and try to take you, or the earth opens up and Dean’s dragged back to Hell, you need to know. It’s selfish and unforgivable, but you need it. You need Dean. 

Baby. I love you, baby.

“You’re-“

Dean words are cut off as your hands fist in his shirt, and you yank him down into a kiss. 

He responds immediately. Dean deepens the kiss in half a second, pulling you somehow closer. Like there wasn’t ever a question of if he would.

And you know.

But you don’t hate yourself enough to pull away.

This isn’t like the first kiss. You’d both been moving through that like you were afraid it would be ripped away at any moment. 

Now you’re both moving like you know it’s going to be ripped away, and you refuse to waste one fucking second.

It’s violent. Heavy and hot and wet, open-mouthed with Dean’s tongue down your throat and his lip between your teeth. Your nails scratch at his back and shoulders as he flips you around, pinning you between his body and the wall. And he’s still touching you so carefully—like he’s afraid you’ll break—but there’s no hesitation when one hand grips your waist hard enough to bruise, before trailing down and under your shirt-

A million fucking sparks set off when Dean’s knuckles touch the bare skin of your hips. Your back arches as he groans and massages your waist, and you’ve stared to grind up into him without thought, because he’s Golden and made of gravity and you want him to devour you. To touch you wherever he wants until you’re painted in Gold, to kiss you until you’re just putty like this, forever. Tended to and touched and without any fucking pain, there’s no fucking pain because Dean’s too good to have pain. 

There can’t be pain when you’re safe against his body. Nothing can exist but Dean kneading at your skin under your shirt, and moaning your name against your lips when you press against something big and hard, poking right at your hip-

Dean pulls away with a grunt, both of you gasping for breath, and your brow drops to his shoulder.

He just smells like spice, now. And you can taste it, too. 

You love him. 

You’re not allowed to say it.

So instead you wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him like there won’t be any consequences. Any prices to be paid.

There will be.

You’ll live with them.

“Dean?” You whisper in his ear, and his hum of response rolls through your whole body. “I- I took care of it. Can we please go home?”

You’re ready for him to push back. To ask what took care of it means, and tell you that you need to be sure, and consult Sam, and you can sit the rest of it out, but you can’t leave just yet.

Instead Dean just sighs, running his fingers through your hair, and nods.

“We can do whatever you want, Princess.”

You want him. You’ve only ever wanted Dean.

But it doesn’t matter what you want. 

You’ll have whatever the fuck Dean offers you. 

And if it’s love, you’ll rip the Sky in half to keep it.

End Note: Okay so I made her a virgin because let’s be so fr, she’s impressively oblivious about that stuff, AND she was not about to get laid when big emotions made things blow up. We’re lucky Dean didn’t kiss her when she was still suppressing her powers. Girlie would’ve blown up the moon about it.

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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[cheekygirl2309]

20 Years of Friendship and Cons

MasterList

Chapter 2

Characters: Jensen Ackles x Reader, Readers best friend, Danneel (Mentioned) Jensen’s Kids, Clif, Jared Padalecki (Mentioned)

Warnings: Mentions of Panic Attacks, Nightmares, and a lot of tears

This is a work of fiction and does not depict real life. Jensen is Married in this Story but on the verge of Divorce from Danneel.

All work is my own, please don't take it or use it, Reblogs and likes are appreciated.

As we reached the green room, Clif motioned for us to enter. When we entered Jensen was sitting on the floor with back against the couch and his head between his legs trying to breathe. “Jensen it’s Y/N, you’re safe. I’m here with you. Here, breathe with me.” She placed his hand on her chest as she took a deep breath in. Jensen matched her breathing as he felt the steady beat of her heart. “You're doing great Jensen, now can you tell me 5 things you can see?” 

“You, Shannon, the door over there, the water bottles on the table, and my shoes.” You nod and smile, “Good,now 4 things you can touch.” “Your hand, the carpet, how itchy this sweater is right now, and the couch behind me.” Good, let's keep going, 3 things you can hear.” “Your voice, the people outside, and Clif in the hallway.” “Really good Jensen, we're almost done, 2 things you can smell.” Your perfume Y/N, the fresh coffee.” Jensen you're almost there, now 1 thing you can taste.” “My spearmint gum.” 

“You did amazing Jensen, how do you feel now?” “I feel okay, calmer, but I also feel like a complete fool. This never happens in public, my panic attacks happen when I'm alone or at home. I'm sorry you had to see all that, and you had to deal with it, with me,” Jensen said as he kept hitting the pillow in front of him. “Hey, look at me Jensen, it’s normal to have panic attacks, both Shannon and I have them too. That’s actually one of the reasons why Shannon and I are best friends. We both ground each other and help each other through the panic attacks. If we can be your person Jensen, we will always be here for you. You don’t need to be angry or upset with yourself Jensen for having a panic attack.” You whisper as you slowly take the pillow from him. “I just don’t understand why, I’m a good father aren’t I? Why does she want to take the kids from me?”

“Honestly, we don’t know why she’s doing this, but what we do know is that JJ, Arrow and Zeppelin have an amazing father who loves them with all his heart, and would do anything for them. Who would protect them from harm or hurt, and would drop anything that he was doing to be there for them when they needed him.” “If we had to take a guess as to why, she could be jealous of the bond you have with kids because she doesn’t have that same kind of bond.” 

“Now, do you feel okay enough to return to the stage with Jared and finish the panel?” “I think I will be okay, but can you and Shannon stay at the side of the stage? I don’t want you too far from me.” “Of course we can, Jensen we will be right there waiting for you.” “Let’s get you back to the stage,” You said as you offered him your hand, helping him up. 

About 30 minutes later the panel had finished and Jensen made his way over to us, “I have a favour to ask both of you. I don’t think I can be alone tonight. With everything going on I need someone there to make sure I don’t drown in panic attacks. Would you two be willing to stay in my room tonight? I know it’s a big ask, but Jared has his own thing tonight with Gen and the kids. I don’t want him to have to choose between me and them.”

“If it’s going to help you sleep and stay calm, then it’s not a problem, we will stay in your room tonight, right Shan?” “Yes, of course Y/N.” “Thank you both, you don’t know how much this means to me. How much this makes me feel better and gives me a sense of comfort.” “Jensen, you have been our rock for years, and we will be yours now.”

Shannon and I finished up at the convention and decided to head up to our room, to shower and put on comfortable clothes before we headed to Jensen’s room. “Y/N, this whole thing with Danneel taking the kids and leaving him, has really hurt Jensen. I have a feeling there will be more panic attacks tonight and not much sleep.” “We just need to make him comfortable and remind him that he’s safe.” “I guess we should head across the hall to Jensen’s room. Are you ready Shan?” “Ready than I’ll ever be.” Shannon says as we head across the hall.

Jensen seemed to sense us coming because he opened the door just as we reached it. “Thank you for coming and staying with me tonight. My head is not in the right space to be alone tonight. This whole thing with Danneel leaving and taking the kids has me seconding guessing everything right now. So it’s better that I have company tonight. Okay, come on in and get comfortable. We can order room service and just talk.” “That sounds like a good idea Jensen, we are here for you.” You said as you and Shannon make your way inside and set your stuff down. 

Once everyone was settled Jensen placed a room service order for a bunch of appetizers and stuff. “How did you two meet, become friends and stay friends for 20 years?” Jensen asked curiously. 

“Well, Shannon and I met after I commented on one of her fanfiction stories she wrote about you. I fell in love with it and commented and then she responded.  That led us messaging each other then later exchanging phone numbers so we could text. What really connected us was how we’ve both dealt with some of the same struggles. That’s when we realized we were meant to find each other. We’re there for each other and we became instant soul sisters. You Jensen were the main reason we met and we’ve been friends ever since. It’s been 20 years since that day.” Y/N said as she smiled with a few tears falling. “You both wrote fanfiction about me? Was it at least good?” Jensen asked with a sly smile.“Oh yeah, it got lots of views and likes,” Shannon answered.

About 20 minutes later, room service had finally arrived, “Wow Jensen this is a lot of food.” “I got enough so we could snack. I hope that’s okay.” “Yeah, it’s perfectly fine Jensen. It’s good to have variety.” As we snacked on the appetizers, Jensen’s phone started ringing. It was a FaceTime call from his kids. We sat quietly and let him answer the call. “Hey Jaybird, what’s going on? Is everything okay?” “Yeah daddy everything is okay. Arrow, Zeppy and I wanted to hear your voice. We miss you so much, and all momma has been doing is yelling at everyone. When are you coming to get us Daddy?” JJ asked with tears in her eyes. “Daddy and momma have some things to sort out before I can come and get you three. I hope it will be soon though. Daddy loves all of you to the moon and back and that will never change. I promise you that. So, how’s school going Jaybird?” “I had a big math test, but I passed it, and Amber and I have a play date tomorrow,” JJ said with a smile. “How about you two Arrow and Zeppy, what’s new?” “Zeppy and I are going to Macie’s Birthday at the Aquarium,” Arrow said while giggling. “Jaybird, I’m so proud of you for acing that math test, and Arrow and Zeppy, that sounds like so much fun. Well, my babies, daddy has to go now. I will call you tomorrow when I get done with the convention. I love you guys.” “Bye Daddy,” all the kids say. 

“The kids seemed happy Jensen. They really do love their daddy,” Shannon says with a smile. “Yeah, they seemed better than the last time I talked to them,” Jensen said with a smile. “Y/N, Shannon, I think I want to try and get some sleep. It's been a long day, if that’s okay.” “It's okay with us. Shannon and I will be in the other room if you need us.”

Shannon and I were relaxing in the other room for about 2 and a half hours, when suddenly we both heard panicked breathing. We rushed into Jensen’s room and found him sitting up on his bed holding his chest with tears running down his cheeks. “Jensen, you're safe, we are both here. Can you match my breathing? Good, you're doing it. Everything is going to be okay. Just breathe Jensen.” After a few moments Jensen had calmed down and was resting quietly. We stayed with him for the rest of the night, keeping watch and making sure he knew he was safe.

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[kaunis-sielu]

Small Town, Big City: 8

You make it home fine but you know that Steve is fired up about the driver. You can’t say that you blame him, having a vehicle zoom that close to you more than once had ruined the comfortable vibe that you’d had before.

You’re surprised when Steve comes out of his room in his uniform.

“I didn’t know you worked tonight.”

“Technically, I don’t. I’m gonna go out and see if I can find that truck.”

“It was a truck?” You hadn’t looked because you didn’t want to give them any more fuel to go after you and Steve. He must hear the alarm in your voice, it’s not like there’s only one black truck but you just have a bad feeling.

“Yea, why?”

“Black?”

“T. What’s going on?”

“It’s probably nothing but, there was black truck just sitting outside the bakery today. I just clocked it because it was the only car on street.”

“If you see it again please try to get the plate.”

“Okay? It’s probably nothing.”

“Just in case Sweetheart.” You nod and he comes toward you, “I can stay in if you want.” He offers but you know he’d feel better if he could go out and try to find the black truck, even if they’re probably long gone by now.

“No, I don’t want him to hurt someone else just because I’d rather hang out with you and watch a movie.”

“Rain check okay?” He promises and you nod then follow him to the door, he kisses you softly at the door before cupping your face in one of his hands. “Lock the door behind me.”

“I always do.” You assure him, “Be safe.”

“Yes ma’am.” He tells you with a little wink and you can’t help but laugh softly, which you know was probably his goal.

You take Fury out to go potty before you hunker down to watch a movie. You think about calling Maria but when you check the time you realize it’ll be a bad idea. It’s too close to bedtime for Peter and you’ve learned that lesson. Instead you call Carol, you’d gone to Veterinary school with Carol and had just clicked.

“Hey! How’s it going in the middle of the desert?” She answers and you laugh,

“It’s good. I got to birth puppies the other day and they had their first checkup today. I might need you to send me some vaccines.”

“Yea, how many will you need?”

“Six. Actually why don’t you send me seven just in case anything happens.”

“Six puppies!”

“Yea. They’re adorable, mom is a lab and dad is a Shepard. I’m tempted to adopt one.”

“Yea that doesn’t surprise me.” You can’t help but grin,

“Excuse me I’m not the one that ended up with an orange cat before graduation.”

“Yea, yea, yea. How’s your hot cop?”

“Sheriff. They’re different.”

“Excuse me. How is your hot sheriff?”

“Really good. We went for a ride tonight and got a little harassed by a truck. Steve wasn’t happy so he decided to go out and see if he could find them.”

“Ooh, protective. That’s hot.”

“Mmhmm.” You agree with a little hum, “I know this was a total fluke to end up here but fuck I’m happy I did.”

“You think you’ll stay there even when you have the money to move home?”

“I’m not in a hurry to leave that’s for sure. Do I miss more consistent vet work? Yea, but if I end up staying it would make more sense to actually open something. You know?”

“You’re not completely committed to staying?”

“I mean Steve is certainly making it harder to want to leave. And I’ve started to make friends here that are cool, you’d like Nat. She’s snarky and funny and owns the mechanic shop. I don’t know. Is this where I thought I’d end up? No but I thought I’d still be with Brock.”

“That asshole.”

“At least he’s not reaching out every single day anymore.” You point out and she hums, “and at the end of the day if it wasn’t for him I’d never have met Steve.”

“Who sounds like a walking green flag.”

“You’d like him.”

“I can’t wait to meet him at your wedding.” She teases and you laugh,

“Oh my god. We just started dating.”

“And you already live together. You’re gonna get married in the next like, six months, then he’ll tell you he loves you.”

“You’re a dumbass.” You laugh, “but for real, if I’m here when you wanna take your vacation you could come visit.”

“Stay in your spare room?”

“We don’t have a spare room. I’m in the spare.”

“You’re not sharing a room yet?”

“We haven’t done more than make out on the couch.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t mind. He’s a really good kisser and I don’t think I’d be moving faster if we didn’t live together. Like, just because we’re living together that doesn’t mean that we have to be moving faster than we would in any other situation.”

“That’s a good point.” Carol concedes, “as long as you’re happy right?”

“Exactly.”

The movie you’d been playing ends before you’re done talking with Carol. When you do finally hang up you start another movie and get comfy on the couch.

You’re petting Fury when the back door opens.

“Any luck?” You call and when Steve doesn’t answer you look toward the door. Horror floods you as you clock that it’s not Steve standing in the kitchen of your home.

It’s Brock.

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[justapoet]

fear no more the lightning flash

The night is screaming at him. Buck's always been good at being loud enough to distract, bright enough to deflect, and if they notice the tired smile or the stiffness in his voice, they chalk it up to recovery. But they don't know about the dream. About that other life. They don’t know that every time Buck closes his eyes, he’s back in a world where Bobby was gone and Eddie never even existed in his life, and the 118 isn’t home, or family, or real. Or, After the lightning strike, the night is screaming at him, and Buck doesn't know in which reality to believe — the one where he was love, but wasn't himself, or the one where he loves, but isn't sure of who he is. Lightning never strikes twice, but Eddie will do everything to save Buck as many times as it takes.

read it on Ao3 | Chapter 1 of 2

fear no more the lightning flash

The night is screaming at him. 

There are very few cars racing the semaphores close to the loft, and there aren’t any reckless teenagers or drunk men grumbling their distaste for reality outside his window, but the night is screaming at him. The crickets, a rare occurrence, are loud and laughing; the silence, so damn familiar, is fucking hauling in his ears. 

Truly, Buck knows that the night can’t possibly scream at anyone. He learned it back in middle school that it’s all a big metaphor. Prosopopoeia, or personification, is when someone attributes human feelings or characteristics to something, either an object or a concept, he remembers someone trying to teach. A rather nice thing, really, to know and use and tell others about altogether with the other bunch of useless things he knows, but— 

But the night is screaming at him. And Buck can’t possibly be convinced it isn’t literal. He won’t. 

He’s lying in bed, and shivering. The duvet is under his frame, and he can’t move — he won’t move — to cover himself with it. It’s cold, he thinks, and he should do something to warm himself up; but he can’t. 

He won’t. 

Getting comfortable means he’d most likely — undoubtedly — fall asleep. 

And Buck couldn’t— no; he wouldn’t fall asleep. 

Because the night is screaming at him, and his head is throbbing, and his chest is aching. And falling asleep, at this point in life, in these circumstances, means surrendering. 

Buck’s been a hostage of his own head for too long to choose that, now. 

And it’s disconcerting, as much as everything else inside his head seems to be for weeks. He can’t move, he can’t breathe, and the night is screaming at him.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, seeking something — someone — that isn’t there. His breath catches in his throat like it’s afraid to leave him behind.

He stares at the ceiling, even though he can’t see anything in the dark, even though there wouldn’t be anything to see but plain white if he looked up with the lights on. The room is dark, but not empty. There’s a hum in the walls, low and electric, like the echo of a memory he hasn’t shaken loose, and it feels like every single one of those things take space around him.

Something inside him is waiting. Something inside him is wanting, and he isn’t quite sure what he expects from any of it.

Buck presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars bloom behind his eyelids, white and distorted and uncomfortable. He’s not crying, he’s not, but there’s a sharpness under his ribs that begs to be exhaled, and he doesn’t know how to let it go of the grasp around his chest, inside his blood, tied to his soul.

It was just a dream. That’s what he tries to keep telling himself — that it was just a dream, something his barely-alive mind conjured for reasons that even science isn’t so sure of. He was out of it, he was barely back alive, and it was just a dream. A delirium. Just a dream, and nothing more.

But the dream made sense, in a way, or it should have. The real world doesn’t make much sense, anymore, and Buck doesn’t know how to deal with it. With any of it. With nothing at all.

The dream was everything he had ever wanted. Everything he was supposed to want. His family loved him, his sister was safe, his brother was alive — and Buck knew about his existence. His parents were kind and loving, his life followed a non-dangerous path, no one died and he didn’t live to take up the space of a ghost he never knew of.

As the night screams at him, it feels like the dream is clawing its way back in, like maybe he never left it. Like maybe he died on that field after all, and this — this cold, screaming night — is just the in-between. Buck’s not so sure which reality is real anymore; and the worst part is not knowing which one hurts more inside his head, around his heart.

His phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A quiet vibration that jolts him like thunder.

Buck doesn’t look at it. He ignores it completely, because the night is screaming at him and he wants it to stop, and there’s too much noise inside his head and too many thoughts swirling around for him to even try and focus on whoever sent something.

Buck doesn’t want to move, but he doesn’t remember standing.

One moment, he’s a statue beneath the weight of insomnia, clawing his bedsheets and squirming around and trying to make the night stop so he can at least face his demons and his fears in silence. The next, his feet are bare against the cold floor, moving like they’ve made a decision he wasn’t part of, and he doesn’t look at anything remotely important in the dark.

He grabs a hoodie — the one Chim gifted him last Christmas, oversized and worn soft — and shrugs it on like armor. He takes his keys, but nothing else; he doesn’t want to belong in the real world where it’d be wise to take his phone and wallet with him, where it would be safest just in case. So, Buck takes his keys, puts the hood over his head and heads out of his apartment, thoughts loud and not a single thing he’s sure of.

He doesn’t have a plan, or any destination he’s trying to reach as he walks, each second faster and faster. He doesn’t want to think about where it could lead as he takes turns and crosses streets without looking to both sides before, and he trusts completely in motion.

The streets are quiet, oddly so, even if the night screams. Even LA sleeps sometimes, though not for long, he knows. The breeze cuts through him like glass, but Buck welcomes it, because it means that his skin and cells are working. It means he’s real. It means he’s awake.

He walks. Then marches. Then, before he can even understand what he’s doing, Buck runs.

Blocks blur into each other until the sky begins to pale — not quite morning, not quite night. Somewhere in between, like him. Still haunted, still hunting for something to hold, something to grasp, something that will tell him what is real and what he can trust and rest his peace or fear over.

Eventually, Buck finds himself at the gym, the one of a chain that is the furthest from his place. He sees it in the distance and doesn’t think much before heading towards the building, because it’s a way of giving his mind some silence — he has to focus on what he’s doing so he won’t get hurt, and there’s blaring music and other desperate, sleepy, sleep-deprived people that won’t ask questions or look in his direction. His muscles ache before he starts, like they know this isn’t about strength. It’s about control. It’s about pushing until he can’t think anymore.

He loads the weights higher than he should. He doesn’t warm up, he doesn’t stretch, and his muscles do have things to complain about. But Buck can’t find it in himself to care — he ignores the burn, the ache, the common-sense and the logic, and just lifts.

Again.

And again.

And again.

As if the burn in his arms could cauterize the ache in his chest, and as if punishing his body might silence the part of him that keeps screaming Eddie’s name into the silence of his dreams, keeps ringing Daniel’s voice in the echoing of the night, keeps making his parents’ smile ring loud in the back of his memory.

By the time the sun is fully up, sweat clings to him like guilt, and his breath is shallow in a way that reminds him — too much — of the ventilator. Of hospitals and near-deaths and other lives that he surely doesn’t want to think about.

Buck blinks that memory away, hard.

He catches his reflection in the mirror. The shadows under his eyes are warpaint, and his smile — the one he throws at the guy beside him like everything’s chill — feels like glass about to crack.

"Rough night?" the guy asks, nodding toward the weights.

Buck shrugs.

“Nah. Just needed to clear my head.”

He says it like it’s true.

He says it like the truth doesn’t scare him more than the lightning ever could.

[...]

The days scream at him, too.

Not as loudly as the nights, maybe, but just as relentless.

They scream in the way the sun hits too bright, too sharp through the kitchen window. In the way his coffee never tastes like it used to — too bitter, too hot, too wrong. In the weight of silence between calls from the team and texts he doesn’t always answer right away.

They scream in his routine, which he’s stitched together like a lifeline: gym, groceries, station, home. Repeat. No room for wandering thoughts. No space between breaths. Nothing that could give a chance for the paranoia and the fear and the absolute horror that his dreams and memory have become.

He’s functioning. That’s what Buck tells himself.

He’s fine.

No one asks more than once, and that’s both a curse and a relief. Buck's always been good at being loud enough to distract, bright enough to deflect, and if they notice the tired smile or the stiffness in his voice, they chalk it up to recovery. Who wouldn’t be shaken after a near-death experience?

After being dead, if he was to talk in literal terms.

But they don’t know about the dream.

They don’t know that every time Buck closes his eyes, he’s back in a world where Bobby was gone and Eddie never even existed in his life. In their life. And the 118 isn’t home, or family, or real. 

He doesn’t know how to mourn people who are alive and standing right next to him. He never learned how to mourn people at all — even the ghosts he wasn’t even aware he stood in the shadow of.

So instead, he scrubs dishes that are already clean, rearranges his bookshelf for the third time this week, exercises until his body aches more than his thoughts and smiles when someone walks into the room. He cracks jokes and prepares lunch and dinner and he talks about movies that he hasn’t really paid attention to.

It’s fine. He’s fine.

And if Buck repeats it long enough, then maybe his brain will convince itself that, yeah; that’s true. That’s what’s going on. That’s exactly how things are. Everything is fine, everyone is fine, and there’s nothing wrong with his head, with his heart, with his soul, with him.

Fine. It’s fine.

Today, he gets to the station early. Too early for his shift, even. The place is quiet except for the hum of the vending machine and the slow drip of the coffee maker, the working team out on a call and barely a soul walking the streets so early in the morning. Buck leans against the lockers, palms flat against the cold metal, and tells himself to breathe — to breathe, for God’s sake, because nothing happened and there’s nothing happening and it’s just another day at work.

Bobby arrives not long after. They exchange a few words and, despite the look on his face telling Buck that he knows something’s off, Bobby doesn’t push. He never does — not with Buck, and half of him is thankful for that, because he doesn’t think he can talk about it with Bobby without having a meltdown. Without wanting to make sure that he’s solid and alive and the Captain of the 118 with a beating, functioning, strong heart inside his chest. But his eyes linger, and Buck feels it. That steady, fatherly worry that sinks in deep.

It’s almost enough to make Buck say something.

Almost.

But then Eddie walks in — laughing at something Christopher texted him, hair still damp from a morning shower — and Buck’s throat closes around the truth like it’s a secret he’ll take to his grave, because Eddie’s there, and Bobby’s there, and Chim will get there soon, as well, probably having taken a ride with Hen (because that’s something they started to do after too many near-deaths).

And it seems stupid, to talk about the dream when he knows that they’re there, alive and well and almost late for work. It feels pathetic, to be so shaken up about something his mind created while he was out of it, and his heart was out of service. It sounds ridiculous even to his ears that his days are falling apart and crumbling down because of his idiotic brain and some traumas none of them have nothing to do with.

Eddie greets Buck with an easy smile and hugs Bobby briefly, because it seems to be a good day for him. Buck smiles back, the most convincing smile he manages to plaster on his face, and Eddie talks to him as if he believes it.

It aches. It burns, because Buck can’t shake the feeling that this is just another delusion created by his head and Eddie is not really there. He can’t shake the feeling that his own feelings are so loud and Eddie will hear them and decide that they aren’t worth managing.

And the thought of losing him now?

It’s too much.

So Buck grins. Tosses a joke and a cheeky comment in Eddie’s way and pretends his chest isn’t caving in, blowing up, falling apart.

The others filter in like clockwork — Hen with coffee, Chim with jokes (and having taken a ride with Hen, as predicted), Bobby already flipping through shift schedules and someone (perhaps Buck himself) asking what are the lunch options they’ll have and it’s not even eight o’clock.

The morning moves like it always does, too fast and too loud. Buck lets it wash over him, lets the noise and familiarity carry him. He sips his coffee, nods along, laughs when he should and smiles when someone makes eye contact. If he doesn’t think too hard, it almost feels normal.

Almost.

Hen and Chim are halfway through some ridiculous debate about something related to birds, pigeons or winged-creatures. It’s pathetic, really — the usual banter that comes and goes in the fire station and barbecues and anywhere they allow Hen and Chimney to have a conversation. It’s silly; a sibling-like discussion and the topic couldn’t be more ridiculous.

“I’m telling you,” Chim says, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug in hand. “Birds absolutely have dialects. There’s research on it.”

“Okay, but who’s out there studying pigeon linguistics?” Hen says, incredulous. “That’s not science, that’s a conspiracy theory with extra steps.”

Chimney scoffs.

“Oh, please. There’s always someone insane enough to study literally anything. Birds have dialects. And they communicate, Hen,” he argues.

Hen laughs.

“Don’t be mad just because the downtown pigeons don’t like you,” she smirks.

Chimney gasps.

“They pooped on me twice in one week. That’s targeted.”

“It’s karma.”

Bobby, who’s just walked in and is already regretting it, raises his hands in surrender. 

“I’m not getting involved, but if you’re right, those birds are running a full-blown revenge opera. And you probably deserved it,” he says, pointing a finger at Chimney. “No one else here is targeted by birds.”

“Eh,” Eddie steps in, making a contorted face. “Buck and I got chased by turkeys. Does that count?”

Hen snorted.

“You better be aware of your surroundings on Christmas, then, if Chimney’s right,” she said. “They might plan an ambush.”

“That is not what I’m saying!” Chimney said, exasperated.

“Sort of is,” Bobby says.

“It is,” Eddie agrees.

“Uh-hm,” Hen laughs.

Chimney, much like a child, gasps again in exasperation.

“You know what this is?” Chim says, waving a hand dramatically. “This whole conversation is chaos. Like… lightning striking a piñata during a birthday party. It makes no sense. You can’t plan for it.”

Hen snorts. 

“That’s not even a real expression.”

“It is now.”

Bobby chuckles, easing down at the edge of the table. 

“The expression is lightning in a bottle, Chimney,” he argues. “Something completely unpredictable. Definitely unstable. Like the two of you.”

Buck freezes.

It’s nothing.

It’s a saying.

It’s not even about him, and he wasn’t even in the conversation — whatever that was to begin with — and it’s just a damn saying.

But the words slam into him, cracking open something he’s spent days shoving down and locking tight.

Like lightning in a bottle.

It feels like the word itself has found a way inside Buck’s mind, heart and the very veins of his body. As if the letters and the phonetics were on a mission to tear apart each cell of his blood, each atom of his being — as if it was all a joke that he was supposed to laugh at because it was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous, because he was alive. He had survived. It hadn’t killed him.

It shouldn’t matter.

It’s just a word. A joke. A casual throwaway in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

But it does matter.

Because it doesn’t just remind him. It is him. It’s the moment when the sky opened and swallowed him whole. It’s the burn in his chest, the weightless freefall, the feeling of being yanked out of existence. It’s the sound that still lingers in the back of his mind, like a ghost echo, like thunder hiding behind every silence.

It’s the knowledge that for a few long seconds, he wasn’t here.

He wasn’t anywhere. In a world that wasn’t real, where he wasn’t himself and no one else was right.

And now— now he’s sitting at the table, safe and whole and breathing, and someone just made a joke with the word lightning in it like it doesn’t carry the weight of his soul. Because it shouldn’t. Because it’s just a word, just a bunch of letters put together to make some sense and produce a certain sound.

His laugh catches in his throat before it even escapes. He wonders if they notice the crack in his smile, the too-long pause.

The way his hand twitches against the wood grain of the table like it’s reaching for an anchor that isn’t there.

But it is there.

It’s in front of him, in the shape of Eddie’s gaze — suddenly sharper, quieter, knowing.

Buck wants to shake it off. Wants to brush it away, turn it into another joke, another laugh.

But he can feel it now, swelling like a tide inside him: the grief, the fear, the aftershock.

He thought he could bury it. Thought he had. But trauma has a way of seeping through the cracks, of bleeding out when you least expect it. And now it’s humming under his skin again, electric and unbearable.

It’s too much.

Too close.

Too real.

He wants to scream.

Or cry.

Or disappear entirely.

But instead, he just sits there, frozen in the middle of a moment that should’ve been easy. His breath stutters. Just slightly. Just enough that his vision narrows for a heartbeat. Buck blinks fast, swallows even faster, grips the coffee cup so hard his fingers ache.

And when he glances up, Eddie’s still looking at him.

Not looking — seeing.

Buck pastes a grin over the tremor in his chest and throws something back about pigeons and ducks and Chim’s clear paranoia related to anything that could possibly fly. The others laugh. The moment passes.

But Eddie’s gaze lingers for a second longer.

And Buck feels it.

Like Eddie heard the thunder inside him.

And Buck, very wisely, chooses to ignore it completely.

[...]

The days blur.

They stretch and bend, like time itself has forgotten how to move in a straight line. Buck wakes before the alarm most mornings, already wired, already buzzing with the kind of tension that feels like standing too close to a power line — not enough to kill, just enough to keep every hair on one’s body standing on end.

He gets up. He makes coffee. Showers with water that’s either too hot or too cold, never in between. Sometimes he eats breakfast, but mostly he doesn’t. Food feels like an afterthought lately — it’s too much effort, and it scratches his throat whenever he swallows, and Buck is so tired of the copper taste of blood in his tongue.

He goes for runs. Long ones, until his lungs burn and his legs ache and the world narrows down to the slap of his feet against pavement and the blood pounding in his ears. It's the only time his mind goes quiet — or at least quieter, just a buzzing thing in his ears. But the stillness never lasts. By the time he’s walking back to the loft, sweat-soaked and sore, it’s already creeping in again.

The doubt.

The noise.

The memory.

He survived. He’s fine. Everyone says so (the doctors, his friends, the other stations and other first responders who greet him as if he’s a legend of some sorts), and he insists on telling them such, as well. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

But there’s a part of him — deep and buried and howling — that isn’t convinced. That keeps insisting something’s wrong. Something shifted. Something stayed behind when the lightning struck.

Perhaps it was life itself.

But Buck can’t be sure of that, even.

At work, he’s efficient. Focused. Smiling. He throws himself into calls with reckless precision, much life he had always done, even if there’s a bit more desperation when he takes a second too long to respond to things falling in his direction or the fire getting just an inch too close to his gear. Muscle memory guides him, and maybe that’s a blessing — because if he stopped to think, even for a second, he might freeze. He might break.

He might let himself be a victim in need of rescue instead of the called-in rescuer.

At his house, everything is a bit worse. 

The loft echoes now. Everything’s too loud or too quiet, too crowded or too empty and nothing seems to be in the right place, even though he hadn't changed a single thing in months. 

Buck leaves the TV on just to fill the silence, lets the news cycle until the anchors blur into static. He reads half a paragraph of a book and stares at the same sentence for ten minutes, the letters waltzing around the page. He’ll shower again, just to have something to do. Water can’t drown a memory, but it’s still better than the air — which is thin, electric, stretched taut around him like a balloon about to pop.

The dreams are vivid and cruel. And the nights keep screaming at him.

Sometimes Buck wakes up in the middle of the night, hand pressed to his chest like he’s waiting for his heart to stop again.

Sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all.

And then, one morning — somewhere between the station and his third cup of coffee — his phone buzzes.

It’s nothing. A message. A ping. Ordinary.

But when he looks at it, the axis of his world tilts again.

It’s from Carla, and it shouldn’t be so surprising. They often text. Carla tells him news from Chris or a picture or even a recipe she tried and shared with Buck because she knows that he would love something else to cook — but he has been so distant from everything that it feels like a lifetime since he had spoken about anything consistent to anyone.

The text on his phone is just quite short. There’s only one information and a small request within:

Christopher had a nightmare. He asked if Buck was okay. Just thought you should know. Send him a message to prove my words? xx

Buck stares at the screen for a long time.

It’s a small thing. Just a message. Simple words. A simple thing that wasn’t at all uncommon — Buck’s already lost count of how many times he’s had to assure Christopher that he was okay, and how many times Christpher has assured him the same.

But the words still split him open.

Because he’s not okay. And Buck knows he’s not okay. And now there’s proof — undeniable and human — that his unraveling isn’t invisible after all. That someone sees it, even if it’s through the eyes of a kid who still believes he hung the moon for some reason, despite the nonchalant way of a teenager.

His hands tremble. Not from the coffee. Not from the memory. But from the sheer weight of being seen. Of being missed. Of being asked about.

read the rest on Ao3

[dipshit-does-crimes]

wow it’s crazy how fine everything is! wow wow definitely am a real person or something definitely not just a thing wearing a skin suit or a hallucination

[amoritasart]

Don’t meet your heroes?

I like the idea of Philip taking odd jobs to survive before finally deciding on slaughtering everyone.

[solargeist]

I love how Xisuma just can not get on Xelqua good side and I thought I share my own story :] Every time my cousin looked at my brother she would start crying simply because his braces scared her. So I like to think that Xelqua doesn't like Xisuma because his mask use to scares him and he's never really gotten over it :P

Could be the helmet !

I have no design for Xisuma’s face, it’s just the helmet and then a balaclava under. Just eyes. Maybe that still throws Xelqua off.

Grian and Xisuma get along just fine, Xelqua sees that, and yet…… Lol

[shiominato]

either’s CoM’s writing is the literal worst and messiest thing in the world or it’s gay. There’s no third option that doesn’t involve introducing another character entirely