#it's from about 30 they start getting mean | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mononijikayu · 3 days ago

Text

almost like being in love — nanami kento.

“You know, baby. People are intrigued about you.” you said, voice light, teasing. “I think you’re starting to develop a fan club in my silly circles.” He looked over, one eyebrow rising the tiniest bit. “Oh really? Do share.” “After the show, a girl in the bathroom asked if you were single. I told her you were married. To your job. And possibly to me, if I ever get you drunk enough near a temple.” He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a polite cough. Hard to tell with Kento. “Was she disappointed?” he asked after a beat. “Crushed. Said you had the quiet mystery of a yakuza lieutenant and the haircut of a disappointed private school teacher.” “I’ll take that as a compliment, darling.”

Genre: Alternate Universe — Actor’s AU (AU of the AU);

Warning/s: General Rating, AFAB! Reader, Use of She/Her, Use of Female Centered Identification, Pet Names (Pretty Woman, Pretty Boy, Etc), Romance, Fluff, Humour, Love, Hurt/Comfort, Age Gap Relationship (Reader is 30s, Nanami is late 40s), Strangers to Friends, Friends to Lovers, Post–Separation/Divorce, Dating, Feeling, Light–Hearted, Slice of Life, Idiots In Love, Domestic, Teasing, Healthy Relationship, Friendships, Profanity, Soft Smut, Actor! Nanami, Comedian! Reader;

Words: 17k words.

Note: this was a fic that was once again commissioned by @nanamin-chan, so please thank them!!! this was so fun to write because this is just another continuation of the nanami au in the actor's au. this is just romance, everyone. this is just fluff. so, enjoy it!!! i love you all!!!

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

THIS IS NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND’S SORT OF PLACE. But he likes seeing you perform, more so now that you finally were a full–time comic. He told you before, together means together.

Nanami Kento meant that quite literally, and rather seriously. After all, he meant it when he said he’d be happy to be the concept of every other joke you write and make.

The jazz bar in Shibuya was its usual dim-lit self, smelling of shochu, yakitori grease, and dreams deferred by too many company meetings. A place where lost all the poets and tired office workers gathered to forget the trains they'd already missed, to drink themselves to a pounding headache in the morning.

You were on stage for the nth time this week, by a great popular demand no less. Beautifully poised in heels you hated but wore religiously, gripping the mic felt like a second pair of chopsticks.

It looked almost like you belonged there. You stood there like you belonged there, stood there like you were a shining star leading the way into this world. Ever so natural. Familiar. Slightly dangerous when misused.

There he was, as present as ever. Your boyfriend, Nanami Kento. Front row. Always in that tan suit, always punctual. Like time owed him something.

Your boyfriend looked expensive, as always. You didn’t know if he was wearing Gucci or Dior, though. And in some ways, it made him look out of place in such a rowdy space.

He sat with that straight–backed posture, like he’d come straight from a boardroom and not from filming some drama where he played yet another emotionally constipated genius detective.

He was sipping another shot of highball. Untouched plate of edamame. Watching you like you was a particularly intricate Noh performance.

You exhaled into the mic, smiling brightly. "Good evening, everyone. Hope you’re all enjoying your drinks and your snacks. And for the salarymen here tonight—don’t worry, I’m not about to talk about your boss with the beer bill on the company tab. That’s what group dinners are for.”

Light laughter. A few heads bowed knowingly. Kento didn’t laugh. But his caramel eyes merely shifted as much as the edge of his lips did. That was his version of clapping, you’ve learned. In public, your boyfriend has a lot of need to maintain appearances, after all.

“There’s this guy I know." you tilted your head slightly toward the front row. “Someone who comes to every single one of my sets. Every single one. Quite the dedication, no? It doesn’t matter if he’s been working for twenty hours straight or covered in fake blood from a shoot. Tan suit. Scotch in hand. Expression like a banker attending a funeral.”

The audience chuckled, and someone in the back shouted “kakkoii na!” which made you grin.

“I asked him once, ‘Why do you keep coming?’ You know what he said? ‘Because it's the only time I see you exactly as you are.’ Which is either the most romantic thing ever said in this country... or a veiled insult. Still undecided about that, folks.”

Kento raised his glass slightly, just once. A toast? A warning? Hard to say. But you do know it attracts you more to him than before.

“But honestly….” you went on to say. “Being with someone who’s so calm, so steady, so… emotionally economical… It's terrifying. Like dating the concept of wa itself. Harmony, order, beige interiors. It’s a whole thing.”

That got them. A big laugh, especially from the women. “You start thinking you’re the chaotic one. You drop your train card, misplace your umbrella, say something vaguely inappropriate in front of his co–stars. And he just blinks like you’re an unexpected side dish. Not unwelcome. Just… surprising.”

Now even your boyfriend Kento smiled. At least barely. The audience didn’t see it. But you did. And it was better than a standing ovation. That made you realize your set is pretty good. You tailored it to intrigue him after all.

“And yet, you should know, he’s dedicated.” you said, the laughter softening. “He never misses a show. Not one. I told him once he was my emotional support audience member. He just nodded, like I’d finally said something worth filing away.”

The crowd was quiet in that rare, good way. Not awkward. Reverent. Like they'd just been handed a small truth wrapped in a joke. You tilted the mic slightly. “If he ever does miss a show, you’ll know. Either I’ve finally pushed him too far... or he’s dead. Which, knowing him, is the more acceptable excuse.”

Roaring laughter. Applause. Even Kento laughed. Though he did so ever soundlessly, shoulders shifted once. You filed that moment away like a pressed flower between the pages of your memory.

You wrapped up the set with a joke you made up on the train and stepped off the stage. The bar noise rushed back in. The clatter of ice, the low thrum of jazz, someone arguing with the bartender about plum wine.

And there he was. Waiting, as he always did. Glass in hand. Tie slightly loosened but still too perfect. He didn’t go and immediately praised you. He never did, that just isn’t his personality. Instead, he handed you a bottle of water, gently tapped the top of your head.

He murmured to you lovingly. “You paused too long before the wa joke, you know that?”

You smiled. “It was still funny, wasn't it? You smiled!”

“Now, now, a lip ticking up isn’t always a smile, darling.”

“I’m still counting it to be one. That’s my rule!”

He shakes his head at you, finally smiling. “Little dominatrix, you.”

“As I should.” You winked at him, drinking the water.

The evening streets of Shibuya were still humming by the time you stepped outside. Neon signs flickered like cigarette lighters in the dark, and couples passed by hand in hand. You were sure some were freshly in love, others just trying not to argue before the last train.

The night air had that specific Tokyo chill to it: clean, quiet, and filled with possibility if you let it in deep enough through your lungs. Nanami Kento walked beside you, not behind, not ahead. Beside. Just like always.

He didn’t say anything at first, and you didn’t need him to. His presence was its own conversation. You could hear the rustle of his coat as he adjusted the collar, the soft clink of the ice in his highball glass still echoing in your memory.

He was warm and quiet, and the silence between you wasn’t empty. It was full of all the things he would never say unless prompted like a reluctant contestant on a quiz show.

You reached the corner near the bookstore that stayed open too late, the one you both liked, him for the solitude, you for the gossip magazines. He glanced at the window but didn’t stop. You didn’t either.

“You know, baby. People are intrigued about you.” you said, voice light, teasing. “I think you’re starting to develop a fan club in my silly circles.”

He looked over, one eyebrow rising the tiniest bit. “Oh really? Do share.”

“After the show, a girl in the bathroom asked if you were single. I told her you were married. To your job. And possibly to me, if I ever get you drunk enough near a temple.”

He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a polite cough. Hard to tell with Kento. “Was she disappointed?” he asked after a beat.

“Crushed. Said you had the quiet mystery of a yakuza lieutenant and the haircut of a disappointed private school teacher.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, darling.”

You both turned the corner. The convenience store buzzed behind you like a cicada that didn’t know it was out of season. The conversation faded again, but not awkwardly. Kento had a way of folding you into the quiet.

With him, you didn’t need to fill every space with words. Sometimes just walking next to him made you feel whole. With your arms almost brushing, your strides naturally in sync. It was enough to make the whole day feel worth it.

Then, after a while, he said, “You write your set differently when you know I’ll be there.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked straight ahead, not even a hint of a smirk. “There are lines you hesitate on. Jokes you aim directly at me. You don’t do that when I’m out of town.”

“So… you do watch the recordings.” Your brows furrowed, intrigued. “Did you subscribe to receive my content? If so, thank you for the money, baby.”

“I like to study my blind spots.”

You stared at him. He didn’t flinch. “I can’t tell if that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” you murmured. “Or the most Kento thing.”

“Both.”

You stopped walking almost instantaneously. He took a few more steps before realizing you’d not been walking with him and instead, paused a few steps away. When he turned back, you were smiling, crooked and full of disbelief.

“I write differently because you’re the only person I’m scared to lie to, baby.” you said. “Even on stage.”

He tilted his head slightly, then stepped back toward you. Not dramatically. Just... close enough.

“I like the truth, my darling.” he said with suave. “You know this.”

“Even when it’s messy?”

He nodded. “Of course, I do.”

“Even when it’s about you?”

“I prefer it.”

You let out a breath, unsure if you were annoyed or completely undone by him. “You are quite a man.”

“I’m glad you like that.”

“Hm…You are truly….” you said, stopping yourself as you smiled, shaking your head. “You are the most frustratingly stable man I’ve ever met.”

“And yet.”

“And yet, my baby…..You’re amazing.” you echoed, stepping forward to walk again. “You never miss a show.”

He didn’t answer. Just walked beside you, as always. But this time, his pinky brushed yours. Deliberately. Barely. Like a secret. You couldn’t help but feel your cheeks turn red at how tightly his touch brushed on you.

And you thought, Maybe love in Tokyo doesn’t need grand gestures. Maybe it just needs presence. Precision. And a man who never misses a show. Even when the train’s delayed, the shoot runs long, or the punchline might cut a little too close to home.

You laced your pinky with his.

He didn’t look at you.

But he didn’t let go.

IT’S INTERESTING HOW YOUR HOME HAS BECOME MORE HOMELY SINCE YOU STARTED DATING KENTO. Your apartment smelled faintly of citrus-scented floor cleaner. It was sharp and clean in that way that almost tricked you into thinking everything was under control. That tricks you into thinking that chaos was not born in your life. That there was something softer beneath it.

The ghost of the candles you’d lit two nights ago remained unsettled in the abstract goo against the current flames that burned. They’d burned down unevenly on the kitchen counter, flickering over your half–hearted bowl of instant ramen, a quiet, silly attempt to romanticize solitude.

The scent still lingered ever so flagrantly, so still like a flower undoubtedly strident against the wind. Something so acutely warm and vaguely floral, like amber and smoke, clinging to the air like memory.

The lights were low, dim enough to soften the edges of the space, to make the piles of mail on the counter and the dishes in the sink blur into obscurity. Shadows pooled gently at the corners of the room.

Jazz murmured lazily from the Bluetooth speaker, the saxophone winding through the quiet like a thought you couldn’t quite hold on to. Mingus, maybe. Or Coltrane. Something you’d put on because it made the silence feel less lonely.

Your shoes were kicked off in the genkan, one lying half-turned on its side, the other nudged against the wall like it had simply given up halfway to the rack. It was the kind of careless placement that said: I live here.

Not performatively. Not as a curated space for guests or social media. But really live here, feel it with all the life it could offer, all the life you could give it. With all the uneven rhythms and soft chaos that came with it, of course.

The couch was slightly dented where you’d spent the last few nights curled up in the same corner, laptop balanced precariously on your knees, sometimes writing, sometimes watching old films you'd seen too many times before.

A rather comfortable blanket was thrown across the cushions in that deliberate yet accidental way. It was the kind of arrangement that only looks artful when you’re too tired to care.

Kento’s coat was folded over the back of your far flung armchair, ever so meticulously, of course. You could see his suit tie was draped over the edge of your couch, hanging like it had fallen asleep halfway through trying to relax.

He sat beside you, one arm stretched along the back of the massive sofa, a glass of Nikka whisky in his hand, fingers curled around it the way he did everything. It was quietly ever so controlled, and restrained, perhaps measured even. Just like your boyfriend’s entire person was.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked comfortably under you, your own glass resting lazily on your knee. The precious ice had long melted, leaving behind a diluted pool of amber at the bottom. The music from the party had faded into a distant hum through the walls, but neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to.

There was a kind of peace in it that only the two of you would understand. In the way you simply were together, no demands, no expectations. Just two people sharing the same breath, the same silence.

You could feel his presence more than see him, the quiet gravity of Nanami Kento seated beside you, close enough that the air between you seemed to pulse with unspoken words.

It started slow. Barely anything, at first. A brush of his long fingers against your shoulder. It was casual, almost accidental. Your hand slid down, fingertips grazing the inside of his wrist where his pulse beat steady and sure.

The small, almost imperceptible movements spoke volumes, sentences of longing written skin to skin, against yours. It was too strong, too magnetic. It was something that even all the words in the world can’t explain to you or him.

Everything about your chemistry was as boundless as the deep expanse of the sea, thunderous in the world of troubles. Nothing else could matter in that, even if you were caught in the most dangerous beaconings of a troublesome storm.

Your desire, your pleasure, your need for each other was far more loud than all of it, far more powerful than what they think they could put between you or him. Nothing could separate you, you knew that. If anything, you could only want to stay stronger, beside each other. On each other.

A glance a little while later and then it became more than that. You found him looking at you like you were the only person in the world worth seeing. Like you were the only person that could ever be the apple of his eye. You felt your lips part for a moment, looking back at him.

In an instant, your lips melted against his in an outstanding kiss. At first, it was soft. It always starts out that way. It was like a whisper, a question neither of you had the courage to ask aloud. His lips met yours with the kind of careful tenderness that made your heart stumble.

But the second your hand threaded lightly into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the slow flex of muscle beneath, the kiss deepened. Firmer. Hungrier. It always ends up being something that drives you both to drown in the pleasure of the other.

Like every kiss you'd shared before, it built the way an argument does when neither side wants to win. If anything, pleasure dictates that both of you must lose. In this quiet battle of rhythm and stubborn, aching affection, there must always be surrender to the wiles of desire.

And desire between the two of you, it was subtle, magnetic, and once it started, there was simply no stopping it. That’s just how it was when two people are willing to love each other into the depths of pleasurable madness.

Your mouth tasted faintly of whisky and laughter, the easy, sun-warm kind that only ever happened when you were around him. His tasted like patience, like something deeper and more endless than you could ever hope to name. It was smoky and sweet all at once, carrying the faint, intoxicating notes of the highballs he'd sipped earlier at the bar.

When he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further, you caught that ghost of flavor again. All too smooth, warm, and utterly Kento. You made a soft, involuntary sound against him, and he responded in kind, a low hum deep in his chest that you could feel rumbling against your palms as you clutched at him.

One kiss turned into another. And another. It was an endless loop that you both couldn’t stop. Nothing was going to stop you both from taking and taking. Each one of those kisses saying more than words ever could: Stay. Want you. Need you. I love you.

Your glass slid forgotten to the side, a soft clink against the table as your hands found their way up his chest, memorizing the shape of him again, grounding yourself in the solid, steady reality of Kento.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction of an inch, his forehead resting lightly against yours, both of you breathing each other in. His hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone in a silent promise.

"You’re dangerous, aren’t you, pretty woman?" he murmured, voice low and rough, sending shivers dancing down your spine.

You smiled, breathless and a little dizzy. "Only for you."

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world to show you exactly what you meant to him and you realized, in a quiet, resounding way, that he really did.

But you knew that it was not going to last long. But even in the dullness, you know that your boyfriend liked having something intriguing, to keep the flames of passion burning.

Soon enough, it was messy in the way only sober-enough kissing is, all too intentional, all too knowing. His hand slipped under your shirt, not greedy, just certain. Yours tangled in his hair, already a little mussed from the night. You tugged lightly. He hummed, pleased with it all. You’d forgotten the song still playing.

You could barely come up for air. But when you finally did, your faces were beautifully flushed towards each other, your breath falling into his collarbone like a confession. Your lover leaned his head back, caramel eyes closed, chest rising slowly. He was a happy, fulfilled man indeed. And you liked seeing that.

And then, just like that, he asked, “Would you like to move in together?”

You blinked. Pulled back just enough to see his face. No smirk. No nerves. Just that classic Nanami Kento stillness with a dash of nonchalant. Like he’d asked if you wanted to order another drink to be poured on his drink.

“Did you hit your head on something when I wasn’t looking?” you asked, eyes narrowed. “Because that was a tone shift.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, darling.” he said simply. “For a while. It just….makes sense.”

You sat up, heart thudding now. Certainly not from the kissing, not from the whisky but from the quiet way he said for a while. Like it had been living in him. Like it wasn’t a sudden idea, but a decision that had already been made. He was just offering it to you now, carefully wrapped in calm.

“You don’t joke about things like this, Nanami Kento.” you said, half–teasing, half–terrified. “You’re going to be talking about what my shoe closet looks like.”

“I don’t joke about something this serious, darling. You know. Especially about the shoe closet.”

You stared at him. He stared back. You looked away from him, pursing your lips as you began to daydream about what he was saying. You don’t daydream too much, for your own sake, of course. But when you do now, it consumes you.

You begin to think of what your days could look like. Your shirt was crooked, and his button–up was half undone, and the air was thick with possibility and the slight scent of his cologne. You thought about your small closet.

His endless collection of ties. Your bright violet toothpaste. His expensive golden razor. The quiet mornings. The very occasional arguments that always ended in silence and leaning in. The space between you and him, shrinking.

You bit your lip. “If I say yes, will you be freakishly neat and reorganize my spice rack alphabetically once again?”

“Only if you want me to.”

You paused. “...And you’re sure you’re not asking because the whisky made me seem extra charming tonight?”

“You are always charming, my precious darling.” he said, with no irony. “And I’m asking because I want to come home to you. I mean, it’s nice to see you when I get home.”

You tilted your head at him, studying his face in the low light. You always did that when you didn’t quite trust the size of the moment. You held it up to the light like jewelry, trying to see if it caught the right kind of sparkle.

And then, as naturally as anything, you looked at him and sighed. “Well….you’re already always in my apartment anyway. Unless you’re sleeping in your trailer.”

That got him. He laughed. You could hear it reverberating in your ear. It was a soft, deep thing that cracked through the room like thunder far away, the kind that rolls more than it rumbles. Kento didn’t laugh easily. So when he did, it always felt like it belonged to you.

“Yeah, exactly.” he said, tilting his glass, warm caramel eyes still on yours. “It’s more homely than mine, comfortable beyond words.”

You smirked. “Homely? That’s a diplomatic way to describe the leaning bookshelf, the chipped kettle, and the constant state of sock–on–floor.”

“I like it here, darling.” he said. Simple. No room for embellishment. “It’s…..way more sunlight than my godawful apartment.”

You laughed at him. You leaned forward and plucked his glass gently from his hand, setting it down with yours on the coffee table. Then you tucked your legs under his, leaned against his shoulder.

“That's an interesting form of thought.” you said, playing with the hem of his shirt. “You’re saying all this time you’ve been camping out here like some beautifully stoic squatter, and now you’re just formalizing the situation?”

“I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial merger.”

You laughed into his shoulder. “That’s the most you thing you could possibly say, baby.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” he murmured. “You have all the good coffee. And a much better pillow.”

“Obviously, I splurge on myself.” you said, chin tilted up to meet his gaze. “I have taste, after all.”

He nodded, slow and serious. “I did notice. You chose me.”

You paused. Damn him. You weren’t the romantic one. Not really. Perhaps that’s why none of your relationships have panned out the way you wanted it to. You were the wisecrack. The getaway car. The girl with the enraging punchline.

But the way he said things, there was just enough softness behind the deadpan, like the words had passed a board meeting of his thoughts before being released and you couldn’t dodge it. It’s also safe to say that you didn’t want to. You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“Okay, okay. Fine.” you whispered. “Let’s do it. Let’s live together.”

He didn’t smile wide at those words. Kento didn’t go wide all the time, you knew that. But there was a shift in his bright eyes, a stillness behind them that deepened the more he looked at you. It was like a weight over his shoulder had dropped at anchor.

He squeezed your hand once and started caressing your fingers. Kento then leaned in, his mouth brushing yours. It was slower than the first time you’ve made out tonight. It was passionate but it was more reverent. It was like he was kissing the idea of a home rather than a person.

You deepened the kiss this time. Not messy. Not urgent. Just right. And somewhere between the quiet of the room and the cool press of his palm against your lower back, it dawned on you now.

Kento hadn’t missed a show, he never had any intention of doing something like that. And now, he wasn’t going to miss the mornings after, either. All at once, you found yourself falling in love all over again with him.

Later, the jazz music had slowly faded into silence, and the only sound was the rustle of his shirt as he took it off, careful, like he was folding it at the dry cleaners. He never left clothes in a heap. Even here, even now. You found that annoying once. Now it made your chest ache a little.

The two of you now laid there together on the couch soon after your joyous kissing, your legs tangled, your head tucked under his chin, the quiet holding you both like an extra blanket. This sort of silence comes ever so many times after blissful desires being fulfilled between the two of you.

“Where would we live?” you murmured, voice soft from the edge of sleep. “Here? Yours? Or are we doing the whole… new place, new life thing?”

He was quiet for a moment, long enough you thought maybe he’d dozed off.“Here, if you’re comfortable. Your place feels lived in.”

You chuckled. “That’s a poetic way of saying cluttered, don’t you think?”

He didn’t deny it. “But it’s better here despite that.” he added, looking at you tenderly. “You laugh here. And I adore that.”

You blinked, suddenly too awake. You tilted your face up to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“You laugh the most in this space, darling.” he said. “You’re yourself. You come home and sigh, and drop your keys like you’re shedding a persona. It’s honest.”

Your throat tightened, because it was true. And because you hadn’t even realized he noticed. You were always laughing, but this doesn’t mean it’s always as genuine as people think. But when you’re here in this space, comfortable and without prying eyes — only Kento’s eyes watching you, you become the truest form of yourself.

“I can bring my coffee maker too.” he offered to you. “And we can trade the bookshelf for one that doesn’t threaten to collapse every time you breathe near it.”

You snorted, pushing lightly at his chest. “Don’t touch my bookshelf.”

“But it leans like it’s in debt.”

“It’s got character!” You defended. “Besides, I got it for free.”

“$500 dollars is not free.” He raised an eyebrow, the edge of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And so do unstable men, darling. Doesn’t mean you bring them home.”

You laughed at these words, louder this time. It echoed even towards the other side of the kitchen walls. He smiled for real then, the kind he didn’t give to paparazzi or co-stars or anyone on set. The one he saved for you.

You shifted up to straddle his lap, your hands settling on his chest, warm and solid beneath you. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” you whispered, more a realization than a question.

He nodded. “I’ve never been more certain.”

“And what if I’m a terrible roommate?”

“You already are.”

You gasped, dramatic. “Rude.”

“But, it’s not the worst thing in the world.” he said, brushing his thumb against your jaw. “ I like that you’re my terrible roommate. And I’d rather trip over your shoes for the rest of my life than spend another night in a trailer with lukewarm green tea and no you.”

You stared at him. “You know you just tricked me into a lifelong lease, right?”

He kissed your temple. “No trick. Just a very long–term investment.”

You sighed. Surrendered. Sank into him. “You’re too much for your own good, you know that?”

“So are you.” He says, amused, eyes full of love. “But I love you anyway.”

Outside, Tokyo city central buzzed on with its neon lights, distant traffic, another weekend folding itself into the city’s rhythm. But inside, your little apartment held a different kind of electricity. The kind that came not from what was said, but from what had already been decided.

And if love wasn’t about staying through the chaos, the mismatched cups, the jokes that landed late and the ones that cut too deep, then what was it, really?

YOU WERE SATISFIED WITH THIS CURRENT SITUATION. Finally you and Kento got a day off where your schedules aligned. So, on this random day, you both embarked onto every facet of Tokyo Metropolitan in order to go house hunting together.

The real estate agent you got was all perfect. Too perfect, actually. Dressed in that crisp, tailored suit that looked like it came straight out of a movie. His hair was combed back like he was auditioning for a role in a historical drama about upper–class finance bros.

You had half a mind to ask if the place came with a butler who could direct you to your inevitable panic attack. But you didn’t. Instead, you found yourself trying to lock in and focus on making sure you had good water heating for your showers.

“You two are looking for something cozy?” the agent asked, smiling so professionally it made you suspicious.

“Cozy and comfortable.” Kento said, cool as ever. “But with enough space to store all her shoes.”

“I don’t have that many, baby.” you shot back, nudging his arm.

He gave you that tiny, unspoken smile, one that the agent can’t see. Only you saw it. It was the kind that you couldn’t figure out if it was because he was genuinely amused or because he had found a way to subtly insult you without actually saying anything. Either way, it was frustratingly attractive.

The agent beamed. “Ah, yes, of course. We’ll aim for something with great closet space then, yes? A walk–in? Maybe two?”

You looked at Kento. “Are we living in L.A. now? Do I need to start measuring the walk–in closet for a vanity?”

Kento was silent for a beat. Then, with the kind of dry humor only he could pull off.“You could definitely use a vanity. I’ve seen your makeup bag.”

“I heard that.” you muttered.

Meanwhile, the agent was nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, yes. A vanity. We can definitely make that happen. What about an open-concept kitchen? Something with a large island? Perfect for cooking together.”

You and Kento exchanged a look. A silent agreement passed between you. “Yes, that would be good.” Kento said smoothly, “I’ll do the cooking, she’ll do the eating. Well, when we have the time.”

“Hey!” you protested.

“I’m just saying, darling.” he continued, mirth in the corner of his eyes. “You’re more of a ‘delivery’ person.”

You threw a playful punch at his shoulder, but the agent didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy mentally planning the layout of your future life in a house that, as of right now, was just a pile of well-choreographed words.

“So, here’s the first place for you both to view.” the agent said, gesturing grandly as if he was presenting you with the last plot of land on Earth. “A beautiful two–bedroom townhouse, open space, natural light pouring in through those big windows. I know you both like that.”

You stepped inside. The place was nice, in that “too perfect, too clean, not a single imperfection anywhere” kind of way. The walls were white, the floors were polished wood, and there was one of those fancy glass showers with no curtain, because apparently, that’s a thing now. There was a room that could be a study, but you both knew it would be more of a “catch–all for all your stuff you don’t want anyone to see” room.

“It’s……interesting.” you started, trying to be diplomatic. “Very... minimalist.”

“Minimalist?” Kento raised an eyebrow, stepping into the living room. “It’s like they took everything from a showroom and put it into a place with no soul.”

The agent smiled, clearly too trained to let the comment rattle him. “Ah, yes. We can certainly add some personal touches. But the layout is ideal.”

You looked at Kento, who was already over by the window, staring out at the view like he was plotting a great escape. “It’s fine, really.” you said, but there was a hesitation in your voice. “It’s just... not us, you know?”

“Yeah, I agree.” Kento said, voice low but sharp. “It feels like someone else’s idea of a home. Not ours.”

You didn’t even have to say anything. You just knew. He knew. This was a ‘try again’ kind of place. The agent was already leading you to the next property, which was thirty minutes away from this place.

Neighborhood was quiet so far, which Kento liked. You just don’t know how they’ll like you afterwards when you make ridiculous jokes out loud to practice your sets. You were very loud after all. And that also happens more so, when Kento becomes too enamoured with you.

“We’ll have to move fast here.” he said, eager, “I’ve had quite a bit of interest in this one. A lot of competition.”

Kento turned to you, eyes twinkling with barely-contained sarcasm. “Oh good, maybe we can start fighting for it. Really amp up the drama.”

“Great, great.” you said, just as mischievously sarcastic. “I can finally get that dramatic screaming match in before we settle in. A few raised voices, maybe throw in a wine glass for good measure.”

Kento chuckled. “Perfect. Maybe the house will actually start to feel like home then.”

The agent led you to the next house, which was a bit further from Tokyo Metropolitan. But it’s not too bad. It was a slightly less–polished version of the first, but with more charm.

A real fireplace instead of the fake one that gave you heartburn just by looking at it. It felt... real in a way the last one didn’t. It was imperfect. But it had character. The kind of character you could shape, add to, make your own.

“Now this one, it's intriguing.” Kento said, the corners of his mouth turning up. “This feels like it could work.”

You walked through the rooms together, each step you took feeling a little more like it was yours. The light was warm. The space felt like it could hold both of you for as long as you both lived. It could fit your shoes, his ties, your inevitable pile of random things that just seemed to find their way into your life.

And when you looked at him, when you caught his bright caramel eyes across the room as he traced his finger along the edge of the counter, you realized something important.

You weren’t looking for perfection, that was for sure. You weren’t looking for minimalist or an open–concept kitchen with a huge island. You were looking for something that felt like it would fit you both. Something you could grow into, something that would hold your laughter, your fights, your quiet mornings.

“So, baby…..what’s on your mind?” you said, slipping your hand into his. “What do you think? Are you willing to share a closet with me?”

Kento looked at you for a long beat, then cracked the smallest smile. “I already do.”

“Well, that settles it.” you said, “I’m sold then.”

The agent looked confused, probably waiting for some big, final decision or maybe an overexcited explosion from both of you. But you and Kento were more calm about this than he probably thought. Yet you know that sometimes it’s not about the house or the grandeur of it all. It’s about what you bring into it.

You turned to the agent, smiling. “We’ll take it!”

“Do you not want to hear about the amenities—”

“Your pamphlet had the information and I read it on the way here.” Kento says, cutting the agent off with a suave look. “We’ll take it.”

“A–ah, I see….well, alright.” The agent rubbed the back of his head, flustered and confused.

You turned to the agent, who was still awkwardly waiting for some sort of real answer, and grinned. “Wrap it up for us, okay?” you said, voice as sweet as it could be. “We’ll take it. Seriously.”

The agent blinked, clearly not expecting you to make the decision so quickly. “You’re... sure?”

You nodded, a little too casually. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not perfect—but it’s good. It feels right. Right, Kento?”

Kento, who had been silently nodding in agreement for the past minute, raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, sure. It’s got potential. And I like that I won’t have to climb over a pile of shoes every time I come through the door.”

You shot him a look. “You’re one to talk. Your shoes multiply like they have a life of their own.”

He shrugged with that calm, nonchalant smile of his. “What can I say? I’m a high-maintenance guy.”

The agent was looking between the two of you, still a little confused but clearly relieved that you were on the same page. “Well, in that case, I’ll start drawing up the paperwork.”

You smiled, standing a little straighter now that the weight of the decision had settled into your chest. “Great. Let’s get this over with so we can go drink to our terrible, amazing decision-making skills.”

Kento leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as reality settled in. “We own a house together now.”

You beamed at him, almost jumping in his arms, giggling. “We own a house together! Oh, I’m so happy, Kento!”

“I think I’d rather make this place a home with you than spend one more minute pretending that’s what that other place was.” He says, placing a kiss on the temple of your head. “This is our home now.”

You sighed dreamingly, smiling. “Our home….”

“The packing is going to be crazy, though.” You whistled, looking around. “Oh, that’s where the bookshelves could be!”

Kento chuckled beside you. “You’re going to need a lot of whiskey for that.”

“I’ll bring the whiskey if you bring the moving boxes, baby.” you quipped, playfully nudging his side.

He grinned. “Deal. But you know, you’ll be the one organizing everything, right?”

You gave him a look of mock horror. “Are you trying to start a war, Kento? Because that’s how wars start.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Fine. But I’ll do the heavy lifting.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you say now…”

Kento’s eyes twinkled with a touch of mischief. “I’m a man of my word.”

The agent watched you both banter, clearly fascinated by the easy chemistry between you two. He cleared his throat, snapping you back to the task at hand. “I’ll get everything started for you. You’ll have the paperwork to sign by tomorrow. Congratulations, you two. It’s a beautiful place.”

“Thanks so much.” you said with a smile, “We’re excited. It’s gonna be great.”

As the agent left, you both stood in the empty living room for a few moments, letting the reality of it all sink in. “You know, baby. Half of this was a nightmare.” you said, finally breaking the silence. “When I woke up this morning, I was kind of dreading this whole process. But now that it’s over, it feels…” You trailed off, glancing around the room.

“Easy?” Kento offered, his voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah.” You nodded, leaning against him. “Easy.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “So, what’s next?”

“Next?” You raised an eyebrow. “Well, we’ll need to unpack. And then maybe—”

“Then maybe we can do something.” he interrupted with a soft laugh. “You know, we can celebrate with a ridiculously expensive bottle of wine and a night on the couch, just the two of us. No packing. No organizing. Just... us.”

You looked up at him, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “That sounds perfect.”

And for once, you didn’t think about anything else. No performances, no deadlines, no next steps in the grand plan. It was just him, and the apartment, and the future you two had already started building, one whiskey-fueled kiss at a time.

“Alright, alright.” you said, looping your arm through his. “Let’s go home.”

“Home….together.” Kento repeated softly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like the two of you were just visiting your lives. You were living them. Together. Forever and forever.

YOU ALWAYS ENJOY VISITING THEM. Regular people will think that it’s weird that you enjoy the company of Kento’s family, especially his ex–wife’s presence. But you do, you do enjoy it. And you aren’t ashamed of it. They loved you just as much as you loved them, after all.

The moment you stepped into his ex–wife’s house, you knew it was going to be a night. Not a “pass the soy sauce and let’s be civil” night—no, this was shaping up to be a “smile through the tension, eat too much, and pray no one brings up that thing from 2018” kind of evening.

The air smelled like grilled miso eggplant and inevitable chaos. Gojo Satoru answered the door in socks that said “Sexiest Dad Alive” and a kimono robe that was 100% not his. He still looked like a beautiful man, a ridiculous man just the same. And not your type.

But you know you can’t judge that much. You’re dating a man with a reputation like Kento as well. You smiled at him, greeting him. He grinned like a man who just knew he was going to stir the pot and was already preheating the spoon.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the power couple of the year.” Gojo declared, smiling brightly. “Come in! We’ve been emotionally preparing.”

Kento rolled his eyes so hard you heard it. “Can we go one night without theatrics?”

“You married a woman who schedules her sarcasm, Kento–kun.” Gojo shot back. “Clearly, you like theatrics.”

You patted Kento’s arm. “He has a point.”

“He spent years yearning for her too, you know.” Kento whispers.

“But you married her first, so….” You snicker at your boyfriend.

“Okay, what is this topic?”

Kenshin and Keiko were already on the couch, each with a plate of food and an expression that screamed, “We are only here for the drama.” Nanami Keiko was mid–bite with her lasagna bowl when she spotted you both.

“Oh god, you’re here for dinner!” Keiko said through a mouthful of snacks, eyes widening as you and Kento stepped into the living room. “Is this the dinner where you announce you’re getting a dog? Because I’m prepared to cry.”

“Is that how you greet your father?” Kento asked, raising an eyebrow at her, all dry patience and faint exasperation.

“Hey, it’s not too bad, Dad.” Keiko said, grinning as she brushed crumbs off her sweatshirt and stood up from the couch, “I thought it was just going to be a regular dinner, Dad. You didn’t say there’d be announcements. You’ve trained me to expect stoic silence and miso soup.”

You bit back a laugh, shrugging out of your coat as Kento exchanged a long-suffering look with the ceiling. “She’s gotten more dramatic since the last time.” he muttered. “My daughter, a doctor at the hospital but a menace at home.”

“It’s in the blood, isn’t it?” you said, grinning at him. “Just like her father.”

“Don’t encourage her, darling.” he replied, but the twitch of a smile betrayed him.

Keiko walked over and gave him a quick hug, the kind that started sarcastic but ended sincere. “How was your trip here?”

“Rather long, really.” he said, placing a hand on her back briefly.

Kenshin raised a brow. “But isn’t the trip only one hour max? I mean, even shorter if there was a bullet train.”

“Someone on the train was watching a drama at full volume.”

“Ah.” Keiko nodded. “Yeah, Dad hates that.”

“Dad’s better than me, I would have been crashing out.” Kenshin retorted, shaking his head.

“Did you ask them to turn it down?” she asked.

“I put in earplugs, [name] gave it to me on the way.” he said flatly. “And mentally rewrote the last act.”

Kenshin raised a brow. “What was the show?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You just saw the show an hour ago!”

“Well, it was that forgettable.”

“You’re such a dad.” Keiko said with a sigh.

“I am your dad.”

“I know. That’s why I said that.”

In the corner, Gojo Satoru popped his head into the room, already holding a beer and smiling like he knew exactly what chaos was about to happen. “Is this the dinner where you tell us you’re engaged? Or moving to Okinawa to open a soba shop? I need to mentally prepare.”

“It’s not that dramatic, you know.” you said quickly, laughing.

Gojo tilted his head. “You sure? Because Kento–kun here looks like he practiced something in the mirror.”

“He always looks like that, Gojo.” Keiko said. “Even when we were kids he was like that!”

Kento sighed. “Can we just sit down for dinner like normal people?”

“Sure, sure.” Gojo said, winking as he took a sip of his beer. “Right after you make your Very Important Announcement.”

Kenshin, who had been pretending not to eavesdrop from behind his phone screen, immediately perked up. “Wait, no, no. This feels bigger. This feels like living together level big.”

Keiko gasped, dramatically clutching her chest like a kabuki actress mid-tragedy. “You’re moving in together?! That is a dog-level announcement!”

Gojo pointed at her with his beer. “Told you. I can smell news. I’ve been around press conferences.”

Kento sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can everyone please stop shouting?”

“Seriously, Dad?” Kenshin’s eyes widened. “You’re moving in together? Wait, [name], are you pregnant?”

You and Kento froze in sync like a badly rehearsed improv duo at Kenshin’s statement. You were about to say something after recovering from shock but Kento’s ex–wife, bless her well–moisturized soul, appeared in the doorway with a bowl of tsukemono and the timing of a sitcom character.

“What’s this about living together?” she asked with a smirk that said I already know but I want to see him squirm.

You cleared your throat and elbowed Kento gently. “Well, funny you should mention it…”

Kento, ever the man of zero dramatic flair, stood up, adjusted his sleeves, and said flatly, “We’re moving in together.”

You turned to all of them, with wide eyes. "But not pregnant! Just clearing this out now. Not pregnant!"

Keiko blinked. “Wait, is this serious this time? Like genuinely, seriously happening?”

Kenshin choked on his drink. “Does that mean I can have Dad’s place?”

“Absolutely not, Kenshin.” Kento deadpanned. “You have your own place.”

“Wait, wait.” Gojo said, grinning like a man who just got handed a new toy. “You’re officially cohabiting? As in, toothbrushes next to each other? As in, shared Netflix password?”

“I’ve had his Netflix password for months, don’t worry about that.” you said sweetly. “But thank you for your concern.”

Kento gave you a look. “That explains the K-dramas in my watch history.”

His ex–wife laughed, which might’ve been the most surprising part of the night. “Honestly, I’m thrilled for you. He’s less grumpy since you started dating. Which is a miracle, because I thought his base setting was ‘dissatisfied salaryman.’”

“Still is, if we’re being honest.” Gojo Satoru whispered behind his hand, then dodged a kick from Kento under the table. “That sorcerer salaryman role never left your head!”

“Did you guys buy a new place or is one of you moving in together?” His ex–wife asked.

“Well, we decided that it was going to be my place originally but…..we’ve discovered we’re two maximalists with a dream and my apartment is not gonna fit all the shoes and his ties.” You say, with a grin on your face as she laughed. “We got a new place.”

Keiko grinned. “I’m just glad you got a new place. Dad’s current place sucks, you know? It’s basically a makeover show waiting to happen.”

“You’re right, it definitely sucks!”

“Seriously, though.” Kenshin added. “If you live in Dad’s apartment, you’ll come home one day and your books will be alphabetized by emotional trauma.”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough.” Kento muttered, setting down his chopsticks. “Can we eat without treating this like a roast?”

“No, never.” everyone, including you, replied in unison. Kento rolls his eyes as everyone giggles.

You leaned into Kento, whispering, “You know, for a guy with two kids, an ex-wife, and a Gojo in his life, you’re taking this really well.”

He sighed. “This was a mistake.”

You smiled, kissed his cheek, and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Too late. I’ve got the closet rights now.”

Gojo raised his glass. “Well, we should celebrate. Go on, raise your glasses! To shared closets and questionable life choices!”

And just like that, the tension broke. Laughter filled the room. Food was passed. Kenshin asked if he could borrow your air fryer. Keiko tried to sell you on a shared Spotify family plan. Gojo tried to emotionally adopt you again.

And Kento, stoic, stable, secretly soft Kento. He just smiled that small, rare smile he saved for moments like this. Surrounded by family, chaos, and a woman who laughed too loud and wouldn’t let him alphabetize her spice rack.

Home wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t calm.

But it was his.

And now, officially, it was yours too.

Later that night, full of soy sauce and feelings, you found yourself wedged between Keiko and Gojo on the couch like some unwilling member of a variety show panel. Gojo was enthusiastically showing you a video montage of Kenshin’s high school stage play performance. Kenshin, from across the room, was groaning into a decorative pillow.

“Stop acting like you weren’t brilliant.” Gojo said proudly, pointing at the screen where Kenshin delivered Hamlet’s soliloquy with all the intensity of someone discovering existential dread and acne at the same time. “I mean, for an information science major, this is not half bad!”

“I think I stuttered somewhere around here….”

“But that really doesn’t matter in the long run, anyway! You held off your own despite that. Good job!”

“Though, the wig looks off.” Keiko whispered under her breath. “Where did you buy it?”

You nodded at her. “Yeah, this looks like you pulled it together from the shower drain!”

Kenshin blushed. “Look, I tried to style it myself but failed!”

Meanwhile, Kento stood in the corner of the kitchen, nursing a cup of tea and looking like a man watching his dignity dissolve into miso soup. His ex–wife leaned against the counter beside him, sipping her wine and trying not to laugh too obviously.

“You look like you’re regretting life choices.” she said, sipping with a knowing smile.

“I’m not, I promise.” Kento replied quietly. “I just didn’t realize how... loud everything was.”

“You always forget.” she said, nudging his arm. “Then you end up in a room with all of us and remember why noise–canceling headphones were the best thing you ever bought.”

“I guess.”

“I’m glad for you taking this next step, you know?” She says to him with earnest eyes. “It’s good that you finally got your shit together.”

“Hm, I’m glad for that too.” He crossed his arms, whispering under his breath.

Across the room, you were now trying to explain to Keiko and Gojo how you and Kento managed to choose an apartment without passive-aggressively breaking up at IKEA. For a moment, Kento and his ex–wife stopped what they were doing and looked at you.

“This was for the best.” Kento whispered, almost breathlessly. “I’m happy we’re friends, our kids are alright with this. And we’re happy.”

His ex–wife smiled. “I’m glad we feel all the same things.”

Keiko looked genuinely impressed. “You mean you agreed on furniture? Like, voluntarily?”

“Well, not really.” you said, “I said mid-century modern, and he said, ‘functional’ and then we bickered like children. But, we finally met somewhere between emotionally repressed and tragically tasteful.”

Gojo snorted. “So, beige.”

“Very beige, unfortunately.” you said to him.. “But with the possibility of color. Eventually. If Kento has a glass of wine and I cry about the lighting.”

Kenshin piped up from the other couch. “So basically, you guys are domestic now. Gross.”

You shrugged. “Deeply domestic. I saw him fold laundry last night with reverence.”

Kento, hearing that, called out: “Because you washed a red sock with my white dress shirts.”

“Oh please,” you said. “They’re barely pink. They're a millennial blush.”

Keiko whispered, “God, you guys are already like an old married couple.”

“We’re working on it even more than before.” you said proudly, raising your tea like a trophy. “Just watch!”

Eventually, the night started to wind down. The kids cleaned up dishes without being asked (a rare planetary alignment), Gojo offered to pack you both some leftover tamagoyaki “for energy” and Kento's ex–wife hugged you warmly by the door.

“I’m happy for you, both of you.” she said again, softer now, so only you could hear. “He’s better with you. Not different—just...better.”

You blinked, a little surprised by the lump in your throat. “Thanks. That means a lot. I really love him.”

“I know, I know.” she said. “So do I. Just... in a way that makes me happy he’s yours now.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just squeezed her hand and tried not to get weepy over pickled vegetables.

Kento reappeared with both your coats and your leftovers packed like they’d been engineered by a Tetris champion. He kissed the top of your head. “Ready?”

You nodded. “Always.”

Gojo shouted from the living room, “Text me when you get home so I know he didn’t alphabetize your bookshelf while you weren’t looking!”

“He already did!” you yelled back.

Kento groaned. “You said it looked better.”

"It's not like I'm denying that, baby."

"Well, you might as well have."

You waved goodnight, stepped out into the chilly Tokyo evening, and slipped your hand into his. And for all the teasing, the noise, the unsolicited parenting advice from Gojo Satoru. This was what it came down to. Two people, moving in together. No fanfare. Just leftovers, pink shirts, and shared keys.

Home was no longer a place. It was walking down the street with him beside you, bickering about sock colors and furniture shapes, and knowing—without a doubt—you’d do it all again tomorrow.

YOUR SET WAS PRETTY GOOD TODAY. No, no. Scratch that. It was great. One of those rare, glittering Tokyo nights when everything just clicked. The mic felt like an extension of your arm, the spotlight hit you like a confession from someone you’ve secretly hoped would crack, and the crowd?

The crowd was yours. Eating out of your hand like you were handing out free matcha Kit Kats and emotionally healthy communication. You were flying. Every punchline landed smoother than a shinkansen on a clear track.

Your timing was tighter than your vintage Levi’s after a full wash and a late-night conbini run. Even the new material hit, especially the one about Kento’s deep, unsettlingly sexy relationship with organization.

You leaned into the mic, grinning. “So I live with this man now—yes, thank you, I know, I deserve a medal. And I’ve learned something: he doesn’t just organize the fridge. He curates it."

People start to laugh, but you shush them. "Oh, this is no joke, people. The soy sauce is labeled ‘fermented umami solution’ and it’s filled next to a vision board and a bottle of yuzu that has better lighting than I’ve ever had on a Zoom call.”

That earned a full-blown ripple of laughter. Someone in the front row clapped spontaneously, which was a bit much, but you’d allow it. You were willing to get what you were gonna get with that joke, you knew.

You pushed on. “And I opened the vegetable drawer, once—and found a mood calendar. With stickers. Stickers! Tuesday’s daikon was feeling introspective, Thursday’s was gassy but resilient. The carrots were listed as ‘optimistic but emotionally reserved.’ I haven’t touched a vegetable since. I’m afraid I’ll mess up the vibe.”

There was a sputtering sound from somewhere in the back, someone choking on their highball. You paused dramatically, then dropped the kicker. “And he doesn’t just store things, okay? He gives them purpose. I caught him whispering to a bottle of sesame oil. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ He goes—dead serious—‘Encouraging it to fulfill its potential.’”

The room exploded with that one. Even someone at the bar had to steady themselves on a stool. That has pleased you quite a lot. You giggled, moving about to reset in order to get into another joke.

You glanced sideways, second stool from the left. There he was once again. Nanami Kento. One elbow on the bar, tie slightly loosened, whisky in hand, that signature calm stretched across his face.

He wasn’t laughing out loud, as always, because of course not. But there was the twitch. The barest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth like a secret only the two of you shared. You’d hit the mark. The audience knew it. You knew it. And Kento? Kento knew it before you even picked up the mic.

The set closed with a bang. Applause burst like confetti. You bowed to everyone, continuing to thank them. You were glowing, buzzing, alive as you waved back away to them. And then you saw him.

Near the exit. Holding a bouquet of slightly wilted pink roses like a man hoping flowers could make up for... well, everything. You feel like you are gonna puke. Why would he even be here? Your stupid ex. “There she is!” came a voice behind you.

You turned to where you heard the sound, and there he stood now. Your ex, this close to you. Everything felt like this was the human version of a paper cut that never quite heals. Holding flowers, because of course he was.

You remember why he was the Ex, with a capital E. The guy who once ghosted you after introducing you to his cat like that was a serious milestone. The one who once told you your ambition was “charming but exhausting” which is exactly what people say right before they buy a motorcycle and move to Kyoto to "find himself."

He was standing there. Holding flowers. Actual flowers. Like it was a school recital or a K-drama. Roses, of course, classic, dramatic, and completely impractical. You hated how you had no way around him on this stage design.

“Hey.” he said, with that familiar crooked smile that used to make your knees weak but now just made you want to check your emotional firewall.

You blinked. “You lost? Because I know a good therapist who can help you find closure.”

He laughed. “I came to see your set. You were great. Really. Like... better than I remembered.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thanks…..Are you still ghosting your therapist or have you finally learned how to communicate in full sentences?”

Behind him, like a silent film villain with perfect posture, Nanami Kento was watching. Calm. Cool. And terrifyingly still. The kind of stillness that said I am not jealous, I am just evaluating the best time to throw this man into the river without disrupting public peace.

The Ex offered the flowers. “Thought I’d bring these. To say I’m proud of you. And sorry. For… y’know. Stuff.”

You crossed your arms. “Stuff? Wow. Really digging deep into that emotional vocabulary, huh?”

Kento finally walked over, not fast, just… decisively. Like a slow-motion threat in a beige trench coat. “Evening to you.” he said to the Ex, voice polite but with the undertone of someone who can fold a person like laundry. “Can I help you?”

The Ex straightened up, suddenly remembering that Kento existed and that he was, in fact, built like the kind of man who can deadlift emotional baggage and you, if necessary. Unfortunately, he is still a man who wants a woman.

“Just dropping off some flowers.” the Ex said quickly. “Friendly gesture, if you will.”

Kento nodded slowly. “They’re nice. But she’s allergic to cheap apologies and filler greens.”

You nearly choked on your laugh. But you knew you couldn’t stop it for so long. So you try to make it about coughing. The Ex looked between you two, clearly realizing he was very much not the main character anymore.

“Who are you anyway?”

“Isn’t it obvious who I am?” Kento retorted back at him. “I’m the guy she’s using as her material. That means I’m her boyfriend.”

“O–oh….wait, you’re dating this guy? And you moved in together?”

You nodded at him, snickering. “Hm. Why, you want him? I’m sorry, he’s one of a kind. I cannot share.”

“That’s—”

“Is there a problem with that?” Kento asked, raising a brow.

“No, no…not at all……Right. Well… good luck with the whole moving-in thing. Hope it works out.”

“It already is.” you said, plucking one of the roses and handing the rest back to him. “Here. Take these home. Maybe give one to that rice cooker you never committed to.”

He walked off, bouquet tucked awkwardly under his arm like regret wrapped in cellophane. You turned to Kento, who hadn’t said much after your former lover left, but you knew he didn’t have to. His hand brushed yours, tenderly touching you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You smiled. “Better than okay. That was almost fun.”

Kento raised an eyebrow. “You call that fun?”

You slipped your arm through his. “I call you fun. That counts, right?”

He looked at the rose in your hand. “You know that doesn’t match the rest of the flowers I got you last week.”

“I know, I know.” you said, smirking. “Yours will always be the prettiest, baby.”

Later that night, after your ex had limped out of the club like a man who’d just realized he’d missed the last train of a relationship he never really understood, you and Kento were back at your apartment, settling into the warm, familiar space that had become yours.

Kento poured the sake into the cup. He poured it ever so slowly, deliberately, as if he was pretending to focus on the glass in his hand, but you knew better. You could see the slight furrow in his brow, the way his fingers were wrapped around the glass, not in their usual composed manner, but a little... tighter. A little more tense.

You raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

He didn’t look at you, still focused on the sake, as if contemplating its entire existence. "I'm fine."

You leaned in, amused. "Sure? Because I’ve known you long enough to know that ‘fine’ is a word you only use when you're pretending everything's fine, and we both know that's never true."

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. "It’s just… you’re not really the only one with an ex who’s got unfinished business."

You blinked, surprised. "What does that mean?"

He gave a half-laugh, half-grumble. "I just think it’s… interesting, that’s all. How he—" He gestured vaguely with his glass, "—just shows up like that. After everything. And, I mean, flowers? Really?"

You couldn't help but smile, trying to mask the laugh bubbling up. "Are you jealous, Kento?"

He shot you a side-eye. "No."

"Uh-huh."

He looked away again, his tone cool but laced with something slightly irked. "I just think it's... unnecessary. All that 'sorry' talk. Like he’s trying to rewrite history, thinking he can come back in with flowers and make up for all of it. It's... a bit much."

You raised an eyebrow. "It’s flowers, Kento. Bad ones too, if I’m being honest. You know the kind you give when you’ve ruined someone's day. He was just trying to do something... nice."

He paused, then, slowly, as if to measure his words, he added, "Yeah, I just… didn’t like the way he was looking at you. Like you were his."

You blinked. “You’re seriously telling me you’re jealous of my ex right now? He’s an ex for a reason.”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "I’m not jealous, okay? I’m just saying it felt… off. Like he thought he had some claim over you. And you’re mine. You’re with me."

The way he said it, in the quiet, intense conviction in his voice had all but sent a little shiver through you. Nanami Kento, the man who was always the picture of control and composure, suddenly looked... vulnerable.

You set your glass down and leaned toward him, giving him a teasing smile. “You know, for a man who’s so secure, you’re acting like a guy who’s a little nervous.”

Kento didn’t look at you this time, his eyes focused firmly on the bottle of sake as if it were suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. "I’m not nervous. Just… protective, I guess."

“Protective?” You laughed softly, though there was a warmth in your voice. “You? The guy who’s basically a walking Zen garden?”

“Even Zen gardens need boundaries, you know.” he shot back, finally meeting your gaze.

That made you pause, the playfulness fading into something a little deeper, a little more real. Kento was never the type to show this side of himself. Not to you. Not about him. But here it was, this quiet, unspoken vulnerability, wrapping around the edges of his usual stoic demeanor.

You smiled, reaching out to touch his hand gently. "Kento… you don’t have to worry about my ex. He’s history. The past. You're my future. You’ve been that since the first time we walked into a room together and you didn’t even flinch when I accidentally spilled coffee all over your suit."

He half-smiled at that, the edge of tension softening. "That was a lot of coffee, and you did look very sorry about it."

"I did. But the thing is…" you trailed off, leaning closer to him, your voice soft but clear. “You’re the one I’m with now. You’re the one who’s here. The only one I need to see at the bar. The only one I need to come home to. So, please don’t start getting territorial over cheap stupid bouquets. They’re not worth the drama.”

Kento’s eyes softened, and he took your hand, squeezing it lightly. “I know. It’s just… I’ve never been good at sharing what’s mine.”

You smiled, feeling the warmth spread through you. "Well, good thing I’m not his to share anymore, right?"

“Right, alright….” he muttered, still a little grumpy but now, with that tiny smile tugging at his lips. “Just don’t expect me to be the one handing out flowers when you’re on stage next time. I’d rather just sit there and admire you from the back of the room.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, a little teasing, a little sweet. "I like it when you're watching me. But just so we’re clear, you’re the only one who gets to see me like this. No bouquets necessary."

Kento’s expression softened, that flicker of possessiveness melting into something more tender. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And as you both settled back into the quiet of your apartment, the soft sound of jazz filling the air, you realized that maybe Kento's little moment of jealousy wasn’t insecurity at all. It was just another layer of how deeply he cared.

Maybe next time you’d share a toast to that.

SO FAR IT WAS A SUCCESS. The housewarming party was everything you’d dreamed of and more. Or, more accurately, everything you didn’t know you needed. Nanami Kento and you had put so much thought into the place. Well, mostly Kento had, with his meticulous nature and borderline obsessive attention to detail.

There were minimalist touches everywhere, but it still felt warm. Your bookshelves lined the walls, filled with everything from manga to self–help books you’d never read.

There were candles, of course, because Kento liked them in a very “this is an art form” way. Even your kitchen, where you both spent more time than you probably should have lately, was a model of perfect order with an impressively organized spice rack.

Still, there was a sense of life in the place. It wasn’t just a showroom. You live here now. Together. For as long as you both are together, this was now home.The thought sent a little rush through you every time you passed by the key bowl by the door, or caught sight of Kento, elbow-deep in the fridge, reorganizing a jar of miso.

And now, you were standing in your brand new living room, a smile on your face wider than you could ever remember. The champagne flute in hand, bare feet on the cool marble, loud bright music echoing through the marble. You were surrounded by a familiar chaos of castmates, ex-co-stars, and industry friends who had somehow become real friends. Maybe even family.

Gojo Satoru, in a linen shirt so white it probably had its own lighting crew, was dramatically trying to convince Kenshin and Keiko, fresh from their busy days at their workplace, that you'd installed a karaoke machine just for tonight.

“I’m telling you, it’s voice–activated. You just say ‘Whitney’ and it boots right into I Will Always Love You.”

“That’s a lie, Gojo–san.” Keiko said flatly, sipping from her spritzer. “You know that Dad isn’t a big fan of karaoke.”

“Bold accusation for someone who couldn’t hit the bridge in ‘Chandelier’ last Christmas party, kid.” Gojo shot back with a wink. “At least I hit the high note in ‘Rolling In The Deep’ beautifully.”

Kenshin snorted. “She did better than you trying to moonwalk in socks.”

“Hey! That moonwalk was really damn good, you know that!”

The blonde young woman snickers into her drink. “Yeah, good enough to burn your eyes out.”

A few feet away, Nanami Kento’s ex-wife, now a working chemist, was diplomatically trying to keep her boyfriend Gojo Satoru from hyping up Yaga Masamichi’s children into performing a full musical number before bedtime.

“Satoru. They just finished preschool. Let’s not start casting Matilda tonight.”

Kento himself leaned casually against your kitchen island, deep in conversation with Ayaka, your friend from college who’d gone on to become a theater critic with a cult podcast following. The two of them looked like they were comparing notes on a Shakespeare revival no one had asked for.

Meanwhile, your next-door neighbor, whom you met literally five minutes ago when he showed up uninvited and somehow on the VIP list, was explaining, unsolicited, the real top five sushi places within the Tokyo Metropolitan. Loudly. To no one.

“I’m telling you, Sushi Marufuku is good. You wanna eat fish that changes your life? You go to this little spot in Hakkoku. That’s even better! But of course, Harukata is better! The chef doesn’t even speak, he just stares at you until you cry.”

You offered a vague smile and politely drifted away. You caught sight of Kento again, now at the bar, his tall frame still and watchful, a glass of something amber in hand. That familiar, quiet smile tugged at his mouth as he scanned the room, equal parts fond and faintly exhausted.

You made your way to him, pausing just long enough to catch Gojo Satoru once again. You found him amid a debate with your older brother, who had somehow become his favorite person to antagonize at this moment. But you were sure it was because of the alcohol. Most definitely.

“What do you mean ‘No one’s seen her perform in weeks’? She’s a comedian, not a shaman!”

Your brother arched an eyebrow. “Same thing, isn’t it? Both deal in spirits.”

Gojo cackled, practically doubled over. “Okay, that’s good. Write that down. I’m using it for my new comedy.”

Finally, you reached Kento. He turned as you approached, giving you a small, secret smile. “Are you surviving this, baby?” you asked, tipping your glass toward him.

He clinked it on his own. “Just barely. Your friends are… vibrant.”

“You are about to definitely more certainly marry into it, I fear.” you teased him. “Though, I’m the same with your family, don’t you think?”

“True enough, I suppose.”

You laughed, leaning into his side as Gojo’s voice rose again, daring your brother to duet with him on Total Eclipse of the Heart, Kento’s ex–wife trying to calm him down. Keiko is trying to stay away from the drama, while Kenshin was having fun playing with the little kids of your other neighbors.

“This is our life now, huh?”

Kento glanced around at the glittering mayhem, then down at you. “Yeah, it is.” he said, brushing his thumb lightly along the rim of your glass. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Well. Maybe minus the other neighbors, especially the one talking about the sushi.

You nudged Kento with your elbow, leaning in close enough for only him to hear. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean, this?” You gestured around the party with a grin, voice teasing. “All the people who’ve seen us at our worst?”

He raised an eyebrow, his usual composure settling into something lighter. “I’m fine. They’re your friends. And I’m pretty sure they like me.”

“Just pretty sure?” You shot him a look.

Kento gave a mock shrug, then smirked, his eyes softening. “Okay, I’m sure. But I’ll never tell Gojo that. He’ll start calling me ‘Best Man’ at every event and then we’ll never hear the end of it.”

You laughed, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who’s already gotten my family’s approval. Can’t take it back now.”

That’s when your cue hit. You had promised a little something extra for the evening, and you’d already prepared. You grabbed the mic that you’d had set up in the corner earlier and called out to the crowd.

"Alright, everyone! Time for a little entertainment. Get ready to experience what you didn’t sign up for!"

The room went quiet like someone hit a mute button on a particularly rowdy dinner party. Everyone turned their attention to you. The wine glasses half–raised, chopsticks mid–air, Your brother and Gojo stopped bickering, your future step–children turned to pay attention. Kento’s ex–wife was already smiling from ear to ear about this.

You glanced over at Kento, who raised his glass to you with that signature Kento nod: respectful, restrained, and just the tiniest bit indulgent. You winked at him and stepped into the spotlight, or well, the stretch of living room rug between the couch and the bookshelf that you had declared your “stage” for the night. Your mic was a pair of chopsticks. Commitment.

You cleared your throat dramatically. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here until Keiko decides we’re too embarrassing to be seen in public with.”

She booed from the couch. “Too late!”

“Alright, alright.” you said, tightening your grip on the chopsticks like they held the key to comedic transcendence. “Let’s ease into this. Like Japanese politics.”

Kenshin snorted. “This is gonna be so funny.”

“So I walked past a konbini the other day because obviously, I needed a snack, some affirmation, and maybe a reason to keep going and I saw an entire aisle dedicated to face masks. Not the regular kind. Skincare masks.” You say, motioning to it as if trying to get them to imagine it all.

“I mean imagine it. A whole aisle. One promised to make me look like a dewy beautiful drama lead who cries aesthetically in the rain. Another one said it was infused with horse oil. Horse. Oil. I held it up and said—out loud, to no one in particular. ��I am not emotionally stable enough to glow like a racehorse.’”

Snickers could be heard from the corner of the room, giggles being heard in small echoes. “And this obaachan is next to me. She has this full perm, orthopedic sneakers, not a hint of irony—she nods solemnly, like I had just spoken her truth. She goes, ‘Hai ne… too powerful.’”

“That feels like a fever dream!” Kenshin suddenly said, way too loudly.

“Yes, it did feel like that. I was slapping myself, trying to think about how this is just some imagination.” You immediately sprung to reply to his sudden words. “But she handed me a juice box, so it was real. So now I guess we’re friends. We didn’t exchange numbers, but I feel like if I ever get arrested, she’ll be there. Just slowly walking into the police station with a hot pack and a sense of purpose.”

A few laughs. Gojo Satoru clapped once, dramatically. Kento was sipping his wine, not laughing, but you could see the smile lurking at the edge of his mouth. Like your jokes were a private show only he had the key to.

“Recently, though, I’m gonna tell you something that isn’t a fever dream. And it’s my ex showing up to a show, you guys.” you continued. “Which I usually try to avoid mentioning, but listen, when your ex shows up to your show with flowers like he’s the emotionally repressed lead in a Taiga drama, you have to mention it.”

Keiko whispered something to Gojo and they both cackled to each other. “He stood there like, ‘Hey, remember me? I was once almost good at loving you but got distracted by kombucha brewing and fear of commitment.’ — ladies, don’t lower your standards! You deserve better than this!”

More laughter. Your brother raised his beer in salute, as if he was happy about the fact that you were trashing your ex. He does in fact hate your exes more than you did. He doesn’t think anyone is worthy of you, after all.

“And now, let’s talk about my current, well beloved boyfriend. You know who he is.” you said, pausing for effect, nodding at Kento’s direction which earns some whistles and laughter. “I live with a man who arranges the fridge like a Zen garden. Like, there is intention behind the yogurt placement. Once, I moved a bottle of mirin and he looked at me like I had kicked a bonsai tree.”

Kento’s lips twitched. The corner of his eye creased. “I’m serious!” you said. “Last week I asked him why the carrots were stacked like architectural models and he said, and I quote, ‘They deserve a sense of structure.’ I live with a man who gives motivational speeches to root vegetables.”

The laughter rolled now, warm, loving, the kind of laugh that knew you and loved you anyway. You turned to Kento, your voice softening just enough for him to hear over the ripple of joy in the room. You smiled at him.

“But here’s the thing, everyone.” you said. “I’ve never been more grateful to live with someone who takes the time to make sure everything has a place. Even when I’m a mess, even when life’s messy. Because when everything’s upside down, he’s still there, calmly rearranging chaos into something beautiful.”

Kento didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. He just raised his glass again. Ever so silent, certain, his gaze steady and full of that quiet, impossible affection that said, I know you. And I’m not going anywhere. And for once, you didn’t need a punchline.

Laughter trickled out as you glanced over at Kento. “But he’s a silly man, I should let you know. I caught him one time whispering to a bottle of soy milk. I asked him what he was doing. He looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘I’m encouraging it to taste better.’”

Laughs were echoing in the living room harder than the first time. “I know, I know, that’s going to hit hard for many of you. But he adores cow milk better. That’s my boyfriend, ladies and gentlemen. Every time I buy groceries, it’s like I’m attending a TED talk on cow milk and soy milk, which is better. And you know what, I’m not even mad about it."

The room was laughing now, everyone relaxed, including Kento, who had an amused glint in his eyes. You leaned into the mic and continued as you looked him in the eye. You smiled into the mic and moved to the center.

"But you know what? It’s cute. I mean, yes, I could get used to it, but at least it’s not like my ex, who once called my fridge a ‘cold cave of disappointment.’ I mean, yes, maybe my ramen wasn’t art, but come on, cold cave of disappointment? I’m not keeping a shrine to my failed relationships, but if I did, that’s where he’d live. But of course, no offerings. He doesn’t deserve it—no, no, the ramen. He deserves the ramen!”

The laughter of the guests continued to spread through the room, with even Gojo cracking up in the back. You glanced over, and there he was, leaning casually against the wall, wearing that too-cool-for-school grin of his.

“But seriously, it’s great." you said, softening a bit. "This house? This life? I couldn’t imagine it with anyone else. My heart’s here. In every perfectly organized drawer, in every misused soy sauce label, in every meal we eat, misaligned veggies and all."

Kento’s smile softened, and you could see the pride in his eyes, like he was somehow more in love with you than he was five minutes ago. That look? The one that said this is everything? Yeah, it was one of your favorites.

You finished your set with a wink, your voice light. "So, that’s my set tonight, folks. I hope you like it. And if you ever need a tour of my fridge or a lesson on how to turn miso soup into a vision board….Hit me up!"

Applause rang out. The room cheered, and Kento raised his glass in your direction, a little glint of admiration in his eyes. You’d killed it and even better, you were doing it together. Your home. Your life. His subtle, hilarious quirks. Your set. It was yours.

As the cheers faded, Gojo grabbed a mic from the corner of the room, grinning wide. "Alright, alright, but can we all agree that Kento’s spice rack deserves its own reality show?"

People started to laugh and clap about that. Soon after, your brother and Gojo had taken over the high platform with their ridiculous conversation and soon enough, they were going bar for bar with their little jokes. You were certain you had to step in, but people were entertained by it. You were sure you didn’t need to go and butt in.

The party carried on long into the night, the music louder, the laughter thicker, the drinks more free–flowing. People drifted in and out, some chatting, others getting a little too competitive over the karaoke machine Gojo Satoru had definitely bribed someone to set up.

But, in the end, it was the kind of evening that didn’t require anything more than what was already there: good friends, good vibes, and, for once, a sense of complete contentment.

You and Kento found a quiet spot near the window, where you could see the city lights flicker in the distance and settled in with a couple of fresh drinks, just the two of you. You propped your feet up on the coffee table, your glass in hand, and looked over at him. He was still wearing that little smirk, the one that said, I’m happy, but I won’t admit it out loud unless you make me.

“Not bad for our first official housewarming, huh?” you said, nudging him with your foot.

Kento looked over at you, his expression softening. “It’s perfect.” he agreed quietly, his voice just loud enough to reach you over the hum of the party. “I never thought I’d end up with a karaoke machine in my living room, but I can’t say I’m upset about it.”

You laughed, your gaze flicking over to where Gojo and your brother were holding court near the mic stand, belting out some questionable rendition of an '80s ballad. “Yeah, well, you know Gojo. He probably brought it as a gift so he could claim he gave it to us. I’m just surprised my brother’s ended up galavanting with this too.”

Kento snorted. “I can’t believe you let him talk you into letting him sing.”

“Let him?” You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t let him. I was overruled. My brother, the kids, that weird sushi neighbor. Besides, people don’t seem to mind.”

He leaned back, and you watched as his eyes softened, his focus shifting slightly, like he was remembering something in that quiet way he did. “It feels… good, though. You know? Having everyone here. Having a place of our own.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. “It really does. It’s like this little world we’ve built. I know it’s only been a few months, but it already feels like home.”

“It is home.” Kento said, taking a sip of his drink. His bright caramel eyes met yours, steady and sincere. “No matter how many parties we throw or who shows up, this? You and me? This is it.”

You smiled, leaning in to kiss him gently. The kind of kiss that lingered, not out of need, but out of sheer love and comfort. It was quiet, soft, and full of the promise that came with being exactly where you were meant to be.

The sound of Gojo’s off–key singing drifted over to you, and you pulled away with a playful groan. “I don’t think he’s ever going to stop, is he?”

Kento chuckled softly. “No, I don’t think so. Not with your brother matching his energy.”

You grinned, settling back into your seat and stretching your legs out again. “Well, as long as he doesn’t try to sing the theme song from Titanic again, I think we’ll be okay.”

“Famous last words, darling.” Kento teased, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

But the night was still young. The kind of young that shimmered on the edge of something golden and half-remembered, perhaps even half–scripted, half–spontaneous. Outside, the city blinked against the horizon like a marquee of dreams.

Inside, your living room was pulsing with off–key harmony and champagne bubbles. Gojo Satoru and your brother had officially hijacked the room fully and were deep into a dramatic duet of “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey.

Gojo Satoru crooning with Broadway flair, your brother several beats behind but making up for it in raw enthusiasm. Their voices rose and fell, mercifully more passionate than precise, echoing through the high ceilings and off the framed posters from shows you’d done, characters you’d once been, versions of yourself you’d already shed.

You looked around for a moment. You saw the laughter, the glasses raised in mid-toast, the glittering sprawl of people who had seen you fail, fly, weep in dressing rooms, triumph at wrap parties and realized it didn’t matter how loud the music got. Or how chaotic the night became. Or how many costume changes life had in store.

What mattered was this: you were here. With Kento. With your people. In a home that wasn’t just beautiful, but real. A home that felt like the beginning of something lasting. A home where you were truly, eagerly, happily, loved.

You turned, catching Kento's profile in the warm light. You could see his brow relaxed, his lips curved just slightly in that soft, almost secret smile he reserved for private moments. His glass was nearly empty, but he hadn’t moved to refill it. He was simply… still. Watching you.

“Kento…” you breathed, your voice so low it was almost lost in the noise.

He looked at you immediately, like your voice was a cue only he could hear. Your eyes locked with his, and something inside you lit up. Something you always felt when he looked at you like this. Like he saw you, not just the version that ended up on screen or the one polished for press tours. Just you.

“Let’s escape this little madness.” you said, eyes wide and shining. “For a little while.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward, slow and sure. There was laughter in his mischievous caramel eyes now, but something else too, something quieter, warmer. He knew that look in your face.

“And what do you want to do instead?” he asked, voice low and intimate, meant only for you.

You looked away, your cheeks blooming pink under the chandelier light. “You know that already, baby.” you murmured, bashful. “You know I don’t have to say anything.”

There was a beat, a pause in the air, in your breath, in everything. And then he stepped closer. He closed the space between you like it was the easiest thing in the world. His arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you. His other hand rose gently, fingertips brushing under your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.

His voice was velvet. Firm, but tender. “Then use your words, my darling.”

Time stopped. It always did, when he looked at you like that. And maybe the music was still playing, maybe Gojo was now standing on your coffee table yelling about encores while across your brother, who was banging his head, maybe someone had just broken a glass in the kitchen. But all of it faded.

Because Nanami Kento was looking at you like he already knew the words you hadn’t said yet but was going to make sure you said them anyway. He knew you too well, your lover. He knew too well that your desires for him will never change.

EVERYTHING FELT SO DESPERATE. Nanami Kento kicks the bedroom door shut behind you, his hands already tugging at your clothes. He pushes you against the wall, his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss. You respond eagerly, your fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

His mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting, leaving marks on your skin. You gasp, your head falling back against the wall, giving him better access. His hands roam your body, squeezing and caressing, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

Your loving boyfriend lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down gently, his body covering yours as he settles between your thighs. You groaned at him in pleasure.

"I've been wanting to do this all night, my darling." he murmurs, his lips trailing down your chest. "To strip you bare and worship every inch of you."He looks up at you, his caramel eyes dark with desire. "Tell me you want this, pretty, pretty darling.”

"I want this, I want……" you breathe, your voice heavy with desire. "I want you, Kento. All of you."

Kento's eyes flash with hunger at your words. He sits back on his heels, his hands going to the hem of your shirt. He pulls it off slowly, his eagerly hot gaze roaming over your exposed skin like a fire burning ever so vibrantly in the moonlight.

"You're so beautiful." he murmurs, his fingers tracing the swell of your breasts. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, your sternum, the valley between your breasts.

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your lace bra straps down your arms. He unhooks the clasp with a flick of his fingers, freeing your breasts to his greedy gaze. He takes a moment to admire them, before looking into the other diverse essence of your precious skin.

"Perfect, utterly perfect." he whispers, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them pebble. He takes one into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the hardened peak. You arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.

Kento's mouth moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. His hand slides down your stomach, popping the button on your jeans and tugging the zipper down. He slips his hand inside, his fingers brushing against your core through your underwear. You gasp, your hips lifting off the bed, seeking more contact.

"So wet already, my……" He murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and teasing.

He pushes your jeans and underwear down your legs, tossing them aside. His fingers trace your folds, parting you, exploring you. He circles your clit with his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure to make you squirm.

"Kento, my baby…..please…." you beg, your voice strained with need. He smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Please what, pretty darling? Tell me what you need."

Kento lays back on the bed, his eyes dark with desire as he watches you. "Come here, my pretty woman." he murmurs, his voice low and commanding.

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands grip your waist, guiding you onto his erection. You sink down slowly, a moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. His fingers dig into your hips as he helps you find a rhythm, lifting and lowering yourself onto his length.

From this angle, you can feel every inch of him, hitting places that make your toes curl. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, your hair falling around you like a curtain. Kento's hands roam your back, your sides, squeezing and caressing.

He leans up, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking and biting gently. The dual sensations send shockwaves of pleasure through your body, building the tension in your core. You could only feel yourself losing it, mewls leaving your lips little by little.

Kento's hands slide down to your bottom, squeezing and kneading the flesh. He helps you move faster, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.

"Fuck, you look so hot like this, pretty." he pants, his eyes glued to where you're joined. "Riding me like you own me."

His words send a thrill through you, emboldening you. You could only try to sit up straight, arching your back, your hands sliding up to cup your breasts. Moans drifted from your lips, over and over as you grinded against him. Kento's eyes widened, his pupils dilating with lust.

"Yes, just like that, pretty darling." he encourages, his voice hoarse. "Show me how much you want it."

You circle your hips, grinding down onto him, chasing your own pleasure. Kento's fingers dig into your hips, his grip bruising as he meets your movements thrust for thrust. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, the pleasure building to a crescendo.

Kento's movements become more urgent, more desperate, as if he's chasing his own release. His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive nub in firm, deliberate strokes. The added stimulation sends you hurtling towards the edge.

"Kento!" you cry out, your voice breaking as your orgasm crashes over you. Your inner walls clamp down on him, pulsing and squeezing as waves of ecstasy wash through you. Kento follows soon after, his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside you.

He groaned your name, the sound rugged and raw, his body shuddering beneath you as he found his release, every muscle in his body drawn tight before he finally surrendered to the moment. The world blurred at the edges.

All that remained of the two of you was just heat and the desire to keep each other close to touch. It was the breathless way he clung to you as if he never wanted to let you go that felt almost like a drug to you.

You collapsed against his chest, utterly spent, your limbs tangled with his. Your skin was slick with sweat, every inch of you humming with the fading embers of pleasure. Your heart hammered wildly against his, the two of you breathing in tandem, the rise and fall of your bodies syncing like the closing lines of a well-rehearsed scene. It was all too perfect, all too inevitable.

Kento’s arms immediately wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you even closer, as if to shield you from the world beyond this bed, this night, this feeling. His palm found the small of your back, his touch tender now, his fingers tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin. You could hear the soft rush of his breath in your ear, feel the thrum of his heart still racing beneath your cheek.

For a long, quiet moment, neither of you moved. There were no words needed, at least not yet. Just the silent conversation of two bodies finally still, two souls finally at peace. In a little while Kento pressed a kiss to the top of your head, slow and reverent, like you were something sacred.

“You’re incredible, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice rough from exertion but so full of affection it made your chest ache. He tightened his arms just slightly, as if to reassure himself you were still real, still his.

You smiled against his skin, your lashes fluttering shut. “So are you.” you whispered back, your voice thick with sleepy warmth.

Your face is buried in the crook of his neck. Kento's hand traces lazy patterns on your back, his touch gentle and soothing. The room is quiet, save for the soft sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

You can feel Kento's heartbeat slowing beneath your ear, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He shifts slightly, pulling the blankets up over you both, tucking you in securely. His arms wrap themselves around you even tighter. Exhausted, you let him.

“I really love you so much, you know that right?”

You could feel Kento’s heartbeat slowing beneath your ear, the frantic rhythm easing into something steady, calm — like a lullaby meant just for you. His chest rose and fell in a soothing cadence, and when he shifted slightly, it was only to tug the blankets up around you both, cocooning you against the cool night air. His arms tightened around you, firm and protective, like he was anchoring you to him.

Exhaustion tugged at your limbs, but you let him do it, let yourself be held, let yourself rest in the certainty of him.

For a moment, the only sounds were the distant, muffled laughter still echoing from the party downstairs, and the soft, rhythmic hush of Kento’s breathing. The world beyond this room — the chaos, the music, the endless expectations — felt a million miles away.

Then his voice broke the quiet, low and rough with honesty:

“I really love you so much, you know that, right?”

The words were simple, almost casual but they landed with the weight of something life-altering. You blinked slowly against his skin, your chest tightening, not in fear, but in the overwhelming vastness of what you felt for him in return.

You nodded against him first, too full to speak for a second. Then you tilted your head up, catching his gaze in the dim light and god, the way he was looking at you, like you hung every constellation he’d ever wished on.

“I know.” you whispered back, your fingers tracing soft, aimless patterns along his forearm where it wrapped around you. “And I love you, too. So much.”

A slow, genuine smile broke across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners, made him look younger than his years, almost boyish in his relief. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there like he was breathing the moment in, letting it fill every empty space inside him.

“Good…..That’s good to hear.” he murmured against your skin. “Because I don’t plan on letting you go.”

You chuckled softly, feeling yourself melt even further into him. “Good.” you echoed, your voice small and sure. “Because I don’t want you to.”

He pulled you closer still, if that was even possible, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head like something precious. Like you were the beginning and end of his whole world. Like you were everything to him.

“Go and sleep now, my darling. Let them all party their hearts out.” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And you did. Because he did. As the moonlit night continued to drift into the brightness of a city that does not sleep, you both found yourselves the ones asleep. You both happily drifted off to dreamland, wrapped up in each other and the quiet, unshakable promise of everything you were building together.

172 notes · View notes

sugardollcurse · 3 days ago

Note

hi! do you think you can do headcanons of the guys with an s/o who has a southern accent? it’d be so funny clashing with their liverpool accent

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒏-𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ "ya'll" vs "lads"... ANYWAY HELLO I'VE GOT A SOUTHERN ACCENT TEW!!

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“You say that again, and I swear I’ll combust. D’you know what you sound like, love?”

He loves it.

Thinks it’s sexy, hilarious, and weirdly comforting.

Calls you things like “cowpoke,”

When you talk to strangers back home, he watches with awe.

“It’s like you’re speakin’ a different language,” he says, eyes wide.

That said, the clash is constant. You say “buggy,” he says “trolley.”

You say “coke” for any soda, and he’s like, “You want what?!”

“We’re gonna start a war with the way we talk,” he jokes, grinning.

But he always listens when you speak.

And when you get homesick? He does a terrible Southern accent just to make you laugh.

“Miss yer porch yet?”

You absolutely have miscommunications.

One time you said “fixin’ to” and he genuinely thought you meant you were repairing something.

“You’re fixin’ what?”

“No, I mean, I’m about to-”

“Well why didn’t you just say that?”

But he starts borrowing your sayings, throwing them into conversations just to make you laugh. “We’re fixin’ to leave, lads. Let’s go.”

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“You say things like molasses. Sweet and slow and hard to get outta your head.”

Paul is delighted by your accent. He finds it endearing, charming, and vaguely musical.

He leans in every time you talk, just to hear the curl of your vowels.

He especially loves when you say his name, “Paul” in your voice becomes “Paaawl,” and it drives him mad.

You tease each other constantly.

“Y’all alright?”

“Youse alright?”

He lives for the affectionate little phrases you use.

“If you keep talkin’ like that, I’ll do anything you say.”

When you visit your hometown, he asks a million questions.

“Do I have to eat grits?” “Why do you all wave to each other on the street?”

He starts using your phrases just to be cute.

Says it completely wrong and gets smacked for it.

He loves when you two blend accents in everyday life.

You say “supper,” he says “tea.” You say “y’all,” he says “you lot.”

Somehow, it works.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“Y’know, I reckon we confuse everyone when we talk. Good.”

It takes a minute for him to adjust when you two first meet.

He’s used to thick accents, sure, but yours is like molasses and light, and sometimes he has to ask you to repeat yourself.

“Wait, what was that? No, I’m not takin’ the piss, I swear. I just didn’t catch it.”

But once he does get it, he starts noticing the subtleties, when your accent gets stronger, or softer, depending on your mood.

He loves that.

George asks genuine questions about where you’re from, what it was like, what music played on the radio, how your voice got to sound like that.

Eventually, he picks up some of your phrases, quietly, without fanfare.

He kind of stereotypes you based off what he sees in movies.

He’ll tease you a bit, especially if you start sounding extra-Southern when emotional.

“Getting riled up, are we?” he smirks. “You sound like a banjo’s about to start playin’.”

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“I dunno what you just said, but it sounded sweet... so I’ll assume it’s nice.”

Ringo is delighted by your accent from the very first word.

“You’ve got such a nice voice. It’s all... soft an’ sunny. Like a radio show I’d fall asleep to.”

He grins every time you open your mouth.

“I mean it! You could read the phone book to me.”

The two of you absolutely have conversations where neither of you understands the other for a full 30 seconds.

He's like John with the miscommunications thing.

“I said I’m fixin’ to go.”

“You’re... what now? Fixin’ a toe?”

“No, I mean I’m about to go!”

“Ohhh! Right. Mad.”

He’ll try to imitate your accent and it’s terrible.

But he’s so earnest about it you let him get away with it.

He gives you cute nicknames that sound funny in his accent

He starts inventing phrases he thinks sound southern. You threaten to kick him. He thinks it’s adorable.

“Do I get points for effort?” he asks, pulling you into a hug.

“No,” you mutter into his chest.

“That’s fair.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

71 notes · View notes

ankababy · 23 hours ago

Text

A Home (part 30)

Part 1 Part 29

Chishiya x reader x Niragi

Reasonable crashout.

She laid at the center of it all. A knife in her chest. A girl. Just a girl.

Your hand brushed Chishiya’s sleeve without thinking—not grabbing, not holding, just touching. Kuina stood beside you, tense. The crowd was even worse.

Chishiya, in contrast, was too calm. That infuriating, slippery calm. Hands in his pockets. He tilted his head slightly to one side as if admiring a painting instead of a body.

Niragi’s silhouette walked into the growing chaos like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. The crowd made way without being asked. He was grinning. Grinning. His eyes gleamed like a kid on Christmas morning. Something was happening. Finally. Something fun.

And he didn’t see you.

Didn’t notice.

Didn’t look.

That did something weird to your chest. That twisty little ache that didn’t know if it was relief or heartbreak or maybe just a warning from your subconscious screaming, run.

Beside you, Chishiya had already turned around and started walking. A quiet decision made. No hesitation. Not a fucking sliver of it.

And you stayed frozen, caught between the sharp pull of instinct and emotion. Between what you should do and what might happen if you left him, that man, in all of this, alone.

Niragu was practically vibrating with energy. You knew that look. It was the same one he had before violence, before something bad always happened. And if you were here when it started… if he looked at you…

He might pull you under with him.

Your throat felt dry. Muscles tight.

Then Kuina nudged you. Just a nudge. Elbow to ribs. Soft. Certain. She didn’t even look at you, just stepped after Chishiya like it was already decided—because for her, it was. She trusted Chishiya. Trusted his brain. Trusted his ability to survive, even when he played games behind her back.

So you did it. You followed.

You didn’t look back.

The crowd swallowed Niragi behind you. Swallowed the noises. The madness.

Yeah. You were doing great.

Chishiya didn’t even blink when your fingers slid between his. Not a glance, not a twitch. Just… accepted it. As if you two had been doing this forever.

His hand was warm. Soft. Unbothered, of course. Because he was Chishiya. His pulse didn’t spike for anything. (Except for you. But no one needed to know that part.)

You, on the other hand? You were squeezing a little tighter than necessary. Maybe to get yourself together. Maybe to say “I’m still here.” Maybe because your heart was going nuts.

Kuina walked a few paces ahead. Alert. You kept checking on her like a mom at a theme park. You loved her. The kind of love that made you worried when she walked too fast or didn’t look back. You weren’t gonna lose her in this crowd, no sir. If anyone even brushed against her wrong, they’d get a sharp jab in the eye with your elbow before they knew what hit them.

Not that Kuina needed protection. You were the bunny in a den of wolves, let’s be real. But still. You cared.

The sound behind you dimmed, like someone turned the volume down. The crowd was behind now, still circling the body. Voices were rising, louder, bloodthirstier.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until Chishiya turned his head slightly and said, with that perfect deadpan: “You can let go now, you know. No one’s chasing us.”

“No.” you murmured, soft and stubborn. “I don’t want to.”

And he didn’t argue. You weren’t letting go. Not of Kuina, not of him, not of yourself.

No more press of bodies. No one yelling “witch.” Just the empty hall stretching out in front of you.

“I’m not the witch.” you mumbled to no one in particular.

Kuina glanced over her shoulder and smiled a little. “Obviously.”

Chishiya didn’t say anything. But his thumb brushed your knuckle, just once, barely there. Which in Chishiya-speak meant I know.

Not that it mattered, right? You weren’t the witch—but what did that mean, really, when people were about to die just for breathing wrong? When Niragi was somewhere back there with a gun and a purpose and zero morals?

It didn’t matter who the witch was. It mattered who everyone wanted the witch to be. Poor people, fuck.

But for now, you had two people beside you. For now, your feet were moving away from the fire. For now, no one had tried to kill you yet. So maybe it wasn’t a win. But it was close enough.

The deeper into the resort you went, the quieter things became. The smell of smoke faded. Your steps echoed now.

“Where… are we going?” you asked, so sweet, so curious. You looked up at him with those eyes that made people want to tear their own throats open for a chance to see them just a little longer.

Chishiya didn’t even blink. “Security room.”

You tilted your head slightly. “There’s a security room?”

“Yes.” Kuina chimed in from ahead, turning slightly to glance at you.

You pressed your lips together, walking a few more paces in silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Chishiya didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. Chishiya Shuntaro, king of omission, priest of manipulation, expert in giving you everything you wanted but only if it served him first. But he squeezed your hand. Brief. Just once. Not affection, not exactly. Not an apology either. Just… an acknowledgment. Like, I know. I hear you. I’m not going to answer, but I hear you.

That was all you got.

And you took it.

Like a fucking angel.

Because you were soft, yes, but you weren’t stupid. You weren’t naive. You just… loved. You didn’t need him to be honest. You just needed him to be close.

If someone had told him, months ago, that he’d be walking down dark hallways holding someone’s hand, letting them ask questions, not actively scheming to push them off a metaphorical (or literal) cliff… he would’ve laughed. Smirked, maybe. Given one of those flat, cold stares that said you clearly don’t know who the fuck I am.

But here he was.

And the wild part was… he didn’t hate it.

He didn’t love it—not in the way people with real hearts understood love. But he was addicted to it. Addicted to you. The sound of your voice. The way your hand felt curled in his, tight, warm, so so so good.

The security room was dim, lit mostly by the cold, bluish glow of the monitors lining the wall. Dozens of them, some flickering with static, some focused on stairwells and empty hallways, some on the lobby and courtyard of the Beach.

Kuina stood at the monitors, eyes scanning for signs of bloodshed. Chishiya stood behind her, arms crossed, locked in.

You were sitting in a chair in the center of the room, spinning in slow, absent-minded circles. You had one leg tucked under the other, hands lightly gripping the arms of the chair, cheek resting against your shoulder as you turned and turned, watching them.

(AN: geeked vs locked in I’M HOLLERING)

“Do you want anything?” you asked suddenly, voice soft. “Water? A snack? Painkillers? A hug?”

Kuina huffed a little laugh, still not taking her eyes off the screen. “I’m good. Thanks, babe.”

Chishiya didn’t respond. But you knew that was just his thing. So you smiled at him anyway, giving your chair one last spin before standing. You stretched, arms lifting, enough for Chishiya’s eyes to flicker, traitorously. He didn’t comment. Of course. He was a vault.

You walked between them slowly, fingers brushing the back of Kuina’s shoulder as you passed. “You guys have been watching for so long.” you murmured. “You must be tired. This whole place… it’s like it’s rotting. The Beach, I mean. Doesn’t feel like paradise anymore, does it?”

It was insane how seductive you were, all while doing nothing. Both of them felt it, and both of them loved it.

“No.” Kuina said, voice flat. “It doesn’t.”

“Paradise was always a lie.” Chishiya added, no emotion. Just observation.

You didn’t argue. But you frowned. And your shoulders dropped.

You paused behind them both, looking over at the monitors. People screaming. Fires flickering in the distance. Someone being dragged by the collar toward the pool. Someone else running with a blunt object in their hand.

“God.” you whispered. “It’s turning into a real witch hunt.”

“They want to believe someone’s to blame.” Kuina said.

“They want blood.” Chishiya said.

You were quiet for a second. Then—god, you were such a good girl—you rose on your tippy toes, first kissing Kuina’s cheek, and then moving over to Chishiya, placing the softest kiss on his cheek too.

“You guys are working so hard.” you said, standing again, smoothing your hands along your thighs. “I’m proud of you.”

Chishiya didn’t respond, of course. He didn’t know how. But his mouth twitched like a glitch in a system, like something slipped through he didn’t authorize.

Kuina smiled, though. Real. Tired. “You’re the best.”

You shrugged, still too sweet, too warm for this room. “I just want to help. I don’t like seeing everyone so angry. It makes me feel like something’s coming. Something worse than all of this.”

“Something is coming.” Chishiya murmured. “But maybe we can beat it to the punch.”

You tilted your head at him, stepping closer. “You’ll tell me, won’t you? When you know what it is?”

His eyes met yours. The room hummed. The screens flickered in front of him, pixel by pixel. “…Maybe.” Which, in Chishiya-speak, meant: yes, but I’m terrified of what you’ll think of me when you find out.

You didn’t push. You just nodded, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, already turning away again, already in motion. You made your way toward the mini fridge tucked in the corner, humming quietly as you knelt to open it.

Kuina’s head tilted slightly, gaze narrowing. Movement. Someone looking through stuff.

She straightened suddenly. “I’ll check it out.”

You turned toward her. “Want me to come—?”

“No.” she cut in gently, already halfway to the door. “You stay.”

And just like that, it was just you and Chishiya.

You looked at him. The light from the monitors cast soft shadows across his face. He looked usual, the fucker, but beautiful.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly. Like you always did. Because you were built for softness. For care.

His eyes flicked up to you, then away. “I’m fine.”

God. Classic.

You didn’t push it. You stepped a little closer. One of your hands moved—not quite touching him, but brushing along the desk near his hip. You leaned, ever so slightly, like heat melting wax.

He tilted his head at you. That ghost of a smirk playing at his lips, the one that said I always lie. You knew this. You like it anyway.

You gave him a look. That kind, knowing look that said, you’re not unbeatable, no matter how clever you are.

“You’re such a liar.” you said softly. “Even now. Even with me.”

He didn’t argue. But he was looking at you now, and that was more than he usually did. Really looking.

You were so close.

He hadn’t moved. But something in the air bent under the pressure of him wanting. He wanted. Wanted the softness of your voice, the way your hand hovered just shy of touching him, the small crease in your brow that said I care about you even if I don’t understand you. He wanted the light you carried like it could be his.

But this wasn’t a fairy tale. And he wasn’t the prince. He wasn’t even the villain. He was the monster under the prince’s bed, reading all his letters and stealing his crown.

And yet you were standing there. In front of him. Like he hadn’t manipulated a dozen people just to get to this room. To get to this moment. To keep you looking at him like this.

“You want to tell me what you’re thinking?” you asked, a whisper. You tilted your head just a little, and god help him, your hair fell over your shoulder like a silk curtain.

He said nothing.

Your hand reached up then, gently touching the edge of his jacket near his wrist. Just that, light. Barely there. Enough to feel the spark, the quiet static between two people who should not—should not—feel like this. Not here. Not now.

Chishiya’s eyes dragged over your face like he was trying to figure out if you were real. If this was some late-stage hallucination. If care this gentle could be something he was allowed to experience without a price.

“Don’t try to fix me.” he murmured finally.

You smiled. God, it was tragic. That smile.

“I’m not.” you whispered. “I just want you to feel like someone’s on your side.”

He could’ve said something cruel. He should have. Something to push you away. Something to remind you that he didn’t deserve this kind of closeness. But instead… he stayed silent. He just looked.

You took a deep breath, eyes flickering over him. “Can I get a kiss before everything gets fucked?”

He didn’t immediately answer. His gaze flickered to your lips, and for a moment, it almost felt like time stopped. His pupils were dilated.

You stepped closer, one small step. His breath caught in his throat, and the moment was there—hanging in the air between you. Then, before he could say anything else, you closed the distance. You tilted your head slightly, just enough to align with him, and then you kissed him.

It was soft at first. Gentle. Your lips brushed against his, slow. He didn’t move at first. Didn’t push. Didn’t pull away. He just stood there, leaning against the desk with his hips.

And then he kissed you back. It was real. His lips moved against yours with a steady force. The intensity, the fire, the ache that had been building between you two—it was all there now, in the way he kissed you, in the way you kissed him back.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel his fingers pressing into the skin of your sides, a touch that was more possessive than gentle, more urgent than kind. His mouth was warm and insistent, and every part of you seemed to melt into him, like you were giving yourself to him completely, willingly, without hesitation.

And yet… there was something wrong. Something off. But you didn’t care. You couldn’t care.

You kissed him harder, deepening it, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer, as though you wanted to drown in him. To forget the outside world, to forget what was coming.

His lips parted, just slightly, and it was enough for him to slide his tongue against yours. He was savoring every second of it, every inch of the kiss, every part of you that he could taste. His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hardness of him, poking against your legs.

It was messy now—the kiss. Wild. Frenzied, even. A part of you wanted to pull away, to stop, to remind yourself that this wasn’t the time. But the other part? The part that was craving him, that wanted him more than anything, was already too far gone. You didn’t care anymore.

You gasped into the kiss as his teeth grazed your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth, tugging gently. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes, and you could feel his heart beating erratically under his chest.

You pushed up on your toes, one hand gripping the edge of his hoodie while the other settled against the nape of his neck. Chishiya exhaled a sound you’d never heard from him before—half a sigh, half a growl.

You tugged him down as he leaned into it, one of your hands tangled into his hair. The other was clutching at his jacket.

The table behind him creaked, once, then twice. Rocked slightly under your weight as Chishiya gripped the edge with one hand for balance.

“‘Shiya—” you tried, breathless, barely able to talk between kisses. Your words were blurred by the way his mouth wouldn’t leave yours, his lips chasing every syllable like a hunger he couldn’t shake. “We—ah—should…”

“Should what?” he murmured against your lips, not letting you finish. His voice was a low, velvet thing, thick with heat and sarcasm. “Be rational?”

You let out something between a breathy laugh and a desperate whimper. “I was gonna say breathe, actually.”

But then he was kissing you again, hard and unrelenting, and suddenly breathing was very optional.

His hands were everywhere and nowhere, ghosting over your hips, up your sides, along your back, as if he couldn’t decide whether to devour you or worship you. There was a neediness that didn’t belong to someone like Chishiya, someone who pretended he didn’t feel anything, let alone want.

The table creaked again.

As you moved away a bit, not breaking the kiss yet, he got up and changed your position. Now it was you half sitting on the table. His hands helped you up the rest of the way, and for a half-second he just stood there between your knees, looking at you like a problem he desperately wanted to solve.

You licked your lips and tried to speak again. “What if someone—”

“I’ll kill them.” he said, flat and dry, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at him. He stared back.

And then his mouth was on yours again.

On the edge of the desk, knees slightly parted, feet barely brushing the floor. Chishiya stood between them, hands gripping your thighs.

Your fingers threaded into the hair at the base of his skull, and you swore you could feel his pulse in your palms. And he could feel a pulse in his dick, actually.

BANG.

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoed down the hallway.

You froze.

Chishiya didn’t.

He exhaled into your mouth, and kept kissing you. A little slower now. Lazier. Louder. His hands didn’t move. He just kept pressing against you like that wasn’t a gunshot. Like you hadn’t just flinched.

Another sharp sound followed—a loud yell. Niragi.

Of course.

You pulled back an inch, panting softly. “We should—fuck—Chishiya, we should go—”

“No.”

You gave a breathless laugh. “He’s probably shooting someone.”

“Good.” he muttered against your lips. “Maybe we’ll have fewer idiots in the way.”

“Seriously?”

You started to shift, started to move, but his hands tightened just slightly around your legs, holding you in place for one more moment. One more kiss. One more taste.

“You always run to him when he’s loud.” he said dryly, his mouth trailing along your jaw. “Like a dog whistle.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He looked at you now, smug. Asshole. “Maybe if I started shooting strangers, you’d stay on my lap.”

You shoved his shoulder—not hard, but enough to break the tension. “You’re an asshole.”

You slid off the desk, hopping down, feet landing with a soft thud. You ignored how your knees trembled, how your mouth still tingled from him, how your skin buzzed with the imprint of his hands.

You smoothed your clothes out and glared at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

He was. He so was.

“Watch the monitors, baby. Watch out for yourself.” you muttered, brushing past him.

You didn’t look back.

You stepped outside the security room. The halls were mostly empty now. Everyone either hiding, running, or already dead. The stench of adrenaline was in the air. Screams echoed, human and high-pitched. You could feel the panic crawling under your skin.

You shouldn’t be out here.

You knew that.

You hated that your feet moved on instinct. That your heart pounded not because you were scared of him—but because if he was hurt, you weren’t sure what you’d do.

And still, fear itched at the edges of your mind. Not fear of him hurting you—god, no—but of what he could do. What he would do to others. He didn’t even flinch at murder. He played with fire just to feel something. He kissed you like a man starving and then walked off like he could live without you.

You were scared of his unpredictability.

But never of him.

You rounded the corner—and there he was.

Niragi stood, smoke still curling from the barrel of the gun dangling from his fingers. He was grinning. Wild-eyed. Absolutely feral. There were two men crumpled a few feet away—one crawling, the other definitely not—and a trail of dark red painted across the floor.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

He looked happy. That kind of happy that people like him weren’t supposed to feel. Like something had finally clicked for him. His mouth was twisted in a smirk, his chest rising with each breath like the air was fueling him now.

And god help you, the moment he did see you—his entire face changed. The tension didn’t leave him, no—he was still Niragi, twitchy, blood-laced, and trigger-happy—but there was something different in his posture. His jaw ticked. He straightened. The gun dipped, still in his grip but no longer the star of the show.

Now, it was you.

You slowed your steps, heart thudding hard in your ribs.

“Niragi.” you breathed.

His eyes dragged over you like claws—your worried expression, the slight shake in your hands, the subtle way you folded your arms like maybe you were cold or maybe you just needed something to hold.

“Hey, baby.” he called, voice too calm, too bright. “You lost or something?”

You stopped a few feet from him. You weren’t crying. But you could’ve.

“I was looking for you.” you admitted, voice quiet.

His hand came up, not to hurt—but to touch. Fingers brushed your jaw, the back of his knuckles warm, still smelling faintly like gunpowder and sweat and heat.

“I was scared.” you murmured, explaining.

He tilted his head, still watching you. “Of what?”

You swallowed. “Not you.”

And that did something to him.

Oh, he smiled. Not the sharp, cruel smirk. No, this one was different. Softened. Still wild, but quieter. Maybe even… fond.

“Come on.” he said, softer this time, nudging your arm with his fingers. “Don’t just stand there lookin’ pretty.”

His grin had changed again—less teeth, more charm. A cruel thing coated in sugar.

Your feet didn’t move. You looked around—at the bodies, the scattered, panicked people who still hadn’t made it.

“Niragi.” you whispered. “They’re still shooting.”

“Yeah.” he said, a hum hidden under the word. “They are. That’s the point.”

You stepped back instinctively. Your eyes searched his face, trying to read between the lines, trying to figure out if he wanted to get shot. If that was part of the thrill for him. He didn’t look scared. Not even a little.

In fact, Niragi looked better than you’d seen him in days. Lighter. Buzzing. Glowing with something other than hatred. It scared the shit out of you.

“Where are you going?” you asked carefully.

He shrugged. “Nowhere you need to worry about. But I don’t want you out here by yourself. Come with me.”

There was something so gently commanding about it. The warmth of it lingered in your chest, right there beside the ice-cold truth that he’d probably stepped over someone’s dead body to get here.

You folded your arms, trying to protect yourself from… you weren’t sure. The bullets? The affection?

“You can’t protect me from everything, you know.”

“Bet?” he said immediately, flashing you a look so cocky it almost made you forget where you were.

“I’m serious.” you said.

“So am I.” Niragi replied. Then his voice dropped. “You think I’d let anything touch you?”

Your stomach twisted. God, he meant it.

“You don’t get it.” you whispered, gaze flicking to the noise behind him. “It’s not about me getting shot—what if you get hurt?”

He blinked. Once. Like he didn’t even consider that a possibility worth entertaining.

“I don’t care.” he said plainly. “I’m not leaving you here.” he added. “You wanna go somewhere safe, we go now. Or I’ll carry your sweet little ass there myself.”

God.

You hated how it worked. How his voice got low like that and made your stomach do flips, how his eyes never left your face even with gunshots going off nearby.

You sighed. Shoulders sinking. Not in defeat, but in acceptance. Like your body finally gave up pretending you were ever going to be immune to him.

“Okay.” you murmured.

He reached out, took your hand, and you let him. Because for all the danger, for all the madness and blood still drying on his shirt—you believed him. Maybe it made you stupid. But with your fingers locked in his, and his thumb rubbing over your knuckles like he actually gave a fuck, you weren’t scared anymore.

You were his.

And Niragi was thriving on it.

But the screaming didn’t stop. It echoed down the halls.

You walked beside him, hand still laced in his. The crack of a gunshot didn’t even make you flinch anymore. You were too tired. Too used to it.

“Hey.” you murmured, keeping your voice low, soft, careful not to rattle his fragile good mood. “Arisu… do you know where he is?”

Niragi didn’t even glance at you. Just kept walking, gun in other hand, his side bitch at this point, a smug little tilt on his lips. “Yeah. South hall. Tied up like a fuckin’ birthday gift.”

Your heart sank. You nodded slowly, not reacting beyond that. You couldn’t afford to. Not with his fingers still twitching at his side like he was half a thought away from raising his rifle again.

“He’s not the witch then, huh?” you asked gently. It wasn’t a real question.

Niragi’s eyes flicked to yours, too sharp. “He’s something. Doesn’t really matter what.”

You didn’t say anything else. Just walked beside him in silence, forcing your body to relax. The therapist part of you kicked in on instinct. You had to de-escalate. You had to keep him soft. Not for your sake.

For everyone’s.

“You’re tense.” you said after a moment, using the same voice you’d once used in sessions. Like you were talking someone off a ledge.

Niragi snorted. “I’m always tense.”

“Yeah, but…” you looked at him, just slightly, “…you don’t have to be with me.”

And god, it worked.

You felt it. The shift. His steps slowed. His grip on your hand loosened, just a little. His shoulders dropped a few degrees. Like your words were morphine in his bloodstream.

Inside, you were calculating. Timing. Every step.

You had to get to Arisu.

“I should go check on Kuina.” you said suddenly, voice still dipped in softness, your thumb brushing over his knuckles like you were doing him a favor. “She was a little freaked out earlier.”

Niragi didn’t respond right away. He stopped walking, turned fully toward you.

And for a second—just a second—you wondered if he knew. If he could smell it on you. The lie.

But then he clicked his tongue and said, “Tch. She can handle herself.”

“She can.” you agreed. “But I still want to see her.” You tilted your head, doe-eyed. “Please?”

He stared at you.

“Fine.” he said, stepping back. “Go play nurse.” He leaned in, close enough that his breath was in your ear again. “But if I find out you’re doing anything else—”

You kissed his cheek.

“Don’t be silly.” you whispered.

Then you turned, walking calmly. You didn’t run. But every step felt like it was cracking glass under your heels.

Because no, you didn’t tell him the truth.

You didn’t tell him you were going to help Arisu.

Because if you had, Niragi wouldn’t have let you walk away.

And god only knows what he would’ve done if you tried.

Then, Chishiya turned the corner. The worst moment to show up, really.

And Niragi noticed him immediately.

That shift was instant.

“She’s trying to get to Arisu.” Chishiya said, hands deep in his pockets, voice casual like this was a weather update.

You could’ve punched him.

Niragi blinked. Then slowly turned to look at you again, as if confirming whether it was true, whether you—his girl, his fucking angel—had really just fed him a lie like it was nothing.

Your stomach flipped.

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Because Chishiya just threw you to the wolves. On purpose.

“Is that so?” Niragi said, voice dipped in that sickly-sweet tone he used right before hurting someone. “You were gonna go see that fucker?”

You turned to him, mouth parting to speak, but he stepped closer.

“You lied to me.” he said softly. “Looked me in the fuckin’ eyes.”

“Niragi—” you tried.

But he leaned in again, so close, too close, one hand lifting to your cheek like he still loved you. And that’s what made it worse—he did. God help you, he did.

“Why, baby?” he asked, almost cooing. “What’s so fuckin’ special about him, huh?”

Your lips parted, but your voice didn’t come. Because no matter what you said now, it’d be wrong. You were boxed in, sealed, trapped—Chishiya on one side, Niragi on the other, and you right in the middle like a bone between dogs.

You glanced at Chishiya, just a flicker, just a why.

But he was unreadable, leaning lazily against the wall like he didn’t just launch a live grenade into your whole relationship. His lips twitched, maybe, like he was having fun. Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.

Maybe he wanted this.

Maybe this was his play.

Maybe Chishiya—who didn’t care about anyone, who never cared about anything—was jealous.

Niragi’s hand dropped from your cheek. He stepped back, slow, shaking his head with that crooked grin still hanging on his lips.

“Fuckin’ liar.” he murmured. “Sweet little liar. You look at me all soft, all pretty, and you lie through your fuckin’ teeth.”

“Niragi.” you said again, firmer now. “Please.”

That word—that tone—he faltered for half a second. Just a half.

But then Chishiya spoke again, like he couldn’t help himself. “She only lied to protect you.” he said, voice light. “Isn’t that what you want? To be protected?”

Oh, he was stirring the pot now.

You saw it.

And Niragi… Niragi did too.

His gaze flicked to Chishiya, and god, if looks could kill. His knuckles flexed on the handle of his rifle like he was trying to decide if Chishiya’s heart would look better spilled on the floor.

Your heart was racing. You stepped forward, hands raised slightly—don’t touch him, don’t provoke him, don’t make it worse.

“Niragi.” you said again, eyes locked onto his, soft, sweet, yours. “I just wanted to make sure no one was hurting him for no reason. That’s all. You know I love you.”

“Tell me the truth.” he said, quiet. “Did you want to save him? Or were you gonna let him out?”

You froze.

And that was enough of an answer.

He laughed, breathless, humorless. “Fucking knew it.”

Behind you, Chishiya exhaled like this was all very boring, like he was ready to move on.

You wanted to kill him.

You were going to kill him.

But god bless your poor, beautiful, barely-holding-it-together heart, you just stood there between them. Two men who could not, for the love of hell, just talk it out.

“Yeah.” Niragi spat. “Go on, tell me more about how you love me while you plan behind my back with him.”

He jerked a finger toward Chishiya, who blinked in the most unbothered, blank-faced way a man possibly could.

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe to calm him, maybe to throw yourself into a volcano—but Niragi didn’t let you. “‘No baby, I’m gonna check on Kuina, I swear,’ like I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.” you said quietly.

“Then why the fuck are you treating me like one?” he snapped, and oops, there went your heart, dropping straight into your heels.

You glanced helplessly at Chishiya who actually looked a little bit like he might say something to help. But then he didn’t. Because of course he didn’t. He just tilted his head and watched.

“Are you happy now?” you asked him, softly, because even in this you were gentle. “Was that your plan?”

Chishiya’s mouth curved. Barely. “Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Oh, wow.” you said.

“Yeah.” Niragi snapped. “Wow. And you—you were about to run off to help Arisu, while lover boy here waits behind like he’s got nothing to do with it. You think he’s not playing you? You think he didn’t know what that would do?”

“Maybe I’m just smarter than you.” Chishiya said calmly, which was the absolute worst possible thing he could’ve said.

Niragi’s whole body twitched like someone yanked a cord in his back. You actually reached out to physically touch his arm before he exploded, and oh, look at that, you were the leash.

Oh. Oh no. That made you look even cuter. Voice shaking, cheeks pink, eyes wide like you just wanted peace and therapy and maybe a slice of cake.

Niragi’s rage faltered just enough to be replaced with that stupid smug smile. “Should we hug it out, sweetheart? Kiss and make up?”

You blinked. “Are you drunk?”

“No.” he said. “But I’m pissed. And it’s so funny how he”—a finger jab at Chishiya—“never gets yelled at. Nah, he just stands there, looking pretty, getting kissed, while I’m the asshole.”

“Because you are the asshole.” you snapped, and silence slammed over the hallway.

Niragi blinked.

Chishiya snorted. Just a little.

You regretted it immediately.

“Wait—Niragi, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no.” he said, still smiling but now it was all ice. “Say it. Go on, baby. Let it out. You love me and I’m the asshole. Makes perfect fuckin’ sense.”

Your throat tightened.

Chishiya was still silent, but you could feel his eyes on your back. You didn’t dare turn. Not now. Not with Niragi still in front of you, looking like he might either kiss you or set the building on fire. Maybe both.

You stepped closer again, gently—therapist brain activated, like your survival depended on it. (Kinda did.)

“Niragi.” you said, soft, slow. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re just—angry. And scared. And I get it, okay? I get it.”

He looked down at you. That smile didn’t come back.

And for the first time… he looked genuinely hurt.

You were going to cry. Not because you were scared. But because this—this wasn’t love. This was possession. And it was killing him.

And behind you… Chishiya didn’t say a word. He liked watching it happen.

“You lied to me.” Niragi said, with that low voice he got when he was about to be awful.

Then his finger pressed to your forehead. Lightly. Playfully, he pushed your head back. But there was heat behind it. “You gonna lie to him too?” he gestured with his chin toward Chishiya. “Or is it just me you like to play smart with?”

You felt your chest tighten. “I’m not playing anything.”

“You know what’s funny?” he muttered, pacing a step back. “You talk like you’re better than all this. But you love the game. You loved it when I came crawling in after games, all blood and bruises. You loved it when he gave you those cold-ass glances like you were his experiment. You wanna fix people so bad, sweetheart, but deep down? You just wanna be the most important part of their story.”

You stood frozen.

Niragi licked his lips. “He plays the long game. I just got sick of waiting. Pushing you was all it took.”

Your breath caught.

What?

You blinked, once. Twice. “What did you say?”

“Oh?” he tilted his head, mocking. “Oops. Guess that wasn’t part of the act.”

Chishiya didn’t say anything behind you. Of course he didn’t. That silence… confirmed it.

And just like that, the pieces started clicking into place. The subtle shifts. The way they both always knew where you were. The arguments. The obsession. The timing. Making you kill that man. Killing Akira.

The guy you killed didn’t need to get killed.

Akira didn’t do anything, he was innocent.

You were the game.

And you had finally figured out the rules.

Your body went still. Not in fear. Not this time. Not even in shock.

Niragi clicked his tongue. “Don’t look so sad, babe. We still like you. Hell, we love you. That’s why we made it fun.”

Your vision blurred.

“You didn’t need to play me like this. I would’ve given everything. Everything. Willingly.” Your voice broke there, and it was quiet. So quiet. “You already had me.”

Chishiya looked away.

“It wasn’t like that.” Niragi said, defensive now. Too fast. “You don’t get it.”

“No.” you said, stepping closer—closer, closer, until he actually leaned back a little. “I don’t. So explain it to me. Because right now? Right now it sounds like you and Chishiya had been manipulating me left and right.”

His jaw clenched.

And that silence? That god-awful silence? It said more than he ever could.

You swallowed. Your breath shook. Your heart didn’t. Not anymore.

“You’ve been playing me.” you said. “From the start.”

“We weren’t playing.” Niragi snapped, his voice rising. “You think this is some fucking game to me?”

“Yes! Yes, actually. Because that’s what you all do, right? That’s what this whole place is—fucking games.”

“Don’t talk to me like you’re not the same.” he hissed. “You were built for this. You manipulate everyone without even trying. You think you’re innocent?”

“No.” you said. “I think I’m better than you.”

That stopped him.

Cold.

Even Chishiya’s mouth twitched.

Niragi stared at you. Breathing hard now. Furious. Wounded.

God, you were so cute like this. Angry and righteous and trembling just enough to still make him want to cup your cheeks and kiss you until you forgot your own name.

But this wasn’t love anymore. This wasn’t sweet. This wasn’t fun.

This was real.

“You think you’re not part of this?” he sneered. “You think you didn’t like it? The way we looked at you? The way we made you feel like the center of everything? Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because for a second… maybe he was right. Maybe that was the worst part. You had loved it. The attention. The warmth. The feeling of being wanted in a world that otherwise tore people apart. You clung to them.

But not anymore.

No. Not now that you knew.

Your lips were trembling, your eyes glistened, and when you looked back at them—both of them—it was with something neither had seen before.

Disgust.

“You’re sick.” you spat.

And that voice—god, that voice. You weren’t screaming, not yet. That made it worse.

“You’re both sick.” you said again, louder this time. “And I—I let it happen.”

Neither of them spoke.

“You let me think it was mine, this connection.” you said, voice rising now. “That it was real. That I chose you. Not because I was being manipulated, but because I wanted you.” You wiped your face, almost violently. “You didn’t want love. You wanted control. I told you everything. Everything. My fears, my doubts, my hopes. I told you I trusted you. I kissed you. I chose you.”

You pointed at Chishiya.

“And you—you just wanted to see what I’d do next.”

Then you pointed at Niragi.

“And you just wanted to win.”

Your arms dropped to your sides, trembling.

“God, I danced for you. I made myself smaller, sweeter, quieter, so you’d stay soft. I told myself it was worth it, that you were just hurt and needed time. That you were the victim, and if I just waited long enough, I could save you. That I could make you better.”

Silence.

“I hated myself for how far I let you take me.” you whispered. “I hate myself for how much I wanted your approval.”

Chishiya’s jaw tensed. He didn’t move. His face was blank, but something in his posture betrayed the way your words hit.

Niragi’s smirk had faded entirely. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

“You still won’t say anything.” you said. “Still won’t apologize. Because this was never about me, was it? It was about who could keep me twisted around their finger the longest.”

Still—silence.

“You both lost.”

And for the first time, they looked like they actually might believe it.

You were crying, yeah. You looked like ruin. A walking heartbreak. But even in that moment—or maybe especially in that moment—you were the most powerful person. And they knew it. You stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes burning, your throat raw from screaming and from holding back even more. You could still hear your heart pounding in your ears—not out of fear now, but fury.

“You’re both fucking sick in the head.” you cried. “I don’t care how broken you are. I don’t. Because what you’ve done to me? That wasn’t pain. That was choice. You chose to lie. To twist me. To use me. I don’t even know who you are. I thought I did. I really did.”

You wiped your face with the back of your hand. Your voice dropped low. Personal. Final.

“I’m done.”

They didn’t speak. Maybe they couldn’t. Maybe they knew there was nothing left to say.

“Stay away from me.” you whispered. “You hear me? Stay away from me. Both of you.”

You took a step back.

“I hate you.”

One more step.

“I hate you.”

They didn’t follow.

They didn’t move.

You turned.

And walked away.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Because if you did, you might see the way Niragi’s jaw had clenched, pain barely disguised beneath anger. You might see the way Chishiya had finally, finally looked human—jaw slack, throat tight, hands curled at his sides like maybe, just maybe, he’d made a mistake.

But you didn’t look back.

Because it didn’t matter.

You were done.

And for the first time, they had no control over that.

The silence was deafening once you were gone.

The distant witch hunt carried on—gunshots, screaming. But none of it reached them, not really. Not past the ringing in their ears, not past the heat that still lingered from your voice, your fury.

Niragi stared after you, unmoving. His jaw was set so tight it looked like it might snap. His fingers twitched at his side, like they didn’t know what to do now without you to touch. Without your skin to press against. Without your breath to feel on his neck.

You hated him.

You actually hated him.

He could barely breathe through it. It wasn’t fair. He’d told himself this would never happen. Now you were done. Because of him. Because of them.

Chishiya hadn’t moved either. Still standing there, still trying to read the air as if there was anything left to analyze. As if his world hadn’t just been blown open.

You hated him.

He didn’t know what emotion that was building in his chest. Guilt? Regret? It felt like a hand around his throat—slow, tightening. His mind scrambled to rationalize it, like always. But no logic could buffer the truth that you saw through him, finally. That you saw what he was.

Not someone who protected you.

Not someone who stood up.

Not someone you could trust.

A traitor. A coward. Just another selfish man playing with your heart.

And that’s when Niragi moved.

It was quick—not a shove, not a full hit, but he bumped into Chishiya’s shoulder as he passed by. Bone against bone. Hard. Mean. Personal. A snarl in motion.

Chishiya staggered slightly, but didn’t retaliate. Didn’t even flinch.

They didn’t exchange a single word.

Niragi’s face was full of emotions. Panic. Rage. Grief he couldn’t name without it breaking him apart.

And behind Chishiya’s still, cold stare was something worse. Something he wasn’t used to feeling.

Regret.

You ran like your life depended on it. Not because someone would shoot you (no, no one would ever pull a gun on you), but because if you didn’t move, if you stopped to feel what they’d done, you might collapse. And this wasn’t the place to fall apart. Not tonight.

The halls of the Beach blurred past in smears of firelight and panic. People screaming, people chasing, that awful metal tang of blood curling into the air. Your feet slapped against the floor, echoing in the mess, but you kept going.

Until—

“Usagi.” you gasped, stumbling to a stop, hand bracing against the wall, heart pounding in your throat.

She spun, defensive. So did the others. A random girl and, thank god, there was Tatta. His eyes widened when he saw you.

“Wait, wait—” Tatta said. “She’s cool. I know her.”

“‘Cool’?” Usagi snapped, eyes cutting. “She’s with them. With Chishiya, with Niragi. You think that makes her ‘cool’?”

“I’m not with anyone anymore.” you said quickly, voice cracking. “Not after what they did. I just want to find Arisu.”

That got Usagi’s full attention. Her jaw clenched, sharp and suspicious. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed hard. God, you were still out of breath. Still trembling. “I just saw Niragi. He said something about the south hall—that Arisu’s in one of the rooms. Tied up.”

“And you’re telling me this now because—?”

“Because I didn’t know!” you said, louder than you meant to. “Because I’ve been used, and lied to, and manipulated into believing I was safe with them—and now I know better, okay? I know better. I’m not here for them. I’m here because I want to help. I need to help.”

Silence.

The girl looked at Usagi, unsure. Tatta glanced between you all, fingers twitching. Your pulse was a drumline in your ears. Every second wasted felt like another second Arisu might be bleeding out somewhere.

Usagi’s face didn’t soften. Not even slightly.

“I don’t expect you to trust me. But I expect you to believe that I know what it’s like to be used. That I know what it’s like to think someone’s on your side when really they’re only protecting their power. That’s what he did to me. What they both did.”

Her mouth twitched, just slightly.

“And now I’m trying to undo it.” you added, voice shaking again. “Please.”

Screams distant and near.

Usagi didn’t blink. Didn’t move. But then, after one long, breathless second, she nodded. Barely. “Show me the hall.” she said.

And just like that, you were moving again. Tatta was beside you in a heartbeat. Usagi and the girl right behind.

Maybe this was how you fixed it.

Or maybe this was just another mistake waiting to happen.

Either way, you were going to find Arisu.

You had to.

The gunfire was closer now—so close. Every shot felt like a countdown. Your body ran on instinct, not clarity. It knew to flee before your thoughts even formed the reasons.

You rounded a corner too fast, skidded—and suddenly Tatta’s arm caught you. Then yours caught his. A split second, two idiots grabbing at each other, fumbling to stay upright.

Then—without even speaking—your hands locked together. Tight. Like kids at a crosswalk.

Tatta was sweating, eyes darting everywhere, breathing like he was going to throw up. “This is bad.” he mumbled. “This is so bad. We’re gonna get shot. We’re gonna get shot. This is so bad—”

“Tatta.” you said between gasps, yanking him with you down the corridor, “I know.”

And he still ran with you. His palm was clammy and shaking in yours, but he never let go.

There was nothing brave about Tatta. Nothing hard. You felt it through your grip, how badly he wanted to disappear, how badly he wished he were someone else. Someone less pathetic.

And god, did you love him for it.

Tatta had never tried to control you. He never wanted anything from you but kindness. He was just real.

Usagi and the other girl were behind you both. They looked like soldiers. You looked like ghosts. You couldn’t tell if that was an upgrade or a downgrade.

“We need to keep quiet.” Usagi hissed. “You’re making too much noise—”

“I am the noise.” you bit back, breathless but sharp. “They love me. Everyone does. We’re okay.”

Usagi shot you a sideways look—part disbelief, part something else. “And you still came to help Arisu?”

“I told you.” you said, voice low. “I’m done.”

That shut her up. For now.

The girl next to her gave you a weird little smile. Pity, maybe. Or confusion. Or respect. You couldn’t tell anymore.

Tatta squeezed your hand again like a nervous tic. You looked down at your intertwined fingers.

“What?” you asked gently.

He gave you this pitiful, honest little smile. “I’m not built for this.”

You smiled back. “Me neither.”

And your heart… oh, your heart.

It felt like a cracked mirror. Every time you moved it fractured more. You were still full of love—stupid, stubborn, irrational love—even for the people who hurt you most. You weren’t sure who you hated more right now: Chishiya for cutting you open, or Niragi for pretending his violence was protection.

But you knew who you weren’t mad at.

Tatta.

Arisu.

You hoped like hell they made it out of this place. Even if you didn’t.

“Left.” you barked suddenly, dragging the group down another hallway.

“You trust Niragi now?” Usagi asked, still on edge.

“No. But I trust that he wanted to impress me. So yeah, if he said it, I believe it.”

No one argued with that.

Because it was true. And because you were leading the way now.

You weren’t his girl anymore. You weren’t anyone’s.

God, you hoped you weren’t too late.

The smoke was getting thicker now. Somewhere, behind the walls or beneath the floors, the resort was burning.

Of course it was. Of course the Beach had to go down like this.

You ran across the floors of the hallway, feet slipping in someone else’s blood. Tatta nearly dragged you down with him, but you both caught yourselves.

“Shit.” he whispered, eyes wide. “shit.”

Usagi stopped dead ahead of you. She was listening. Head tilted just slightly, body stock still like an animal sensing danger in the wind. Then, she ran to a door and started listening. Nothing. Ran to another. Nothing. Ran to another—it looked like nothing—just a plain white door at the far end of the hallway, no markings. You’d passed five identical ones already. She must have heard something inside.

You didn’t question her. You just ran for it.

When you reached it, you threw yourself at the knob, rattling it. Locked.

“Fuck, okay.” you muttered, dropping to your knees. “Come on, come on…”

You dug your nails into the tiny slit of the keyhole, trying to pry something loose. Useless. Your fingers were shaking too hard to be any good anyway.

Behind you, gunfire.

They weren’t aimed. They were flooded. The hallway lit up with flashes of white and gold.

Usagi didn’t think—she threw herself into the closest room, the two guys right behind her. The girl and Tatta followed instantly.

You stayed.

You dropped lower to the ground, crouched and half-hidden, still scrambling with the lock. Your heart was in your throat, your knees raw from the floor, your breaths too fast to count.

“No, no—come on—” you whimpered under your breath.

You had to get him out. You had to.

Arisu didn’t deserve this. Not like this.

And even with the shots echoing off the walls, even with your ears ringing, even with your eyes stinging from the smoke, you stayed there like a madwoman. Fingers bloodying themselves against a lock you didn’t know how to open.

Your hair clung to your face, wet with sweat and fear.

Someone inside that room was alive. You knew it.

Where the fuck were you? Who were you now?

A girlfriend? No.

A pawn? Not anymore.

Just… you.

And right now, that meant trying. Even if it was hopeless. Even if you died here on your knees with the hallway collapsing in fire around you.

More gunfire. Then a scream. Was that Tatta? You didn’t turn. You kept digging at the lock. A crash of glass. You ducked instinctively, your breath caught in your throat, heart pounding like it wanted out of your chest. Another sound followed it—thuds, scuffling, something that might’ve been screaming but warped by the smoke and walls.

Then… quiet.

Not real quiet, not safe quiet—but the kind of hollow lull that comes after something brutal happens. The kind of quiet that feels wrong.

Your hands were still against the lock, fingers bloodied now, your nails cracked. Your knees had long since gone numb from the hard floor—but when you looked down, they were bleeding. Torn open from all the friction, red trailing down your shins.

You barely noticed.

You didn’t have the time to.

There was a sudden shuffle next to you. You turned around—

Tatta.

He stumbled out of the room Usagi had vanished into. His eyes were too wide, and he was pale. Not just scared-pale, but sick-pale. The short-haired girl was right behind him, limping slightly, unsure.

“Hey—!” Tatta called, rushing over.

You didn’t even look at him. You were staring at the doorknob like it was your nemesis. Like if you glared hard enough, it would melt off the frame. The girl bent down beside you, her breath hitching when she caught sight of your knees.

“What the hell happened—?”

“I’m fine.” you muttered. “We need to get it open.”

You tried the knob again, and this time—you didn’t know if it was adrenaline, if it was rage—the lock gave a crack, and the door burst inward with one hard push of your shoulder.

You stumbled a step, nearly collapsing into the room, but someone grabbed your arm—Tatta—keeping you upright.

Your eyes adjusted to the dimness inside.

Usagi was already there.

Arisu.

Tied up.

Just like Akira once was.

“Shit.” Tatta whispered behind you.

You just stood there in the doorway, looking down at him. Your heart cracked in a hundred directions. Not because you were close—you weren’t. You didn’t know Arisu like Usagi did. But you knew pain. And you knew this wasn’t right. Not for anyone.

Your body moved on its own.

You dropped to your knees again—a habit now, apparently—crawling across the floor to help Usagi. She was already ripping at the rope, her hands clumsy with how fast she was moving. You reached to help, tugging the restraints down from his chest and arms, your fingers slipping in sweat and dried blood.

“Arisu.” Usagi was whispering over and over. “Arisu. It’s okay, I’m here. We’re here.”

His mouth was moving. Dry. Croaking nothing sounds, trying to form words.

You got the last loop undone, and the rope fell away. Usagi tore the tape from his face—gently, carefully—and he flinched but didn’t cry out.

His eyes blinked open.

Blurry. Darting.

And then they found her.

Found you.

And fuck, that expression—you had to look away. Because no one should ever look that relieved just to be seen alive.

You stayed crouched there while Usagi pulled him upright. You didn’t say a word. Your throat had closed up.

You didn’t cry, not yet—but your fingers were trembling.

You would never forget how he looked.

The Beach was on fire—literally, and metaphorically. Flames licking the halls, smoke crawling. Everyone had lost the plot. Guns were going off with no real target, blood smeared the walls, and fear wasn’t a mood anymore—it was the air itself.

The Beach had collapsed under its own weight—and now, at the center of it all, stood Arisu.

Bruised, battered, face still marked from being bound and tortured, Arisu stood in the lobby, defiant.

Across from him, was Aguni.

The man’s eyes were hollowed out with grief, trauma, and something worse—certainty.

You were in the crowd.

You, of course, always where it mattered most.

From the balcony above, Chishiya stood alone. It was like peering into a theater. His eyes scanned the chaos, until they landed on you.

There.

Not screaming. Not running. Just there, like you had no idea how breakable you were.

You were holding Tatta’s hand—that little coward, bless his quivering soul.

To Chishiya, you were something unbearably solid in a world where everything else collapsed.

You stood out in the crowd not because of your looks—though he could’ve made a thesis on how those fucking shorts fit you—but because of your stillness. He saw the way your fingers were wrapped around Tatta’s, panicked. He noticed your posture—spine straight despite the smoke, the gunfire, the weight of every damn lie you’d been fed the past few days.

You hadn’t looked up once.

Did you know he was watching?

No.

You didn’t.

Which was somehow worse.

Because if you did—maybe you wouldn’t have looked like that. Maybe you would’ve shifted, given him something to hold on to. A glance. A nod. A flash of that mouth that never shut the fuck up unless it mattered.

But no.

You were locked in.

Focused on Arisu.

And it shouldn’t have bothered him. Shouldn’t have made something hot and curdled twist up inside his gut.

But it did.

Because Chishiya knew things now.

He knew how it felt to kiss that mouth. Knew the taste of your stubbornness, the press of your body on his, the sound you made when you tried to speak in the middle of being kissed senseless. He knew your tells. Your smiles. Your truth.

He also knew what he did.

What he and Niragi both did.

He didn’t know why it made his throat tight. He didn’t do feelings. Not like this. But this? This was you, in the middle of the wreckage, and Chishiya couldn’t breathe right for a moment.

Because he’d never seen something so soft hold out so long.

He’d never been this soft.

And maybe that’s why he hated it.

Maybe that’s why he hated himself.

Because no matter how he looked at it—through gunfire, through smoke, through all the rotten parts of his own psyche—you were still there.

Still whole.

And still not his.

Not really.

Not anymore.

Aguni hit Arisu.

You squeezed Tatta’s hand a little tighter and took half a step forward. Always that same stubborn hope in your eyes.

And above it all, Chishiya watched.

And oh, wasn’t it pathetic?

Wasn’t it hilarious, how this allegedly genius man—this detached, morally grayscale asshole—was standing up there with his jaw just the slightest bit clenched, like your pain had any right to twist something in his precious, clinical little chest?

Like he wasn’t the one who’d helped make the game that broke you.

Like he didn’t spend the past twenty-four hours playing tug-of-war with your trust, your heart, your sanity.

Like he didn’t deserve every single second of watching you hold another man’s hand while you wanted to keep someone else alive.

God, you were beautiful.

Even now. Especially now.

Tired and trembling and worn down to the bone, blood on your legs, your hair loose and messy, face streaked with smoke and tears you were too proud to let fall.

And not his anymore.

That was the best part, wasn’t it?

You weren’t looking at him. You hadn’t looked up once. Not when the crowd gasped, not when Arisu dropped to the ground.

You didn’t look at him like you used to. Like he was the smartest man in the room. Like he was your anchor.

And Chishiya? Oh, he deserved that. He totally deserved to stand up there, silent and smart and utterly alone, while you put your broken little heart on the line for someone else.

Still. That part of him, the part that was far too human for his own liking, couldn’t shut the fuck up. Couldn’t stop cataloging your every breath, the way your chest rose with shaky control, the way your knees shook for half a second and you caught yourself on instinct.

He was supposed to outthink it all. That was his thing. Observe. Adapt. Use. Survive.

But now? Now he was just watching you slip through his fingers.

And you didn’t even have to say anything to destroy him.

You just had to stand there.

Alive.

Gorgeous.

Gone.

So yeah.

Aguni could punch Arisu all he wanted.

The real hit had already landed.

Right in Chishiya’s chest.

And wasn’t that just tragic?

Not for him, of course. No. He wasn’t a victim. He was a player. He deserved this.

But that didn’t make it any less brutal when he realized—

You were never going to look at him the same way again.

And that? That was worse than any bullet. Worse than any witch hunt. Worse than watching the Beach burn.

Because the game was still on, but Chishiya Shuntaro?

He’d already lost.

But what was this, even?

This thing between you and Chishiya.

This… feverish, shapeless half-romance that never got a name because neither of you were stupid enough to say it out loud. Because the second it had a label, it would become real, and the second it was real, it could die.

Well.

Too bad.

It died anyway.

Because you closed it.

You didn’t just walk away—you shut the fucking door and twisted the handle off and set the whole hallway on fire behind you. You said “done” with that voice of yours—low, teary, trembling, gorgeous—and meant it. You told them they were sick, manipulative. Told them you hated them. Told them to leave you alone.

And Chishiya? He let you go. Or pretended to. Which was worse. He’d told himself it was better that way. Better for you. Better to let you feel in control for once, to let you have something, after he and Niragi had twisted you around for their own ends. He’d convinced himself, in that cold-blooded place behind his ribs, that maybe that was the most love he was capable of. Letting go. But standing up here, now, watching you from above—he realized the truth:

He didn’t let go.

He lost.

He lost you.

He lost the smell of your skin. The sound of your laugh, the soft ones, the real ones, the ones you tried to hide. He lost that weird way you always wiggled around everywhere, how you offered sweetness. How your eyes got so wide when you were angry, when you were hurt, when someone needed saving.

He lost your kindness. Your mind. Your mercy.

You were the only soft thing left in this world and now he didn’t get to have you anymore.

And for what? His dumb little crush making him crazy?

Chishiya Shuntaro?

With a crush?

What, was he twelve?

What a fucking joke.

Because that wasn’t a crush. That wasn’t sweet little butterflies and schoolyard daydreams.

It was need.

Longing

He wanted your hands back on his neck, your lips pressed to the corner of his mouth. Wanted to be the one you whispered to in hallways, the one you made eye contact with across the crowd. He wanted to be inside every moment of your life, all of them, the happy ones and the brutal ones, the quiet ones, the loud ones. He wanted to rip every other person out of your orbit and fill it all with himself.

He wanted to own your next breath.

And you closed the door on him.

You were smart. Too smart. You figured it out. And when you figured it out? You didn’t cry pretty. You screamed. You fought. You hurt them.

God, he deserved it. He really did. But it still made him sick. Not because he regretted it. No. Never. He’d do it again. Twist you again. Play you again. He’d rather be the villain in your life than some footnote you forget. He’d rather have your hate than your indifference.

But right now—watching your shoulders shake in the crowd as Arisu stood in front of Aguni, watching your hand in Tatta’s of all people—he was still human enough to feel it.

That ache.

The disgusting, humiliating ache of a boy who ruined his own shot at love and now had to sit in it.

Alone.

Up here, above the world, where he always wanted to be.

Now all he could do was watch you turn away from him—again and again and again—and pretend it didn’t gut him every single time.

And still, the worst part?

He’d do it all again if it meant he could just touch your hand one more time.

Yeah.

Chishiya was fucked.

And he knew it.

And your knees were bleeding.

He always noticed the little things about you, didn’t he? Your knees were scraped raw, red running down your shins in trails that dried at the edges. Your hands too—one trembling, the other wrapped tight around Tatta’s like you were clinging to a life raft. The same hands that once ghosted over his neck, his jaw, his heart, now used just to hold on.

You were holding on.

And Chishiya wasn’t the one you were holding anymore.

Were you okay?

Were you okay, were you okay, were you okay?

He couldn’t fucking help it.

You looked too small.

Too breakable.

Too goddamn precious.

Did you even take a moment to rest?

Did you even eat?

Who was taking care of you?

Tatta? That coward? That little puppy who held your hand like he didn’t even know what to do with it? Was that the guy you trusted now?

Chishiya could feel the jealousy digging in under his skin.

And yet. All he could do was watch. Watch you stand there, knees bleeding, shoulders square, your fragile little body shoved into the center of a war—and wonder if this was what heartbreak felt like.

Because it wasn’t like the stories. It wasn’t loud or dramatic or cinematic. It was this. This cold, gnawing ache behind the ribs.

This helpless need to press a palm to your wounds and tell you you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay—even though he was one of the reasons you weren’t.

He should’ve gone to you.

He should’ve never let you go.

Down there, Arisu just revealed that Aguni was the one that killed Hatter.

Oh, you looked like someone had just shot you. You were his number two—or you would have been.

Chishiya hated that look on your face. He felt his stomach twist. It was rare, that sensation. He barely recognized it. But it wasn’t just guilt. It wasn’t even pity. It was grief. Grief for you. For what you looked like down there. For what was being stolen from you, over and over and over again by this place.

You deserved better. And he… well. He wasn’t “better.” He was the exact opposite. But god, he still wanted to save you. Hide you somewhere quiet. Get the blood off your knees.

Tatta had shoved you back. Chishiya’s chest tightened. He’d seen that. That move—the way Tatta had put his hands on you and shoved you away like you were just a bystander. To keep you out of it while he and Usagi launched themselves at Aguni. Hm.

First time Chishiya had felt anything in years—anything that wasn’t boredom, anyway—and this was what it amounted to. This? This heartbreak of watching you get pushed aside.

He almost smirked to himself. The cruel irony. You were right there, just out of reach. And yet, somehow, Chishiya had played his part, too, getting tangled in the mess of all of this. The first real feeling he’d had in god knows how long, and he had no idea what the hell to do with it.

You had it all wrong. You couldn’t save Arisu from the reality of this place. You couldn’t save yourself.

Chishiya’s lips pressed into a thin line. The feeling he had in his chest twisted. He was so fucking sick of this. A big mess of tangled lies. Everyone, including him, dancing to the beat of their own selfish needs and desires, no matter the cost.

Oh, right. The roof.

Chishiya’s lip twitched at the memory.

He lit the fucker on fire.

The moment Niragi’s frame caught flame, that screech—god, Chishiya had never heard anything like it. Not even in the games. It was so guttural, so real. God, it felt good. But not good enough. Setting Niragi on fire? Satisfying. Watching you hold someone else’s hand in the aftermath? Devastating.

It didn’t get you back. Nothing would.

You were already gone. He had burned Niragi, but you were the one who burned him. Quietly, thoroughly, permanently.

Oh, boo-fucking-hoo.

Poor Chishiya. Tragic little genius. If someone really wanted to be charitable—really charitable—they could call him a man broken by love.

Seriously, it was getting embarrassing. He had survived every game. Outsmarted some of the most dangerous lunatics. He was a legend in the making. And now he was watching. Just watching.

Did someone have a sniper rifle?

A pipe? A brick?

Anyone? Please?

Because honest to god, if someone just shot him right now—clean shot, forehead, boom—he’d absolutely whisper a little thank you with his final breath.

Because watching you—the girl who once cupped his face like it mattered, who kissed him with the kind of softness he didn’t know people like him were allowed to receive—watching you stand there not looking up, not thinking of him, not being his anymore?

Yeah. Unbearable.

He deserved it, sure. He knew that. This was the price of the game he played. It all came with consequences.

But no one ever told him how bad it would actually hurt.

Like physically hurt. Chest pressure. Shortness of breath. He kept reaching up to tug at the collar of his hoodie like it was choking him.

But no. Life wasn’t that merciful.

Instead, he had to stay up here and watch. Chishiya’s stomach folded into itself. He couldn’t even bring himself to hate Tatta. Because Tatta was a coward, sure, but he was harmless. Safe. Probably cried when people stepped on snails.

Tatta was everything Chishiya wasn’t. Which, apparently, made him everything you wanted now.

Because feelings? Chishiya Shuntaro had them.

Unfortunately, they were the type you couldn’t surgically remove. Believe him—he would’ve tried.

If there was a god, they’d drop a piano on his head. Or a vending machine. Something swift, something ironic.

But no.

Chishiya had to keep living.

And worse—he had to keep feeling.

❤︎︎ @lizntstoptalking @cherryheairt @fiction-fantasy-folks @monkey4lifer @psychicyouthfox @so-dramatic1 @mypsychoticlove @unhinged-sorcerer @rattymess @mocchii-writes @adanfore @scarlet703 @fluentgoddess @maxinehufflepuffprincess @onyxmango @bluerthanvelvet444 @risingofjupiter @enhasrii @potato-vagina @cherryyserenade @l5byrinth @soaplickerrr @sillyenemyarcade @miellette @sk1ndx0 @stopcallingmeimovedon

#alice in borderland #aib niragi #niragi suguru #niragi x reader #niragi alice in borderland #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #aib chishiya #chishiya x reader #chishiya

74 notes · View notes

rosenclaws · 2 days ago

Text

How does he approach you or ask you for comfort when he's upset, in pain - physical or emotional?

I just wanna give all the Logans a big hug :(

Origins Logan -

It's after a nightmare when Logan comes to you. He had woken you up with his tossing and turning. You tried to talk to him when he woke up but he just left the bedroom. He needed time. Having nightmares of every war can't be easy. You give him 30 minutes before going after him but he comes back before then. He's quiet and he gets back into bed. Silently you open your arms and he crawls into them. You ask him if he wants to talk about it and he says no so you just scratch his head and let him fall asleep in your arms.

Trilogy Logan -

This Logan likes to pretend he's okay when he's not and so its hard for him to actually ask for comfort. I mean that's true for all of them. I think he's haunted by a lot of his past, not knowing most of it and discovering things are just. A lot. I think that your relationship with Logan starts during the events of the first movie but doesn't evolve into more until after he gets back. He didn't find the answers he wanted and you can tell he's frustrated. The banter is light but you can tell somethings bothering him. It's late at night when he finally cracks just a bit. You're sitting on the couch sharing a soda when he starts to open up just a bit. He's angry and frustrated and he's telling you and you offer him something he craves. You're just listening and not judging. He rests his head on your shoulder and you place your hand on top of his and things just feel okay.

DOFP Logan -

With DOFP Logan I think it's more physical pain. He's getting older and while his healing factor is fine it's starting to slow down just a bit. His whole life of fighting and taking literal bullets to the chest are catching up with him. It starts with just aches that don't go away as quick as they should. His knees, his back, any of his joins really. It's annoying and a little amusing because he has to deal with pain like the rest of you. He's all pouty and cute and you tease him a little. But offer to massage his back which he declines saying he doesn't need it. It's a couple of days later when you can tell it's really bothering him and he appears at your doorway like a little puppy but he's shirtless too oop. Anyways he mumbles out something that you don't catch and you make him ask again until he finally just asks you to help him. You make him lay down on his stomach so you can rub his back and he purrs like a damn cat. Safe to say he comes to you a lot for these massages now.

Old Man Logan -

He's always in pain. His body is actively trying to kill him and not much helps. He tries to hide it from you. He's fine he doesn't need help. But he's quite bad at it when you find him passed out on his bed and groaning in pain. One day when he comes home you massage his shoulders for a bit and it feels fucking amazing. He almost cries when you stop and he's too ashamed to ask you for help again so he doesn't. Until one day things are getting really bad and he craves your hands on him. He's all shy and only gets a few words out before saying something like "This was stupid nevermind" but you stop him and after a bit of fussing you get him to lay down and you help relieve any pain he has even if its temporary.

Worst Logan -

He's so emotionally constipated it can be hard to get anything out of him. You don't know his backstory like Wade and Laura do. You want to know but in all truth he's too afraid to tell you. Afraid that you'll look at him like the monster he knows he is. He can't take that from you. He convinces himself he's doing better. That he's fine and adjusting well to Wade's world but the truth is he's not. well he is but It's not as easy as he's hoping. He has his bad days and his nightmares come back and it really throws him off. He finds himself wandering outside for a while. Just taking in the new air and trying to go back to normal for a bit. It's still early in the morning when he comes back to the apartment complex and sees you outside of your door. You're tired and clearly still half asleep which confuses him.

Shyly you admit that you woke up when he left and saw him walking out, you wanted to sleep but you were worried about him so you waited until he came back home. He feels guilty but you invite him inside so he can make it up to you. You serve him coffee and a little pastry you bought yesterday. You don't press but you do tell him that you're here to talk. Slowly but surely he starts to tell you about his past. He doesn't go into detail but its clear how much pain he's really in sometimes and it just breaks your heart. To his shock you hug him. It takes him a second but he wraps his arms around you and slowly melts into your touch, your comfort being something he starts to crave.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett headcanon

143 notes · View notes

smute · 2 days ago

Text

just want to clear a few things up, since i keep seeing screenshots of that same tweet floating around.

all other things being equal, a us-made iphone could cost up to around $3,000. the problem here is not primarily one of labor cost, but of expertise. the forbes article quotes apple ceo tim cook:

There’s a confusion about China… the popular conception is that companies come to China because of low labor cost. I’m not sure what part of China they go to but the truth is, China stopped being the low labor cost country many years ago and that is not the reason to come to China from a supply point of view... the reason is because of the skill… and the quantity of skill in one location… and the type of skill it is. [...] In the U.S. you could have a meeting of tooling engineers and I’m not sure we could fill the room. In China you could fill multiple football fields.

the article goes on to explain that:

Foxconn employs over one million workers [...]. The consumer electronics supply chain migrated to Asia three to four decades ago and rapid procurement of components is critical to cost, time-to-market and ability to scale. Logistics and infrastructure are also key for a product that is shipped around the world — seven of the world’s ten largest ports are in China.

the point is that regardless of cost, the iphone (or any other smartphone for that matter) would be impossible to manufacture in the us at the current scale.

Theoretically, if Apple were forced to manufacture only in the U.S. I certainly believe we have the capability to eventually re-build the technical skills required to do this. [...] To really get this done right, we would probably need to re-design much of our public educational system to look more like Germany’s where students start moving down the vocational path during high school. This is a pretty massive undertaking to say the least. [...] Even if we were to start today, it would take an entire generation to really scale this up. In the meantime, using the existing scarce resources (sub-optimally) my guess is that we could initially produce a few million units per year [...]. (emphasis mine)

production in the us would be so slow that the product's scarcity would drive up the price.

So forcing Apple to manufacture only in the United States means that in a best case scenario you probably go from the ability to produce hundreds of millions of iPhones per year to producing single-digit millions per year at a much higher per-unit cost. This is a two order-of-magnitude difference. While the production costs would undoubtedly be significantly higher, Economics 101 tells me that the biggest driver in the price increase would be the supply curve shifting waaaaaaay to the left resulting in a massive increase in the equilibrium price.

In this theoretical world, where only 1% of the population could have an iPhone (and assume alternatives don’t exist for now), the cost would skyrocket. Not only can the 1% afford to pay significantly more, the iPhone would turn into an ultra-luxury item and just look at the order-of-magnitude price difference between say a Birkin bag and a Coach handbag — price differences in the 30–100x range. In iPhone terms that would bring us to prices in the $30,000 to $100,000 range. In other words, the price increase is driven almost entirely by artificially constrained supply in the face of overwhelming demand as opposed to rising per-unit production costs. (emphasis mine)

It seems that your cheap phones are not a god given right but actually a luxury sustained by imperialist inequality after all. Mirá vos.

#nothing pisses me off like an out of context quote #i am the debunker #<- that's an archival tag #&

31K notes · View notes

youthereader · 2 days ago

Text

Echoes in the Dark part 2.

PAIRING: joel miller (the last of us) x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 2.3k words. Every morning you wake up and remember two things. Firstly, that your son is dead, and secondly, that Joel Miller is your patient. || A fix-it fic. Reader is Joel’s carer as he recovers from Abby’s attempt on his life.

RATING: eventually E (no smut in this part). age gap (reader is in their 30s, Joel is in his 60s). heavy angst, grief and loss of a child, graphic violence.

A/N: Thank you for your enthusiasm so far! Things are starting to heat up a little bit...

PART 1.

Maria shows up during breakfast the next day, hands deep in her pockets with a bright smile on her face despite the early hour. You return it, wondering what’s happened to warrant this.

“Sorry to interrupt your breakfast,” she says, stepping inside. She hastily wipes her boots on the doormat. “I had a question to ask you.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, letting her pass you. “What’s up?”

“How’s Joel been?”

“Uh, fine -” you point behind her. “You want a coffee?”

“Sure.”

She follows you into the kitchen and parks herself by the counter, and you grab a second mug for Maria from the cupboard. You pour hers and do the same in your own dirty mug. She declines sugar or milk.

“What did you wanna ask?” you murmur, holding your mug with both hands.

Maria smirks. “I already did.”

You blink at her, confused.

“I asked how Joel was going.”

“Oh, right,” you shut your eyes and give your best attempt at a laugh, relief coursing through you.

A million worse scenarios than this already churning in your mind’s eye, you didn’t expect this to be such an easy visit. You lapse into silence and Maria puts off drinking her coffee, taking a glance away from you, words hesitant.

“It’s just that he can be…”

“An asshole?” you prompt, and she grimaces.

“I was gonna say ‘a challenge’, but that works, too,” she admits, finally taking a gulp of coffee.

You hold up a hand. “Ellie’s word, not mine.”

Though you totally would describe him that way. You know that in other circumstances, you wouldn’t stand Joel for two seconds, but because he’s yours to look after, you’re trying to be diplomatic.

Ellie chewed him out yesterday when she came by, and you made yourself scarce, telling Joel you’d be back in an hour. You wanted them to have their privacy, since they had so little of it when they were in the hospital. You reminded him gently that he’d need a nap later, too. He grumbled under his breath, prompting Ellie to comment:

“You don’t have to be such an asshole all the time.”

You were already on your way out of his room, within earshot when she added:

“She’s really nice.”

Meaning what, exactly? That Joel’s treatment of you wasn’t fair, because you were just doing your job, or because Ellie could sense some semblance of ‘good’ in you? If it was the latter, you’d been convincing enough for a nineteen year-old to believe this version of yourself you presented. That was better than the alternative.

No-one knew that part of you, the one that Maria almost found out about when you first got to Jackson.

You drain your mug. “Joel’s got a check-up this afternoon.”

“Tommy told me,” Maria says with a nod. “What do you think?”

You shrug. “I think… I’m not a doctor.”

Maria waits, and you know she wants you on her side. It was one of the reasons she assigned you to her brother-in-law. It wasn’t because you’re a homebody with nothing else better to do, though sometimes at night that’s all you can tell yourself. You life feels so empty at times that you wonder how on earth you’ve made it this far. And then you force yourself to get up and read a book, because there’s no way you’re going to start remembering things, or start the ‘what-ifs’ again.

“Let me know if you need any help,” she says, and you nod. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Not a problem,” you reply.

Maria lets herself out, and you empty her mug in the sink, watching the liquid disappear down the drain. You wait another ten minutes before you dress for the day and go over to Joel’s.

On the walk there, you vow to align yourself with Joel. Granted, you don’t know the full story about Abby, but he barely got out of there alive. He cares about Ellie a lot, and he’s a part of the community, far more valuable than you’ve ever been.

The check-up doesn’t go as planned. The doctor gawks at you when you mention crutches, then refuses them. Joel is confined to his wheelchair or bed for the next week, depending on how he’s healing from now on.

“He’s only been conscious for five minutes and you’re already wanting him on crutches? That’s negligence,” the doctor hisses, and Joel frowns at him.

“Hey, she-”

“No, he’s right,” you cut in. Your arms are crossed where you sit beside him, your cheeks heating. “I’m sorry.”

You can’t have Joel admitting to nearly falling ass over tits. He’d be thrown back into the hospital, or taken to live with Tommy, and you don’t want him driven crazy. You care too much, and you know that, but it doesn’t make you any less right. You can’t have him being too honest right now.

The doctor dismisses you with a short wave. “It’s fine. You’ll get there eventually. But we’re being cautious.”

He and Joel talk about pain levels, diet… you begin to zone out, then come back when his sleeping situation is questioned.

“I’m fine alone,” he snaps. “Or this version of it.”

He regards you and you frown back at him, annoyed. You just stuck out your neck for him.

When you’re walking back to his place, you try to push the wheelchair as fast as possible. Joel hates this, and you both know it, the silence tense between you. Getting inside his place is time-consuming. You help him up the steps, then get him to sit on his couch, then take the wheelchair inside backwards, then slam the front door shut.

“Easy,” he calls.

“Sorry,” you mutter. You find him again, pulling off your gloves. “You want something to eat?”

He shakes his head, rubs his face. “You can go, I’m beat.”

“I’d rather not,” you say, and he glares at you.

His grumpy mug isn’t that scary when you know he can’t stand unassisted. In any other case…

Your mind drifts, considering the power in those limbs he once had, the way he pulled through all this because he was tough. You look at his hands, how much larger they are than yours. Fuck, they’re huge.

“Okay,” he mutters. “I’ll lie down for a bit.”

Returning to his bed, you help take off his boots, his jacket. Your head comes close to his and you smell his skin. It’s vaguely sweet, yet musky. You place a hand on his chest and he lowers himself gingerly, his eyes heavy.

“Do you want me to stick around?” you whisper, and he shakes his head.

“You got someplace to be?” he says. “Am I keeping you from someone?”

You shake your head, swallowing. You have to look away from his face, fussing with his blanket unnecessarily.

“I’m a widow.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that,” he says. “Any kids?”

You shake your head, biting your lip. “Nah.”

He was going to ask that eventually, since you hadn’t offered up much of yourself. You step away from the bed, fixing the curtains. In the dark, you see the shape of him under the blankets. You sense he’s already drifting off by how his breathing turns steady. You leave his door ajar and walk back to the couch, feeling the warmth of his body from before still lingering.

You close your eyes, and against your will, fall asleep, too.

You wake with a start, neck sore.

“What the fuck.”

You scrub at your eyes and wonder what woke you, then hear a groan in the distance. You jump up, almost tripping over your own feet as you sprint off. You find Joel on the floor, his pillow beside him. He’s lying on his good side, thank fuck.

“It’s okay…”

You try to scoop him up, snarling:

“Would you just let me fucking help you?”

He weighs a ton and you groan with him, helping him perch back on the edge of his bed, panting from the effort. You stay on the floor, your hair half in your face. You’re so angry.

“What were you even doing?”

“I fell, alright?” he yells. He pants like you, sweaty like you know you are. “I had a… bad dream and-”

You deflate a little, huffing. “What?”

A silence settles over you and then he sighs, passing a hand over his face. You stay on the floor, thinking that if you move he won’t ever speak again. You wish not for the first time that there was more you could do. You relent.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, and he doesn’t look at you, only nods. “Maybe we need to get a rail for your bed, to stop that from happening again.”

“What? No!” he snaps, and you shrink away instinctively at the volume of his voice. “I’m not a toddler-”

You scramble to your feet, turning away, a flurry of memories invading your vision. A hand in yours, a cupid’s bow on a round little face, the smell of the softest hair imaginable, a smile so like your own beaming back at you-

“No,” you whisper aloud, the emotion smacking you on the nose, your eyes blurring with tears.

You feel like you could sink into the floor and disappear from how heavy your heart becomes. All the while, Joel says your name three separate times, alarmed.

“I’m fine,” you gasp, though it’s so obvious you’re not.

You leave him there, running out of the house, falling to your knees on the front porch. The icy air hits your lungs and you take deep breaths, squeezing your eyes shut. You force the tears down. This is ludicrous. All Joel had to say was the word ‘toddler’ and you fall apart? Maybe it’s happening because you just woke up, and you’re still recovering from your panic from earlier…

“Stop,” you hiss, because you can’t sink any further. You won’t manage the night alone in your bed if you do. You won’t sleep for days.

Joel calls your name again and you take more steadying breaths, standing up straight, looking around. Thank fuck nobody is witness to this. You can’t handle any comforting touches or words.

“I’m fine, Joel,” you call back. “Just getting some fresh air.”

The weak sunlight breaks through the clouds and you wait another minute before you head back inside. Joel is in his chair, about to wheel himself into the hallway by the time you reach his bedroom doorway.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“Don’t be.”

“Maria came by my place this morning,” you say, determined to change the subject.

Joel’s hands pause. “What did she want?”

“I think she wanted me to divulge too much,” you say. You feel safer being honest, after he just saw you start to freak out. “I didn’t tell her about you nearly falling-”

“I know,” he says. “I trust you.”

You back at him. It could be such a throwaway line but you can’t ignore how something squeezes in your chest.

“I’m not gonna tell her about this, either,” you add, moving on. “Though I probably should.”

He glances away, considering this. You don’t mind that he’s taking longer to process this. At least he’s not arguing with you.

“I’m sick of this pyjamas, I want to change into decent clothes,” he says.

“You wanna go somewhere?” you ask, and he nods.

“Yeah. Maybe see Ellie.”

You nod back at him. “Okay.”

You open his drawers and he goes through them, handing you a charcoal t-shirt, a flannel shirt and some worn jeans. His socks are on the top of the pile on his bed.

You wait as he begins to unbutton his pyjama shirt, a set you guess was once black but has faded over time. You point to the jeans.

“I dunno about those with your leg. What about sweatpants?”

He nods and you see his bare chest for the first time, warmth flooding you all over. You feel exposed, your mouth dry as you take in his golden skin, the hair on his chest and stomach that disappears under his waistband. You know his stomach would be soft, and somehow simultaneously hard.

“Lemme.”

You lean toward him, his arms stretching up. He’s quiet again.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” you add. “You can’t do this alone.”

He gives a breath of a laugh, and you move closer still. You can feel the heat of his skin. You push back the material off his shoulder, his mouth by your ear.

“It’s not that. I just have an old man’s body, nobody needs to see it.”

You scoff. He’s so beautiful. You wish he believed that his body was still capable, still great to look at. Not that that was part of your job description.

“That’s dumb,” you retort, pulling the shirt away completely. You toss it aside, picking up his clean shirt. “Arms.”

He obliges, a little smirk forming. A miracle - you’re maybe making Joel smile? You pull the shirt over his head, his face popping up again.

“There he is,” you murmur, and he actually laughs at that. You feel lighter, smiling down at him.

The pants prove difficult, especially when you’re tugging his pyjama bottoms off, revealing his thick thighs. You try not to be afraid of his bandaged one, putting one leg of his sweatpants over his ankle and then the other.

“Stand up. You’re okay.”

He groans a little, leaning onto you, gripping your shoulder over your jacket like a lifeline, as you slowly pull up the pants all the way up to his hips.

“You got it?” he says, and you nod.

“Just gotta get your old butt into this,” you mutter, pulling it all up, and he laughs again.

Lightning striking twice. You smile back at him, the moment passing. His arm is still around you. Your hand reaches up to pat his stomach, over his shirt, just once.

“Sit down.”

You take him to see Ellie, who promises to bring him back in one piece. You nod, and then Joel nods back at you, a small smile there.

You touch yourself that night. You welcome the feeling of something other than loneliness. You want him, more than you thought possible. You replay your day with him over and over. You remember his skin, and the smell of his musk and come hard, seeing stars.

😈😈😈 I can happily reveal this is not a slow burn. I am having so much fun with this, thank you for reading. 😘

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #echoes in the dark #pedro pascal fanfiction #fem reader

80 notes · View notes

drdemonprince · 3 days ago

Note

some of your advice has recently become really useful to me, for gauging my feelings/safety in a situation

i met a dominatrix at the bus stop today, we hit it off, swapped fetlifes, and chatted on the bus all the way to her stop. i'm new to the local kink scene, and am nervous about going to events by myself, and she offered to go with me as well as to offer me advice - she's twice my age (early 20s), and advice for folks my age tends to go "be suspicious about initiation from older people".

i've decided, however, to assess my own feelings about it, and look at the situation with that in mind: i was very excited to meet her, loved talking to her, and was giddy at her offer. i don't feel in danger, i don't feel ashamed or guilty. i've happily told several friends about her and her offer, and been met with mutual excitement. this is also the kind of social support i want as an autistic person, and i'm currently lacking connection with queer people past the age of 30.

all in all, i feel very prepared to deal with any well-meaning concerns citing her age or initiation, and really excited to have expanded my social circle (especially because it started with me complimenting a kinky shirt)! thanks devon :)

That this person asked to hang out with you as a mentor in a event around lots of other people in the community is a definite green flag. It's pretty much built-in vetting of her as a Domme and a person, and a useful "in" to meeting other kinky folks who are connected and have experience, too. In the old days the only way to get integrated into kink was to have someone like that guiding you. These days it's not obligatory, which is great because people are afforded a lot more freedom in roles and play they take on early on, but having some seasoned buddies really does help. Have fun!

61 notes · View notes

whatever1728 · 2 days ago

Text

"Love, I'm not loving you any less because of it"

a/n: had this random thought about Pau and was like "YES, finally write some fluff"

summary: in which Pau tells his girlfriend who is 3 years older that he is a virgin and she was his first ever kiss and feels shy about it, but reader is extremely loving and reassures him that it doesn't matter to her, it only matters to her so she can make his first time special when he is ready

warnings: mentions of sex, making out

part 2

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Pau thought this would be like any other day. He woke up in his dormroom in La Masia, took a shower, got dressed and went to have breakfast with some of his dormmates. After eating, he went back to his room and studied for a while, training with the first team start at 10 o'clock today. So he had approximately an hour to study since it was now 8:30. He sent a 'goodmorning amor' to his girlfriend of 6 months, just like every other morning. Neither of you were huge on texting, always prefering to call one another.

You had a pretty dull morning. You woke up with a bit more energy buzzing beneath your skin because you slept well but that's about it. You had classes early today. So you got your gear and rode your motorcycle. By the time Pau's text arrived you already were on your way to the University campus. You replied to his text quickly before entering the amphitheatre.

Fortunately, since his training was early and your classes ended around 2, you both had the evening free to enjoy each other. Most likely, Pau would come over, you would cook something together -meaning you would cook while he hugged you and kissed your shoulder blades- and then you would watch a movie while you cuddled, possibly make out a bit and that's about it. Honestly, those quiet evenings were you didn't have to care about uni work and Pau didn't have to think about the pressure of the football world were always the best.

Amor 😍😍

Love I am going to be home a bit after 2,

when is training over?

I will be done before you get home guapa

I'll head back to my dorm to study for a bit,

will be at yours around 3 propably 🤗🤗

That's fine amor 💕

See u then 😘

With your date later settled, you went to the cafeteria with some of your friends before the next lecture started.

"So what plans do you all have for the evening?" Carla asked

"I'm hanging out with my boyfriend..." you replied

"Ohhh, we want details tomorrow girl, you never tell us anything spicy" Aria said

"That's 'cause nothing spicy happens, apart from make out sessions that is" you told her

"Why though? How come you haven't crossed that line?" Isa questioned

"Honestly, I don't know, whenever it gets heated he turns me down" you asked, getting concerned

Now that you actually talked aloud about it, it made you realize that you've been a bit careless, you just thought Pau was tired or just not in the mood. Now you understood something else was going on.

"Do you think I should talk to him about it?" you asked the girls

"If I were you, I would. He is younger, maybe he is just shy or something" Lia expressed, and in the end she wasn't far from the truth.

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

When midday rolled around, Pau took a cab from his dorm to your place. He knew he was a bit earlier than he said, but when he saw your motorcycle parked outside he realized you were already home. He knocked on the door and waited.

You didn't take long to open it.

"Hola amorcito" you said and kissed him gently on the lips

"Hola" he replied, a bit breathless, you always took his breath away with the way you kissed him.

"I'm making carbonara" you informed him lightly

"You always nail that and I love your cooking, whatever you make"

He followed you in the kitchen like usual. You chatted for a while before the cooked ingredients needed your attention again. Then he -as expected- hugged you from behind and rested his head on your shoulder, his arms circling your waist, his palms resting on opposite hips.

You ate while talking about the latest news each of you had. Pau told you how Pique came to see them during training and how he complimented him. Pau was more than thrilled that one of his idols, a person he looked up to and who many compared him with was so awestruck by his performance.

When you finished eating, the two of you decided to watch the first episode of a new series that seemed promising. However, not long after the beginning of the episode, you started making out. He teased you about something and you decided that you had to shut him up after such a comment. It grew heated quickly. He picked you up easily, his strong arms grabbing your hips, and got you seated on his lap. With one hand, you grabbed his hair, tilting his head up to have better access to his lips and later his neck and jawline. Your other hand was teasing the line of his t-shirt, barely grazing his skin.

You started caressing his skin and went to raise his shirt up. At that moment he stopped you, again. You were left confused. You could feel his erection through his jeans and your shorts, so why did he stop you yet again. He pushed you off his lap gently.

"Pau, talk to me, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" he replied a bit nervously, his hands twiching.

"Your hiding something from me..."

"No..."

"Yes..." you teased him with a smile, hoping to ease his nerves so he would open up

"I just... ahhh how do I even tell you?" he seemed concerned and a bit panicked.

"Love, just talk whatever it is, I won't judge you for anything, you know that" you spoke calmly

"I..I... look, I didn't tell you 'cause I'm really shy and embarrassed about it" he said, mumbling a bit.

"Guapo, tell me there is no need to feel embarrassed, it's just me your talking to"

"Okay, well yo-you were my first ever kiss..."

"Ohh love..." you said, a smile tugging at you lips, then came the realization and you grew serious

"Wait, but that means..."

"I'm still a virgin? Yes..." at that Pau covered his face with his hands, feeling exposed

"Baby, look at me..."

However, he didn't move. You gently got a hold of his chin, lifting it up so he would look at you, his eyes teared up.

"Oh my god amor shhh... come here" you hugged him tightly, sensing how streesful this was for him, even though it shouldn't have been.

"Why didn't you tell me love? It's okay, god above it's more than okay, it doesn't change the love I hold for you or how important you are to me"

"I-I don't know, I just-I thought you would leave me...I-I thought you would realize that I-I'm still just a-a kid and leave me-e because of it" he said between sobs

"No, baby look at me. If I knew I would have stopped, I didn't know it made you uncomfortable"

"Bu-but it didn't-t, I felt comfortable every time, it felt natural, I just-t never had the guts to admit it-t because I couldn't face the fear of you leaving me..."

"Amor, that will never happen... I love you, you're easily the best thing that has happened to me, it doesn't matter to me that you don't have experience, the only thing that changes is that I will try as hard as I can to make your first time special, okay?"

He nodded, unable to form words with everything he was feeling. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck for a couple of minutes, while you stroked his hair. A couple of minutes after he managed to calm down. He looked up at you, sea green eyes wide, blue and green always dancing in those irises of his.

"I am ready though..." he said quietly.

"Not today love, today you had a lot to deal with and your mind was a turbulent sea. I'm going to do this the right way, come pick you up from your dorm with my car and we will go to a nice restaurant by the sea, then go for a walk and watch the sunset and if it feels right we will end up back here, okay??"

"I-okay..."he said with blush painting his cheeks.

"Te adoro, carino" you replied and kissed his nose. You got a blanket for the two of you and cuddled up to him, while you rewound the episode. 💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

#fanfiction #fc barcelona #football #fluff #football fanfic #pau cubarsi #pau cubarsí imagine #pau cubarsí x reader #pau cubarsí x y/n #pau cubarsí x you

54 notes · View notes

youdontknowe · 2 days ago

Text

OK take two for this week cus I took a bit longer to read the last chapter 💙

(Gonna start using numbers cus I always have to cross reference when I read your replies lmao)

1. He’s so caring it’s sickening (I’d melt)

2. Cackling ‘proposing is probably off the table’ and the funniest part is it’s not even off the table if he did ask

3. lol cas being concerned about her drooling

4. I love a good cas drop in cus he has all the lore

5. I hope you include Dean enjoying cooking when/if the bunker comes along. My favourite thing about Dean is he can cook

6. Lmao she’s always gotta throw in some words that can be taken suggestive by Dean. Keep him on his toes and horny

7. Dean you will ALWAYS be better than your arse of a father. I bet John wasn’t even that good of a husband compared to how Dean already is (I have no base for this I just feel it in my soul)

8. Dean really has a power kink huh like he just finds her being powerful a huge turn on

9. ‘Dean needed to steal one of those and give it to Cas, just to know what the hell She was thinking about all the damn time.’ And you’d love it if you knew

10. “No.” “You got a better idea?” “…no” that just sums up their dynamic mostly

11. Dean isn’t god fearing he’s Bobby fearing

12. Lmao sammy snitching is so fucking funny and then he’s got a oh shit moment and then He’s back to it

13. It’s funny he always considers the possibility of being stabbed for risk factors like she wouldn’t personally check herself into hell if she hurt Dean

14. These fuckers are about as bad at procrastination as I am

15. Oh ho ho I do love me a cat fight with ruby

16. ANOTHER GODDESS REFERENCE! (I’m keeping track of that from now)

17. Awh flashbacks of Bobby??

18. ‘The word—words?—are glowing, and sinking into Dean’s skin,’ oooooo unintentional equivalent of cas marking ribs thingy?

19. Poor Jo she’s gotta learn to knock otherwise she actually might walk in on them mid sex

20. “he’s gonna get like, all fuckin’ commanding. And you’d be into that.” I see you and your kinks 🫵 (me too, me too)

21. “ Sam told me he’s been moanin’ your name in his sleep” OH MY GOD?!

22. Jo ‘just fuck him already’ harvelle

23. Awh Jo would be an amazing sound tech

24. Oh he’s so gonna short circuit when he finds out he’s the first EVERYTHING

25. Her just throttling the damn thing is so awesome

26. Anndddd the wheels fell off the car (the roof fell off the church?)

27. Oh no I’m scared for jo please don’t let this be the ‘ehehe secrets’ from weeks ago 🥲

28. Oh no

29. Oh my god I don’t usually cry but I’m crying. Owie

30. Oh god poor Dean first Jo now she’s leaving again

31. Oh god everyone’s crying even Dean

32. End note: the ultimate fridging but atleast YOU gave her a personality (take note directors)

33. Your mean, why would you put me in a false sense of security and Rip it away that fast??? Do you want me to just cry why way through this fic??? But seriously that’s some fucked up goood writing. none does angst like you do, and imma just go eat my pasta and cry some more. See you next week 💙💙 pls be nice to my lil heart (even if your not I’ll keep reading anyways cus I love you)

Chapter 20 - Wait For Me

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: first chapter that made me cry writing it. Enjoy.

Chapter Title from Little Talks by Of Monsters and Men

Word Count: 18.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean has a lot of feelings, and you make a plan. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 19 - Chapter 21

Read on A03!

“What happened?”

Sam’s question was low. Quiet. Careful, because the last thing they wanted to do right now was disturb Her, passed out on the back bench of Baby.

She hadn’t moved since Dean guided Her there. Her eyes had fluttered, She’d hummed his name in the prettiest sound he’d ever heard, and then slumped right over. And Dean had indulged himself. He’d wrapped Her in a blanket, and carefully shifted Her around until she was in a comfortable position. He’d even pulled off Her shoes and placed a kiss on Her brow, scanning over Her one last time, just to be positive nothing was wrong.

And it wasn’t.

Visibly.

There was no blood, and Her hair was a little matted, but he had found Her lying in the ocean.

No blood. No wounds or scars.

Nothing but Her eyes and lips a little puffy from crying.

And the taste of Her back on Dean’s lips. Fruit and sugar and salt, and Dean got damn well why She liked those colorful girl drinks so much. They tasted like heaven.

But he wanted to keep tasting them on Her.

She’d kissed him. She’d kissed Dean. She’d been crying and freaking the hell out, but son of a bitch, She’d kissed Dean, and that had to mean something. His shirt was still wrinkled where She’d grabbed him, and he wasn’t going to smooth it out. He kept touching his lips like a teenage boy, and running his tongue over Her teeth because She’d done that during the kiss, and he wanted to feel the rush of it again.

And what happened was that Dean was addicted. There had never been a chance of him going back, but now he was gone. Her’s. Only Her’s. He’d have sat down in the ocean at Her side—until they were both just salt and brine—if it meant the mud washed off, and Dean got to be Her’s.

He wasn’t sure now was a good time to tell Her that. He didn’t have the words for it yet, and he didn’t trust that kiss to mean She’d be his. She’d been emotional. Sobbing in Dean’s arms then trying to climb him, and he’d never have Her any other way but blinding and demanding, but Jesus, he wouldn’t know what to do if She turned him down.

Dean couldn’t get on his knees and swear that he was Her’s aloud, only to be kicked back down into the mud. It might make him a pussy, but he wouldn’t survive it. Then She’d leave, and Bobby and Sammy and Jo would kill him for making Her leave, and they’d be fucked because they couldn’t do this without Her.

But that’s not what Sam meant by what happened. Sam wanted to know about the seal. The case. He didn’t want to hear about how Dean was trying to work out what Her wanting him would look like.

Probably like kissing him, and crying for him, and climbing onto his lap in the dead of night.

He didn’t have a damn clue what to after he worked it out. Proposing was probably off the table. They’d kissed twice, hadn’t even slept together, and weren’t technically dating.

He’d figure it out. When all of this was over, Dean would figure it out. Right now he had to answer Sammy’s question.

“Found her on the beach.” He muttered, glancing to Her in the rearview mirror. Her hair was shiny again. That was a good sign. “She was just lying in the water, dude. Tide was rising and she was just fucking lying there. Nobody else around, no blood. Nothing.”

“Did she say-“

“Nope.” Dean’s jaw twitched. “Mentioned that she took care of it, but that’s all I got. Sammy, I’m…” Dean trailed off, looking to Her again. He couldn’t damn help it.

“I know.” Sam muttered, and Dean wasn’t sure he did—Sam didn’t live in Her orbit, didn’t feel like the world was worse when She was sad, didn’t dream about Her and crash down into Her all the time—but he let it go. “But you know we might have to go back, right? After we drop her back at Bobby’s, we can’t just leave the seal unresolved.”

“She said she took care of it.” Dean grunted, and Sam sighed.

“Dean, it’s- We can’t risk it. I trust her, I do, but I’d go back and check your work too, just like you’d go back and check mine-“

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you would-“

“I wouldn’t.” Dean snapped, shooting Sam a glare. “You told me you took care of it, I’d take you at your word. And let’s face it, Sammy, between the three of us, she’s the most likely to deal with one of these by herself.”

Sam gave Dean a sad, too soft look. “She was trying to drown herself, Dean. We still don’t know what happened, while she was gone-“

“Sammy. Drop it.”

“I’m not doubting her, man, but she’s always been- You know-“

“I do know.” Dean hissed, his grip strangling the wheel. “I know better than anyone, Sam. I’ve seen it a hell of a lot more than you have, and I’ve seen it worse, and you know what? At least she’s fucking eating and sleeping. And I know shit happened, I’ve had to stitch up her goddamn stomach because shit happened, but she says she took care of it, and I’m trusting her, because that’s what you do, when you-“

“Do not crash the car.”

Sam started, and Dean sighed, glaring back to see Cas sitting in the backseat. He didn’t care that he’d gotten cut off. It was good he’d gotten cut off.

He cared that Cas was in the backseat. Where he could’ve disturbed her.

“Jesus, Cas.” Sam muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That was- I mean, I appreciate the warning, but shit.”

“My apologies.” Cas muttered. “I needed to speak with you as soon as possible, and I could not wait for a better time.”

“Fine. Just keep your voice down.” Dean grunted Her name. “She needs the sleep.”

He glanced back to see Cas nodding, watching Her with an odd expression. She’d slumped into his side. Not like She slumped into Dean’s—where She’d fall half over his lap and Her face would end up buried in his body—but with Her head on Cas’ shoulder and her body relaxed.

That was good. Dean could trust Cas with Her. He’d seemed to respect Her, and he’d been willing to bend further stupid Heaven laws for Her, so Dean didn’t have to worry.

“Should she be sleeping like this?” Cas looked up to them with a small frown. “It doesn’t seem like a peaceful environment, and there is drool falling out of her mouth-“

“She does that.” Dean muttered, and Sam smirked. “Shut up, Sammy.”

“I didn’t say anything-“

“You were gonna. She drools Cas.” And it was freakin’ adorable, but that didn’t feel like the point right now. “What’d you need to talk to us about.”

Cas said Her name slowly. “The seal is… dealt with. Thanks to her.”

Dean shot Sam a smug look. “Told you.”

“Yeah, alright. You did.” Sam sighed, twisting in his seat to frown at Cas. “Is that it? You just wanted us not to worry about the seal?”

“No. I am here to…” Cas took a long breath, his frown deepening. “Warn you. We are displeased. With how this case was handled.”

Dean scowled. “We? Is that you talking, Cas? Or just the asshole angel department managers?”

“I do not know what a department manager is-“

“He’s asking if you’re mad about the case.” Sam interjected carefully. “And I’m wondering too, Cas. If you’re mad at us-“

“I am not mad at you.” Cas said, and Dean didn’t miss his weary glance at Her. “I was not told the details of what happened, only that we are angry.”

“You keep saying we.” Dean muttered, narrowing his eyes at Cas in the mirror. “I don’t care what a bunch of holy dipshits think of what happened. Hell, I don’t even know what happened, but-“

Cas cut Dean off with Her name, and his whole body tensed.

Sam cleared his throat. “Cas, we’re really not following-“

“It is her.” Cas repeated Her name, his words slow and careful. “She is… complicating things. Lilith made a move to break the seal that crossed several lines. We are not sure her intention was to break the seal.”

“Well, what the hell does this have to do with-“

“She stopped the seal, but she is not supposed to be involved with the seals. Or you. At all.” Cas met Dean’s eyes in the mirror. “I warned you to be careful. This is why.”

Dean’s teeth were going to break. He had been careful. He was always careful with Her, because he’d been real goddamn reckless before. When when Dad was in his ear, telling him that women were mostly good for longer nights and better days, but nothing compared to family. That careful wasn’t any way to treat a person, because they had to be able to fend for themselves.

She could fend for herself. She’d stopped a seal by herself. That was why Dean needed to be careful with Her. He couldn’t just fuck around with the living, breathing star, dropped right into his hands. He had to hold it, soothe it, care for it.

“We were careful.” He grunted, and Cas sighed.

“Not careful enough.”

Sam shook his head. “But you haven’t told us why, Cas. We’re not sending her away, and we can’t be careful if we don’t know what we’re being careful against-“

“Because I cannot tell you.” Cas snapped. “There are things at play that I do not understand. That I suspect my superiors don’t understand. My brothers and sisters are still dying, Lilith is still opening seals, and all I have been told is that the girl can’t be allowed to interfere. That precautions will be taken if she continues to step out of line.”

Something was tight around Dean’s throat. “You said she couldn’t get zapped-“

“And that is still true, but there are… other ways. To put her back in line.”

“In line?” Sam��s voice had risen slightly. “In- In what line-“

“I do not know.” Cas sighed, and She was still fast asleep.

Dean hoped She was dreaming well. That She was entirely obvious to the conversation, thinking of only pink-sand beaches and movies and sugary drinks. That maybe, in Her sleep, he was there. He didn’t even had to be wrapped around Her or kissing her stupid. He just wanted to be there, for Her, by Her choice.

“We’re not ditching her, Cas.” Dean muttered, making his words firm. Final. “She stays with us. And if you’ve got a problem with that-“

“I have no problem with it.” Cas muttered, glancing down to Her peaceful face. “But I have no sway in what Heaven desires. And they have deemed her a threat. We cannot account for her, and that makes her dangerous.”

“She is not dangerous-“

“We both know that is not quite true.” Cas gave him a flat look. “I am risking a fair amount by being here, Dean. By warning you.”

Sam swallowed. “Warning us?”

“Be careful. I am still trying to learn more about exactly what the Magdalene is meant to be, but…” Cas sighed. “My progress is slow. And if it comes down to it, I will not be able to interfere directly. So be. Careful.”

There was a whooshing sound, Cas vanished, and She was left curled on the seats.

Sam and Dean didn’t fight for the rest of the ride. They barely even spoke. Cas had said more than enough.

They needed to take care of Her.

And Dean wasn’t good at a lot of things.

He could sing, but he couldn’t really carry a beat. He couldn’t bake, but he was fine with that. Wasn’t like he’d ever had a kitchen to practice in anyways. He didn’t have a damn clue how to do all that art critic shit, because as far as Dean understood it, color was color and words were words. He couldn’t take apart a painting and point to all the ways it worked. He liked things because he liked them, there was no fucking reason to justify it, and that was all anyone needed to worry about.

He was alright with kids. Sometimes, in the dead of night, he’d be able to see a little kid with his nose and bright eyes, laughing the way Dean did and grabbing at shiny hair. Then he’d push that though way far down because now wasn’t the time for that. That wasn’t something he even got to have. No apple pie life was barreling in his direction right now. Maybe not ever.

He’d like one. He’d always liked one. Years ago, he would’ve lain on the bed and imagined a time that Dad would tell him and Sammy to hang it up, and Dean would’ve been allowed to build something like that.

Dad never did that, though. He left Dean and Sammy to deal with Hell and demons and angels and the rest of the shitshow, and he’d yanked Dean’s chance for that away. Told Her to leave. Made Her leave. And the what-if game wasn’t useful—it’s never been useful—but Dean still had a secret fantasy that helped him fall asleep sometimes. One where She was in his arms, but nightmares weren’t a worry. He would be allowed to bury his face in Her hair, and in the morning he’d wake Her up with kisses all over her face. Then She’d giggle, and let Dean pull Her into the shower, and he’d touch Her everywhere as She dropped her brow on his chest with a soft, happy sigh.

But it was just a fantasy.

And Dean had done that to himself.

Because most of all, he wasn’t good at being good. A good man didn’t torture people. A good man didn’t damn the rest of the world for one woman, a good man got the job done, and a good man didn’t make pretty girls cry. If Dean was good, he would be guarding all the seals without a problem. If Dean was good, Dad would be proud of him, and Dean was pretty goddamn sure Dad would beat him into the dirt if he could see what Dean was doing now.

Parking the car, and carrying his girl to bed. Grinning to himself when She nuzzled her nose into his neck.

“Dean.” She mumbled, her eyes fluttering up onto his, and his cock twitched in his pants.

She needed to stop doing that and pouting.

It was going to make him lose his damn mind.

“Hey, Princess.” He muttered, keeping his voice low. Sam had called and told Bobby they’d be home early, so they wouldn’t get killed for walking inside, but if Bobby woke up and saw Dean carrying Her bridal style into her room, Dean might end up on the wrong end of a shotgun.

“Where’r we.”

“Home.”

She hummed. “You smell good.”

“Thanks.”

“S’ like… cinnamon.” She blinked up at him again. “You’re so big.”

Jesus fucking Christ. “Ba- Sweetheart, you should go back to sleep-

“Are you going to sleep?” She poked his chest as Dean set Her down on the bed. “You need it too, Deano.”

“I know, I just gotta get you down first.”

“‘M not a child.” She started to pout. She was trying to kill him. “I can put myself to bed.”

Dean just raised his brows. “You want to put yourself to bed?”

“No.”

He chuckled, letting himself be a little fucking greedy, and brushed some hair from Her eyes. “I know, Princess. I’ve got you.”

She made another cute grunt, and let Dean help Her to bed. He faced the door while She changed—managed to fight off a boner when he realized She was wearing his shirt—smiled to himself when she flopped onto the bed, and felt like he was goddamn flying when he scooted in next to Her, and she wiggled right into his side.

Dad wouldn’t have wanted him to be a good man like this. Being Her shadow and falling into Her every single fucking second, not doing the hard thing and leaving Her to focus on the seals. Dad would’ve called Dean weak.

But Dad hadn’t been a good man, either.

And Dean still had too much of Dad in him. Too much anger, too much hate, too much mud built up under his nails to ever fully be clean of it. People had always said he looked like Dad, too. And he used to stand a little taller because of it. Because John Winchester was the best fucking hunter in the world. A shield of a man.

Just as Dean had wanted to be.

But Dad hadn’t been a shield. He’d been a bludgeoning, dull-edged blade that hacked up everything then left it behind him. He’d hacked up Ellen, and Sammy, and Dean, and Her.

Dean was a blade too.

A weapon that carved things up and spilled blood and would follow whoever wielded him around like a sick fucking dog.

But in all of Dean’s sins, he’d always have one thing Dad never did.

Her.

Dad had Mom. He’d lost Mom, and lost his goddamn mind trying to get her back. And Dean needed that to be the difference.

Dean wouldn’t lose Her. He wouldn’t even think about it.

So he wasn’t good at being good. Or being gentle. Or knowing when to stop, or keeping himself in check, or keeping peace.

But he was good of taking care of things. Baby was in perfect condition, and she’d stay that way until Dean was in his grave, then a long while after that if Sammy didn’t want to get fucking haunted. He folded all his clothing in his bag, and washed out all the stains on his jacket because it was all he’d ever really had. His guns were always clean, and whatever they needed for a hunt, Dean always found.

And he took care of Her. When he kept himself in check, Dean took damn good care of his girl. Even if She only got to be that in his head, Dean would always take care of his girl. Since She’d gotten back, he kept some of Her favorite snacks in his bag, like he was trying to lure a damn stray into his house. Sometimes he’d be showering and check on Her fancy shampoo and conditioner that no one else was allowed to use—not that Dean would know how to use it—just to make sure She didn’t need any more. He always ordered Her a drink, because that was another way to take care of Her. He’d started to leave his shirts casually on the dresser, trying to bait Her into wearing them.

It was working. She started sleeping in them almost every night after Florida, and—just like how neither of than slept without the other anymore—they didn’t talk about it.

They didn’t have The Conversation.

But for now, Dean just wanted to have Her. And if this was how he got Her, that was all he needed.

Still Her shadow, because—for reasons Dean couldn’t begin to understand—he didn’t need to be a good man to be Her shadow. So until She banished him from Her side, he’d stay. All the way down.

If Dad had a problem with that, he shouldn’t have tried to take Her away.

Dean had found Her anyway. He’d always find Her.

If Dean knew anything, he knew that Heaven and Hell could do whatever the fuck they wanted to him, but he’d always come back and find Her. And until that hand was forced, he’d do fucking anything to keep Her at his side. Maybe kiss Her, just one more time. Just to say he had.

She’d been sleeping in his shirts. She’d kissed him. And Dean had been risking soft touched on Her arms when he wanted Her attention, been getting sweet smiles in return, and son of a bitch, he didn’t have a fucking idea how Dad could’ve ever hated Her.

She was awesome.

She called Dean smart when he told Her about how he’d worked out the magician case. She’d sat with him while he fixed the Firebird’s headlights, smiling at him and holding his beer as they talked about anything but the everything. She was still crawling over Dean in bed and looking at him with bright, hopeful eyes, asking if he was hungry then holding his hand as they drove back to the convenience store. Leaning Her head on his shoulder as they ate in the car.

And Dean still had all his fantasies. He was still a sick, rotten asshole, because when She called him smart, he wanted to swallow Her pretty words with his lips. Wanted to roll his body over Her’s, to kiss Her stupid into the couch cushions and not stop when he got hard enough to poke into Her thigh. Maybe She’d moan his name, grinding up into him, and Dean would get to love Her until she was shivering and whining under him.

She’d whine. Dean knew Her, even if he’d never been Her shadow like that, and She’d be pretty and snarky and bratty under him, and son of a bitch, he wanted to see it. He wanted to indulge it and tame it and hold Her when she was a writhing mess, doing that eye-flutter thing as she came. While he’d been fixing the Firebird, all his thoughts that weren’t devoted to fix the car you got Her—you idiot, because she deserves Heaven at her feet and the best you can offer her is a car—were made of setting down his wrench, walking between Her legs, and seeing if she’d push him away.

If She didn’t, and he’d been brave and wrong enough to push his luck again, Dean would’ve palmed Her over her jeans until she was panting and begging for him. Maybe he’d shove two fingers into Her pussy, and see if he could get Her eyes to glow silver again.

See if he could worship and hold Her well enough for Dean to be the only person She needed.

And it was getting out of control.

Everything was rushing around them—Lilith had broken more seals, and Ruby still had her claws sunken in Sammy, and the angels kept being fucking douchebags—but all Dean couldn’t stop thinking about Her. About a life where She’d still crawl over him in bed, but he’d roll Her over and fuck her into the mattress. They’d still go to the Convinces store, and still hold hands, but there wouldn’t be any looking over their shoulders for demons or monsters. She’d lean on him all the time. She’d love him all the time, and Dean would find a way to give Her all the comfort and luxury She deserved.

He wouldn’t get that world. Not anytime soon, while they were still dealing with everything. But at least, for now, he didn’t have to worry about losing Her.

She’d benched Herself. When they’d gotten back from Florida, and carefully told Her what Cas had said, she’d benched herself.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay with that?” Sam had asked, watching Her carefully, and She’d nodded.

“I can still help.” She’d mumbled. She’d been writing on a napkin again, that same repeated word from the resort. Dean needed to steal one of those and give it to Cas, just to know what the hell She was thinking about all the damn time.

Bobby had said Her name, his voice low and firm. “It’s not that I don’t love havin’ you home, but you’re gonna drive us both up the damn wall if you’re just sittin’ around-“

“I won’t just sit around. That angel girl is still missing-“

“Anna?” Sam had frowned, and She’d nodded.

“Yeah, and I can try to find her. If she hates heaven, she might be willing to help us. And, Bobby, the book I made you guys get before...”

She’d trailed off, and there had been a glossy look in Her eyes as she was picked at Her nails-

Dean had grabbed Her hand. Just to stop more blood from being drawn, he’d grabbed Her hand in front of Sam and Bobby.

He hadn’t gotten shot.

Bobby had barely even scowled. But he’d also been mostly focused on Her.

“The one in Romanian?” He’d grunted, and She’d nodded.

“It’ll take a while, but I want to try and work through it. See if there’s anything we can use.”

Bobby had nodded, and She’d gotten the book. That was, apparently, how She spent most of Her days while Sam and Dean were gone. Bobby said that She’d curl up in the library and translate until she passed out on the couch, and Bobby carried her to bed.

It wasn’t as bad as in those few months before Dean’s death.

But it still wasn’t good.

She hadn’t told them exactly what had happened. How She’d stopped the seal. But when they’d asked, She just shrugged it off, refusing to look Dean in the eyes. All he knew was that they hadn’t kissed since, and that She was trying to goddamn kill him.

Because the benching had lasted for exactly a month before She was gathering them in the kitchen, the table scatted with a lot of loose papers, all of them fucking covered in Enochian.

Sam picked up one of the papers—squinting at it like it might suddenly turn into something he could read—as Dean dropped at Her side.

There was nowhere else to be.

“Any luck on Anna?” Sam asked, and She shook Her head.

“I still haven’t figured out how to summon an angel. I mean there’s like, prayer. But they don’t have to answer that.”

Bobby frowned. “Could ya’ figure out how to summon an angel? I mean, I know you got all your rituals, kiddo, but we ain’t even sure how angels work-“

“They’re beings.” She shrugged, sorting through the papers. “And they don’t have souls, but they can still be summoned. I remember seeing something about it in the original book-“

“The one you lost?”

She nodded at Sam. “Yeah. So it’ll be in here,” She tapped the Romanian book, her gaze never leaving her papers. “But I just have to find it.”

“You never told us how you lost it.” Dean muttered, and She sighed, giving him a soft smile.

He got a soft smile. Between Dean, Sam, and Bobby, Dean was the one who got a soft smile.

His grin back took up his whole face, even as She dodged around his question. She’d smiled at him.

“The hunter people in Mexico stole it.” She hummed, twisting the skin on Her finger, and that was a lie. Dean wasn’t sure which part, but it was a goddamn lie.

“If you don’t have Anna,” Sam said, before Dean had a chance to push Her. “Then what’s, you know.” He gestured to the table. “This.”

She grinned at Sam, a smug sort of light dancing in Her eyes. “I’m so glad you asked, Samuel. This is our way out.”

“Out?” Dean frowned. “Out of what?”

“The seals.” Her smile was almost manic. It was still pretty. “Anna said that there were 600 of them, right? If Lilith fails one, she can probably either try again, or move onto another. But,” She grabbed the paper out of Sam’s hand, presenting it to Dean. “I can lock them.”

They were all silent for a long moment. Staring at Her as she looked around the room, sitting tall in Her chair with her chin raised. It was a chipped, old, wooden piece of shit that Dean knew had been broken before, but under Her, it looked like throne.

Dean cleared his throat, glancing back to the paper. “I can’t read this, Princess.”

“Oh, right.” She flushed slightly, pulling it back and scanning over the Enochian words. “It’s basically just a recipe. We can either do a trial run, scale it down and have me lock one, or we can go for the big game and I’ll lock all of them at once.”

Bobby frowned at Her. “What does lock ‘em mean?”

“It means Lilith will try to break it, and it won’t do fucking shit.” She glanced down at the paper, then grabbed a chewed-up pencil to scratch another note. “I think if we had more time, I could maybe re-make the already broken seals, but she’s already gotten thirty-four of them. I don’t want to wait.”

“How do you even know this will work?” Sammy frowned around the papers. “I mean, was it in the book?”

“No.” She shrugged, spinning the pencil between Her fingers. “I thought of it. Myself.”

“Course you did.” Bobby grumbled, and She stuck her tongue out of him.

“You raised me like this-“

“I ain’t complainin’ kiddo, I just.” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know how ya even begin to think of this shit. And Sam’s got a good point, we don’t got anythin’ to prove it’ll work-“

“It will work.” Her words were firm as She rubbed her wrists, and She gave Dean an almost desperate look. Like he was the only one in the whole world, the only one who needed to hear Her and stand by her side. “Please, I just- I know it’ll work. And I can do it, I promise. Cas said I’m made of magic. He said I’m half Magdalene. Maybe this is my thing. My change. I’m not making super-demons, I’m stopping the rise of Lucifer. Lilith doesn’t get to win.”

Dean just stared at Her. He couldn’t even find any words. This was way above his paygrade, even if that same paygrade had been getting higher and higher every year. It was too big a jump, going for just stopping one seal to trying to lock all of them, but She was always making insane plans and moves like that. And She always said there was another way, and Lilith doesn’t get to win, but there must be a catch. A cost. There was always a fucking cost, and Dean wouldn’t pay it if it was Her, but Her eyes were blinding and consuming and pleaded on his, and She’d never led him wrong before-

Sam coughed, and Her attention turned away.

“What’s a super demon?”

She shook Her head. “Don’t worry about it. I just- I can do this. And I think that we should go for the big one, because once I do this the angels are going to be on my ass-“

There it was.

The price.

“No.” Dean snapped, and Her gaze shot back to him as Bobby sighed.

“Dean-“

“No. We’re not doing this.” Dean grunted Her name, gesturing around the table. “You’ve been staying off the radar to avoid the angels, not give them a big, neon sign to come and take you.”

“They won’t take me, Dean, I’ll be fine-“

“You said it would take big game to lock all of them-“

“And I have that big game.” She folded Her arms over her chest raising Her chin. “And I’m ready to do it. Jo’s got all the ingredients for us, we just have to meet her at the roadhouse.”

Sam blinked at Her. “Jo’s been helping you with this?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, rubbing Her wrists. “I- I was talking to her about Florida and Bolivia, and she- That’s not the point. We can do this. I can do this.” Her attention turned back to Dean. “Please.”

Son of a bitch. She was saying please and giving him the flutter eyes, and Dean had a horrible, boiling and dreadful feeling about this, but She said please.

And he should’ve known better than to think She’d just bench Herself. Of course She’d been working on something like this. A way around. A risky, insane way around.

“I don’t like it.” He muttered, and She gave him a flat look.

“Do you have a better idea?”

Son of a fucking bitch. “No.”

She gave him a sweet smile, and he sighed.

He’d back Her up, because it was Her. Dean had to back Her up. That was how this worked. He was Her shadow, and he couldn’t protect Her if he didn’t back her up. She’d just fuck off and do it anyway. At least this way, Dean could take all the blunt ends of the fallback. Bobby could have someone to blame if it went wrong. If She lost it, Dean would take care of Her.

She needed to do this, so Dean would do it with Her. Whatever She needed to be happy. If She thought this was Her Magdalene thing, then Dean would stay with Her all the way down.

But he’d need to have some fucking words with Jo, after. He was trying not to think about how She’d told Jo about Florida and Bolivia—about everything Dean didn’t get to know—but that wasn’t what the words would be about. They’d be about encouraging Her to push herself, to make stupid fucking plays that might end in Her getting hurt.

Some small voice in his head kept muttering that if this worked, it wouldn’t be done—there would always be more monsters, more horrors, more problems to solve—but all those fantasies he had would be closer to reality. Maybe Dean would finally find the guts to take Her face between his hands and have The Conversation.

Princess, I want you. Always want you. Even when we were kids and I was a fucking idiot, I wanted you. Wanted you since you walked into my life, and it felt like you shoulda been there the whole time. I’d want you if the world was ending. And if you’ll have me, I’ll worship the goddamn ground you walk on and build you a million cars. Buy you a house. Give you the apple pie life you deserve.

That was it. What he’d have to say.

If they got through this, he’d just have to say it.

And he’d faced literal fucking Hell, and walked out on the other side with Her still staying. And nothing Dean could do that made Her happy, made Her satisfied, could ever be a sin.

She was more than angelic. She was bigger than anything in the sky.

So Dean would do this. For Her.

“What’d you boys know about what Thing One and Thing Two have been plannin’?” Ellen asked, and Dean sighed.

They’d left Bobby’s soon after the kitchen meeting. The longer they waited, the better chance Lilith had of getting more seals. Of getting some type of wind of their plan, and stopping it. She’d explained how this was a Magdalene spell, so even if it wasn’t directly from the Book, if Lilith heard about someone ordering dirt from Jerusalem to the States, she might put two and two together, and it would end poorly.

Dean was already pretty sure it was going to end poorly. And he’d been trying not to drink when they’d gotten to the roadhouse. When She’d been sitting right next to him—close enough for him to smell fruit and sugar, close enough for their thighs to be pressed right together—but then She and Jo had scrambled off early, and he’d made Ellen give him the strongest shit they had.

He wouldn’t get drunk. She never said She hate it when he drank, but he’d seen Her nose twitch at the smell of it. So he’d moderate, just enough for Her to still want to share his bed and press into his side.

But he’d still drink.

“Ain’t nothin’ more than you.” Bobby sighed, frowning at his own bottle. “Ya know, I got half a mind to beat Cas’ angel ass, tellin’ her ‘bout it like that. Know he meant well, but, fuckin’ Christ.”

Sam frowned. “I thought we wanted to know what she was?”

“We wanted her to have some peace.” Bobby grumbled. “I’d been hopin’ we’d find out she’s just some typa fallen angel or hybrid or somethin’. Not this.”

“Jo mentioned your angel friend said she was like Cleopatra?” Ellen gave Dean an amused look. “That make you Antony, or Caesar?”

Dean scowled, ignoring Sam’s snort. “I don’t know what the hell that means.”

“Cleopatra was married to Caesar, and had an affair with Marc Antony.” Sam shrugged, a shit-eating grin on his face, and Dean just stared at him.

“What.”

Sam said Her name, giving Dean a pointed look. “She’s Cleopatra-“

“She ain’t Cleopatra.” Bobby snapped. “She ain’t anythin’ but her, not matter what heaven seems to think.”

“It doesn’t sound like she has a choice, Bobby-“

“Always a choice.” Dean muttered, cutting Sammy off with a glare. “If the angels got some sort of contract with her that she didn’t sign, we get her out of it.”

Something scratched at the back of Dean skull. It was made of how She’d told him about her family tracking their bloodline, while the Magdalene’s were genetic. And how she was destined for some sort of crazy marriage, and Cas had said there was more about Her. He couldn’t talk about it now. Dean had promised not to tell anyone about Her family, and he’d rather cut off his own arm than betray Her trust.

But he’d have to talk to Her about it later. She’d probably take all the pieces in Dean’s brain and connect them quickly, because She always understood him like that.

He missed Her. She was just upstairs with Jo, but he fucking missed Her-

“Do you think it’s like, a predetermined thing?” Sammy said, and they were talking about the Magdalene thing. “You guys made it sound like heaven doesn’t even know what the Magdalene’s bring-“

“That’s cause Cas made it sound like that,” Dean muttered, turning his bottle in his hands. “Said they tracked them, but didn’t know where they came from.”

Ellen frowned. “Ain’t those big boys supposed to know everythin’ about everyone?”

Dean shrugged. “Apparently not.”

“Good they don’t.” Bobby grunted. “Means we got a leg up on ‘em. Cas said he ain’t been able to track her-“

“No,” Dean shook his head. “Cas wouldn’t tell me how he tracked her. But he could. It’s just one of his dramatic secrets.”

“But she’s still off the angel’s radars.” Sammy frowned into the air. “Did Cas mention anything about the soul stuff she can do?”

Dean shook his head, and Ellen cleared her throat.

“I wouldn’t worry about the angels findin’ her. That one could hold Her own against an army of gorillas and robots.” Ellen paused, tilting her head slightly. “In fact, I ain’t that worried at all. She’s strong, and stubborn, and less somethin’ drastic happens, She’s not goin’ anywhere that Dean isn’t.”

Dean choked on his beer, shooting a quick look at Bobby. Silent on his stool. Staring at his own bottle.

Likely still carrying a gun.

“I, uh- I don’t-“ Dean stuttered Her name, trying to find his way out of a hole he hadn’t even dug. “I’m not- We’re don’t- I mean, she’s-“

“Jesus, Dean.” Ellen gave him an amused look. “You’re give yourself a damn heart attack, if you don’t slow it down.”

“But-“

“Look,” Ellen gave him a flat look. “I’ve been tryin’ to be subtle ‘bout it for a few hours, kid, but that clearly ain’t workin’. What the hell is goin’ on with you two.”

“I, uh- Nothing. We’re friends.“

“Friends.” Ellen didn’t believe him.

Dean didn’t need Ellen to believe him. He just needed the horribly silent Bobby to believe him.

“Yeah.” He said quickly. “I mean, we’ve always been friends. Good friends.”

“Really good friends.” Sam drawled, grinning like a fucking bitch. “Such good friends that you’re sleeping in the same bed, right?”

Bobby already knew that. That was fine. “We get nightmares, asshole-“

“I get nightmares too. Do you think I can cuddle with-“

“No.”

“Why not?” Ellen looked far too fucking amused at Dean’s torment. He was starting to worry this had been some sort of trap. “She and Sam are friends too. What’s wrong with her sharin’ his bed?”

Dean was going to fucking vomit. Bobby still hadn’t looked at him.

“She doesn’t want to share my bed.” Sam sounded amused, and victorious, and Dean was going to knock his teeth out. “I don’t call her princess, or make her cars, or drive her to the corner store in the middle of the night-“

“How the fuck did you-“

“I was taking a shit when you guys got back last night.” Sam shrugged. “Saw all the food wrappers.”

Ellen sighed, giving Dean a look that was almost disappointed. “Dean, if you really think you two are just friends-“

“He doesn’t.”

Dean needed to run.

“I mean, they are friends, but he knows there’s more.”

Before Sammy ran his big mouth, Dean needed to run.

“Because you don’t make out with friends, do you, Dean.”

Later, Dean was going to run Sammy’s head through a wall, then throw some very stainable foods on all of Jo’s clothing for snitching.

But for now, he was dead. Dean was fucking dead.

Bobby was looking at him. Probably sizing up where the best place to shoot him would be. If Dean got a vote, he’s like it to be the brain. Gone quick, no pain. Just put down like the wet, mangy dog who’d been trailing after Her, who’d never deserved Her light and beauty, let alone Her love or touch. And Bobby knew that better than anyone. Bobby might be the only other person who understood just how vital She was to the world continuing to turn. And Bobby knew Dean. Knew what Dean had done. That Dean could never, ever be more than Her shadow, and even that was pushing it-

“You kiss her?” Bobby grunted, and Sam’s eyes widened slightly. The little shit seemed to have been so caught up in snitched to Ellen, he must have forgotten Bobby was there.

Dean hoped that this time, he’d get to come back as a ghost and haunt to fucker to his own grave.

“Yes, sir.”

Bobby scoffed. “Don’t sir me, Dean. She kiss you back?”

Dean nodded, and Bobby let out a long, slow breath. This was it. He was dead-

“Thank fuckin’ Christ.” Bobby muttered, shaking his head. “Finally.”

Dean froze. “I- Uh-“

“I ain’t fucking stupid, ya ijdit.” Bobby gave him a flat look, and Dean swallowed. “I got eyes. Ears. A damn brain. If you think I ain’t noticed how you look at her all the fuckin’ time, then I’m worried about your brain.”

Dean blinked, and shook his head. “It’s- I didn’t- We only kissed. That’s it. No funny business, and she kissed me the second time-“

“The second time?!” Sam looked far too happy about this information. “When was the second time?”

“Florida.” Dean grumbled. “That’s not the point, Sammy. She kissed me-“

“You two bein’ safe?” Ellen raised her brows, and maybe Hell could do him a favor, open up, and swallow Dean whole.

“It was just kissing, and we’re not fucking idiots-“

“So you will have sex-“

“Sam-“

“Dean.” Bobby voice was low, but they all fell silent. “Listen. I meant it. I’m… glad. She needs someone who gets her, and you two- I ain’t able to be mad at ya for makin’ her happy. But if you break her heart. You leave her waitin’ for you, make her cry even one fuckin’ time.” Bobby narrowed his eyes. “I’ll make your time in Hell look like a fuckin’ nunnery.”

Dean gave a small, firm nod. He could live with that. If he ever hurt Her, he’d more than deserve whatever Bobby fulfilling that promise looked like.

And Dean didn’t bother to tell them that The Conversation still hadn’t happened. That Dean’s brain kept running away from him and calling Her his girl, but in reality, that wasn’t anything different than before.

Nothing Dean felt or thought about Her was different from before. Parts of it were amplified—he’d had a very firm and now impossible rule about never fantasizing about Her outside of touching himself, but now he couldn’t listen to her talk without imagining what She’d sound like when Dean shoved his face into Her cunt or stuffed her mouth full of his cock—but it was still the same.

Even before the kiss, he would’ve spent the rest of the conversation thinking about Her. If it wasn’t those fantasies, it would be Her siren-like voice haunting him on the wind, all while he tried to figure out what the hell She and Jo were doing, and if he’d get stabbed for trying to crash it.

He would’ve found a good reason to leave a little early before, as well. Would’ve ended up slowly opening the door to Jo’s room, and grinned at just the sight of Her. All the lights were off, save for the glow of the TV—still playing some sort of chick-flick Dean didn’t recognize—and She still looked like a goddamn dream.

She and Jo had fallen asleep against each other, under the same blanket.

And It was good She had Jo. A friend that didn’t have anything complicated. Sure She had Sammy, but at the end of the day, the kid was still Dean’s brother. So if for some reason Bobby ever had to fulfill that oath, She’d still have Jo.

And Sam was also right.

Dean wasn’t just Her friend. He’d never been just Her friend. Even when he’d been keeping Her away from Dad, hunting with Her in secret, they’d never been just friends.

They had to have The Conversation. Dean would find a way to survive if She ripped his heart out of his freakin’ chest, but Bobby hadn’t been mad. If Dean was really bad for Her, Bobby wouldn’t have thanked God Dean kissed Her. If She didn’t want Dean, on some level more than just a quick fuck or two emotional kisses, Bobby wouldn’t have said She needed Dean.

Maybe She craved him too.

Maybe.

Princess, I want you.

He could do it.

Later.

He’d do it later.

For now, Dean would pick up Jo’s beer and Her soda, brush all the hair from Her face and smile at Her in the dark—there didn’t need to be any witnesses, because Dean wasn’t touching for anyone but Her and his own selfish hunger—before detangling Her from Jo to get her to bed.

She made an adorably disgruntled sound as Dean hauled Her up his chest. And it amazed him sometimes. How the same glowing, soft eyes blinking up at him could give dagger stares that made demons afraid. How those slightly parted, soft lips could curl into deadly sneers, and the same haunting voice that was mumbling his name could spit the most venom he’d ever seen.

“Dean?”

“Yep.” He walked slowly, trying his goddamn best not to disturb Her more than he had to. “It’s late, you know.”

“I’m not clock.” She grumbled, giving him the cutest fucking pout in history. “How do I know you’re Dean?”

He frowned at Her. “Cause, uh- I’m me, sweetheart. Unless you got another Dean on the side-“

“Just you.” She shoved Her face right into his neck, and he had to be fucking dreaming. “’S always just you, De.” She giggled to Herself. “Was a stupid question. I know you’re you.”

“Yeah?” He hummed, shouldering their door open. “How do you know, Princess.”

“You’re gold.” She hummed. “And strong right here.” She poked a little to the right of his heart, and Dean stopped in the center of their room as She blinked up at him. “Only my Dean is gold like that.”

She might as well have fucking shot him. Her Dean. He was Her Dean.

He’d be Her whatever. Son of a bitch, Dean would be Her court jester if that was the only place She offered him.

It wouldn’t be.

Court jesters weren’t allowed to share the Princess’s bed. They didn’t get to help Her into one of their shirts, keeping their eyes firmly fixed away from the bounce of Her breasts. Jesters didn’t get to kiss Her brow and have Her wrap her arms around their neck.

That was a job for shadows.

She’d told him that She could sense when souls wanted each other, and hadn’t really explained it, but Dean needed his soul to start doing some fucking work for him. To make it real fucking clear that, the moment She said the word, Dean was going to wrap around Her and never let go. Do half The Conversation before it even started, so that Dean could finally be allowed to kiss Her brow and trail down Her nose, ending on Her lips and pulling every perfect sound She had to offer from her throat.

Make Her happy.

Bobby had said Dean could make Her happy.

It was a little fucking terrifying. Just how much She was to him. More than the world. More than all the stars in the sky.

And laying in the dark, Her curled into his arms, Dean was glad Dad was Dead. That he’d gone a fucked-up kind of heroes death.

The alternative was that Dean would’ve kept crashing up into Her—covered in mud and feeling so fucking good every time She took him all the same—and then Dad would’ve kept prying Her away. Making Her leave. Making Dean lose Her.

And Dean would’ve killed him, or punched him, after simply losing his fucking mind trying to convince himself he didn’t want Her on Dad’s orders.

Princess, I want you. Always want you.

He’d always wanted Her. It didn’t matter what anyone did to him or told him, Dean would never stop wanting Her. The only thing that would keep him away was Her saying no.

But son of a bitch, if She said yes.

Dean fell asleep to fantasies of Her saying yes. Of Her telling him she wanted him.

He woke to Her still in his arms.

And he didn’t stray for the rest of the day.

For as long as Dean could manage, he stayed at Her side. Hanging over Her shoulder as She and Jo went over the plan on last time, running down the ingredient list. Guiding Her to the Firebird with a hand on Her back, and tailing after Her in the Impala as they headed away from the roadhouse.

She’d wanted space. Just in case, She’d demanded that they do this somewhere with space. Just a few towns over, where it was mostly field and birds. Bobby and Ellen would be on standby just in case. Sam, Dean, and Jo would bring their guns, just in case. They’d get a motel and wait a day, just in case.

“I thought we wanted to move fast?” Sam frowned at the Firebird ahead of them, and Dean sighed.

“Apparently there’s a sweet spot, Sammy. Not slow enough for Lilith to hear about it. Not fast enough for demons to show up and have us miss them.”

And no demons showed up. They got a two bed to share, did routine sweeps of the town every few hours, and found no demons.

But one demon found them.

There was a knock on the door, and they all froze. Jo one the bed with a book, Dean on the couch with the TV and Her and Sammy at the table, doing something on the laptop.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was slow as they all stared at the door. “Did you order food?”

“Nope.” He muttered, and Jo stood up slowly, her gun in hands. Dean reached for his own, he knew Sam was doing the same, and She-

Her grip was white-knuckled on her knife, and She was staring at the door with a little more intensity the rest of them. Her face was colorless, and Her eyes were wide, and Her mouth opened as Jo touched the door handle.

“Jo, wait-“

Jo pulled back, but she’d already unlocked the door.

And when it swung open, Ruby was grinning on the other side.

“Could you guys at least pretend you’re happy to-“ Ruby’s eyes landed on Her, and the bitch paled. “Fuck.”

A lot of things happened at once. Jo slammed the door shut before Ruby could run, Dean aimed his gun at Ruby’s temple, and Sam threw himself in front of Ruby as something in the room started to shift.

She wasn’t advancing with the knife. It was just spinning in Her hands as she stared at Ruby, and Dean had never seen her look at anyone with that much pure fucking hated. Usually there was some sort of starlight dancing or flickering in Her gaze, even if She was angry.

Maybe Dean just hadn’t seen it up close last time. Because it was the same as Boston. She was amplified, and everything seemed to be revolving around Her, and her pupils were silver.

And it wasn’t just starlight anymore.

It was a supernova.

It was wrathful.

“What the fuck,” She hissed, and Dean could swear Her voice was echoing around the room. “Is she doing here.”

“I don’t know.” Sam said quickly, giving Dean an almost desperate look. “Dude, I swear I don’t know. I didn’t bring Ruby, I didn’t even tell here where we were-“

“He didn’t!” Ruby jumped in quickly. “Fucking- I’m here to help, I’m always here to help, and that’s not going to change, no matter how much you id-“ The world grew technicolor, and Ruby stammered over herself. “I’m trying to warn you! Alistair knows you’re here!”

Dean felt his blood go cold. Alistair. Alistair had promised to take Her, to hurt Her, and he knew they were here.

Sam said Her name slowly, not moving from in front of Ruby. “She doesn’t have any reason to lie. And if Alistair does know-“

“Then we’ll move fast tomorrow.”

Ruby frowned. “Move fast on what-“

“Shut the fuck up.” She snapped, and Ruby paled. “How do you know Alistair knows.”

“Because I’ve been tracking Hell’s Assassins. And they’re headed here.”

Jo blinked. “I thought they’d been takin’ orders from Azazel-“

“They take orders from the top dog.” Ruby said, still watching Her wearily. “Right now that’s Lilith. And she’s passed them onto Alistair, to help him however he wants. And he’s sending them after you guys.”

Her cold glare on Ruby didn’t waver. “And why are you telling us?”

“To help-“

“Don’t lie.” She hissed. “You fucking left me-“

“Because Lilith pushed me out of my meat-suit! I- I told Sam-“

She raised Her hand, and Ruby fell silent. Dean felt like he should be doing more than just standing here. Maybe he should be going out and getting every bit of candy and sugar, and a collector edition copy of Indiana Jones, and a whole lot of body scrub and makeup, and forming some sort of fucking alter to the goddess in their motel room.

And it was still just Her. It was just Her, everywhere. In everything. The whole fucking world was Her, and Dean could feel it.

He wanted to live in it. Live in Her.

Another thing that would have to wait for later. Because right now, it seemed like Ruby was pretty damn close to getting killed, and Dean wanted to see that.

“Here’s how this is gonna go.” She said, Her eyes still locked on Ruby. “I’m not going to kill you, because Sam’s my friend, and I care about him, and I want to trust him. But if anything goes wrong tomorrow, if anything other than a few, easy-to-kill Hell’s Assassin’s show up,” her eyes narrowed. “I won’t kill you. I will obliterate you. Literally. Got it?”

Ruby nodded, and She smiled. A toothless, mocking, crude smile that made Her look a little like a Queen.

Dean shouldn’t be this turned on by how mean She was being. Knowing that didn’t stop him from wanting to launch himself at Her and pin Her to the wall. Kiss Her until all that raw fucking power was directed at him, and he could throw it right back at Her with only his hands and dick and mouth and care.

Not in front of Jo and Sammy.

But later. If Dean got Her, he wanted to figure out what that fun little trick could do in bed. If he could use it to fuck Her, if She’d be able to see his soul while they fucked, if maybe he could bury himself deep enough inside of Her that he’d be enough of Her to see Her soul.

It would be beautiful. All of Her was beautiful, so Her soul would have to be too.

Dean would have to wait for later. A lot of things were going to happen later.

But now, he watched Ruby shuffled back out the door, and ran to Her side as the world collapsed back into Her. She was swaying slightly on Her feet, as the world became just the world again. And Dean caught Her.

That was his job.

“We should go to bed.” She mumbled, Her head rested slightly on Dean’s shoulder. “We’ll need to be up early tomorrow.”

“Can we do it tonight?” Sam suggested, and She shook Her head.

“Need the Sun for it.”

“Oh. Sure.” Sam gave Dean a confused look, and Dean just shrugged.

His job wasn’t to question about Her methods.

It was to orbit around Her as they all got ready for bed, crawl into the mattress at Her side, then pull Her right into his chest and lean down to whisper in Her ear. Low enough that Sam and Jo couldn’t hear, because this wasn’t for them.

“I still don’t like this.” He murmured Her name, and She met his gaze in the dark. “There’s gotta be another way-“

“This is the other way,” She whispered, offering him a soft smile. “And I can handle some Hell’s Assassins-“

“I know you can, b- Sweetheart-“

“Then let me-“

“I will.” Dean leaned forward, their noses bumping slightly. “This is what we’re doing, I’m backing you up. All the way down. But I want you to know I still think it’s a pretty shit idea.”

She giggled. “Your objection is noted. Go to sleep.”

He rolled his eyes, unable to fight his grin. “So bossy-“

“Can’t hear you,” She burrowed Her face his neck. “Night, De.”

“Night, Princess.” He muttered, running a hand through Her hair, and the boiling dread was back.

But he’d still do this.

For Her, Dean would do anything.

He clung to Her, through the whole night. Kept his face buried in Her hair and his body half on top of Her’s, because he was allowed to. Maybe She’d feel it. See it with Her magic soul pheromones.

And if She didn’t, Dean would tell Her in the morning.

—————

“Look.” The big man made of green—who hadn’t hurt you and all the birds and flowers seemed to adore—was kneeling down to meet your gaze. “I don’t know if you ain’t able to talk, or if you just won’t, but I can’t keep callin’ you kiddo. You know what a name is?”

You know what a name is. You have one. This man has one too, although you’d forgotten after he told you. You’ve just been calling him the Big, Green Man.

And he’s still looking at you. You’re supposed to answer his question, but you don’t remember how. You know your own name, but you’re also the pressure of the house foundation, and the weight of all the beer the Big Green Man is keeping in the fridge, and the tension of the guns on his wall.

You hate guns. The last gun you saw had been in your father’s hands, and it had been aimed at the head of your cousin.

He’d gotten in trouble because he’d tried to touch you. Hurt you. Half his face was already covered in boils, because you’d screamed and all the Silver light in your body had surged up to protected you. And you’d just wanted him to go away. You’d just wanted all of them to go away, and leave you alone again. They hadn’t stopped hating you, after the ritual. They only hated you more, because it wasn’t supposed to be you.

You hadn’t wanted him to die.

But your father had apologized to him, and pulled the trigger.

He’d never apologized to you. Nobody did.

Most of this is your fault anyways. And nobody wanted to hear you talk. To plead for it to stop, because it was too much and you could see your cousin putrid, greasy sort of brown sinking down into the floor, and his blood on your clothing already missed him, and you wanted to go home.

You didn’t get a home. You were on hold until the Sky decided to take you.

And you haven’t seen the Sky, since you ran.

You haven’t spoken for a while before that.

So you’re just blinking at the Big Green Man. And he’s blinking back, scanning over your face for an answer you don’t know how to give him.

“You know how to write?” He grunts, and you blink at him. “Shit, wait here kiddo-“

The Big Green Man walks away, and you wait. He’s safe. His guns aren’t angry like your fathers are, and there’s beer in his fridge but it’s sad. Not violent like the wine your grandmother and aunts poured down your throat to keep you satiated.

You’d vomited that up, before you ran. It made you tired, and you couldn’t afford to be tired.

But the Big Green Man was making you sleepy. You could rest in his big house with all the books, and nothing would try to hurt you.

He comes back with a pen, before you can curl up to sleep.

“If you’ve got a name,” he grunts, placing a paper on the coffee table and passing the pen into your hands. “Write it here.”

You look between him and the pencil, and give it a little testing scribble. Its ink is red, and that’s wrong. You’re not red.

The Big Green Man frowns as you push the pen back across the table. “You able to write?”

You nod, and he sits up a little straighter.

“Somethin’…” He glances down to the table. “Wrong with the pen?”

You nod again, and slowly push to your feet. The Big Green Man has a desk, and the desk must have a pencil, and-

There it is. There’s a yellow highlighter too. And it’s not Golden, but it’ll do.

The Big Green Man watches you as you return to the couch, and scribble your name on the paper. The graphite is a little silver. And that’s you.

“Huh.” The Big Green Man repeats your name back to you, and you nod. “You remember my name?”

You shake your head, and the Big Green Man reaches for the highlighter. You snatch it away with a frantic shake of your head. That’s not for him. That’s for the boy the Sky says he hates and doesn’t want you to find.

And you—not the you staring at the Big Green Man, who’s going to grab a pen from the desk until he finds the right color and writes down that his name is Bobby, but the you now—don’t remember that part. But these types of dreams tend to have small things that you’d forgotten, or maybe made up in the first place. You’re never sure if it’s real or just another dream at all until-

“Hi, Princess.”

There he is. “Hi, De.”

Dean’s pressed right into your side on the couch, and suddenly Bobby isn’t so big anymore. You’re not that small, either. And it’s a little like you’re flickering back and forth between the little girl who’d sat on the couch and the… Whatever you are now. Who’s leaning into Dean’s side.

“Why does Bobby look so young?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you laugh.

“This was eighteen years ago, Deano. Would be a little sad if he didn’t look young.”

“Huh.” Dean frowns at the air. “Eighteen years ago I was…”

“Ten.”

“Uh, yeah.” He raises his brows at you. “How’d you know that?”

“I did math, Winchester.” You grin at him, resting your chin on his shoulder. “It’s this thing with numbers, where you add them together and take them away, and then you get other numbers-“

“Alright, alright.” He rolls his eyes, but his arm his looped around you, and you’re lying against him on the couch as Bobby keeps talking.

“You didn’t add a last name,” Bobby mutters, and he looks back to you. “You got anyone, kiddo? Family?”

You shake your head, and Dean tenses beside you.

“You’ve got me.” He mutters, sounding a little like a dejected puppy, and you give him an amused look.

“I didn’t eighteen years ago. This me,” you gesture around the room. “Didn’t have anyone.”

“But you had me.”

“I didn’t know you.”

Dean scowls, like the very fucking idea of that is intolerable. “You coulda. I coulda found you.”

You hum, your smile never wavering. He’s adorable, and you love him, and you can’t say it aloud, but you grab the yellow highlighter from the table—Bobby seems to be caught in some kind of static as your attention remains on Dean—and hold Dean’s gaze. “Do you want to have me, Dean?”

And it’s a dream. You have to remind yourself it’s a dream.

But the open, hopeful, sheer look of desire on Dean’s face isn’t as foreign as it should be.

His voice is low, almost hoarse. And the whole dream seems to be filling with a golden haze that makes you feel a little high as he leans down, holding your gaze.

“I always fucking want you, Princess.” He mutters, and you swallow. “Wanted you since you walked into my life and it felt like you shoulda been there the whole time. I’d want you if the world was ending. And if you’ll have me, I’ll worship the goddamn ground you walk on, baby.”

Baby.

You know I love you, baby.

But this sounds more real, and yet it’s just as fake, and you don’t know why your mind hates you so much.

Yet you’ll take all of Dean you can get. Even if it’s just a dream.

“Okay,” you whisper, uncapping the highlighter and slowly moving it to his brow.

You’re not sure what you’re doing. Dean clearly isn’t either.

But you let the Silver take over, and start to write on his forehead, just like you’ve been practicing. His name, but running away from you as you add more, and suddenly it’s your name too, and then-

The word—words?—are glowing, and sinking into Dean’s skin, and he’s holding your gaze, and you love him, and the Sky can never be allowed to take him away or you’ll do a hell of a lot more than just scream and beg-

Your eyes flutter open, and you’re staring at the ceiling, covered in a big, warm weight and drowning in the smell of spice.

Dean’s snoring above you. And you don’t know when you flipped over, but he’s pinned you between the mattress and his body, and his face is in your neck.

You could stay here forever.

But you have a job to do. And you have to move. Fast.

“Dean,” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair, and this isn’t overindulging. He’s on top of you. You’re just trying to wake him up gently. “Wake up. We’ve gotta go.”

The snores hitch, and your smile grows.

“C’mon. Up.”

“No.” He grumbles, and you giggle softly.

“I know you’re awake now, Deano.”

He pauses, tensing slightly. “No, ya’ don’t.”

“Sleeping people don’t talk.”

“Could be sleep talkin’,” he mutters, still not moving. “You don’t know.”

“Yes, I do.” You push at his shoulders lightly. “Up, you big baby.”

His head turns, eyes blinking open, and if he doesn’t decide to get up now, you’re not going to have the strength to push him.

He’s so pretty. And in the morning light, there’s no part of him you can see that isn’t Golden. It’s in his eyes and soft on his skin and woven through his hair, and you love him, and you’re not allowed to say it.

You can’t let it affect work either. And it can’t show on your face.

So you’re trying to smile at him the same way that you’d smile at Sam or Jo. But he’s perfect, and all around you, and it’s not affecting work if Sam and Jo aren’t even here to do the work-

The door slams open, and Jo waltz through it with the timing of some sort of sick joke.

“Oh, good, y’all are-“ She freezes in the center of the room, eyes widening. “Shit, I didn’t mean to- I can come back, if you’re- y’know-“

You flush and Dean twists to shoot Jo a glare.

“If we were, it would’ve been ruined already, Jo.”

Jo’s eyes are going to burst out of her head. “So you were-“

“Not yet.” Dean pushes up off of you, pauses, and leans down to press a kiss to your brow.

Not yet.

Baby. I love you, baby.

You’re just staring up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, and you’re going to melt into the mattress. The Spiderweb loves this. It’s bursting and sparking everywhere, the ache between your legs building as you just stare up at Dean, and his lips tighten slightly.

“You good?”

You smile at him, nodding a little stupidly. “I’m awesome.”

His mouth twitches slightly, and he nods. Brushes a little hair from your face before he moves away.

And you just keep lying there. Dean and Jo are talking about how Sam’s at a shitty diner down the street, and Dean should go join him so they can case the old church you’re using before the ritual starts. Jo will stay with you, going over the plan one last time, and Dean will survive one damn hour without you.

“But she needs to eat-“

“And I brought food.” Jo calls your name. “You want some pancakes?”

“Yes, please.” You might be whispering. You still feel sort of molten.

“See.” Jo’s talking to Dean again. Her voice isn’t ever really firm like that when she’s talking to you. “Go get your own food, Dean. And I already yelled at Sam ‘bout Ruby, but double teamin’ never hurt.”

Dean grumbles something about killing Ruby himself, if she shows up, and you hope he does. Sam and Dean fight about that kind of stuff all the time, and you really don’t want to be the one who has to kill Sam’s demon friend.

Dean can do it for you.

Dean’s always doing stuff for you.

“See you at the church.” He mutters, suddenly hovering above you like the angel he is, and you smile at him.

“Okay.”

“Eat what Jo brought you.”

You nod, still a little dizzy and lost in just the sight of him. “Okay.”

His lips twitch slightly. “You sure you’re alright down there?”

“Yeah.” You’re definitely whispering, and Dean’s face splits into a grin.

“Don’t do anything insane.”

“I would never.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jo-“

“Nothin’ insane. I heard ya, Dean. Now go.”

“She’s so mean to me.” Dean mutters, his fingers brushing so easily through your hair, and the Silver has never been this happy in your body. “You’d never be that mean to me, Princess.”

Jo snorts. “Yes, she would-“

“Nah.” Dean grins at you, and you can only grin back. “Pinky promise you’re gonna eat.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak, and lock your pinky with Dean’s. His smile is the best thing you’ve ever seen. This plan has to work, so Dean can smile like that all the time.

“Good girl.” He mutters, and his attention turn away just before your love and need for him escapes, splattering all over your face.

Dean and Jo exchange a few low words, and you just keep staring at the ceiling. Baby. I love you, Baby. You know I love you-

“Y’all are so gross.” Jo groans, dropping down on your mattress. “I mean, that was worse than if I did walk in on you fuckin’-“

“Jo.” You mumble, giving her a flat look. “We aren’t fucking.”

Jo sighs. “You’re not holdin’ out on him cause of... that thing, are ya?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it-“

“He won’t care.” Jo’s voice is firm, and you turn to see her almost glaring at you. “Don’t ruin this for yourself just cause you think he’s gonna get weird about it.”

“I’m not-“

“You are. Dean’s not gonna give a shit if you’re a virgin. I think he might get all caveman about it, actually. He seems like the type.”

You need to stop telling Jo everything about you. At this point, all she doesn’t know about is how you-

“I mean, you love him. Don’t think you’d love him if you really thought he’d get all fuckin’ shitty ‘bout something like that.”

Fuck. “Jo, I- I don’t-“

“You don’t need to say it.” She shrugs, holding your gaze. “’S why I’m sayin’ it for you. Dean wouldn’t do that to ya’. I really think if you tell him, he’s gonna get like, all fuckin’ commanding. And you’d be into that.”

“Jo-“

“C’mon. You can lie to each other, but you can’t lie to me.” Jo is lucky she’s basically your sister. Anyone else would’ve been stabbed by now. “You love him. Sam told me he’s been moanin’ your name in his sleep, when you ain’t there.”

“He has?” You need to sound less hopeful. It’s not selling the I don’t love Dean angle that well. “I- I mean, I don’t care-“

“Yeah, you do.” Jo smirks at you. “You want him to kiss you, and hug you, and fuck you- Shit!”

You slam a pillow over Jo’s face, and when she tries to retaliate, you let just enough of the Silver out to make the pillow burst into only feathers.

Jo scowls. “I hate when you do that.”

“Yeah, well, I hate when you tease me about Dean-“

“But you deserve it! You are so obvious, it’s like- Oh my god, you remember when we were at the roadhouse a few months back, and that hunter from Louisiana started talkin’ to you?”

You blink at her. “No?”

Jo rolls her eyes. “Course you don’t. You were lookin’ at Dean.”

“Hey-“

“Well the asshole was tryin’ to get in your pants, and you were just makin’ those fuckin’ I love you eyes at Dean-“

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, you do. It’s like,” Jo flutters her lashes, pouts slightly with an open mouth, and you hit her with another pillow.

“I do not fucking do that.”

Jo seems completely unfazed, which is really annoying. “Yeah, ya do. And you were makin’ those eyes at Dean, and the hunter didn’t see ‘em, but you didn’t see him. You were bein’ polite, but you’re real fuckin’ shit at flirting-“

You gape at her. “You’re really mean this morning-“

“I’m sick of you and Dean dancin’ around each other!” Jo throws her hands up in the air, flopping back down on the mattress. “And you keep interrupting my story! The point is that Dean got all barky and mad at the hunter, and you didn’t even notice cause you were too busy eye-fuckin’ him!”

“Barky?”

Jo grins. “I think he fuckin’ growled. I’m tryin’ to tell you that you’re not good at pickin’ up signals, and you love Dean, and he wants be allowed to love you, and if you’d just fuck ‘im, shit would be so much easier.”

You let out a long, slow breath, and before you can even open your mouth and ask Jo to drop it, she’s holding up a finger.

“Look, how about this. What’s your dream life?”

Dean’s asked you that before. And you’re not sure where Jo is going with this, but she’s going to get the same answer he did. “I’ve never thought about what else I’d do-“

“I’m not askin’ what else you’d do.” Jo shrugs, holding your gaze. “I’m askin’ about your dream. If everything works out and you get a perfect world, what’s it look like?”

You stare at Her, and the Silver is rioting inside your body.

A perfect world. Not a realistic one, where you’re either still locked up, or the Sky has taken you, or you’re just hunting until it kills you, or everyone around you dies and you turn to stone, waiting for them to return.

A dream.

You can see it, forming far too fast. It’s just water-painted colors and ideas, but it’s still clear. No monsters or demons or angels, and the Sky is gone. Bobby’s just running his yard, and Sam’s back in college, doing whatever he wants to do. You and Jo get coffee every weekend, and these kinds of conversations never have an underlying sense of danger around the corner.

And Dean’s everywhere.

All his clothing doesn’t stay in a room he never sleeps in, but is tucked into the same drawer as yours. He works in the scrapyard with Bobby, and you don’t know exactly what you’re doing—you’ve really never thought about it—but it’s something useful, where you get to read a lot and talk a lot, and nobody ever gets hurt.

And you come home to Dean every night, and he kisses you everywhere. He falls asleep with his head in your lap and your fingers in his hair, and all your rules are broken because you tell him you love him all the time. And there’s a future. It’s not just the thing to get to tomorrow.

Tomorrow is promised.

The longer you think about it, the more the Silver spreads. And you’re a little afraid to say it aloud. Aloud makes it real.

So you just shake your head, twisting the skin on your finger. “I don’t know.”

Jo knows you’re lying. She raises her brows, and her lips tighten into a line, but she doesn’t push it. She knows you well enough not to.

“Think about it,” she shrugs, and you nod. Now that it’s in your head, you don’t think you’re ever going to stop thinking about it.

“Do you have one?” You ask, lying back down at her side, and Jo frowns at the ceiling.

“I think it used to be this.” She mutters. “Huntin’. But I dunno, I’d just wanna fuckin’ chill. Get a cat.”

You give her an amused look. “A cat?”

“Yeah. I’d relax and get a cat, work in somethin’ with sound. I was really good at that,” she says your name, giving you a grin. “The sound shit? From the lich case. I liked it. Lotta buttons.”

You snort. “You want to work in sound cause there’s a lot of buttons?”

“Yep. And don’t act like buttons ain’t fun to push.” She sticks her tongue out at you. “I’d love to have a job that’s just pushin’ buttons. This job is… you know.”

You do know. And if this works, Jo could have an out. Your dream world is just a dream. You have too much hanging around you for it to be any more than a dream. But the Sky doesn’t watch Jo. Demons don’t hunt her. She’s not a Magdalene, or salvation, or damnation.

That’s why you’re doing this ritual in the first place. For Jo.

You didn’t tell Bobby, because he’d tell Ellen. You didn’t tell Sam, because that would involve explaining that Jo got the idea from hearing Ruby talk about it, and then he’d say that’s not what Ruby meant, and try to make your talk to Ruby.

You couldn’t tell Dean. If you told Dean that Jo had overheard Ruby talking about the possibility of locking all the seals, then came to you to see if it was a possibility, he’d get mad at Jo for pushing you. And she hadn’t pushed you. Not on purpose. But she’d wanted to know if that was in the cards, and it had been, and then she’d wanted to do it.

“If you think you can,” she’d said over the phone, her words slow. “I don’t think we’re getting’ a better solution.”

“I know.” You’d sighed, frowning at your notes. “But I- I don’t trust it.”

“If you think it’ll take too much-“

“No. I’d be fine. I just- I don’t know. We’ll do it.”

“I’m serious, if you ain’t on board-“

“I’m on board. I’ll pitch it to them tomorrow. Can you start-“

“Been workin’ on the ingredients since you gave me the list.” Jo had said your name carefully. “Thank you. I know this is dicey, but it’s gonna work. You’ve got it. We can do it.”

You’d nodded, and hung up.

You’ve got it.

You don’t feel like you’ve got it, but you had to have it. This ritual was volatile, and the Silver still feels like a muscle that spams and tenses and seizes up under the wrong amount of pressure, but you’ve got this.

Ruby showed up last night, and that was making the Silver roll and howl in a kind of alarm over your skull, but you could deal with Ruby. You’d meant it. If she’d set this as some sort of trap, and you showed up tomorrow to find hundreds of demons, or a pack of hellhounds, or Alistair himself, you’d crush Ruby with the Silver until she was fucking nothing.

And you want to tell Dean about it. Tell him that you have this itching, rash-like feeling over your wrist and along your bones, and something just feels wrong. You don’t know if you can do this, but you’re repeating it over and over until it feels a little more true.

But if you’re going to use the monster for something, you might as well use Her for this.

It has to stay between you and Jo.

And you’ve got it.

“We should start movin’.” Jo mutters, pushing up off the mattress. “Ready?”

You’re not ready.

You nod anyway.

Jo runs over the ingredients one last time while she waits for you to change, and everything is in order. You’ve got your jacket, your knife hidden safely inside, and the flask in your pocket. Filled with whore tears.

You don’t really want to know how Jo got those.

“I think you should tell him where we’re done.” Jo hums in the Firebird, and you shoot her a glare.

“Don’t you have your own love life to worry about?”

“Ha! So you admit it’s a love life-“

“I’m gonna crash the car-“

“No ya won’t. Dean gave it to you.” She bumps your shoulder, and you can’t stop your small smile. “And I was serious, before. You don’t even have to jump right in with the love shit. You can just say I like you, and if you wanna fuck, I’m down.”

You sigh. “Can’t I make you do it for me? Like we’re in middle school?”

“Nope. Cause then you’re gonna tell him that he’d be the first, and like, I know we don’t wanna fetishize that, women are more than their bodies, he’d want you if you’d fucked a million dudes-“

“Jo-“

“He would. Right now, it probably ain’t even occurred to him that you haven’t. And I want you to see his dumb little monkey brain explode when you tell him.”

You shoot her a glare. “Dean’s not dumb.”

“I know.” Jo shrugs. “But he’s gonna short-circuit. Promise.”

You just shrug, and try not to think about it. It’s easier if you don’t think about it.

There are just too many other things to think about, besides is Dean going to like you back. The Romanian translations, and the ingredients, and if the Silver is going to settle the heel down and cooperate. If Hell’s Assassin’s do show up, how you’ll handle them.

But he might. Everyone can’t be wrong. There might be a world where you can wrap your arms around Dean, rest your chin on his chest, and say Deano, I like you, and if you wanna fuck, I’m down.

You’ll rephrase it.

And you’re not supposed to overindulge. Asking Dean to fuck would definitely be overindulging.

But he smiles at you, the moment you and Jo walk into the church. Dean grins at you like you’re not about to take a huge, deadly fucking gamble. Like he’s about to ask you to go get some food and watch a movie.

Like a date.

Softer than just fucking. And instead of sweeping the pews for lingering sulfur and demon marks, you could lean over the table and hold his hand.

Maybe.

If he asks you, you’ll never be strong enough to say no. It’s why you’re not telling him you don’t want to do this.

He’d say don’t do it, Princess. And then you’d go home.

He’ll talk you out of it. You don’t really want to be talked out of it, not when it could be the way. Not when you promised Jo.

So you’re going through with it. It won’t be rushed or experimental. Jo tracked down all the right ingredients—and you’ve really decided to not ask questions about it—and the Church is supposed to help the spell draw power as holy ground, but you’re mostly using it for your own peace of mind.

Because this all on you.

“Do you guys-“

“We’ve got everything.” You mutter, turning over the skull of a sickly bird in your hands. “Sun’s almost through the windows, and we- There needs to be one thing in every cardinal direction. This,” you hold up the skull. “Comes with me to the dais. Jo’s taking the South and the tooth, Sam’s West and the blessed fruit, and Dean’s-“

“Black pearl covered in lamb’s blood, East.” Dean frowns down at his item. “How the hell did you get this stuff, Jo-“

“Don’t worry about it.” You and Jo say in unison, and Sam snorts.

“Is that really it?” He asks, frowning at his apple. “Just stand in the corners of the room and all the seals will lock?”

“You have to stand in the corner of the room.” You mutter, pulling your flask from your jacket. “Bottoms up.”

You down the whore tears in one gulp, trade the flask for the knife like it’s a security blanket, and turn on your heels before you can lose the nerve.

Everyone finds their places fast. And all they’ll have to do is stand there, with their items at their feet.

You have to work.

Sam’s looking around the room. Jo’s looking between you and the teeth, a taut but hopeful expression on Her face.

Dean’s looking at you. Only at you.

If you look at him, you’ll run to him. But you have to focus.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and let the Silver move out. You’re the freedom of the wind and the wisdom of the Earth, the warmth of the sun on a river miles away, and every single leaf on the trees. It’s all bending toward you, as you continue to expand.

And you keep your eyes squeezed shut. You’re the dirt and the flowers and the stars, you’re flying up and you’re all the invisible stars in the Sky, and it’s watching you, closer than usual. So fucking closely.

Then you bite your lower lip until you drawn blood, grab everything by the fucking neck, and focus.

You’re not sure what you’re throttling. Only that you’ve found it, deep, deep, deep under the Earth, and you’re choking it.

Lock. You hiss at it, and it balks. Close and lock.

There’s a boom through a little more than the world and the Sky is flaring in warning.

It’s angry.

That means you’re fucking doing it.

Lock.

This time there’s a rattling sound like bones and insects.

Fucking lock.

Something hisses and crashes, and Dean roars your name. Sam’s shouting too, and so is Jo, but you can’t really hear any of it.

You’re in the blur.

You’re fucking everything, and you and feel the wind ripping and biting at your skin, but it doesn’t hurt because you’re not you. You’re all Silver, and you’re everything, and the hissing is growing. Like something is fusing together. And you’re so big, you’re fucking everything, and you’re close. You’re so fucking close. You can fucking do it-

Then you feel it.

The Silver building too high, and the hissing starts to ring in your ears. It’s blaring and going fucking wild, ripping through the world to try and get back to you, because something is wrong.

You’re everything, but you’re not the Gold. And He’s roaring for you and running with Silver, but there’s no need to grab it and command it like to rest of the universe. Because you could grab the blue and the infected purple, and command them. Will them. But you could never touch the Gold like that, because it’s not something to be played with or harmed. The bit of Silver in it is pure.

And He’s calling for you, so you have to answer.

Something is wrong.

Your eyes shoot open, still in the blur, and you’re crashing back down into the Gold.

But every falls apart so fucking fast, and you’re not fast enough to piece it all together until it’s done.

The roof of the church is gone. Half rubble around you, and opened up for the Sky to see. Sam’s knocked out on the floor, and there’s an angel. Not Castiel, because even in another vessel, he’d still be running with electric blue. This angel is filled with yellow.

Not yellow like Dean’s gold.

Yellow like poison.

She’s got a long blade aimed at Jo’s throat. And you’d rip her apart with your bare hands.

But Dean.

Dean’s surround by Hell’s Assassin’s. Three of them. Two holding him on his knees, the third aiming a shotgun at his skull.

The Spiderweb is going haywire. The Silver is scratching at your ribs and skin to be let out, but you’re keeping it pinned down your knife on your forearm. It’s too uncontrollable. If you let it get too far from you, it might not just be the angel and the demons who die.

So you’re frozen.

And Dean’s in danger.

“What-“ You clear your throat, because you sound a little like a scared fucking child. You are a scared fucking child. But you can’t let it show. “What do you want.”

“I don’t know about the girl scout.” The demon with the gun hisses, jerking it’s head at the angel. “But we’ve been sent by Lilith to warn you to stop. She says that you’re meddling in things you don’t understand, and that if you don’t back up, we’ll kill your little human toy for real this time. Lilith don’t need him no more. And this time.” It’s lips curl into a horrible smirk. “There won’t be no coming back, so-“

“I’ll stop.” You say it quick, and it’s the easiest trade in the world. You’re not losing Dean twice. “Please, I’ll stop, just-“

Dean groans your name, and there’s a little blood trickling from his temple. You hadn’t stopped it. You’d been to fucking big, and you’d let him get hurt. “Finish it- Don’t- I’m not worth it-“

“Shut up.” You snap, and Dean just shakes his head, coughing a little bit of blood.

He’s staring at you. Blinking once, over and over and over. Not safe.

You know it’s not safe. That’s why you’re going to stop.

“Is that it?” You ask, looking to the angel. “If I crawl back to my hole and stop interfering, will you leave?”

“I don’t care about the interfering.” The angel says, and she almost sounds sad. “You can’t be trusted, and if you don’t come with me, I’ll kill her.” The angel gives Jo an apologetic expression. “Sorry.”

Jo just glowers at her, and you swallow.

“If I come with you-“

“No!” Dean’s roar echoes around the ruins, and the even the demons flinch slightly. “You’re not going fucking anywhere. Anna, you’re being insane-“

“I am being rational. Seeing clearly.” The angel—Anna, the one they’d told you about—sighs. “Ruby’s right. She’s been warning you, but you wouldn’t listen. And she may be a demon, but she,” Anna nods to you. “Is far worse. I know she’s a Magdalene. Castiel is not as good at snooping as he thinks. And she’s warped your mind.”

You shake your head frantically, the Silver still pounding. “I- I’ve never- No-“

“Men of God are drawn to Magdalene’s.” Anna mutters. “You are the Magdalene. You’re unstable, and too dangerous. You’ve blinded them-“

“I’m not fucking blind!” Dean shouts. “I don’t give a goddamn fuck about all of heaven’s drama and politics. Ruby’s the unstable bitch, Anna, you’re being insane-“

“Dean, please be quiet.” Anna presses the blade further into Jo’s throat, you’re fucking dizzy, and there’s a soreness deeper than your muscles. “I’m trying to help. We can do this peacefully. She’ll go, and the demons will release you. Or we can finish the seal ritual, then go. But she can’t be allowed to live. Her name is written in languages humans can’t even read. I’ve seen it in the parts of Heaven Castiel has never been allowed. She’s their tool-“

“I’m not.” You mumble, and it’s somehow enough to make Anna listen. “I’m not their tool. And I- Dean, I’ve never warped you-“

“I know, Princess-“

“But I’ll go with you.” You keep your eyes on Anna. On the blade, poking into Jo’s throat. “Let Jo go, and I won’t even fight.”

Jo’s eyes widen, and Dean’s shouting your name, but you can’t look at him. You have to keep looking at Anna, or you’ll see the gun pressed against his skull and the world will split in half. And the Sky is watching, and it’s always hated you looking at Dean. You can’t afford making it angrier. Not right now.

Anna’s trying to protect Dean. You can understand that, more than anything. You’re going to do more than just kill Ruby, but you won’t blame Anna for trying to protect Dean. And maybe you have warped him. She’s not wrong that you shouldn’t be allowed to live. That you’re unstable and dangerous.

Maybe she’ll be strong enough to do what John Winchester couldn’t.

“I’ll let you take me.” You whisper. “Just let Jo go.”

Jo’s trying to shake her head, but it doesn’t work with a blade pressing against her skin. And Dean will be fine. He’ll have Sam and Jo, and they’ll explain to Bobby, and everyone will be fine. If anything, you’ll be saving everyone a whole lot of trouble, by going with Anna. Sam won’t have to worry about you killing Ruby. Jo can use this as her reason to get out. Dean and Bobby will have a harder time, but Bobby will never have to deal with your insanity again, and Dean can find that sweet, easy girl he deserves, without you in the way.

And the Sky is watching. If it wanted you to live, it would do something, but it’s only watching.

So you’ll-

“Anna.” A horrible cold voice is coming from right behind you. “You’ve done so well. Much better than we expected. Almost enough to be forgiven for your… Transgressions.”

Dean’s lips curl into a sneer. “What the fuck are you doing here, you bald douchebag-“

“I believe you were told to be quiet, Dean Winchester.”

And Dean’s voice just… dies. Goes silent.

You move before you think. Whirling around, your knife raised, and aimed for the neck of a balding man that vanishes with a ruffling sound, then reappears a little off to the side.

“Oh! You’ve got a bite!” The man laughs to himself, soothing his suit, and there’s a clattering sound as Dean starts to struggle against the demons.

“Do I just, uh, shoot him-“

“Don’t be insane, Fiona.” The bald man gives the demon a flat look. “If you kill Dean Winchester, we kill you and bring him back.”

Another demon scoffs. “You ain’t ever been strong enough to kill us, Zachariah-“

“But she could.” The bald man—Zachariah—nods to you, and the room goes quiet. “Anna is quite correct. Which is a little more impressive than usual, as she is so often wrong. The best thing to do would be put the beast down, but I’m afraid that might cause quite some problems with my bosses, so for now, just a muzzle will do. Kill the girl.”

Dean’s mouth his still opening and closing, but no sound is coming out. You feel like a haze. Like this is just a horrible waking nightmare, and soon the Sky will crash over you in a fury, and you’ll wake up.

You need to wake up.

But you don’t.

And the Sky just watches.

“The girl?” Anna whispers, glancing down to Jo in her arms. “No I- That would be wrong Zachariah, even for you. I don’t think it’s even her time-“

“Yeah, but it would’ve been.” Zachariah shrugs. “What’s a year, really? And this’ll be faster, and- Look! I’m thinking outside the box! Blondie still goes, and she’s barely consequential. The whore heads back to her place, the bosses are happy, and you get off scot-free! You don’t even have to come home, but we can reset you. Give you that vile little human life you always wanted, two point oh.”

Anna’s still not moving. You need to do something, but if you do it wrong, you’ll just kill Jo yourself, and take Dean with her. And you can’t hurt them, you were supposed to stop hurting them, but it feels like something is keeping the Silver coiled, and when it explodes, too much might go with it.

Zachariah sigh. “C’mon. Be honest with me, Anna. I know you hated being one of us, but she,” he points to you. “Is not an angel, or a human. And aren’t you mad at her for taking what might have been yours? For ruining everything, and making Dean Winchester barely give you more than a second glance? She will be damnation. She’s reckless and emotional. I mean, even more than you.”

You need to move. To do something, other than standing here and being sick, but it’s all moving in the stupid fucking blur.

Anna looks at you. Then Jo. Then Dean, and all the spineless fucking demons, who aren’t even trying to do anything. They might see this as a win. You’re dealt with. You’re put down. That’s all they needed to do.

Then Anna looks to Zachariah, like a nervous fucking child, and he nods.

“You’d be free.” He says, and Anna’s throat bobs. “And you could come home. We’d listen to you, this time. About the humans.” He holds his hand up. “Promise. You just need to give us something, and it’ll be like you never left.”

The world falls apart all at once.

Anna’s blade tilts down, drives into Jo’s stomach, and you lose control.

Zachariah’s gone. The Silver tears through the world for him, but he was fast, and may have known what was coming. Must have known. He killed two birds with one stone.

You.

And Anna.

Because when the Silver can’t wrap around Zachariah, it wipes out the Assassins in one wipe, atomic blow, and moves into Anna. Into every single arm and eye and wing, and grabs them. Shreds them. Rips them apart, all of Anna’s grace moving out and out and out into the world and evaporating into nothing, bigger parts falling onto the floor and being ground into the same, and then she’s gone.

Her vessel’s body is dead on the floor, and there are no wings splayed behind it.

Dean’s skull and soul are still intact.

But Jo-

You sprint over the rubble, not caring as pipes and brick scrape at your skin. Your knee’s burn as you skid onto the ground at Jo’s side.

“Shit-“ She’s coughing blood as you pull her off the ground, into your lap. “’S bad, ain’t it-“

“I can fix it.” You mutter, and it’s mostly to yourself. You can fix it. It’s just a wound, and the Silver can fix it.

“Can you tell my mom I’m sorry, and-“

“I need to focus, Jo.” You swallow, laying your hand on her stomach. Already hot and sticky.

Your fingers already stained in red.

But you can fix this.

The Silver leaks out. Carefully at first, just enough to start the flow and mend. You just have to stop the bleeding. If you can stop the bleeding, you can get her to a hospital, and she’ll be fine.

She’ll be fine.

Every time the Silver patches over something, it rips back open, but Jo will be fine.

She has to be fine.

Jo mutters your name, and you shake your head, biting down on your inner cheek. “It’s okay-“

“No.” You mutter, and the Silver runs itself deeper into Jo’ body. Fuck stopping the bleeding, it’ll just weave into her and offer her a little while longer, and- “I need- The car, we need to start the car-“

Dean says your name, his hand carefully on your shoulder, and you don’t really care when he got there. “I don’t think-“

“Start the fucking car.”

It’s almost a screech, but Dean doesn’t flinch. He just offers a hand in your periphery to Jo, who meets it with shaking fingers.

“Don’t be dumb.” Jo whispers, and you can’t tell if you’re choking on your own blood or the air. She’ll be fine. There’s no need for this, because you’re going to make her hold on, and she’ll be fine-

The Sky flashes above you, and the Silver is almost rocketed out Jo’s body. Her whole body shakes with the cough.

Dean squeezes Jo’s hand, kisses to the top of your head before walking away.

You’d screamed at him. You hadn’t meant to scream at him. And you want him to come back. You can’t do this without him.

And you’ll get through this. You always do.

But every time you find a new way to keep Jo, the Sky rips it away.

She’s too pale. The pastel blue in her body is faded. Washed out. Like a river draining, leaving only a mud bank.

She says your name, and you shake your head again.

“Can ya look at me instead of tryin’ to fix it-“

“I am fixing it. It just keeps- Fuck-“ Your fingers curl against her, and this re-tear is bigger than it had been before. “No-“

“Please stop.” Jo mumbles, her voice wavering. “You heard ‘em, I’m gonna die anyway-“

“Don’t say that word-“

“But I’m gonna. It’s alright. Least you already avenged me. No hauntin’ for me. Maybe I can have a grave.”

“Jo.” You whisper, and the Silver retreats one last time.

The Sky won’t let you fix her.

And you don’t know what to do.

“Is it gonna hurt?” Jo’s voice is too soft, and you shake your head, fighting the lump in your throat to speak. You won’t let her go alone.

“For you?” You ask softly, and Jo nods. “No. I don’t think so. I- I think it might feel a little weird at first, but then it- It won’t matter.”

“What about for you?” Jo blinks up at you. There’s almost no blue left. “Is it gonna hurt for you?”

“For me…” You don’t want to tell her. She doesn’t need to hear the truth.

But you’ve never been good at keeping things from Jo.

“For me it’s going to hurt a lot.” You can taste the salt as you speak, but you push on. For Jo. “For a really, really long time. But I’ll be ok.”

“Promise?” She mumbles, and you swallow.

“Promise what?”

“Promise you’ll be ok?”

“I-“

“Please.”

You’re not sure.

But Jo deserves something.

So you nod.

But the blue is already gone when you find your voice. “Promise.”

You sit with her. Until Dean comes back to take you from the desolated church, you sit with Jo. And think you whisper to him that she wanted to be buried, and not burned. And he might have told you that Sam’s up, and he’ll make sure it’s taken care of.

You’re not sure though.

It’s hard to think past the little remnants of blue, still on the tips of your fingers. Clinging to you, because the rest of them is gone. And you press your fingers into Dean’s neck as he carries you to the Impala. Hard enough for a little to stick to him as well.

You might be crying. You’re not sure of that, either. The world is horribly blurry, and you can’t speak because it’s too much.

You feel like the little girl again. The one who hadn’t wanted anyone else to get hurt, and never knew what to do, so she never spoke. The only difference is now, Dean’s wrapped around you. The car stopped at some point, and Dean’s covered you in him. It numbs everything. Makes you breathe a little easier. And his thumb is running down your nose as he murmurs in your ear, and the world is still awful, but at least you can breathe. At least Dean is here.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m sorry, Princess. That- I’m sorry.”

Your body shakes with something, and it’s probably a sob.

He’s sorry. You did this, but Dean’s sorry. You should’ve gone with Anna, and Jo should still be okay, but Dean’s sorry.

You curl into him. He’s the only thing you don’t think you can hurt, so you sink your fingers into Dean’s back and hold on. And he stays. You’re certainly sobbing and shaking, and you’d screamed at him, and it should be your body on the ground, but Dean stays.

It’s twice now. That it should’ve been your body. That you should’ve done better, but you lost. Failed. That all that stupid fucking power you don’t even want failed.

And this is different than Dean’s death.

Dean came back. Cas saved him.

Jo was killed by an angel.

She’s gone.

And you did this. You should’ve told her no, I’m not doing to seal thing. We’re already pushing our luck. You should’ve been in more control, and killed Anna the moment she showed up. You shouldn’t have drowned in the power, and been faster when everything went to shit.

You don’t think you can hurt Dean. The Silver’s always moves around him.

But you killed Jo. You were weak and emotional and sick, and you killed Jo. Everything that’s gone wrong has been you. The lich. The boto. The angels have been angrier because of you, and Hell’s Assassins had a gun to Dean’s head because of you.

And you can’t hurt Dean. And he’d never hurt you.

But a gun had still been pressed to his head, in your name.

And you know what you have to do.

“Dean?”

He grunts, and the sun might have set then broken back into the sky. It doesn’t really matter either way.

“I need to go.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, and you know he doesn’t understand. “Sammy’s getting her home, Princess, so we’ll meet him there-“

“No.” You whisper, leaning back to meet his gaze. “I need to go.”

You can see the moment it hits him. And his features harden, and his jaw clenches as his grip on your body tightens. Like he can keep you there with force. “No.”

You give him a sad smile. “You can’t stop me, De-“

“Wrong.” He snaps. “I can stop you. I- I’ll fucking call Bobby, and I’ll siphon all your gas, and I- I’ll sit on you-“

“You’ll sit on me?”

“You’re goddamn right I’ll sit on you!” He’s shouting now, and you don’t flinch. He’s not mad at you, and you can’t really stand to be angry right now. “You’re not allowed to just leave, you-“

“You owe me a favor.”

Dean’s eyes flash. “That was fucking years ago-“

“Less than two.” You shrug. “I need to go, Dean. I- I can’t stay here. I can’t. I’ll hurt someone-“

“No, you-“ He shakes his head, and you hope his hold leaves a bruise. “You fucking promised you’d stop running. You promised.”

You did.

But you also promised Jo you’d be okay.

And if you stay somewhere that you’re the problem—the sickness, the monster, the damnation—and Sam or Bobby or Dean get hurt because of it, nothing will ever be okay again.

“I’m not running.” You curl your fingers at the top of his shirt, keeping your words gentle. “I can’t be here, but I told you. You can’t lose me. You’ll know where I am, and we’ll call, and I’ll come back.” You scan over his openly pained features, and try not to feel it too deep in your own body. “You and me, Dean. All the way down. I’ll come back.”

You’ve never seen Dean cry before. It’s nothing different than his usual sadness. Just a little bit more. Tears rolling down his cheeks that catch the light then fall between your bodies. And he knows you’re not moving on this. Dean knows you, and if it comes down to it, he won’t really try to stop you.

“You gotta come back.” He mutters, his voice barely a rasp. “If we’re using old shit, you owe me a dance, Princess.”

“Okay.” You whisper, and it’s hard to smile. You’re so fucking tired, and you’re not going to sleep in Dean’s bed for a while, so it will only get worse.

But you have to smile.

Otherwise you’ll be selfish, and breakdown again in Dean’s arms. And he might not be fighting you, but once again, if you let him hold you and care for you, you don’t think he’ll ever let go.

Dean holds his pinky up with raised brows. He doesn’t need to say what it’s for.

You’ll come back.

So you hook your pinky through his, and when he uses it to pull you down into another kiss, you let yourself have it.

Long and slow. He’s not trying to rush it, or take more. You think Dean knows that the moment this is done, you’ll be gone. So every bit of this kiss is about time. His hands roam your body slowly, and his lips mold and nip and press into yours, and you let him have whatever he wants. Soft sighs and moans, knuckles brushing back under your shirt, a hand tangled in your hair to pull your hair back. He kisses over your neck and collarbone, and you only let out a soft hum of his name.

It’s more of him that you’ll get to have. More Gold on your skin, some of it covering over the blue. Preserving it.

And you don’t tell Dean you love him, when he pulls away. Or when you both refuse to say goodbye, and Dean just ghosts a softer kiss over your lips before you climb off of him, and stand in parking lot alone.

But you still broke a rule. You’re too tired to keep your love off your face. And if Cas sees it, when he takes your prayer and lands at your side, he doesn’t say anything.

“You wish to go.” He mutters before you even open your mouth, and you sigh.

“I need you to fly me away. Far.”

“Will you be returning?”

You nod, and you can’t look over your shoulder. Dean’s still in the car, and if you look at him, you’ll run back to him.

“And this is really what you-”

“Yes.”

Cas sighs, and nods. “Alright. It will be… uncomfortable.”

“I can handle it.” You mutter, and you can’t look back. “Cas?”

He tilts his head at you, his hand already resting on your shoulder, and you sigh.

“Please be careful. And make sure Dean…”

You trail off, but Cas understands. “Dean will be in one piece, when you return. I swear it on my grace.”

“Thank you.” you mumble. “I’m ready.”

It’s right before you’re gone, that you look back.

You never could help it.

And Dean’s watching you, and you want to run back to him, but it’s too late. The world turns into a rush of color and cold, and you’re gone.

You’ll come back.

You promised.

End Note: Fridging Jo for a *woman*, now that’s what I call progress (i’m joking because if I don’t I’ll start crying again)

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

Buy me a coffee!☕️

Taglist (If you want to be added, please fill out the form!)

@brtodd @artemys-ackles @sthefferrete @lyarr24 @deansbbyx

@bakugotypecrashout @kittycain @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @zuberweirrd @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco

@ambiguous-avery @elle14-blog1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @heyimolive

@itsdearapril @speedypersonawhispers @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused @kamisobsessed

@arcticwisteria @youroldfashioned @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378

@godhelpthisbtch @ilovedeanwinchester4 @wecangetlostinthepurplerain @sleepykittycx

@immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101 @chi-raz @lori19

@wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh @woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend

@lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey @and-i-wish @ghosth0ney

@funkenniffler

#writer appreciation

174 notes · View notes