#it’s cemented into her being that she is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rosachae · 2 days ago

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she plays bass | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: she plays bass - beabadoobee ⁍ requested: yes ⁍ genre: band AU. non!idol megan x musician!reader. a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff ⁍ a/n: thank you again for the prompt, anon! i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ wc: 5.3k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n falls. hard. just, not for the right girl. megan had long gotten used to being on the sidelines while she watched y/n pine after her best friend. if she couldn't call y/n hers, then she supposed being her confidant was the next best thing.

hyunjin’s garage always smelled like the ghost of gasoline and febreze. sharp and synthetic, like something trying too hard to cover up something worse. the cement floor was stained with oil spills from years ago, smudged into abstract shapes no one had bothered to clean, and every surface had a fine layer of dust that clung to fingers and instrument cases alike. wires snaked across the ground like vines, half-taped down with mismatched duct tape that peeled at the corners. an old fan groaned in the corner, doing very little besides moving the heat around in slow, humid circles.

y/n wasn’t sure which scent she hated more, the fuel or the floral, but they both clung to her clothes by the time she left. it was loud, so loud her ears buzzed between songs. the garage was hotter than it had any right to be, the fan hopeless against the summer bleeding in through the open door. kai had just broken another one of the cheap sticks they bought in a plastic-wrapped bulk pack from the club, splintered wood rolling across the floor like tired confetti.

she sighed and leaned against a crooked amp, watching hyunjin fumble with the aux cable again like it was some ancient artifact.

“dude,” hyunjin groaned, sliding off his stool and letting the aux cord fall to the floor with a defeated clatter. he grabbed a bent sheet of chord progressions from the amp and started fanning himself dramatically, like a wilted victorian heiress. “quit breaking my sticks. that’s the third one this week.”

kai didn’t even blink. “i’ve got rhythm and rage. sue me.”

“you’ve got weak wrists and commitment issues,” yuqi muttered from behind her mic, barely looking up as she tuned her guitar with one hand and sipped from a sweating iced coffee with the other. “we have a gig on friday. i’m not dragging your pretty ass out of another mess with mr. choi. he already hates it when you break his equipment.”

“mr. choi loves me,” kai said, flashing a grin that had absolutely no basis in reality.

“mr. choi has a heart condition,” hyunjin deadpanned, blotting his forehead with a faded bandana. “every time you walk in, he clutches his chest like he’s halfway to the light.”

then hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to ruffle the sheet music still clutched in his hand. “anyway, is anyone going to acknowledge that i’m dying? of heatstroke? of being underappreciated? of being too hot for this mortal realm?”

y/n didn’t bother looking up from her bass, fingers still working through a scale she barely needed to think about. “you’ve been saying that since junior year.”

“and i’ve been right since junior year,” hyunjin shot back, fanning himself harder. “consistency is a virtue, y/n.”

all y/n could do was roll her eyes. honestly, she wasn’t sure how she managed it—spending hours holed up in hyunjin’s sweltering garage, surrounded by a chaotic blend of egos and inside jokes that grated on her nerves more often than not. still, they were her people. loud, messy, ridiculous— hers.

maybe that’s why she put up with the heat, the noise, the endless bickering over broken drumsticks and who drank the last of the lukewarm soda.

she figured she could overlook it all. for now. a small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth before she buried it behind the low thrum of her bass.

especially hyunjin. for all his self-proclaimed glamour and melodrama, he was her best friend. they’d basically grown up side by side. sandboxes, scraped knees, and all. his mom still lit up like a marquee sign whenever y/n came over, insisting she stay for dinner, fussing over whether she’d eaten, if she was warm enough, if she needed anything at all. sometimes y/n swore hyunjin’s mom was secretly waiting for the day he’d turn around and admit they were dating. but that was never their dynamic. never had been.

they both liked girls. y/n, truthfully, wasn’t quite sure if that was a problem or perhaps the glue that held them together. it turned their friendship into a quiet battlefield of shared crushes and unspoken one-upmanship, always dancing on the edge of competition. they clicked a little too easily, probably because they were cut from the same cloth. same dry humor, same impulsive streak, same incurable weakness for a certain kind of girl.

it was a curse. or a cosmic joke. probably both.

y/n still got shivers thinking about chaewon, the girl from high school who had the misfortune of being exactly their type. soft-spoken, pretty, polite. practically a walking bullseye. they both zeroed in on her like moths to a chandelier, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in real time.

chaewon transferred schools halfway through senior year. honestly, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

y/n still wasn’t sure how she lasted as long as she did, stuck between two emotionally chaotic teenagers who spent most of their free time either teasing each other or trying to one-up the other’s flirting. but through it all, nothing ever shifted between her and hyunjin. they were friends. chaotic, codependent, sometimes insufferable—but just friends. always had been. always would be.

this was i don’t care. the band that wasn’t supposed to be a band. born from a running joke they said out loud one too many times, sparked by a half-finished song y/n left in hyunjin’s car. something raw and messy that yuqi covered on a whim, recorded in one take, and posted to instagram with the caption: we’re sad and hot and broke. somehow, it took off.

now they had real gigs, a decent local following, and an accidental manager– yuqi’s cousin’s girlfriend’s sister, who claimed her marketing minor and “a vision” were all they needed to blow up.

it wasn’t that they weren’t good. they were. talent wasn’t the issue. but the soul of the thing had always been the chaos. the late nights in hyunjin’s garage, the impulse decisions, the fact that he once made a logo on canva at 3 a.m. and printed it on t-shirts without telling anyone. that was the band.

it was noise and laughter and friendship and half-eaten takeout on amps. it was making something that felt like them. unfiltered, unpolished, real. nothing had ever been that serious. and maybe that’s what made it work.

until, of course, the friday night show where everything changed.

megan skiendiel had a lot of opinions, most of them half-baked and delivered with the kind of timing that made people pause mid-sentence. earlier that day, she’d announced that 80s synth-pop deserved a cultural renaissance while buried elbow-deep in a crate of dusty vinyls at the record shop. a few hours later, she’d loudly speculated that their coworker jake was obviously into lara, citing the fact that he kept offering to cover her saturday night shifts like it meant something.

megan said things like they were gospel, as if the world would catch up eventually.

“it’s not because he’s nice,” megan said, tossing a cracked duran duran record back onto the shelf. she straightened up, brushing dust from her hands, her voice full of certainty. “he’s got crush energy. you can see it in the way he hovers. limp-wristed, overly eager, always offering to help with the trash like it’s some romantic gesture.”

lara didn’t even look up at first, just clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard before glancing over, one brow raised. “so basically you, but with worse shoes.”

megan gasped like she’d just been shot. “excuse you. these are vintage.”

lara finally looked down at the scuffed platform boots on megan’s feet, the left one with a barely visible patch of duct tape near the sole. “those are a hate crime,” she said flatly.

megan clutched her chest like lara had just insulted her entire bloodline. “they’re from a thrift shop in sapporo,” she declared, eyes wide with the kind of faux betrayal she’d perfected over the years. “i had to elbow a grown man to get them. he had biker gloves on, lara. biker gloves. it was life or death.”

lara gave her a once-over, slow and unimpressed. “yeah, well, something tells me those boots were meant for that man. all gruff and dusty and slightly unhinged. they look like they’ve seen a bar fight.”

“they’re lived-in,” megan snapped, offended but not surprised.

“they’re tragic,” lara corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard before adding, “you look like you stole them off a trucker with emotional baggage and a fifth divorce.”

megan scoffed. “it’s called edge, lara. ever heard of it?”

“not when it’s flaking off the soles,” lara muttered, deadpan.

megan grumbled. “you’re lucky i believe in nonviolent communication.”

they were opposites in a way that just worked. where megan was all impulse and noise, lara had a sharp-edged charisma, the kind that made people pause and take a second look. they'd been inseparable since high school, partners in crime, co-conspirators in chaos. now, they ran the town's only indie record shop, a place that felt like a hipster’s fever dream, filled with dusty vinyl and the pervasive scent of incense and intellectual pretension. they’d already given up trying to convince yoonchae to join part time while she finished her senior year. the poor korean girl was too buried in coursework to even think about it.

with a sigh, megan pushed past the mess of records on the next rack. some kids had come in earlier, scattering vinyls like confetti, leaving chaos in their wake. but as she dug through the disarray, something caught her eye. something she’d never seen before. there, buried beneath a pile of mismatched album covers, was a record that felt out of place. the cover was stark white, almost blank, with an almost minimalist design. ‘i don’t care’ was printed in lowercase, as if the title itself couldn’t care less—simple, effortless, and unpretentious, like it wasn’t trying to make a statement.

“never heard of them,” she mumbled, turning it over. “should i?”

lara shrugged. “local maybe. looks cool.”

so they played it.

and god, the bassline. the low hum that thrummed right through her chest. a voice that sounded a little messy and a lot emotional. lyrics like inside jokes you weren’t quite in on but wanted to be. megan leaned against the counter, eyes wide.

“we’re going to their show.”

it was one of those club venues that tried too hard to be cozy but ended up just being loud and sticky. the floor clung to your shoes, the lights pulsed a relentless red for no real reason, and the bartender wore a look that suggested he hated everyone under thirty-five on principle. megan, though? she was right where she belonged. she couldn’t quite remember how she’d talked the whole group into coming out tonight, but low and behold, there they were.

"okay," megan practically shouted over the music, nursing her overpriced drink and scanning the stage like she was looking for hidden treasure. "which one do we think writes the lyrics?"

lara hummed. her eyes scanned the stage, no particular keen interest on her face. then she perked up as if the answer came to her in a dream. "oh, definitely him. he’s got it.”

megan followed her line of sight to the guy on drums. his dark brown hair bounced with sweat and clung to his forehead, pure concentration cemented across his face. she didn’t need to know what ‘it’ was. he was lost in the rhythm, eyes closed as his hands moved like they had a mind of their own. she couldn’t deny that there was something a little too intense about him.

before megan could reply, manon chimed in. the swiss girl leaned over, glass in hand and a fun loving grin painted across her lips. "it has to be the keyboard guy."

sophia and daniela had practically run to the dance floor the moment they’d entered the club, drawn in by the pulsing beat and the chaos of bodies moving to the music. sophia, already a few drinks in, was swaying slightly as she made her way back to the group, a wide grin plastered on her face. she wiped her hands on her jeans, clearly more tipsy than usual.

“what’s going on?" she asked, her voice laced with mischief, slurred. "are we picking which one of them cries in the shower?"

daniela, just behind her, looked like she was on her way to catching up to sophia’s buzz. she leaned against the bar, still catching her breath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. daniela squinted at the stage, then turned to look at keyboardist. "i’m voting for him too.”

megan grinned. "i think we’re all in agreement then. cheers to keyboard guy."

the set was already halfway through when megan saw her. she wasn’t sure how she didn’t notice sooner, but when she did, her heart thumped.

she wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention. she didn’t jump around or put on any kind of show for the crowd. but when megan’s eyes landed on her, everything else seemed to blur out. the girl was holding her bass like it belonged to her. like it was a part of her, like it meant something. her fingers moved with a calm precision, her face focused but distant, like she was lost in a world that was all her own. megan couldn’t help but watch, her heart suddenly a little too loud in her chest.

there was a look in her eyes, almost like she was listening to a secret only she could hear, and when she smiled, it wasn’t big, wasn’t one of those stage smiles people perfected. it was crooked, soft, like it happened by accident. it was the kind of smile that made megan forget to breathe.

“you’re staring,” lara said, leaning in slightly with a knowing grin.

megan blinked, realizing she hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. her hand was still clutching her drink, but it was starting to slip a little. "i’m admiring,” she corrected quickly, her voice coming out a little more flustered than she intended. “huge difference."

lara didn’t say anything at first. then, with the kind of dry humor megan knew too well, she added, “sure, romeo."

megan's cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away, trying to act like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself in front of the whole bar. but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes kept drifting back to the girl, as if there was something magnetic about her presence that megan just couldn’t look away from.

little did megan know, that would be the start of everything.

the crowd was still howling when y/n unplugged her bass, the last notes still humming in her fingertips. sweat clung to her collar, the adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. hyunjin was already off his stool, dramatically twirling a drumstick and tossing it into the crowd like he was born to do it. the four of them slipped offstage, ducking into the narrow backstage corridor that smelled like beer and electrical wires.

someone’s drink had already spilled on the floor. the walls were lined with peeling posters, curling at the corners. the sound tech gave y/n a nod as she passed, and she returned it with a crooked grin, cheeks aching, the kind of post-show daze that made everything feel like it was moving half a second behind.

then came the chaos.

“oh my god, you—” a sharp voice broke through, right before a blur of limbs barreled past the security guard like a wrecking ball in lipstick.

y/n blinked.

a girl in a halter crop top and low-rise jeans launched herself forward– tall, pretty, absolutely hammered, her glossy lips moving faster than her brain. she headed straight for kai, arms outstretched like she’d just spotted a long-lost lover across a war zone.

kai, to his credit, looked horrified.

before security could step in, four other girls came flying in after her, looking every shade of mortified. manon and daniela managed to grab sophia by both arms, hauling her backward with a practiced desperation.

"we are so sorry—" manon started, breathless, still grappling with sophia like she was trying to wrangle a wild animal.

before she could finish, sophia whipped her head back in protest and caught manon square in the nose.

“ow! what the hell—”

“she has this thing for keyboardists,” daniela finished, like it was an explanation she’d given one too many times. she tightened her grip as sophia tried to lunge again.

“i swear to god, sophia, if you get us banned—”

“i just wanted to talk to him!” sophia whined, slurring a little as she dug her heels into the sticky floor.

kai blinked at them, shell-shocked, holding his keyboard like a shield. he only lowered it and shuffled away the moment he was sure manon and daniela successfully wrangled sophia out from backstage.

y/n stood frozen for a beat, trying to process what the hell she’d just witnessed. then she laughed. sharp and startled, the sound of someone caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

hyunjin leaned in. “that’s gonna be us one day,” he said, nodding sagely.

“stormed backstage by strangers?”

“groupies, y/n. we’re building a brand.”

“right,” y/n muttered, tugging her strap off her shoulder. “well, your brand just pissed off security.”

she raised a hand, waving security off when they moved to come over.

that’s when two other girls stepped forward. not charging like their friend, not slurring or flailing. megan looked like she’d sprinted halfway there and only just remembered to slow down. her hair was a little windblown, her expression wide-eyed and caught somewhere between panic and awe. lara, on the other hand, was all cool detachment, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes scanning everything like she was cataloging it for later.

y/n straightened slightly, unsure whether to brace or laugh again.

“hi,” megan said, breathless. “um. sorry about our friend. she gets flirty when she’s drunk.”

“she almost ate kai,” hyunjin hummed, biting back another laugh.

“believe me, we know,” megan stammered, embarrassed, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “sophia once hit on a waiter mid-order. it’s a full-time job trying to keep her from getting banned from establishments.”

“well, thanks for wrangling her,” y/n said, her voice steadier than she expected. “and for coming. to the show, i mean.”

but then y/n’s eyes trailed over to the girl standing behind her. she was stunning. tall, dressed in tailored black, sleek hair and gold jewelry catching the low light. there was something about her that immediately made y/n want to straighten her back. magnetic. she looked confident, the kind of confident that made you feel like she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t care if you didn’t.

“you guys were great,” lara said, flashing a smile. “really. we just found your record at the store and figured why not come check it out.”

“music store?” hyunjin perked up. “which one?”

“garrison’s. we both work there,” the first girl said. “i’m megan, by the way. this is lara.”

y/n repeated both names in her head. megan. lara.

however hyunjin, naturally, latched onto the pretty one.

“lara,” he said, already dialing it up. “you have a beautiful name.”

y/n nearly snorted.

“how about we get you girls a drink?”

to megan’s bad luck, both y/n and hyunjin seemed taken with the very pretty, very social girl standing beside her. it was obvious. painfully so. and yet, she couldn’t help herself. she kept gravitating toward y/n anyway.

hyunjin was shameless about it. all charm and theatrics, practically ignoring megan in favor of lavishing attention on lara. but y/n… y/n smiled at her. offered to buy her a drink. asked for her name. it was friendly. casual. meaningless, probably.

but it meant something to megan.

in that moment, she decided that if both of them were going to fall for her best friend, she’d rather it be y/n. if it had to be someone, let it be the one who smiled gently. who asked questions. who noticed. besides, she always believed what people said—if your friends can’t stand the person you’re dating, maybe that’s a red flag worth listening to.

maybe that was the real problem. megan got along with y/n a little too well.

megan and y/n became good friends. it started simple. megan showed up to shows, bought the merch before it was cool, called y/n’s bass lines sick even when they both knew the sound system was trash that night. they hung out between sets, shared fries at late-night diners, argued about which the smiths album aged the worst. it was easy. it was enough.

then, the love came slow. like a sunrise. subtle, steady, then suddenly everywhere.

megan realized it a year in. their friendship already carved deep, unshakeable. they were mid-set, stage lights flaring red and gold. megan stood in the crowd, bass thudding through her chest.

and then y/n looked up. their eyes met, and something in her splintered. after that, it hurt. a little bit, every day. a slow undoing. a soft ache she learned to live with.

but she never left.

at some point, maybe five months after they met, hyunjin and lara started dating. five months of half-flirting and inside jokes that weren’t so inside anymore. five months of megan watching y/n pretend she didn’t care.

the band had gotten bigger by then. not international– god, not yet– but local enough that strangers started recognizing them in line for coffee. their sound was sharp around the edges now, tighter, cleaner. more people were paying attention.

but still, y/n was pissed. quiet about it, mostly. but it lived in her shoulders, the way they hunched a little tighter when lara laughed at hyunjin’s jokes. in the way she stopped volunteering stories about her day whenever lara was around.

“i was the one who listened,” she told megan once, voice low like it was a secret. “to all her dumb little tangents. about which incense gives her migraines, or how her dog only eats if the bowl’s rotated a certain way. he wasn’t there. he didn’t even know the dog’s name.”

megan nodded, said nothing, and let her vent.

“i gave her my coat that night,” y/n added, quieter now. “when she shivered. he didn’t even notice she was cold.”

it was just something she needed to let out. and megan… megan made space for things like that. a quiet pocket of the world where y/n could be soft, small, furious, grieving, without ever having to say sorry for it.

it was always megan who showed up. not just for the gigs or the late-night diner runs. but at 2am, when everything felt too loud, too much. megan, who picked up the phone without hesitation. who sent stupid memes until y/n laughed again. who knew when she needed silence and when she needed to scream. who carried gum and painkillers and the exact words y/n needed to hear tucked somewhere behind her tongue.

megan knew every version of her. the messy ones. the moody ones. the ones that cried at shampoo commercials and flinched at confrontation. and she loved them all. quietly. stubbornly. without asking for anything in return.

because they were friends. just friends.

so megan kept her mouth shut. swallowed her feelings like bad medicine. because y/n was already hurting, and megan knew– intimately– what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back. she’d never wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. least of all her.

still, it was megan who listened. who stood in the sticky venues with bad acoustics and worse lighting. who cheered the loudest, even when the set was off. it was her y/n called when the world tilted sideways. it was her y/n trusted with the fragile parts, the ugly truths, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.

megan never missed the details. how y/n took her coffee, which hoodie she wore when she was spiraling, the playlist she avoided when she was heartbroken. megan paid attention like it was a religion. like y/n was a language she was learning by heart.

she loved y/n in silence because it was safer. because it was easier than risking everything. because some part of her still hoped that one day, maybe, y/n would choose her.

for now, she settled on simply being.

two years had passed. the band got louder. not just in sound, but in presence. local fame turned regional. “i don’t care” started slipping onto playlists they’d never heard of, getting tagged in stories by strangers from cities they hadn’t played yet. they still rehearsed in hyunjin’s garage, still argued about setlists, still tripped over the same tangled cords. but the rooms got bigger. the lights got brighter. the noise followed them home.

through it all, megan was constant.

y/n couldn’t pinpoint when it changed. maybe it was always there, just quiet. maybe it was the way megan always had gum when her throat went dry before a set. maybe it was the way she cheered—arms in the air, mouthing every lyric like it mattered. maybe it was the night y/n crashed on her couch and woke up to tea already steeping, a blanket tucked around her shoulders like it had always been there.

she remembered calling megan when she found out about hyunjin and lara. she hadn’t cried, not the way she expected. just sat on megan’s floor with a pint of mint chocolate chip between them, watching reruns until the theme song blurred into background noise. megan leaned her head on her shoulder. y/n didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. she just leaned back.

it stayed with her. for days. for weeks.

then it started happening more.

megan, humming along to rough cuts that weren’t even mixed yet. megan, lip syncing the bassline with a wink, like it was just for her. megan, dancing in the front row like no one else in the world existed.

and something in y/n started to unravel.

she started noticing things. the curve of megan’s smile when she was teasing. the way she always smelled faintly like coconut shampoo and old records. the way she made everything—music, heartbreak, life—feel easier just by being around. and then one day, in the middle of a show, y/n looked out into the crowd and found her.

megan. grinning like she had a secret. eyes bright. mouthing along to every word.

y/n forgot her next chord for half a second.

that’s when she knew. not all at once. not in some dramatic epiphany. but in a quiet, steady way.

then came the jealousy. sudden, sharp. it happened that night at manon’s rooftop party. it wasn’t like y/n to care who megan flirted with. she always chalked it up to megan being magnetic. of course people wanted her. megan was loud, energetic, silly and charismatic in her own socially awkward way. but it was charming. it was a sort of way that made her feel real. a type of authenticity that she found herself craving.

the energy was charged, an intimate gathering between friends. the whole time, she found herself watching her. when megan laughed at something a girl in a yellow dress— sophia— whispered in her ear, she felt herself stiffen. she recognized her briefly from the time she barreled backstage at their first big gig and the time she awkwardly apologised to kai a few months later. sophia was pretty. painstakingly so. watching it happen before her felt like a punch to the ribs.

“you good?” hyunjin had asked, nursing a warm beer beside her.

y/n didn’t answer straight away. just stared across the rooftop, jaw tight.

“is that megan jealousy?” he asked, tilting his head.

she still didn’t say anything.

“oh my god,” hyunjin whispered, turning to her in slow motion. “it is.”

y/n sighed, leaning back against the railing. “shut up.”

“i won’t. you’re pining. this is pining. this is textbook.”

“i’m not pining.”

“you’re glaring at a girl for speaking to your best friend. that’s at least two stages past pining.”

y/n groaned.

hyunjin leaned closer, voice soft. “why haven’t you said anything?”

she stared down at the street, lights blurring in her vision. still, she masked her internal worry with a quick joke and a teasing grin.

“why’re you interested so suddenly, hwang? gonna fight me for this one too?”

hyunjin chuckled good-naturedly. his eyes briefly glanced over to lara, the desi girl dancing with a younger korean in the middle of the dance floor. then he turned back to his friend with a shrug.

“you’ll get no push from me. you should go for it, y/n. what’s the worst that could happen?”

and she thought about it. about all that could go wrong.

they were friends. megan was phenomenal. what if she ruined it? for now, she’d wait. she’d bite back her jealousy.

though sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants.

the confession came later. sooner than she expected. it wasn’t planned—just spilled out, raw and real, like most things y/n did when she finally let her heart speak louder than her head.

it was after a show. one of their best. the kind that left your lungs burning and your skin buzzing. the energy clung to them like static.

megan found her side stage, eyes bright, hair a mess, smile even messier.

“you guys killed it—”

“i love you,” y/n said. blurted, actually. no warning. no buildup.

megan blinked. “wait—what?”

“i love you,” she said again, steadier this time. her voice still shook, but there was no taking it back. “i know you’re with sophia, and i know this might screw everything up, and i’m sorry if it does. but i’m in love with you. i couldn’t keep pretending i wasn’t.”

megan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared, eyes wide and unreadable.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” y/n rushed on, heart racing. “i just… i needed you to know. because you’ve always been there. you’ve seen the worst parts of me and never walked away. and somewhere in all of that, i fell for you. hard.”

silence.

then megan stepped forward, slow but certain, and cradled y/n’s face in both hands.

“i’m not dating sophia,” she said softly, almost like a secret. “you could’ve just asked.”

she laughed then—a quiet, breathless sound—and shook her head. “idiot.”

and then she kissed her. not just a kiss. the kiss. the kind that unraveled something deep in her chest, slow and aching and warm. the kind that made the noise of the world drop away, like a stage going dark after the final chord.

it was everything megan had imagined. every half-dreamed moment, every day she spent loving y/n in silence. for as long as she could remember, it had been her. from the first late-night walk, the first shared laugh, the first time y/n looked at her like she saw her. megan had loved her then, quietly and completely, like it was stitched into her bones.

and now, y/n had chosen her. out of everyone. not lara. not anyone else in the crowd. her.

the kiss tasted like every unsent text, every time megan had almost said something and swallowed it down instead. it tasted like hope. like relief. like a door finally opening after years of standing in the hallway.

all the waiting had led to this. all the almosts, all the quiet pining, all the nights she convinced herself to be content with friendship. it washed away in a single, breathless moment.

because y/n was kissing her like she meant it. like megan had been the one all along. and god, she had.

outside, the crowd screamed for an encore. but y/n?

she already had everything she needed.

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nervoushottee · 2 days ago

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Casual | Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: To you, what you and Steve had felt like coming home but to him? It was only just casual.

Warnings: 18+ MNDI, S1 King Steve (asshole), implied sex, descriptions of sex but not in detail, ANGST, Steve being a piece of shit, I think I gave Carol the wrong last name?

Notes: I love Chappel Roan’s “Casual”. Always have and always will. One day a few months ago when listening to the song I literally thought about this fic and just wrote crap on paper and forgot about it. Months later and here it is! I haven’t wrote for Steve in a long time so please bear with me if it’s rusty. This fic is inspired by a oc fic that I’m writing for a Canon Stranger Things store but Oc’s are always so hardddd to write compared to Reader. So there are some plot points used from that story to add in this story because it just felt right.

please enjoy! Not edited

(I know I know! This isn’t what you want for me to post! The Jesse fic IS being worked but very slowly due to my feelings with the S2 potrayal so bear with me on that!)

You and Steve have always been around each other—like a tether or an invisible string guiding you together. You live two houses down and one across from him, you’re in the same friend group. You’re a cheerleader and he’s on the basketball team. The both of you were causally and unintentionally tied to the hip.

So it only makes sense when the two of you fuck one night when Steve’s parents aren’t home.

Steve was bored—that’s what he told you over the phone a couple hours before. With a playful groan and a promise of a joint, you shove some sweats and sneakers and make the short walk to his house.

Another thing that the two of you so casually have in common—being an abandoned child.. Father kicked it years ago with the stupid and overused milk scene; Mother drowns herself in liquor that when she’s sober it’s scary. You should hate her, want her to show up more in your life but you’re not…not really.

When she slurs her speech with how much she loves the man who left her years ago and tries to find him again and again in old rich men—you can’t help but feel bad for her. You can’t help but hope and pray that you’ll never be like her: a shell of a woman constantly heartbroken from the one that got away.

Despite her absence and the (many) rich boyfriends in a suit that she drags to meet you—then cry her eyes out when it’s over, you have a roof over your head and money in your pocket. The last guy she dated was able to upgrade the television set in the living room. The guy two guys before that one fixed the pool that hadn’t been working for three years straight (you would use Steve’s anyways). That is what’s different between you and Steve.

Steve’s parents are rarely ever home. Business trips or vacations is what they call them but from what Steve told you, he knows it’s mostly his father having a business meeting or whatever and his mother tagging along be every time she didn’t, his father would go and cheat with a younger version of her. Despite Steve’s nonchalant attitude toward it whenever it’s brought up with Tommy and Carol, you know Steve better than that.

It was nights like these when Steve “bored” out of his mind and calling you to come to his or he’d go to yours—Steve would whisper out the feelings that were hidden inside of him. When the joint was down to its last hit or the beer too warm to drink anymore on a warm night. Or even if it was just a little too quiet and a little too comfortable. The two of you would bring out all of the skeletons you kept deep in the closet.

It was a mutual understanding between you both to keep it to yourself. Despite not being more than good friends, the weight of the conversations you shared meant more to you than just that.

Shaking your head, you scoff playfully as you see Steve already standing in the drive. His hands placed on his hip and his foot tapping on the cement. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought Steve was a disappointed mother rather than your cute friend.

Of course you think Steve is cute—who fucking wouldn’t? You still keep it to yourself though.

He taps his hands on his wrist, his eyebrows furrowed in disappoint, “Do you know what time it is young lady? For you to go out this late and come to a boys house of all things is just unacceptable.”

You roll your eyes as you walk toward him. “Sorry mom, it won’t happen again.”

“You bet your ass it won’t.” he says sternly, as you stop a foot or so in front of him, you can already see the playful and fond gleam in his eyes. Sometimes you wonder if he only saves that look for you.

Steve opens the door for you and once you step inside, it’s like you never left. You know Steve’s place like the back of your hand and you won’t be surprised if Steve knows yours just the same. Following him up the stairs to his bedroom, the two of you get into a routine that has honestly warmed your heart since it started.

Steve goes slides his desk to corner of the wall as you open the window that it was faced toward. You can hear the crickets chirping in the night and the faint sound of trees rustling from the night wind. The air warm from summer being just a blink away, so you unzip your jacket after pulling out the light you had shoved into it. Steve sits on the other side of window as he pulls out the joint that was promised. You chuck off your shoes with a groan an wiggle your sock covered toes as you hear the scrape of the lighter against Steve’s thumb.

He doesn’t take the first hit, he never does. Not with weed or even cigarettes—he simply lights it for you. You don’t remember when it started but you do remember the curt remark from Carol at a party once. Steve had got a couple beers, had opened one, handed it to you and pull one for him out of his pocket. Carol (drunk and little jealous) had asked “Who is she, your girlfriend Harrington?”

You and Steve had both shrugged off the comments, not really taking to heart the words that your friend had slurred out your mouth. But as Tommy dragged her away for some air, and you watched Steve light the cigarette just to give to you, the words were replaying in your mind for the rest of the night.

Months later and here you are, sharing the small joint with Steve. Fingers brushing against each other as you exchange it back and forth. You blow the smoke out the window with your arm rested on the windowsill. Your cheek squished against your arm, you look out at the night sky. You don’t know if your eyes are playing tricks on you but you can only see two stars in the sky. They stand in the blackness of the night parallel to you and Steve.

You’ve got to be super high already. You clear your throat and rub your eyes against your arm. “Mom’s got a new guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asks as he hands the small joint to you.

You hum. “Yea he’s,” you inhale warm smoke, “He’s some guy up from Indianapolis. Works at a lawyer firm or accounting something.” You shrug your shoulders, you never really give a shit about the who and what of your mom’s new flavor of the month.

“Think this one’s gonna stick?” Steve accepts the last bit of the joint.

You shake your head and smush your cheek back on your arm. “They never do.”

Because from what your mom tells you whenever she drinks vodka—that all of them can never hold a candle to your father. She tells you that with tear in her eyes, mascara smudged and lips quivering. You always exchange her vodka out for whatever after a while when she’s not looking; Usually she’s too drunk to even notice the difference.

You snap out of your daydream at the touch of Steve’s warm hand against your waist. His skin on yours makes your breath hitch silent. Your shirt had ridden up with how you were leaned against the window sill, so you know it wasn’t his intention to place his hands on you like that but he doesn’t move it. Instead you feel his thumb softly move back and forth. Faint baby strokes against your skin that sends goosebumps up your spine.

You try your best to look casual as you direct your gaze to Steve. He’s smoking the last bit of it, the roach looking tiny in his big hands. You let out a whine, “You’re hogging it Harrington.”

Steve shrugs, “Not my fault you were lost in a daydream.”

You use your unoccupied hand to reach out for the roach but Steve takes the little thing and extends his arm out of your reach. Orangey red ember staring back at you as you squint and pout. “That shit probably only has one hit left. ‘S not fair, I was just enjoying my high.” You lie.

Steve debates it for a second, you see how his face changes from playful to thoughtful to fond in the bright moonlight.

Fuck, you really like the way he looks at you.

“Fine. How about this?”

Steve takes the last and final hit of the joint and you gasp in shock— slightly annoyed that he didn’t share it. But once Steve gets into your personal space, his hand still on sliding from your waist, up your back to softly cup your neck—you realize that Steve Harrington is actually fucking sharing it.

You lean to meet him as suck in the warm smoke that Steve blows into your mouth. His gaze low and heavy as he leans back a bit to watch you lick your chapped lips.

You can’t really tell who pulled in first but all you know is that night you and Steve had sex for the first time.

The morning after, when you woke up to the sun on your skin and the sound of birds chirping. The bed is empty when you turn around. Your naked underneath the sheets and you shove Steve’s shirt over your head and shrug on your sweats as you make your way out of his room.

You follow the sound of pots and pans and walk downstairs to see Steve in the kitchen. His back toward you as he places a pan on the stove. There’s a cup of coffee next to him and a mug empty right next to his.

“Hey.” you mumble out.

Steve turns to the sound of your voice and with the same fucking in his eyes that makes your heart jump—he smiles softly at you. “Morning. Coffee?”

Warmth and relief flutters inside of you as you let out a deep sigh, “Yeah that’s perfect actually.”

The two of you don’t talk about what happened last night. Neither of you ask the what are we question and it makes you happy and anxious at the same time. But as you laugh at some stupid story he’s telling, you remind yourself that it was only one time and it won’t ever happen again.

Until it happens a second time and then a third time. Then it turns into something so continuous that Tommy and Carol catch on.

“Are you guys fucking or something?” Tommy blurts out at your table in the cafeteria. You nearly choke on your Coke. Carol eyes you both as she blows the biggest bubble of gum she’s done so far. You keep the soda can up against your lips—an act of not speaking, blaming it on drinking soda.

“Don’t try to deny it either,” Carol states with a pop of her gum. “Those hickeys conveniently placed blow your neck is peaking out of your collar.” She tells you. Your mouth slightly gaped like a fish, you reach to adjust your shirt collar as Steve clears his throat.

“It’s nothing serious. We’re just hanging out.” Steve says like it’s whatever.

You ignore the pang in your chest when the words come out of his mouth. But, you’re in no mood to make a fool of yourself, so you do what you do best—push down those unwanted feelings and agree. “Yeah,” you shrug your shoulders. “We’re just-”

“Casual.” Steve finishes for you and like the stupid girl you are—you nod. You take the multiple blows he sent your way with the five letter word and the look on his face that’s nothing like how he looks at you in private.

With the ring of the school bell, you watch as Steve wipes his mouth with a napkin, toss it on his tray and leave the lunch table. Tommy follows after him like a lost puppy while leaving his girlfriend in the process.

You almost don’t see the small look of shock and disappointment in Carol’s eyes with how fast it leaves. She pops her gum and in a blink of an eye it’s gone. Her usual bored stare takes its place as she locks eyes with you.

“Bathroom?”

Going to the bathroom with Carol Jenkins means more than just going to the bathroom. No, it doesn’t mean making out in the stall—even though you did do that one time when the two of you both turned sixteen; Just to see how kissing girls felt. It meant what every other group of girls did when going to the bathroom at Hawkins High.

To Reapply lipgloss, smoke out the window and gossip.

The highschool bathroom window only opened three inches on every floor for safety reasons and to prevent kids from smoking. But all you had to do was stick your hand out and let the smoke trail out side.

So hear you stood by the window, cigarette in the hand extended outside. You take a puff and watch the track team do laps on the yard.

“You know, if what you and Steve have isn’t as casual as he thinks it is—you need to tell him like now.” Carol says out loud. You nearly break your neck with how quick you turn to the redhead who is reapplying her lipgloss for the second time since you lit the cig. She meet your eyes yet, giving you time to save face as she primos and fluffs her hair before finally turning to you.

You shrug, “He’s right. We’re just—having fun.”

She nonverbally asks for the cigarette and you hand it to her. Watching as she walks to the window and blows the smoke she just inhaled out the tiny open space. Carol’s a bit shorter than you, something you made fun of in a cute way whenever you’re too drunk. But now, for some reason, you’re the one that feels small. Almost as if she can read right through your bullshit lie and knows that what you want and what Steve wants are two different fucking things.

“Well,” she taps the ash of the on the window sill. You wipe it off in annoyance. “Make sure you remember that and have fun.”

The thing about Carol Jenkins—she wasn’t always a bitchy mean girl. No, before status and highschool popularity and even Tommy, she was a pretty good friend. As time went on, she changed and you did too. But probably not in the same direction though.

Carol doesn’t say anything to you about the matter ever again after that. And you continued on with the facade of being okay with being just causal with Steve.

Because the thing is, it wasn’t casual. Steve can go about and say that the two of you were just casual but it doesn’t feel casual and it never has.

Not when he kisses your hand when the two of you take long drives and especially not when you hold each other so close at night.

You know how many freckles Steve has on his back. You’ve counted them on one lazy Sunday morning. The wind blowing through the open window of your bedroom, curtains light and flowy with the sun peeking through. Steve, chest bare, sleeping on his stomach with hands underneath the pillow. You on top of him, cheek smushed against his back and your legs tangled together.

You had woken up before him. Eyes a bit blurry and mouth dry as you glide your fingers up and down his back. M Dancing around his spine as you count all the small dots that were scattered across his body. Twenty three of them.

He knows where all your birthmarks are. Could find them blindfolded with nothing but his wandering hands.

You’ve moaned his name against his mouth and he’s grunted out yours. In his room and yours. In the front seat of his car and the back seats. At Lover’s Lake when the sun is gone and the moon is bright. At Skull Rock, a place you both found after too many close calls getting caught by the cops at the lake. On his bathroom counter and underneath the warm shower water. At his parent’s beach house and at parties when you are able to ditch your friends.

None of that felt fucking casual to you.

You wished and prayed not to be like your mother. But here you are, drunk out of your mind in the corner of the room at Tina’s Halloween party. Black eyeliner smudged against your eyes and fake blood dried against your mouth. You can taste the nasty artificial taste of it as you lick your lips. “Pure Fuel” nearly finished in your stained and sticky solo cup; you watch as Steve and Nancy walk through the crowd of dressed up teens—in their own couple’s costume.

He’s wearing the same sunglasses he had at the beach house. The same ones you took off his face to see his pretty brown eyes and kiss his lips afterwards.

Drink in hand and eyes blurry with tears, you painfully watch the couple dance to the music.

What you and Steve had wasn’t casual. You knew that deep within your bones. But Steve doesn’t speak to you, not like he used to, not after that night and not since Nancy. Because he’ll see it tightly in his mind that what you had was causal when it was nothing of the sort.

So, as you watch Steve follow Nancy to what you assume is the bathroom to go fuck like you used to do with him, you follow in your mother’s footsteps. Hips swaying and mind fuzzy as you tangle your warm tongue with Billy Hargrove’s.

He’s a mistake. He isn’t Steve. But he’s just enough to make you forget how the boy you loved was never your boy begin with.

He made that very clear.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fic #stranger things fic #stranger things fanfiction #steve fanfic #steve x reader #steve angst #steve smut #steve harrington angst

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ohdorothea · 2 days ago

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Which Taylor Swift Song is Queerer? Album by Album Tournament - Bonus Round

Welcome back to the Taylor Swift’s Queerest Song Album by Album tournament!!! We have reached the end of the album tournaments and four songs from each of Taylor’s albums have been voted to be The Queerest songs from each album. All of those songs will be competing in the Ultimate Bracket, alongside the top four songs from the Unreleased and Miscellaneous rounds that are ongoing. There are still eight slots left to be filled in the bracket. So welcome to…. the Bonus Round!!!

At the above link you can find a Google form in which you can cast eight votes! I have chosen from all the songs that didn’t make the final cut and picked 26 that I believe deserve a second chance. The songs you can choose from are…

1. A Place In This World

2. Better Than Revenge

3. But Daddy I Love Him

4. champagne problems

5. Change

6. Crazier

7. Cruel Summer

8. Eyes Open

9. Fortnight

10. Getaway Car

11. Glitch

12. I Wish You Would

13. Labyrinth

14. ME!

15. Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince

16. My Boy Only Breaks His Favourite Toys

17. Paris

18. Peter

19. Snow On The Beach ft More Lana*

20. Stay Stay Stay

21. Tied Together With a Smile

22. The Man

23. The Manuscript

24. The Other Side of the Door

25. The Lucky One

26. The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

I have also written a voting guide below the cut with my reasoning for including each of the songs with links to anything I think might sway your vote!

This Google form will be open until the 1st of June so you have until then to decide where to allocate those eight votes!

*original Snow On The Beach did not win a place in the final tournament

Bonus Round Voting Guide (made by ME!)

A Place In This World

youtube

I think this song is queer because… This is the original Swiftian song about questioning your place in a heteronormative cis world.

If The Outside is about begging to be let into that world, this is the song about sensing deep down that even if you could fit into that world it’s not the place for you.

This is the song about wanting to get away from the restriction of trying to be someone else even if it means being isolated, even if it means having no one else on your side, because you know there is a place out there that is meant for you.

I think this is cemented by the A Place In This World x New Romantics mash up Taylor played on the final night of The Eras Tour

Better Than Revenge

I think this song is queer because… This song has oh so many of the classic Swiftian queer motifs!!! Triangulation of desire (shout out to Kathryn’s betty essay for teaching me the concept), referring to boyfriends as ‘toys’, revenge, spending a song that is meant to be about losing a guy talking about a girl instead, walking the line between fury and horny, the list goes on!!

Also in the outro she literally asks the woman to “show me how much better you are” and if that’s not a lesbian proposition I don’t know what is.

I also want to link to this PowerPoint that also makes a lot of great points

But Daddy I Love Him

I think this song is queer because… while there are many interpretations that fit this song to me it screams gay awakening in a small religious community and fantasising about breaking out of misogynistic homophobic culturally expected ‘self control’.

Running with her dress unbuttoned, being pregnant out of wedlock, her lover being described as ‘crazy’ by her community all point to a narrator who feels confined by the expectations put on her by her religion/religious community.

“If all you want is grey for me / Then it's just white noise / And it's just my choice” also follows in the vein of OOTW / illicit affairs / Question…?/The Prophecy lyrics comparing life without this type of love as grey/colourless and life with the love as colourful, a motif I very much consider to be queer.

I also think the tour staging of the song very much is telling a queer narrative

The song starts and the dancers are all in white coming from this grey colourless world behind them (very Wizard of Oz)

And Taylor/the narrator is in front (imo imagery matching the image of a young queer person being the first person they know to come out/realise their own queerness)

Skipping to further in the choreography, Taylor is standing in the middle of what seems like a community gathering/religious gathering and then goes to her knees, following the dancers in choreography that looks like prayer/begging/pleading

But then as the story of the song progresses she gets up (Tonight we'll stand, get off our knees anyone?)

And not only that as she rises through the air she is surrounded by flames! It gives me the image of someone who has been told being queer is a sin that will send them to hell and now she’s just embracing the flames

Shout out to this post as well as it helped form my thoughts

champagne problems

I think this song is queer because… I have since first listen felt like this song’s narrator is a queer woman. I’ve moved through different interpretations of the exact events or identifies of those involved but it has always been for me the story of a queer woman who is in a ‘perfect’ relationship to outsiders but in the moment the person proposes she realises she has made a mistake.

That she can’t spend her life being the person she needs to be to stay in this relationship, she must break this person she love’s heart to be able to find herself and live her life authentically.

The line that particularly leads me to this interpretation is ‘“she would have made such a lovely bridge / what a shame she’s fucked in the head” they said / but you’ll find the real thing instead’.

Within the song this is sung with defeat and devastation, even self hate. However in the performance of the song during The Eras Tour I feel she really reclaims the lyrics and makes it into something else.

Shout out to Kathryn’s We Were Happy / champagne problems essay

Change

I think this song is queer because… This song has always been a queer anthem to me!

I don’t really have a clear argument other than when I listened to this song as 13 year old baby queer it stirred something in my little queer heart and every time I’ve listened since I feel the same way. Because these things will CHANGE!!!!!!

And I do think the bridge lyrics are called back in quite a few more recent songs;

Tonight we stand, -> Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

get off our knees -> Fifteen years, fifteen million tears / Begging 'til my knees bled

Fight for what we've worked for all these years -> 'Cause when I'd fight, you used to tell me I was brave

And the battle was long, -> I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me

it's the fight of our lives -> It's the goddamn fight of my life

But we'll stand up champions tonight -> As if you were a mythical thing / Like you were a trophy or a champion ring / And there was one prize I'd cheat to win

Crazier

I think this song is queer because… It is a classically Swiftian move to compare falling in love with the narrator losing her mind or because ‘crazy’ (The Way I Loved You, Don’t Blame Me, Wonderland, Welcome To New York, False God, I Don’t Wanna Love Forever are just a few examples).

To me Crazier is kind of the core of this motif. It tells the story of a narrator who meets someone that changes their life by leading a kind of life that the narrator never dreamed of being possible for them self.

The second verse really encapsulates this; I watched from a distance as you / Made life your own / Every sky was your own kind of blue / And I wanted to know how that would feel / And you made it so real / You showed me something that I couldn't see / You opened my eyes and you made me believe

And then the bridge, while being short and straight to the point, I think solidifies this as a song about queerness to me; Baby, you showed me what living is for / I don't wanna hide anymore

Cruel Summer

I think this song is queer because… it’s new! The shape of your body! I don’t want keep secrets just to keep you! I love you ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard? It’s NEW! THE SHAPE OF YOUR BODY!!!!!!!!

If those lyrics don’t convince you then I present to you this web weave and the idea that the song is about The Great Gatsby (we were so Gatsby for that whole year!)

And if that doesn’t convince you I present to the sophisticates amongst you, RPF;

And I snuck in through the garden gate

Every night that summer, just to seal my fate

Eyes Open

I think this song is queer because… ok so let’s say hypothetically you are a closeted queer country pop singer songwriter who is becoming very famous and scrutinised and you wanted to write a song about it.

If we take Eyes Open away from the context it was released (for The Hunger Games movies) I think this song tells the story of a narrator who is experiencing this hypothetical. I also think the song ties in a lot of themes and ideas that appear again and again in Taylor’s discography.

Everybody's waiting / Everybody's watching -> Somethin' happens when everybody finds out / See the vultures circlin', dark clouds

Even when you're sleeping / Keep your ey-eyes open ->

The tricky thing is yesterday we were just children -> Oh, darlin', don't you ever grow up / Don't you ever grow up

Playing soldiers, just pretending -> Long may you reign

Dreaming dreams with happy endings -> It could stay this simple / And no one's ever burned you / Nothing's ever left you scarred

In backyards, winning battles with our wooden swords / But now we've stepped into a cruel world -> It’s cruel summer with you

Where everybody stands and keeps score -> I didn't know you were keeping count

So here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard -> Baby, I know places we won't be found

Every lesson forms a new scar -> We cry tears of mascara in the bathroom / Honey, life is just a classroom

They never thought you'd make it this far -> Someday I’ll be living in a big old city / and all you're ever gonna be is mean

But turn around / Oh, they've surrounded you / It's a showdown -> I was in the alley, surrounded on all sides

And nobody comes to save you now -> You could have helped if you had wanted to / But no one notices until it's too late to do anything

But you've got something they don't / Yeah, you've got something they don't -> So we've been outnumbered / Raided and now cornered / It's hard to fight when the fight ain't fair / We're getting stronger now / Find things they never found

Keep your feet ready / Heartbeat steady -> Walkin' through a crowd, the village is aglow / Kaleidoscope of loud heartbeats under coats

Keep your eyes open / Keep your aim locked -> Dear reader, when you aim at the devil / Make sure you don't miss

The night goes dark / Keep your lights open -> This love is glowing in the dark

I’d also like to shout out Kathryn’s interpretation of this song that they posted on the poll, I really love this interpretation as well!!!

Fortnight

I think this song is queer because… I actually think there are two different queer interpretations of this song that I really enjoy.

The first is in quite a few classic Swiftian way - she talks about a husband but uses you to address her lover, the narrator is clearly miserable within her life of heterosexual expectations and she says loving this person has ‘ruined her life’. Falling in love with a woman would certainly ruin the life of someone stuck in a heterosexual marriage.

I also think the way she uses touch as a metaphor is connected to lots of other queer songs in her discography - I was gonna type this all up but I actually made two web weaves about it already so I’ll link the first here and second one here.

But the second reading of this song that is also explicitly queer is the doppelgänger reading. Other people have written about this better than I can but I do have a little collage I made;

Like!!!!!!!!! The gender of it all!!!! Like I lost my twin!!!!!!!

Getaway Car

I think this song is queer because… in my head Getaway Car and Cruel Summer tell the same story in two parts and both parts are queer as hell.

In my interpretation Getaway Car is a song about a narrator who leaves a relationship with a man to be with a woman but then back tracks on coming out so she also abandons the woman. Cruel Summer is Getaway Car from the other woman’s perspective.

I came to this interpretation after realising that the end of Getaway Car and the beginning of Cruel Summer sound so similar (if you watch this video from 3:45mins until Cruel Summer starts hopefully you will see what I mean!)

youtube

So once I heard the similarities I started seeing the similarities in the stories as well. Both stories start with intense heat (I struck a match and blew your mind -> Fever dream high in the quiet of the night).

Both stories take place almost entirely within cars. Both narrators describe a relationship that is unlikely to work (Devils roll the dice, angels roll their eyes / What doesn't kill me makes me want you more -> I knew it from the first Old Fashioned, we were cursed / We never had a shotgun shot in the dark)

But there are also differences within the perspectives. Getaway Car’s narrator is already driving away, while Cruel Summer’s narrator is stuck in the moment she said ‘I love you’, still seeing the relationship through rose coloured glasses. Getaway Car’s narrator is not ready to step out of the closest and commit to this relationship but Cruel Summer’s narrator doesn’t want to keep secrets but wants to keep this woman she loves!

This turned out way longer than anticipated so I will stop there but I’d also like to offer up the video played before Getaway Car at the reputation tour;

youtube

Glitch

I think this song is queer because… I think there’s been a WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE JUST FRIENDS!!! Now regardless of what this song is about in this Canon Swiftian universe I have always heard this song as a song about your first queer relationship.

And I think it ties in so many themes from other songs in Taylor’s work; friends to lovers, not wanting to apologise for her love, that perhaps this love she wants is not real, comparing love to substances, her love not standing a chance, DANCING!!!! It really has it all.

I Wish You Would

I think this song is queer because… ‘We're a crooked love / In a straight line down / Makes you wanna run and hide / Then it makes you turn right back around’ are to me some of the most explicitly queer lyrics in her entire discography!

The song is also built around a sample from a song called ‘She Drives Me Crazy’. This links with the motif I have already talked about where Taylor describes love as if she’s losing her mind. Dolly Parton also covered the song, and while it’s not explicitly a queer cover (she changes the she to you, although isn’t that such a Taylor move) I wanted to mention it because the cover goes SO. FUCKING. HARD. Highly recommend.

Labyrinth

I think this song is queer because… it just feels queer to me ok!!!!!!!!! I’m not usually one for advocating for queerness based on vibes but for me if I am going to use this argument for ONE song it’s this one. The production, the way she’s singing, lyrics they all just FEEL queer to me! I said what I said.

ME!

I think this song is queer because…

Spelling is fun! That is all 🌈🦄🏳️‍🌈💗

Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince

I think this song is queer because… I mean first things first this Halsey tweet lives in my head rent free:

But honestly I hadn’t thought about it much until I read Kathryn’s post about the song being a set up to Lavender Haze. I love this interpretation so much and totally see the vision!

My Boy Only Breaks His Favourite Toys

I think this song is queer because… it’s intersection of gender + objectification + doppelgängerism for me!!

Ok so the song is tied to the idea that the narrator’s lover saw her as a toy.

The metaphor of people as toys is not a new idea in the Swiftian universe. However previously she has used it to describe her muses. As far as I know it was introduced as a metaphor in Better Than Revenge (Soon, she's gonna find stealing other people's toys / On the playground won't make you many friends)

She then used it again in Don’t Blame Me (I've been breakin' hearts a long time, and / Toyin' with them older guys /Just playthings for me to use) then again in Cruel Summer (Bad, bad boy, shiny toy with a price / You know that I bought it) then again in Hits Different (I used to switch out these Kens, I'd just ghost).

And now, the role is flipped. She is the toy, was the plaything, she was ghosted. But she isn’t just a doll, she’s an army doll. In traditional gender roles it’s boys who play with the type of doll she is. She is also a doll built for war, battle, instead of romance.

She is queen only of temporary unstable castles that are washed away by the see, once more invisible. Her lover puts her back on the shelf because the heat of her touch, the intensity of this relationship, is too much for her lover to bare. But even with all that she’d play again! She’d be willing to pretend again because she ‘felt more when we played pretend / Than with all the Kens’.

However you cut it all this reads as super queer to me. I’d also like to shout out Charlotte’s web weave that I really love.

Paris

I think this song is queer because… it’s the parallels with Down Bad for me!

I wanna brainwash you / Into loving me forever -> Just to do experiments on / Tell me I was the chosen one

I wanna transport you / To somewhere the culture's clever -> I'll build you a fort on some planet / Where they can all understand it

Confess my truth / In swooping, sloping, cursive letters -> They'll say I'm nuts if I talk about the existence of you

Let the only flashing lights be the tower at midnight / In my mind -> Did you really beam me up? / In a cloud of sparkling dust

We drew a map on your bedroom ceiling -> Show me that this world is bigger than us

No, I didn't see the news -> What if I can't have us / I might just not get up / I might stay down bad

Peter

I think this song is queer because… ‘Forgive me, Peter, my lost fearless leader / In closets like cedar, preserved from when we were just kids / Is it something I did?’ For my money those are the loudest queerest saddest most tragic beautiful lyrics in Taylor’s ENTIRE discography!!!

But then it’s ALSO in the same song as ‘As the men masqueraded, I hoped you'd return’ and ‘I've heard great things, Peter, but life was always easier on you / Than it was on me / And sometimes it gets me, when crossing your jet stream / We both did the best we could do underneath the same moon / In different galaxies’ AND ‘You said you were gonna grow up, then you were gonna come find me’ like!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’ve also made many many web weaves about this song that I think make my position pretty clear.

I also want to shout out this web weave that I love and Charlotte’s post that I also love

Snow On The Beach ft More Lana

I think this song is queer because… it’s quite literally a in canon love duet between two women that features references to the You Are In Love, Down Bad, and Janet Jackson, a prominent queer ally and gay icon. The lyrics revolves around the the narrator’s disbelief that this love is a ‘real thing’ and sounds like falling in love while in danger but also like being so in love you don’t care what comes next.

Truly so surprised it didn’t make it further in the Midnights tournament! To me it feels like one of the most obviously queer songs in her whole discography but I do think it was at a disadvantaged because most people know the original album version better and that is much much less queer to me.

It really does show to me how much different production can make to how a song is perceived! And it is interesting that this is the version hidden away one of the many re-releases.

Stay Stay Stay

I think this song is queer because… it’s about compulsive heterosexuality!

Taylor has talked about writing this as a daydream about a future relationship that is better than her past loves. The secret message for the song is ‘Daydreaming about real love’.

But the relationship the song describes sounds like a nightmare (dressed as a daydream?).

‘I'm pretty sure we almost broke up last night / I threw my phone across the room at you’ ‘You think that it's funny when I'm mad, mad, mad’ ‘I love you, because you have given me no choice but to / Stay, stay, stay’

Behind the cutesy country pop of this song is a controlling violent volatile relationship! So her choice to present the song as a daydream about her future is so fascinating to me. Regardless of her own interpretation of the song to me this is a song about having a nightmare about what staying within the confines of compulsive heterosexuality will bring.

Tied Together With A Smile

I think this song is queer because…

So I’ve already written here about my theory about gold representing self acceptance of queerness, which I’m linking to because my interpretation of TTWS is linked to it.

I didn’t include TTWS in that post because I was focusing on Taylor’s more recent discography but I do think that it fits into the overarching metaphor.

‘Hold on, baby, you're losing it / The water's high, you're jumping into it / And letting go, and no one knows / That you cry, but you don't tell anyone / That you might not be the golden one / And you're tied together with a smile / But you're coming undone’

So to me this is describing a narrator who thinks being ‘golden’ means being heterosexual. That the only way she can accept herself/that she will be accepted is by being straight. And she’s so terrified that she’s not straight, that she isn’t the golden one, that she cannot fulfil the expectations being placed on her. She is barely holding it all together with a smile.

This link was my reason for choosing this song for the bonus round, however when I revisited the lyrics for this write up there were some other lyrics that really stood out to me.

‘I guess it's true that love was all you wanted / 'Cause you're givin' it away like it's extra change / Hoping it will end up in his pocket / But he leaves you out like a penny in the rain / Oh, 'cause it's not his price to pay’

To me ‘cause it’s not his price to pay’ is signifying that the narrator cannot be loved romantically by this boy because she is not a straight woman.

The Man

I think this song is queer because… it’s actually so queer / so gender that there have been multiple web weaves made about it including one by me and by Kathryn!!!

And I mean we obviously have to talk about the music video in which Taylor creates a literal drag performance of The Man.

Which she then recreates with her dancers in The Eras performance.

And also the lyrics literally say if she was a man Taylor could brag about all the ‘bitches and models’ she’s fucked like!!!!!!!!! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME OVER WHATEVER THE QUEER FUCK IS GOING ON THIS SONG??

The Manuscript

I think this song is queer because… of three sets of tags left on the poll that The Manuscript lost that immediately won the song a place in this Bonus Round.

The Other Side of the Door

I think this song is queer because… the door is the closet door!

The door as an object is a motif that shows up again and again in Taylor’s work. It’s a way she is locked out, trapped in, separated from her lover. And if we are reading that motif through a queer lens I would argue almost every door motif in Taylor’s discography is alluding to the closet, and it all starts in my mind with this song!

‘Wait there in the pouring rain, come back for more / And don't you leave 'cause I know / All I need is on the other side of the door’

Her lover is out in the open, in the pouring rain, waiting for her to come out. And she knows they are there, and she wants them to wait! But she’s not ready to open the door.

This idea was also fuelled by the door imagery in Taylor’s later work including the I Know Places 1989 tour performance.

Like look at it!!! It’s such strong visual storytelling. And while I was finding these images another image caught my eye:

This is the imagery from the Fearless platinum edition!!!! It ties back to all the other songs about doors! It’s the original door!!!!!!!!

The Lucky One

I think this song is queer because… well I’ve always loved the interpretation of the line ‘your lover in the foyer doesn’t even know you’ as a reference to bearding which is why I initially included this song in the Bonus Round HOWEVER when I had a look at the lyrics a new queer interpretation jumped out at me that I really really love. Imagine the song as a narrative about a trans singer!

‘New to town with a made-up name / In the angel's city, chasing fortune and fame / And the camera flashes make it look like a dream / You had it figured out since you were in school / Everybody loves pretty, everybody loves cool / So overnight, you look like a '60s queen’

Does anyone else see my vision??? Regardless I think there is something queer about the reinvention and the relationship between the narrator and the muse.

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

I think this song is queer because… for lots of reasons (Betty connections / doppelgängerism / genderism) but the reason that has stuck in my head since a little while after TTPD came out was sent on anon to someone I follow and I DIDN’T SAVE IT so I’m gonna do my best to pass on that anon’s queer wisdom.

The anon basically connected The Smallest Man’s Eraser tour costume

With the costumes in the ME! music video

With the lyrics ‘And I don't even want you back, I just want to know / If rusting my sparkling summer was the goal’. And ever since I read that anon message my little rpf brain has been whizzing and buzzing thinking about it.

And that’s the end of maybe the longest post I’ve ever written!

If you read to this point I love you and here is a gold star ⭐️

#tsqst

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zabchan · 3 days ago

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Today, in the spirit of family, I wanna talk about Puanani Cravahlo & her character in Moana & Moana 2. <3

credited only as "villager #2", we know from interviews that she is the mother of Auli'i Cravahlo (the voice actress for moana). Her character is the briefly seen villager woman who comes up to moana and reports about the coconut blight, then tells tui and sina "She's doing great!"

but thats not the only time we see that character, whom I'll now be referring to as puanani, and calling the human Mrs. Cravahlo. (fun fact, puanani means 'beautiful flower' in hawaiian)

it seems puanani has been in moana's life since moana was very young, and seems to show up most around the coconut harvesters.

She's one of the women who help make moana's Tuiga, a special headdress reserved for the chief's heir to wear on formal occasions. in samoa, the headdress is made with feathers, shells, and dyed human hair- hair from the wearer's ancestors, bleached in seawater, added for spiritual and symbolic protection. traditionally, its thought a person's mana can be stored in their hair, (it being so close to the head, a mana source,) so only people close to the person or of high mana themselves would be the one's handling the sared material. disney's artbook says moana's tuiga is made from dyed grasses, but i don't think its too far off base to assume that the people most likely to be the ones making the headdress for their next chief are either people closely related to the chief or belonging to the Aliki (ali'i in hawaiian) aka the polynesian high class.

puanani also has a front row seat at tui's council meetings, a spot traditionally reserved for the leaders of the community. in samoa these are known as the Matai, the chiefs, and you can become one either by inheriting the title or by being nominated thru merit. a family group would have a Matai as their head, but so would many of the village industries, like the Chief farmer or the Chief fisherman. so its possible she's up there as the Chief Coconut Grower, but just as likely due to being of the right bloodline.

her final appearance in the first Moana is on moana's flagship canoe in the reprise scene of We Know the Way, and looking once again at real life history, we know that polynesian wayfarers tended to travel in family groups, the larger main family canoes supported by smaller scout crafts. The fact she's hanging out on moana, tui, and sina's boat, along with several others who show up slinging coconuts in Where You Are, cements her likely position as a close family relative.

and she shows up in moana 2! most distinctly in leading the island in song as they see moana and crew off on their journey. This time its Te vaka's Vocalists supplying her singing voice, not Mrs. Cravahlo, but the character is unmistakably the same. same face, same accessories, same dress pattern, same body shape. the only difference is the darkening of her dress color, but this also could be a trick of the lighting.

while Disney is guilty of reusing a lot of faces, dresses and accessories in it's background characters, we dont see that many women in the films wearing that plain leaf crown in their hair, and fewer with the right combination of stout, round face and flower dress with loose hair. so despite not getting a good view of her front, i do think she's also the character who hands moana a flower crown at her welcome home feast, which fits with her previous experience at helping make moana's tuiga.

so, taking all these clues, here's my take on Puanani the character:

I think it likely that she is moana's aunt, one of sina's sisters. why sina and not tui? because while she is present at tui's council meetings, she doesnt appear at tala's bedside. there are a few non-named characters hanging about the fale, and one of them does look like the other unnamed woman who helped with moana's tuiga, but not puanani. and even the other tuiga maker is off hiding in the shadows, awkwardly pacing and not coming close, unlike unnamed bun woman and the tween armband boy in the corner. its possible puanani hasnt arrived yet, but i feel that if she was meant to deliberately be tui's sister-coded she would have been there at their mother's passing.

at council we see puanani next to this strapping man, who sports tattoos and fine patterned layers of skirt, indicating he too is someone of status. Possibly her husband? They're sitting pretty close to one another in a pretty open area...

in this shot we see her without the red & white shell armbands she sports when talking to moana, but right there in frame is possibly where theyve gone to- a younger man without tattoos. Her grown son perhaps? and then is the young woman on her right a daughter? or a daughter in law?

we see the pair again, dancing through the groves (left,center) with moana and puanani (on the right).

So I think it's not unreasonable to headcanon that puanani is sina's sister, married with a grown son and daughter-in-law. lets throw in that jumping kid seen frequently running around her feet as a potential grandson. One of her jobs is to help with the coconut harvest and husk them, reporting to the chief on any problems with their vital crop. she also seems pretty skilled with her hands, enjoying wearing and making crowns, jewelry. she's generous with her gifts, adorning her family members in her handiwork. she compliments moana on a great job, albeit indirectly, and by implication sina and tui on their parenting. She leads singing and sits up front in council meetings. she's strong enough to sling around huge baskets of coconuts, but needs help with the larger hauls.

"oh no he's hot" -puanani and her friend, probably.

anyway, i just think it's neat that there's a disney animator out there who cared enough to include puanani and be pretty consistent with how and where she shows up and with who. it makes motonui feel more like a real place, to see characters repeated deliberately and with some forethought into what they're doing and who they're with.

ps. happy belated mother's day to the real Puanani Cravahlo, who gave us the treasure that is Auli'i <3

#moana #falefamilyfest #puanani #puanani cravahlo #auli'i cravalho #background characters #motonui #the people of motonui #samoa

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staticwaffles · 3 days ago

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My thoughts on the second season. Not looking to start a conversation here. I just want to get my thoughts and feelings down.

Overall:

The show looked amazing. Somehow better than the first season.

The production and design teams deserve all the awards.

I loved the cinematography.

I definitely felt Britell's absence but I thought Roberts did a decent job with the soundtrack.

The cast give some of their best performances ever this season.

The highs of the season were very high (Ghorman arc, Mon's speech), but the lows were very low for me (writing choices for some of the characters and the time jumps).

The three episodes a week thing was brutal and I really wish we had one episode a week instead. I wanted to sit with an episode for a week to dig into it and discuss it with my friends. It also sucked having this season end so fast after waiting over two years for it.

The first season will always hold a special place in my heart, and I wish deep down we were given five seasons in that style, or at least three seasons. I felt the second season, particularly from a character standpoint, really suffered from the time jumps.

If the first season is a 10/10 for me, then the second season is an 8/10, and it is very much carried by the Ghorman arc. For me, personally, the show succeeded in the story it wanted to tell, but didn't quite hit the mark as a Rogue One prequel.

Below are thoughts I wrote down after watching each arc, and then again after the finale. Warning: I yap a lot and don't make much sense.

Arc 1:

I have a weird relationship with this arc. It was very enjoyable, but the first two episodes felt like a bit of a departure from the usual tone of the series? And in retrospect, this arc felt really weird in the grand scheme of the season (and even the show). Not sure how to word how I'm feeling here.

I loved the opening sequence. Cassian's speech to Niya. Learning on the job when flying the TIE. It looked incredible and was a great way to open the season.

The acting of the two "leaders" of the Dipshit Brigade was not on the level of this show. Apologies, but their performances do kind of take me out of it.

Ben is great as Krennic (as expected). I like how they are setting up Ghorman here.

Bix being an older sister to Wilmon is very special to me and I love that dynamic.

"I'VE BEEN UPSIDE FOR TWO DAYS!" I am so sorry Cassian, but I laughed so hard at this part. I loved it.

Oh my gosh the dinner scene. Syril laying on the bed. Incredible stuff.

Bix has been through a lot, so I'm not sure how I feel about that scene happening to her character. However, I give kudos to the show for calling it what it is.

I liked seeing the wedding but I felt that too much time was spent here? Also RIP Tay.

Pretty sure they just wrote off B2 here. At least he's alive?

Brasso :(

Footnote since I've watched the finale. Did they really not once mention B2 or Brasso at all after this arc??? I was a little shocked Cassian didn't toast to him with Vel. These were both beloved characters and then they were just...gone. I know B2 made a brief appearance at the end, but come on.

Arc 2:

This arc was much more Andor-like than the first. But all three episodes being released was brutal on my first watch. There was SO much information to process.

I can't stress this enough. Ghorman looks AMAZING. Practical sets my beloved.

This arc solidified my love for Kleya. She is up there on my list of favourite characters. And Elizabeth is knocking it out of the park with her acting. This was further cemented for me in the finale.

I'm really enjoying what they are doing with Syril. As well as Dedra.

Cassian going undercover as Varian Skye and code switching was everything to me. I need more of this.

Mon and Krennic going at each other in a verbal fist fight oh hell yeah.

Bix and Cassian. Where to begin. They're cute, and Diego and Adria have great chemistry, but I am not liking the direction they are taking with Bix and how they are writing her. The revenge scene was cool I guess? But it happened very suddenly. I needed more build up to it.

Not going to lie, I was expecting Cassian to be more committed to the cause at this point given what happened on Ferrix, his reaction to Nemik's manifesto, Narkina, and the whole "kill me or take me in" thing. I also felt he was rather largely absent from this arc?

Cinta's death. Oh boy. Just why? It was way too soon after they just reconciled. Vel and Cinta have hardly had much screen time at this point. I think it was at this moment I realized how much the time jumps were hurting this season as a lot of character development takes place off screen.

Arc 3:

Easily the best arc of the entire season. Episode 8 and 9 deserve the high praise and ratings.

They really like making Cassian shirtless in episode 7, huh? I'm not complaining.

More Bix and Wil sibling dynamic ahhh my heart.

Yavin looks great! I just wish we got to see more of them setting up the base and recruiting people. Again, the time jumps are taking these things away from us.

I actually quite liked the part with the Force Healer. Cassian being the "messenger" and "there's some place he needs to be" bit. They also played a stripped/slowed down version of the music that plays when he dies 1) during that part, 2) when Bix tells him later what the Force Healer said and they hug, 3) when Bix tells Vel "he'll be there when you need him", and 4) when Cassian is telling Bix he's done and that "there are still places to go to", and yeah that broke my heart :(

Episode 8. What can I say. An absolute masterpiece. I don't think I'll ever stop hearing the Ghor singing their national anthem and Dreena's broadcast.

Syril and Cassian's fight was incredibly well done and well worth the two season long build up. Also Cassian going "who are you?" had me screaming.

I also thought Syril was very well written over both seasons. I understood his motivations and his reactions. I thought his ending was well done. Huge props to Kyle for absolutely killing it as Syril.

And then Mon Mothma. Oh my gosh. What an amazing character. She has been one of my favourites since the first season. And I really like how this show has given so much more depth to her character. Genevieve O'Reilly deserves all the awards for her performance.

Speaking of Mon, her speech was incredible, and I loved the use of Eulogy here. There's a small part of me that wished she got her own epic monologue soundtrack, though.

Mon and Cassian on my screen together. I really needed this. I also like how Cassian extracting Mon showcases why he is the guy for the job.

I quite like where they're taking Cassian here. Like I said, he's the guy for the job, but he doesn't want to be the guy. I didn't quite fully understand this until his discussion with Kleya and then later with Luthen where he says, "I make my own decisions" and Luthen responds with, "Is that what you've been doing?" Cassian is someone who wants to make his own choices, but hardly gets to. Ever since Maarva took him from Kenari, it's mostly been others making these major life choices for him. I see the impact of this when he lets Wil go find Dreena. Even though it kills Cassian on the inside, he won't take that choice away from Wil. Then in Rogue One, Cassian finally makes his own choices. Idk this take on Cassian makes him more complex and human to me, and I really like it. It also strengthens the parallels between him and Jyn.

My two complaints with the above point is that 1) this should have happened sooner in the season, and 2) his relationship with Bix is just not done well enough for me to feel that it's the major thing holding him back from being fully committed.

Speaking of Bix, she is pushed to the side this arc. She's an amazing mechanic, so why couldn't there have been scenes of her teaching new recruits? Or doing a weapons assessment? Or just doing something that contributes to the base? Her speech at the end, whilst sad and well acted, didn't really stick the landing with me. I like her character and just feel she deserved better :( also Adria does a great job playing Bix and I wanted to see more.

Same with Vel. I needed to see more of her here. Maybe a discussion with Bix about Cinta, Brasso, and all the others they've lost (edit: this took place in the last arc, but with Cassian instead of Bix. I'm glad it happened but I'm still salty at no Brasso mention).

At least K2 is here. I don't mind the way they've introduced him into the series, I'm just sad we only get one arc with him and Cassian together. He really needed to be introduced sooner for me.

Despite my grievances, this arc was phenomenal.

Arc 4:

Episode 10 was amazing. Luthen, and especially Kleya, were some of the biggest highlights of this show for me. It was a risk putting an episode like this in the final arc, but I think it ultimately paid off.

The rest of this arc was enjoyable, but it felt like a "oh shit we need to tie into Rogue One" arc. It was a bit jarring getting into this after Ghorman and Mon's speech in the previous week.

Having Melshi, K2, and Cass together on my screen is something I'm so grateful for (be still my secret little Melshian heart). I loved all their scenes together. Also, more Melshi is always a good thing!

Speaking of K2, I do wish we had more of him. I understand the decision to not bring him in earlier, but I still feel disappointed.

Cassian throwing himself over Kleya to protect her? Obsessed.

Goodbye Bryar pistol :( it doesn't look like he had it with him after extracting Kleya.

Loved Vel and Cass toasting to some of those who have fallen (still upset at no Brasso mention, though). And I loved seeing more Vel on my screen, especially with Mon and Kleya.

Holy shit that ending for Dedra. That interrogation scene with Krennic was terrifying as well.

Nemik's manifesto again!!!!!! And WOW that ending for Partagaz.

I was a little shocked at there being no Jyn mention? Or at least something alluding to her existence? I'm glad they mentioned Galen at least.

Not sure how I feel yet on Cassian's characterization in the show. I enjoyed a lot of what they brought to the character, but I felt like he didn't get as much development as he did in the first season? I guess I'm a little disappointed, but overall satisfied. Ultimately, I was hoping for better in the final season.

Loved the little montage at the end though of Cassian walking through Yavin to depart for Kafrene. I sobbed. He also watered his plants beforehand. And yes I cried at that.

Not particularly happy with the baby scene. I feel like Bix, in general, deserved more screen time (independent of Cassian) and better writing if this is where they were taking her. However, I'm just not a big fan of this trope in general...

I'm happy Wilmon is alive and with Dreena.

B2 my beloved!!!!

I am definitely due for a Rogue One rewatch soon.

#andor critical #andor spoilers #personal #i miss this show already #i wanted more #i also miss cassian dearly #i think i need to rewatch season one and season two together to really wrap my head around my thoughts and feelings #i had a very hard time divorcing my feelings from the writing choices for some of the characters #that i ended up feeling disappointed despite actually enjoying most of what i was watching #it was a strange feeling #idk i just feel empty and sad that it's over so soon #anyways #oh also RE: three episodes a week thing was a nightmare as a gif maker

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delirious-donna · 3 days ago

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A Dagger in the Dark [Part Ten]

“I have made my feelings clear on the matter. There will be respect or there will be no alliance at all and believe me, mister president, you do not want us as anything other than allies.”

story summary: Levi isn’t hungry, or so that’s what he claims. A vampire must drink to survive, and his sire refuses to let the man give up without trying every trick up his sleeve. When a new ‘donor’ appears, one who is different from all the rest, will Levi be able to keep resisting?

pairing: Levi Ackerman (vampire) x female reader (human)

warnings: slight NSFW, blood and gore, explanation of the threat towards Erwin and his syndicate (Erwin's POV in the first half), political maneuvering, plot building, brief cameo of Annie, vampire lore, mentions of Levi's mother, reader touching herself because... she's impatient, Levi walking in (next chapter we have heavy smut)

Part Nine | Masterlist | Read on AO3 | Part Eleven

Twenty Years Ago

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, the air heavy and weighted with a mixture of emotions—uncertainty, incredulity, rage, contempt.

Erwin sat straight-backed at the imposingly large table. Opposite sat a delegation of the leaders of the world, or those deemed the most powerful countries therefore worthy to be in attendance on this occasion. On his left sat his friend, Nile Dok and on his right, a woman he had heard of but never met. He might have said that he hadn’t yet had the pleasure, but there was an aura of superiority surrounding her that he disliked immediately.

Her light blonde hair was cut into a severe bob that curled towards a sharp chin. Blue eyes, the colour of cloudless summer skies couldn’t conceal the cunning lurking behind them. Given her colouring and the slight Roman nose, she could pass for a relative of Erwin, but he knew without doubt that she would curl her lip in disgust should anyone suggest such a connection.

He was a no one compared to her glorious bloodline.

There might be no true royal family in the vampire world, but there were those who considered themselves founding vampires. She was one such vampire.

There was no way to accurately guess her age, which was rare for Erwin, and only further cemented the extent of her existence. Those calculating eyes swept over the humans seated opposite and there was no trace of hesitation or trepidation to be faced with the assembled world leaders. To her, they were beneath them—or more specifically, beneath her.

Erwin still wondered how he had managed to find himself here. This was not his idea, and honestly, he remained unconvinced on if the idea was a good one, but the metaphorical hand was being forced by those he could not control.

“We’re thinking of calling it ‘The Awakening’,” a preppy young man finally announced to the hushed room. All eyes fell on him, and he gulped, nervous. He should be, thought Erwin.

Nile sat forward, forearms resting along the table and his hands spread in a gesture of camaraderie and trust. Erwin didn’t buy it. Would anyone? “Does it have to have a title?” he asked.

A middle-aged woman in a too-tight pencil skirt suit cleared her throat. She rose to her feet and every eye moved from the young man now hiding in her shadow to this woman who looked like an overstuffed sausage. The frills at her collar did nothing but bring attention to the large chest she was trying, and failing, to conceal behind stiff blouse buttons. Erwin thought her hair to be a shade or two too light for her complexion, the wispy platinum strands framing a round face with full cheeks.

“I—we,” she clarified, “feel that to announce to the world that vampires exist and not have a name for the momentous occasion would be a wasted marketing opportunity. Imagine if Coca-Cola launched a new product and didn’t give the campaign a name? That would be madness.”

Erwin blinked and blew out a breath. He couldn’t be hearing her correctly, this was not a marketing campaign, and it shouldn’t be trusted as such.

“We are talking about the subject of myth and legend, of horror movies and classic literature, not a new fizzy beverage, Miss…?”

“Carmichael. Angela Carmichael, White House PR Manager.”

“Miss Carmichael,” Erwin said with a smile, watching as her skin warmed in response. He could hear and smell her pulse quicken with both fear and lust. “You can appreciate that we would not wish for this to be seen as some kind of spectacle. We might not be alive in the Oxford Dictionary’s definition of the word, but we exist alongside humans and our opinions count for something, no?”

She stammered, fingers twisting to show unpolished nails. Somehow that didn’t quite fit with the image she was trying to portray. “Well, yes, of course. However, our studies show that the public—I mean, the American public—tend to accept things more readily when it is packaged as a campaign.”

There was a collective sigh from his side of the table.

Erwin glanced at Nile, who shrugged as if he was already willing to concede and then looked to his right. Annie Leonhart had yet to utter a single word. Her expression remained cold and unimpressed; of the three sat here representing the vampires, she was the least keen to make our existence public knowledge.

Nile was pro stepping out of the metaphorical and literal shadows, Annie was against it and Erwin was considered the middle ground. He disliked the idea based on principle, but he could see the value of no longer having to deal in secrecy. However, it was important that vampires were not placed into a position of inferiority to humans, hence why there needed to be tight control over how this was to be dealt with.

“This is not a circus. We are not an attraction to be ogled at by people lacking in intellectual capacity,” Annie hissed, low and full of disdain. Her lip curled and poor Miss Carmichael blanched under the weight of her frigid stare.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Leonhart,” the President of the United States of America said with a wave of his hand. His Southern drawl was thick as molasses, and it emphasised the boater’s tan and sparkle of artificially whitened teeth.

“Ms,” Annie corrected.

“Apologies, Ms Leonhart. You say that this is not a spectacle but isn’t that exactly what it’s going to be? If you believe the media aren’t going to have an absolute field day with this then I think you are more out of touch with current affairs than you let on. Hell, I can see the headlines now… ‘Dracula rises from his coffin’, ‘Bloodsuckers walk amongst us’ and the like.”

Annie rose to her feet and the temperature dropped several degrees. Erwin felt the brush of her power like a hand passing through his hair, ruffling it and not pleasantly. Her hawklike eyes fixed the President with quiet contempt, and every armed person in the room inched their hands closer to the weapons concealed about their bodies.

Instead of looking intimidated or even marginally frightened, the President grinned. It made him look several years younger, boyish almost, but just as dumb. He couldn’t understand the precarious position he was in. Erwin imagined that he must feel safe with his security protocols, the men and women in his service that would be willing to jump in front of a bullet if push came to shove. He didn’t understand that of the three vampires here, Annie was the deadliest.

He would be dead before his Secret Service men could even blink.

Nile did his best to salvage the negotiations before they went up entirely in flames. He rose slowly, cautiously, and stepped close to Annie to whisper into her ear. Of course, Erwin heard it all, but the ones who were not meant to remained blessedly in the dark.

“Please don’t do anything rash. Think of the years it has taken to reach even this point. He will never understand us, and you know that,” Nile begged.

Erwin cringed at the grovelling of a man who should have been above such tactics. He was not as personally involved in all the efforts to get to this stage, hence why he had not yet met the lovely Ms Leonhart. He was considered more as a consultant and mediator between those for the transition and those opposed. From this small interaction, Erwin knew that Nile had cowed to Annie and those on her side during this process.

However, Nile was looking a little too familiar with the human delegates, and this was not Erwin’s first time thinking this of his friend of nearly two centuries. His narrow eyes swung to those chosen as the representatives of humanity and he practically simpered, the thin moustache and goatee twitching with the rise and fall of his lips.

He was playing both sides and not especially well… curious.

“Please,” he repeated.

After nearly a full nervous minute, Annie sat.

She glanced at the PR manager and the man cowering a step behind, then shifted her gaze to the President and worked along the line of dignitaries. All the major powers were represented, some with interpreters, but all with security. They were the most redundant people in attendance, but whatever made them feel safe, as delusional as that safety might be.

“I have made my feelings clear on the matter. There will be respect or there will be no alliance at all and believe me, mister president, you do not want us as anything other than allies,” she said with such force that assured there was no room for argument or doubt.

Every collective breath let out at once, and the air warmed the slightest amount. The talks were back on track, shaky tracks but at least things hadn’t completely derailed, and that was the main thing.

Erwin remained wholly unconvinced by the whole debacle.

Last Month

“Registration?” Erwin asked.

“Of course. Mandatory registration is necessary. How would we know the true population of those who are vampires without it?” Nile replied as if the question was nonsensical.

Erwin rubbed at his temples before reaching for the crystal tumble filled with dark amber liquid. He swirled the contents until the few droplets of blood spun like a miniature cyclone within the peaty whisky.

“It would be a target on their heads. You and I both know that not everyone wants their status to be exposed, and especially those newly turned, those who can still pass without raising suspicion, they wouldn’t want this. It’s been nearly twenty years since The Awakening, and now this demand is being made. It’s not going to go down well.”

Nile stroked long fingers through his goatee, finger and thumb smoothing the width of his thin moustache, pondering. “So?”

With that one word, Erwin understood.

He looked to the man he had called friend for as long as he could remember. He took in the vampire who had stood by his side in those early years when his power and control were tested by others trying to claim for themselves everything that he had worked hard for. This was not the same man.

“For what reason, other than knowing the true populace of vampires, do we need registration and what information would you be asking for?”

Nile perked up, appearing every part the eager schoolboy who raised his hand in class to gain the favour of the teachers, except in this case, he wanted that praise from the humans.

“Well…” he started, holding up his hand to tick of the fingers as he spoke. “Name and current address. Date of birth and rebirth. Identification markers such as social security details or national insurance number etcetera etcetera depending on the country of origin. Oh, and name of sire.”

Erwin whistled through his teeth. “So, just everything then. You want to tie us up in so much red tape that we’ll never be free again. Don’t tell me you’ll expect us to backpay our taxes too?”

When Nile didn’t answer, Erwin knew that was exactly it. Money. Power. Greed. Control. Humans wanted all of that so they could feel safe, and it was laced with a greed only the truly wealthy could ever understand. He was sickened by the thought.

“Do they rub your belly when you do as you’re told?” Erwin asked, sardonic and barely managing to keep the sneer from his face.

Nile huffed and puffed, inflating like a beach ball.

He stood abruptly, pacing the antique rug in quick strides. If he thought Erwin would be intimidated by the action, he was very wrong. The colour of his cheeks mottled to angry red, an impressive achievement for a vampire. Clearly, he had fed well this evening. One of Erwin’s thick black eyebrows rose in silent admonishment.

“I am not a lap dog, Erwin. I never have been, and I never will.”

“You could have fooled me, especially with the way you’ve been behaving in these past few years. The humans have you in their pocket and I can only wonder what it is that they have offered you… whatever it is must be worth double-crossing your own kind. Is the lovely Ms Leonheart aware that you have switched allegiances?”

Erwin watched the mottled red fade from Nile’s cheeks, replaced by a pasty white. He looked sick to his stomach, and Erwin grinned wryly.

“Your expression tells me everything I need to know,” he said. “You are playing the two sides off against each other, and at the end of the day you’re choosing to lay all your eggs in the basket of the human government. Foolish. I’ve never known you to be so misguided in your logic, Nile.”

“If you do not fall into line with their demands then you will find yourself on the wrong side, Erwin. That is all the warning I’ll give,” Nile snarled. He stalked for the door, grasping the brass handle with enough force that a groan of metal filled the silence.

With a final glance in Erwin’s direction, Nile’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “I’ve become aware that your favourite attack dog has left your service. Rumour has it he has grown weary of his existence… there is a hole in your armour, Erwin, and if I were you, I’d toe the line or face the consequences.”

Erwin blinked before offering a withering smile, but once Nile had gone, his expression soured and the unmistakable sound of glass fracturing beneath extreme pressure was followed by a shower of tiny shards as the tumbler in his grip exploded.

One Week Later

“We found him on the grounds. He claims to be lost despite looking rather cozy in the gardener’s shed.”

Erwin pinched the bridge of his nose and looked away from the bloodied human man at his feet. Miche and two of his men stood by the door; one had a cut above his eye that dripped blood all down him in only the way a facial wound could, and the other had a torn sleeve where the shoulder seam of his jacket had been ripped free. The man had put up one hell of a fight. Miche was, of course, spotless.

“He had these on him,” Miche added, moving to Erwin and tipping small electronic devices that looked like haberdashery buttons into his outstretched palm. “We aren’t sure if he managed to plant any before he was found…”

The man whimpered as if he had been kicked. His hands went to either side of his head, turning his sandy hair dirty red from the blood smears. He was mumbling something over and over, and Erwin had the distinct impression that he was being mentally tortured for his failures, and not by anyone present in the room.

Erwin crouched by the man’s side and gave a small shove to roll him onto his back. Blue, bloodshot eyes stared up, bouncing from side to side but entirely unseeing. Not that he was visually impaired and more that his attention was wholly elsewhere. His face was stricken with a grief that was unmeasurable. Blood crusted around his nostrils, and his bottom lip was split and swollen, his teeth turned ruddy from the blood in his mouth. He raised his hands to his face and started to dig nails into his cheeks in anguish.

“Can you hear me?” Erwin asked calmly.

There was no response, only the continued muttering.

Erwin had no desire to touch the man, but he had been unable to enter his mind without the physical contact so it would be necessary. He glanced up at Miche and without a word, he and his two men left the room. With a grimace he touched a fingertip to the man’s temple and withdrew it immediately.

A sharp pain raced up his arm from the tiny moment of contact. It felt like sticking your finger into a live socket, and his heart hammered with the fresh blood he had taken earlier, forcing the organ to pump faster and faster with every second that passed. There was no muttering anymore, Erwin watched as the man fell silent and made eye contact with him. He saw only a void in those too blue irises.

The man offered a watery smile then immediately plunged both his thumbs into those eerie blue eyes. Blood and thicker, wetter fluids oozed past the plug of his thumbs; it dribbled down his cheeks whilst not a word fell from his throat. He panted like an overheating dog, his arms tense and shaking with the pressure he continued to exert into the sockets and then finally, he fell limp, dead.

Present Day

“That was only the first instance,” Erwin said with a sigh. “Next came the twins who claimed they wanted to be converted.” He used air quotes around the word, and Levi raised an eyebrow.

“Converted as in turned?”

Erwin nodded. “It’s how I took it to mean, certainly.”

Levi picked at imaginary lint on his trouser leg and wished to be anywhere other than back in this damn office. If he focused, he could smell your arousal still damp in the air. It combined almost magically with the scent of your precious blood to create a cocktail that would be his undoing.

In truth, he didn’t wish to be anywhere else, he wished to be with you. In bed. Naked. Fucking you senseless. The promise of later remained firmly on his mind.

“The latest strategy has been to send a selection of eye candy my way in an attempt to infiltrate the syndicate. The first few were unsuccessful in gaining my interest, clearly Nile is not aware of what my tastes are,” Erwin scoffed, interrupting the lewd train of Levi’s thoughts. “Then I started to grow wise to the game and invited it to continue simply to see how things played out.”

“How did that go?”

Erwin shuffled, uncomfortable by what had transpired, and it made Levi all the more curious given his sire’s history of showing little mercy when it came to the lives of those not within in his immediate circle. Was Erwin growing a conscious?

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” Levi asked point blank.

“She is dead, yes.”

Levi wanted nothing more than to rub at his aching temples. Right now, he didn’t know where his head was at. Too much had happened in such a short span of time that he felt adrift in turbulent waters. He wanted the conversation to end. What he needed was a good day’s sleep and time to process everything.

“And you’re sure this is Nile’s doing?” Levi asked, suddenly world weary. “What is he trying to gain from ‘removing’ you?”

He watched as the older man let out a bark of laughter and slapped a palm across his thigh as if Levi had asked something very funny. Levi didn’t find it funny in the slightest. This was not the first threat Erwin had faced, not by a long shot, but Nile had connections that not even Erwin’s most trusted spies were fully aware of.

Nile Dok was not necessarily the most ambitious man, but he was far shrewder than Erwin ever gave him credit for. Levi disliked him, he always had, and this news only served to further prove his centuries long distrust of the snake of a man was not without merit.

“I am not falling in line like he wanted, so he is doing what he can to persuade me to do so or else, he will have me killed. Nile is terrified that I will spill his ambitious plot to Annie Leonhart and the other members of the Sânge Adevărat.”

“And why haven’t you?”

It seemed like an obvious solution, but the look Erwin gave him said that it was far from it. Levi crossed his arms over his chest and sat back in his chair, waiting. He would not pander to his sire by asking more, Erwin would answer his initial question, or they were going to sit here in silence until pertinent information was volunteered.

“Because, Levi, they might turn out to be a far bigger adversary than Nile.”

It had only been a few hours since Levi left to meet with Erwin. You missed him. The realisation had you hugging your arms around your shoulders to keep the chill at bay, and you were thankful to be properly dressed, having been reunited with your clothes.

Levi owned an entire wing of Erwin’s estate. It was a part of the massive manor that you hadn’t been shown when you first arrived, and now you knew why. There were two bedrooms; one was much grander than the other with a large fourposter bed spread with a thick comforter and stacks of overstuffed pillows whilst the other was a barely furnished room with only an unmade bed and small, seemingly empty dresser. A snug little living area stretched into an open plan kitchen, and it made you wonder how much need a vampire had for a kitchen.

You knew that vampires, especially older ones, could tolerate food and beverages in small amounts and it only made sense that Levi would be one of them. Would he like pizza? How about chocolate? Would he be a red or white wine drinker? They were silly thoughts, but it was enough to lighten your mood as you explored the new space.

Much like the room you had woken up in, there wasn’t a lot of decoration to the spaces you wandered through. Everything was minimal and bare until you turned into a small hallway that served as the adjoining part between Levi’s living quarters and the rest of the house. On the wall there hung a painting of a woman.

It stopped you in your tracks momentarily, puzzled by its existence. As you got closer, it became apparent it was an oil painting, and it had to be at least a century or two old. The ornate gold frame swirled into a pattern of thorn tipped vines with rose blooms in each corner. It was beautiful, but somehow… sad.

A woman stared back at you; a very young-looking woman with long black hair and eyes that suspiciously matched those of Levi’s. It was a marvel how the artist had managed to capture the ethereal mercurial swirl of her blue grey eyes, and for a moment you simply stared into them. She was thin, almost to the point of unhealthy, and the sadness in her eyes pulled you closer. Her smile was wistful, a mere upturning of lips that highlighted the fragility of her facial features.

There was no doubt she was beautiful.

Who was she to Levi? A sister, mother? Surely not, she seemed too young, but then again you couldn’t be sure. Whoever she was, she was important enough to him that her portrait was his only decoration. A mad urge to touch her cheek had your hand outstretched before you could think better of it, and you only managed to catch the action at the last second. You dropped your hand like you had touched something hot, fingers rubbing together.

You kept glancing back at the portrait as you returned to the living space, feeling as if she watched your every move with a melancholy you couldn’t understand. She fascinated you, though there was a hesitancy to ask Levi about her, at least, not yet.

Another hour passed in a haze of boredom.

It was becoming increasingly impossible to prevent your mind from wandering back to the interaction in Levi’s study. If you closed your eyes, you could almost still feel his knee between your legs, the firm pressure rubbing exactly where you needed it to. His scent lingered here, dulled by his recent absence but still you could detect it—leather and cedarwood chased by the aroma of expensive tea leaves.

The shorts you pulled on felt uncomfortable on your skin, as if you should be lounging in satins and silks rather than the roomy linen shorts you were used to. A loose camisole top showed a generous portion of cleavage, your nipples tightening behind the fabric and your exposed skin warmed like you were exposed to the full strength of the sun’s rays.

This was what happened from thinking about him, imagining how things might have gone if only you’d woken before the arrival of Hange and Miche. You might have finally had the chance to touch what you had indirectly felt… the hard length of him straining behind his sweats. There was a part of your brain that just knew he’d be smooth and silky to the touch, like velvet covered steel, and you ached to encircle him. Yearned to draw your thumb across the head of his cock and flick lightly into the weeping slit if only to hear him groan.

Your hand ventured south, tracing a path over the ample swell of your breasts without stopping to tease yourself like you wanted, and headed straight beneath the waistband of the shorts. You touched the lace of your underwear, a far nicer pair than you would normally wear for lounging around, and it spoke volumes of how you hoped the rest of the evening might play out.

Levi’s promise of later played on repeat. The memory of the heat of his stare, the touch of his fingers along your jaw and cheek, and the weight of shared desire between you tightened every part of your body. So many questions remained unanswered, about Erwin’s situation and the whole blood singer deal, but right now you were more concerned about the ones involving intimacy and how Levi would be in bed.

He held a quiet fierceness that you couldn’t help but find intriguing, especially when you seemed to have the ability to melt that icy exterior with your presence. You wondered if he would be domineering, wanting to control your every move, or if he would be more laidback when it came to such things. Truly, anything was possible and the not knowing was killing you.

A mixture of the two would be the dream since you liked to be bossed around from time to time—in the right context—but you also enjoyed initiating because it made you feel sexy and strangely powerful. It was more than nice to feel wanted, to be the pursuer and know that your prey was just as eager as you were.

Someone cleared their throat from behind you, and you froze. It was Levi, you were certain of it. Your hand stilled from where you were exploring the lace detail that covered your pubic mound, breathing harshly through your nose whilst you found the courage to turn your head and see him standing there.

“I didn’t think I’d find you like… this,” Levi said with a quiet purr unlike anything you had heard from him previously. The sound of his words brushed down your spine like a lover’s gentle caress causing you to shiver on the buttery soft leather couch.

“Levi—I wasn’t…” you trailed off, finally locking your gaze with his as you turned and pulled your hand discreetly free from where it had been. His eyebrow rose, amusement alight in those fascinating grey eyes.

He scoffed and pushed back his hair that had fallen into his eyes. “Did you forget about later?”

Levi stalked forward to lean both hands on the back of the couch. He was trapping you without even trying and whilst you could escape by simply moving or standing or doing anything, you didn’t want to. You remained fixedly turned to him, eyes dipping but always returning to his steady gaze.

Moments ago, you were considering yourself a predator but there was no doubt in your mind that right here and now, you were the prey—the willing prey.

And Levi was ready to devour you.

#delirious writes #levi ackerman #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman smut #levi smut #aot smut #aot x reader #snk smut #snk x reader #levi x you #attack on titan fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin

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youdontknowe · 2 days ago

Text

Happy Thursday everyone!!

1. Rufus!!

2. Ehehe Bobby reading parenting books and rufus doing the classic uncle thing of don’t tell your parent I did that

3. Well I guess the winchesters can’t find you if it’s gonna take a plane to get to you 🤷🏻

4. I hope that last little bit of Jo can just stay a part of her (pls I’m begging I can’t do that again that HURT)

5. Ohhh I’m thinking the way this demons talking very accented is making me think Crowley

6. Awh no it’s just this prick again

7. I swear it’s the worst demons that just won’t die. Like damn cockroaches

8. Rattling the bars of my enclosure cus what does the sky want???? It’s happy she’s a lil crazy???

9. Holy crap also lil blue flowers for jo?

10. The silver reminds me kinda of like anger with depression? I find personally if I’m in a lower mood or grieving I get angry easier (too personal?)

11. “Every soul spilled on the ground around you is a little dented and tainted, but it’s beautiful.” She’d make a good god just cus of how appreciative she is of people

12. Oh how the irony of fate works

13. After that one shot yesterday I’m glad you mentioned Sam sending emails atleast (that boy is going through ANOTHER forced divorce era 😔 ) also in a reality where Dean and princess for whatever reason make Sam pick a parent I wonder would he pick mum or dad?

14. “they will bow at your feet for all of time to come, and you will never be a toy to those vile fucking animals again-“ oooooo I hope this is foreshadowing cus I cannot wait for her to start kicking some serious ass and making everyone scared 🥰

15. Ohhh lil theory time. she’s right tho cus it’s stated from the start they just can’t seem to stay angry at each other or even avoid each other without being miserable

16. And maybe deans different because he’s eventually micheals vessel which maybe be a mix of the righteous man and there aren’t really any other people born to be vessels (I think?)

17. lol cowboy obsessed Dean is so cute like that man is hyper fixated as fuck on them

18. Girl is HORNY

19. I can’t blame her about getting all hot n bothered by him literally talking about the wholesome version of a cream pie

20. Oh fuck not this guy again (where are these guys getting the funds to trail her over goddamn europe??)

21. Ugh she’s too damn good I would have left that assholes soul decorating the cement

22. John Winchester when I catch you.

23. “He mutters into your skin. “‘M your cowboy.” Im going feral

24. I can’t wait for them to figure out the dreams are them actually seeing each other (they should have figured that out from the hell situation but they’re already whipped without banging)

25. Bad feeling people bad feeling

26. I’m gonna get scared every time I read the words bad feeling just cus there’s never a bad feeling without something bad happening

27. I lowkey forgot about lucifer for a solid minute. But his description is so cool for a evil fucker

28. Quite the way to word it Dean “Some bullshit about Michael wanting to use me as a condom-“

29. This HAS to be Gabriel only that little freak(affectionate I find him funny) talks in riddles and flirts

30. I wonder if most angels (the nicer ones in the show) just have a soft spot and they seem to feel bad about her position especially cas and now gabe (?)

31. End note : yeah I’m definitely confused in a good way cus I get to ✨theorise ✨

32. Also how far ahead to you plan/write chapters before posting? Genuinely curious. And I loved this chapter as always both heartbreaking and thought provoking! I also really liked the whole creation thing she has going this chapter, which is leaning me more into the angels are waiting for her because she’s the new god. also that whole a little more self love comment from the archangel is dragging me further into once her and Dean can properly love each other, she’s gonna light up like the new year in the supernatural world.

Chapter 21 - If You Want To Survive

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: This week on Babylon - long distance relationships!

Chapter Title from Dog Days by Florence + the Machine

Word Count: 18.5k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You run, and Dean waits. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 20 - Chapter 22

Read on A03!

“You’re doing it wrong.”

You know you’re doing it wrong. Your feet are dangling off the edge of the bench, and your fingers are still a little swollen from when you slammed them into the door, and you’re trying but you don’t know how to do it right-

“Hey. Breathe.” Rufus grunts your name, prying your hand from the strings of the guitar. “Nothin’ bad about to kill us right now. This ain’t life and death, it’s a fuckin’ guitar-“

He cuts himself off, scanning over your open face with a long sigh.

“Don’t tell Bobby I swore at ya. He’s been reading a bunch of parenting books. They’re all sayin’ swearing is bad for kids.”

“I’m not a kid-“

“Yeah, you are. Or at least he’s tryin’ to let you be.”

“That’s why he won’t let me do hunts, isn’t it.”

Rufus snorts, shaking his head. “No, you’re not allowed to hunts cause no kid should be doin’ hunts.”

“What about the boys staying at home?” You raise your chin, narrowing your eyes. “John’s sons. The older one hunts. I heard Bobby complaining to you about it.”

“You eavesdroppin’ on us now?”

“I- No-“ You get a pointed look, and bow your head to frown at your feet.

You’d liked these socks. They were fuzzy and covered in little rainbows, and you’d always kept them at Rufus’ because they made you feel better. You show up at his doorstep covered in a bit of dirt, with everything prying apart in your body and something dark in your body trying to seep out of your skin into the world, but it’ll be okay. Rufus will help you inside and make you some food, you’ll get a long bath, as much chocolate as you want, and your fuzzy socks.

But it doesn’t stop hurting.

It’s never fucking stopped hurting.

“I- I was.” You swallow, grinding your fingers further into the strings of the guitar. “I’m sorry.”

Rufus only laughs. “I don’t give fu- crap. Good you got away with it, too. Doin’ better than a lot of other hunters already.”

Your eyes widen. “Other-“

“Your family is hunters. You’ve got hunter in your blood.” Rufus sighs, running a hand over his face. “If we get say in it, you’re not gonna need to hunt. But Bobby don’t listen when I tell him that might not be his choice. But-“ Rufus’ voice turns firm, his eyes locking onto yours. “Don’t try nothin’ when you still can’t touch the fu- freakin’ ground.”

He bumps your feet with a small grin, and you return it, even if it’s toothless and nervous.

And you don’t have hunter in your blood. Rufus knows that you don’t have anything but insanity in your blood. But he’s never treated you like you’re anything less than Bobby’s daughter.

You wish you were. That you’d come from him rather than the darker, twisted horror you were born into, with too clean floors, never enough food—despite the sheets being silk and the floor being marble, you’d never had enough food—and no fuzzy socks.

Still, you didn’t know how to just wait. How to just sit in the fucking pain like it had to be a given—it might be—and wait for your feet to hit the ground. You don’t think they understand how much it hurts. And how if it doesn’t hurt, you’ll make everything else hurt instead. How you can’t be trusted anywhere, and you might not deserve this kindness, and you still have nightmares about big and smooth hands wrapping around your throat and telling you it’s time.

“John Winchester’s sons have hunting blood.” You mumble, glaring back to the carpet, and Rufus sighs, giving you an almost amused look.

“You ain’t droppin’ this, are you?”

“It’s not fair-“

“Nothin’ is fair. And those boys shouldn’t be huntin’ at all.”

“But they do-“

“Only when their Daddy’s got no one better.” Rufus mutters, and you frown at him. “John drops ‘em with Bobby when he’s not looking for company on a hunt. And if he is, he takes Dean like the boy ain’t thirteen.”

Dean. The big one is named Dean.

And somewhere through the swirling fog of the world, there’s an iridescent light that whining and howling and aching. It’s hurts almost as much as the Darkness does.

Did.

You’re a little dizzy, and you know that when this happened, Dean was nothing more than a name. You think he was nothing more than a name. You might have felt the White rolling and humming for him, even then.

“I’m not that much younger-“

“That ain’t the point-“

“And John takes both of them hunting all the time! And I’d know more! I have all the lore memorized, and I- I could fight-“

“You can’t shoot.”

“I could try-“

“No, ya couldn’t. I remember when you just saw Bobby’s gun, kid.”

“But I’d get over it- And if the Winchester’s can do it-“

“It don’t matter what those boys can do. You’re not like ‘em.” Rufus mutters your name, the look on his face almost sad. “And John- You know Bobby don’t want you near him for a reason. And I agree. Even if we were pro baby-hunters, you know you can’t be out there.”

“But- I- I can’t- I don’t-“ You take a shaking breath, the dark thing starts to twist around in your body, all your skin itching with the pain of keeping it down. “It hurts-“

“I know it hurts.” Rufus sighs, guiding your fingers back to the guitar strings. “That’s why we’re doin’ this.”

You shake your head, trying to curl back into your body. “I don’t wanna-“

Rufus grunts your name, giving you a firm look. “We keep doin’ this, or I tell Bobby ‘bout the door.”

You’d swallow, your eyes wide on his and he lets out a long sigh.

“There are ways to deal with it that don’t hurt, kid. I’m just tryin’ to find you some.”

“Ways like drinking?” You wrinkle your nose at him, and Rufus lets out a dry chuckle.

“Nah. I’m not a preacher, I don’t gotta practice what I’m sellin’. Go back to g-cord.”

You shift your fingers, but pause, staring ahead as the light turns in your body.

It still hurts. Everything always hurts, and you feel small, and you’re safe here but it still feel like you’re being ripped in half. And you love staying at Rufus’, but it hurts, and it doesn’t matter that if you go back home you might get more hurt. You’re already hurting, and you- You don’t know what to do with all this fucking pain-

“I wanna go home.” You whisper, your eyes starting to sting, and Rufus only sighs.

He’s used to the swings. To the way it becomes too much, and you grow small.

You wish you could control it. Be better. Be more than a sick fucking problem, but it’s all you are. All you’ve ever been. And you want to go home.

“I know,” Rufus mutters, squeezing your shoulder carefully. “But you can’t, kid. Not until it’s safe.”

The world starts to shift, the fog around you glowing and bathing everything in a softer light, and your feet can touch the ground again.

When this had happened, Rufus meant safe for you. That you could go home when it wouldn’t end with John Winchester putting a bullet through your brain.

Now John was long dead, and you-

You were still so fucking sick. There wasn’t hunter in your blood, there was power. Power and a long, long line of horrible, wrong creatures that even Heaven hated. You may be holy, but it might be the way the plagues of Egypt were holy. Wrathful and awful and vengeful. Sick and destructive and wrong.

You’re so fucking wrong, so home isn’t safe from you.

Nothing is safe from you, and the horror you bring.

And you want your feet to go back to being too small. To having little blisters on your fingers from holding the guitar, instead of whatever put them there now. You’d only read books because it passed the time, and you didn’t think twice about the notes you were writing, and home was somewhere you could return to.

You want to go home.

To return to not knowing that John would’ve been right. Being afraid of him was always so much easier than being afraid of yourself. It would be so nice to go back to this. It was lonely but simple. You were filled with sickness, but it poisoned only yourself.

But Rufus would’ve always said Dean, and you would’ve always felt the White howl.

You miss him most of all.

“Where are we?”

You sigh, dropping your head to the side on his shoulder. It’s always a little like you summon him, and then he’s there. Warm and Golden and almost real.

Almost.

“I’m learning how to play guitar.” You mumble, strumming a smooth key that comes out twangy and weak, because that’s how it had sounded when this actually happened.

Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Wow. You’re kind of shit at it.”

“That’s the learning part, Deano.” You twist to prop your chin on his shoulder, and his grin is wide. Strong. Happy. “Hi.”

His grin grows, a hand rising up to hold your face. “Hi, Princess. You look good.”

“You always say I look good.”

“Well that’s cause I’m not a liar, sweetheart.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

“So bossy,” he hums, tracing his thumb over your cheekbones, and everything but Dean is fading into the background. Even your memory of Rufus is being painted in Gold. Just to remind you.

Dean isn’t here. Not really. But you still love him. And it’s still all the way down.

“How do I look?”

You scan over his face, with heavy bags until his eyes and a slightly swollen cheek.

When you reach up to trace a hand over it, he doesn’t flinch. Dean just lets out a soft sigh, and leans into your touch.

“Tired, De.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Haven’t been sleeping good. Fighting with Sammy again.” He pauses, his voice growing a little hoarse. “Miss you. Wish Cas would tell me where he dropped you, so I could come carry you home.”

“I know. I- I do too.”

And you do.

Because if Dean tracked you down and tried to carry you home, you’d never fight it. You’d always just go, because you love him, and it’s not indulging or making it about you if Dean’s demanding it.

“I miss you.” You mumble, and everything is starting to wash away. Leaking with a light that hurts to look at, the bench and Rufus flickering in and out like a mirage on water.

There’s a loud, blaring sound, coming from far, far away, and you have to go.

Dean must know it too, because his grip tightens. “Come home. I- So much shit is happening and it’s all freakin’ insane, and you’d know what to do. You always know and I fuckin’ miss you, baby, please come ho-“

The alarm rips through the world, crashing through everything you can see, and Dean vanishes.

You shoot up in your bed and let out a loud groan. The frame is so fucking small, and your legs are cramping, and the sound is still fucking going-

“Fuck.”

Your mumble is mostly to yourself.

There’s no one else to hear it anyway.

The month since you left hasn’t exactly been spent making friends. It’s been research and moving and finding ways to keep yourself afloat.

Cas had dropped you in Rome, and apparently didn’t stop to consider that you don’t fucking speak Italian. It had helped that most people here spoke English, but after about a week you’d gotten sick of not being able to read anything, and gotten—technically stolen, with Dean’s voice in your head humming I thought you weren’t a criminal, Princess—an Italian for Beginners book.

It’s mostly been tourist phrases. Where is the bathroom. How do you say taxi. I do not speak Italian.

You’ve used that last one liberally.

And you don’t talk that much, all together. There seems to be a drastic shortage of monsters to hunt and a beautiful plenty of books to read, so you’ve focus all your energy there.

On looking for answers.

About anything. Lilith. The seals. Heaven. The Magdalenes. Witches.

You.

Everything you learn about yourself is something you had to teach. You can’t feel anything holy, but you can’t really feel a lot right now. It’s all just a lot of fucking pain. And as you force yourself out of bed for the day, your gaze falls to your hands, and you can still see it.

Pastel blue. Glistening and crystallized on your fingers. The Gold has faded slightly, but the Blue is still clinging to you. Whenever you wash your hands, you’re afraid it’s going to run away with the water. When you wake up, there’s a dread in the pit of your stomach that you’ll glance down, it will fall off like an icicle from a roof. Maybe it will have been wiped away in your sleep, stained on the sheets, never to be returned.

And then it’s there, and the dread shifts to just more fucking pain. Your eyes sting, and you freeze on the edge of the bed as you stare at it. The last bit of Jo, bled onto you when she-

Bile rises in your throat, and you swallow it back down.

You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve to be sad when you did this to her. Made Jo nothing more than a little bit of a mark on your fingers that no one else can see. Ellen didn’t get a little bit of Jo to carry all the time.

Ellen didn’t even get to be there when it happened.

Jo wants you to tell Ellen something. And you’d cut her off, because you’re a fucking parasite, and you’d been so sure you could fix it. You would’ve done anything to fix it, but the Sky wouldn’t let you, and now she was gone-

A weak, sniffling noise escapes your throat, and this time there’s no bile. It’s only a heavy, crushing weight around your skull, and a searing feeling as your nails dig into your skin.

You need to move.

Most mornings, it takes too long to remember how.

And it’s never anything spurring you into action. You’re numb and hollow and breathing only because you have to, and then it all settles down and you move.

It’s mechanical. Sleep shirt off and in the backpack. Top. Bottoms. Socks and shoes and jacket. Your knife, spin it once in your hands just to move, then tuck it against your body.

Go.

You have to move and go, because you promised you’d be okay, and turning to stone is no way to be okay.

You don’t remember how to be okay either.

But you’ll get through it.

You always do.

You’d had to leave the city within a few days. There were too many people, too many colors, all of it bleeding together like a kaleidoscope or supernova and making you dizzy. Too many not-smells, giving you a migraine. The countryside was better. Quieter. Sometimes there was golden light reflecting in the rivers, and you got to pretend you could grab it and keep it.

And there are less people to hurt, if something goes wrong.

Because something always goes wrong.

Even when your day is just reading and scratching notes in the corner of a library, something will find a way to go wrong.

Maybe that’s part of the Magdalene curse. Maybe angels and demons can’t kill you, but the world just shifts and rots around you from your presence. You are made of the same thing as Lilith, and she made things as wrong as they could possibly be. Maybe this ends with you either destroying the world, or imploding onto yourself.

You’re closer to the second. You’re tired, and your teeth hurt, and every shadow is longer than you thought possible. The pencil is heavier than it should be in your hand, and you can’t tell if there’s something in the air or if your lungs simply can’t figure out how to breathe anything but iron. Your skin feels wrong on your body, but you can’t remove it or that final bit of Jo in the world will vanish.

You miss Dean. You miss him all the time. There’s no one here to hold you until you sleep, no one to calm you down when the souls start to swarm around you, and it’s like you’re being drowned. Nobody is making you drink water or eat through the grief, and some days you’ve just been forgetting until you stand up and almost fall over.

Then you have to steady yourself, but no one is as good at steadying you as Dean is.

You love him. And every time you wake up from a dream—just like this morning—you could swear you could fucking smell him. On the air around you, stronger than the cotton and dry wood of your room. You’ve stopped wearing perfume, so that it can linger on the edge of the air through the day.

But you’ve stopped doing a lot of things.

It’s why, when something goes wrong, nothing riots in your body to warn you. The most you get is a faint tug from the right of your chest, and then it’s too late.

“Look at what we have here.” A taunting, male voice crows over your shoulder, and your blood goes cold.

You don’t have to turn to know that it’s something evil. You can hear it in the drawl of his words. Fucking smell it, metallic and rotten on the air, like blood and-

Sulfur.

Fuck-

Two hands close over your shoulders, pinning you down to the chair, and a cold breath fans over your neck.

“Took me so long to find you. Don’t move an inch, darling. We’re just here to have a conversation, and I might not be able to kill ya’, but I don’t think you can kill me either, can you.” The demon laughs. “I think you might be havin’ some performance issues.”

You swallow, trying to force your voice to stay even. “Would you want to bet on that?”

The demon laughs. “Why don’t we find out? I’ve been dyin’ to get my hands on you, princess.”

There’s a prickling, burning, white-hot feeling on wrong over your heart.

Only Dean calls you that. Only Dean is allowed to call you that, because he says it with a teasing voice, but there’s always something under it that makes your body relax and the Spiderweb glow. It’s made of something soft and a little intoxicating. He says it as if he believes it. As if it’s not just a joking nickname that stuck, but a title.

The demon says it like he knows how wrong it is. Like he’s slicing you open and driving a poker right into the Spiderweb, then laughing as it whines for something you both know it can’t have. Dean’s across the ocean, and you’re not a princess. Dean might look at you and see more than a monster, but the demon isn’t fooled.

He knows what you are.

Like him.

Worse than him.

Demons are turned from years of torture. Demons are evil, but at least they were once human.

You’ve never been anything but sick. You were born twisted. And you’d never asked Cas if Lilith’s daughters were born before or after she became a demon.

You don’t really want to find out.

“Calm down, sweetheart. Can fuckin’ taste your fear.” The demon sneer in your ear. “And there’s no need to get hysterical. You get to be special again. For once, I ain’t here looking for that delicious panic and pain.”

You don’t want to be special. You just want to go home.

You just want Dean.

“What- Why are you-“

“I just thought I’d come see what all the fuss is about.” The demon hums, rising back up. “I’ve heard so much about you. And darlin’, the stories aren’t doing you justice.”

The demon rounds the table, and your nails dig into the scar on your palm.

He’s like Lilith.

A little darker of a gray, but smooth. Refined. Nothing bursting out of where he wants it to be, and he’s fucking hideous and hateful and wearing it like a badge. Every shift of him is like a raised chin and a sneer.

You recognize him. You can’t place how, but you do.

“Dean needs to get better at tellin’ stories.” The demon hums, and even his vessel is twisted in a horrible, crude smirk. “Even all his fawnin’ and whinin’ didn’t manage to capture just how perfect you are.”

It’s so fucking wrong. In a way worse than Lilith, every fiber of your existence knows this demon is fucking wrong. And the Spiderweb hates him. It’s crawling and twisting in your body like it’s trying to fucking hide, stinging and whining as if just the demon’s presence makes it feel sick.

And he’d said Dean.

He knows Dean.

You do know him.

The pieces snap together in a second, and you’re moving the next. Grabbing your knife out of your jacket and flying across the table, driving the blade right into the Alistair’s chest.

Nothing happens. Alistair just laughs, pulling the knife out of his chest and examining it with a smirk.

“This that knife Dean got you, isn’t it.” Alistair raises his brows at you, and sighs when you only glare at him. “I’m tryin’ to have a conversation with you, you know-“

“I don’t want to have a conversation with you.” Your words are spat, and Alistair just rolls his eyes.

“There’s those dramatics I’ve heard about you havin’. Always so emotional,” he hums your name, sliding the knife back across the table. “I was building up to a compliment, sweetheart. Dean had good taste. I can feel a lot of anger and fear on that thing.”

The bile is back. It’s spilling into your voice. “What the fuck are you here for. I’ve stopped interfering-“

Alistair scoffs. “I don’t care about that. I woulda preferred you stick around, but Lilith said it wouldn’t work out in our favor if ya did. Shame. I was really lookin’ forward to killing Dean in front of you, then seeing what type of pain you’re really capable of causin’.”

“I-“ There’s something tight and horrible around your throat. “I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are.” Alistair smirks, scanning you over once more. “You want to know Dean’s worst nightmare?”

You really don’t. You’re only clinging to your knife like maybe it will summon Dean to your side, trying to wait Alistair out.

The only other option is stirring deep, deep in your body. Starting to pick up and roll around. Shining bright enough to split through that gaping, infinite void of too much and nothing at all that seems to follow you with death.

And you can’t use the other option. So you just have to fucking hold on, and last through this new, awful thing.

“That boy has always been a little more creative than is good for him.” Alistair smiles, almost fondly, and you want to punch out his teeth. “Made him a beautiful subject, and a perfect student. But sometimes he’d get cold feet. All sad and whiny ‘bout hurtin’ people. But all I’d have to do is show him that nightmare of his. Dragged it from his head after about a year, and- Well, why don’t we just look together. Brace yourself, sweetheart. It’s a good one.”

Alistair reaches up, and before you can stop him, his hand is pressed to your brow.

You’re back in Hell. The screams and heat and colors running below your feet.

Not your feet.

Lower than your feet.

You’re suspend, on the same rack that you’ve seen before. And Dean’s right there. Golden, but tattered and mauled and frozen. Just staring at you, as something gray and horrible runs over your body, and you want to scream but you can’t breathe, and Dean’s still not moving.

The Gold is rioting, but Dean’s not moving.

Alistair laughs in your ear, and the Gold seems to be trying to press out, to get to you, but then it hits an invisible barrier, and Dean doesn’t move.

You don’t think he can.

When the library comes back into focus, you’re panting. Every breath is too fast and short, your grip on the table driving splinters into your hands, and you can’t fucking breathe-

“Warned you.” Alistair hums, and his voice is driving right into your fucking brain.

All you can see is Dean. Frozen, watching you with fear.

Dean was never afraid. He was angry and worried and stressed, but you’d never seen him look only afraid.

The Spiderweb is almost whimpering, shimmering with a soft light and still trying to bury itself deeper than Alistair can hurt it.

But the Silver-

It’s starting to move. To wake up.

Fuck.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret, darlin’. That little nightmare? It always was fun to feed, but it’s never gonna be the plan. I’m thinking, when we win and I get to take you home, we’ll find wherever the reapers stored sweet little Jo, and pull her out. To join the party, you know?”

The Silver rears its head. And you’re drawing blood on your skin, but your nails are short and chipped, and you still can’t really breathe-

“And then I’ll give Dean a choice. He can either torture Jo while you watch, or I’ll make his nightmare come true.” Alistair laughs to himself, and the Silver is starting to climb up.

Or curve in. Building up by caving in. Like a fucking black hole, crushing down so it can-

“And he’ll choose you. He’ll hate himself for it, but you’re his girl. His Princess. He ain’t gonna do anythin’ that’ll hurt you. Not on purpose.”

The Silver is so close. But there are people here. People and animals, and a- You saw a fucking teenager, and she had a walk that kind of reminded you of Sam’s-

“But here’s the kicker,” Alistair says your name like you’re old friends. “After he finished chopping up Jo, I’d freeze him just like in his nightmare. And I wouldn’t touch you. That’s boring. If I’m makin’ art like this, I’m making it the right way.”

It’s going to fall out of your mouth. You can’t fucking control it, and all the Silver can feel is the pain of the Spiderweb, so all it knows is something’s wrong and you can’t stop it-

“No, here’s what I’ve got lined up instead. Good ol’ Sammy will be walkin’ around up here, well,” Alistair laughs. “His body will be. But point is, can’t use him. And I think what I’m left with will work better anyway.” Alistair’s smoke moves back into that ugly fucking smile, and the Silver reaches a stasis. A silence.

A split second before the storm.

“I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play. Let him do whatever he wants, while Dean’s watchin’. And maybe it’ll just be what Dean did to Jo, but you never know.” Alistair smirks. “Those men of god never could resist a Magdalene.”

Everything stills. Moves to match the stasis of the Silver, and it’s almost serene. You’re everything, and it’s all waiting for you. The walls will fall to shield you. The wind will turn to a hurricane to protect you. The grass outside will grow and flourish to protect you.

And the Sky is smiling at you. You can feel it, and not just watching.

Over you. Shining with praise, because this, this is that holy wrath you’re supposed to have all the time.

You don’t fucking want it.

You just want to go home.

Alistair smiles at you again, a second before you lose control.

“There you are.”

You don’t know how he gets away in time. You can’t tell through how you’re everything, and you can’t see anything but the blur.

All you know is that you explode.

Detonate.

Destroy.

The Silver razes through all it can reach.The building turns to ruin, rivers of blood run under your feet—although, as far as you can see, there are no bodies—and the forests and walls start to bloom with flowers and plants you’ve never seen before.

They’re beautiful. Strangely shaped and delicate, glowing softly and filled with an iridescent light.

But it’s all beautiful.

The apples hanging from the ceiling are beautiful. The small, condensed bits of life floating through the room are beautiful. The countryside, now littered with pastel blue roses, is beautiful.

And the souls stained on the walls are beautiful, too.

And you have to go.

The angels will be here soon.

That must be the real reason Alistair was looking for you. He’d taunted you right to the fucking edge, then pushed you over. Forced you to lose control, and send up that loud, neon signal telling Heaven I’m here! Come and get me!

And you’ve been so fucking careful not to draw attention, but it’s not really up to you anymore.

Because the Silver’s been like this since Jo. Dormant and silent until it’s forced to move, and then reactionary. Worse than a live wire, worse than a sickness, worse than a monster.

Damnation.

That must be why the angels are still after you, even though you did what they asked. Even though you left.

Zachariah had said to muzzle you.

And you weren’t muzzled.

You were feral.

And now you have to run again.

But you don’t want to be the sickness. You don’t want to be what the Sky keeps demanding of you. Blinking down over you and asking doesn’t it feel good, to have this kind of might in your body, to not be burdened by things lower than you are?

Nothing is lower than you are. They might not be talking to the Sky, but it’s lonely. Higher than anything else, but that seems to be more of a curse than a gift. And all the things it keeps telling you are lower are made of more than the Sky is. Every soul spilled on the ground around you is a little dented and tainted, but it’s beautiful.

It’s all so beautiful.

You need to go. It’s not safe for you to stay.

But you do. For longer than you should allow, you grab every soul you can and shove it back into its body. And you can’t heal them. Can’t fix whatever damage the Silver has done, because you can’t call it forward to mend what it broke. They’ll be alive, but maybe different. Maybe completely morphed, maybe just a little cracked, maybe shattered beyond repair. But they’ll be alive. And even if you could fix them, the Sky might decide you were overstepping again, and rip them right back out.

It never stops you from cleaning, though. From finishing your little ritual. It shines in warning, but you flip it off.

“You’ve got something you want from me,” you hiss, narrowing your eyes. “Come and get it your fucking self.”

It doesn’t.

It just keeps watching.

So you run.

You don’t stop until dusk. Until you’re sure you’re far enough away that whatever angels Heaven sent won’t find you.

And this is how it is now. You move from town to town like some sort of phantom. You miss Dean every second, but you can’t go home. You dodge angels and read in the dead of night, staring at your phone and willing it to-

You jump out of your skin a little, when the screen lights up.

Possible Spam.

You’ve never picked up the phone faster.

Dean’s shouting your name through the speaker, when the call connects. There’s something strained in his voice. Almost distressed.

You raise your voice, just enough to get through to him. “De-“

“Oh, thank fucking- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, I- Are you good? Safe?”

“I’m fine.” You draw your knees up to your chest, trying to make your voice sound light. “It’s just- Long day-“

“I know about Alistair.”

You freeze, and Dean’s voice grows a little hoarse.

“He admitted it. Told me he’s seen you. It’s- We’re working one of the seals and he’s here, and I- He said-“

“He didn’t hurt me.” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. “He was just taunting me. Trying to make me- You know. Do the thing.”

Dean’s silent for a long, heavy second. “Happened again, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Any progress on-“

“No.”

Dean lets out a dry laugh. “You didn’t even let me finish talking.”

“I-“ You swallow, a heavy lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m sorry-“

“Hey, wait, don’t- I’m teasing you, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is so gentle. You can almost see the slightly panicked look on his face. “Don’t cry, it’s okay, you’re good-“

You’d been trying not to cry.

You really had.

But you miss him. And you’re so fucking tired.

It’s impossible to swallow the choked sounds or whimpers. The sniffling as you wipe your nose with your sleeve, or the heavy breathing as a weight pressed onto your chest. You don’t want Dean to hear. You know he’s still dealing with the seals, and an angry Bobby—although Dean won’t admit they’re fighting about you, you know they are—and a Sam that’s still working with Ruby. He doesn’t need to hear you cry when you’re the one who fucking left. You’re the one who wouldn’t stay.

You’d hated Dean so long for leaving you, so many years ago.

But then you fucking left him.

And he’s staying on the phone with you. Not speaking, but humming low and deep as your head drops to your knees, and your breathing evens out.

It’s steady.

Ragged and impossible, but steady.

“De- I-“ You swallow, wiping your cheeks with your palm. “I wanna go home. I miss Bobby and Sam and I- I don’t know what to do. I miss you, and I can’t sleep, and I-“

I love you.

You’re not allowed to say it.

So you just strangle yourself on the sound, and hold the phone as close to your ear as you can.

“I know.” Dean’s voice is a rasp through the speaker, and it makes a new wave of tears fall. “Just come home, Princess- I- Fuck, I’ll call Cas and he’ll come get you right now-“

“I can’t.” You whisper. “You know I can’t.”

“But-“

“Please. Don’t.”

Dean can’t beg you to come home.

If he does, just as always, you’d listen.

“Did-“ Dean clears his throat, and you’re grateful. He listened. “What did Alistair say to you? To set it off?”

You can’t tell Dean what Alistair really said. He’d drive himself mad about it. Doing something reckless, get himself hurt. And all of this is always just so Dean doesn’t get hurt.

But you can’t lie to him either.

“Jo.” You mumble, leaning back and rubbing at your wrists. “You. Sam. Just- What he’d do, if they win.”

“Fucking bastard.” Dean mutters, and you smile into the air.

You miss his glare. The firm one that he’s always aim at you, but never hurt you. It was always a glare that wrapped around you. Told you he was angry because he cared, and didn’t know how to do anything with it.

He still cares.

Dean knows what the past month has been for you. Nightmares and explosions, souls staining the ground and painted over your hands—although they always fade fast, as nothing but Jo seems to be clinging to you longer than it has to—and never getting more control or answers.

You only find more questions. More reasons to stay away. And Dean should give up on you, but that’s not what he does. You know how pissed he is at Sam, but he’s not giving up on dragging him away from Ruby. He wouldn’t.

Just like how he’s only ever held you when everything became too much. Only ever gone to help, whenever Sammy called. Had held you and tried to make you stay, after Jo.

And he still picks up the phone. Still calls you, even when you know that—wherever he is in America—it’s an unreasonable hour. Talks to you like nothing has ever gone wrong at all. Asks you to come home like it’s not ripping out and healing your heart all at once.

“You know I’d never let that happen, right?”

You blink, frowning at the wall. “What?”

“Alistair.” Dean mutters. “No matter what happens. He’s never gonna touch you.”

I’ll drag good ol’ Daddy Winchester out to play.

You know. You know I love you, baby.

“I know.” You whisper, even though you both know that’s not really up to Dean. “How was your day?”

“Kinda shit. You?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Kinda shit, too.”

“You could come home, and our days could be shit together-“

“Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright. Had to try.”

He did. He always does. And he’s nothing more than a voice in a box, but the Spiderweb still lights up under his attention. Still thrives from just to sound of Dean saying your name and telling you about astral projection, and you could fucking swear you smell spice-

“It felt fuckin’ weird,” Dean mutters your name, and you can hear something moving in the background. “I was solid, but it was soupy.”

You smile into the air. “Soupy?”

“Yeah, like chowder-“

“Those are two different feelings, De.”

“No they’re both globby.”

“Globby-“

“It works- Sammy!”

You hear Sam’s voice grumble something in the background, and wait patiently.

“Being all ghost-like felt globby, right?”

“You sound insane, Dean.”

That breaks through, and you giggle.

“Hey.” Dean’s voice is a little firmer. He’s talking to you. “I heard that. It’s not my fault Sammy isn’t a poet like me-“

Sam snorts in the background. “I heard you say soupy before. Are you talking to-“

“Yes.” Dean snaps. “She’s mine, Sammy. You can’t have her.”

He means the phone. You know he means the phone.

It still makes the Spiderweb fucking shine.

“I just wanna ask her about a seal-“

“Call her later.”

“But-“

“No. Back off, or I’ll shit on your bed.”

“That’s so gross- Dean-“

A door slams on Dean’s end, and Sam’s voice goes muffled.

“Sorry about that, Princess. Don’t know who let Bigfoot into my hotel room like that.”

You hum, smiling like an idiot at your knees. “You know, one day he’s really gonna get sick of you doing that. It’s the third time this week.”

“Nah.” There’s a pause. “Are you getting sick of me, Princess?”

Sam’s right. He’s insane. “No.”

“You sure? Not finding some other guy with a sweet ride-“

“I’m not looking, De.” You whisper before you can stop yourself. “And nobody’s got a better ride than you, car boy.”

"Thanks.” Dean mumbles, clearing his throat. “I’m taking care of the Firebird. Drive her once a week-“

“He.”

"What?”

“My car. It’s a he.”

Dean pauses. “You, uh- You named him?”

“Not yet.” You shrug. “I’m brainstorming.”

“How about Dean Junior-“

“No.”

You only get a laugh in response, and this night doesn’t hurt as much as the others. You talk to Dean until the sun rises, and he mutters that his phone is about to die, and Sam will kill him if they’re not on the road early tomorrow. You don’t say goodbye, when you hang up. You never say goodbye.

Instead the line goes dead, you shuffle out to find coffee, and return to your room for the rest of the day. You’re in no rush. You’re safe—for now—and all your work lives in reading and researching. Going over the emails Sam has sent you and responding with what you find. Combing through your own books for some sort of fucking clue. How many other Magdalenes there were. What they brought. How they controlled it, if it was something that could be controlled. So far all you have are a big do not attempt warnings on burnt pages, a bunch of fake Magdalene spells—like plastic knockoffs of what you’ve found in the book, and made yourself—and the Sky watching you.

Nothing ever mentions the Sky. And it’s not like you’ve found anything explicit about Magdalenes. But you’ve learned to spot patterns. Clues. Draw timelines and pour over history books until you passed out, Dean called you, or something went wrong.

It would be lovely and simple, if you’d taught yourself that.

But it isn’t. And you didn’t.

“I heard you killed an angel.”

You’d spun around, and there she’d been. Standing in the corner of your room, smiling at you with that awful affection.

“That’s impressive, little one.” Lilith had hummed, her smiling growing. “Even I could never have done that, even at my brightest.”

“Cool.” You’d mumbled, rubbing at your wrists as you watched her. “How did you find me?”

“We are the same.” Lilith had shrugged. “You might be more, and but I can still know. You’d know too, if you just thought about it. And it took a little extra effort to find you, but I had to. You put on quite a show, almost locking all the seals. If those fucking uptight featherdicks hadn’t interfered, you might have succeeded. I mean, maybe if I’d sent the cavalry, too. But Ruby was begging me not to send Alistair himself. You did quite a number on her.”

“Ruby-“

“That’s not for you to worry about.” Lilith had waved you off like it was nothing. “I’d be concerned with yourself, little one. The angels are starting to look for their master, and mine- He will be here soon. And you should be ready. And I am reaching my purpose, but I can’t wait to learn, one day, what you do”

“I-“ You’d shaken your head, walking back to the wall. The Sky had flashed out the window.

If Lilith could see or feel it, she didn’t show it.

“I don’t- I’m not going to serve-“

“No, you won’t.” Lilith had hummed. “If you’re smart, they will bow at your feet for all of time to come, and you will never be a toy to those vile fucking animals again-“

“I-“ Your voice had been so small. You’d pushed through. “I’m not a toy-“

“Not now, little one. But you’re still attached to Dean Winchester. I can see him all over you.” She’d shivered. “You’ll get through it. We all have. Even I had a Dean, but- It doesn’t matter. Men of God. Doesn’t matter which one you chose, they are all the same in the end.”

And there it is again. Your hand freezes over your notes—a mindless scribble of Dean’s name in Enochian half-written—as the memory echoes, and you put it together.

Men of God.

Alistair had said it. So had Anna, before you crushed her like some sort of bug.

And Anna had been an angel. She knew enough to know your name was written in places in Heaven that Castiel has never seen.

Lilith had spoken of them like they were everywhere. She’s said that all of you had one. That yours was another case of being special—more complicated—but you still needed to be stronger. That they always promise freedom, only to try and cut you up and morph you and put you in a cage.

Dean would never do that. He’d set you free.

He was waiting for you.

You’d worry about that later. Right now, for the first time since you left, you had something.

It’s a good thing Europe is full of churches.

The months start to blur together, the longer you’re away. You didn’t expect it to be immediate, but it has to be something. Lilith, Alistair, and Anna wouldn’t all say Men of God only for it to just be some kind of weird Heaven and Hell phase. It’ll only take time. And you’ll comb through every library and visit every church and do whatever the fuck you need for just one answer.

And it does seem to be a marker. Every Magdalene you’ve found—Lilith had been right, you’d just had to try, and it would call to you like some distorted song—has had someone in their orbit. And there has to be a reason. Even if no one can place what the Magdalenes are outside of danger and change, even if there’s no idea for how you were made or why you exist, it can’t just be a coincidence.

Dean says there are no coincidences in this life.

He’s usually right about this kind of stuff. He’s usually right about most stuff.

And whatever Men of God are, Dean isn’t one. Not the way Lilith says, at least. He’s yours, but the Magdalenes you’ve found always ended up betrayed or abandoned by theirs. Dean would never do that. Even if he doesn’t love you, he just wouldn’t. That’s another thing he doesn’t do.

Run away.

He’s stronger than you are. It’s why, whenever you run, he really has been always so good at catching you. At wrapping you up and keeping you safe, when he should’ve put you down.

And Lilith had said the one you chose.

Dean’s never been a choice. He just is. You love him because he’s Dean, and that’s better than anything. He’s never been just one star you picked from the sky.

He’s been full of gravity, like a planet. Not a flower from a garden, but a strong, unbreakable tree that could be split with lightning and still be the prettiest thing you’d ever seen. Not a rock from the ocean, but an island that you’d always returned to, because there’s nowhere better to rest.

And there are more differences—between you and the other Magdalenes—the longer you look. Some of them have been labelled as crazy or hysterical, but none of them are ever mentioned talking about all the colors. None of them ever claim to see demons and angels.

Not one mentions the Sky.

That seems to be another horrible, awful, exhausting thing that’s just for you.

And time keeps passing. You keep reading and reading and finding something that’s really nothing, and nothing that looks like something, but it’s just a trick of the light. Things keep going wrong—a woman grabs your wrist in a coffee shop, you walk into a church and the stained glass begins to glow, you see an angel on the street and wipe them out with the whole block—and the Sky keeps watching.

It doesn’t seem to mind you looking for answers. It almost seems to hum whenever you find something. A tattered page in a church catacomb, that’s a similar—but less detailed—to your own notebook. Colors and names scribbled in a French, like a personal guide. And then there’s the half-burnt, Portuguese version of the Book, and another Magdalene buried Florence, Italy.

You can go to Florence.

You can raid a grave, to see if her bones are made of anything that tells you how she controlled it. If she left you anything. She must have.

She did.

Maps of Heaven and Hell. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with them, or how she got them, but you know the Sky is happy you have them.

Lately, the Sky only ever seems angry when Dean calls.

You always pick up anyway.

“Hi, De.”

“Hey, Princess. You still in-“

“Nope. Nice try, though.”

He sighs. “Had to take the shot. How was your day?”

You smile into the air. “It was… long.”

“Did you eat?”

You’re silent for a second too long, and Dean snaps your name.

“Goddamnit, you need to-“

“I know.” You sigh. “I just- I got distracted, I promise. I got a new book, and it’s just regular witchcraft, but maybe Cas could use it-“

“Actually, uh-“ Dean clears his throat. “We kinda lost Cas.”

“You- How?”

“He’s a human again. We’re working on it, but Sammy-“ Dean lets out a long, heavy breath, and you sigh.

“Is Ruby still-“

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell him-“

“He won’t listen.” Dean mutters. “Thinks you must have misunderstood, or that Lilith was just messing with you.”

“But-“

“I know, Princess. But- I- Can you talk? Please?”

You swallow, staring up at the ceiling. You’d told Dean, what Lilith had mentioned about Ruby begging her. You’d hoped it would be some sort of evidence, to prove to Sam that Ruby can’t be trusted.

But Dean says he went a little off the deep end, after you left. That he thinks he should’ve been stronger and not gotten knocked out, or been more cautious about the ritual, or done more so you didn’t lose Jo. So you didn’t leave.

Whenever you talk to him, he never mentions it. That you left. And it’s not in the way Dean does, where he just knows you’ll come back. It’s a little hollow. His voice sounds heavier all the time, but more determined all at once.

Dean just sounds tired.

And it rips the Spiderweb in half.

“What do you wanna talk about, De?”

He lets out what might be a long breath of relief. “I, uh- I don’t know. What did you do today?”

“Read. A lot. I started looking at a map-“

“A map?” You can hear Dean’s frown in his voice. It’s adorable. “What, you hunting for treasure without me?”

“It’s a map of heaven. And,” you smile into the air, and you hope he can hear it. “I’d never hunt for treasure without you. There is no one else I’d rather treasure hunt with.”

“Damn. Not even Bobby?”

“I don’t think Bobby would be all that good at treasure hunting.” You shrug. “He’d get bored, and say that this kinda shit is pointless anyway.”

“Yeah,” Dean’s soft laugh is a little muffled through the phone. “You’re right about that. How about Sammy?”

“He’d be fine. Do you not want to go treasure hunting with me, Deano?”

He snorts. “Princess, if I ever go treasure hunting with anyone, I’d want it to you.”

“Thanks.” You mumble. “Why?”

“Cause you’re smart, and you’ve seen a billion of those freakin’ treasure movies. You’ve studied, sweetheart. You’re a nerd.”

You scoff. “Well, if I ever need to commit crimes for the good of the community, I’ll call you, Cowboy.”

“Aw, you think I’m a Cowboy-“

“Dean-“

Dean cuts you off with a tsk, and suddenly you can see him. It’s just in your head, but it’s so close to real. Standing in front of you with a boyish, cocky smirk, his eyes alight on yours, every bit of him so fucking Golden, and all focused on you. Handsome. Always handsome. His hair a little spiky and out of place, his nose a little more crooked than the last time you saw him, but his body just as broad, and-

You can feel an ache between your legs, and it only deepens when he drawls your name.

Shit.

“I gotta tell you a secret, Princess.” Dean hums, and you swallow. “Our job is doing crimes for the good of the community. And you’re the best damn criminal I know.”

You flush, and the ache gets worse. “Shut up.”

“Bossy-“

“And I��m not a criminal-“

“Yeah, you are.” Dean laughs. “But it’s okay, we’re all criminals. You and me would’ve run the wild west, sweetheart, I’ll tell you that much.”

Your ditzy, slightly stupid smile is back. “Really?”

“Hell, yeah. Sammy would be the sheriff, and Bobby would run the bar, and I’d be the awesome, lone cowboy passing through the town. I’d stop at the bar look for a drink but instead I’d find you-“ Dean cuts himself off with a cough. “And Bobby. And instead of just passin’ through, I’d plant my roots, and team up with the sheriff to take care of the town.”

He might be the most adorable person on the planet. “You’ve thought about it. Sam might be right about that cowboy fetish, De-“

“It’s not-“ He groans, and the sound doesn’t help your situation. “They’re cool. They’re really freakin’ cool, and they’ve got awesome hats. Is it so wrong to like something?”

“No.” You hum. “But that’s a fantasy, Winchester. You have a cowboy fantasy. And you call me a nerd.”

Dean’s silent. For a little too long, Dean’s silent. And right when you’re about to ask if he’s still there, he mutters your name. “’S nice to have a fantasy, Princess. Something to want. Bet you have them too.”

You do.

You have two.

The first one you think of is the one that always slams into you like a blow to your gut. It’s made of Jo. Of what you’d told her, the last night she was alive. Of a world where her fantasy was reality. And that’s what you think of there, and you break down on the phone with Dean—again—and he stays on the line through it.

The second one makes you feel like a piece of fucking shit. Because you sob to Dean about how you miss Jo, and you want to come home, and you’re still looking for answers but everything still fucking hurts—it always fucking hurts, it never stops hurting, the only way to stop hurting is to stop being and you’ve never figured out how to do that—and then he goes. With a soft reminder to call him tomorrow, or text if you can’t, Dean has to leave and deal with human Cas.

And you’re worse than a monster.

Because when you’re done sniffling into your pillow, your head wanders back to Dean’s words.

Bet you have them too.

His voice had been so deep—and it’s always been deep, but it only seems to get deeper—and a little like a lullaby. A low, soothing promise that’s vibrated in your bones when he’s held you, and still sparks in your blood whenever you hear it.

And you can still see him, in your head. Broad and strong, soft in all the right places and grinning at you. Always grinning at you, and touching you. Dean’s touched you. He’s had hands skimming right under your shirt and resting on your hips, and he’s held you by your lower back so often, but never on bare skin.

It lights you on fire.

And you have fantasies.

You might have a lot of fantasies.

They’re all made of the memory of Dean’s lips on yours, and his taste on your tongue, and the warmth and Gold of him being everywhere. It would feel better than heaven, if he’d hold you right against him, his palm splayed over your lower back, his voice moving right through your body as you grind down onto his thigh. Calling you Princess and his and teasing you until you’re scratching at his back, and he’s just chuckling.

C’mon, baby girl. Just a little more, I’ve got you, you’re doing so good. That’s it, scream my name-

“Dean!”

You cum with a shaking body, and short, shallow gasp.

When your eyes fly open, you realize that scream wasn’t a part of the fantasy. That was loud, for anyone to hear as you’d orgasmed, grinding onto the sheets and pretending your hands on your breast were Dean’s.

The pricking, sickening shame hits you so fast. Jo’s still gone. Dean’s not even here, and you’re turning him into something he might not even want to be. Not for you. He’d been looking for comfort, and you’d made him your fantasy.

But he is your fantasy.

No matter how you try to push it down, now that the idea has crossed your mind, before you sleep you think of Dean.

Something must be wrong with you. Your days are spent staring at books and rubbing at your wrists, looking over your shoulder to make sure there’s no one behind you. No one to try and hurt you, only for their soul to end up splattered all over the ground. Someone tries to get your attention on the street again, and a redwood shoots out of the ground in Germany. You see a man that looks an awful lot like Ketch in a cafe—already putting you on edge—and then a little blonde girl with the same eyes Jo has starts crying, and a Javan tiger is seen running through Austria.

You don’t know how you’re doing it. Only that the Silver detonates, and everything is destroyed and remade all at once. You can’t find any records of that happening to other Magdalenes—or, really, at all—but you’re still looking.

You’ve found that Men of God is seeming to be a loose term—maybe a title—more than a solid rule. And when the trail runs dry on Magdalenes, you shift back to witchcraft. It’s easy, even without the Silver, and it makes you feel like maybe you’re being useful.

Not just running and destroying and sitting in the dirt near a river, staring at the blue on your hands.

Jo would like it here. She would like all the sun and beer, and she would like how the hotel shampoo smells, and she would love all the stray animals and stupid, fancy wines. She would drawl that all wine is wine, but this tastes like rippin’ off rich idiots.

You stole a bottle for her, and poured it into the river. Then you just sit there. Ignoring the Sky over you, pretending that when you stand up things will be better.

They won’t.

Jo’s still gone, and it’s still so fucking hollow. You’re trying to eat more, for her. Trying to sleep more too. You’re getting better at it, as the time passes. At not dying from self-neglect.

And she would’ve wanted you to talk to Dean. To let him convince you to come home, so he could hold you until it hurt a little less.

You don’t want it to hurt less. When it hurts it means you’re thinking about her, and if you stop thinking about her—sobbing on the riverbank, watching your fingers because one day the blue will fade and you don’t know what you’ll do—then who will. Someone has to be in pain for this. Someone has to pay, you’d already killed Anna, and Zachariah seems pretty fucking occupied with Sam and Dean.

Pain, numb and hollow and vast and fucking crushing—pressing on your lungs and head, faint in the background until it slams into you and breathing becomes a labor—is a price you deserve to pay.

So the days pass, and they’re lonely and repetitive, as the Sky keeps watching.

But your nights are spent collapsing on the bed, and calling Dean.

“Are the souls different? Wherever you are?”

You smile at the ceiling. “I mean, they’re different soul to soul.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, sweetheart-“

“They’re the same as home, De. All souls are the same.”

“Huh. You, uh,” he clears his throat. “You see any other golden souls?”

You can’t stop your laugh. You’ve never seen another golden soul. Not like Dean’s. And even if you did, no soul is made of the same primal, pure thing his and Sam’s are.

“What’s funny-“

“Nothing, it’s-“ You shake your head. “No. I haven’t seen any other souls like yours.”

Dean grunts, and you can picture his pouting scowl. “Alright. Good. But- I still don’t get why you were laughing, Princess.”

“It’s a soul joke. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Can you help me get it?”

“Dean-“

“C’mon. I show you stuff all the time. Taught you to drive stick, showed you how to clean a gun even though you never use them, explained all the work I did on the Firebird-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that one.”

“Yeah, but you were listening. You liked it.”

You had liked it. But that had been more to do with how—when he’d been talking—he’d been covered in grease and wearing a really tight shirt, smiling at you like there was never anything else to do and bouncing around like there’s never been any pain at all.

Dean doesn’t need to know that.

“I- Souls are really complicated-“

“I don’t care. Just-“ Dean pauses, sighing into the speaker. “I wanna hear you talk, Princess. It’s been a long fuckin’ week, and I- How about this. If you tell me about souls, I’ll teach you whatever you want, when you get home. Pinky promise.”

You swallow, and suddenly there’s a very clear image of Dean above you, his hand in your hair and his lips curved in a wide smirk as he guides you up and down his-

Fuck.

“I, um,” You pause, trying to regain control over your voice. “What do you wanna know?”

“I dunno. Explain the joke?”

“It’s- It’s not really that funny, I’m just tired-“

“You been sleeping?”

No. You’ve been talking to Dean and drinking coffee and you’re pretty sure you can feel every single nerve in your body, but that’s not the point. “Yes.”

“Lie. You need to fuckin’ sleep-“

You cut of Dean’s snap of your name with a sigh. “Are you sleeping?”

There’s a beat, and his response is so low you almost don’t hear it. “No.”

“Then shut up and stop telling me what to do.”

Dean chuckles. “So bossy, b- Princess-“

“Do you want to hear about the souls or not?”

“Yeah, alright. Go.”

You don’t explain it all. You tell him more about how souls tend to move and blend together, twining with other souls and staining each other in more and more colors until it’s almost kaleidoscopic. You mention the elements, but you’re vague—only that they all made of different things, not that you know what those different things are—because if you explain too much, Dean will ask what element he’s made of, and you’re not even sure what an honest answer would be.

To be fair, you never explain it all. You tell Dean you’re getting more leads on Magdalenes, but not a word about the Men of God, because he’ll freak out. You’ve explained all your outbursts, but never told him about the Sky. You never tell anyone about the Sky, because it makes you sound fucking crazy. Even in this life, saying the Sky is watching me and it hates when I talk to you, Deano would end with a strange look. Just like when you were a kid, telling your mother that the Sky is watching me, and making me promises, and I don’t want them. I don’t. I’m scared and I want to go home.

“Is it ever- Can you turn it off?” You can hear Dean’s frown through the phone. “I mean, that sounds like you’re being shoved into one of the carnival funhouses all the damn time.”

“That’s… Not far off.”

“But it’s gotta hurt your eyes or some shit-“

“I’m used to it,” you mumble, running your thumb over your palm. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to-“

“Dean. It is what it is.”

“Yeah, but- It shouldn’t be.” He lets out a long breath, and tears start to prick at your eyes. “There’s gotta be something that helps.”

You. You help, Dean. You’re so Golden it’s impossible to think about anything else.

“Maybe start looking for that?” Dean hums, and the lump starts to form in your throat. “How to control the soul-vision shit?”

“Soul vision?” You smile, even though it’s crushing over your ribs. “Creative, De.”

“Shut up. You love it.”

I love you. “I don’t hate it.”

“Good. Maybe work on-“

“But I don’t want to turn it off.” You glance down at your hands, and your voice is far too soft. Dean with be able to hear. “I- I can’t turn it off, Dean.”

He mutters your name, and you shake your head.

“I- I can’t. She’s still on me, her soul is still on me, and if I stop seeing it, she’s gone.” You’re breathing too shallow. You can’t stop. “I can’t let her be gone like this too, I couldn’t- It’s all I’ve got left, it’s the only piece of her left and only I can see it- And if- I- She can’t be gone, Dean, I can’t let her be gone-“

“I know.” Dean mutters, his voice so low and soothing, even through the choppy speaker. “I know sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“I wanna come home.” You whisper, and Dean goes silent. “I miss you, and I don’t-“ I’m scared. I’m scared and I want to go home. “Dean, I don’t know- Please.”

You don’t know exactly what you’re asking for. But somehow, Dean does.

“It’s gonna be okay. I promise it’s gonna be okay. I’ll send Cas out for you right now, if you want-“

You make a strangled noise, and Dean’s voice gets stronger. Firmer.

“Or we can just keep talking. You wanna keep talking, ba- Sweetheart?”

You nod, and even though he can’t see you, Dean still knows. Still understands. It rips another small, weak sound from your throat.

“I ate some pie, yesterday.” Dean hums, his voice still low and careful, and you let out a soft laugh.

“You eat pie every day, De.”

“Yeah, but this was cream pie. You’d like it, it had a bunch of chocolate on the top, and it was fucking full of that stuff they put in the donuts-“

“Cream?” You smile at the ceiling, and you don’t know how he does this. Every single time, even when he’s just a voice, Dean brings you back down. “I think it’s just cream, De.”

“Alright, whatever. Point is this thing is stuffed with cream-“

He can’t be doing this on purpose. You wouldn’t put it past Dean to do it on purpose, but this is the kind of thing he would talk about to see Sam get uncomfortable. But all you can think about is how even his voice is fucking pretty, and he keeps saying stuffed and cream and filled, and your skin is prickling with an aching, pleasant warmth, your thighs starting to press back together.

And Dean does eventually have to go. Once he’s satisfied with your lack of hyperventilation and the steadiness of your voice, he mutters that he has to go deal with Sam.

“Get some rest,” He mutters your name, and you swallow. “Or I’ll track you down and make you.”

The line cuts off before you can respond, and this is the part where something is wrong with you. You’re a fucking mess. Your cheeks are still stained with tears, and you’d been sobbing less than half an hour ago, but now you’re wet. Dripping. Your fingers trail between your legs, and over and over the sound of Dean saying you’d like the cream pie, Princess, replays in your head. The one time in his life that Dean wasn’t making an innuendo, you’re losing your mind with hunger for him.

And there are the fantasies.

Dean over you in bed—you don’t really care which one, as long as Dean is there—and his fingers shoved into your cunt as he kisses all over your face. And you’re breathless and clinging to him, but he’s holding you just as tight, and when he buries himself fully inside of you, he lets out a low groan right in your ear-

I’ve got you. I love you, baby. You know I love you.

You don’t. Dean’s never said that. But Dean’s voice has. And it spoke with a long drawl and soft affection. Your mind is taking that and running with it.

You cum with another gasp of Dean, your back arching off the bed, and you try not to think about it when you roll over and gather the blankets until they’re in a vague shape of Dean for you to hold all night.

And the Sky doesn’t get to see it. You always close the curtains when Dean calls, because you’re going to keep picking up the phone.

You’ll keeping missing him, too. And loving him.

And dreaming of him.

You never stop dreaming of Dean.

“No wanderin’ off.” Bobby grunts, scanning around the room.

It’s big. Almost as big as the rooms in your family’s house. There’s something different about it, though. Even though the air is colder, there’s a warmth to the walls and a comfort to the floor.

You don’t tell Bobby that. Not because he wouldn’t want to know, but because he already has enough to worry about.

“I’m not gonna wander.” You mumble, picking at the skin of your nails. “Promise.”

Bobby snorts. “I wish I believed you, kiddo.”

“Bobby-“

“I trust you.” He says your name carefully, holding your gaze. “But you like exploring and testin’ my fuckin’ blood pressure. I told you not to get distracted by the house, and what did you do?”

You pout at your shoes. “I sang on the staircase.”

“And why don’t we wanna do that.”

“Cause there’s an ubume running around.”

“Cause there’s a-“ Bobby pauses, frowning at you. “A what?”

“Ubume.”

“I ain’t sure what that is-“

“It’s the spirit of a woman who died in childbirth.” You mumble. “They’re not usually violent, but sometimes they try to steal children. And they like rocks, and there are all those rocks outside.”

Bobby blinks down at you, and shakes his has. “Fuckin’-“

“I’m sorry-“

“You’re righ-“ He cuts himself off, frowning down at you. “The hell are you sorry for?”

“I- I don’t-“ You swallow, the Darkness starting to turn out and press under your skin. “I don’t know.”

“Wel, ya shouldn’t be.” Bobby shrugs. “You’re right. The kids have been gettin’ the worst of it, so- They’re called ubumes?”

You nod, and Bobby sighs.

“You’re not in trouble, kiddo. You can relax.”

“But I- I wasn’t supposed to get involved with the hunt-“

Bobby runs a hand over his face. “I told ya that cause I didn’t want you tryin’ to take on this shit yourself. But if you know somethin’ I might not, always say it. Deal?”

You nod nervously, and Bobby extends his hand.

“C’mon, kiddo. If we can wrap this up by the afternoon, I’ll let ya go back to the staircase.”

Your eyes widen, even as you take his hand. “But the family-“

“They ain’t home. What they don’t know ain’t gonna hurt them.”

“Who aren’t we hurting?”

You blink, and turn to see Dean next to you.

Once again, you’re a little taller than before. And Bobby seems completely unaware of Dean’s presence, still running through the script of the memory as you walk through the house.

“A rich family from California,” you explain, Dean trailing behind you. “Bobby heard about their haunting, and he decided to take care of it while they were out of town. I got to come because Rufus was busy, and I’d been having a lot of freak outs, so he didn’t want to leave me alone.”

“Huh.” Dean nods slowly. “Why are you holding his hand?”

“Because right now, I’m eleven.” You pause, and extend your free hand to Dean.

He takes it without question, falling right into pace at your side and leaning down to whisper in your ear. “Where are we going?”

“To kill the ubume.”

“What the fuck is an abummy-“

“Oo-BU-me.” You hum, and when Bobby settles in the families kitchen—where you’d been keeping all the books and weapons—your hand doesn’t leave Dean’s. “Dead pregnant lady ghost.”

“Huh. And you killed it?”

“Bobby killed it.” You shrug, watching the younger version of Bobby shuffle around the room, asking you questions that in real life you’d answered, but in the dream are only met with an echo of your words as you keep talking to Dean. “I wasn’t allowed to leave the salt circle.”

“Why-“

“She was napping kids. I was a kid.” You sigh, resting your head on Dean’s shoulder. “And if he tried to take me, I would’ve lost it. And if I lost it, I probably would’ve had an even bigger freak out about losing it.”

Dean hums, keeping your hands interlocked as he slings an arm over your shoulder, pulling you right into his side. “Did you? Lose it?”

“Not today, no. This hunt ends with the ubume ganked-“

Dean smirks. “You said ganked.”

“Shut up-“

“Bossy-“

“You gonna listen, Winchester?”

“Sorry, baby.” He’s still grinning, leaning down to press a kiss to your brow. “Keep goin’.”

Baby. I love you, baby.

Fuck.

“It’s not important.” You mumble. “I get to sing the Goodnight song from the Sound of Music on the stairs.”

“Oh, I remember that.”

You frown at him. “You-“

“You told me about it. When we worked that mall case. You said you wouldn’t sing for me, cause you wouldn’t kill for me.” Dean leans down, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice sending a shiver up your spine. “Would you kill for me now, Princess?”

“I-“ You swallow, turning your head to meet his gaze.

Mistake.

He’s so close. And even though you know this is a dream, he still looks so fucking real. Golden and pretty. All you’ve ever wanted.

All you ever could want.

“I think I would’ve killed for you then.” You whisper, and he blinks.

“And now?”

“I’d do anything.” You can tell him that. This isn’t real, so you’re not breaking any rules by telling him. “You’re- I-“

“I know.” He mutters, and he doesn’t kiss you on the lips. Dean just wraps his arms fully around your body, pulling you right into his chest and combing his fingers through your hair. “Me too. I- I miss you, Princess. I need you to come home.”

Your fingers curl in his shirt. “I want to, De. I- I’m so tired. And it hurts. It always hurts. This fucking sucks.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “It really fucking does. But life’s a bitch, sweetheart. Always gonna hurt. Better to have each other for it.”

“Alright.” You giggle into his body. “When did you get so wise?”

“When I started missing my girl all the time.”

You sigh. “She misses you too.”

“I know. But I hope she knows-“

There’s a bang on your door, and it rips you away from your dream. Away from Dean.

And the Silver is stirring. Nothing has happened but another loud, almost violent knock, but the Silver is already starting to hum and writhe.

That can’t be anything good.

You lay flat on your back, holding your breath until you’re a little light-headed. If it’s nothing, and the Silver is just going haywire, the knocking will stop. Whoever’s on the other side of the door will give up and move on.

But you’ve never been that lucky.

A bored, taunting voice says your name, and the sound is muffled through the door, but you still recognized the fancy, stupid accent.

Fuck.

“We know you’re in there, darling.” Ketch hums from outside. “It’ll so much easier for everyone if we cut to the chase, and you let us take you in.”

You stay silent, but your hands move to your wrists. You’ve been rubbing them until your skin was a little red and raw, and it stings to the touch, and the Silver is starting to turn and turn. It might not be the worst thing to explode on Ketch and whoever else he’s brought. But you’re in a cheap inn, and you’d passed a family when you were checking in. You won’t be in enough control to stop the damage from hitting them too.

But if Ketch tries to grab you, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself, either.

If you were a little better of a person, you’d let Ketch take you. You should be locked up. Contained. Kept where you’ll never hurt anyone, ever again.

But you’d never see Dean again, either. And you’d vanish, and he’s think you’d abandoned him. That you’d given up, or really run away, when it was supposed to be all the way down.

You’d promised Dean all the way down.

You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

So you can’t go without a little some sort of fight. You’ll try and keep the Silver down, but if Ketch thinks this is going to go in his favor, he’s disgustingly wrong.

God, this is still going to suck.

Ketch repeats your name, and you take a long, steadying breath.

You can do this.

“You’re just dragging it out,” he calls. “We’ve got you surrounded, and we’re well prepared. You won’t be getting away this time. I promise, darling, it will be better if you come quietly.”

You almost laugh.

He has no fucking idea what he’s in for.

“I’m busy!” You call, slowing pushing up out of bed, your knife already in your hand. You’ve been sleeping with it. Just in case.

Plus, it reminds you of Dean.

“Can you come back later?”

Ketch laughs, and Jesus, it’s not a pretty sound. “I’m afraid we’re quite busy later. And you are not the type of girl one wants to take a rain check on. You might lose her after.”

You roll your eyes, spinning your knife in your hands. “I think you’ll find that you’re going to lose me anyway.”

“Wrong. We lost you last time because you left our jurisdiction. But now? You’re in our territory. And we’ve been watching you.”

“Of course you have,” you mutter. Your jacket is on, your bag is packed, now you just need to get out.

“You’re quite the fascinating little creature,” Ketch drawls your name, and you wonder—if you punch him hard enough—if you could make all his teeth fall out. “If we can figure out how to tame you, I think Mick would be right. You’d be quite the addition to our organization.”

Organization. You’d guessed they weren’t just a team of fancy fuck hunters, but that confirms it. “I think I’ll pass. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’m afraid it’s not an offer, darling-“

“Oh, well in that case,” you swing the door open, and give Ketch a wide, mocking smile. “I’ll just say suck my dick.”

It’s good to see that he hasn’t fully recovered from the ceiling you dropped on him. He’s holding his gun differently than before, and there’s a slight, forced slump to his shoulders.

He’ll probably get better eventually. But you hope it’s a long, grueling journey until he can fully throw his shoulders back again.

“You always have been so vulgar.” Ketch sighs. “We’ll work on that.”

“No.” You shrug, keeping your smile plastered on your face, even as the Silver grows. “I’m going to recommend you let me past, Ketch. It’ll be easier for all of us.”

He laughs. “Always so overconfident, too. I told you, we’re ready. I’ve got snipers trained on you, in case you try to use that cute little blade. This place is warded, darling. Your magic tricks are useless.”

“Oh no.” You drawl. “It’s warded. What am I going to do.”

“Well, you-“ Ketch’s eyes narrow. “You are being sarcastic.”

“I have never been sarcastic in my life-“

Ketch snaps your name. “You are not working this in your favor, by being uncooperative.”

“I think you’ll find I’m being incredibly cooperative.” You shrug. “I’m trying really hard not to kill you all.”

“Oh, are you-“

“Yep.” Your eyes narrow. “Stand down. Now.”

“I think I’ll pass.” Ketch says, his voice bored, and you sigh.

“Alright,” you swallow, glancing up to the Sky.

Silent. Uncaring. To it, Ketch is nothing more than a firefly. More than just a bug, but still disposable.

“Your funeral.” You give Ketch a grimacing smile. “Let’s dance.”

There’s a moment—as you watch the men behind Ketch raise their guns to your head and your spin your knife in your hands—where you think you might be able to get out of this the normal way.

Then Ketch grabs your wrist, and you’re gone. Tearing through the world once more, growing out and out and out until the Silver is satiated, and the ground doesn’t want to move up and protect you.

It crashes back into you, the blur clears, and it’s such a fucking mess. Another building in ruin. A fucking jackalope hopping around in the strange, black and golden flowers, and a white stag prancing on the high way.

When you sweep the damage, it looks like you got lucky. Most people were out for the day. There’s only a rose-pink receptionist to hold and push back into her body, all of Ketch’s men—they might have had guns aimed at you, but they’re still people—and Ketch himself.

A muddied orange on the pavement. And you could leave him. Dean would tell you to leave him, that he’d tried to kill you and kidnap you, and he has tortured you, so it’s not unjustifiable to just leave him for the angels to find. And they will find him. You’ve already lingered too long, and the angels will be here soon.

But you can’t stop thinking about Jo, draining of all her blue. Growing hollow, just like how Ketch’s body is passed out on the ground.

Before you can think about it too hard, you’re grabbing Ketch’s soul, and shoving it back where it belongs.

You might regret that. You know you’ll regret that.

But it’s done. You aren’t going to take it back.

And you have to go, and not look back.

You’re getting better at not looking back.

Except with Dean.

You’ll always look back for Dean.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Dean’s attention is all focused on John. Shouting at him and raising his hands, high enough that Dean flinches, but never landing a hit.

Dean looks young. Younger than you remember knowing him. His face is softer, and his nose is still crooked but his hair is a lot lighter. While John yells, he’s bowing his head in a way you’ve rarely seen before. There’s no fight in him. He seems to be absorbing every verbal blow John throws at him, only fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves as he waits for it finish.

“He could be hurt, you fuckin’ dumbass- He could be goddamn dead and it would be your fault. I give you one fuckin’ job, and it ain’t makin' him happy-“ John groans, running a hand over his face. “If you don’t tell me where the hell your brother ran off to, Dean, it’s gonna be your fuckin’ head-“

“Why is he mad?” You whisper in Dean’s ear, and he starts slightly.

“Son a bitch, Princess. You scared the shit out of me.”

You grin at him. “Aw, are you jumpy-“

“I don’t get jumpy.” He grumbles, and before you know what’s happening, Dean’s arm is looped around your waist and his face is buried in your neck. “I’m tough, sweetheart. Just didn’t think you’d be here.”

“Right.” You let your fingers wander up to his hair, glaring as John just keeps shouting like nothing’s different at all. “Of course you’re tough, Deano. You’re a cowboy.”

“I know.” He mutters into your skin. “‘M your cowboy.”

“Yeah. You are.” You sigh, glaring at John over his head. “Why is he yelling at you?”

“I let Sammy have a sleepover, while Dad was on a hunt. He got back early. He wasn’t happy I let Sam out of my sight at all, but then I refused to say where he went. That made him pissed.”

“You lied to your dad?”

“Sometimes, yeah. When I had to.”

“This was a have to?”

Dean grunts into you. “Was a sleepover with a girl. Sammy had just turned sixteen.”

You laugh. “Right. Obviously.”

“And I lied to Dad for you, too.” He grumbles, his arms tightening around you. “Never told him about our hunts.”

“I- Why?” You ask before you can stop yourself, and Dean just shrugs.

“He woulda stopped me seeing you. Never wanted to stop seein’ you.” He takes a long breath. “You always smell so good. Drives me fucking insane.”

Jesus. “I don’t smell like anything, De-“

“Wrong. Smell like fucking heaven, I don’t even- Wish I could figure out what it was. Spent so much time trying to figure it out.”

“You lied to John to smell me?”

“Kinda.”

“Oh.“ You swallow. “Did you ever lie so you could have a sleepover?”

“A sleep- You mean to fuck someone?”

He’s so all around you. It’s just a dream, but Dean’s still Golden and surrounding you and almost folded over your body, and you’re not sure how you remember to speak. “Yeah.”

“Never needed to. Only to see you. And I didn’t get laid for that.”

“You didn’t ask to get laid.” You mumble, and Dean chuckles.

“Would you have said yes, baby?”

Baby. I love you, Baby.

“Don’t answer that.” Dean mutters before you can even open your mouth, pulling back with an almost sheepish grin. “Already know the answer.”

You don’t think he does. Even the Dean in your head doesn’t seem to know that you love him. That you’d do anything for him. But he’s holding your gaze, and he’s your Dean again. A little taller, small scars littered on his face that make him look even more like that Cowboy, skin more tanned and eyes far heavier. When his hand lifts up to trace over your features, it’s calloused and rough, and his lips have gone chapped, but he’s still so pretty. And his Gold is still strong.

“I think I woulda run away with you.” He murmurs, and his voice is like a spell. You couldn’t move away if you tried. “Met you a year after this, and- Son of a bitch, Princess, I wish I’d stayed, that night. Pushed my luck with the smartest, prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Missed you then, too. Always missed you. Shouldn’t have listened to Dad. He- I knew he didn’t like me, but I never thought he’d hate me that much. Taking you away from me.”

You let out a slow breath, and shake your head. And you hate John. You hate him more than anything, for what he’s done to you, and Sam, and Dean. But you never want Dean to think anyone hates him. If Dean thinks John did all this because he hated him, Dean will make it his own fault. Make himself a failure, when it was John who failed him. And John—in his own, horrible, selfish, fucked up way—had cared about Dean. You wish he hadn’t.

But he did.

“He didn’t hate you, Dean.” You whisper. “He was just a piece of shit, and he hated me. There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, well, hating you is hating me. You the awesomest part of me.”

You flush, and Dean’s grin widens. “Awesomest isn’t a word.”

“Could be.”

“No-“

“There’s no a better word for you, Princess.” Dean swoops down, kissing your cheek and squeezing your hips until you giggle. “And I don’t care if Dad hated me. You like me.”

“I do.” You whisper, your stupid, ditzy smile returning. “I really do.”

You wake up slowly. Blinking as light seeps through the windows, your blanket still wrapped in your arms as a crude mockery of Dean.

And the better days are like this. Moving slowly through your gathered books—often finding nothing, but sometimes coming across a new spell or ritual or empty clue—and picking at your food, Dean’s voice in the back of your head humming eat, Princess. You need to eat.

You really have gotten better at it, over the months. You register when you need to go to the bathroom, and don’t fight it until it’s unavoidable. You eat less than you maybe should, but enough to not grow dizzy when you stand up. You keep water next to you all the time, and when your hand starts to cramp, you let it rest a little longer than one flex. You’d promised Jo you’d be okay.

And you’re not. You’re still tired, and breaking down, and you want to go home. But at least nobody will look at you, and see a girl that’s really more of a ghost.

Today is one of those better days. Good might be too far a stretch, but it’s better. Simple. Read and eat and drink, go for a walk because fresh air is good for the pain over your skull, take a shower because it’s nice not to feel grime on your skin.

And you could swear the Sky is growing brighter.

All day, it seems to be somehow building brighter and brighter.

And growing. It seems insane, but the Sky seems to be fucking growing until it’s wrapped around more than you. Like it’s bracing you for something you don’t understand.

But everything is peaceful. No demons crashing into your motel room. Nothing from Ketch or his organization since your last detonation. The grass shifts easily in the wind, but the flowers seem to be holding their bloom. You haven’t seen a bird all day. You’ve seen people, nothing else. No bugs, no rabbits, no spiders.

Only a snake in the flower bed, and a dog who whines as he passes you.

It’s strange. Eerie.

Wrong.

Something is, in a way you don’t know how to articulate—but sits and shifts deep in your bones and intestines—wrong.

The Sky is so big. It’s still only watching, but it still seems to be reaching for you.

Not to swallow you.

To veil you.

Hide you.

When the sun sets, the Sky is still shining. Nobody can see it but you, and it’s not making the world luminated, but the Sky is pure white and glaring with danger.

You don’t know from what.

But you know that the Silver is waking up. Nothing has even happened, but the Silver is rolling around inside of you. And you know Dean’s not picking up the phone. You try him, when you can’t sleep under the white of the Sky, but he doesn’t pick up.

He always picks up.

You’ve called him when it was the dead of night for him, and he’s answered with a muffled grumble and sleepy grunts. You’ve called him in the middle of a hunt, and he’s picked up just to tell you he’ll call you back. Once you called him during a movie, and he turned it off to talk.

Dean always picks up.

Something is really fucking wrong.

You try Sam, and you know he’s been put in the panic room for demon blood reasons—although you’re still worried about how long the infection will take to clear his soul—but maybe he has phone privileges-

Nothing.

Bobby. He always picks up after three rings, but this goes all the way to voicemail. You’ve never heard Bobby’s voicemail before. It’s brisk and says nothing more than if you’ve got this number, you know what to do, but Bobby has never been anything if not efficient.

You didn’t leave Sam a message.

You leave one for Bobby.

“Hey, It- It’s me.” You mumble your name, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been calling more, but I thought you’d be mad at me for leaving. I know you’re mad at Dean about it, but he was just trying to- Please don’t be mad at him. I miss you, and-“ You swallow down a sob. The point. You need to get to the point. “I think something’s really wrong, Bobby. It’s- It’s just a feeling, but somethings wrong. And Dean’s not picking up the phone, and I’m really worried, so please just call me back and tell me everything’s okay. I need to know you’re okay, and I- I’m sorry-“

“Fifteen seconds left.” A cool, automated voice hums, and you take a sharp breath. You’re going to fucking cry again.

“I’m sorry. I miss you and I’m sorry and please tell me you’re okay. Something is really wrong, Dad, and I need to know you’re okay, I’m so-“

The machine beeps. You wipe your nose with your sleeve as the message sends, and the feeling of wrong only grows, the Silver pushing up with it. It’s shrinking, like it’s trying to hide in the darker corners of your body, but still gnashing with sharp teeth for when things go wrong.

Things are going to go wrong. Something so fucking primal is rolling over your every nerve, telling you something is wrong. And the wind is howling a warning, and the earth is pressing up to try and guard you like the Sky, and when you turn on the tap water, it’s singing you a soft song. It’s almost soothing. Not like a sedation, but a comfort.

You hole up in your motel room, closing the curtain to try and block the Sky. You pray to Cas and he doesn’t answer, and you try Dean two more times with no luck. Your knife is clutched in your hands, and you’re curled right against the wall, and the water is still singing in all the pipes through the building, and it hurts but the comfort seems to be an anesthetic, and-

You’re not sure where you are. Only that its’s dark and cold and lonely. And high. You’re so fucking high up.

Or low.

You can’t actually tell.

The whole word seems like it’s folded into itself. The sky is at your feet but it’s also above you and at your side. Like an illusion, keeping you contained with smoke and mirrors and light.

There are shadows, creeping forward and trying to touch you. But something always makes them recoil, as if you’re a toxic or poison or feral or-

Silver

It’s the Silver.

You’re only the Silver, and the shadows can’t stand it. They hiss and sneer at the feeling of it, but still try to touch you. Then after they retreat, they try again, Like maybe this time, they’ll be strong enough.

Or you’ll be weaker.

But you’re not growing weaker. The more the Silver is poked at, the bigger it gets.

The bigger you get.

You are the Silver, and you’re more than glowing. You’re bioluminescent and blinding, but still filled with every space between the starts and all the colors colliding and shimmering through you.

Somewhere in the shadows, there’s something red. Bloody, electric red and shining like a black light.

It has more eyes than you can count, and a billion fists, and a million wings. But it’s not made of fire.

It’s made of the same gleaming, wrathful light as Sam and Dean.

And when it smiles at you, the earth shakes.

“Wow. You’re prettier than he deserves.” It hums. “Don’t worry. I can help you fix that.”

You swallow, but before you can respond, everything splits open. All of it. A crack leaking through the mirage, filling with light.

The light of the Sky.

“This is me.” The Red smirk at you. “I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry. We’ll have a lot of fun.”

The Red bursts up, and then it’s gone.

But you don’t move. You’re not trapped. You could follow the Red thing through the crack, but you don’t know how to move. You’re all Silver, and it’s too much. There’s nothing to tether too. Nothing to shrink back into. You just everything and nothing all at once, and it’s as if you’ve been turned into mist and filled with iron all at once, then told to run.

You don’t know how to do anything but sit here. The Sky is watching you, through the crack, and you can’t tell if it’s urging you to move or demanding that you wait for it to grab you by the scruff of your neck-

It yanks you out of the paralyzing sleep. The blaring sound of some screaming part in a Led Zeppelin song.

Sam and Dean don’t to ringtone, but they’re also both legally dead and criminals. You’re a ghost. You don’t run scams, and as far as the government is concerned, you’re a stale missing persons case.

So you get to do ringtone.

And you’ve never been more grateful for that than now.

You grab the phone and answer without checking who it is. You already get to know.

“Dean, fucking- God I was so worried-“

“You were worried about me, Princess?” Dean rasps, and you don’t miss the exhaustion leaking through his voice.

“Of course I was worried about you.” I love you. “Are you okay?”

He sighs. “I’m in one piece. So is Sammy, and Bobby- He will be.”

Will be.

Your stomach twists.

“Something happened, didn’t it.” Your voice is barely a breath, and leaving was a horrible idea. You know something’s wrong, and breathing is starting to become a labor as your skin itches off your body, but there’s no one here to hold you.

Dean’s not here to hold you.

“I-“ You take a shaking, unsteady breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong, Dean, I can feel it-“

“I know.” Dean whispers, and your hand moves up to hold your throat.

The Silver is dormant. But it’s still too much, and old habits don’t decay when you don’t know how to plant anything new.

“It’s- We- Son of a bitch.” Dean clears his throat. “We kinda fucked up.”

You can’t breathe. “What?”

“We failed.”

“Dean-“

“The cage.” Dean mumbles. “It’s open. He’s out. Shit it- It’s bad, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You whisper. “Fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s- Son of a bitch, you were right,” he mutters your name, his voice almost hushed. “It was Ruby. She’d been working with Lilith the whole time, and she tricked Sammy, and he’s such a fuckin’ idiot but I’m worried about him-“

“Dean.” You whisper, and you wish you could touch him. Move his face into your neck, like in your dream. Maybe fold yourself around him and be that damnation for him. “Are you okay?”

“I- Yeah. We got out, everything intact. Something sent us away. We lost Cas for a minute, but turned out something wanted him to stick around. Some demons went for us in Bobby, and he got hurt-“

“Bobby-“

“He’s fine, Princess. Gonna be fine. Stable. We’re actually about to go see him right now. And Sam’s fine too. Detoxing. He’s angry, and we’re- We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You take a shaking breath, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Dean?”

He grunts, and try not to let the strain in your whole body grow audible.

“Are you okay?”

“I told you-“

“You told me Cas and Bobby and Sam are fine. I’m asking about you.”

There’s a long moment of silent static, and you know by now to wait. The line’s not dead. Dean’s just thinking.

And when he speaks, his voice is barely a rasp.

“I- I need you to come back.” He mutters your name, and it’s too soft. “Son of a bitch, I- I can’t keep worrying about you and doing this.”

“Dean.” You sigh. “You know I can’t, they’ll-“

“I don’t give a shit what they do. Heaven or Hell or any of them. Demons rip me up and the angels will just pull me right back out. They need me. Some bullshit about Michael wanting to use me as a condom-“

“What-“

“Long story.” He mutters. “But I don’t fuckin’ care what consequences there are, Princess. Come home.”

There’s another silence as a lump forms in your throat, and you need to speak but words feel far away-

“Please.” Dean’s voice is so low and exhausted. “I need you.”

There it is. What you’ve been asking him not to do for months.

He needs you.

Dean needs you.

And you don’t think you could say no if you tried.

“Okay.” You whisper. “Is Cas- Will he hear me?”

“Think so. Are you-“

“I’m coming home.”

You can hear Dean’s sigh, and it’s filled with relief.

You’re really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t do for him.

“See you soon, Princess.”

“I- Yeah. Bye, De.”

It’s quick, to pack up. Most of your possession now are old, fragile books that better fucking survive angel travel, or you’ll punch Cas in the face. You don’t pray immediately, though. While there was no destruction, whatever had happened last night—Lucifer escaping, you’d been responding to Lucifer escaping, and you don’t know what the fuck that means—the wall are covered in vines and a little waterfall has formed from the window edge, falling down on to the floor-

Ground. You’re standing on the ground. Grass and flowers and tiny trees, and it’s buzzing with life below your feet. Like a little ecosystem, confined to your room.

That’s something the angels will probably be able to track.

You can’t call Cas here.

It’s a short walk than usual, and you stop at a Church. If the angels are sweeping the area, they probably won’t think to find you here. It’s hiding in plain sight.

You close your eyes, and pray.

Cas. Help. Please.

There’s a whoosh, almost immediately.

But it’s not Cas’ low, gravelly voice that comes from behind you.

“You should be careful, sweetheart. Praying in a church.” The bright, almost cheery voice laughs. “You might attract some unwanted attention.”

When you turn, the voice belongs to a shorter man, with longer, blond hair and bright eyes.

But that’s not what makes you stumble back a step.

He’s blue.

He’s so fucking blue.

Like the blue of Cas, turned up to a million. And he has an uncountable amount of eyes shoved into two, a billion fists curled into the same, and a million wings pressed to his back-

“You’re an archangel.” You whisper, and the Blue laughs.

“Wow. That was fast. You know, everything I’ve ever heard about you said you’d be pretty, but smart? Don’t think he planned for that. In for a big surprise.”

You swallow. He can’t smite you. Or hurt you. Zachariah said nothing was allowed to hurt you.

So you raise your chin, and hold the Blue’s gaze.

“What do you want?”

It doesn’t seem to faze him at all. “Damn. Moxie, too? They don’t know what they’re getting with you! A little spitfire.”

You frown. “Moxie?”

“Sorry, forgot you’re only what, thirty?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Shit. Even younger. Basically a fetus.” He shrugs. “Well, kid, moxie means you’re headstrong, little bit sassy-“

“I know what moxie means.” You mutter, rubbing the scar on your palm. “And that’s not correct. I just haven’t heard anyone use the word seriously.”

“Who says I’m serious?” The Blue winks. “I’m the fun one. I’d ask if you wanted to see, but I don’t think that would end in my favor. Already pushing it just by bein’ here.”

“I-“

The Blue cuts you off with a tsk. “I’ve got something to say, sweetheart. Something you’re gonna wanna here, before you do anything stupid.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not doing anything-“

“You’re trying to go home.” The Blue shrugs. “And it is stupid. I know what tree you’ve been barking up, sister, and it’s not the right one.”

“Sister-“

“No.” The Blue cuts you off quickly, shaking his head. “Just a nickname. You’re not my sister. That would be…” He wrinkles his nose. “So fucking gross. Like, we’re a fucked-up family, but not that fucked up. There’s gotta be a line, y’know? I think it’s there.”

The Blue speaks in circles and riddles, and it’s worse than Cas. At least Cas is amusing, and simply doesn’t know better. This guy just seems to be trying to set you off-

“That won’t work.”

You blink at him. “Wha-“

“Your little magic trick. The bam.” He makes a crushing gesture, raising his brows. “Afraid you need to have a little more control and self-love than you’ve got now, to take me out. I mean, the other thing you’ve got, the boom-“ Another gesture. “That might work, actually. Not sure. Let’s not find out.”

Now you’re just too confused, and you’ll hand it to him. The Blue’s vagueness seems to keep the Silver only brimming in your body.

“Look, I’d love to talk with you forever, but we’re kinda on a timer.” The Blue sighs, his tone suddenly falling into something serious. “That tree? The one where you’re trying to work out what you are and how to control it? Stop it. Stop barking.”

“I-“

“You don’t understand what you’re doing.” The Blue says your name, and it’s a little distorted. Louder. Musical.

Enochian.

“You’re changing things. Things that shouldn’t be tampered with, let alone moved around and rearranged however you want.”

“No- I-“ You shake your head, your hands drifting up to rub at your wrists. “I left. I stopped interfering, I promise-“

“You already interfered.” The Blue sighs, giving you an almost sympathetic expression. “Just your existence, just by letting them into your orbit, you’ve done more than you can-“

“But I stopped.” You’re almost pleading. You’d left to stop. To make sure nothing you did hurt anyone you loved. That was the fucking point, you’d stopped-

“Look.” The Blue run a hand—hands?—over his face. “We’re behind schedule, because of you! Little Sammy Winchester actually held on longer against Ruby and the blood, because you planted a little extra doubt in his head! Because he and Dean were fighting, but they fought all the time! He just knew you’d always end up with Dean, and he didn’t want to lose you with his brother, so he held on!”

“I- I don’t-“

“They’re ahead, too! Sam and Dean aren’t fighting as much because of Sam trying longer, and Dean’s thinking about what you would do! And you turned sweet, hopeful Castiel over to their side too soon, and now they’ve got some extra steps on everyone, which is going make this drag. People are gone that should’ve stuck around, and some of them are early, and you’ve made a mess that’s going to take forever to get in order!”

The Silver is still silent, as the Blue throws his hands in the air.

You wish it would turn in, and rip you to shreds.

“I didn’t mean to.” You whisper, your hand returning to your throat. “I promise I didn’t mean to-“

“I know you didn’t.” The Blue shakes his head, and there’s that fucking sympathy again. “But you’ve gotta stop, kid. You’re making this even more complicated than those chuckleheads ever could.”

“But I- I want to go home.” You sound like a child. You don’t care. “I’ll just lock myself in my room, I promise, I but I- I need to go home-“

“Sorry,” The Blue says your name, in Enochian once more. “No dice. He’s looking for you, and that’ll make this all worse-“

“He-“

“My brother.”

“Oh.”

The Sky flashes over you.

The Blue doesn’t seem to see it.

“It’s better if you get some sleep, I think.” The Blue frowns, and it sounds like he’s mostly talking to himself. “Yeah. Sleep will be good for you.”

You don’t want to sleep. You need to get home. Back to Dean. You’d told him you’d come home, so you need to come home-

“Probably won’t hold, but it’s better than the other option.” The Blue raises one of his bursting, electric hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it feel good. Send you someone nice.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but the Silver hasn’t built itself up, and you’re frozen.

And before you can call for Dean, the Blue presses to your brow, and the world goes dark.

“What don’t you think is real?”

You blink at Dean in the dark of the Impala, and a little bit of chocolate milk is smeared on his upper lip.

He’d grabbed a beer, insisting that he didn’t want anything else. But you’d grabbed two chocolate milks, because you know him.

Love him.

Miss him.

You know this is a dream faster than usual. The whole world—even in the dark of midnight—is bathed in gold, just like when you dream about Dean without you. You remember what’s supposed to happen here.

You don’t really want to stray from the script, though.

You love this one.

“What do you mean?” You reach up to wipe the milk off Dean’s face, and he grins at you.

“Y’know. Some of this shit has to be fake.”

You hum, watching him carefully. “Like what?”

“Unicorns.”

“Unicorns are real-“

“I- No they’re not-“

“I’ve seen one.”

“Ah.” Dean grumble, taking another large drink of his chocolate milk. “Of course you have.”

You giggle, scooting a little close to his side to grab the jerky from his lap. His arm goes around the bench. Your shoulders. Casually keeping you pressed against him.

It had never even crossed your mind to move.

“What don’t you think is real?” You ask, and he shrugs.

“I believe what I can see. What I can kill. Monsters, ghosts, me, you-“

“Me? Should I be worried you’re going to kill me?”

“No.” He scowls. “You know that’s not what I meant. And I’m being serious-“

“I know you are, Deano.” You give him an amused look, reaching up to wipe the milk off again. “Do you believe in me?”

“Course I believe in you-“

“Do you believe in Sam?

“I-“ He sighs. “Just say it, sweetheart.”

Okay. You’re being dramatic.”

He’s almost pouting. “No, I’m not-“

“Yes, you are.” You sigh. “It doesn’t matter what might be real or not. I’m real. You’re real. This,” you poke him, and his gaze never leaves yours. “Is real. And I know it.”

“You know it?” Dean shakes his head. “How-“

“I just do. Do you know I’m real?”

He sighs, and nods. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

“Oh, you guess-“

“Shut up.”

You giggle, and Dean grins at you again.

“I’m glad you’re real, Princess. Would suck if you weren’t.”

You smile up at him, and you look stupid, and nothing has ever felt better. “I’m glad you’re real too, De.”

What you want to say—what you always want to say—is I love you. Dean Winchester, you perfect, Golden idiot, I could never love anyone but you.

But you can’t be allowed to. Not even in a dream.

So instead you just lean press your face into his chest, breathe him in, and hope that this moment lasts forever.

End Note: introducing new lore mechanics is always very special to me because I get to share about something I’ve been keeping secret for MONTHS and also you guys get to be confused.

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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