#I don’t have the time right now to write this but maybe I will make it a little project

[zeka-maki]

HI i love ur writing tbh, could u do aventurine, sunday, phainon (and maybe other characters u want too add, i really don't mind) with a gn reader that's super clingy in private but when they meet in public they are a completely diff person?? If you do this thank you so mcuh oh my goodness because this is my first time requesting ^__^ (ps i love your account theme!!)

ʚɞ And I wanna spend some time with you, just the two of us ʚɞ

Pairings: Phainon x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader

Summary: Having a clingy lover, he thinks he's won in life. Until his lover becomes distant in public. Spiraling, he tries to figure out what's wrong. Only to find out you dislike the attention it attracts, now he needs extra hours of love as compensation.

Tags: Fluff, established relationship, Implied AE!Reader on Sunday's part but they can be a guest too,

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Jejwkwkw I'm glad you like the theme!!! No need to be nervous dww 🫡 hope i wrote this the way you wanted, enjoy!

⚘ Phainon:

Phainon never imagined anyone could rival him in clinginess — until he met you. At home, you’re always wrapped around him: lying on his chest, kissing his cheek, clutching his hand like you’ll float away if you let go. It makes his heart flutter so much he thinks it might combust.

So when you approach him in the Marmoreal Market and barely say a word, his world falters a little.

You don’t greet him with a kiss, or even a hug. Just a short hello. He blinks, stunned. “Are you… feeling alright?” he asks, voice unsure.

“Yeah. Just came to see you,” you say plainly, eyes already scanning the shops around you.

Phainon goes quiet. His mind races. Did he forget something? Your birthday? An anniversary? Did he say something wrong? Why won’t you look at him like you usually do?

He walks close to you, trailing your steps like a sad puppy. Even when you brush him off gently, he stays near — loyal and quietly heartbroken.

By the time you’re both home, he finally snaps. He wraps you in his arms in a desperate hug, clinging so tightly you nearly lose your breath. His face is tucked against your shoulder.

“…I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

You blink. “For what?”

“I don’t know. Just… sorry.”

You sigh softly, stroking his back. “Phai, there’s nothing to be sorry for. I just didn’t want to attract attention, that’s all. It’s not about you. I promise.”

His arms fall away. He stares at the ground. Then gently, he bumps his forehead against your shoulder, like a silent request.

You get the message and hug him again. He immediately latches back on, burying his face into your neck.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your skin. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” Like a chant to calm his panicked little heart.

⚘ Aventurine:

What Aventurine loves most about you is how clingy you are behind closed doors. In the quiet warmth of your home, you wrap yourself around him, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, and he eats up every second of it. It makes him feel wanted — truly, deeply loved. He wouldn't trade it for anything. A clingy lover? That’s the jackpot of his life.

So when he sees you walking into the casino, he lights up immediately. A sly, affectionate smile pulls at his lips. He stands up right in the middle of a game, brushing off the table like it means nothing.

“Sweetheart! Come to check up on me? How sweet of you,” he says, charm practically dripping from his voice.

“Oh. Yes. I just wanted to check in,” you reply, coolly — almost like you’re greeting a co-worker.

Aventurine freezes. Smile still intact, but there's a flicker in his eyes. He waits for more. A wink, a teasing remark, maybe a hidden kiss behind a hand of cards. Nothing comes.

“What happened to my usual ‘Good morning, my beautiful Aventurine’?” he says with a laugh that sounds a bit too forced.

No hugs, no kisses, no fingers tangling in his tie — he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit beside him silently. You’re calm. Collected. As if the two of you weren’t just tangled up on the couch this morning.

By the time you both return home, he’s trying not to spiral. And then — you kiss him. No hesitation. No distance. Just affection, pure and bright.

He looks at you, confused, even hurt. “…So nothing’s wrong?”

You smile softly. “Didn’t want to attract attention, love.”

Aventurine exhales like he just survived a fire. He pulls you in tight, burying his face in your neck with a dramatic groan.

“You should’ve warned me,” he grumbles. “I was this close to blowing all our savings and fleeing the planet.” Drama queen to the end — but yours, always.

⚘ Sunday:

Sunday’s not the clingy type. He loves affection, sure — he just doesn’t need it every second of the day. But you? You’re clingy in the most lovable way, and he’s always happy to indulge you. Whether you're clinging to his back in the kitchen or curling up in his lap on the couch, he never complains.

So when you slide into a seat beside him in the Astral Express parlor, quietly greeting him with a neutral “Hey,” he raises an eyebrow.

No nickname. No brush of your hand on his. Just silence and space.

He doesn’t push. He merely glances at you from the corner of his eye, lips twitching in thought. He watches you scroll through your phone while March chats with Dan Heng nearby. You're distant — deliberately so.

He waits.

And waits.

No explanation. No excuse.

By the time you return to his room together, he closes the door gently and wraps an arm around your waist, still calm but serious now. His golden eyes search yours.

You pause, then sigh. “Sorry, angel. I didn’t want to draw attention. March would’ve never let me live it down if I got all over you in public.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then he leans his head on your shoulder with a tiny, amused pout.

“…I forgive you,” he says at last. “But you’re staying with me tonight. No takebacks.”

Oh, he’s playing the long game. Scheming bird indeed.

[wendichester]

Hi could you possibly write about a scene where reader is getting lasik eye surgery and how dean and Sam would help afterwards. Maybe this happens when Cas is human and can't heal the reader and tries his best to help in any way he can.

I have my appointment in a few weeks and im low key nervous.

Ik this is a bit specific 😭😭

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. clearer than ever,

pairing. dean + sam winchester x reader ft. castiel ( gn )

wordcount. 613 genre. warm fluffy fluff

warnings. post-surgery tenderness (but nothing graphic), mentions of LASIK recovery (light sensitivity, discomfort), dean being the world’s loudest nurse, sam being a gentle giant, cas being the most earnest, confused little human, fluff, caretaking, and chosen family feelings

notes. i hope this is still on time! and that the surgery goes well! i'll be waiting for news on how it went 😙🩷👁️

You didn’t think the scariest part of LASIK would be the aftermath.

But here you are—eyes shielded by wraparound sunglasses, sitting in the backseat of the Impala, sandwiched between Sam’s arm and Dean’s leftover fast food wrappers. Every blink feels like your eyelids are made of sandpaper and regret. Your eyes are watering nonstop. And the faint glow of the dashboard lights might as well be the sun itself.

“Ow,” you mumble, burying your face into Sam’s sleeve. “I hate it. I regret everything. I want my glasses back.”

Sam chuckles softly, brushing his hand over your hair. “You said this would happen. Remember? The doctor said—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “Burning, stinging, temporary discomfort—blah blah medical lies.”

Dean glances back from the driver’s seat. “Well, you did just let someone laser your eyeballs. Not exactly a spa day.”

“Dean,” Sam warns. “She’s in pain.”

“I’m just saying! She’s the one who kept bragging about ‘super vision’ and being ‘like a hawk but hotter.’”

You blindly reach forward and swat at the air in Dean’s direction. “Shut up before I rip out your headlight bulbs and leave you in the dark.”

Dean snorts. “Yup. Definitely feeling better.”

“Don’t poke the wounded,” Sam says, adjusting the pillow you’re leaning on. “She’s already cranky.”

“I’m not cranky,” you grumble.

“You’re literally growling.”

“I have every right.”

Dean pulls into the bunker’s garage a few minutes later, and that’s when Cas appears like some kind of ex-angel concierge. Human now, still earnest as hell, and clearly prepared for a medical emergency.

“I’ve prepared a nest,” he announces solemnly as you shuffle out of the car, arm-in-arm with Sam. “Blankets. Water. Cold compresses. Also… gummy bears. Dean said those were essential.”

You blink slowly behind your sunglasses. “Cas. You beautiful, confused, literal man.”

“I’m trying,” he says softly. “I can’t heal you, but… I can make you comfortable.”

Your heart swells. Or maybe your corneas are just twitching again. Who’s to say?

Inside, the “nest” is surprisingly impressive. Cas has turned the couch into a cocoon of soft things: four comforters, two heating pads (questionable), and a tower of snacks organized by texture. There’s even a notebook titled Symptoms: Observations and Mood sitting on the table.

Dean grins. “Told him no clipboard, but he wouldn’t let it go.”

“I must monitor her healing process,” Cas says solemnly, fluffing one of the pillows. “Without divine grace, I have spreadsheets.”

You collapse into the fort with a dramatic sigh, tugging the blankets over your head.

Sam lowers his voice as he crouches beside you. “You okay?”

You nod slowly. “Hurts. But this is kinda amazing.”

Dean passes you a bottle of water with a straw sticking out of it. “Well, get used to the princess treatment, Cyclops. You’re officially banned from doing anything for the next twelve hours.”

You peek out of the covers. “So I can’t… do research? Or load silver bullets?”

“Hell no.”

“No cooking?”

“Especially not cooking,” Sam adds. “Last time you made soup while half-conscious, you poured it into a mug full of salt rounds.”

“Gourmet,” you mumble, smiling despite yourself.

Cas sits carefully on the armrest. “Would you like me to read to you?”

“…Depends,” you say. “Do you still read like you’re announcing a prophecy?”

“I can try a more casual tone,” he offers, clearing his throat. “Chapter One: Bella did not want to move to Forks…”

You groan. Dean laughs so hard he nearly chokes.

And somewhere between the bad Twilight impressions and Cas trying to understand why sunglasses don’t work at night, you realize—

Even with sore eyes and no super-angel healing, you’ve never felt more looked after in your life.

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[j3llyc4kes]

summary: it’s ww2, your unfaithful husband naoya has been drafted in the war. but thank god you have the milkman choso!

cw: fluff, smut, crackish. naoya slander, not sorry. cheating but it’s okay cause naoya’s a dick and choso’s not! lolol lowkey pregnancy kink at the end heh mentions of war. nothing crazy. overall, reader is a housewife and a whore for the milkman (i would be too)

wc: 3.3k!

a/n: this has been in my mind for mooonths seeing this art from @/einruji__ on ig! :3

the thing is, your husband was already unfaithful before he shipped off to war. real patriotic of him, really—humping the neighbor’s wife while you ironed his newly issued uniforms and cried into your casseroles.

you knew he wasn’t a good man. he never was. not before he draft notice, not even when the ink was drying on your wedding certificate.

he said he’d be gone eighteen months, maybe longer. you didn’t really care.

he kissed your cheek too fast and told you not to wait up one night. you knew from the smudged lipstick on his collar, the sudden generosity toward the neighbor when she asked to borrow some ‘sugar’. the way he stopped touching you altogether. war is just the excuse. he left like he was relieved, like the only thing he’ll miss is his shaving mirror and the breakfast you make when he’s hungover.

since he’s been gone, he doesn’t write. you don’t either.

what he doesn’t know is that you already stopped loving him long before he even proposed. you’ve just been playing house. standing in your cute little kitchen, polishing the same countertop, folding the same linen napkins, waiting for someone to notice you exist.

enter choso kamo.

choso is the milkman. he’s the quiet type. a sweetheart, truly. you don’t know much about him—just that he’s not from here, that he took over the route from his brother, and that he always has perfect change in his pocket.

he shows up at 7:12 every morning with the same metal carrier, the same off-white uniform, sleeves rolled up like he just has to know what he’s doing to you. dark brown hair tied back low on his neck, one loose strand always curling across his temple, like he’s just been kissed by something. not the sun. and not by you. at least, not yet. but hopefully soon.

he always says “good morning, ma’am” in that slow, syrupy voice of his with a tip of his cap and you smile like butter wouldn’t melt.

the first time you invite him inside, you tell yourself it’s for a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. he works hard. he deserves it.

and because you feel lonely. that’s all. just…lonely.

the second time, it’s because you want him to see you. really see you. not as some soldier’s wife or pretty housewife in pearls. just a woman. bored and warm and hungry for something that doesn’t feel fake.

he sees you, alright. he sees you and he wants you. but also he sees that pretty little rock on your finger.

so, he’s patient. for now.

he stays almost every time he comes by. leaning against your doorframe and fiddling with the strap of his carrier, eyes flicking over your pretty little house dress, your legs, your lips. nothing improper—not yet. it’s 1944.

but you’re not exactly living by the book anymore, are you?

you were supposed to be the sweet housewife. but your husband is naoya zenin. he makes it hard to be sweet at all. he’s the kind of man who asks you to make dinner and expects applause for showing up hours later when it’s cold. the kind of man who thinks “i love you” is a reward, not a habit. and the neighbor?

oh, she’s still around. still mowing her lawn in kitten heels and curlers like it’s not a war zone out there. you wave to her sometimes. she doesn’t wave back. i guess she’s grieving your husband in her own way.

but you’ve got choso now. or not now now. not officially. right now he just brings the milk and a smile. but you’ve got time. you’ve got plenty of war time. you’ve got 7:12am and the scent of him lingering on your porch and the way he looks at you like you’re something warm he’s afraid to touch.

and then one day, the milk’s not the only thing he brings.

choso knocks the same way he always does. two soft taps on the screen door, just loud enough to pull you out of whatever pretend domestic task you’ve been busying yourself with—watering plants that don’t need it, folding laundry that isn’t dirty, wiping already-clean countertops like a robot.

it’s early. the soft sun is pouring in through the sheer kitchen curtains. you’re in the kitchen when it happens. wearing a little lavender dress that hugs the waist and buttons too tight across the chest, because if you’re going to be a desperate housewife, you might as well be pretty about it.

the radio’s humming low in the corner, some voice crooning about lost love and waiting faithfully.

how fitting.

you wipe your hands on your apron and go to the door, and there he is, in his starched white uniform and spotless cap, holding two glass bottles of milks so innocently like he doesn’t know he’s the only man who’s ever made you feel seen.

he sees you and his soft eyes instantly light up.

“mornin’ ma’am.” he says.

“goodmorning choso,” you smile, opening the screen door. “would you like to come in?”

choso wouldn’t dare turn down a gorgeous woman like you.

he steps inside, following behind you slowly. he sets the milk on the counter, pretends for a moment that he’s just doing his job.

his eyes dropping to your collarbone like it’s a crime scene. today, though, it’s different. there’s something in the air. something heady and stupid. like heat in the springtime. like lust with manners.

“brought you some extra,” he says, lifting one of the bottles. “cream. had some left over from the route.”

you tilt your head. “how generous, cho.”

“figured you could use it.”

“i could use a lot of things.” you say with a smile.

the silence? thick and sweet.

you watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. how his tongue peeks out just barely to wet his bottom lip.

and that’s when you decide.

he’s helped you carry your groceries. fixed your leaky sink. reached the good china from the top shelf like a gentleman. this man has earned more than a thank-you note and a dry mouth.

you step closer. he doesn’t move. just looks at you, soft and wide-eyed like a boy who’s been dared to do something illegal.

“choso, darling,” you say, and he blinks slow. “have you ever been kissed by a married woman?”

“no, ma’am.”

“wanna be?”

he’s sweet, at first. always so sweet. he kisses you like he’s scared he’ll break you. he touches you like you’re made of glass.

but there’s a desperation to him that never quite stays buried—something deep and starved that makes him groan the moment you tug his belt loose and whisper,

“you want me to take care of you, baby?”

he nods too fast. his breath trembling as you sink to your knees right there in the warm little kitchen, pulling down his trousers.

the soft sound of the radio mixing with the wet sounds of your mouth around his cock.

he says your name so softly. moans like he shouldn’t be allowed to. like no one’s ever done this for him before.

maybe no one’s ever milked him like this, slow and messy, with spit running down your chin and your hand wrapped tight around the base. maybe no one’s ever looked up at him from between their lashes and smiled around his cock.

god, you look so pretty like this, he can’t help himself.

his hands tremble where they tangle in your hair, his hips twitch when you suck a little harder, encouraging him to cum in your mouth.

“b-baby, fuck—i’m cumming—“

he finally spills down your throat, he groans like a man ruined. broken open. and so, so grateful.

but you don’t stop there.

you stand up, untying your lavender halter, shimmying it down your body, leaving you naked.

again, you were desperate.

you guide him back to the little table where you usually sit and stare at untouched coffee.

you lean back against cool wood and spread your legs just a little—barefoot, pussy so wet and pretty, already dripping for him.

he groans at the sight, stepping between your legs and dips his head down, sucking pretty little marks onto your neck.

he’s good with his hands—of course he is.

delivers glass bottles all day, has to handle them gentle, precise. and he treats you the same way at first, like something breakable.

thumb smoothing circles into the inside of your thigh while his mouth coasts along your body. slow and reverent. says your name like it tastes good. he tells you you’re pretty, even though your curls are messed up and lipstick’s smudged and you’re gasping like a common whore.

you’re not used to being touched like this. not worshipped. not unraveled by someone who actually listens. who kisses the inside of your knee and says,

“been thinking about this for weeks,” like a confession. who sucks a mark into your collarbone and then soothes it with a kiss. who sinks two fingers inside you and groans like he’s the one being touched.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and your stomach flips.

his voice is low, like velvet dipped in molasses. his hair’s come loose around his face and he looks feral, flushed, focused.

every time he curls his fingers just right, you jolt—back arching, legs twitching—and he just watches, lips parted, eyes glazed, like this is the highlight of his whole year.

you’re so wet his palm’s slick with it, so needy you’re clutching at his uniform, whining and squirming.

“you’re makin’ a mess on my hand, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the swell of your breast as you writhe against the table. “is that all for me?”

you nod, frantic. “y-yeah. yes. all you.”

he smiles against your skin. then he sinks to his knees.

and lord have mercy—when the milkman eats pussy, he delivers.

he holds your thighs apart like he’s bracing a storm. tongue soft at first, then greedy.

lips sealing around your clit and sucking like he’s getting paid by the hour.

you grab his hair, crying out his name and he groans.

he drags his tongue through your slick folds like he’s memorizing the taste.

you buck your hips, his arms tighten around your thighs and pull you closer.

you swear you black out a little when you come. you hear yourself moan his name—feel your whole body pulse but he doesn’t even let up.

he just licks you through it like he’s thirsty. lets you shake and twitch and melt against the kitchen table while he groans into you, obscene and grateful. like he’s thanking you for the privilege of eating you out.

he stands back up, lips glossy and cheeks flushed, you kiss him so hard you see stars.

you taste yourself on his tongue. grinding against his thigh like a dog in heat until he pulls back, helping you stand as he takes a seat on one of the dining chairs.

he tries to be a gentleman as if he didn’t make you see god seconds ago and say—“ma’am, are you sure?”—but you’re eagerly straddling his thighs, already sinking down on his still hard cock, gasping at how full he makes you feel.

you ride him slow, the worn kitchen chair creaking beneath you with every bounce. your palms press firm to his chest, feeling the way it rises and falls under your touch. his mouth falls open. his eyes flutter shut.

he’s so good like this—soft sounds, soft hands, soft eyes—and you move like you want to milk every last drop from him. you want to feel him leaking out of you all day, dripping down your thighs while you tidy up the house.

he kisses you different when you’re on top. like he’d lay down and die for you if you told him to.

“oh—god, sweetheart, you feel so good,” he moans, big hands gripping your waist as he helps you grind down on his cock, meeting your rhythm.

“so—so full, choso,” you whine, arms wrapped around his neck. each thrust hits deep inside your cervix, making your whole body shiver.

he nuzzles into your neck, voice wrecked. “please, ma’am—baby—can i cum inside you?”

his breath is hot against your skin. his voice is almost a sob.

you nod, already gone. completely cockdrunk, all thoughts melted down to one single need.

“mhm! yes—fuck, please! need it, choso—fill me up, please!”

and oh, does he ever.

he picks up the pace at your words, hips snapping upward with a hunger that makes your thighs tremble. he pulls back just enough to look at you and those soft, sleepy eyes meet yours, wide and glazed with need, like he’s falling apart under you.

you moan louder, the kitchen echoing with the slick, rhythmic plap of his cock driving up into your soaked cunt.

“oh—oh my—‘m cumming! don’t stop—just like that,” you gasp, voice ragged, your whole body tightening around him.

he grunts, low and desperate, fucking up into you over and over until it crashes over both of you—a wave of heat, of pleasure, of something that feels dangerously like love.

you cry out, gushing around him, and he groans as he spills inside, cock twitching deep as he coats your walls in thick, milky white.

oops.

you hadn’t meant to let him finish inside.

but with the way he looked at you—eyes all soft and sweet and yours—how the hell were you supposed to tell him no?

six months later, you’ve got a belly like a watermelon and a glow that definitely isn’t from the sun.

your neighbors are absolutely scandalized.

your belly’s too round, too visible, and your husband’s been gone far too long. mrs. kusakabe from two houses down stops bringing you pies. someone leaves a bible on your doorstep. you put it under the wobbly leg of your kitchen table and keep right on sinning.

choso’s much more handsy now. protective. he rubs your belly absentmindedly while you drink your coffee. always tells you things like “you need rest” and “don’t bend over like that, baby, i’ll get it.”

he still calls you ma’am sometimes, just to make you flustered. it works. it always works.

you don’t talk about the future much. it’s the war years, after all. everything’s temporary. everyone’s waiting for something. but sometimes you catch him staring at you—hands on your stomach, eyes soft— like he’s dreaming about something he won’t say out loud.

you’d ask him, but you’re too busy bouncing on his cock in the back of the delivery truck.

priorities.

currently, you’ve got your knees on the kitchen tile and your mouth full of cock when the front door opens.

choso doesn’t hear it at first—well, he doesn’t, but he’s too far gone to care.

his head’s tipped back, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other buried in your hair like he’s afraid you might vanish. he tastes like sweat and sin, salty on your tongue, heavy on your lips.

you hum around him and he moans. soft and strangled, like he’s trying not to say your name out loud—and his hips stutter like he’s already close.

you’ve gotten very good at this, in the past few months.

“jesus,” he whispers, low and reverent. “fuck, sweetheart, you’re—”

“—what in the goddamn hell is this?!”

ah. there he is.

you blink up—cock still in your mouth—and there stands your husband. boots still dusty, duffel bag on the floor, mouth hanging open like he’s walked into a church on fire.

he looks older. thinner. confused. which is fair, considering the image in front of him: you, barefoot and six months pregnant, hunched over the milkman’s dick like it’s breakfast.

you pull off with a lewd pop and wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.

“oh,” you say brightly, “you’re back.”

naoya—yes, that naoya—just gapes. his eyes flick from your swollen belly to the outline of choso’s cock. still glistening, still very much at attention to the little drool stain on your chin.

his face turns a shade of red you’ve only ever seen on overcooked meat.

“what the fuck,” he sputters. “what the fuck is going on here?!”

you raise your eyebrows. “thought that was obvious, honey.”

“you—he—jesus christ, i’ve been gone eighteen months—”

“and not a single letter,” you chirp, standing slowly, smoothing your skirt down over your belly. “not even a postcard. how’s toga, by the way?”

that hits. his eyes go wide. “you—you knew about toga?”

“knew?” you laugh. “are you dumb? naoya, she used to borrow my curling iron. she left her girdle in our guest bathroom.”

“you’re—you’re blowing the milkman?!”

“technically i was milking the milkman,” you say with a wink, “but yes, naoya. i was.”

choso, to his credit, looks faintly apologetic—but mostly just embarrassed to have his dick still out.

he tucks himself back into his trousers and clears his throat, adjusting his uniform like he’s about to apologize for tracking dirt in, not for getting sucked off in someone else’s kitchen.

“sir,” he says awkwardly, nodding once. “i—uh—didn’t know you’d be home.”

naoya just sputters.

you walk over and grab the milk from the counter like it’s just another thursday.

“we’ll need another bottle next week, choso,” you say sweetly, patting your belly. “baby’s been craving milk. and something tells me i’ll be thirsty again real soon.”

“yes, ma’am,” choso says, smiling now. the fucker actually blushes.

you glance back at naoya, who’s still frozen in the doorway, fists clenched and eyes bulging.

“well,” you sigh, “guess we should talk about living arrangements.”

“what?!”

“you’re not staying here,” you say, matter-of-fact. “baby’s due in october. choso’s already built the crib.”

“you cheated on me, y/n!”

you blink. then laugh.

“oh, sweetheart. you don’t get to play the victim. you were balls-deep in the neighbor before the draft notice even showed up.”

he opens his mouth to argue. then closes it.

“now,” you say, stepping forward, tone clipped and cheery, “you can collect your things and sleep at the boarding house, or you can keep screaming and let the whole street know your wife traded up while you were off diddling the neighbor and forgetting how a return address works.”

choso stands taller behind you, quiet but solid.

he doesn’t say a word—doesn’t need to.

he’s already won.

naoya says nothing. just picks up his bag and stomps out the way he came, muttering curses and dragging months worth of humiliation behind him.

you and choso look at each other for a moment. then burst out laughing.

later, after dinner, which he cooks, of course—your favorite—you curl up next to him on the couch, belly round and content. he strokes your hair, kisses your temple, presses his palm to the soft swell of your stomach.

“you ever think about…makin’ it official?” he asks, voice low. “after the baby comes and all.”

you smile.

“what, make an honest man out of you, hmm?”

he chuckles. “figure i already am, seein’ as you’ve been usin’ my last name at the doctor’s.”

you grin. “only ‘cause it’s prettier than his.”

choso leans in and kisses you slow. sweet. like nothing’s ever rushed, even when it is.

“i’ll get you a ring,” he whispers against your mouth. “soon as i finish the rebuilding the porch.”

you hum, tugging him closer by the collar.

“fine,” you murmur, nose brushing his, “but i’m keepin’ the milkman fantasy. you still owe me for last week, cho.”

he smirks. all lazy confidence and flushed cheeks—and runs a hand down your thigh.

“ma’am, i think i got another bottle in the truck.”

you laugh and then straddle him right there on the couch, belly and all.

and you ride him like the whole town isn’t already talking.

the porch doesn’t get finished that week.

but the crib is perfect. and so is the baby.

mrs. kusakabe eventually drops off a pie again in the spring.

you wave from the porch. choso’s shirtless, rocking your baby girl in one arm and drinking from the milk bottle with the other.

a scandal, yes.

but a well-fed one.

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n again: side lore, growing up people told my mom i was the milkman’s baby because i’m a pale latina and not the same shade as my dad 😭😭

taglist: @bistrocatxx @spacebabe02 @1stqueenofhell @raveszn @chr1ss1etina @desirehorizon @satorupi @besidesjustmyamour @ha1lstorm

[sleepywolverine]

🍦 on the tip of my tongue 🍦

Pairing: Worst Logan x Fem!Reader Rating: Explicit Length: 1.9K Tags: fluff, smut, suggestive eating of ice cream, reader really likes vanilla ice cream, bratty reader, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), fingering, cum eating, pet names, daddy kink, mentioned wade wilson, briefly shown oc i haven’t talked about yet

This fic is for @loganficsonly for @lareinedulune’s Wet Hot Logan Summer Ficathon. The prompt was “getting ice cream together” with Worst Logan. This was my first time writing anything for Logan as well as the first time I’ve written real smut or a reader insert fic since I wrote Living in the Night, so I hope ya’ll enjoy!

Read on AO3

Logan had moved in with you two months ago, much to Wade’s exaggerated agony, despite the fact that he’d only be a few blocks away. So now you and the Wolverine were living in ‘domestic bliss’, as Wade had put it. Unfortunately for you and your sanity, Logan’s idea of domestic bliss involved him still unable to stop drowning his sorrows in alcohol. This month, said sorrows included Wade visiting too often, other men hitting on you and the summer heat. 

Well, in New York, it was easy to find an ice cream truck. You were craving a nice, cool treat and Logan had barely moved from the couch all day, only to get a bottle of whiskey, use the bathroom or go to the building’s gym. It was 3 PM. You could only hope he’d listen to your nagging for once. 

But it seemed that you were asking for a bit too much. 

“You want to go out? In this heat?” Logan queried, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s always an ice cream truck a few blocks away at this time of day,” you insisted. “We can head down there, have our cones, and come back. My treat.”

He sighed heavily, getting up from the couch, a scowl on his face. “Fine, but we won’t stay out there more than 15 minutes, got it?” 

You couldn’t help but giggle a bit. Logan looked kinda cute in an angry kitty sort of way. The little tufts of hair that looked a bit like cat ears didn’t make it any better.

Logan rolled his eyes at you as he went to put his shoes on. “Don’t make me regret this,” he grumbled.

You followed him over, sitting down to put your shoes on as well. “Oh, I don’t think you will,” you smirked. 

Logan couldn’t keep himself from smiling with amusement for a moment at your smug smirk. When you caught him with the corners of his mouth turned up, he immediately went back to playing grumpy. “Whatever, princess. Let’s go.”

Yeah, you were pretty confident that this was just what Logan needed; to get out of the house, have something cold, and maybe you’d even get a ‘thank you’ for it.

86 degrees.

Your phone had said it was 86 degrees outside.

So why did it feel so much hotter? 

You could practically already feel sweat dripping down your skin and you and Logan hadn’t even been walking for a minute. Part of you desperately wanted to turn around and retreat to the air conditioned apartment, but your heart was now set on getting that ice cream. On having a nice time with the man you loved. 

You looked over at Logan. He was silent, hands in his jean pockets, scowling a bit still. “What?” he asked gruffly when he caught you staring.

“Just glad we’re doing this,” you responded.

Logan turned away from you again, though you caught him rolling his eyes. “Yeah, well… I still don’t like it. Way too hot out here.”

“We won’t be out here for long, I promise. Besides, we can’t just stay cooped up inside all summer.”

“I went to the gym today,” he argued.

“And that was inside.”

“So?” 

You shook your head, sighing heavily as the two of you stepped up to the ice cream truck, right at the corner, just like you knew it would be. Nearby, you noticed plenty of people leaning against the walls of buildings or sitting on benches enjoying their own frozen desserts. As you looked over the menu printed on the truck, you heard your boyfriend grumble once again. “This is ridiculous, standing around in this baking heat just for ice cream,” he complained.

The woman in the ice cream truck turned to the two of you. “Hello, I’m Inaya. What can I get you two?”

“Got anything with booze?” Logan asked.

“Logan!” you scolded.

“Fine. Just a plain chocolate cone, I guess.”

“I’ll get vanilla,” you told Inaya.

“All right, hold tight,” Inaya smiled at the two of you before starting to prepare your cones. 

“Vanilla?” Logan raised a judgmental eyebrow at your choice of flavor.

“What? It’s the best one!” you argued.

“It’s the most boring one.”

“I disagree,” you smirked.

“Of course you do.” He couldn’t keep himself from smirking back at you.

A moment later, Inaya returned to the window, a chocolate ice cream cone in one hand, a vanilla one in the other. “That’ll be six dollars,” she told you as she handed the cones to the two of you.

You took out your wallet, pulling out the dollar bills, coins for tax and a little extra as a tip, handing the money to Inaya. She smiled at the two of you. 

You and Logan walked over to a nearby tree, standing in the shade as the two of you began to enjoy your ice cream. Neither of you said anything for a while, just exchanging glances as you licked your treats. You could tell Logan was much happier than he was before, however. You didn’t think he’d admit it. 

“You got a bit of ice cream on the corner of your mouth,” he said suddenly.

He was right. You could feel it there. But then you got an idea. An idea you’d probably be punished for later. You smeared the cone against your face, shivering slightly at the cold sensation, getting some more ice cream right by your lip. It was starting to look like you had half of a white, sticky mustache. You smirked at Logan, and he just stared back, confused as to why you just did that.

And then you started licking it off very slowly, imagining that the cold mess on your mouth was something else. You glanced suggestively at Logan, who was starting to blush. He knew what you were doing, and he was giving you just the reaction you wanted out of him.

“Stop that,” he growled.

You didn’t. Once you’d licked off all the ice cream on your face, you went back to licking your cone, looking at Logan seductively as you did so. You were teasing him, and he damn well knew it. 

Meanwhile, Logan was trying desperately to stay focused on his own ice cream and not get riled up at your blatant teasing. Unfortunately for him, he was far too in love with you to let you get away with this.

“Brat,” he muttered.

He was only egging you on further. Logan’s fist clenched around his cone, cracking it slightly. He could feel himself getting hard in his jeans as you kept putting on this teasing little show for him.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he growled.

You winked back at him.

That did it. He couldn’t take it any longer. He grabbed you by the wrist and started dragging you back in the direction of the apartment building, his grip strong but not painfully so. There was an angry glint in hazel eyes, almost like a crackling flame.

“You really think you’re funny, dontcha princess?” he asked darkly. “Getting me hard in public. You’re gonna pay once we’re back in our apartment, baby.”

“And what about our ice cream?” You asked teasingly.

“You can have your damn ice cream later,” he snarled. He was dead set on punishing you for the stunt you just pulled. And your pussy was tingling at the thought of it.

You were on your knees in front of the couch where Logan had been relaxing only less than an hour before. Now, he was back on the couch, but this time, you were going down on him.

Your boyfriend couldn’t keep quiet as you sucked and licked at his thick cock. His fingers were tangled in your hair, yanking at it slightly, his eyes half-lidded.

“Oh, you little minx,” he growled. “You were thinking about this when you were licking that damn ice cream, weren’t ya?” 

You let out a soft whimper in response, muffled by his length in your mouth. You were so wet. You could feel it leaking through your panties. 

Logan tugged your hair harder for a moment, gazing down at you, his eyes dark with lust. The eye contact was tantalizing. You were itching to touch yourself, to give yourself some kind of stimulation where you needed it, but you could only hope that Logan would give it to you once he had his fill of your mouth. 

“That was not nice what you did out there,” he said, his voice deep and rough as he pulled you off of him, pushing you down onto the couch, already pulling your shorts off. “Teasing me like that, in public no less. You need to be taught a lesson.”

“Logan…” you groaned, feeling needy as ever.

“Yes, sweetheart?” he smirked, his hand dipping below your waistband, touching your pussy through your sopping wet panties.

“Need you,” you whimpered.

Logan’s smirk only grew wider at your needy tone. He yanked your shorts and panties down with one quick tug. “You have me,” he growled lowly before bucking up into you hard.

“Agh!! L-Logan!!” you cried out as he pounded into you over and over relentlessly.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Always so tight.”

His thrusts showed no sign of slowing. You could feel tears building up in your eyes, but you didn’t want him to stop. You needed him like this too badly.

“Looooogan…!” you moaned.

Logan kept on fucking you, the room filled with the lewd sound of his balls making contact with your folds and your moaned cries.

“Yeah, keep moaning my name, baby. Good girl,” he praised, his voice breathy. 

“Daaaaady…” you moaned out instead, just to drive him even crazier.

Logan looked down at you, growling. “Daddy, huh?”

“You’re being a good girl for Daddy, ain’tcha?” he groaned.

“I am now.”

He let out a dark chuckle. “Couldn’t keep yourself from being a brat at the ice cream truck, though.”

“Seems like it… paid off…” you panted. You were getting close already. You knew it, and Logan could tell.

“You think so, eh?” he teased, bringing a thumb down to your clit and rubbing it roughly, eliciting a high-pitched squeal from your lips. “Not so bratty now.”

“I’m so close,” you whimpered. You were teetering on the edge of your climax, desperate to let go, hoping Logan would let you.

“Yeah? You gonna come for me, princess?” he asked gruffly, keeping up the relentless pace of his thumb on your clit and his cock. 

“M-may I come, Daddy?” you asked, hopeful. You didn’t think you could hold it in even if he told you to.

“Yeah, princess. Come for me,” he groaned, not stopping pleasuring you for a second.

With his permission, you went over the edge, clenching around him. That combined with your moans was enough to trigger Logan’s own orgasm. He thrust up into you one last time before coming hard inside you.

“Mmm… good girl,” he panted, pulling out of you. He then inserted two fingers into your full cunt, gathering his cum and bringing it to your lips. “Eat up, baby.”

You eagerly obliged, letting him feed you his cum, sucking and licking it off of his fingertips. This was what you were thinking about when you were teasing him with the ice cream anyway.

Once Logan was done feeding you his semen, he pulled you close to his chest, wrapping his arms around you as you snuggled on the couch.

“You know what?” he whispered to you.

“What?” you looked into his hazel eyes, now warm rather than full of lust and pent-up desire like they were before.

“I think that ice cream was a good idea after all,” he smirked.

You giggled teasingly. “What’d I tell you?” 

Logan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. C’mere, princess,” he said, pulling you into a sweet kiss.

[drafts-and-delusions]

hi! i wanna ask for a jealous baby x gn!reader fic lol. he’s my favourite saja and i really need more of him. Even what i write doesn’t satisfy my brain worms. Hope you can write this!

No One Else Gets This

Tags: gn!reader, fluff with possessive undertones, jealous!baby, protective behavior, first relationship, public date setting, food market date

ahhh baby saja... proper name.... place name... backstory stuff...

He’s never done this before. Not the dating part; the public part. The walking-around-with-someone-he-likes kind of thing. His hoodie is zipped up, cap pulled low, silver chain tucked beneath his shirt. Sunglasses hang from his collar, more for show than anything. The market lights above cast a soft, uneven warmth over everything.

You’re beside him, chewing on a pork skewer with sauce smeared on your cheek. You're grinning at nothing in particular, swaying slightly with the music playing from someone’s portable speaker a few stalls away.

He could stay in this moment forever.

Then someone ruins it.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you. “Sorry, just couldn’t help noticing you. You’re really cute.”

You blink and start to turn, confused. There’s a guy—probably your age, maybe a little older. Relaxed posture. Easy smile. The type that seems harmless.

But not harmless enough.

Before you can open your mouth, Baby steps in front of you. Not fast or aggressive, just decisive. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t square up or curse the guy out. But something shifts in the air, heavy and tense. You feel it immediately; the kind of pressure that makes your skin crawl without knowing why.

“They’re not available,” Baby says. His voice is calm, but final.

The guy puts his hands up, defensive. “Whoa, I didn’t know—chill, man.”

“I am chill,” Baby replies. His tone doesn’t change, but his eyes are different now. Flat. Unreadable. “That was me being polite.”

The guy mutters something and disappears into the crowd.

You peek out from behind Baby, raising your brow. “You good?”

He turns to you, jaw tight.

“He looked at you like he thought he had a shot,” he mutters.

“He asked if I was single. You answered before I could.”

He squints a little. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You try not to laugh. “You really don’t like it when people talk to me, huh?”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls out another skewer from the bag and starts chewing, eyes darting back and forth like he’s still on edge.

“I’ve never dated anyone before,” he says after a long pause. “Never had to share someone. Never wanted to.”

You go quiet for a second. Not because you don’t know what to say—just letting him have space to finish.

He finally looks at you again. “But then there’s you. And I want to be out here with you. Want to eat greasy food and go on walks like we’re normal people. But no one else should get to look at you like that.”

You don’t respond right away. You reach up and wipe a little sauce from the corner of his mouth with your sleeve.

“You’re kind of hot when you’re scary,” you say.

He chokes slightly on the skewer.

“I’m always hot,” he grumbles. “Even when I’m not scary.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re doing great, first-time boyfriend.”

He scoffs. “Shut up. I’d fight a whole crowd for you.”

You smile. “I know.”

The two of you go back to eating under the warm, blinking market lights. And for a while, it really does feel normal.

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

beg for it

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

word count: ~4.2k (i just kept writing lol)

summary: A blown case in the field ignites the worst fight you and Spencer have ever had. After three days of petty tension, ignored looks, and power plays, you get sick of it.

includes: no use of y/n, established relationship, argument > unresolved tension > smut (MDNI), dom(ish?)!reader x sub!spencer, pettiness and teasing as foreplay lol, begging, praise, slight power play, Spencer tries (and fails) to be a brat, kiss and make up type beat

You yank off your vest and storm away from the perimeter. Your boots crunch against the dry earth with every furious step, dust kicking up in your wake. Your heart is still pounding from the chase, your skin buzzing with leftover adrenaline, but all you can feel is rage.

The unsub had been right there. Cornered. Vulnerable.

And then Spencer pulled you back.

He yanked you out of the way like you were some rookie who couldn’t handle yourself. Like your judgment didn’t count.

You hear your name shouted behind you, sharp and breathless. Spencer’s voice. “You don’t get to be mad at me for saving your life!”

“Don't get to–?” You scoff. “Maybe I wouldn’t need saving if you trusted me to do my job!”

Gravel skitters under your boots as you whirl a corner of the crime scene tape. His hand catches your arm. Firm, but careful. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you stop. You spin on him.

His curls are tousled, cheeks still flushed from the run. His eyes—usually soft—are wild, furious.

“You’re cocky,” he snaps, breathing hard. “And that cockiness is going to get you killed.”

Your jaw clenches. “And you’re scared. So scared that you’d rather let a murderer walk than risk anything going wrong. That kind of fear is what’s going to get someone else killed.”

The words hang between you like lightning about to strike. For a second, you swear he flinches. Then his expression hardens, voice dropping to something quiet but weighted.

“I was trying to keep you alive.”

You take a breath, steadier now, though your heart still hammers like a warning. “I don’t need a savior, Spencer. I need a partner.”

His gaze flicks away like the words cut too close. Then he looks back at you—cool now, composed in a way that feels almost distant.

“Maybe I’m not the partner you want.”

The sentence lands with more force than you’re ready for. Before you can respond, before the sting of it can fully register, he turns on his heel and walks away, posture stiff, steps heavy.

You almost go after him.

You shift forward, a breath already forming—but Hotch calls your name. It's not loud. Not angry. But there’s weight in it. A warning.

You stop. Shoulders tense, jaw tight. You don’t look back at Hotch, just huff out your frustration and rake a hand through your hair. Then you turn back to the scene, back to your job.

The aftermath of the fight settles in fast—and cold.

You expect tension, maybe even a little snappiness, but what you get is something worse: indifference. It gnaws at you.

Spencer barely looks at you the next morning, his words clipped and only ever related to the case. No warmth, no lingering looks, no small touches. 

He keeps his tone neutral, his eyes carefully distant, like you’re just another member of the team. Like he doesn’t sleep in your bed. Like you’re not his. 

The others pick up on it fast. Maybe because of the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Maybe because of the way your eyes follow Spencer when he pretends not to notice you. Either way, Hotch starts pairing you off differently.

Spencer goes with Prentiss. You go with Morgan. Every time. Clean split. No room for conflict.

Two days of that, and it’s driving you insane.

So you decide to push.

If he’s going to keep pretending you’re just another coworker, fine. You'llmake damn sure he remembers you’re not.

You start with a shirt—a subtle choice. Lower neckline. A little tighter. You know how it fits. You know how he looks at you in it.

And sure enough, during a tense debriefing, his eyes flick down for half a second.

You catch it.

You also catch the way he looks away fast, jaw clenched. 

It fuels something in you. Maybe childish. Definitely petty. But cathartic.

You don’t stop there.

When one of the local deputies starts flirting with you—clearly more charm than substance—you let it happen. You let him hover too close, don’t shut him down right away. You don’t flirt back, but you don't back away either. It’s harmless. Harmless and petty.

Spencer doesn’t say a word. But his back stiffens. His shoulders go tight.

He keeps his focus on the whiteboard. Pretends like nothing’s happening.

So you keep going.

You lean over desks more than necessary. Let your shirt ride up just enough when you reach for files or pens or coffee. You wear your hair the way he likes it, loose and soft around your face, knowing exactly how much it makes his fingers itch to touch it.

Then, during a profile briefing in the sheriff’s station, you make a move.

Spencer’s standing near a desk, flipping through a folder. With a sweet smile and an innocent-sounding “Excuse me,” you step in front of him to get to your seat. 

The space is narrow. You don’t make it easier.

Your back brushes right up against him—soft, slow, and unmistakable. Not quite a grind, but definitely not innocent. Your ass presses into his front for the briefest second, and you feel it.

The catch of his breath. The way his body locks up, like he’s doing everything he can not to react.

You sit down like nothing happened. Flip open your tablet. Lean forward casually, pretending to study the crime scene map. Your shirt tugs just slightly. Your hair falls over your shoulder—the way he likes it. And you don’t have to look to know he’s burning a hole in the back of your head.

He doesn’t say a word.

But his silence says plenty.

It’s petty. You know it. But at this point? You don’t care. You like seeing him uncomfortable. You like knowing you’re under his skin—because you’re still mad, too. And he can ignore you all he wants, but you won't make it easy for him.

By the time the suspect is in cuffs three days later, you’ve run him ragged.

Spencer’s tense. Coiled. You’ve seen his hands shake when he thought no one noticed. Seen how much effort he’s putting into not reacting.

You’ve been under his skin for seventy-two straight hours. And it shows.

On the flight home, you slide into the seat beside JJ. Start talking before Spencer even boards. You don’t look his way—but you know he sees it.

You know he gets the message.

He doesn’t speak on the drive home either. No music. No glances. Just the quiet hum of silence, tense and thick.

You don’t try to break it.

You just drive. Hands tight on the wheel. Frustration simmering low in your chest—twisting with something else. Something that feels a lot like hurt.

This is the first fight that’s lasted more than a few hours.

When you pull into the driveway, the silence is so thick it feels like a second passenger. The car idles longer than it should. You kill the engine. Spencer gets out without a word.

You follow, shutting the car door a little harder than necessary.

Inside, he drops his go-bag by the door like it weighs a thousand pounds and heads straight down the hall toward the bedroom without a glance back.

“Seriously?” you snap, the word sharp in the quiet. “You’re going to keep giving me the silent treatment?”

He stops but doesn’t turn. His voice is tight. “I’m tired.”

“That’s not an excuse and you know it.”

He finally turns, eyes flashing. “What do you want me to say, huh? That I’m pissed you put yourself in danger? That I hated watching you flirt with some deputy while pretending I don’t exist?”

You cross your arms, biting back a grin even as your anger simmers just under the surface. “I wasn’t flirting. And you do exist. You were the one acting like I didn’t.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, exasperated. “I was trying to stay professional. I didn’t want our personal issues affecting the case.”

“It was already too late for that,” you mutter.

He turns again, done with the conversation—or trying to be.

“Spencer,” you say sharply. He hesitates. “Sit down.”

He glances back at you. His jaw ticks. “Why?”

You just raise an eyebrow and point to the couch.

He stares for a beat too long. You can practically see the battle behind his eyes—pride, frustration, and something darker flickering beneath the surface.

Eventually, with an annoyed huff, he flops onto the couch. “Fine,” he grumbles.

You bite your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. You step fully into the living room, leaning against the back of the couch, arms still crossed. The heat between you is shifting, softening into something slower, heavier.

“Good boy,” you murmur under your breath, just loud enough.

His head snaps toward you. His cheeks flush, but he rolls his eyes and turns away like it didn’t land.

You know better.

A smirk twitches at your lips. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.

You circle the couch slowly, letting the silence coil tight. Spencer doesn’t look at you, but his fingers twitch on his knee, his jaw clenched too tight. He’s trying too hard to seem unaffected.

Which only proves how affected he is.

“You’ve been a brat all week,” you say.

The words are soft, but they land like a punch. Spencer’s spine goes rigid. His hands ball into fists in his lap.

You let it breathe. Let it simmer.

“I’m not the one who was flirting with strangers and using sex appeal like a weapon,” he mutters, low and bitter.

You cock your head. “No. You were the one pretending we’re nothing.”

He flinches. Barely, but you catch it. His lips stay sealed.

"You going to keep ignoring me, Spence?" you ask, voice low now, tinged with something soft, something dangerous.

Nothing. No response.

So you move.

You plant a knee on the couch beside his thigh. Then the other. His eyes flick to your legs, watching the way your skirt rides up your thighs before darting away again. Slowly, deliberately, you lower yourself into his lap, straddling him without giving him the chance to squirm away. Not that he does.

He stiffens beneath you—shoulders going ramrod straight, legs locked in place, his breath catching for just a second. But he doesn’t stop you. His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but won’t let himself.

“Still don’t want to talk?” you murmur, close enough for your breath to brush his ear.

He says nothing.

You shift your hips slightly—just enough to drag your center along the bulge already forming under you. His breath stutters.

“I think you do want to talk,” you say softly, dragging your fingers down the line of his chest, over his tie, down the buttons. “You’d rather pout. Is that it?”

Still no reply. But his fists clench again, knuckles pale.

The control he’s using? Delicious.

“Look at me,” you say.

Nothing.

You trail your nails over his sternum. His chest rises slow and shaky beneath your touch.

“Spencer.”

His eyes flick to yours for half a second—burning with want—before darting away again.

“You want to act like a brat, fine,” you murmur, fingers teasing the edge of his collar. “But I know what you want.”

No answer. 

So you lean in closer—your lips brushing the edge of his ear. "You want me to make you stop."

You roll your hips again—slow, steady, not even trying to hide it now. His breath hitches hard, his head tipping back against the cushion with a low groan.

Still, his hands stay where they are.

"Good boy," you whisper again, just to watch the way he shivers. Just to feel the tension radiate off him.

This time, he grits out, “Stop.”

But it doesn’t sound like he means it. Not really. His voice is thin. Strained. Like his restraint is about to snap.

"Stop what?" you ask sweetly, hand around his tie. “Stop reminding you who you belong to?”

His nostrils flare. His fingers flex.

“You want to touch me so badly it hurts.”

His jaw clenches.

“Don’t you?”

He hesitates. Then barely, barely whispers: “Yes.”

You smile against his skin. “Then beg.”

That gets a reaction. His head snaps toward you, eyes wild. Frustrated. Needy.

“You want me to—” He cuts himself off, voice fraying.

“I want to hear you say please,” you murmur, grinding down once more, slow and deep, feeling every inch of him through his pants. “I want to hear how bad you need it.”

“I—” He gasps as you rock again. “Fuck. I hate you.”

You grin. “No, you don’t.”

Your hands drift up, fingers threading into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“Say please,” you whisper again, lips brushing his jaw. “And maybe I’ll let you.”

You can feel how badly he wants to break—see the restraint unraveling in his every twitch, every hitched breath. His knuckles are white against his thighs.

“I’m not—” he starts, but then your hips roll again. A helpless, broken sound escapes his throat.

You smile.

“Say it.”

He doesn’t speak. But his hands shoot up—grab your hips, grip them tight—and you freeze.

“Oh?” you say, tilting your head. “Did I say you could touch?”

His hands instantly let go, like the contact burned him. You sit up straighter on his lap, reaching down and grabbing his wrists. Gently, but firmly, you guide his hands above his head—pinning them against the back of the couch.

His breath is shaky. Pupils blown. Face flushed.

“Is this what you wanted?” you ask. “You wanted me to make the first move? To climb into your lap and make you break?”

He groans, head falling back . “You’re killing me.”

You lean in, lips barely grazing his. “You like it.”

He doesn’t argue.

You rock your hips again—slow and teasing—and feel the way his cock throbs beneath you. His mouth falls open again, breath shaky.

You reach down between your bodies with one hand and unbutton his pants. Slow. Teasing. He watches, eyes hooded, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. When you finally get him out, his cock is flushed and leaking, twitching against his stomach.

His thighs tense beneath you, and his hands curl into fists above his head.

You shift your hips and grind down, the seam of your underwear rubbing against him—just enough pressure to make him gasp.

He hisses through his teeth. “You’re—fuck, you’re not playing fair.”

You lean forward and kiss just below his ear, your breath hot against his skin.

“I’m not here to play fair,” you say. “I'm here to make you beg.”

He whines. Actually whines—quiet and desperate—and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

You keep going. 

Not fast. Not enough for release. Just enough to keep him on edge—tormented, trembling, right on the verge. His thighs shake. His hands keep twitching, desperate to move, to grab, to ground himself. But he doesn’t. He’s too trained. Too obedient.

Too fucking good for you.

You press your hips down again and stay there, letting him throb against you, not giving him anything more.

He’s a wreck now—eyes unfocused, skin flushed, mouth open like he’s trying to breathe through it.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Please, let me touch you—I’ll be good, I swear.”

You drag your fingers down his chest, slow and firm, nails catching on the fabric. He arches up slightly, involuntarily chasing the contact.

“I don’t believe you,” you murmur.

“Wha—why?”

“Because good boys don’t sulk. Good boys don’t ignore their girlfriends for three days and act like they’re above feeling jealous.”

He flinches.

And you don’t let up.

“Good boys ask for what they need instead of acting like they don’t care.”

His throat bobs. “I do care.”

“I know.” Your voice softens just enough to sting. “But you still acted like you didn’t.”

You lift your hips off his cock, just barely. His whole body jerks. He bites back a sob.

“Please, don’t—don’t tease—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, featherlight.

“You haven’t earned it yet.”

“I-I’ll do anything,” he gasps. “I’ll apologize—I’ll make it up to you—just, please—I need you—”

You settle back over him and reach between your bodies. You stroke his cock slowly, thumb brushing the tip as you position yourself. He shakes as you sink down onto him with a soft moan.

You ride the edge for a few beats longer, letting every twitch of his hips, every ragged gasp, feed something deep in your chest. This is where you have him—bare, trembling, begging. Not because you’re cruel. Not really. But because this? This is the only way he lets go. When you make him.

When he doesn't have to think. Doesn’t have to control.

Just feel.

You lean forward, lips barely brushing his jaw. “You want to come?” you whisper, voice syrup-sweet, cruel in its softness.

He nods desperately, breath hitching, eyes clenched shut like he’s holding something back. “Please—yes—please—”

You press your lips to his throat and grind.

He moans–high-pitched and shameless–hips bucking up before you still him with your hand on his chest. His whole body is on fire under you, desperate and undone.

His voice breaks, fragile and raw. “Please—I’ll do anything—you own me, okay? Just… please.”

The confession hangs heavy in the air between you. Final. Shattering.

And perfect.

You pause, just long enough to let it sink in, your lips hovering over his skin, your breath hot against the damp flush of his throat.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

His eyes find yours now, wide and glassy, overflowing with everything he’s been holding in. “You own me,” he repeats, softer this time. “I’m yours.”

That—that—is what you were waiting for. You rock your hips, slow and deliberate, taking him deeper. His breath stutters into a gasp, his head falling back with a groan before you still your hips, buried deep, and wrap a hand around his throat—not tight, just there. Just a reminder. His eyes snap open. Dark. Dazed. Aroused beyond reason.

“You come when I say, Spencer,” you murmur. “Not a second before.”

He nods, eyes wide and desperate.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “Now keep your hands where they are. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

His fingers twitch against the couch, but he nods again.

You set a rhythm—steady, controlled, the kind that punishes more than it satisfies. Every grind is slow, every drag of your slick heat over him measured to drive him closer and closer without tipping him over. His muscles are straining now, sweat blooming at his temples, his jaw tight with effort.

He’s trembling. Desperate. Every breath a plea in disguise.

“Do you still hate me?” you ask, voice like honey and poison all at once.

He shakes his head wildly. “No—no, I never—I just—fuck, please—”

You slide your hand into his hair, grip it gently but firmly, tugging his head back just enough to bare his throat.

“Then tell me what you do feel.”

He swallows hard, chest heaving. “I love you,” he says, the words ripping out of him like he’s been dying to say them. “I love you, and I’m sorry—I’m so fucking sorry.”

You freeze for half a second.

Not because you’re surprised. But because the way he says it—like it’s the last thing keeping him tethered to earth—makes something inside you fracture and melt at the same time.

Your grip on his hair softens. Your lips brush his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.

“I know,” you whisper.

Then you move.

Not slow this time. Not careful. Your hips snap against his, hard and fast, and he chokes on a cry, finally breaking. His hands fist above his head, his whole body straining for release. He’s panting now, barely holding it together, every muscle coiled and trembling beneath you.

“Are you going to come without permission?” you ask against his throat, biting down just hard enough to make him whimper.

“No—no, I won’t—I’ll wait—please, just don’t stop.”

You smile. “You really are a good boy.”

You don’t let up after that.

Even as he gasps beneath you, cock twitching inside you, even as his thighs tremble and his breath stutters—especially then—you keep moving.

Your rhythm is ruthless. Not frantic, not fast—deliberate. Deep, grinding, claiming strokes, every roll of your hips angled for your own pleasure, not his. You chase your own high with single-minded focus, riding him hard. He whines, the sound barely human. His head falls back, jaw slack, eyes wide and glassy.

He’s wrecked. Flushed. Glowing with sweat and need and desperation.

And still, you don’t stop. You use him, ride him like he’s yours to take—and he is.

He is.

He’s gone pliant under you now, barely able to hold on, but still obedient, still holding himself back like the good boy he wants to be. You can feel how close he is, how much it costs him not to give in.

And gods, that makes it better.

Makes you wetter. Tighter. Closer.

Your climax crashes into you hard—hot and sudden, your body clenching around him as you gasp his name, your thighs shaking, your head falling forward as you grind through every wave, using him to wring it all out of you. You ride it out without mercy, letting it wrack through your body, letting him feel how good he made you come.

Only when you’ve taken everything you need—when your breath finally starts to steady, when your muscles go warm and loose and satisfied—do you slow.

You don’t move off of him. You stay seated right where you are, still wrapped around him, feeling every twitch and pulse of his cock still buried deep inside you.

And then, finally, you lean down, breath brushing his cheek.

“Should I let you come now?” you murmur, soft and cruel. “You think you’ve earned it?”

His eyes snap to yours—wide and glassy with tears he’s too proud to let fall. His voice is hoarse, completely wrecked. “Please.”

You tilt your head, smiling faintly. “Please what?”

His throat works as he tries to form the words. “Please let me come.”

“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, rocking your hips just slightly, just enough to make him choke on a breath. “Beg me again. Like you mean it.”

He crumbles.

“Please,” he gasps, the words tumbling out now, unfiltered, raw. “Please, I’ve been trying so hard—I didn’t—I didn’t mean to be like that, I’m sorry—please, I’ll be better—I'll be so good for you, I swear—just let me come—please—I need it, need you—I’ll do anything—please.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

“Then come for me,” you whisper, grinding down again. “Come for me, baby.”

He does—loud and helpless, crying out your name like a prayer. His whole body seizes under you, hips jerking up into yours as he spills inside you with a groan, his arms finally wrapping around you like he’s falling and you’re the only solid thing left. He shudders through it, shaking, panting, broken open in your hands. You keep moving, riding him through it, watching every twitch and shudder and gasp. He whimpers through the comedown, wrecked and beautiful.

You don’t stop until he slumps back fully against the couch, panting and boneless, chest rising in short, uneven breaths.

You brush a hand through his hair, gentle now, letting him come back down.

“You did good,” you murmur.

He lets out a shaky breath, like the last of his resistance leaving his body.

Wrecked.

Used.

Yours.

You let the silence stretch a moment longer, both of you still tangled together, bodies slowly settling, breaths syncing. Then, carefully, you shift back just enough to see his face.

You take it in your hands, fingers brushing the damp curls from his forehead, thumbs cradling his flushed cheeks. His eyes flutter open, heavy and glassy, but they lock onto yours.

Your voice is quiet, but firm.

“Don’t ever act like that at work again,” you say. “Especially not in the field.”

He doesn’t flinch—just swallows hard, guilt flickering across his expression.

“I need you to trust me,” you continue, steady now. “To let me do my job. I need to know we’ve got each other’s backs, not that you’re going to panic or shut me out because you’re scared.”

He nods slowly, barely more than a tilt of his head. “I know. I’m sorry.” His voice is wrecked and raw. “I just—I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

You soften.

You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. “That being said…” you murmur, “I get it. Why you pulled me back. Why you got so pissed.”

His eyes close for a moment. You feel the tension drain from him like an exhale.

“I’m sorry too,” you say softly. “I’ll be more careful. Less reckless.”

His arms tighten around you a little, present. Grounded.

You lean in and kiss him—slow this time. Soft. Full of everything you couldn’t say earlier. No anger. No power games. Just you and him and the mess you made trying to protect each other.

His lips move against yours with that same honesty, slow and sweet and worn thin. There’s no urgency now. Just truth.

When you pull back, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Are we okay?”

You nod, thumb brushing along his jaw. “We’re okay.”

[luvrgeorge]

PLUS ONE | will lenney

summary: you need a plus one to a family wedding to get your family off your back, and will steps up and takes you (based off this request) content: mature (mdni), friends to lovers, fake dating, partial fluff, bff becky mention wc: 5k a/n: this is super long sorry, but if im known for one thing then its porn WITH PLOT!!! but no i genuinely loved writing this so thank you 🦢anon!!

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you were at will’s, another lazy sunday slipping by without much notice. the evening sun filtered through half-drawn curtains, casting soft golden stripes across the living room floor. the air was warm, heavy with the smell of leftover pizza, a few empty cider bottles caught the light on the coffee table.

your phones glowed in your hands, thumbs moving in slow, lazy motions, not really reading anything, just scrolling for the sake of it. a movie played quietly in the background, some action flick with too many explosions and not enough plot, but neither of you were watching, it was just noise to fill the space between your breaths. will shifted now and then, his hoodie brushing your arm, warm from his skin, his shoulder bumping into yours when he laughed at something on his screen and showed you without asking, like he always did.

‘oh my god’ you said, sinking deeper into the cushions, phone still in your hand. will glanced over, one eyebrow raised, half-interested. ‘my cousin just texted me, her wedding’s coming up and she’s nagging me to know if i’m bringing a plus one.’

will laughed, soft and distracted. ‘well, are you?’ he said, eyes flicking back to whatever he was looking at.

‘i’m not sure yet. surely i can’t bring becky to another family event without making my family question me. last time my aunt wouldn’t stop asking if we were secretly engaged.’

will snorted, that amused little laugh he did when he was picturing something ridiculous. ‘just go alone then.’

‘i can’t. every time i show up solo they ask why i’m still single, like it’s a crime. maybe i will bring becky and just let them believe she’s my girlfriend. might shut them up for once.’

‘just bring me’ will said casually, still scrolling.

you blinked, turned to look at him. ‘what do you mean?’

he finally looked up, his expression unreadable but calm. ‘i mean bring me. tell them i’m your boyfriend. you said you don’t see your family that often because of work, so who cares? it’s just for a weekend, right? they won’t question it.’

you stared at him, unsure if he was joking. he didn’t look like he was. you were quiet for a moment, your brain working to catch up.

‘when is it?’ he asked, as if that settled it.

‘in three weeks, i think?’

‘cool. send me the details. i’ll be there.’

‘will, you don’t have to do this,’ you said, even though part of you was already texting your cousin.

‘i don’t mind’ he said, grinning. ‘gives me an excuse to dress up. maybe i’ll even wear a tie.’

‘okay, fine. i’ll tell her you’re my plus one. you can’t back out now, though.’

he raised his hand, reached across the couch and clasped yours in a quick, firm handshake.

‘i’ll be there,’ he said. ‘promise.’

and now here you were, three weeks later, sat alone on a white wooden chair in the back row of your cousin’s ceremony, the sun warm on your skin, a soft breeze tugging at the hem of your dress. the wedding had already started, vows echoing through the garden, but your mind kept drifting, not because you weren’t happy for your cousin, but because your stomach was in knots thinking about will. he was meeting you after, at the reception, since your cousin couldn’t get him a seat for the ceremony — too last-minute, too many rsvps.

the venue was stunning, the kind of place you’d only ever seen in bridal magazines or romantic dramas on netflix. fields of wildflowers stretched beyond the ceremony site, soft purples and yellows swaying in the wind like something out of a dream. the hotel in the background looked like a castle, all ivy-covered stone and grand windows that glinted in the afternoon light. everywhere you looked, there were delicate touches — lace ribbons tied around chairs, petals scattered across the grass, champagne flutes catching the sun.

your dress was something out of a daydream. soft yellow fabric scattered with delicate pink roses, like it had been made to match the garden blooming around you. it hugged your waist just right, the back ruched and tied with a small bow at the chest, the puffed sleeves falling slightly off your shoulders in that effortless, romantic way. the skirt flowed down in gentle waves, parting at the thigh with a subtle slit that caught the breeze every time you moved.

you tried to focus on the ceremony, on your cousin’s voice trembling as she read her vows, on the way her now-husband looked at her like she was the only person in the world. but your phone buzzed gently in your lap, and when you glanced down, a message from will lit up the screen.

‘think im outside your hotel room, how long til the ceremony is over?’

‘10 mins at most, shouldn’t be ages’ you replied.

the ceremony finally wrapped, and after a round of polite clapping, a few teary hugs, and dodging a couple of well-meaning but nosy relatives, you slipped away from the crowd and made your way through the winding halls of the hotel. your heels clicked softly against the tiled floor, heart picking up with each step.

will was already there, leaning casually against the wall outside your door like he belonged there. he was dressed in a full black tux, a slim tie knotted neatly at his neck, jacket crisp, posture relaxed like he hadn’t just shown up to play the role of your fake boyfriend at a family wedding. he looked stupidly good, sharp lines, sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms, hair tamed just enough to still look like him.

you let out a soft laugh, almost in disbelief. ‘you clean up well,’ you said, folding your arms with a smirk.

he looked up and grinned. ‘wow, you look lovely too,’ he said, all mock sincerity, eyes glinting with amusement.

you rolled your eyes but smiled. ‘no seriously, you look great. but lose the tie. and maybe the jacket, it’s like, thirty degrees out here.’

‘yes, boss,’ he said, slipping into your room as you unlocked the door. he shrugged off the jacket and loosened the tie in one smooth motion, tossing them both onto the edge of the bed. he caught sight of himself in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up just enough to look like he hadn’t tried too hard, unbuttoning his top button of his shirt.

you watched from the doorway, tilting your head. ‘perfect. you look great.’

he turned to face you, expression shifting just slightly, a little more genuine. ‘so do you. you look… pretty. almost.’ he paused, lips twitching. ‘maybe even sexy.’

you laughed, brushing him off with a wave as you moved to the mirror, fixing your lipstick with practiced ease. ‘careful, you’re laying it on thick for someone who’s supposed to be my fake boyfriend.’

‘just trying to be convincing’ he said, watching you from the bed.

you capped your lipstick, gave yourself one last glance, and turned to him with a grin. ‘c’mon. everyone’s dying to meet my mystery new man.’

will stood, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and offered his arm with exaggerated formality. ‘ready when you are, babe.’

you rolled your eyes again, but linked your arm through his anyway, the warmth of him beside you settling something deep in your chest.

your family absolutely loved him. the second you walked into the reception hall, hand in hand, it was like he belonged there. he greeted your relatives like he’d known them for years. he answered every question perfectly, effortlessly, how long you’d been “dating,” how you’d met, what he did for work. he even made up a story about your third date at a rooftop bar that had your grandma clutching her chest, sighing about how romantic it all was.

he was charming in that low-key, disarming way he always was, throwing out jokes that made your uncle laugh and rolling with every strange family tradition without missing a beat. someone handed him a plate of food at one point and he took it with a grin, thanking them like he was already part of the family. he blended in too well. too easily.

his hand was always on your lower back when you moved through the crowd, warm and steady. when you sat down, he pulled your chair out, and when you got up again, his fingers laced with yours like it was second nature. he leaned in close when he spoke to you, his breath brushing your ear as he whispered some sarcastic comment about the DJ or the overly fancy canapés. he bought your drinks without asking, placing them in your hand with a wink, muttering jokes about invoicing you later in the week.

you laughed every time, but somewhere in the back of your mind, it stopped feeling like a bit. the way he looked at you across the table, the way he reached out to brush the hair off cheek, the way he laughed at your stories like he’d never heard them before even though he definitely had, it was all too easy. too seamless.

and for a moment, sitting beside him, champagne glass in hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as your cousin gave her speech, you forgot it was fake at all. it felt real. dangerously real.

the night had settled gently around you, the warm glow of fairy lights strung overhead flickering like soft stars as the newlyweds took to the dancefloor for their first dance. the music was slow and sweet, something timeless, and the bride looked radiant, her dress catching the light with every turn. they moved together like they were the only two people in the world, smiling, whispering, completely lost in each other. they looked so achingly in love, so perfect for each other.

you sat beside will, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm draped casually around you, fingers tracing slow circles on your arm without thinking. it felt… safe. natural. his shirt smelled faintly like his cologne, something crisp and warm and familiar.

when the song ended, the bride stepped up to the mic, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. her voice was light and full of joy as she invited the rest of the couples to the dance floor.

around you, chairs scraped back, laughter bubbled up, and slowly the floor began to fill, your parents, aunts and uncles, cousins with their partners, even your grandparents shuffling out with soft smiles and slow steps. you watched it all, not moving, not saying anything.

then will shifted beside you, rising to his feet. he turned, extending his hand toward you, a soft grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

‘care to dance, girlfriend?’ he said, putting a little extra emphasis on the word, clearly amused with himself.

you let out a laugh, eyebrows raised. ‘you’re kidding, right?’

‘come on,’ he said, a little more gently now. ‘it’s the end of the night. dance with me. they invited all couples, remember?’

you sighed, more out of nerves than resistance, but slipped your hand into his anyway. ‘fine,’ you muttered, letting him pull you up. ‘but if you step on my feet, we’re breaking up.’

he grinned. ‘fair.’

and just like that, you followed him into the crowd, weaving through warm bodies and laughter, the music soft and slow around you. you weren’t sure what you were walking into, but his fingers found your waist, and yours slid around his shoulders, and for a moment, it didn’t matter.

the music shifted into something soft and dreamy, a slow, romantic rhythm that wrapped around you like a warm breeze. will moved with surprising ease, one hand resting firmly on your waist, the other trailing lightly along your back as he guided you across the dancefloor. your arms were looped around his neck, your bodies close enough to feel the shared breath between you.

you looked up at him, a little surprised. ‘you’re good at this, y’know.’

he smirked, his thumb brushing a slow circle against your waist. ‘i’m full of surprises.’

his voice was quieter when he spoke again, more sincere. ‘you look really beautiful tonight. like actually… you’re stunning.’

your chest tightened just slightly, the kind of compliment that felt like it reached somewhere deeper than it should have. you dropped your gaze, smiling despite yourself, a soft heat blooming on your cheeks. ‘you’re not too bad yourself.’

for a while, you didn’t speak. you just swayed together, letting the music carry you. the world around you faded a little, the clinking of glasses, the soft laughter, chairs being pushed in as people said their goodbyes. some of your relatives passed by, waving goodbye before disappearing toward the hotel.

but you and will didn’t move.

you stayed there, still dancing even as the next song started, the rhythm changing but your steps not faltering. his hands didn’t leave your waist. yours stayed around his neck. the space between you didn’t shift.

‘thank you for doing this,’ you said quietly, your voice barely audible over the music. you weren’t sure if he’d heard you at first, but then he smiled, that soft, honest kind of smile you didn’t see from him often, and kept swaying with you. ‘really,’ you added, ‘it means a lot to me.’

his eyes met yours again, warm and steady. ‘i don’t mind,’ he said. ‘honestly… it was easier than i thought.’

you tilted your head slightly. ‘what do you mean?’

he took a small breath, his eyes flicking between yours, as if weighing whether to say it out loud. ‘i don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘it’s just… a lot easier pretending to be with you than i expected.’

you didn’t say anything at first. just smiled, soft, barely noticeable, the kind of smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth before you could stop it. ‘why’s that?’

his voice was steady, but quieter now. more certain. ‘because you’re perfect. because you’re the exact kind of girl i could see myself being with.’

your heart stilled in your chest for half a beat, and then picked up again, just a little faster. his expression had changed, something in it softer, deeper, vulnerable in a way that made your breath catch. his gaze dropped to your lips. his hands slid slightly, pulling you the smallest bit closer, like he was testing the space between you, seeing if you’d let him close it.

and then he kissed you.

slow and soft. tentative, but sure. a kiss that felt like a question and an answer all at once.

and you kissed him back, like it was the most natural thing in the world. like you’d done it a hundred times before. like maybe, this whole time, it hadn’t been pretend at all.

before you knew it, you were outside your hotel room, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking slightly, not from nerves, but from how breathless he had you. will’s lips were on yours, hot and insistent, the softness from the dancefloor now replaced by something deeper, needier.

his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t stand the idea of space between you, pulling you flush against him as your back hit the door. his mouth moved over yours like he meant it, like he’d been holding back all night and couldn’t anymore.

you finally managed to get the door open, the lock clicking as you pushed it inward. you both stumbled in, barely making it past the threshold. the door shut behind you with a soft thud, but neither of you heard it, too lost in the way your mouths kept finding each other, too caught in the quiet unraveling that had been building since the moment he first took your hand that afternoon.

your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt as he walked you backward, lips not parting for even a second. every step, every touch, felt like it had been waiting, like it had always been coming to this.

you fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, fingers clumsy in your urgency, your breath still catching from the way he kissed you, like he couldn’t get enough. you managed to undo a few before will let out a soft laugh against your mouth, his hands replacing yours as he took over, slipping the rest open with practiced ease. he pulled the shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor.

your heels had already been kicked somewhere near the door, the relief washing through your feet as you felt the soft carpet beneath them. your dress shifted with your movement, brushing your legs as will’s hands found your waist again, grounding you.

he guided you back, slow and careful, like he didn’t want to rush but couldn’t quite stop either. your knees hit the edge of the bed, and he leaned forward, catching your mouth again with his, gentler now. his hands slid along your back, steadying you as he pushed you down softly, the mattress dipping beneath you.

he followed, anchoring himself above you, his weight comforting rather than heavy, his lips never straying far from yours, like he wasn’t ready to let go.

his hand found the slit in your dress, fingers brushing along your thigh before curling around it, his grip firm enough to pull a soft, surprised sound from your lips. your breath hitched. the cool air of the room met your skin as the fabric shifted, and his touch sent a shiver through you, not just from want, but from how completely present he was in this moment, with you.

his other hand cupped your face, thumb stroking gently across your cheek as he kissed you, slow and unhurried. it wasn’t rushed, not desperate, just deep, focused, like he wanted to remember the way you tasted, the way you sounded when you sighed into his mouth.

his grip on your thigh loosened, his hand moving, sliding gently between your legs. he didn’t rush, just traced over where you needed him most, teasing, barely there, but enough to make you lean into him, to breathe his name like it was the only word you had left.

then he paused, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. his voice was low, quiet. ‘you sure?’

you nodded, lips parted, your voice steady. ‘i’m sure.’

and that was all it took.

his mouth found yours again as his hand slipped under the fabric, his fingers sure and slow, dragging your thong down your legs with quiet care. his fingers traced over your clit, gentle, attentive, sending tremors up your spine, every inch of your body tuned to his. everything else melted away. it was just him. just you. and something between you shifting.

his fingers slid inside you, slow and deliberate, curling just right, so perfectly it pulled a moan straight from your lips. your back arched slightly beneath him, your hands instinctively gripping at the sheets for something to hold onto. he kissed you again, but only briefly this time, his lips trailing down your neck, soft and open-mouthed, brushing along your collarbone like he couldn’t stop tasting you.

then he moved lower.

you felt the shift in the mattress as he slid down the bed, his hands anchoring your thighs gently apart. the warmth of his breath hit you first, sending goosebumps along your skin, followed by the softest murmur, spoken into your skin like a secret. ‘god… you’re so wet. so perfect for me’.

you barely had time to react before his mouth was on you, his tongue slow at first, teasing, licking broad strokes that made your legs tremble around his shoulders. his fingers stayed inside you, steady and sure, working in perfect rhythm with the movement of his mouth. he was focused, like he was trying to learn every part of you, to unravel you one breath at a time.

your hands found their way to his hair, tangling there like instinct, tugging just enough to keep yourself grounded. his mullet slipped through your fingers, soft and familiar, something solid to hold onto as he pulled you apart piece by piece.

his eyes flicked up to meet yours, and the way he looked at you, with that calm, wrecking kind of intensity, made your breath catch. he never broke eye contact, even as he kept going, even as the heat built higher inside you, even as you started to come undone beneath him. he watched you like he wanted to memorise the exact moment you fell apart for him. and god, you were close.

your orgasm hit fast, crashing over you in a wave you hadn’t expected, sharp and all-consuming. your legs trembled around will’s shoulders, muscles tightening as your body gave in completely. your breath came in broken gasps, soft moans slipping past your lips like you couldn’t hold them back even if you tried.

he didn’t stop. not right away.

his fingers slid out of you, slow and careful, but his mouth stayed, lips and tongue still working, tasting every last bit of you like he wasn’t ready to let go, like he needed this part just as much as the rest. there was something hungry in the way he held you, but gentle too, reverent almost, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you and was taking his time with every second of it.

your fingers were still tangled in his hair, gripping a little tighter now as you tried to ground yourself, riding out the aftershocks. your body twitched beneath him, too sensitive, too full of him, and still, he stayed, pressing one last slow kiss to the inside of your thigh before finally lifting his head.

his eyes found yours again, and there was something in them you hadn’t seen before, not just desire, but something softer. something quieter. like maybe none of this had been pretend for him, either.

he moved back up your body, trailing kisses along your skin, slower now, but no less intense. when his lips found yours again, the kiss was different, hungrier, deeper, like something in him had snapped loose. like tasting you, hearing the way you moaned for him, had tipped him past the point of pretending.

your dress was still bunched at your hips, the straps slipping from your shoulders, forgotten in the heat of it all. will sat you up gently, his hands careful as they slid beneath the fabric, guiding it over your head and down your arms. it fell to the floor without a sound, lost somewhere between his jacket and shirt.

he pulled back just slightly, long enough to take you in, bare in the soft light, your skin flushed and glowing. his gaze swept over you, slow and full, like he was trying to memorise every inch of you. like he couldn’t believe you were real.

‘you’re…’ he started, voice quiet, almost stunned. ‘you’re actually unreal.’

you didn’t answer, just reached for him again, fingers brushing the waistband of his trousers. he didn’t resist, fumbling with his belt and tugging it loose, the metal buckle clinking softly in the quiet room. his trousers hit the floor, followed by his shirt and tie already forgotten, and then he paused again, fingers at the edge of his boxers, hesitating.

his eyes met yours, still searching. you nodded, no hesitation this time, your hand finding his, pulling him in closer. ‘come here’.

and when you kissed him this time, it wasn’t about pretending. it wasn’t about keeping up the story.

it was real — all of it. and you both felt it.

will slid off his boxers, his cock hitting his stomach with a loud slap. his movements were deliberate, careful, and his body was warm and steady as he leaned over you again, eyes locked with yours, silently asking one last time. and when you gave him the smallest nod, your fingers brushing against his side to pull him closer, he moved, slow, lined up with you, easing forward until your bodies connected completely.

you gasped, the sound caught somewhere between a moan and a breathless sigh, your hands tightening on his arms as you adjusted to the feeling of him, full, deep, stretching you in a way that made your whole body tense and tremble.

he stilled, just for a moment, letting you breathe, letting you settle into the shape of him. his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your mouth. then, slowly, he began to move, each thrust more certain than the last, quickening into a rhythm that made your pulse race.

his hand cupped your face, fingers brushing along your jaw, so gentle in contrast to the urgency of his body. like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you like a secret or like something too fragile to let go.

his other hand slipped beneath your thigh, lifting it carefully and hooking it over his shoulder, the shift in angle sending a new wave of pleasure through you that made your eyes flutter shut.

you moaned his name softly, your voice catching, and when you looked up again, his gaze was already on you, fixed, full of something deeper than just want.

your hands moved instinctively, wrapping around his back, nails digging into his shoulders as his pace quickened, each thrust deep and fast, sending jolts of pleasure through you. you held on like you needed something to anchor you, like the only thing keeping you grounded was him, the heat of his skin, the way he moved with you, the sound of your name whispered into your ear like a promise.

the room filled with everything, the sharp rhythm of your bodies, the soft creak of the mattress, the sound of your moans rising with each movement, his name slipping past your lips over and over like a prayer you didn’t know you were saying.

your legs began to shake, your body tightening, breath catching in your throat. you were so close, the edge right there, your entire body pulsing with it. will’s rhythm stuttered slightly, just enough for his eyes to find yours again, wide and focused, like he could feel exactly what was happening inside you.

and then it hit.

your release rushed over you, overwhelming and fast, pleasure crashing through your body in waves as you gasped, crying out his name, fingers digging into his skin as you came undone beneath him.

he followed right behind you, a few last thrusts, rough and shaky, before he buried himself deep with a soft, broken sound, your name falling from his lips like something sacred.

he stayed there for a moment, still and breathless, his forehead against yours, the only sound left in the room the soft, shaky exhales of two people who weren’t pretending anymore.

he kissed you again, slower this time, tender, like he was trying to say something he didn’t know how to put into words. there was no rush anymore, no urgency, just the quiet thrum of something settled between you. something understood.

he pulled out gently, careful with your body like he didn’t want to break the moment, then lowered himself beside you on the bed, the mattress shifting slightly under the weight of him. the air was warm and still, filled only with the sound of your breaths beginning to steady.

his arms wrapped around your waist without a word, drawing you into his chest. you went easily, curling into him like you’d done it a hundred times before. like you belonged there.

his skin was warm against yours, his breath brushing the top of your head as he held you close. your hand rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each slow breath he took.

you could hear his heartbeat, calm, strong, steady beneath your cheek. and for the first time all day, the world felt quiet. full. real.

the room was quiet, soft and golden from the lights around your room. your hand rose and fell gently with will’s breathing, still pressed to his stomach, his arms looped lazily around your waist like he had no plans to let go anytime soon.

you could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady, calm, a total contrast to how wild it had been just minutes ago.

he laughed, the sound warm and easy, his fingers tracing slow, aimless lines up and down your spine. the kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything, it just said i’m here.

‘god,’ he said with a grin, ‘aren’t you glad you didn’t bring becky?’

you let out a snort, nudging his side with your elbow. ‘i don’t know… becky’s a pretty selfless lover.’

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his brow furrowed, half-offended. ‘excuse me?’

you grinned, biting your lip. ‘kidding. obviously. i’m glad i brought you.’

his expression softened immediately, the teasing in his eyes giving way to something quieter, but still light. ‘yeah?’

‘yeah,’ you said, letting your hand rest against his chest again. ‘you make a pretty decent fake boyfriend.’

‘please,’ he scoffed. ‘i make an excellent fake boyfriend. five stars on yelp. would date again.’

you laughed, shaking your head. ‘bold of you to assume this was a one-time gig.’

he raised an eyebrow. ‘oh? you planning on faking a long-term relationship with me now?’

you smirked. ‘well my grandma would be distraught if we ever fake broke up, but i’d depends, do fake boyfriends bring real breakfast in bed?’

he grinned, already pulling you closer again. ‘for you? fake boyfriend of the year. pancakes, coffee, the works.’

‘hm,’ you murmured, nestling into his chest. ‘i could get used to this.’

he laughed again, pulling you in tighter, your laughter tangled together, easy and light — and somehow, it felt like the most real thing in the world.

[oddballwriter]

Heard we were looking for more Amir? Less of a request more of a suggestion?

Taking post realization Amir to a carnival and having an absolutely amazing time until you get the bright idea to take him into a hall of mirrors, and he gets SUPER frustrated that none of these mirrors seem to be doing their job reflecting your visage properly. Doesn't matter if you explain that this is the purpose of the hall of mirrors he was looking forward to indulging himself on your reflections :((

He's going to need some kisses to make up for this absolutely horrible experience.

Not-so-Fun House of Mirrors

Realized!Amir x Reader

Summary: On a very fun and wholesome date at the local carnival with your boyfriend Amir you decide that it would be a funny idea to take him into the House of Mirrors to see his reaction to the hall of mirrors. Maybe not your brightest idea...

Warnings: Gender neutral reader (I sort of do this by default unless specifically told to write a certain one in mind in a request), IE. the reader's gender, pronouns, and any possible anatomy is never specified, said, or mentioned. Slight mention of body horror and implications of it. Nothing graphic or really anything, it's just a passing comment. Otherwise, nothing that I can think of. But be sure to tell me if there is something.

Author’s Snip: This was actually really cute to write.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request. Requests are closed at the moment though, please sit tight!

Word Count: 1.2K

Introducing Amir to the world outside of the house and “finding all the beauty in it”, as he so confidently puts it, was great. You two did a lot of things together along this journey. And in typical Amir fashion, he was able to say a myriad of great things about everything and everyone he saw. Matter of fact, he was actually having a very good time at the seasonal carnival that comes to the city.

You could tell that he was enjoying all the sights and decor of the place. Though, you had a hunch that he was mostly looking at and enjoying the sight of you among all the lights and scenery. But you’re honestly not surprised at all by that since you were with Amir after all.

You weren’t too sure how the idea of showing Amir the hall of mirrors came into your head or why you mainly thought that it would be a good idea. But you were able to lure him towards the attraction with relative ease considering there was no line and you could just walk right in. Amir did catch on that you were leading him somewhere specifically, but when he asked you just said that you wanted to show him something fun and he simply trusted your word and went along.

The hall started off very simple. The first few mirrors were just everyday ones just like Amir used to be. They just reflected the normal visage of you and Amir as you looked into them. Amir, of course, started getting romantic with you, getting up close and holding you close to his chest, pausing your already slow walking pace, so that you and him can look at yourselves more properly. Granted he was mostly just looking at you.

He spoke softly about how beautiful you looked to him.

“You look radiant in this light, Eshgham.” he purrs gently in your ear as he leans his head on your shoulder, admiring you from top to bottom. You would argue that the lighting is decent in here but then again you know that you don’t have the poetic eyes of Amir, and trying to deny anything would only result in him continuing on. And you rather not be caught heavily canoodling in the House of Mirrors by other carnival goers or the underpaid teenage staff. Though you’re sure Amir would be happy to. That can be saved for the ferris wheel though. But right now, you just wanted to see Amir’s reaction to the things to come down the hall. With a sly smile you say “There’s more where that comes from.” as you try to lure Amir further down the way.

You’re able to notice much faster than he does that the mirrors are slowly beginning to warp as you make your way down. It’s nothing too big at first. Just a very small blurb that gets bigger and more distorted as you go. You can actually feel Amir’s body language slowly changing while he holds you as you tread down. Till eventually his arms stop being tenderly wrapped around you and let you go.

By then you’ve reached the part of the hall where the mirrors are just borderline ridiculous with the reflections they hold. There’s one that makes you long and slender. Another that makes you cartoonishly short and stout. And one that gives you an outrageous hour glass shape that makes you look like those poorly edited “skinny legend” meme images of celebrities that you and Mac used to laugh at whenever you slack off on your work.

You have a good laugh as you look at all the mirrors and what silly images they provide. Even doing a little spin and poses to see how they bend and warp your body some more. It’s not until you realize that Amir is lacking behind, occasionally hearing the sound of him grumbling when he catches up.

“A disgrace. Such an awful disgrace to the sacred meaning and purpose that they were given.” he says under his breath. He both sounds and looks furious. Like someone’s just cussed him out and spat on his entire bloodline. “What kind of work is this? What insult! What shame! What-” he escalates further, getting more mad as he speaks before you stop him from starting to actually begin shouting.

Okay so maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bring your loving boyfriend who used to be a mirror into a place where the mirrors do the opposite of what he says a mirror’s purpose is.

You try your best to console him and get him to calm down.

“It’s okay, Amir. They’re supposed to make you look funny and reflect incorrectly. That’s the joke.” you explain to him. He doesn’t seem to relaxed after this explanation though.

“Purposely made to be wrong for the sake of comedy? A joke? Corrupting your beautiful form is a punchline to them?” Amir says.

“Amir, no,” you can’t help but laugh. “No. No. They don’t think it’s funny,” you say as you gesture to the mirrors. “People think it’s funny to see themselves look weird in the reflections of them so they get made to do that for things like this.” you clarify.

Amir stews on this idea like it’s a completely new and alien concept. Now that you think about it, it just might be to him since he himself used to be a mirror. Does this mean that fun house mirrors are like… body horror to him? What are fun house mirror Amir’s like? What do they look like? Do you want to know?

You’re snapped out of your mirror-based existential crisis by Amir speaking.

“Created just to defy their one purpose…” is all he says, sounding a bit… sad. For who? You aren’t too sure. Maybe for the mirrors in here and the Amirs that reside in them who can’t see anything but in the warped and distorted way that they were intentionally made to.

"Lets not," you say as you grab his hand and gently tug him to get him to start walking again, "Lets not think about it too much. Yeah?" you conclude.

"We're almost out of this area anyways. The next half is a maze of mirrors, I think. Regular ones. You can stare at me through them while we try and find our way out." you suggest to him, seeing him visibly perk up at the idea. "Though," you say with a laugh, "We might be trapped in there for a bit if you take your time looking at me, and we'll have to wait forever in line for the ferris wheel. Everyone always wants to ride it when the sun is setting or the stars are out. And I had... plans, for that.".

As if finally catching the hint, Amir switches the lead from you to him as he starts walking at an eager pace towards the exit way of this hall. "Well then, let us not waste anymore time here in this joke of a room and leave." he says with a bright smile on his face as he's now basically dragging you along.

You laugh to yourself in amusement.

[claramelooo]

Checkmate (20/21)

Hey, little moths! Hope you're doing great! I have to say, I'm happy with the last chapter. I was fear, but how could I forget my babies are a bunch of filthy??

Anyway, hope you can enjoy this chapter! I tried to write the most real and credible ending for them. Let's go!

Enjoy it!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: angst, corruption and sex

Pairing: Governor! Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Longing makes you accept your dark side

Checkmate II

noun

1. is a game-ending situation where a player's king is under attack (in "check") and there is no possible legal move to remove the king from that attack.

One month had passed.

You hadn't gone to college, let alone your internship. You didn’t answer calls, didn’t reply to Sonya’s emails. You ignored even the most persistent messages from Darcy, Billy, and Sharon.

You just... couldn’t.

It felt like you were in a coma. Lying silently in a dark room, blanket pulled over your head to guard against the winter cold, the world outside knocking on your window, and you refusing to acknowledge it.

You didn’t cry anymore. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because it felt like you’d already cried everything out of you. It was like Agatha had stolen even that. The tears and the ability to feel without shattering inside.

You sat with your thoughts and they were cruel. They paraded through your mind like ghosts, demanding accountability—for everything you’d let happen, and everything you’d become.

God…

Was Carol okay?

You hated to admit it, but you wondered every day. Carol had been cruel. Carol manipulated you, used you—maybe even played a part in it all, but she was there at the beginning. She introduced you to the city; held your hand when things were new, even if she let go too soon.

Was it wrong to care?

Maybe.

But that was the real you.

Not Agatha’s damn project.

You’d spent the past few weeks trying to erase Agatha’s voice from your mind, but she was everywhere. In the news, in the subtext of every headline you couldn’t bear to read, in the speeches you wrote months ago.

You barely ate, or ate poorly. You slept only when your body collapsed from exhaustion. It felt like punishment and maybe it was.

After all…

You forged evidence, you ruined lives.  But you saved a woman who told you, with some twisted sense of pride, that she killed her own husband.

You felt filthy inside with every cell of your body contaminated by her touch.

And still… You missed her.

Not Agatha, the Governor. Her. Your owner. Your Mommy. You missed the way she smirked when she challenged you; The muffled laugh when you said something stupid, the way she moaned “honey” against your lips after tearing you apart.

Anger became desire; desire turned into guilt, and guilt circled back to anger.

It was a cycle.

A closed loop that repeated endlessly.

You were alone. Worse than that… you were lonely. And somewhere deep inside, you started to wonder if you'd ever be who you once were again.

Or if, in some twisted way, Agatha had been right.

Maybe she really had shaped you. Maybe you were never as strong as you thought. Maybe this was the first time you were truly seeing yourself—no illusions, no lies, no escape.

"I know you're in there!" The relentless knocking snapped you out of your depressive monologue.

Billy’s muffled voice came through the door, laced with practiced patience.

"You’ve been skipping classes, blowing off your internship. You didn’t even go to Agatha’s conferences. Jennifer’s pissed! I can’t believe you’re throwing away the opportunity of your life."

You stood frozen in the kitchen, paralyzed. You’d finally mustered the energy to get out of bed and make something to eat.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice gentler now. “I’m not here to fight or judge. I just want to know if you're alive.”

Ugh. You hated how good he was at this.

“Billy, go away,” you whispered, clutching a wooden spoon. “Seriously.”

“No.”

“Billy…”

“Not leaving.”

You shut your eyes, exhausted, and turned off the stove. “I don’t want to see anyone.” 

“Too bad, 'cause I brought cookies.”

You wanted to laugh, but you were too far gone. You just sighed and walked to the door.

“You don’t understand, Billy. I did something terrible. There’s no... no coming back.”

“I honestly don’t care.” He said, slipping inside before you could change your mind.

He stood in front of you, searching your face for something you couldn’t quite name.

“You don’t need to go back,” he said. “You just need to keep going.” He took a step closer, but you backed away before he could see the tears collecting in your eyes.

“W-where are the cookies?” You asked, trying to sound casual.

Billy chuckled a little. He knew that trick—it was the same one you'd used after your first heartbreak with Carol.

He held out the plate, wrapped in cling film. “Mom made them this morning. She’s worried.”

You took the plate like you didn’t care, but your mouth watered. As soon as you bit into one, you groaned. Still warm, and the chocolate chips melted on your tongue.

“She broke you, didn’t she?” Billy looked at you now, and what hurt most was what you saw in his eyes: pity.

You looked away, uncomfortable. “W-who did?”

Billy scoffed.

“I’m not an idiot. Harkness. What did she do?”

You swallowed hard and set the cookie plate down on the table, fighting the urge to throw up.

You nodded.

“Yeah, I saw it. The way you looked at her... like she was the sun. But you know, the sun burns, too.”

You let out a weak laugh.

“You’re poetic today.”

“That’s not poetry, that’s worry,” he paused. “You look like Mom did when Dad left. I couldn’t do anything back then, but I can now.”

He stepped forward and took your hands.

“Billy, there’s nothing you can do to help me.”

“Yes, there is,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can show up every day with cookies, talk nonsense until you smile, but most importantly… I can remind you who you are.”

That broke you, so much it made your heart ache. Billy was your friend, truly. He cared about you, and once again, the guilt clawed at your insides.

You loved him, but you weren’t ready.

“I’m sorry, Billy.”

And he answered like the best kind of brother life could give you: “For nothing. I’ll still be here when you're ready.”

He let go of your hands and gave you a small smile, then walked to the door and left.

You leaned your forehead against the door, exhausted. This depressive wave had lasted longer than you’d expected.

All you wanted was a bit of relief, something only a shower could offer.

So that’s what you did. You bathed in warm water, letting the sadness run down the drain and when you stepped out, wrapped in a towel, hair still dripping. For the first time in weeks, you felt a little lighter.

You threw on your Radiohead t-shirt, pulled on some shorts, and just as you were about to collapse back into bed, there was another knock at the door.

You smiled, faintly.

“I already told you, you’re not the Messiah, Billy,” you said, opening the door with your practiced grin. “But if you brought Paprikash this time, maybe I’ll—”

The world stopped.

She was there.

Agatha Harkness. Wearing a long, dark overcoat, hair impeccably tied up. But something was off—her eyes. Her eyes gave it all away. Exhausted and full, like she'd cried before coming here.

Your smile vanished instantly.

“You…” you swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

“I tried not to come,” Agatha replied. “I really did.”

Your hand gripped the doorknob like it was the only thing holding you up.

“Go away.”

“I can’t.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. You felt the weight of her presence pressing into you—like she had never truly left. Like she still lived under your skin.

“Why, Agatha?” Your voice came out low, tired. “Haven’t we had enough?”

She took a deep breath and wet her lips. There was something desperately fragile in that gesture.

“I’ve been a wreck in Olympia,” she finally admitted, stepping through the doorway. “I can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t eat. Nick is gone, the team is new, the press is hounding me nonstop…”

You didn’t answer, but you didn’t push her away either.

“But none of that destroys me as much as waking up every day and realizing you’re not there.”

Your throat tightened, and your heart did that stupid, familiar leap, as if you were still under the same spell.

She carefully removed her violet gloves and tucked them into her coat pocket, her eyes never leaving yours.

“You got me addicted to this unbearable, uncontrollable thing between us, and now… I don’t know how to live without it. Without you.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, as if shielding yourself from her words. As if they were acid.

“You just miss having something to control.”

“No,” she answered too quickly. “I miss someone who challenges me. Who sees me. Who takes me apart.”

She took another step, now close enough that you could smell her familiar perfume—your kryptonite.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” she whispered. “You showed me there are things even I can’t control. And God, it’s… terrifying, but so intoxicating.”

Your eyes finally met hers, and something clicked inside you, like a missing piece sliding into place.

She was here with no power plays, no manipulations. Just her. And you knew, she was telling the truth.

“I don’t know what we are,” you murmured, voice thick. “But I know what I feel when I look at you.”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening.

“Honey, please.”

The great Agatha Harkness was begging—with ocean eyes and lips that still tasted like hot chocolate like that time in Oregon.

The truth was, your pride was bruised. You had promised yourself this wouldn’t happen, that you’d shut yourself off from God and the world.

But here was your answer.

“Would you like some coffee?” You asked, unable to look at her.

The woman smiled, tears spilling freely.

“Yes, please.”

You turned away quickly, before she could follow. As you made the coffee, your heart hammered in your chest.

My God.

Agatha Harkness.

In your living room.

You carried the two mugs carefully, hands trembling slightly.

She was there. Curled under her own heavy coat, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched, as if she weren’t made of the steel she always projected. The newly undone bun made her hair fall loose around her tired face, and those hands—the ones that had set you on fire so many times—shivered quietly in her lap.

“Here.” You handed her the mug gently.

Agatha looked up with a vulnerability that wrecked you a little more inside, as if no one had ever offered her something so simple without expecting anything in return.

“Thank you.” She murmured, voice breaking.

You sat on the opposite end of the couch, turned slightly away, keeping a safe distance that, of course, meant nothing.

Because even apart, you were a magnetic field locked in collision.

You both took the first sip in silence. Only the sound of hot coffee being drunk, shared breaths, the hum of the waking city outside.

“I don’t know how to… do this right anymore,” Agatha began, voice low. “With you. With myself.”

You glanced down at your mug and gave a weak smile. “Funny. You always seemed to know exactly what you were doing.”

“I’m good at pretending.” She laughed, humorless, and you watched the mirth die in her eyes. “ But I’m not good at this. At needing. At wanting something so much it… knocks the ground out from under me.”

Your heart pounded.

“Are you talking about me?” You asked, voice softer than you’d have liked.

Agatha didn’t answer, just nodded. As if it hurt to admit, as if she was only here because she needed you more than she’d ever imagined.

More than she’d ever wanted to.

“I… I never meant for this,” Agatha began, her voice heavy with grief. “I never meant to lose myself. But that’s what happened. You… seeped into my bones. Into the cracks of what was left of me and I let you. I let you.”

You bit your lip, fighting tears.

“Every day we spent together,” she continued. “You… unraveled me. Peeled me back, layer by layer. And the worst part… the worst part was that you liked what you saw. Even the ugliest parts, mostly the ugliest ones.”

She took a shaky breath.

“And now I’m lost. Completely lost in you. Darling, I… I adore you. With every miserable piece of who I am.”

Your eyes betrayed you. The first tear fell, hot and solitary.

“I adore the way you challenge me, the way you look at me like I’m still someone. Like I haven’t become a political monster, or a murderer. Like I could still be… just a woman.”

Your chest tightened, and more tears escaped before you could stop them.

It was almost unbelievable.

This woman was undressing her soul in front of you.

“And I hate how much it terrifies me,” Agatha went on. “Because I know I don’t deserve you. But… letting go is killing me, piece by piece. I don’t want to let you go.”

Your eyes burned, but you swallowed the sob. This wasn’t the time to cry, not when she was tearing herself open like this.

“I don’t regret what I did. Killing that man freed me. In the end, it would’ve been him or me,” she took a sip of coffee, steadying herself. “But I regret dragging you into it. You’re just a girl… My little girl.”

And there it was.

That possessive pronoun she’d always used, the one you’d missed more than you’d ever admit.

“I was blind. With rage and resentment,” a tear rolled down her weathered face. “I thought everyone was the same, and that only I could save myself.”

Now you saw.

She was broken in a different way.

A desperate way.

A way that meant survival.

Literally.

“And when you did what you did, I knew. I wasn’t alone anymore. But it was too late…”

Agatha set her cup on the coffee table and knelt before you.

Your heart jumped, but you didn’t move.

“Tell me what to do to earn your forgiveness.” Her eyes were as blue as a winter morning sky.

Agatha was a beautiful woman. Beautiful, and fragile now.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You brushed your thumb over her tear-streaked cheek, watching as she leaned into your touch, craving it.

“Take off your clothes.”

You saw her eyes widen in shock. But you didn’t give her time to think—you grabbed her by the neck and kissed her fiercely.

Agatha let out a whimper, soft enough to make your skin prickle. Your tongues tangled like a slow, familiar dance.

When you finally broke for air, she pulled back, breathless.

Agatha obeyed, undressing with trembling hands, her mature skin pebbling under the chill of the room. And you watched like a starving hawk as her nipples hardened, pink and sensitive, inviting you.

She shuddered when your fingers traced her body, arching into your touch. You pulled her close, your bodies pressed together, heat clashing with the cold air around you.

“Mommy…” your voice came out rough, dripping with possession. “My poor, sweet Mommy…” your cold hands slid over her body, gripping the soft roundness of her ass.

Agatha shuddered at the beloved word, her winter-sky eyes glazed with submission and want.

You pushed her back gently, guiding her down to the floor again.

“My turn to take care of you.”

She watched you undress with hungry eyes and a dry mouth.

“Can I… touch you?” She asked.

You smirked, tongue between your teeth.

“You can do more than that, Mommy.” You knelt before her, bringing your faces level. Taking her hand, you pressed it to your breast, coaxing. And you nearly moaned at the contact.

Fuck, how you’d missed this.

Her fingers trailed down your stomach, finding the freshly grown curls at your mound, and you grinned. Agatha was right. Hair on a woman is delicious.

Now you couldn’t wait to nuzzle your nose there, breathing her in.

When your ring finger found her wet, pulsing entrance, Agatha gasped as you pressed against her—not entering, just teasing the sensitive flesh.

“Lie down.”

She obeyed, sinking onto the cold hardwood, cheeks flushed, those always-demanding eyes now dark with surrender.

You settled over her, hips slotting together. The hot, slick friction made Agatha moan, her hips rolling instinctively, seeking more. You pinned her wrists above her head, taking control for the first time.

Your bodies moved in sync, the slide intense and filthy, every motion designed to wring choked sighs and whimpers from her. The frigid air turned your ragged breaths to mist, but your skin burned, marked by passion.

Agatha arched off the floor, hard nipples dragging against yours. You bit her neck, and she cried your name, thighs trembling around you.

“Baby, I—I can’t—” her fingers clawed at your back, nails scraping lightly.

You grinned, wicked, speeding your rhythm, feeling her body coil tight, ready to snap.

“Oh, I think you can, Mommy.” Your cunts were so wet the sound was obscene. “Fuck, I’m dripping. Missed this so much. Missed you…”

Agatha broke. A muffled scream tore from her as she shuddered, legs locking around you while pleasure wrecked her.

“Say it again… please.” The older woman begged, body still shaking.

You ground down harder, swollen clits sliding together just like your mouths had earlier.

“I fucking love you!” You spat it out, just as lost as she was, your own climax building. “Fuck! Fuck! I missed you so fucking much!”

Agatha’s hips stuttered beneath you, tipping you both over the edge. She was losing control, muscles fluttering, thighs squeezing yours like a vise. You held her through it, drawing out every spasm, every gasp, until she went boneless in your arms—panting and utterly yours.

You kissed her then, devouring her whimpers, tasting her surrender.

Breathless, you collapsed beside her on the hardwood. Silence settled, broken only by your racing hearts.

Then, softly, Agatha spoke:

“I think I love you.”

Your heart stopped.

You searched her face for deceit but found none, just her raw and unwavering gaze. The intensity of it stole your breath.

“I… I’m not sure,” she admitted, suddenly shy. “I don’t know if I can love someone. I can’t promise. I—

You considered it.

It might be true. Agatha was ice and calculation, after all. The sociopath who’d killed her husband.

Yet an image flashed in your mind: a woman with a pregnant soft belly and bare feet, hands cradling her bump, smile crinkling her blue eyes when she mentioned Nicky. And was that who made you wonder if she wasn’t capable of love.

And right then, you decided to gamble.

“Agatha.”

You cut her off gently but firmly, voice still rough from exhaustion but clear enough to be felt.

She turned slowly, eyes still ashamed, still wet—caught between fear and the desperate need to be understood. The great Harkness, lying bare beside you, fragile, more woman than legend now.

“You don’t have to promise me anything,” you murmured. “I don’t want a vow, just a choice.”

She blinked, slow, trying to parse it.

“Choose me. Every day,” you traced her cheek. “Even the hard days. Even the days you want to run. Because I know you, Agatha. Every ugly, broken, dangerous part and I’m still here. I still choose you.”

She shut her eyes, as if your words were too much to hold, and two tears slipped free. Yet… she smiled.

“You terrify me,” she whispered. “Because I thought control would protect me, then you crashed in. Messy and reckless. And I let you. Worse… I wanted you to.”

You smiled back, trembling, full to bursting.

“Stay till morning.”

She huffed a laugh, tangling her fingers with yours. 

“I wasn’t planning to leave, honey.”

~*~

Wasn't cute?? 🥹🤏🏻 See you in the Epilogue

Tag List <3

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[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 31 - It All Comes Around

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Okay you guys know I hate saying something is my favorite in case you hate it, but this chapter has two of my favorite lines of dialogue so far. One for Dean, one for our girl. If you guess one, you can... idk do the bonus chapter thing again. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from The Unknown by Imagine Dragons

Word Count: 19.9k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean has a weird week. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 30 - Chapter 32

Read on A03!

Dec. 17th - 2010

Princess, 

You’d be pissed at me right now. That was the kind of thing you’d be pissed at me about. Knew that going it. Kinda always know it, if i’m telling you the truth. I hate it when you cry or get mad, but sometimes there’s a middle where you’re just glaring at me, and it’s adorable. You don’t get that wrinkle in your brow, but your nose scrunches and you say Dean like

Guess I can’t do an impression of it on the paper. Imagine you can hear me saying Dean, but it’s in my voice, pretending to be you. If you’re confused, just come find the me that’s with you now, and he’ll show you. 

Son of a bitch, I hope there’s a me with you. Lucky asshole. He loves you too, so you know. He’s me, and he’s not gonna say it out loud very well, but he loves you. I love you. Always love you. All the way down.

That’s why I did the stupid thing. I’m not gonna write it down, cause if I do, you’ll stop reading and go beat up future me. But he did it for the same reason I did. So don’t be too pissed at him. Me. 

Forgive me. That’s why I’m trying to get out here. Please fucking forgive me, for everything. The stupid thing. Everything I did while you were gone. Letting you fall in the cage. I’m so fucking sorry, Princess, but you gotta forgive me. But you were gone, and it hurt. Still hurts, right now. 

I guess it doesn’t hurt for future me. If he gave these to you, that means he got you back. Douchebag. Probably gets to kiss you too. I’ve kissed you. Six times. I’ll do it more, if you let me. I’d do whatever you let me do. Nothing means more than you, baby, you gotta know that. If future me is being an asshole and hasn’t told you that, I’m telling you now. Everything he does is for you. That’s how much he fucking loves you.

Fuck, there probably isn’t a thing you could do that he wouldn’t let you get away with. He’s been a goner for years. Punch him in the balls for me, if he hasn’t told you. Then you can show me this, so I know I told you to do that. But don’t do it too hard. He still wants a future with you, and probably values his balls more than I do. 

He probably values a hell of a lot more than me, if he’s got you back. 

And it’s not your fault, baby. I know you, I know you’re gonna read this and start thinking that you messed something up. Maybe go sit next to future me, so he can calm you down if you start freaking out. You don’t have to do anything to make me feel better, ever. If I’ve got you, I know everything is good. Just let him take care of you. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. 

It’s been you from the start, sweetheart. And I did something stupid, but you need to forgive me because it’s getting dark out here. I miss you, and I need you to tell me what the hell to do. How I’m supposed to get you back without doing something stupid. Whatever got Sammy out isn’t doing an encore, Cas still won’t pick up the damn phone, and Bobby’s a little better, but he ain’t good. None of us are good without you.

I’ve been having these new dreams, about you. Have I mentioned that I dream about you? I do. They stopped for a while, but they’re back now. Different from before, but back. In one of them, we were just one of those normal couples. We worked and had a house, visited your dad on weekends, had a dog and a cat.

I’ll let you get that cat, if you come home soon. The one Cas never got to give you. Shit, I’ll help him pick it out. We’ll get you a cute one, I’ll get those allergy meds you mentioned, and it can stay at Bobby’s. But it can’t sleep on the bed. I’m not fighting for your attention with a fucking cat, sweetheart.

Sam says I’m bargaining. But he’s also an asshole still, cause of the soul blocker thing. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, just because he took one psych class at Stanford. And even if I am bargaining, nothing wrong with that. Whatever the hell gets you back, right?

You need to come back, baby. I can get a whole lot stupider. 

Yours, 

DAW

——————

Dean dropped his head against the table—squeezing his eyes shut as he gritted his teeth—and took a long, deep breath. 

He finished the letter. That’s what was important. 

There wasn’t even a single bloodstain on it, because he’d washed his freaking hands. 

There was blood leaking through his shirt, though.

He should probably deal with that, before he lost all of it and had to deal with another lecture from Sam about this behavior not being useful, Dean.

Easy for Sam to say. He hadn’t lost anything. And anything that he should’ve lost, he didn’t give a shit about anymore. His soul. All their goddamn peace. 

Her. 

Sam still didn’t seem to give a shit that they’d lost Her. 

And Dean was trying real damn hard not to be pissed about that. Sam didn’t know how things like emotions worked anymore. Just couldn’t grasp that the most important person in both of their lives—the woman who had believed in him through the whole demon blood thing, and kept them from fighting countless times—was stuck in hell. That they needed to get her out, because otherwise Dean was going to start doing some pretty fucking dumb things.

Dumber things. 

He’d already done something pretty fuck dumb. 

And it hadn’t even had the nerve to goddamn work.

Dean folded the letter into a neat square, and left it on the table as he pushed to his feet with a groan. This was going to suck. This was going to suck so goddamn much, but he couldn’t call Sam back from his hookup just to give him stitches. Sam would have questions like are you an idiot, Dean—yes—and how they hell did you get your stomach ripped open. It looks like you didn’t even fight back. 

He hadn’t. 

Dean had let the demons rip into him. There wasn’t any reason not to. The plan had failed anyway.  

And this was why he needed Her. This was Her type of plan—the insane ones, that nearly gave Dean a heart attack whenever She looked at him with bright eyes and said I’ve got something—and Her ability to calculate the risks and danger to herself might be horrible, but she got results. 

Dean had just got the shit beaten out of him, and nothing else. She wasn’t home. He wasn’t closer to getting Her home. He just had a goddamn pit in the cavity of his chest, splitting him open, and a gash in his side.

He made it to the bed. Sam’s bed. Bitch wasn’t using it anyway, he’d deal with the blood stains. 

And there was a whole lot of blood. Maybe the shallow breathing was from the way he was bleeding out, or just how he was thinking about Hell. The rivers of blood, and all of it on his hands. 

Her, drowning in that blood. Stuck in the place that had turned Dean into more of a monster than he’d already been. Or just somewhere worse, if the damage to Sam’s soul said anything. 

Maybe She was out. Maybe whatever got Sam grabbed Her too, but Cas couldn’t find her because of the Bride thing, and now She was curled up and shivering and alone. Waiting for Dean to come save Her, while he ran around like a fucking asshole. Trying plans that didn’t work, touching women he didn’t love just to feel something, drinking and drinking until he was numb enough to breathe. 

He wasn’t numb now. 

Son of a bitch, between the way the pit was swallowing him whole and the sting of the rubbing alcohol on his wound, there wasn’t enough booze in the world to make him feel nothing. 

He needed to lie down. Half for the stitches, half because if he didn’t, he was pretty damn sure he’d fall over and start sobbing like a pussy. 

Dean clenched his jaw, lay flat on his back, and got to work. His hands weren’t steady, but he could patch himself up. Enough for it to look like a normal hunting accident, at least. 

Enough that nobody would try and ask questions, and lecture him about self-destructive behaviors.  

He tried to hum to himself, to calm down. Ramble On, then Hey Jude, the just fucking anything to fill the silence when he couldn’t carry either of the tunes. If he closed his eyes tight enough, he could pretend She was there with him. That these were Her hands, and the static sound of the heater was Her siren-like voice. Telling Dean it would be okay. That She was here, and everything was going to be okay. 

He could almost believe it. When he really goddamn focused, the smell of blood and dirt faded, and he could smell Her apples. Her voice on the wind was less of a phantom, and more of an echo. A little far away, and not really Her, but closer. Had been Her before. Would be Her again. And he could pretend that when he wiped the sweat from his brow, it was a gentle hand brushing through his hair. That the warm feeling in his chest wasn’t more than a reflection of what had been there before. That he wasn’t using smoke and mirrors to pretend the pit was flooding with silvery light, and when he turned his head into the mattress and took a deep breath, he wasn’t just lying to his own mind that he was breathing against Her skin. 

He might be groaning Her name. He didn’t really care anymore.

He just wanted Her to be here. 

And She wasn’t. 

When Dean pulled the last stitch through, he opened his eyes, and there was nobody at all. 

He tipped his head back with a groan. He just needed to lie down, for one second. Then he’d get back to work. Start looking for new ways—maybe ones that didn’t get him beat up,  but he didn’t really care—and maybe that cat. Maybe it was what he needed, just an incentive for Her to come back to him. He’d get Her five cats. Ten, and rent a house on a beach. Maybe Cape Cod. Pretty damn far from California, still the beach. They could get all the sugary drinks and snacks She wanted, then lie in bed for a week. 

He’d watch whatever movie She wanted. Read a book for Her. Do fucking anything, just as long as She came home-

There was a rustling sound, and Dean let out a heavy breath, opening his eyes to glare at the cracked ceiling. He should’ve known better than thinking he’d get away with that. 

“Cas. You gotta knock.”

“You wouldn’t be able to open the door, Dean.” Cas’ voice was low, and filled a tension Dean didn’t appreciate. Cas wasn’t the one who had been dying. “Are you alright?”

“I’ll live.” He muttered, craning his neck to see Cas staring at him from the edge of the bed. “That it?”

“You know it is not-“

“Awesome.” He dropped his head back down. “See you next time you decide I’m injured enough to check in on.”

Cas sighed. “You know I am busy, Dean, I do not enjoy not talking to you-“

“But you only do it when I’m bleeding out.”

“You bleed out quite often, lately.” Cas muttered, and Dean rolled his eyes, pushing his words through his teeth.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Cas, I don’t got a whole lot going on for me other than bleeding out. So if we could skip the telling me I’m a freakin’ idiot part and cut to what you want-“

“I do not want anything, Dean. And I would not call you an idiot.” Cas said Her name, his voice suddenly soft, and Dean’s hand curled into fists. “She would be angry. That you are doing this for her. I do not think she’d like any plan that gets you hurt like this.”

Dean was going to break his jaw. “Don’t tell me what she’d want-“

“You know I’m right.” Cas’ voice was gentle, and it just made the ache in Dean’s chest worse. “She would not be happy to know that you have been on this path-“

“What path.” Dean rolled his eyes, leaning back down on the mattress. “The one where I get her the hell out of the cage? I’m not apologizing for trying to save her, Cas-“

“Dean,” Cas muttered, but Dean shook his head, and pushed on. 

“I won’t give up- No, I can’t give up. She didn’t give up on me, and we didn’t even know about angels or all her magic shit. If Death himself can’t goddamn touch her, that means there’s gotta be something up here that needs her, which means there’s going to be some sort of fucking loophole. Some- Fuck, there has to be some goddamn way-“ His head hurt, and it was spread to his throat. He wouldn’t stop. “Son of a bitch, Cas, there has to be a way-“

He had more to say. About how the world had to need Her, because he’d seen the way it bended for Her. How all colors were vibrant around Her, and the grass seemed to grow under Her feet. He’d seen the gardens She’d make, he knew God himself watched Her and wanted her the same way Dean, so if God needed Her like Dean needed Her, there had to be a way.

And if there wasn’t a way, he’d make one. She said there was always another way, so he’d take whatever gamble he had to, if it might get Her home. If it might fix Sammy, might bring a light back to Bobby’s eyes, might make the house stop being so damn quiet and haunted all the time. The floorboards creaked louder without Her. The night was darker. And nothing was how it should be, without Her there. 

But the words died in Dean’s throat. If he said them, the pit would turn into a cavern, and it would be all he was. He’d break apart, and none of Cas’ angel mojo would fix him.

“There may be another way, Dean.” Cas murmured, and Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “But this is not it. That was reckless, and I believe you know that.”

“Doesn’t matter what I know.” Dean grunted. “I’d call that the right amount of recks for this situation.”

“You tried to open a seal, Dean.”

“Didn’t try. Opened it.”

Cas let out another dramatic sigh. “You do understand how that isn’t comforting. I do not approve of Crowley’s methods to deter you, but-“

“You actually siding with freakin’ Crowley here?” Dean glared at Cas under his eyelids. “He sent a bunch of demon goons to kick the shit out of me-“

“And you are lucky they didn’t kill you, Dean. I know what you are planning, and if you proceed with it, I will have to stop you-“

Dean muttered Her name, and Cas fell silent. “She’s down there, Cas. Down there with Michael and Lucifer, in God’s fuckin’ time out corner.”

“I am aware,” Cas muttered, and Dean snorted. 

“I’d think you are, but you’re willing to leave her down there-“

“Dean, you know I’m not-“

“I don’t know!” He roared, ignoring the rush of pain through his head as he shot up. “You can say that, Cas, but you don’t gotta live with it like I do! I’m doing what I have to do, I’m doing the only goddamn way I can think of, because she is down there alone with two archangels, and she needs us to get her out, but I’m the only one who’s goddamn willing to fucking do something.”

Cas stared at him for a second. “She would not want you to open the cage, just for her-“

“Stop saying what she’d want.” Dean hissed. “If she hates it, she can tell me herself. When she’s free.”

“Dean.” Cas gave him a sad look, and Dean’s throat ached. “Crowley will continue to attack you. His position as King only lasts as long as Lucifer remains in the cage-“

“I don’t give a shit about Crowley-“

“I am not worried about Crowley.” Cas snapped, voice raising and narrowing his eyes. “I am worried about him killing you, Dean. And Raphael holding your soul hostage. You cannot help her when you are dead.”

Dean scowled, and a lot of the anger was starts to drain from his body. His muscles felt sore, every inch of his body tired, and he might have fucked up his stitches. It didn’t really damn matter. He’d failed. Again. Gotten the shit kicked out of him, gotten yelled at by Cas, and he wasn’t a single step closer to getting Her back. 

He’d dream of Her, tonight. He always dreamt of Her, smiling at him like he’d never done anything wrong at all. Like all the sins he’d committed were nothing more than stumbled steps, like he’d never lied to Her or let Her get hurt. Never hurt Her himself, because everything he touched turned to fucking sand in his hands. And She’d been the most precious thing of them all, made of life and light and dancing in the dead of night, and he’d just let Her slip away. 

It didn’t matter how hard he swam against the current, trying to get Her back. She’d never been Dean’s to begin with. And when God pulled Her out and took Her to Heaven, She shouldn’t looked back. Heaven was what She deserved.

But there would be no place for a Shadow. 

It would be better that way. He was being fucking selfish, wanting Her all to himself. To touch and love and kiss until She giggled and squirmed in his arms. He’d always known he’d never be worthy of Her. And Christ, he was doing all he could be wrong. But no scale was tipped in his favor. And there’s no world where She looked at Dean—acting without thinking, reeking of booze and lonely sex—and decides that she’d have him over paradise.

But he didn’t know how to do any of this without Her. 

He was a selfish son of a bitch. 

It didn’t matter if he never got Her back.

Dean’s head bowed, breathing heavy as he tried to keep the pit from opening further, from taking whatever last vital organ was still cruelly keeping him alive, and it didn’t matter. 

A choked, low sound left him, and nothing mattered.  

Two fingers pressed to his brow, and the splitting headache faded with the stabbing pain in his stomach. The pain in his chest didn’t heal, though.

When he looked up at Cas, standing over him with a soft, almost wounded expression, it only stretched a little further, and made the world a little darker. 

“I miss her as well,” Cas muttered, scanning over Dean’s face carefully. “Things are… Far worse. When she is not here. There is a sense, wherever I go, that something is missing. It is…” Cas trailed off, frowning at the air. “As if my wings have been cut off, though they are very much still there.”

“Human’s call that grief,” Dean said under his breath, dropping his gaze to his own knees. “That’s what’s you’re feelin’, Cas. But she’s not dead-“

“She is not with us.” Cas murmured. “And if my wings feel as if they are missing, I can only imagine what you are experiencing.”

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t have the words for it, not one that would sound right. It wasn’t like a part of him was missing, or as he’d just been cut in half. That would’ve been far too simple, too easy to get past. 

It was like he was missing. Like he’d been plunged underwater, dragged away from the entire world, and it was just above the surface but no matter how he clawed to get back to it, he was never able to breach the waves.

And Cas sighed, taking a slight step back. “I do not expect you to give up on her, Dean. But you cannot do that again.”

“I won’t.” He grunted, and if he was stronger, he’d just damn the consequences, damn his own soul, and open the cage to get Her back. Cas said Raphael wanted to start the apocalypse again, Dean could get a sponsorship or something. 

But She’d never forgive him, when She got out. She’d curse his name, and Dean would lose Her all the same. 

Selfish. 

It didn’t matter. 

“Thank you. I am handling it, Dean. I promise.” 

Dean frowned at him. “It?”

“Crowley.” Not Her. “He will not touch you like that again, and I will work to try and make him…” Cas sighed. “Calm down. But I cannot handle Crowley, Raphael, and you making stupid, unmeasured choices.”

“I said I wouldn’t do it,” Dean grumbled, taking at deep breath as he scanned over Cas’ face. 

He looked tired. Worn, will parts of his trench coat stained with things Dean didn’t really want to know about. 

“Cas.” He muttered, words still low. “You know we can help, man. If there’s anything with the Heaven shit you need-“

“No, Dean.” Cas shook his head. “I told you, I am handling it. I have support.”

“Support?”

“Other angels. Who have chosen my side.”

Dean frowned. Something about that sounded off. Cas wasn’t blinking at all, but that was normal. His voice was firm and deep, but that was also normal. Cas was pretty hard to read, no matter what. And Dean’s own exhaustion wasn’t helping. 

“You got anything for us?” He tried one more time, and the soreness was giving way to tension. “Just- a hunt? Any way we can help you gank Raphael faster?”

Cas shook his head, and Dean took an unsteady breath. He couldn’t keep doing nothing. Looking for another way to get her out and coming up empty handed. Maybe this would help. Maybe just one hunt that amounted to more than broken bones and the smell of gasoline would get him back on track. He’d get all his energy back, find whatever angel thing Cas sent them to take care of, and it would be the way to get Her out. 

Or maybe he’d just get the shit beat out of him again. 

Either way, he wouldn’t just be waiting for Her to appear in the bathroom doorway, or moaning Her name while he fucked some nameless chick. He’d be doing something.

“Dean-“

“C’mon, man.” Dean gave Cas his best winning grin, ignoring how his face felt sort of swollen from crying. “Give us something. I get you’re a big shot angel now, but there’s gotta be like, an errand me and Sam can run for you. Help in this war with Raphael thing.”

“I do not have any errands. And in your current state, I don’t think involving yourself in my war would prove useful.”

“Cas.” He muttered, letting his voice crack slightly. He couldn’t just sit here, in the pit. He’d fall into it, and not have Her light to guide him back out. “Fuck, I’ve got my foot on the pedal, man. I know that. At least give me somewhere to steer.”

Cas paused, watching Dean so intently he could feel in searing over his skin, and he needed this to work. For Cas to see that he wasn’t just begging like a bitch. He needed this. Otherwise, the place he drove might be off a goddamn cliff. 

And whatever Cas saw—as Dean let a little bit of the pit show all over his face—seemed to be enough.

“Fine.” He sighed. “But you have to be careful, Dean. No one in Heaven or Hell is your biggest fan right now-“

“I don’t care about them, Cas, I got you.” Dean grinned, and Cas didn’t return it.

“If you die,” Cas muttered Her name. “She will break out of the cage, just to kill me. And,” he shot Dean a glare. “That is not a suggestion. You will have to be careful, Dean-“

“I will be. What’re we lookin’ at?”

Cas sighed again, frowning at the air as he spoke “I have sources that tell me Crowley is looking for something. Something powerful. I am not sure what, but if you must do something, figuring out what would be helpful.”

“What Crowley’s looking for?”

Cas nodded, and Dean sat up a little taller. 

Finding something. He could find something. He’d always smoked Sammy at hide and seek, and he was a pretty awesome snooper. Cas left—with another warning to Dean not to do something stupid, which wasn’t really necessary—and Dean had something to do. 

In the morning. When Sam got back, and he could use the next day to actually be useful, instead of a drunken, selfish burden. 

But maybe this was selfish as well. Maybe he should be spending time trying to think of the next plan to get Her out, instead of running around doing shit Cas could probably do himself. That might get done faster, with a handful of angels on the case rather than Dean. 

Or She’d be pissed at him, for not helping Cas. She’d help Cas. Shit, if She was here, Cas might have already won the war in Heaven. 

But She wasn’t. Here. 

Wasn’t with Dean. 

And he would get Her back. As he took the letter off the table, carefully tucking it into the box—kept at the bottom of his bag, right next to Velma the stuffed cat—Dean had to remember that he kept writing because She would come back. And he’d give Her the letters, and everything would be fine. 

Right now it wasn’t. Right now it was like sitting in some sort of stasis, downing the last of the whiskey bottle he’d gotten at the bar, staring at the ceiling and trying to work out how he’d get through the day. 

Thinking of Her, probably. Not the pain She might be in, but how the better moments. Her on his chest as they slept, or under Dean’s body as he kissed Her softly.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get to kiss Her again.

The bottle was empty. The motel room was empty, and there wouldn’t be any more company for him tonight. He didn’t see that hallucination of Her anymore, not since late September. It didn’t matter if he was wasted enough he didn’t know his own name—only the pain in his chest and the lack of Her at his side—Dean just couldn’t get Her back. 

He couldn’t get Her back.

It would be good to help Cas. Cas had helped him, and Dean had pleaded for it. But the longer Cas was gone—the longer it was just Dean and the rattling sound of the heater—the more he wanted to just fucking damn it. If he couldn’t get the seals and open the cage, he’d find another way. Death wouldn’t help, but maybe another archangel could. Maybe there was some sort of Cage guard, that could slip her out. Maybe another spell he could try, a back entrance he could use.

But Bobby had looked for all of that, and there wasn’t a single damn thing. 

He’d find something. And Crowley was looking for something powerful. Maybe he’d been right the first time, and this would help him get on track to free Her. 

Or maybe She’d just get out some other way tomorrow, and think that Dean had given up on Her.

He felt sort of sick. He was way too damn tired to be trying to figure this out. His head was spinning, and it felt like his heart was withering in his body. He couldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter how he paced around the room, sat and stared at the laptop screen, or lay on the bathroom floor. The bed was too stiff, too cold, and when he stretched his arms out a new, straining pain—just to the right of his heart—ripped through him at the empty mattress at his side.

He couldn’t sleep with a replacement, though. He hadn’t be able to stomach it, since the dreams of Her had started up. There was something fucking wrong about waking up with a passing body—some woman who had looked like Her in the shadows of the bar, enough for Dean to pretend, but then looked like a faded mockery in the morning light—when he’d just been holding Her in his sleep. When he’d spent the whole night dreaming of kissing Her and dancing in some old west saloon.

It made him feel something, at least. Something like poison, in his veins and eating at his hands. 

They shouldn’t be allowed to touch Her, when She returned. 

If She even wanted to touch him. 

She might, if he went through with helping Cas. He didn’t have a damn clue where to start, though. She would. So maybe he could get Her out first, then help Cas. Or he could keep wading through the mud, letting it drag him further under, and never actually save Her because he just kept wandering in damn circles. Or She’d think Dean wasn’t burning himself to ash to get Her out.

Dean pushed up with a groan, fumbling for his phone. He shouldn’t be trusted to make any choices, or even do any right now. Most of his thoughts just always looped back to Her.

The call rang about six or seven times, before it was picked up. 

If She was here, it would’ve been answered in three.

“Hey, Dean, everything alright?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut again. “Hey Jody. Yeah, uh- Is Bobby there?”

Jody sighed. “Not here, no.” 

He paused. “But… his phone is?”

“He left it at the house. I was over to make some food, heard it ringing in the library.” 

“Where’d he go, town?”

“No.” Jody’s voice went heavier, and Dean braced himself. “He’s headed up to the waterfall, tending to that girl’s grave, said he’d be back in a few hours.”

A lump was forming in Dean’s throat. “He take the truck?”

“Um,” there was a pause, and Dean heard something shuffle on the other end of the line. “Don’t look like it. Firebird is gone, through.” Dean could hear the frown in her voice. “You boys need something from him? Anything I can help with?”

He shook his head, fighting down the strain in his voice. “Nah, I was just hoping to get his advice on something-“

“Something about hunting?” Jody cut him off, Her voice shockingly firm. “Or something about feelings and good choices. Cause if it’s the latter, I don’t think it’s a good for you and Bobby to be bouncing any ideas off of each other.”

Dean frowned. “It was hunting, sorta- What do you mean, not a good idea?”

“I mean you both lost the same person, Dean. And any calls either of you make, you’re not going to be making them with a clear head.”

“I got a clear head-“

“How much have you had to drink.”

He scowled. “That doesn’t matter.”

Jody barked a laugh. “Alright, kid. Tell what you think Bobby can help you with, and I’ll make the call if he needs to hear it.”

“Just a book.” Dean muttered. “For the library. It’s- I think she’d like it. Wanted to know if we already had it.”

Jody didn’t ask what she Dean was talking about. She’d seemed to pick up pretty quickly that when Dean or Bobby said she like that—a lower tone, with a slight edge to their voice but something smooth and gentle in the word itself—it was only referring to Her. And Dean had found Her a book, so that wasn’t technically a lie. It wasn’t what he’d called about, but it could be. 

Jody didn’t seem to believe that, though. 

“Dean,” she said, tone sort of stern, and Dean frowned. “I know you don’t like talking about your feelings, and I’m not trying to make you or whatever, but I know you didn’t call Bobby at 1am to talk about a book.”

“I-“ Dean frowned. “Why are you there at 1am?”

“Nice try. What’s wrong.”

Dean sighed, setting the phone to speaker and placing it on his knee. “It’s nothin’ important, Jody. I can talk to Sam about it, or call back in the morning-“

“If you’re calling now, it’s important. And don’t hang up on me, I’ll call you back until you pick up and tell me I’m not about to witness one of those hunter funerals y’all have talked about.”

“I’m not going to kill myself-“

“Dean.”

There was no winning this. And he had called for advice. 

Goddamnit. 

“Talked to Cas, today.” He muttered, fidgeting with his watch, and Jody just waited for him to continue. “Asked him about the war, going on in Heaven. How we could help. He said Crowley’s after something, and if we have to help, we could look into what.”

He could hear the frown in Jody’s voice. “If you have to help. He not want it or something?”

“I sorta- I asked him. A lot. I’m out of leads, for the cage. Last thing I tried went to shit, and I- Fucking-“ He rubbed his brow, trying to force his words out in a way that didn’t sound pathetic. “It still hurts, Jody. And I feel like I’m just sittin’ in it. And I damn near forced Cas to let me help, but then he’s gone and it’s all-“

He cut himself off, and son of a bitch it was a lot easier to talk about it when it was with Her, in letters. Dean wasn’t even sure there were words to describe it. The way the world was just worse, and the only way out of it was Her coming home. He kept trying, and it never felt like enough. 

“You know about my family, Dean?” 

He frowned, and grunted an acknowledgment. 

Jody let out a slow breath through the speaker. “You know how they died?”

“Jody, if this a lecture about grief or whatever, I’ve gotten enough of them-“

“Well shut up and hear one more.” Jody snapped Her name, and Dean mouth closed. “I don’t know a lot about her, expect that you and Bobby love her. That you’re willing to do anything to get her home. But you know what the definition of madness is?”

Dean paused. He did. She’d told him once, in some diner a few years ago.

He’d poked Her nose with a French fry after, and then she’d almost bit his fingers off. 

He loved Her so fucking much.

“Repeating something.” He grunted, and Jody sighed. 

“And expecting a different result, Dean. That’s important. All you do is drink and torture yourself while trying to get her out, you’ll go insane. And you think you’re of better use to her insane, or with a brain that’s actually working?”

“Working.”

“Good.” Jody sighed, and Dean slumped. “You get what I’m telling you?”

“Yeah.” He muttered. “Jody?”

She hummed, and he took a heavy breath. 

“I can’t stop trying to get her out. If I do- I- I can’t-“

“I know, Dean. I got that a while ago.” Jody said Her name, and the world was sort of blurring. “Doing one thing for your friend isn’t going to keep her in the cage longer. The break might be good of you. Focus on something with a reward at the end.”

Dean nodded, and Jody cleared her throat. 

“This helping?”

“Yeah.” He muttered. “Thanks. You think you can mention to Bobby that I called? Tell him we’re looking for something Crowley might want. Maybe to try and find some demons?”

“Course.” Jody’s voice went soft, but not the way Cas’ had been. That had been more in a reflection of Dean’s own pain. Almost pity, mixed with Cas’ own loss.

This was just soft. It made Dean feel sort of small, but not like he could be stepped on, or was weak. Like the sky was falling, but there was still going to be something to cover him, and keep him safe. 

“Let me know if you need anything else, Dean. I’m here.”

“Thanks.” He muttered. “Night, Jody.”

The line dropped, and he let out a slow breath. 

Something with a reward at the end. They’d find what Crowley was looking for, and—on down time—Dean could keep working on how to get Her home. He wasn’t abandoning Her. He��d never abandon Her.

He wasn’t sure how to do that if he tried. 

This place had really high ceilings. 

High like a church, but all stone and less light. Almost dead feeling, with how empty and quiet it was. Dean’s steps echoed, as he walked down the hall, hand on his sword. 

He had a sword. That was fucking awesome. He had a sword, and a suit of leather and metal armor, and whenever he passed the someone—all them women in long dresses or men in weird, fancy outfits—they bowed their heads in his direction. Like they respected him, enough to see he was there. 

This was a pretty great dream. If not just because he got a sword, because he’d had something like it before. And he knew exactly where he was going. 

His pace picked up, until he was almost sprinting through the halls. Nobody spared him a glance as he ran, but they were all fading into color anyway.

The only important thing was ahead of him, not behind.

When he skid around the corner and up the steps, he could almost feel it. The way something just to the right of his heart felt like it was glowing, and how time began to slow. 

The air smelled liked Eden apples, more and more every second. 

And there She was. Standing on a balcony and turning around Dean called Her name, her face splitting into a wide, bright smile. 

She looked like She was going to run to him, but Dean was faster. He slammed into Her, lifting Her up into the air and spinning her around with a grin so wide it hurt. When She laughed, he wanted to bottle the sound. Maybe put it on a mixtape, so back out there he could hear it over and over again. 

It would ring in his ears when he woke up. Follow him like a hungry stray, begging for Dean give it more attention when he tried to look away. But he’d let it. 

He’d do damn near anything, just to keep hearing the sound of Her joy. 

She wrapped Her arms around his neck, as he set Her down, and Dean crashed his lips into Her’s. She tasted like Her apples, and a little bit of cherry and soda. When he reached down for Her thigh, She let him grab it and hook it around his waist. Moaned into Dean’s mouth like a song, when he angled his mouth over Her’s to deepen the kiss.

And She was entirely relaxed in Dean’s arms. Letting him move Her however he needed to feel Her a little more, tugging on his hair as She whined a sound like his name, and he felt his pants grow tight. 

He had to pull back, with heavy breaths and a high feeling over his head. Still holding Her tight to his chest, because She’d stay there until he was forced to let go. 

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, ghosting Her lips back over Dean’s, and he grinned.

“Hey, Princess.” He said, bumping their noses together, and Her eyes shined on his. 

A little glossy, but still so fucking bright.

“Dean.” She whispered, and he’d never not lose it over how She said it. Long and sweet and sort of like it was a note in a song. “You shouldn’t be kissing me like that in daylight. Someone could see.”

He snorted, dropped his mouth to Her neck. “Let ‘em. Everyone should know how I worship my girl.”

“But-“ She made a tiny noise as Dean lips latched on Her throat. “Oh- Dean-“

He hummed, and She took a deep breath. 

“I- It won’t be good if someone catches us-“ She moaned as he kneaded Her waist, and Dean grinned against Her skin. 

“I know, baby.” He kissed along Her collarbone, and Her head tipped further back. “But I think you like it, right. Like people knowing you’re mine-“

She melted into him with another soft sound, and son of a bitch, Dean couldn’t tell if his brain was doing him a favor or not. She looked like something higher than an angel, when he leaned back pressed a sloppy kiss to Her cheek. And he got to hold Her like this in here. Have Her slumped against him with complete trust and control, as if She didn’t understand that Dean would probably rip his heart of out his chest as an offering, if she told him Her’s was hurting. 

He got to watch Her blink at him slowly, a dazed and happy smile on Her lips.  

But it was only in here. 

“You look beautiful,” he murmured Her name, and Her breath hitched, that pretty flush spreading over Her cheeks. 

“Thank you, De.”

“Course, baby.” He dropped his brow to Her shoulder, almost clinging to Her body. This dream wouldn’t be ripped away, if he just held on tight enough. “Can I ask you something?”

She hummed, petting Dean’s hair, and a deep breath escaped his chest with ease. 

“If- Y’know in all those drama, soapy shows you watch-“

“I watch?”

He sighed. “Fine, I watch. But you watch them with me-“

“Because you’re cute. I don’t actually like them.”

He pulled back to frown at Her. “You don’t like Dr. Sexy?”

She shrugged. “I like you.”

“But-“

“Is that your question? If I like Dr. Sexy?” She gave him a pointed look, resting Her chin on his chest, and he rolled his eyes.

“No.”

“Then ask the real question, Deano-“

He nipped at Her nose, and She wiggled against him with a squeak. That wasn’t helping his dream boner. Neither was the way Her nails dug into his arm, or how She threw Her head back with a tiny moan—eyes fluttering and body going slack—when Dean picked Her up and pinned Her against the wall, his lips returning to Her throat.

“So bossy,” he muttered, and Her mouth fell open with a gasp. “Look at you, so fuckin’ pretty.”

He reached up with one hand, trying to brush the hair out of Her face, and She caught his wrist with a desperate expression. 

“Dean,” She whispered, squeezing Her hand three times. “Please. Please, just-“

She rolled Her hips with another tiny sound, and he had to take a slow, long breath. 

Not in a dream. Not when it wasn’t even real, and She was still his best friend, trapped in Hell. 

“Out there, Princess.” He pressed as soft kiss to Her lips, letting Her chase him to a deeper one when he tried to pull away. “But I know, sweetheart. I know.”

She sighed, shaking Her head as She leaned back to scan over Dean with an unreadable expression. 

“What did you want to ask me?”

He swallowed, reaching up to cup Her cheek. She was pressed right against his body, with Her legs hooked around his torso and Her arms resting back over Dean’s shoulders. She was so close, close enough that Dean could feel the rise and fall of Her chest, feel Her heartbeat under his fingers when his hand moved to Her neck. And She didn’t flinch or pull away. She just looked at him with bright eyes, and the air felt too thin. 

“In the shows,” he mumbled, playing with the hair near Her neck. “They always got an episode where someone’s gotta choose. The world or-“

“Just one person.” She whispered, and he nodded. 

“You know what you’d choose?”

She stared at him, and suddenly, Dean was terrified of Her answer. She was going to tell him that She’d always chose anyone but him. Maybe suddenly morph into Dad, who’d start shouting at him that he was being an idiot, that he shouldn’t even feel any guilt about Her in the cage. That he was free of some woman weighing him down, when Dean was pretty sure the was some sort of iron chair wrapped around his throat, and it only got tighter the longer She was gone. 

But She didn’t turn into Dad. Or tell Dean She hated him. 

She just gave Dean a sad, small smile, and held his hand against Her face.

“I do. But I wouldn’t let it get to that, De.” Her voice broke slightly, and when Dean’s thumb moved to the bridge of Her nose, she let out a soft sigh. “I wouldn’t.” She mumble, nothing but putty in his arms. “I promise, it’s not gonna get to that-“

“I know, baby.” He muttered. “I know. You know I’d choose you, right. You don’t gotta tell me yours-“

“I’d choose you.” She cut him off with a soft breath, eyes fluttering slightly, and the world did a sort of stutter stop. “All the way down.”

He nodded, and opened his mouth to tell Her again. That it was still all the way down, always all the way down, and he’d love Her until he didn’t have anything left in his body. 

But the world was starting to flicker. Wave in and out. 

And Dean barely got to crash into one last, desperate kiss before She was gone. 

The door slammed, and Dean had a headache again. It was always so goddamn bright into morning, it was like the sky was angling the freakin’ sun right into his eyes. There was birdsong, drifting through the air outside and the smell of coffee somewhere close. His throat was dry, his stomach feeling like it was filled with acid, and Goddamnit he had to get up. 

He didn’t want to. 

But he was even more useless, just fucking lying here with the covers over his face and the pit gaping in his chest. 

“You’re up.” Sam said, not glancing up from his laptop, and Dean grunted. 

“How long you been back.”

“Few hours. It’s almost noon.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “And you didn’t freakin’ wake me up?”

“I’m not your clock, Dean.”

“Yeah, and now we’re running behind-“

“Behind on what?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Your drinking schedule?”

“Sam.” He grunted, rubbing his brow. “I’m not in the goddamn mood-“

“Because you lost your girlfriend. Yeah, I know.”

Dean stared ahead blankly, forcing himself to take long, deep breaths through his nose. He couldn’t beat Sam up. For one, he hadn’t tipped far enough over the edge to not pull punches, and Sam was a fucking fridge without a soul. He’d get his ass kicked. But this wasn’t Sam’s fault. Wasn’t even Sam. And Dean had been on board with the soul blocker plan. It was sort of his fault. 

But Sam could sneer at Dean all he goddamn wanted. 

She was the line. And Sam was freaking toeing it. 

“Dude.” Dean said, forcing his voice to remain even. “What did we talk about.”

“Waking you up-“

Dean snapped Her name, and Sam finally looked up. “What did we talk about, with Her?”

Sam gave him a dry look. “Nothing, Dean. We haven’t talked to her in like, a year.” He frowned. “Are you seeing hallucinations of her?”

“No- I- Not for-“ Dean sputtered, pushing himself to his feet. “Goddamnit, Sam-“

“I don’t care if you are, Dean. Sort of guessed you were. You call her name when you sleep.” Sam shrugged, looking back to the laptop. “But you probably shouldn’t drive, if you are.”

Deep breaths. Dean needed to take deep breaths. “Sam.”

Sam hummed, and Dean’s fist curled. 

“Look at me.”

Sam sighed, and gave Dean a dramatic, pointed stare. “What, Dean. I’m trying to get us ready for our next case-“

“Well, don’t. I’ve got what we’re doing, and we still need to talk about her-“

“Oh, for-“ Sam groaned, giving Dean an almost pitying look. “Look. I know you’re like, in love with her. And you miss her, or whatever. But I’ve got an actual case, Dean, and literally everyone has told you that the cage can’t be fucked with-“

“Someone fucked with it for you.” Dean snapped. “Got you out just fine.”

“And I’ve told you, I don’t know who. I’m not wasting time on this-“

“It’s not-“ Deep fucking breaths. Don’t punch the wall. “Sam, I’m not talking about that-“

“You’re always talking about that, Dean. All you do is drink and bitch about how you love her-“

That was enough. 

Dean stomped over to the table, grabbed out his pistol from his pillow, and slammed Sam’s laptop down with a scowl. Sam blinked at him, shoulders squaring, and he could beat Dean up all he fucking wanted. He’d get to feel something, and then he’d just get up after and keep going until it either killed him, or he actually got to fucking speak.

“What did we talk about.” He hissed Her name through his teeth. “What did I tell you about her.”

Sam sighed, voice was too neutral for Dean’s liking. “That I should think about what I’m going to say before I say it, three times, and if you wouldn’t say it about her, I should shut the hell up.”

“Right. Good.” Dean pushed back up, tucking the gun away and crossing his arms over his chest. “Pack your shit up, Sammy, we’re heading out.”

Sam frowned at him, not moving. “Out where.”

“To find a demon.” 

“A demon?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, if you want a demon, we can you one later-“

“I don’t want- Christ, Sam, we’re interrogating it.”

“Why would we do that.”

Dean sighed. “Because Cas has got something for us to do. Crowley’s looking for something, we need to work out, what,” he made a wide gesture. “Demon.”

Sam just stared at him. “No.”

“Sam, I ain’t asking-“

“Cas can handle that himself, he’s an angel. I have a case for us, the hunters-“

“I don’t care.” Dean grunted, turning towards his bag. They packed a little heavier than before—crashing at Bobby’s less—but it was still quick to gather. He just needed his shoes. “We’re doing the demon thing, not some salt and burn.”

“It’s not some salt and burn, Dean, it’s a pretty massive vamp nest in Cadillac, South Carolina, which isn’t even that far.”

“Cadillac? Like the car?”

“Yeah. If we hit the road in an hour, we’ll be there before sunset-“

“No.” Dean grunted, double checking that he had Velma and the box, and Sam let out a bitch sigh.

“Dude, I think they’ve got, like, an infestation.”

“Other hunters will deal with it.”

“Haven’t we been talking about empathy, Dean?” Sam said, tone smug, and Dean drew back up. 

He looked fucking smug, as well. Like he’d just done a freakin’ genius chess move or something. 

Dean had never known how to play chess. She’d known how the pieces worked, but Sammy said She was impossible to play against because she just moved the pieces in a way She thought looked cool, and won every time. 

He fucking missed Her. 

He was also going to kill Sam.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean.”

“Empathy is helping people, right dean?” Sam raised his brows. “This would be helping people. A lot more than all the shit you’ve been doing to get her out.”

Dean took a long, heavy breath. “And?”

“And I told you, Cas can handle Crowley without us. We should be helping people.”

“Hunting the fuckin’ King of Hell will be helping people-“

“It’ll be helping you.” Sam said Her name in a bored tone, and that wasn’t how it should be fucking said. “She’d choose to help people.”

“She’d help you. If this is about gettin’ her out, does it even matter? If you were in the cage alone, Sam, she’d be doing everything to help you. To shut the hell up, and let’s go.” Dean could hear his own voice, dropping to almost a growl, and Sam glanced up with a small frown. 

“So?”

Dean stared at him. Not Sammy. That wasn’t Sammy, not his Sammy, because his Sammy would never question helping Her. Normal Sammy would be pissed at the idea of leaving Her in the cage. 

He had to try a different approach, before his head exploded. 

“Don’t you wanna know what the hell Crowley’s so interested in?”

“Not really, no.”

Dean took a long, slow breath. Maybe he’d just freaking leave Sam here, and they’d split up. They’d done it before, and that had always turned out sorta fine. 

“I’m going for a walk.” Dean grunted, and Sam sighed, looking back down. 

“Okay. Take your phone, you have a missed call from Bobby.”

“A-“ Dean cut himself off with one, last, slow breath. Not his fault. “Whatever.”

He grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and stomped outside as he dialed Bobby. 

“Dean?”

“Hey, Bobby, it’s me-“

“You alright, boy?” Bobby cut Dean off, words tight. “Heard you were callin’ past midnight, yesterday.”

“Yeah, I-“ Dean sighed, tipping his head back to frown at the tree branches. “Rough night. Better now. What’d you call me for?”

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead, ya idjit.”

“Well, I’m not, so-“

“Did you seriously try breaking a fuckin’ seal?”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. “Uh- Who told you about that-“

“Cas.” Bobby grunted. “Think he wants me to keep an eye on you. Said you don’t seem to be doin’ too well.”

Dean scowled. “Bobby, I’m fine-“

“That was a dumb fuckin’ move, Dean. You coulda gotten yourself damn killed-“

“I’ve heard-“

“You have any idea what the hell that would do to her?” Bobby snapped, and Dean’s spine went rigid. “If she got out, came back, then I had to tell ‘er you went and got yourself killed while she was gone? You know what she’d fuckin’ do?”

“Bobby.” Dean muttered. “I don’t-“

“She’d make the apocalypse look like a goddamn tea party, dumbass. I know I don’t got legs to stand on, but if you keep fucking actin’ like she ain’t gonna give a shit whether you live or die, she’s gonna kill you before Crowley gets your sorry ass.”

Dean swallowed, and that sore lump was back in his throat. He was getting pretty fucking sick of it. “I know, Bobby. I’m sorry-“

“Don’t be sorry, Dean. Stop trying to kill yourself.”

“I’m not-“ Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “Bobby, did Jody pass on my message?”

Bobby grunted. “Yeah, lookin’ for demons. Dean, if you go and die, I’ll drag you up from hell and lock you in your room ‘till she’s home.”

He shouldn’t like that idea. Just waiting in their room, surrounded by reminders that She really did existed, and had really cared about Dean and—at least in a few ways—wanted him, until She got home. And one day She’d just walk through the door, straddle Dean’s lap, and he’d get to hold Her until she understood how goddamn sorry he was. Maybe he’d show Her, with his hands and mouth and-

“Dean.”

“Yeah, I got it.” He grumbled. “Can I get a demon, please?”

There was a moment of silence, then Bobby’s rough voice. “I got wind for you that there’s a lotta them, down in Cadillac.”

Dean froze. “Cadillac? South Carolina?”

“Yep. Why, you heard of it?”

“Yeah, like an hour ago.” Dean glanced back to the motel. This conversation was gonna freakin’ suck. “Thanks, Bobby.”

The call ended, and someone out there had to be goddamn fucking with him. Making everything some kind of big fucking joke, on Dean himself. He didn’t know what the hell he’d done to who, but now he had to go apologize to Sam about a fight he should’ve won, and drive to town called Cadillac.

Cadillacs fucking sucked. 

“Sam.” He grunted, pushing back into the room. “Get it the car.”

Sam sighed. “Dean, I’ve told you I’m not doing this goose chase-“

“I’m not either.” He muttered, grabbing his bag. “You win. we’re going to Cadillac.”

It wasn’t until they were on the road, that Sam started to question why Dean was suddenly all in on South Carolina. And he didn’t seem to have enough emotion to care anyway, when Den told him about the demons. Just shrugged, and muttered guess you got lucky, huh.

Dean used the drive to practice his ignoring skills. When he took a sharp turn and Sam let out a bitch sigh, Dean ignored it. When he turned up the volume and Sam made a sour face, Dean made it a point to keep his gaze fixed out the window shield. It didn’t how many times Sam grumbled about wrong turns and Dean being dramatic, he wasn’t going to react. He’d keep getting Her snacks at the gas stations, because not doing that would be another form of giving up on Her, and Dean simply damn refused to. He’d drum all the wheel all he wanted, because it was his fucking car. 

He’d even ignore Sam’s look of disbelief, when a pop-punk song popped up on the mixtape. 

“Really, Dean? I have never once heard you listen to this song-“

“I don’t listen to it.” He muttered Her name, and his grip tightened on the wheel at Sam’s dramatic sigh. “She likes it.”

“I know that, Dean, but she’s not here-“

“Sam.” Dean gave him a firm, unwavering glare. “You can either be in the car and shut the hell up, or sit of the freakin’ roof.”

“C’mon, man, it’s not a good-“

“What did I say.”

Sam scowled, but muttered, “Don’t talk about her if it’s not something you’d say.”

Dean gave a sharp nod, and looked back to the road. He knew it was pathetic, to play the music just to torture himself with thinking about Her. But he loved Her, and he was past pathetic. Pathetic started with dreaming of someone, and Dean had been doing that for freaking years.

He just missed Her. And as long as shit kept not mattering, he’d keep listening to Her music until it did. 

Until She was home, and he could look at his motel bed and know She’d be sleeping on the other side. 

Cadillac wasn’t a huge town. Easy to find a cheap motel, and stay within walking distance of a bar. And the place was really freaking green. Sam said it was a wetland, but that just seemed to mean nice looking swamp. Plants and trees and a whole lotta birds, singing in overlapping notes as the sun started to set. 

The bugs came out. Dean had barely stepped out of the car, when he got a back. Sam looked at him like he was insane, when he whacked his arm, but Sam wasn’t getting freakin’ eaten alive. Sam didn’t have a bunch of fireflies try and land on his face, when they walked out of the lobby. 

And maybe Dean was losing his goddamn mind, but he could swear he was smelling it. 

Her.

“We’ll keep an eye out for demons,” Sam said as they unpacked, and Dean felt through his bag for Velma and the box. “But this is a vamp case, Dean. We need to treat it like one.”

Dean nodded. “Whatever. You gonna use the shower, or can I take it.”

Sam stared at him. “It’s Six pm.”

“And?” Dean scowled. “A man isn’t allowed to keep himself clean in freakin’ bug country?”

“A shower will actually attract more bugs.” Sam shrugged. “I’m going to the bar. You can…” Sam gave him an odd look. “Shower.”

Dean waited until the door was closed, and grabbed one of the paper sheets from the motel desk, along with his own pen, and shoved them under his pillow before heading to the bathroom. 

He still didn’t look in the mirror. But when he stepped into the shower, he glanced down at his dick between his legs, and let out a heavy sigh. 

There were two choices here. Neither of them made him a good man. 

He could chase distraction in some girl at the bar, and stray one step further from the holiest thing he’d ever know. Betray Her even more, when it would barely make him feel anything at all. 

Or he could take care of himself—with thoughts of Her, as if she wasn’t getting tortured in hell as they spoke—and drink the rest of the pain away.

And just the thought of Her was already doing it. He could smell Her apple through the steam of the shower, and his was making his cock twitch all by itself. All he had to do was close his eyes, and he could almost see him. Smiling at him, with bright eyes and shiny hair, framing every feature so well Dean wasn’t sure how She was human. Touchable, by shadows of men like him. 

He was a shadow of a man. Barely even something from the mud, anymore. 

Because he wrapped his cock in his hand, and started to pump, letting his brain carry him wherever it wanted to go. 

Her. On all fours in front of him, eyes fluttering as She gave him that sweet smile, right before taking Dean in Her mouth. She’d look so fucking perfect like that, lips swollen and drool falling out of Her mouth. She’d blink lazily up at him as he played with Her hair, sliding Her up and down until She was moaning, and he was right on the verge of snapping in half. Ass in the air, tits bouncing. Something sent down from a little above heaven.

Then Her hand would slide between her legs as She sucked Dean’s cock, and he’d pull Her off with a popping sound. Lay Her back down on the bed—he’d have to use a bed, it was what She deserved—and run his fingers between her soaked pussy lips. Wrap his lips around Her clit, or just slide himself inside of Her, and watch Her mouth fall open as he bottomed out, and she squeezed around him.

He came with a grunt, hand slipping slightly against the shower wall. 

The air still smelled like apple. 

When he walked out of the bathroom, there was an apple on the sink.

“It just appeared?” Sam frowned at him across the table a few hours and several drinks later, turning the apple in his hand. “Are you sure it wasn’t there when you walked into the bathroom.”

“Had to have. I would’ve noticed a random apple on the freakin’ sink.”

“Huh.”

Dean glowered. “Really? Huh?”

“Yeah, Dean, I don’t know what you want me to do about it-“

“I don’t know, something-“

“It’s just an apple, dude.” Sam rolled his eyes, gaze wandering somewhere over Dean’s head. “I’m gonna go to the bar.”

He didn’t wait before he was standing, leaving Dean alone the apple. When Dean glanced over his shoulder, Sam had cozied up with a brunette in about five seconds, and didn’t seem to be all that interested in anything else. 

Dean sighed, glancing back to the apple. It was just an apple. Not an Eden apple, a freakin’ Pink Lady or something. But he could still smell Her-

“Hey,” a hand landed on his shoulder, and Dean tensed. “Drinking all alone?”

“No.” Dean grunted, grabbing his bottle and the apple, giving the chick a tight grin. She was pretty, a huge rack that was almost falling out of her top, but not Her. Dean only fucking wanted Her. “I’m heading out. Uh- Good luck.”

He wandered back to the motel in the dark. The streets were long, and the night was longer, and by the time he got back to the room, he wasn’t sure if he was losing his damn mind, or seeing a million fireflies dancing around his body. He had downed three shots and half a bottle of whiskey. Sleep would fix it. 

But he had something more important to do, first.

——————

Dec. 18th - 2010

Princess,

Been a long day. Most days are long days, without you. Everyone’s pissed at me, all for different shit, and it’s exhausting. Sam’s still being a dick. I swear to god, baby, you’d stab him for half the stuff coming out of his mouth.

You wouldn’t stab him. It’s Sammy, far as you know. Hell, you might just walk back through the door, and he’ll turn into Sammy. Start talking about some nerd shit and showing you books, like he hasn’t been whoring around in every town we go to. 

I’ve been thinking about if we’d known you, before the moroi. Maybe we would’ve met on some other case, or just all had normal lives. Probably just Bobby, introducing us to you as kids. You and Sammy would’ve been best friends, and you wouldn’t have even looked at me. Bobby’s been telling me and Jody (the sheriff lady) about what you were like as a kid. We have to get him drunk, first, but that’s pretty freaking easy lately. 

He says you loved books and animals and other girl stuff. But Sammy liked girl stuff, too. Bobby mentioned that you used to mix plants in the yard to make potions, and I remember Sammy doing that.

Only Bobby said one your potions turned a bunch of his cars into pure gold, and the other one attracted all the stray dogs in the neighborhood. Then he said you had a tea party with them, but I’m not sure if he’s making that part up. He was pretty freaking drunk.

Sammy’s potion tasted like ass. He asked me to drink it, and I couldn’t say no. He would’ve cried, Princess, and you’ve never seen Sammy about to cry. It’s like a whining puppy. So I drank his potion, and then I started throwing up for like a week. Dad was pretty pissed, thought I ordered them food, and it could have gotten Sammy poisoned too. Turned out the kid just put a bug in the potion. He liked bugs. Bobby says you liked bugs, too. 

Bugs are gross, sweetheart. But if being honest with you, I can see you asking me to hold a bug, and I do it. For you. I’d just be happy you were giving me the time of day, when you’d be spending all your attention on Sammy. 

What I’m trying to tell you is that I think I love you every time. I think if you were an actual Princess, I’d keep loving you from afar, like if you were Sammy’s bug friend and I was just his stupid older brother. And if you looked at me one day and asked me to do something for you, I’d make the moon move backwards. If you loved me back (because I love you. Just in case you frogot forgot) I’d figure out a way for us to be together. If you wanted me. 

Yours, 

DAW

——————

“What the hell is up with this place?” Dean muttered, frowning at his pancake. “First I wake up with a bunch of flowers on my pillow, then they give me one fucking pancake? Do they hate me?”

Sam sighed, poking at his own eggs. “I don’t think they are that much, Dean. And you’re the one who said you fell in the bushes last night.”

“It looked like a garden vomited on my pillow, Sam.”

“It was two milkweeds.”

“I don’t know flowers.” Dean glared at his plate, grumbling Her name. “She’d know flowers.”

She’d look at the flowers, and go Dean, this is clearly the work of the flower-moth, a moth that vomits flowers on handsome men who love their girlfriends. And then he’d kiss Her. 

Instead he was stuck with Sam hogging all the syrup for his sausages, and a waitress who kept staring at him.  

“I’m tell you, Sammy, this place is strange-“

“It has a case, Dean. Of course it’s strange.” 

“No, man, like- Weird-“

“That means the same as strange.”

Sam was going to get punched. “You know what I mean. Weird shit keeps happening-“

“Someone gave you a free apple.” Sam gave him a flat look. “And you got blackout drunk, picked flowers for your girlfriend, then started crying when you realized she was stuck in hell. That’s not weird shit, Dean, that’s you needing a therapist.”

Dean scowled. “Shut up. Couldn’t get a therapist anyway, they’d think I was freakin’-“ He whistled, twirling his finger, and Sam shrugged. 

“Sure. You go over the case, or do I have to-“

“Big hidden vamp nest.” Dean stabbed his fork into the pancake, and the syrup pooled like it was bleeding. “Talk to locals, see who knows what, gank all the sons of bitches the moment we catch wind of where they’re holed up. Look for a demon, too. Grab it if you see it. Laser tag rules.”

Sam frowned. “Laser tag?”

“First person to hit it gets the point.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dean shrugged, and it sounded pretty simple. Vamps were easy enough, and someone was bound to snitch with the right pressure. And Bobby said the town had a demon problem. They’d run into one eventually. 

Only they didn’t. 

And this wasn’t easy at all. 

These people were fucking crazy. Everyone kept blaming flooding season for the deaths, as if it wasn’t almost freakin’ Christmas. Dean went to the bathroom in the sheriff’s office, and opened to door only to trip over a pile of books. There wasn’t a single demon in sight, but whenever they interrogated someone about it, people reported smelling sulfur and seeing black eyes.

And all of the interrogations were going to make Dean pull out his eyes. But this one was a special kind of fucking insane. This one was going to make Dean have a goddamn seizure. 

“You two look like lovely boys.” The old woman said, pulling out the third tray of chicken nuggets from the oven. “I mean, at first I thought, oh, how spooky, big FBI agents wavin’ around their guns and askin’ questions, but y’know.” She beamed at them. “First impressions are often wrong.”

Sam gave the woman a grimacing smile and Dean stared at his drink. It was a Shirley temple. Three cherries, with half the damn drink just pure grenadine.

If She was here, Dean would slide his over for Her to drink, in trade for one of Her chicken nuggets. Actually, She loved chicken nuggets, too. And these chicken nuggets were half ketchup, which She’d love even more. 

Son of a bitch, he missed Her. 

“Ma’am,” Sam said cautiously. “We heard that you found one of the bodies, a few weeks ago-“

“Oh, yes, but it’s just flooding season.”

Dean glanced up. “Y’know, we’ve heard that a few times. Flooding season happened every year?”

“Oh, yes.” The woman nodded with a vague wave of her hand. “Or months.”

Sam frowned. “That’s- Not how seasons work-“

“Oh, sure it is. Lollipop?”

Sam shook his head, but Dean leaned forward. She had root beer. And cream soda. And blue raspberry. 

He took one of each, then a cherry one for himself. 

Sam raised his brows, and Dean shrugged, shoving them in his pocket.

“How many people usually die?” He asked, unwrapping his lollipop. “During flooding season?”

“Oh, about a dozen.”

“A- Dozen?” He sat up, shooting Sam a what the fuck look, and Sam sighed. 

“Ma’am, exactly how often does flooding season happen?”

“Whenever it pleases.” The woman sat across from them, pushing forward a huge bowl of purple ice cream. “Purple cow?”

Dean stared at her. Maybe it was a code. Christ, he was too tired for code.

“Blue chicken.”

“It’s the ice cream flavor, Dean.”

“Oh- Uh,” he gave the woman a tight grin, holding up his lollipop. “I’m good. Flooding season-“

“Sweetie, it ain’t nothin’ for you to worry about.” The woman sighed. “Every once and a while you FBI boys get interested in it, then you give up when you see the bodies washing up the river. Nothing for y’all to worry about. Not that you could understand.”

Sam sat up, and Dean had heard it too. “That we could understand?”

The woman nodded, humming as she set the ice cream off by a third, empty seat.

A seat with chicken nuggets, and a Shirley temple, and a bunch of blue raspberry lollipops on the placemat. 

Dean frowned, raising his hand to cut off any of Sam’s further words. “Can I ask you something, ma’am?”

“Course. Ain’t that what you’re here for?”

“Yeah, uh- Who’s that plate for?”

Dean pointed to the empty chair, and the woman sighed. 

“Ah- Nothin’ for you to worry about, sweetheart.” She rose up, moving back into her tiny kitchen. “Y’all want some mac and cheese?”

“Yes-“

“No.” Sam cut Dean off with a glare. “Ma’am, we would really like to know about the plate-“

“I told ya’, it ain’t anything you’re gonna understand-“

“We’re open minded.” Dean jumped in, giving her a winning smile. “Promise. The occult? My partner here is into that magic stuff it in like, that way,” he winked, and Sam could glare at him all he fucking wanted, Dean was past giving a shit. “And my girlfriend loves weird things, we got paintings of Death on the fridge at home.”

The woman raised her brows. “Really. So-“ She looked back and forth like someone might be watching, then shook her head. “No. I shouldn’t say.”

“Ma’am, we need you to tell us-“

“Aliens.” She whispered, and they both blinked. “They been comin’ around, for a few days. I always thought this town was somethin’ special, and I knew it. Aliens been tellin’ me that their goddess was here, and they’ve been helping me get ready.”

Sam just stared at her, and Dean cleared his throat. 

“So… Aliens told you their goddess would want purple ice cream and chicken nuggets.”

The woman nodded eagerly, and Dean gave her an awkward smile. 

“They say what kind of music she likes?”

“No!” Her eyes widened. “But shoulda been askin’. Good idea, boy, I’ll tell them about you, agent-“

“Perry.” Dean turned to Sam, giving him a firm look. “Can I talk to you?”

Sam nodded, and they were barely a step out of the house before Dean whirled around, glowering at Sam.

“I fuckin’ told you, there’s something weird going on here-“

“One crazy woman doesn’t mean weird, Dean.” Sam sighed, pulling out his phone. “We’ve got a few more interviews, try and see if we can figure out this flooding season thing-“

“Aliens, Sammy.” Dean shouted. “We just gonna ignore aliens-“

“Yep. We don’t hunt aliens. They’re not real.”

“But-“

“I know you think something is up, dude. But until we get proof, it’s still a vampire case. C’mon.”

Dean scowled as Samy stared back to the car, and couldn’t stop himself from muttering Her name under his breath. “She thinks aliens are real.”

If Sam heard him, he didn’t acknowledge it. But Dean was right. Strange fucking shit was up, in this town. Everyone kept doubling down on the flooding season thing, and when they looked at old records, that was the cause of death for nearly a hundred people in the past eight years. They didn’t get another old lady talking about aliens, but Dean noticed shit. The drawings of oceans and night skies on the pavement with chalk. The people looking up at the sky, and doing fancy, colorful makeup that makes them look like birds of paradise. He passed a stoop, and there was a knife taped to the door. 

And a knife on the sink, when he went to the bathroom. 

He needed to stop trying to shit. It kept making weird things happens. 

Sam hadn’t been wrong about the vampire case. All the old auto spy files about the flooding season victims were dead ringers for vamps, but there had to be more. People didn’t just start worshiping alien goddess out of nowhere, in a town where people died all the goddamn time. 

“We haven’t seen a single demon,” Dean muttered over the library table, and Sam sighed.

“What am I supposed to do about that, Dean.”

“I don’t know, I’m just saying it’s-“

“Don’t say strange.”

“It is strange! First we got this flooding season shit, then no demons-“

“No demons is good-“

“Not when a town is supposed to be drowning in them.” Dean hissed, leaning forward. “That means they’re hiding, Sam, that something bigger is happening-“

“Like aliens?” Sam’s tone was bored and mocking, and Dean scowled. 

“Yeah, Sam. Maybe.”

“Aliens that eat purple cow ice cream and Shirley temples.” 

“I’m not a freakin’ alien expert-“

“You need to sleep, Dean.” Sam sighed, flipping a page. “You sound insane.”

Of course he sounded insane. Their job was insanity, that wasn’t Dean’s fucking fault. They’d spent the whole day making no damn progress on anything, and Dean might be tired, but he mostly wanted to get this over with, and find a demon. He’d only taken this case for a demon, and now there weren’t any to be found. 

Maybe demons were the ones fucking with him. Dean wasn’t sure why the hell they’d target him over Sam—or why they seemed to know the exact things that would making something thing to the right of heart strain—but they were. He was walking down the sidewalk, and almost tripped over a bunch of crayons. He went for a bottle of whiskey, only for it to turn into a pina colada. The fucking fireflies kept dancing all around him—he wasn’t even that drunk this time—and when he started the walk back to the motel, he was pretty sure that whatever part of his brain hadn’t gone banana’s when She and Sammy fell in was finally slipping. 

The whole town had smelling like Her apples, all day. He hadn’t even been able to look at the lady hitting on him, because it made him feel sick. It was as if Her ghost—presence, if he thought ghost he thought dead, gone, never in his arms again, and then he had to run to the bathroom to vomit, then find a sugary peppermint resting on the doorknob—was wrapped over this entire town.

And on the wind, coming from somewhere in the swamps, he could hear it. 

It wasn’t the birdsong, from yesterday. 

It was a voice he knew. That vibrated in his chest and made his head feel light. That something deeper than his bones and blood seemed to recognize, even though Dean had never actually heard it before. 

But he knew it. 

More than anything, Dean knew it.

——————

Dec. 20th - 2010

Princess,

I got you some lollipops. Cream soda, root beer, and blue raspberry. When you get back, you can have them. 

You gotta come back. Just for this case, sweetheart. You’d love this case, you’d be bouncing off the damn walls. It’s got aliens, chicken nuggets, mac and cheese and free street knives. Like it was designed for you. 

I guess everything was designed for you. That’s the Bride of God thing. You’re the universe, and I’m just some asshole you watch TV with. 

Guess I always knew that. I know that you don’t want to be the Bride, but I can’t see how this life is any better. I’m not saying I want you to go, I’m saying you deserve better. Better than what any of us have ever been able to give you. Better than your family, or me, or Dad. 

I don’t know if I ever apologized to you, about Dad. What he did to you. If I didn’t, I’m sorry, baby. I told you, that’s never been what you deserved. And I’m never gonna be able to make up for the shit he did, for what I did when he told me, but I need you to know that I’d choose you. If I could go back and do it all again, I’d never leave you. I’d stay until the morning, ask you on a proper date, then give you whatever life you wanted. 

I don’t care if that ends with God coming for you anyway. Least I got you for a while. 

Any amount of time with you is more than I could ask for.

I love you. I think it’s driving me insane, how much I love you. Sam thinks so. And Bobby seems to think you feel some of it back, but I don’t think he understands what this is like. It doesn’t feel like normal love, Princess. It sorta feels like I knew it forever, even when I’ve been pissed at you. Like is so fucking deep in my body I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried. 

I don’t know if you feel it like that. But Bobby told me a couple days ago that you’d be broken up about it, if I died. I hope that’s not true. You’re worth a whole lot more than my sorry life, baby girl.

Yours, 

DAW

——————

He couldn’t sleep. 

The singing wouldn’t stop. All fucking night it carried through the windows, dragging Dean up from any rest, soothing him and driving him out of his mind all at once. Sam got about around 4am, and it was still going. 

“You been hearing that?” He grumbled into his pillow, and Sam let out a loud, dramatic sigh.

“Hear what, Dean.”

“The freakin’ singing.”

“The- Do you have headphones on?”

“Do I look like I have headphones on, bitch?”

“Well, there’s no singing-“

“No, there’s-“ Dean let out a long, heavy breath. “Never mind.”

It was gone by the time the sun was up. And then they had to get back on the case. The vampire and demon free vampire and demon case, with an extra side of aliens, in a city that wouldn’t just let Dean goddamn rest.

“They found another body last night,” Sam said over breakfast, and Dean grunted. “We should go to the coroner’s office, check it out.”

“Thought we knew it was vamps.” Dean muttered. One pancake again. He was going to drive off a cliff. “What’s the fuckin’ point.”

“Conformation.” Sam shrugged. “I’d bet on vampires, but maybe it’s something new like vampires. We have to cover all our bases before we go in swinging, Dean, you know that.”

He grumbled an agreement, his gaze wandering aimlessly over Sam’s shoulder. There were two little girls, sharing a milkshake that looked pretty goddamn good. If She was here, Dean would buy Her a milkshake. Then She’d tell him that she could buy it herself, both of us are using stolen money, Winchester, and Dean would convince Her that it was actually pretty fucking important that Dean but the milkshake. It was about chivalry. 

And in his fake dream world, She’d give in with a giggle, and he’d get to wrap his arm over Her shoulder. Kiss the top of Her head, then watch her drink with a big innocent expression, adorably unaware of how Dean was watching Her lips wrap around the straw, thinking of all the things he was going to do to Her when they got back to the motel. 

She’d makes Dean drink some of it. And he’d get little bit of whipped cream on his nose—on purpose, but She wouldn’t be able to prove that—so She’d kiss it off. Then it wouldn’t matter what Dean had been planning, because he’d kiss Her fully, She’d climb into his lap, and by the time people were coughing and staring at them making out in the booth, Dean wouldn’t be able to wait for the motel. He’d just bring Her right to the backseat of the Impala, find a shady corner to park, and bury his face between Her thighs-

“Dean.” Sam waved in front of his face, snapping Dean out of the daydream. “Stop thinking about her and focus.”

“I wasn’t-“

“You make the same face, whenever you think about her.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “The hell I do-“

“Yeah, you do. It’s better than Her Dean face, though. C’mon.”

“Her-“

Sam stood up, and Dean’s words died in his throat. 

Right where Sam’s massive fucking head had been blocking, was a huge Indiana Jones poster. 

And Dean would be all the stolen money on his credit card that it hadn’t been there the days before. 

Sam wasn’t interested in any of Dean’s theories, though. He hadn’t heard the singing, couldn’t smell Her apple, didn’t seem to notice how this whole town was drenched in Her. 

“Maybe we should go back to the Alien lady.” Dean muttered, staring blankly at the vic’s body. “See what the alien goddess thing is about.”

“No. That would be a waste of time.” Sam turned the vic’s neck, and gave Dean a smug look. “See?”

He angled the neck for Dean to see, and he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I never said it wasn’t a vamp. I just- Something’s up, Sam-“

“Yeah, vampires.” Sam dropped the neck, picking up the arm with a frown. “The bodies are bloated, though. And they’re always found in the river. Maybe the vamps dump them, after feeding fresh-“

“Sure. We haven’t seen a single demon-“

“Maybe there never were demons. Bobby can be wrong sometimes.”

Dean scowled. Bobby could be wrong. But usually when Bobby was wrong, they had Her there to say what was right. And that was always on cases with weird fucking shit.

“Let’s check upstream.” Sam said, grabbing his jacket off a chair. “See if we can find the nest-“

“Sam.” Dean grunted, grabbing his arm. “Look, I know you don’t have feelings right now, or whatever, but you gotta at least admit something’s up here. That this isn’t a normal case.”

Sam nose wrinkled slightly, but he let out a long sigh, and nodded. “Yeah, it’s strange. But we know there are vamps, Dean. And if we gank them and still see some weird shit, then we can start thinking about- Aliens.”

Dean nodded slowly, opening his mouth to make some sort of point about the demons—three things in one town was kind of a lot, so maybe there was a bigger root problem that needed to be dealt with—that was cut off by a knock on the door. 

The coroner—a round faced, smiling man—waved at them from the window, and Dean sighed, pulling the door open. 

“Hey, boys!” The coroner breamed between them, and Dean had never met anyone who was happier to be working with dead bodies. “You find what you needed? Anythin’ else I can do to help?”

“No.” Sam said, giving the coroner a close-lipped smile. “We got it. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Hey, anything for the big timers, right?” The coroner laughed. “The FBI bein’ this interested in our little town-“

“Yep. Well, we should head out-“

“I mean, three feds, lookin’ at my dead bodies? This is the best week of my life.”

Dean froze, his body going rigid, and he didn’t have to look at Sam to know he’d done the same.

“Your dead bodies?” Sam asked, and Dean scowled.  

“And,” he shot Sam a glare. “Three agents? I don’t know if you’re seeing double, buddy, but there’s only two of us-“

“Well, there’s you guys, and the lady.”

Sam frowned. “The lady?”

“Yep. Scary looking gal, real looker. Started walkin’ around my office like she owned it, talked like a book had a baby with a pirate.”

Dread started to twist in Dean’s gut. Dread and something worse. Something with soft light that could be fucking hope. “Her eyes.” He muttered, gesturing to his own face. “Were they- What’d they look like?”

“Huh.” The coroner tilted his head. “Kinda sparkly. Like stars.”

Son of a bitch. 

He didn’t wait for Sam, before stomping out of the office. He couldn’t goddamn breathe, or see anything but blurred color, and it felt like he was having a freaking heart attack, with the strain to the right of his heart. She couldn’t be here. Dean would fucking know if She was here. She was still in the cage, because he couldn’t get her out, but that meant-

“Dean.” Sam called, jogging after him. “Slow down-“

“I’m not gonna fucking slow down,” Dean sneered, whirling around. “I told you, Sam, something crazy is happening in this town. Someone is messing with me, making me- I can-“

Sam braced his hands on his hips as Dean took a deep, unsteady breath. “Dude, I know that sounded like her, but-“

“No.” Dean snapped. “You don’t get it, I can smell her and hear her, and- She loves chicken nuggets, Sam. She loves chicken nuggets, and candy, and Indiana Jones, and- Son of a bitch, she loves that purple cow ice cream, I remember her giving Cas some- And the bar has been playing all her favorite songs and she loves flowers and- Christ, Sam, I think I’m gonna open the shower tonight a find a kitten in the bathtub-“

“Dean-“

“Someone is fucking with me, Sam. Someone is trying to drive me insane-“

“Dean-“

“And I’m gonna- I’ll fucking kill them-“

“Dean!” Sam shouted. “I think you’re right.”

Dean blinked. “You do?”

“Yep. It’s-“ Sam sighed, keeping his gaze firmly locked on Dean’s. “Don’t look. But there’s a child watching us.”

“A-“ Dean turned, Sam groaned, and there was a child watching them. Not in the way children watched adults fight, but with a strange sort of intent. 

The moment her eyes locked with Dean’s, she took off down the street. 

Dean sighed. “Are we chasing a child.”

Sam shrugged. “Guess we have to.”

They took off after her. Down the street—fast fucking kid—and around the block, before she turned into an alley- 

Something slammed over Dean’s head, drove into his gut, and the world went black. 

Stayed black, for a little while.

Dean’s head fucking hurt again, when he could think. The low groan that left him wasn’t dignified, either. 

But they had bigger problems to deal with. 

The room was pretty dark. Windowless, with a soft carpet Dean’s face had be dropped against. Everything goddamn hurt, and between the throbbing in his skull, ache in his jaw, and sticky, wet feeling in his gut, someone had beaten the shit out of him.  His hands were tied behind his back, and when he glanced over, Sam was in the exact same position, with a gash on his arm and black eye blooming on his face.

His eyes slowly started to adjust, as he forced through the pain and pushed himself up on his knees. The whole room was full of fancy shit. Polished wooden tables and plush chairs, with the stupid, cream and red design you’d see in a grandmother’s house. There were paintings on the walls, and crystal glasses filled with something red, and a man. 

One man, bald and bored looking, sitting on the largest chair with one leg over the other. Watching Sam and Dean try to get their bearings with vague amusement, swirling the red stuff in his own glass. 

Blood. 

“Sam.” Dean groaned, scrunching his nose as another pain stabbed through his skull. “Think we found the vamp nest.”

Sam glared at him, and the man chuckled. 

“You are Dean, I presume?” He hummed, his voice smooth and dry. “Which makes the big one Sam.”

Dean smirked at him. His gun was gone. Best bet was getting the evil plan, then finding a way out. “So you heard of us?”

The man sighed. “Every Alpha has heard of the Winchesters. At this point, every monster has heard of the Winchesters. I’ve always heard you travelled in a herd of three...” The man raised his brows, and Dean tensed. “But I guess the brains couldn’t grace us with her presence, being trapped in the cage.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, and Sam cleared his throat. “Alpha?”

“Yes, Sam Winchester.” The man sighed. “Alpha. You’re a smart boy, I’m sure you can work out what that means.”

Sam blinked. “Alpha is the first letter of the greek alphabet. So, uh-“

“He’s the first vampire.” Dean grunted, eyes narrowing. “Or he’s saying he is.”

The man—Alpha Vampire—gave Dean an amused look. “Interesting. Not just the beauty, are you, Dean.”

Sam frowned. “He’s right?”

“Oh, yes.” The Alpha hummed. “I am indeed the first vampire. The father of the greatest race my mother ever created-“

“Mother?”

“Yes, Dean. Mother. We all come from somewhere, just as my children came from me. And you two have killed many of them-“

“Sorry, Dracula.” Dean shrugged, and the move split his spine. “They were killing people-“

“They were eating food.” The Alpha snapped. “Just like a hunter, to speak of things they don’t understand. I was hoping to speak to the Magdalene-“

“You know about Magdalenes?” Sam cut in, and the Alpha sighed. 

“Of course I know about Magdalenes. I have met several, in my life. But you have the Magdalene.” The Alpha laughed to himself. “Had the Magdalene.”

Dean’s fists curled, and even that movement hurt. “Listen, Count Chocula, you better shut your goddamn mouth-“

“Or what, Dean.” The Alpha drawled. “You are not at the advantage here. And I would not go making threats when I am already very displeased with your presence in my town.” He leaned forward, glaring between Sam and Dean. “I have spent almost two hundred years in Cadillac without disturbances. Do you have any idea how long it takes to convince a town that flooding season is a genuine reason for people to die en masse?” He sighed, lips curling. “Very long. And it was all going just swimmingly, then suddenly there are demons and fairies, and it is all the Winchester’s fault.”

“Demons?”

“Fairies?”

The Alpha sighed. “Yes, Sam. Fairies. They are rare, in our world, which makes the fact that about three dozen of them have been running around my town all week all the more annoying. And-“

“Uh, can we go back to the demon thing.” Dean said over the Alpha, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Cause we’ve been here a few days, and I haven’t seen a single demon-“

“And we’ve never heard of fairies.” Sam added. “We’re here to hunt vampires.”

The Alpha gave Sam an amused look. “And is that supposed to help your case?”

“No.” Sam shrugged. “But demons and fairies aren’t us.”

Dean really wanted to circle back to demons—they hadn’t even fucking seen one—but they also had to get out of this alive. So it could go on the back burner for now.”

“Sam’s right.” He said, throwing the Alpha another grin. “You’ve got the wrong guys, buddy. Sucks.”

The Alpha scowled. “You cannot trick me, Dean Winchester. I know it is you. My people have been on lockdown, since they arrived, and none of them are foolish enough to deal with a hoard of demons in this political climate. Not when the new boy-king of Hell is trying to make me open the door to Purgatory-“

“Purgatory?” Sam cut in, the room was sort of spinning as the Alpha sighed.

“Yes, Sam. Purgatory. Even our souls deserve a place to rest, when vermin like you bite.”

“But why would Crowley care about that, he’s the King of Hell-“

“I have not been asking him,” the Alpha sneered. “While he’s been trying to kidnap me. And as I was trying to say, demons are unruly, but fairies? They can be controlled.”

“That’s great, dude.” Dean grunted, straining slightly at the ropes around his ankles. They were fucking tight, and every movement send a new wave of pain through his body. “The hell do you want-“

“I want you to listen.” The Alpha snapped. “You claim you are not behind any of this, but I know otherwise.”

Sam frowned. “We’ve been here three days, we couldn’t-“

Sam cut himself off as one of the curtains moved, revealing the little girl that had been watching them on the street. Dark hair and big eyes, a blank expression as She stood so goddamn still Dean didn’t know if she was breathing or not.

“This is Ella.” The Alpha hummed, standing to place a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “She’s a young good fairy, bound to my service.”

“She a kid.” Dean hissed, and the Alpha laughed.

“Do not act like you wouldn’t hunt her if she was only a few years old, Dean. And she has been quite helpful, telling me exactly what’s going on.”

Sam gave Dean a tense look, Dean swallowed, and something seemed to bang outside.

“Ella,” the Alpha drawled. “Tell me why you’re here.”

The girl pointed. 

To Dean.

“Dean?” Sam said, and Dean was confused as well, but the tone wasn’t fuckin’ needed. “That can’t be why she’s here-“

“I assure you, fairies cannot lie-“

“But they’re here for their goddess.” Sam snapped, and Dean felt kinda heavy

“Those were the aliens, Sammy-“

“Fairies that woman probably thought we aliens, Dean.” Sam gave the Alpha a glare. “It can’t be Dean. He’s not a goddess. Or a god. He’s just a guy.”

Dean scowled, and the Alpha tilted his head.

“What about the fairies cannot lie do you not understand-“

“The part where you think they’re here for Dean.”

Sam held the Alpha’s glare, Her apple smell was getting stronger, and Dean was starting to feel sort of lightheaded. Might be the blood loss, or just the fairy doing something to him, but-

“If you’re planning on do somethin’ to me.” He muttered, and the Alpha frowned at him. “Can it happen now, before I bleed all over your fancy freakin’ carpets?”

“The injuries won’t kill you,” the Alpha, snapped and Dean groaned, shaking his head. 

He was going to bleed out in fucking Cadillac. The one thing Bobby had told him not to do was die, and he couldn’t even fucking manage that. And Sam was saying his name, but it didn’t sound all that worried, and if he went maybe he could be a part of that flooding season thing. 

And Her apple smell was consuming him. Maybe he was already falling into hell. 

Maybe She’d meet him there. All the way down. 

He could already hear a lot of shouting, but it didn’t sound like hell shouting. That was more just screams of pain. There was a muffled urgency to this shouting, and Alpha was frowning somewhere over Dean’s head, and the ringing in his ears got louder. 

“I may have to cut our audience short-“

“Father-“ A tall, broad man slammed open the doors of the fancy room panting heavily, and the Alpha frowned.

Dean’s knees felt weak, just keeping him upright. Everything fucking smelled like apples. 

“Jonas, what-“

“It’s- Fuck, it’s-“ The man shook his head frantically, and the Alpha took a long step forward. 

“Jonas, speak plainly-“

“It’s her!” Jonas screamed, and the Alpha flinched back. “It’s the girl-“

Jonas’ word died in a gurgle of blood, his throat slit clean open with a bubbling wound that spread, before his head fell clean from his shoulders.

And Dean must be dying. Or just already dead.

Because Jonas fell to the floor, and standing right behind him was Her. 

She was fucking here. Out of the cage and right in front of him, the light from the hallway seeming to cast around Her like She was something ethereal from the night sky, come down to guide Dean home. All the color in the world growing vibrant, and the air in every ragged breath cleaner. Wind seemed to be blowing through Her shining hair, making Her look even more like a goddess from above heaven. But Her skin looked soft. Touchable. And She was still wearing Her usual jacket and dress, spinning Her blade in her hands, as she frowned down at Jonas.

“You know.” She drawled, nudging his body with her foot. “I’ve wanted to be the girl.”

She still sounded like a siren. It was the only noise in the world that wasn’t far away anymore, the only thing Dean could hear at all. 

“Magdalene.” The Alpha hissed, and She looked up with a sweet smile. 

“Hi. Do you like my trick? I-“

Her words died, and She was looking at Dean. 

Right at him, with bright eyes. 

He didn’t even know if this was real, but She was looking at him, and he couldn’t stop himself from groaning Her name. 

If She was here because he was dying, it could only go faster. The sooner the pain ended, the sooner he’d be able to hold Her. 

“Dean- Dean-“ She took a stumbling step forward, and the Alpha was faster. Dean felt himself be yanked up be the neck, another low sound of pain escaping his throat.

He probably didn’t look very heroic. If She was just another hallucination, it wouldn’t matter, but just in case She somehow wasn’t, Dean tried to puff out his chest and look like he wasn’t dying. It only made the Alpha’s sharp nails sink a little further into his neck, and another low groan leave his body. Somewhere in his periphery, Sam started to move, then let out a sharp grunt as the Alpha kicked his gut.

“The rumors are all true, it seems.” The Alpha said, voice mocking. “The Magdalene has a soft spot for the angel’s toys.”

She was frozen in doorway. Dean could see Her grip on the knife tightening, shoulders rising and falling rapidly. 

She was freaking out. Dean needed to get to Her and touch Her—to make this all better—but he didn’t even know if he’d be able to, or he’d just fall right through the air. 

“I’ve heard rumors that you’re particularly fond of this one.” The Alpha squeezed Dean’s neck, and his vision started to dance with spots. 

She took another staggering step forward, Her voice far softer than only a moment before. “Don’t-“

Something sharp was starting to poke at Dean’s throat. “Another step, and he dies.”

Her eyes were locked onto Dean’s, and they were the only bright thing left in the world. Glossy and desperate, and he didn’t understand. He’d be fine. Once he was gone, he’d be able to touch Her again. 

“No- Dean-“

“Knife down, darling.” The Alpha hummed, and she raised Her hands, shaking her head desperately. 

“I- I can’t- Please, don’t-“

The Alpha roared, and nothing split open Dean’s throat, and the world didn’t go dark. All the pressure was released, and he fell onto the ground, flat on his back. 

He could swear, through the fog clouding his head, he could see the little fairy girl wrapped around the Alpha’s head, clawing and chewing at his skin. But they fell out of his view, and Dean wasn’t sure if he was dead. There was too much pain for it, but he also couldn’t really feel his own body, and people were shouting around him, but he couldn’t make out the words. 

He was being dragged. Across the ground, then hauled up into the air. When his head turned, he was pressed against something that smelled so fucking good. Then there was a harsh light that made him groan, then he was somewhere softer, a rumbling below him. Smaller arms were pulling him up, and he slumped forward against a warm body that fit his so perfectly. Familiar, gentle hands were grabbing his face, but he couldn’t control his own body, and he slumped down forward. There was a beautiful voice, calling his name, and it sounded so sad. When a tension released from Dean’s wrists, his arms moved to hold the source of it—the warm body—as he tried to mutter soothing words, but they just came out like nothing. 

“Dean,” She whispered, prying him away from Her neck. “Dean, I need you to stay awake, no-“

She sounded like She was crying, and he couldn’t let that happen, either. Dean mumbled Her name—the word a little clearer than all the others—but She still wouldn’t let him fall down.

“I- Fuck- Don’t move-“ A hand pressed to his chest and he covered it, trying to keep Her there. 

It worked.

Dean was touching Her. 

He might still be dying, though. He could see that light people were always talking about, as he forced his vision to focus. Forced himself to see Her. 

She looked so sad. Almost broken, with Her hair stuck to Her brow and Her eyes darting between his face, and Her hand on his chest. Her brow was wrinkled, and there were bags under Her eyes, and She’d never looked more beautiful because She was here. Real, and touching Dean in a way he could feel as more than a phantom shiver.

And Dean could touch Her.

It was slipping so fast. The word was getting sharper, and the pain was easing, but now he just felt so tired. He had to touch Her, though, before exhaustion pulled him under. He had to, just so he knew this wouldn’t have to become another nightmare where She slipped through his fingers. 

Dean grabbed Her face between his hands, and She stared at him. Wide eyed and pretty. Flushing slightly.

Real.

“Hey, Princess.” He tried to sound collected and charming, but his mouth was swelling, and the world was still spinning. “You look pretty.”

His brow dropped to Her shoulder, the exhaustion settling into his bones. But he grinned, as it washed over his body. 

Because he could hear Her. 

Saying his name. 

Home.

This wasn’t one of those dreams. 

It was like he was back underwater, reaching up to try and get to the surface, his hand scraping over the waves but never breaching the surface. He couldn’t breathe, or see, or even roar Her name, to make sure she was still there.

But then it was different. 

Suddenly the water was warm, and the world started to glow with light.

He was swimming. Drifting even further down. 

But it didn’t hurt anymore. And when he blinked around, there was something bright and silver and beautiful, like a star fallen right into the ocean, watching over him in the dark.

“I don’t remember anything.”

“Anything?” There was a light pressure on Dean’s chest, and it went still. “Not even- Anything?”

“That’s what I said.”

It started moving again. “Well, where did you wake up?”

“Cas said Kansas. You didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t.”

There was a lot of light, here. Behind Dean’s eyes, softer than the light when he’d been dragged around earlier. This was also a softer surface, and everything still smelled like apples, but there wasn’t a ringing in his ears, or more than a stinging pain in his chest that his body was too tired to fight. 

He’d been injured. The pain was stitches, because he’d gotten the shit beat out of him. And most of what he could remember was a blur, but there had been the Alpha, the fairies, and- 

Her.

She was here. Home. This was probably Her hotel, because there wasn’t any rattling of the heater. It was Her and Sam talking, and Her hands on Dean’s chest. She’d tensed, because Sam didn’t remember the cage, and they’d been in there together. 

But they were both out. Dean hadn’t died, She was real.

“Are you going to tell me-“

“Jerusalem.” Her words were short. Tight. Dean wanted to curve over Her, until She relaxed, but he couldn’t really find enough strength to move. And selfishly, he just wanted to keep Her hands on his chest. 

“Huh. Alright.” Sam paused. “Why were you hunting alone?"

“I was looking for you guys.”

Lie. That was a lie. Dean didn’t know why, but that was a freaking lie, and he was too fucking tired to understand it.

“What the hell happened, back there?”

“I don’t know.” She murmured. “The- Fairy?”

“Yep.”

“The fairy,” She sighed. “Attacked, and I didn’t pause to take an audit. I- I had to-“

Her words died off, and Dean fought his shiver as Her fingers trailed up his chest. 

Sam cleared his throat. “I’m gonna go call Bobby. Give him the rundown. Vampires, fairies, demons-“

“Demons?”

“Bobby said there were demons, and Dean was looking for one, to help Cas with find what Crowley’s after or some shit. But we didn’t see any.”

“Oh.” She hummed, and there was something strange to Her tone Dean was too tired to place. “Okay. Tell Bobby we’re a star up and three over, he’ll know what it means.”

Something scraped on the floor, the wood of the floor creaked, and a door slammed. 

She was still touching Dean. 

It lingered, every time She brushed over Dean’s skin. Like a brand he didn’t want to heal from, or something hot sinking under his muscles and taking root in his gut. He’d never try and remove it. 

He never wanted Her to be gone again. 

When She finished the stitches, there was rush of panic through his body. She’d stop touching him, and he didn’t want Her to. He shouldn’t have played passed out, now he couldn’t tell Her to stay without freaking Her out. He couldn’t even pretend to grab Her wrist in his sleep, She hated that- 

She didn’t move away. Light fingers ghosted over the wound, a soft sound came from somewhere above him, and his hand was pulled into Her’s. He felt Her touch his fingers so delicately, tracing over every callous and line, before they were tangled together, and Dean’s hand was set back down as the mattress dipped. 

She was lying next to him. Holding his hand, even though She didn’t know he was awake. 

Like She couldn’t bear to leave either.

Fuck it. 

Slowly enough that She could stop him if She wanted, Dean pulled Her into his chest. He heard Her breath hitch slightly, but She was still relaxed in his arms, right until She was almost curled over him, free hand resting on his chest. 

When he opened his eyes, She was there. Right next to him, blinking up at him with wide, slightly puffy eyes. Her lips were swollen from chewing, that little wrinkle between Her brows. Dean held Her gaze as he moved his arm over Her head, and around Her shoulders, swallowing the grunt the movement caused and reaching around to rub his thumb down Her nose. 

Her eyes fluttered, slightly, and he couldn’t stop his small grin. 

“Morning.”

Her throat bobbed, voice perfectly soft. “It’s 1pm.”

“Brunch time.”

“That’s just lunch, De-“

“Brunch is a feeling, Princess.”

“You’ve never even had brunch-“

“I ate eggs with you at 2, that one time.”

“That was 2am.”

“Yeah, and it felt like brunch.” 

Her lips twitched as She sniffed, turning Her face into Dean shoulder, and he chuckled. It hurt. 

He didn’t care.

“Hey, Princess.”

She hummed, not moving, and Dean sighed. 

“Sam’s soul is blocked, by the way. That’s why he’s being such a dick.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“He tell you?”

“No.”

“Then how-“

“Demon.” She mumbled, still not moving. “In Iraq.”

Dean frowned into the air. Iraq. That was halfway across the freaking world, not just a few days to South Carolina. And Sam was right, She had been hunting alone. Lying about why. 

Not wearing the clothes She’d fallen in with, like Sammy had been. 

And suddenly his throat hurt again. She wouldn’t be so calm, if She’d just gotten out of the cage. She might not have been a shattered mess like Sammy, but She wouldn’t be spinning Her blade and carving through vampires. She’d be too tired, from being dead. 

He had to ask. 

Even when he didn’t really want the answer. 

“You’ve been out-“

“Since September.” She whispered, and Dean felt the ache from his chest move to the pit of his stomach. 

Three months. 

Three fucking months.

“Why.” He grunted, unable to think of anything else to say.

She pushed up on Her palms, looking at him with a pleading expression. “I- I had to.”

She didn’t say more. And looking at Her, Dean couldn’t bring himself to push for it. 

She looked so fucking tired. All the lines of Her face were sharper, Her eyes holding new strange depth to them that he couldn’t name. As if She’d seen all the stars in the sky, been blinded by them, and done something horrible to keep seeing. 

To keep looking at Dean. 

But it still fucking hurt. And he couldn’t stop the bitterness of his tone.

“Bobby know?” He muttered, holding Her palm over his chest because he loved Her, and if She turned into mist above him, he might snap in half. “That you’re back?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, scanning over Dean’s face. “I- I just got back a few days ago. I lost my phone, his number is the only one I know. And he- He told me you were here.”

Truth. That was the truth. 

And She looked so fucking sad.

“So you came,” Dean muttered, and She nodded. A small, nervous movement, Her whole body tensed above Dean’s. Like She expected him to shove Her away. 

And it was boiling in the cavity of his chest. She ran again, when She swore she wouldn’t. 

But she was here now. Looking at Dean like he was the most important thing in the world. Like he could possibly hurt something as vital as Her. And he doesn’t want to break Her. Touchable. In Dean’s hands, with one still covering Her’s and the other on Her waist.

He knew that, the longer he sat in it, the pit was only going to split further open.

But She was filling it with light.

And right now, he’d been in the dark too long to care.

“I missed you.” He said, his voice barely a rasp, and something flashed over Her features.

“I missed you, too.”

She squeezed his hand three times, with the words. 

Okay. Everything’s okay. 

It wasn’t. He wasn’t even that angry with Her. It just hurt. It goddamn hurt, that She hadn’t come back. Maybe She’d known what he was doing, while She was gone, and decided She wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe he’d been insane to think She’d ever want to crawl back to him at all, when he was still from the mud.

But She’d saved him. And he could see it, haunted in Her eyes. All those stars behind Her gaze, crashing back down to Earth to only look at Dean. Look at him like She loved him. And maybe She did, but Dean couldn’t have that be a burden. An obligation. Something that made this all worse, to be loved by something as low as Dean.

So he would be better. Do better. Figure out where he went wrong, and never be something She ran from again. 

She was still looking at him. And he was out of words to say it. How he’d missed Her, and how he loved Her, and how fucking sorry he was for all of it. 

But when he reached up to cup Her face, She leaned into the touch, and Dean knew. He was bad at saying it. He’d fuck it up.

He’d just have to show it. 

She stared at Dean, as he guided Her down, but melted into him all the same. 

Pressed Her lips against Dean’s, as his hand glided up Her back, and made a soft, blissful sound as he kissed Her with a little more than he’d ever had before. Then She kissed him back—wrapping Her legs carefully around his torso and crashing so deep into him he couldn’t really think past Her apple on his tongue and warmth in his arms—and it was like breathing. 

Simple and natural and thoughtless. The most crucial thing, to move his lips against Her’s and press his tongue between Her lips. To keep holding Her as she made a high, sweet sound and ran Her fingers through his hair.

She was still fragile in his arms. Dean still felt the weight of the whole year, hanging over their heads. But it wouldn’t matter, as long as he got to hold Her and kiss Her like this. Like he’d been made to do it, with his mouth slotted perfectly against Her’s and every sound Dean pulled from Her like music. He was still Her shadow, and not time would wipe him away. 

He’d love Her in the dark, as long as She kept being light.

And it wasn’t something She could stop being. She just was. Even with Her body shivering under Dean’s touch—his hand dipping under Her shirt to skim up Her back, Her neck being angled by his careful hand—and way Her nails dug into his shoulders, She was still light. 

Her light had never been pure white enough for it to just stop shining. It was made with a little bit of darkness. Made of silver. 

So She’d last. 

And Dean would stay Her shadow, nipping at Her lips as they drew back for ragged breaths, until She left him in the dark.

“Don’t leave.” She whispered against his lips. “I- I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry-“

“I know.” He murmured, bumping their noses. “I know, Princess-“

A sob shook Her body, and Dean could taste the salt of Her tears. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave me-“

“Hey.” He ran his thumb down Her nose, and those pretty lashes fluttered. “I’m not leaving, sweetheart. Just- Don’t run again.” His voice was hoarse. “Please.”

“Oh- Okay.”

She said it like it was simple. Hooked Her pinky with Dean’s and silently swore to it, as if it was nothing. And when She spoke, Her words sounded like a plea.

“All the way down?”

He leaned back to look at Her, and there it was again. That look. 

And Dean had tried being mad at Her. Tried hating Her, as well. 

It never worked in his favor. 

And She always came back.

“Yeah, Princess.” He squeezed Her hand three times, giving Her a small—but so painfully fucking real—grin. “All the way down.”

End Note: I'm sorry for edging you guys, thank you for trusting.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[dearcupidz]

୨୧ 𝐵ED CHEM… .ᐟ

𐙚ᅠ – 551 words, smut 18+ (it’s my first time writing smut so maybe it’s shitty) i could not decide for who to write this sooo i didnt include names, you can imagine one of the beautiful men i pictured while writing this or just imagine whoever u want! english is not my first language.

summary: Your super hot of a boyfriend always keeps his glasses on. Even on sexy time.

clark kent, reed richards / pedro pascal, lee heeseung, sim jake, park sunghoon, hwang hyunjin, kento nanami.

The kisses that your boyfriend was giving you were borderline animalistic. All teeth and tongue, no room for breathing.

His hands were wandering all over your naked skin. Teasing your nipples. Squeezing your hips with his fingers.

You could only whimper at how good it felt, and he wasn’t even inside you yet.

When he had enough of taunting you, he pumped his throbbing cock a few times, then inserted himself inside of you, sliding way too easily thanks to how wet you were.

You gasped.

“Hmm… s-so good,” sighing, closing your eyes.

“Yeah? Is it good, sweetheart?” he murmured in your ear. Watching the arousing sight of both of your bodies connected.

He started trusting, his cock disappearing into you.

“Mhmm,” nodding your head. “Y-yes,” you moaned.

You open your eyes, taking in his appearance. His glasses are nearly slipping from where they’re sitting on his nose. Foggy. A little crooked. A smug smirk on his lips. His necklace dangling in front of your face.

You had never seen a sight so… erotic.

“Y-you look ahh so… handsome…” struggling to finish your sentence by the delicious feeling of his cock dragging in and out of you.

His smirk grew even wider. Lowering his face to press little kisses all over your face. “Yeah?” he asks, his voice muffled against your cheek. You can only nod. Words are not easy right now, if you open your mouth to try and speak, the only words that will come out are probably cock, cock, cock, glasses, cock.

By now—his thrusts were relentless; he didn’t have a rhythm. Just accommodating his hips at the angle that made you moan his name even louder.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, caressing the hairs at his nape. “F-fuck… baby. You drive me crazy…” he said out of breath.

You could practically feel him in your tummy. You lowered your head, eyes hooked to the buldge on your belly every time he thrusted. You clenched around him. Your release was so close.

“Hm bab– g’na… gon- cum,” you whimpered as you could. He grunted in your ear. Breathing heavily. “Is that so? I-is my princess gonna cum?” You nodded fast. The sweet feeling already forming.

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Cum for me.”

And that you did.

Legs trembling. Back arching. Eyes closed.

“Ohh!– oh my godd!” you cried. Your pussy practically trapped him from how hard you clenched. That was his last straw.

“Good girl… I’m gonna cum inside y-you,” he moaned. “You want it?” The only sounds you could hear were his agitated breathing and how wet you were. You hugged his sweaty shoulders.

“Y-yes… wan’– your cum… please, come inside me,” you begged. “Fuck, don’t w-worry, princess. I… oh my- fuck!” Those were his last words before you felt his warm seed painting your walls.

“Oh, baby. That felt… so good. You did amazing…” he said, out of breath. And nonetheless, he still looked absolutely beautiful.

He rested his forehead against yours. He leaned forward to give you a passionate kiss.

You pulled away from his kiss. A string of saliva connecting both. Giggling at him, “I love you,” you said. “I love you more, baby,” he answered, with a smile.

“But… I think I love your glasses even more,” you confessed, a shy smile making its way to your lips.

“Oh, trust me. I know.”

ps: this is embarassing.

[screamingintotheneverendingvoid]

Meet The Parents

John Carter x nurse!reader (Sunny)

Summary: You and John are supposed to have dinner with his parents, but when he sends you off early while he stays back at County a little longer, he gets stuck at work while you get stuck having dinner with his parents alone.

Warnings: John’s parents being a lot, reader is described as wearing a dress and putting on make up, no use of y/n (reader’s nickname is Sunny), reader and John being a little frisky and sweet, a sprinkle of reader’s backstory (raised by grandparents), mentions of cases that have happened at the hospital.

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long, life has been coming at me from all directions, so writing and watching ER have fell on the back burner for a bit, but I finally finished this and wanted to send it out to you all. <3 Here to edit this because I forgot, this takes place in the context of season 8 episode 2!

—

Going to meet John’s parents for dinner wasn’t necessarily your idea of a good time, but when he asked if you’d go, how could you tell him no?

Plus, maybe they wouldn’t be so bad when it was just the two of you and not a bunch of other people around, and not a funeral.

You were holding on to that hope. These are John’s parents after all, and you could handle them hating you just to hate you, but your insecurities poked and prodded at the surface. John never made you feel bad because of your background, but you fear his parents might not like you for that reason, and you can’t change your background.

So you just didn’t want to be fighting a losing battle trying to make a good impression.

You stood in the doctor’s lounge, looking in the small mirror in your shared locker. You carefully dragged your red lipstick over your bottom lip, loving how it perfectly matched your red dress. This was a fancy restaurant, so you wanted to look your best, and you know it’s John’s favorite color on you. That was just icing on the cake though.

“Hey, are you ready?” John burst through the door to the lounge and stopped dead in his track when he saw you, letting out a low whistle as he took in your figure.

“You look amazing… are you sure we’re going to dinner with my parents? I mean we could always call and cancel…” He trailed off as he walked up behind you, wrapping his arms around your midsection.

You rolled your eyes playfully, and rubbed your lips together making sure the lipstick was evenly distributed.

“Yeah, call and cancel so your parents can blame the nurse that seduced their son. That’s just the ammo they need.” You threw your lipstick in your purse and picked it up, turning around in his arms to face him.

You’d never get sick of seeing his emotions swing so expressively in those pretty brown eyes of his, but the one he was looking at you with now? The utter devotion and love for you, sprinkled in with a little bit of lust; it was your favorite. You prayed to the universe that he would always look at you like that.

“Hey, hey…” he soothingly ran his thumb across your jawline, “.. they don’t think that about you.”

You closed your eyes for a moment and let his words sink in.

“And if anything, it was me that seduced you, so they’d have their stories all wrong.”

“John!” You lightheartedly smacked his arm, sending him into a fit of laughter.

You turned and closed the locker, turning to look at him pointedly, “Let’s go and do this before I change my mind and make you go to this alone.”

—

You walked out of the hospital and towards John’s car, hand in hand, when he stopped dead in his tracks, causing you to stop as well and look at him in confusion.

“I need to go back and tell Weaver I want the attending position.”

His words just confused you further. Sure, he had been talking about wanting it, but was now really the time to do that?

“You mean right now? I mean we will be back in the morning.”

“I need to do it now, while I’m feeling confident about it.” You could tell he was really feeling convicted about it, so you just nodded your head, “Okay, go get that position. You want me to come back in with you?”

He reached out for your hand and placed his car keys in them, and leaned down to place a quick kiss on your lips. Then lingered on your lips for a moment longer. You were finally the one to pull away.

“Are you still going?”

He looked at you like a dazed teenage boy, crooked grin and all, “Yes, I am. You just seduced me with your stunning goo-“

You pushed him away with a warm laugh coming from your lips, “Okay, okay, just go!”

“No need to come back in, I’ll be quick as possible, but I don’t want both of us to be late. So you go ahead and drive my car, I’ll take the train and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He said it so fast and had already turned around and jogged towards the door that you didn’t have time to object. Not that you minded him leaving alone, it was the fact the train could be unreliable, and you didn’t want to be stuck alone with his parents for a long period of time.

“I hope that man knows how much I love him.” You mumbled under your breath, defeatedly walking towards where his car was parked.

—

The restaurant was stunning, not that you expected anything less from a place his parents chose. You walked in and hated how you felt out of place by yourself.

Thankfully, the hostess greeted you before you could dwell on it any further.

She asked if you had a reservation, and you told her you did, it was under Carter, and she smiled and happily showed you to your table. A pretty table with seats for four. Two of which were already occupied. Seeing John’s parents already sitting there made you want to turn right back around and walk out, but you were too far committed now.

You have them your most reluctant, polite smile when they spotted you. They smiled but you could tell it was just as courteous.

“Mr and Mrs. Carter it’s nice to see you, I don’t know if John got the ch-“

“Oh, yes he called us, said he’d be on his way soon. Said he got held up at the hospital.” His dad cut you off and you sat down at your seat and let it happen like your blood pressure hadn’t gone up in the few moments you’ve been here.

You hoped that meant John wasn’t far behind, and that his talk with Weaver had gone well.

“Well, I’m glad he informed you.”

The three of you sat in silence. You took your wine glass that was already filled with some sort of red wine that you could only imagine was more expensive than any place you’ve lived, and sipped on it. Given a choice you could’ve easily taken it all down in one go, but you were trying to at least act like a civilized person.

“So… where are you from, Sunny?” His mom asked, her piercing blue eyes felt like they could see right through you.

You put your glass down, “Here. In Chicago. Born and raised.”

“That’s nice… so your family is all here? Your parents?”

You snorted a bit to yourself at her next question, sure it was a common one to ask someone but you had a feeling this was more interrogation than anything.

“My biological parents aren’t around, I was raised by my grandparents. My biological mother’s folks.” You didn’t want to go into the whole spiel, especially in front of John’s parents, it wasn’t a complicated story but one you didn't particularly like bringing up if you didn’t have to. Hopefully the would be satisfied with that.

You were going to kick John’s ass for leaving you alone this long with them.

“You said you were from here, what part did you grow up in?” His dad finally spoke and turned the conversation away from your family for at least the moment.

“South side, the Bridgeport area.”

His parents tried to subtly exchange glances, but you clearly saw it. Your working class background never bothered John. Maybe caused some confusion between you two at times because he did grow up with an actual butler in his house after all, and you hadn’t ever been on a vacation outside of Illinois until he took you on one, but it was never a problem.

For his parents it seemed quite the opposite.

Your mind went back to his father wanting to introduce John to a senator’s daughter at his grandfather’s funeral. That was the kind of person they wanted him with.

Someone like them.

“Yeah, I know the area.” His father stated with a polite smile.

Thankfully the awkward conversation was cut short with the waiter coming around.

He topped off glasses, and took everyone’s orders.

When he was done taking yours, you heard your cellphone going off, fumbling a little less gracefully than you’d have liked, to pull in from your bag. Flipping it open, John’s name flashing across its tiny screen.

Your eyes cut up to see John’s parents staring at you from across the table. His father looked rather indifferent, but his mother’s judgmental gaze caused a heat to crawl from your neck up into your face.

“Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

You stood up and took yourself outside the restaurant, stepping away so no one was around you, you answered and pressed the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey sweetheart, I only have a minute to talk, if even that, but I just wanted to let you know I’m not going to make it to dinner.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to fight off the headache that seemed to be coming on at his words.

“John… what? Why?”

“I went to talk to Weaver and now I’m swamped with patients.” There was a long pause, “… you’re not mad are you?”

You sighed heavily, shaking your head back and forth even though he couldn’t see it, “No, of course not. You can’t help that you got sucked back into the vortex. Did you at least get an answer from Weaver?”

Please, at least let this painful experience be worth something.

“See, about that-“ you heard the sounds of the ER reach a crescendo, “-I’m sorry babe, I gotta go.”

The phone went silent on the other end but you still called out, “John? Are you there?”

He owed you big time for this.

You kept yourself from banging your head on the brick wall next to you and snapped your phone shut, taking a deep breath while hyping yourself up in your mind. You can do this. You’ve worked on patients with gun shots in places they shouldn’t have even survived in! You’ve cared for people at their lowest, when they're sometimes just mad at the world but take it out on you, and you still take care of them with a smile. You watched your boyfriend lay half dead in trauma two, and somehow came out on the other side of it.

Having a quick dinner with John’s parents, by yourself, should be easy.

Should be.

Walking back into the restaurant you find your way back to your seat. The food that had been ordered already sat at the table, and his parents already eating. They didn’t seem to be talking as you sat down, but they both looked up at you as you slipped your phone back in your bag.

“I’m sorry again, that was-“

“John? Yeah, he just called his father and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. It’s that hospital again.” His mother interrupted you, already taking all the poise in to not just walk right back outside.

At least he was able to tell them himself despite the rush he was in.

You smiled politely, “He works very hard and is very beloved at County. He goes above and beyond, sometimes I worry for him because of it, that he pushes himself too hard, but he wouldn't be the man I love if he didn't love his job.”

As you picked up your fork to eat, you didn’t even look up at his parents after the answer.

They didn’t answer and seemingly just kept on eating, which honestly you were grateful for. You just wanted to finish your food and get out of here as soon as possible.

You thought about how… harsh Gamma and John Sr. had seemed at first, but it turned out they both just loved John, and were highly protective of him.

You had come around to understand each other, and they realized you loved John, no ulterior motives behind it.

So maybe their exteriors would be more forgiving given some time.

John had told you about his childhood, how after his brother died his parents were emotionally, and a lot of the time physically, distant. Hell, after he had been stabbed you and his grandparents had been the ones by his side the whole time. His parents didn’t show up until three weeks later.

Even with all that, John still loved them. They’re his parents, of course he loved them, but that didn't mean you had to like them.

You loved John with every part of your being, it was why you were trying with his parents, but they had hurt him and as his partner you couldn’t stand it.

“Can we have the check please?”

You had been so caught up in your own thoughts you hadn't noticed his parents had finished their meal, you honestly hadn’t ate much, but you weren’t feeling particularly hungry.

“I’ll pay for mine.” You piped up, looking at his father you had asked for the check.

“Nonsense. We’ll pay for it.” His dad said dismissively, as he pulled out his wallet.

“Well, thank you. This dinner has been lovely. I hope John can make it next time.”

You made sure your area was relatively tidy, and stood up, grabbing your bag and letting it rest on your shoulder.

“Yes, it was nice.”

His mother gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and his dad gave you a quick nod. You happily took the out and made your way out of the restaurant.

Well, that could’ve gone worse. Definitely could’ve gone better, but for a dinner with John’s parents by yourself, it went about as expected.

—

You had gone to your house to check up on everything, and showered while you were there. Cher, your kitty companion, had been staying with you and John at Gamma’s. So there was no need to worry about her, but you still liked to check on the house, just to make sure everything was fine. Plus, you wanted to grab some more clothes and scrubs, the stay at Gamma’s was lasting longer than you had expected, but you didn’t mind.

She’d just lost the love of her life, if you could lighten the load of that even a little, you were happy to do so.

You still weren’t on for a few more hours, but decided to head back to the hospital early since you hadn’t heard from John again. He really must’ve gotten swamped.

You parked John’s car and made your way through the ambulance bay and into the doctor’s lounge, smoothly changing into your scrubs and moving to put away your bag. John’s jacket still hanging in the locker so he was definitely still here.

Once done you found your way to the admit desk, leaning on it, you waited for Frank to turn around and notice you,

“Hey Frank, have you seen John anywhere?”

“I think Connie said he’s sleeping in exam room 3.” The gruff man answered.

“Perfect. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved you off but you had already taken off down the hall.

It seemed to have calmed down around here a bit, or as much as it ever does.

You felt tired from lack of sleep, but plenty of overtime and overlapping shifts had made lack of sleep something you could handle pretty well.

Stopping at exam room 3, a smile spread across your face. “DO NOT DISTURB!! I GAVE AT THE OFFICE!” Was scrawled on a piece of paper in John’s handwriting. You slid into the room and closed the door behind you as softly as you could.

You saw John laid out on the hospital bed, mouth slightly agape as he softly snored.

You wish he had gone back to Gamma’s to sleep but you knew he was thinking at this point it was better to just stay here than to leave.

He laid on his side, so you careful put yourself in the space beside him, it wasn’t easy but you made it work. You looked up at him before curling into his body.

“If this is Malucci playing some kind of joke, I will quit.”

His soft, sleepy voice scared you for a second, but he already slung an arm around your waist to pull you as close as possible, and you relaxed into the touch.

“I don’t think he would be that stupid.” You quipped back.

John placed a kiss on the top of your head, before resting his head on top of yours.

“How did the dinner go?”

Your moment of drawn out silence spoke for itself as you traced patterns on his forearm, “It was fine. I mean, it was awkward, but it definitely could’ve gone worse…”

But it definitely could’ve gone a lot better.

You didn’t say that, even though you knew John could read in between the lines.

“Just know I won’t be doing it without you again. For my own sanity.”

You felt him press a soft kiss to your head.

“You won’t have to, I promise. I’m sorry I missed tonight, sorry I left you alone. You know much of a vortex the ER can be, I tried to leave so many times.”

“I know.” You said back, the two of you just laying in silence for a few moments.

You listened to the steady beat of his heart as your eyes started to get heavy.

You knew John had to be close to being back to sleep if he wasn’t already, but you still whispered, “I love you, John.”

You closed your eyes, but a smile spread across your face when you heard him rumble under his breath,

“I love you too.”

[andy-15-07]

Hii, if it’s not too much to ask could you write some hurt/comfort for Pedro? I’m dealing with grief right now since my grandmother died this weekend. I’m feeling down and don’t know how to cope really, just wanna feel some warmth and comfort. I know it’s a sensitive topic so it’s totally alright if you’re uncomfortable with this.

Have a great day!

Stay Here a While

PAIRING: Pedro Pascal x reader

WORD COUNT: 710| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Joel Miller Masterlist

A/n: hello, first of all I want to tell you that I'm sorry to hear what happened to you and I hope you like this fic.

---

You hadn’t said much that day.

The hours passed in that hollow sort of way where time moved forward but you stayed still, wrapped in Pedro’s hoodie on the edge of the bed. The world outside kept spinning, but yours had gone quiet.

She was gone.

Your grandmother,your safe place, your favorite laugh, the warmest hands that ever held you,was gone. And the grief hit you in soft waves that suddenly became tsunamis, crashing through your chest when you least expected it.

Pedro didn’t ask you to talk. He didn’t try to fix it.

He just stayed close.

When he got home that evening, he didn’t knock or announce himself like he usually did. He found you in the dim bedroom, curled into the blankets, staring at nothing. A faint flicker of light from your phone screen lit your face, and he could see the tired curve of your eyes,the kind of tired that rest couldn’t fix.

He crossed the room without a word and knelt in front of you.

“Hey,” he whispered.

Your lip trembled. You didn’t mean for it to. You hadn’t even been crying, not really. Not until now.

You didn’t say hey back. You just pressed your hand to his chest, searching for something solid in the storm.

He took that hand gently in his, brought it to his lips. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

And that cracked you open.

Tears fell silently at first. Then not-so-silently. The kind of sobbing that came from somewhere deep and old and too raw to name. Pedro didn’t flinch. He pulled you into his arms, tucking your head against his neck, pressing one steady hand against your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured again and again, like a lullaby. “I’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? You don’t have to do anything else right now.”

You gripped his shirt, like maybe if you held on tight enough, the pain would pass quicker.

“She used to make tea when I was sad,” you managed through a breath. “She always knew what to say. And now I… I don’t even know how to be without her.”

Pedro didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t give you some empty quote about how "she’s still with you" or "time will heal it",because he knew better than that. He knew the truth: sometimes, pain just needs space. Sometimes, the only comfort is not having to carry it alone.

He rocked you gently.

“I wish I could take it from you,” he said, voice thick with his own emotion. “I’d carry it for you if I could.”

You shook your head. “Just… stay here a while.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t.

He let you cry. Let you sit in the silence. Held you through every sharp breath and let the grief move however it needed to. He pressed soft kisses to your temple, to your damp cheeks, to your knuckles where your fist had balled up in your lap.

Eventually, when the crying slowed and you could breathe again, he pulled the blanket around both of you and lay beside you, your body curled into his like something precious.

“Do you want to tell me about her?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. And little by little, you did. You told him about her humming in the kitchen. About the way she always gave you the bigger half of the cookie, even though she pretended not to notice. About the way she smelled like vanilla and lilacs and old pages of a book.

Pedro smiled through misty eyes, fingers tracing gentle shapes along your back.

“She sounds like magic,” he said.

“She was.”

And for the first time that day, it didn’t hurt quite as sharply to remember her.

“Will you stay tonight?” you whispered.

Pedro turned you gently so you were facing him. “I’ll stay every night. As long as you need. As long as it takes.”

You pressed your forehead to his chest and let yourself be held, really held. Not because it would make the grief disappear, but because it gave you something to rest on when everything else felt like sinking.

And in the quiet, you began to heal,just a little. Not because the pain was gone, but because love was still here.

[prodiaml]

BangChan x gn reader

One Shot

Synopsis: 9th member foreign reader is going through a rough patch with their family. Coming back to the dorm late after a midnight run, they find Chan waiting for them.

Tags/warnings: 1st person, fluff, hurt/comfort, platonic can be read as romantic, reader is on edge and a bit of a brat, mention of a shity family, Chan is the best.

A/N: I wrote this for myself and decided to post it incase others needed some comfort. If it helps me then why not share right? I have another one coming up, I’m an angsty b and writing these make me feel better.

English is not my first language, I am sorry if some phrasings feel weird. (This feels weird ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ)

Word count: 1318

Things are… Ectic, to say the least. But before I dive in, let’s start properly.

Hi, I’m Stray Kids Y/N. We’re an up and coming Kpop group of 9 members who debuted a year ago. It was our dream and we are now living it. It’s hard work, really hard work, but a dream nonetheless. 

If only my personal life was a dream too.

This was my dream, so I thought my parents would have been proud of me. After all, they did allow me to go to Korea for this, and they seemed more than happy when I passed the auditions. But now that I’ve made it? Now that all my hard work is paying off? They almost seem  mad that it worked. It seems crazy, but maybe.. Maybe they didn’t believe in me from the start.. Maybe they actually wanted me to fail so I’d finally listen to them, so I’d become what they wanted me to become.. Crazy right? Still the thought won’t leave me. Especially since they’re always on my case recently, have been for awhile actually. They’re never happy about what I do or don’t, and I have to admit that it’s getting to me. I’m frustrated, sad, mad, and so much more that I don’t even have words for it. Not that I really want to focus on it much.

They called today, and after a (not so) great  conversation, my emotions were all over the place, I felt restless. Not knowing what to do with myself then, I decided to go on a late night run. The cool air of the night, the sounds of the city, it was bound to quell the storm brewing inside; or at least exhaust me enough to fall asleep without tossing and turning for hours beforehand. 

Satisfied enough with the exercise, I return to the dorm to find the lights still on.

“I’m home.” I announce as I toe off my shoes. “Is anyone still up?”

It wouldn’t be the first time one of the guys forgot to shut the lights before going to bed, but it also wouldn’t be new for me to be jumpscared by one of them just because I assumed no one was up.

“Yeah I’m here.” Chan answers from the living room. “You’re home late.”

“And you’re here early. I thought you’d still be in the studio.”

He looked at me unimpressed. “We were. But we can’t come home at 4 am everyday. We know when to take a break.” 

“Good for you.” I sigh, heading to the kitchen.

It is absolutely not right nor fair for me to act this way with my leader, and I know I’ll regret it later, but I’m just so damn tired, I do not want to hear this tonight. 

“Hey wait!” I hear him call out as I leave the room. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?” looking over my shoulders I see him following me, stopping right by the kitchen’s door.

“It’s not like you to be out on your own so late. The guys said it’s been like that all week.”

The worry in his voice irks me, I do not want to talk right now.

I cross my arms and turn to face him.  “The guys are snitches.”

There’s a strange expression on his face, a mix of confusion and worry. It doesn’t suit him, if I wasn’t still so pent up I’d take it back right now. But I don’t, I only glare at him.

“You know you can talk to me right?” Chan asks softly. “If something’s going on-”

“I’m fine Chris.” I interrupt sharply.

The sound of my own voice shocks us both, bringing me back down from the high of my earlier emotions and the rest of adrenaline from my run. We both look at each other in disbelief. Never had I so much as raised my voice at Chan. He has done too much for me, I had too much respect for him, and here I am, almost shouting at him. What is wrong with me?

“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry.” I apologize remorsefully. “I didn’t mean to shout, I’m sorry. I just.. I just don’t need someone else to be on my case." The slight panic in my voice is evident as I pitifully try to explain myself.

“Who..? Y/N what’s going on?” The look on his face abruptly turns to concern. “Talk to me please.”

I bite my lower lip and look at the floor, trying my best to keep my temper in check. It’s Chan, it’s fine, he’s just worried.

“It’s not a big deal, it’s my parents. They’re.. They’re being a lot right now and it’s getting to me I guess.” I shamefully admit.

His brows shot slightly up, surprised by my answer. We don’t talk about my family, I’ve never been one to offer much information about them, especially when it’s not going well. Before our debut, during one of our endless after training conversations, he asked about my family life before Korea, and after a pretty vague description of it all, I hinted that this wasn’t something I was comfortable discussing. To his credit, he never asked again.

“What do you mean?” He tentatively asks.

“I don’t even know, really.” I sigh. “I think they’re mad at me? Ever since we’ve started getting popularity they’ve been all over the place. In the group chat they complain that I don’t share enough but when I do it’s radio silence. Some days they’re nagging because I don’t call enough, but when I do call they’re being passive aggressive.  When I talk about what we do, they suddenly change the subject, then they’re disappointed when I don’t tell them what I do.” A tear falls to the floor, I realise I’m starting to cry. My voice distorts as my throat tightens, but I can’t stop talking. “It’s like, like I’m not part of it anymore, like I don’t matter. But it’s more, there has to be a reason, right? So I started thinking and I realised that they didn’t expect me to make it.. Even worse, I think they didn't want me to make it. It’s like they never believed in me, but they indulged me, and now that they’ve been proven wrong they’re angry, and.. disappointed? And it sucks cause they gave me the approval, they were the one to say ‘okay, follow your dreams’, and now, since it’s not what they wanted or expected, it’s not good enough. It’s never good enough! I’m never good enoughI”

My hands wipe furiously at my eyes to stop the tears from coming, but now that the dam is broken, it won’t stop. In an instant I feel his arms envelop me and I start sobbing violently in his chest.

“Shh, it’s okay.” His voice is small, soft. ”You’re good enough for us. You’ll always be good enough for us.”

A broken sob escapes me at his words and his arms tighten around me. For a long moment he stays silent, the sound of my crying the only thing breaking the silence, until softly, gently, he starts rocking us back and forth, and I feel his breath in my hair as he whispers “you’re okay, I got you.”

“You’re a good leader Chan. And a great friend.” I mumble against his chest once I’ve calmed down.

He huffs out a laugh, releasing his bear hug just enough to look at my tear stained face fondly. “You’re a great person Y/N, never forget that.”

“Thank you Chani.” I smile gratefully at him.

“You’re welcome.” He returns. “Next time come talk to me before it gets too much, yeah?”

“Yeah.. Yeah, I can do that”

After making sure I was okay, we both said goodnight and headed to our respectful bedrooms. Feeling much better, I lay down and fall asleep with a lighter heart.

[obvithe-bestsoph]

can you write something about being on a family event with kenan and you don't feel good at all but don't want to ruin his evening. but he directly noticed and is the cutest bf ever

schatz.

masterlist requests word count: 1k

a/n: i love being able to use my german speaking abilities because kenan fics are the only place they get practiced. genre: comfort/fluff. warnings: none.

summary: you go with kenan to an afternoon tea so you can meet his mama's side of the family, only to be hit with cramps and have kenan take care of you.

The house is buzzing with energy - Kenan’s cousins are laughing in the living room, his uncles are telling increasingly dramatic stories over beers on the patio, and his mama is flitting between rooms making sure everyone’s been offered cake at least three times.

It’s warm and bright and very German.

You smile, or try to, but your stomach is tying itself into uncomfortable knots, and every movement feels like your insides are being wrung out like a towel. You’d known it was coming, cramps always hit this time of month, but you’d hoped they’d stay away for one more evening. Just one.

Kenan had been so excited to bring you here. His whole face had lit up when he told you his mama’s side of the family was hosting a garden party, that they all wanted to meet you.

“Everyone speaks English,” he’d promised. “And if they get too German, I’ll translate. Promise. You’ll love them.”

And you do, or you would, if your uterus wasn’t staging a full-scale rebellion right now.

So you sit at the edge of the patio, quietly nursing your glass of Apfelschorle, trying to smile and nod at his Oma’s questions. You’re a little hunched over, and every now and then, you shift in your seat like that’ll make it better. You don’t want to complain. You refuse to be the girlfriend who ruins the vibe.

You catch Kenan across the garden, laughing with his papa and an older cousin. He’s in a crisp white linen shirt that makes his tan skin glow, a few top buttons undone, hair a little mussed from the breeze. He looks so good it’s unfair.

You quickly look away when he glances back at you.

Too late.

A few seconds later, his hand lands gently on your back.

“Schatz?” he murmurs near your ear. “Everything okay?”

You force a smile and nod, hoping that’s enough to convince him.

But he crouches down in front of you, brow scrunching. “You’re pale,” he says softly. “And you’re sitting like someone kicked you in the stomach.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. “Really.”

His look says liar.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admit under your breath, eyes darting toward his family. “You were having fun.”

Kenan frowns, gently taking your hand. “You are not a bother. Not ever.”

He stands up and holds a hand out. “Come. Five minutes.”

You hesitate. “Kenan-”

“Nur fünf Minuten,” he insists. Just five minutes. “Let me take care of you, liebling.”

The pet name and the sincerity in his voice make your chest tighten, in a good way. You slip your hand into his and let him lead you through the house, past the cheerful chaos of the kitchen, and up the stairs to a quiet guest bedroom.

He closes the door softly behind you.

The second you sit on the bed, you sigh in relief. Kenan kneels in front of you again, pushing your hair back from your face with careful fingers.

“Cramps?” he asks gently.

You flush and look away. “Maybe. I just... it’s embarrassing.”

“Warum?” he asks with a tilted head. “You think I’m scared of a little blood?”

You snort at that, despite yourself.

“Babe,” he says with a small grin, “you could puke on my shoes right now and I’d still think you’re cute.”

“Please don’t say that while I’m nauseous.”

He laughs and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

You don’t protest this time.

A few minutes later, he returns with a hot water bottle wrapped in a soft towel, a glass of water, and a small plate with two slices of his mama’s apple cake.

“You’re literally the best boyfriend ever,” you mumble as he helps you lie down, carefully sliding the hot water bottle against your stomach.

“I know,” he says smugly, tucking the blanket around your legs. “Mama said we could stay in here as long as we want.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You told her?”

He shrugs. “She’s a woman. I guess she gets it.”

You groan into the pillow and he laughs again, then climbs onto the bed next to you. You curl into his side almost immediately, the warmth of him and the water bottle starting to work their magic.

Kenan strokes your back in slow, soothing circles. “You should’ve told me earlier, schatz. I would’ve brought you here right away.”

“I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

He tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. “You never ruin anything. If you’re not feeling good, that’s all I care about. Not cake. Not soccer talk with Onkel Rudi. Just you.”

You blink. “You talked soccer with Onkel Rudi?”

Kenan winces. “It was... intense. He thinks Dortmund’s gonna win the league next season.”

You grin. “And you didn’t storm off?”

“Not with you watching. Gotta keep the boyfriend rep intact.” He gives you a cheeky little wink, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “But really. Next time, tell me, okay? You don’t have to be shy with me.”

You nod, already feeling sleepy. The pain’s still there, but it’s dulled by the warmth and the weight of Kenan’s arm around you.

His voice is a low murmur in your ear. “Ich liebe dich.”

Your heart flips, like it always does when he says it in German.

“Ich liebe dich auch,” you whisper.

“Even when I eavesdrop on your pain and steal you away from my own party?”

“Especially then.”

Kenan grins and presses his cheek against your hair. “Good. Then I’ll keep doing it.”

You rest together in the quiet for a while, the sounds of laughter and music muffled through the walls. Eventually, he nudges the plate of cake toward you.

“You gotta eat something, baby.”

You eye the cake. “You want to share?”

He nods. “Only if I get the bigger slice.”

You groan. “Fine. But only because you’re being very cute right now.”

“Jetzt?” he teases. “Only now?”

“Shut up and eat your cake.”

He laughs and kisses your cheek again. “Jawohl, meine Liebe.”

And somehow, despite the cramps and the awkwardness and the chaos downstairs, you feel completely okay. Safe, even. Because Kenan’s here, and he knows exactly what you need before you even say a word.

[syena-journals]

PLEASE WRITE AN ANGST FIC WITH HOTCH BUTTTT NO HAPPY ENDING FOR HOTCH GIVE THE READER A HAPPY ENDING MAKE THE TEAM HAVE A SHITTY LIFE

There is too many angst fics and the reader is giving in too quickly I just want one where the reader is happy in the end and they get what they deserve 💀 and that you don’t have to forgive and forget and can move on from people who hurt you. I believe u have the powers to do this thank u

Ur writing eats btw

No Return

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Summary: In a world where trust is currency, she was nothing more than a pawn to him. Used for her connections, discarded for his doubts. But when betrayal burns the brightest, she rises stronger—building her own empire far from the shadows of the BAU. Now, with power in her hands and no reason to look back, the past haunts only those who let her go. Sometimes, the best revenge is moving on. Tone: Angst | Betrayal | Healing | No Reconciliation Theme: Institutional betrayal, toxic leadership, reader power arc, emotional closure Warnings: Emotional neglect, toxic relationship themes, mentions of betrayal, grief, and guilt Word count: 1.8k A/N: Tysm for your request <3 I enjoyed writing this, hopefully you enjoy reading this!!

You’d never liked the sound of fluorescent lights, but the ones in the BAU bullpen buzzed louder than usual today. Or maybe it just felt that way—like the walls had shifted slightly, like something in the air had turned.

Like you were being watched. Or weighed. Or... dismissed.

Again.

Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest as you crossed the bullpen, ignored by people who used to greet you with familiarity. Reid didn’t look up from his notes. JJ smiled—barely. Garcia was nowhere to be seen. Emily and Morgan were deep in conversation at the kitchenette, eyes flicking your way for a moment too long.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time, not so long ago, when this place felt like home.

Back when Aaron Hotchner looked at you like you were more than just a name.

Back when you let yourself believe it.

You reached your desk, stacked neatly with paperwork you hadn’t asked for. Case files. Prep briefs. Administrative garbage. Tasks meant to keep you occupied—not involved.

You didn’t sit down. Instead, you turned and headed straight for his office.

Hotch didn’t glance up when you knocked. “Come in.”

You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The sound clicked like a vault locking tight.

He finally looked up, face unreadable.

“I’m off the McKinley case,” you said.

“That’s correct.”

“No explanation. Just reassigned. Again.”

His hands folded neatly on the desk. “You’re too close to the families involved.”

You stared at him. “My father played golf with one of the congressmen twenty years ago. That’s the extent of it.”

“That’s enough for a conflict of interest.”

You blinked. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it—sharp and bitter. “You realize that’s exactly why I should be involved, right? I know how to navigate that world.”

“We don’t need politics,” he said coolly. “We need clarity.”

“And you don’t think I have any?”

Hotch’s eyes met yours then, dark and steady. “I think sometimes personal history clouds judgment.”

There it was.

The final wedge.

You nodded slowly. The room felt cold despite the sunlight behind him.

“Is that why I wasn’t credited on the Mitchell case either?” you asked, voice quiet. “Because my ‘clouded judgment’ made it too risky to acknowledge I solved the damn thing?”

Hotch didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the truth.

You sat alone in the briefing room after hours, the soft hum of the projector fan your only company. Your hands were clenched on the table in front of you, still staring at the screen—static now, the map of victim locations long gone.

You remembered that night. The night you got the call from your father’s aide. The night Hotch had walked into your office and said, “Use the connection.”

He hadn’t said please. Hadn’t asked if it would be difficult.

He’d just expected it.

You made the call. Got access the BAU couldn’t. And then you were benched.

Not out of caution.

Out of convenience.

They didn’t want you involved.

They just wanted your last name.

The next week, Garcia stopped sending you little jokes during debriefings. Reid fumbled through shared tasks without meeting your eyes. JJ grew polite, sterile. The warmth of the bullpen shifted subtly, replaced with cold distance that wrapped around your shoulders like frost.

And Hotch?

He was always the same.

Steady. Measured. Detached.

You couldn’t even be angry at him—not the way you wanted. Because part of you still wanted him. Still hoped there was some reason. Some hidden logic that made it okay.

But there wasn’t.

There was only the truth.

He never trusted you.

Not like he trusted them.

The case you were benched on closed without you.

You didn’t even get a call to let you know.

You found out in a memo circulated to all units.

No acknowledgment. No reference to your profile work. Nothing.

You stared at the screen in your apartment that night, numb.

And then you opened a new document.

To: Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner Subject: Resignation

You didn’t write a long letter. Just the truth:

I didn’t come here to be used. I won’t stay where I’m not trusted. SSA Y/N Y/L/N

You left it on his desk the next morning. Packed your desk in silence. Walked out of the building with no escort, no send-off, no words.

They let you go without a sound.

And that silence said everything.

Two weeks later, the Bureau called.

Not the BAU.

Another unit—FBI Division Five, focused on complex criminal networks and politically sensitive cases. A team in shambles. A command post without a leader.

“We’ve seen your work,” they said. “We want you.”

You hesitated. “You know I just left the BAU.”

“We also know why.”

That made the decision easier.

You started as Supervisory Agent. Six months in, they gave you Acting Chief. By the end of year one, the promotion was official.

Unit Chief Y/N Y/L/N.

No one there cared about your name.

Only what you did with it.

And you did everything they said you couldn’t.

Three years later, your team was a machine.

Tight. Efficient. Respected.

No loose ends. No chaos. Just clean takedowns and sharp minds.

You were prepping for a panel on ethical profiling in DC when you saw him again.

Hotch.

He looked older. A little thinner. Suit too stiff on his frame. You hadn’t seen him in person since the day you walked out.

He stepped into your line of vision, uncertain.

“Y/N.”

You turned, slow and calm.

“Aaron.”

A beat of silence. The sound of traffic beyond the hotel lobby filled the space between you.

“I was hoping I’d see you here,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I wanted to say…” He looked down, then back up. “I’m sorry. For what I did. For how I treated you. I should’ve trusted you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

You watched him. Studied him like a crime scene.

And then, you smiled.

And laughed.

Not cruel.

Not angry.

Just clean. Detached.

“You think I need that now?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’m not angry, Aaron,” you said. “I’m not anything.”

A pause.

“I got everything I wanted. Without you.”

You turned your back on him.

And this time, you knew—

He would never catch up.

Quantico smelled like burnt coffee and fluorescent regret.

Reid sat alone in the conference room, his fingers tapping absentmindedly at the edge of his mug. The whiteboard beside him was half-scribbled—ideas from a case that had stalled mid-week. It had been stalling more and more lately.

They were all slower now.

Disconnected.

Falling apart in small, quiet ways.

JJ was tense. Guarded. Her family life had bled into her work so heavily that it was hard to tell where the line was anymore. Emily had become weary, always stepping into leadership in Hotch’s absence, only to feel him pull it back the second she found footing. Garcia rarely left her tech cave anymore. And Reid… Reid was quieter than ever.

Morgan was gone.

And so were you.

It started showing up in the stats first. Cases dragging longer. Debriefings more tense. Trust in the field fraying under pressure.

Hotch didn’t talk about it. Not to them. Maybe not even to himself.

But everyone felt the vacuum you left behind.

You had been the buffer. The one who handled the victims when JJ couldn’t. Who challenged Reid’s theories with tact. Who made Emily laugh in the dark hours after a long case. Who called Garcia just to check in—not just when something was needed. And Morgan? He’d trusted you like he did few others.

And Hotch?

Hotch had let you go without a fight.

They all remembered that now.

Too late.

Reid brought the magazine into the bullpen one morning, face unreadable.

He dropped it on the center table with a soft thud.

Emily glanced at the cover.

There you were.

Unit Chief Y/N Y/L/N: Leading a New Generation of Profilers with Compassion and Clarity.

She picked it up, flipping through. Full-page spread. Interview. Photos. Quotes.

“I had to leave to find out what trust really looked like.”

That line sat alone on the page, italicized, just below your photo.

JJ sat down beside them and said nothing for a long while.

Hotch didn’t enter the room for over an hour.

But when he did, he looked at the table, paused—

And walked right past.

You never reached out. Not once.

Not even when the Bureau reshuffled its power structure and Unit Five was bumped to Tier One task priority. Not when the Director began forwarding inter-agency cooperation requests directly to you.

You never sent a “how’s everyone doing?” message.

You never checked in on Garcia.

You didn’t even send a thank-you when Reid emailed you a research article you’d contributed to, saying only: You were right about the stressor-to-pattern ratio. Good work.

You left him on read.

He never emailed again.

It had to happen eventually.

A serial arsonist targeting prominent politicians across state lines. Five confirmed victims. A sixth nearly died.

BAU and Division Five both assigned.

A joint case.

Mandatory collaboration.

You arrived in Chicago with your team in tow. Jordan. Hallie. Mike. Analysts who trusted you. Agents who admired you. People who didn’t flinch when you walked into a room. People who didn’t need to be reminded who was in charge.

The BAU was already there. Slower. Tired. Tense.

You met Hotch’s eyes across the command tent.

And looked away.

You didn’t speak to them beyond case logistics. You didn’t ask about anyone’s lives. You didn’t soften your tone. You didn’t apologize for being sharp, direct, decisive.

You gave orders.

You ran your side.

And when the arsonist was caught—through intel your team traced—Hotch offered a nod of acknowledgment across the table.

You blinked slowly.

And turned back to your team.

Later that night, after the arrest, Garcia caught you in the hallway of the temporary field office. She looked tired, like the glitter had been scrubbed out of her bones.

“I miss you,” she said.

You looked at her for a long moment. Let the silence sit between you like glass.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she added softly. “You look… peaceful.”

You nodded once. “I am.”

Garcia hesitated. “Do you—ever think about coming back?”

You didn’t flinch.

“No.”

And before she could ask why, you gave her a smile. Warm, but final.

“Because this is what it looks like when you go somewhere you’re valued.”

She didn’t try to stop you when you walked away.

Hotch sat at his desk late that night.

The case report from the arson investigation sat unfinished beside him. He’d watched you walk out of the command tent, flanked by your team, laughing at something one of them said. Confident. In control.

Unaffected.

Untouchable.

There had been a time, years ago, when you had waited for him to trust you. When he could’ve chosen differently.

But he didn’t.

And now he saw the outcome of that choice in every headline. Every internal commendation with your name on it. Every joint report where you were listed as “Primary Lead.”

You weren’t angry.

You didn’t look at him with hate.

You didn’t look at him at all.

And that, somehow, was worse.