#but they’re Always There. you are always thinking of each other and you know if you ever need anything you can go to them and they’ll help

[trashytracktales]

I👏🏼NEED 👏🏼SECRET👏🏼RELATIONSHIP 👏🏼LANDO PLEASEEEE 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 I loved “winning hand” and I have reread it a few times already, hope you’ll do something like that again soon queen xo

Two can keep a secret | LN⁴

☆ summary ──── She was convinced they had found the secret recipe for happiness. A year later though, she finds out that the very things that brought them together are the same things that now threaten to tear them apart.

☆ pairing ──── Lando Norris x SecretGf!Reader

☆ rating ──── explicit

☆ warnings ──── 18+, secret relationship, angst, gaslighting undertones, SMAU (please be kind, it’s my first time trying to insert social media in my writing 🙏🏻😭), swearing, mentions of alcohol and drinking, graphic sexual content, descriptive language, smut, teasing, mutual masturbation (detailed handjob & fingering), bottom!Lando, praising, pet names, and dirty talk, unprotected sex, physical roughness, overstimulation, cockwarming, messy aftermath.

☆ word count ──── 9.4k

☆ date ──── Aug. 18, 2025

☆ a/n ──── Been a hot sec since I’ve been abusing my keyboards like this, but coming back to writing isn’t always easy. However, thank you so much for being patient with me while I try to find my rhythm again. If you haven’t already (because it flopped horrendously when I first posted it), maybe give Winning Hand a shot too. Anon liked it, hihi 😌🎀 ANYWAY. I missed you guys sm!! Enjoy your reading my lovelies ^^

A couple more things:

Everybody, including me, be calling X Twitter, and I didn’t make an exception for this one-shot.

I didn’t check any of the usernames mentioned. I pulled those out from the depths of my brain, but if some of them happen to exist, please do not contact the respective accounts lmao. And if I accidentally used yours and you want me to edit it out, please let me know 😁

IT HAD STARTED so beautifully stupid for them, nearly a year ago, on Max’s birthday.

It hadn’t been planned, and maybe that’s what made it so exciting at first. They’d always been part of the same chaotic circle of people, drawn to fast cars and faster living, late nights at each other’s apartments, beach weekends, and group chats full of memes and half-plans, because everybody was so busy.

She remembers the heat of that night, and the fact that she thought there were way too many people at the villa; not necessarily her type of party, but all of her friends were there.

She also remembers turning around with a drink in hand, catching Lando’s eyes across the pool. He was a bit drunk, and she knew that from the beginning, because he has a very unique facial expression when he drinks, with half-closed eyelids and a little grin in the corner of his mouth that’s nothing but trouble.

He came to rescue, and pulled her away from the noise. They ended up chatting more in a couple of hours than they did their entire friendship combined. Lando made her his signature drink, and she convinced him not to jump into the water fully clothed. Then she woke up in his room the next morning, her dress on the floor and his arm slung heavy across her waist.

She hadn’t meant for it to last this long. But it turned out they’re both good at keeping secrets.

The thrill of sneaking around, the quiet satisfaction of pulling him into a dark corner at parties, all the plans and fake excuses, the constant adrenaline beneath her skin every time they made eye contact in public and pretended they weren’t thinking the exact same thing. All of it was so intoxicating. Being his secret made her feel powerful. And why wouldn’t it, since she got the parts no one else did: the sleepy post-race calls, the lazy mornings with her hand tangled in his curls and his head between her thighs, the soft way he spoke when no one was listening but her. It was like living a double life, one where she had this bright and much tender version of Lando that didn’t belong to the world.

Maybe it should’ve ended after the first night together, but instead, they made rules:

No one should find out.

No social media.

No strings, just fun.

For months, they’d carved out an intimate space between the noise of their public lives, stolen glances at group dinners, quick texts under the table, and lots of hotel rooms booked under fake names when they ended up in the same cities.

But gradually, what started as a thrill, it’s just exhausting a year later.

It’s the constant vigilance. The quiet ache of standing across a room from him and acting like he’s just her friend. The mental strain of remembering who knows what, how close she can stand, whether her laugh gave too much away or how long she can look at him before someone notices the hearts in her eyes.

Ultimately, there is just too much pretending.

Too much pretending that she’s just a part of his friend group when she’s standing two feet away from him, her hands shoved so deep into her pockets only to stop herself from reaching out.

Too much pretending that she doesn’t care when someone asks him — again and again, for fuck’s sake — about who he’s dating, and his answer is always ‘no one seriously’ while displaying the biggest smile known to man.

And too much pretending she doesn’t want to walk with him in public, hand in hand.

It’s the secrecy that bothers her lately, not the privacy, though. Because she loves the quiet nights and the way he kisses her like he’s always missed her, even if it’s only been a day. She still loves his stupid impressions and the way he sings in the car, off-key and not caring he’s making her ears bleed.

That’s the thing. She loves it all and she loves him and that’s what makes everything worse.

═════════════════════════

📍Silverstone, United Kingdom

THE BATHROOM DOOR swings open with a soft hiss of steam, and she steps out, towel wrapped around her body, another twisted tightly around her wet hair. It’s an early, very quiet Friday morning, but she knows it won’t stay like that for long.

Lando stands near the mirror, a towel slung low on his hips, chest still damp from his own quick shower. He squints at his reflection, one hand stroking the scruff along his jaw as if he’s thinking pretty intensely about what to do in order to solve the world hunger.

She watches him for a moment, amused. “You’ve been staring at yourself since I got in. Are you okay?”

He flicks his eyes to her in the mirror, pretending to look wounded. “I’m in the middle of an existential grooming crisis, actually.”

“Must be exhausting,” she teases, walking past him toward the bed where her clothes are laid out. “All that beauty. All that... mild stubble.”

Lando turns to face her, rising one hand as if he’s holding something that he wants to show her. “To shave, or not to shave?”

The girl pauses mid-motion, a small smile creeping across her lips. “If you’re asking me,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder, “I like it better when you don’t.”

Lando tilts his head, curiously. “Because it makes me look more manly or?”

She walks back to him, closing the space between them until she can trace her fingers under his jaw, the coarse edge of his stubble brushing her skin. “No,” she shakes her head lightly. “Because of how it feels between my thighs,” she says, placing a tiny kiss on his cheek.

Through the mirror, Lando just stares at her for a few seconds. Then he lets out a short laugh, nearly choking on it. “Jesus, okay. Starting the day like that?”

The girl shrugs innocently, letting both of her towels pool at her feet once she goes back to the bed, grabbing the dress to pull it over her head. “You asked.”

Lando crosses the room to close the distance between them once again, looping his arms loosely around her waist from behind and letting his chin drop to her shoulder. “Yeah, I did,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss beneath her ear.

For a little while, everything is simple and nothing hurts. His warmth wraps around her like it’s shielding her from things she doesn’t even have names for. Things that live out there in interviews, in headlines, in the judgmental eyes of people who don’t know what they are, but question every single person that gets near Lando, one way or another. With him, right now, there is no hiding. There is only the sound of his breathing, and the way his thumbs circle softly over her stomach. The smell of his skin and the half-wet curls brushing against her temple.

She turns in his arms and rests her hands on his chest, fingers absently tracing the lines of muscle, then slides one up to gently push his hair back from his forehead. “Are you nervous?” she asks quietly. “About this weekend?”

Lando is silent, content to study her face for a moment. “Mm, dunno. Maybe a litte. Every year, it’s different but, I mean, it’s home.”

She nods, understanding very well the pressure he’s putting on himself to deliver in front of his home crowd. He’s told her stories of coming to the circuit as a kid, climbing fences just to get a better view of the garages. Of how his heart used to pound just from hearing the engines fire up. And now, he’s on the other side of the fence, while the crowd is chanting his name.

“I’m only asking because you get quiet around it,” she adds gently. “Not in a bad way,” the girl rushes to explain, “Just… stiller. So not like you.”

He frowns for a fraction. “How come?”

She shrugs. “Like you’re trying to hold something in. Apart from the obvious,” she tries to joke.

Suddenly, he’s quiet again, but this time there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I am.”

The girl steps closer, into the cradle of his body. Her hands settle at the nape of his neck at the same time her eyes fix on his. “You don’t have to around me, you know.”

“I know,” Lando assures her, and leans down to delicately press his lips on hers.

It’s not a hurried kiss. Just lazy, warm, and deeply familiar. The kind that speaks in layers to her: I hear you. I see you. Thank you for knowing the difference.

He kisses her again when they part, this time on her jaw, then her shoulder. “Thank you,” whispers Lando only for her to hear as if someone else can eavesdrop.

“For what?”

“For knowing when I’m pretending.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Of course she knows when he’s pretending. She’s got front-row seats at that show, and she watched him perform it for almost an entire year now.

“Anyway. I’ll be busy for chunks of the day. PT1 starts at 12:30, then straight into the engineering briefings after,” says Lando and, just like that, all the weight creeps back in. “I’ll try to come find you between things, but it might be tight,” he continues, making her stiffen slightly in his hold. It’s not much, but it’s enough for him to notice. He watches her carefully, but doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t worry about me,” she tells him. “What time will the others get here?”

“Fuck if I know,” laughs Lando. “But I don’t want you stuck waiting around for me. Or any of them.”

She smiles faintly. “I won’t be. Besides, you know I’m happy just watching.”

“Still,” says Lando, resting a hand on her hip, squeezing it lightly, “I want you to have fun. Abuse that pass, alright?”

═════════════════════════

📍 Monte Carlo, Monaco | FIVE WEEKS LATER

THEY FUCKED A couple of hours ago. Her skin still carries the ghost of his hands and the way he moaned her name against her throat like it was the only word left in his vocabulary. And yet, they rolled up to the venue in different cars.

Lando didn’t even looked in her direction, although she’s sure that he noticed her. He didn’t come to casually greet her, either. Reserved, he spent most of his time around the birthday boy, taking over the DJ booth and downing shot after shot with his friends. That wouldn’t have been a problem for her because, after all, they are both here to celebrate Max. But what bothers her is that, over time, their relationship has gotten so well-defined in public that Lando has almost become two different people. He can change his behavior so quickly that it amazes her how effortlessly he seems to flip that switch.

This part doesn’t sit right with her, no matter how hard she tries to convince herself.

She knows why they do it, but tonight it feels cruel. It brings her back, whether she wants it to or not, to last year, when this whole thing began. Back when it was easy and fun, when she could sneak off with Lando without the weight of her heart in her chest, because there were no feelings involved then. They were just two friends, playing Monica and Chandler for a night.

Now, she walks into the party with a knot in her stomach.

The place is buzzing with the kind of manic vibe only Max can gather: mutual friends, a couple of drivers from his racing days, influencers, and enough bottles of champagne lined up to keep the night running until no one can walk straight the next morning. The lighting is flattering, a warm golden shade that cascades over the entire venue.

She smiles when she needs to, accepting a drink when it’s handed to her but for some reason, she feels like a fraud, even though she belongs here as much as everybody else.

Already tipsy and grinning ear to ear, Max snatches a mic, speaking into it louder than necessary. “Oi, alright! Before everyone gets absolutely trashed, we’re doing a photo, yeah? All of you on the terrace now. Come on.”

The group is noisy, half-drunk and impatient, everyone shuffling around on the terrace as they try to wedge themselves into frame, beneath a banner that screams Happy Birthday Max!

People laugh, tugging each other closer, arms looping over shoulders, champagne glasses raised at odd angles. The photographer looks exasperated already, waving at them to just stay still for five seconds.

Lando slips into the cluster of bodies as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, shoulder brushing hers as he stakes his claim on the narrow space beside her. She feels the shift in her body before she even sees him, but that’s because she already knows his scent and the warmth radiating off him all too well. His arm folds loosely behind her, close enough that the tiny gap between gets heavy instantly. The line of his solid frame angles toward hers so familiar, his chest hovering just a breath behind her shoulder. And when she tilts her head the smallest fraction, it’s like they’re caught in orbit.

Lando might think he’s being slick, and she can tell. His expression is easy, careless even, like he hasn’t considered what the camera sees or what it could capture. But she can feel the weight of it: the way his proximity speaks louder than any touch, how her body leans almost imperceptibly into his without meaning to.

“Closer, closer!” the photographer calls out, making everyone laugh, stumbling into each other.

At that, Lando chuckles too, his palm landing firmly on her ass, fingers squeezing, as he uses it to pull her flush against him.

Her heart races so hard it’s a wonder she can keep a straight face. To conceal her expression, she tilts her champagne flute to her lips, lets the glass shield her, and stretches her mouth into a wide, glittering smile. To anyone watching, she’s just another friend enjoying the moment. Meanwhile, Lando looks like he’s forgotten entirely that they’re surrounded by people; his eyes are bright and his grin way too smug.

He leans down, lips brushing lightly against her ear, “Can you believe no one here knows I’ve had you twice today?”

Her knees nearly buckle, and that’s when the camera clicks. The flash freezes them in the act: her body tucked into his like it belongs there, Lando’s head bent toward her ear, his hand hidden but very much there. No one pays attention to them, too busy laughing and stumbling out of frame for the next drink after it’s done.

It’s right under their noses, she thinks.

A closeness that doesn’t belong in the background of a birthday picture. Or… under the table, a few hours later.

The music has grown louder now. Everyone is flushed yet still energized, lost in conversations and unfinished drinks. It’s the perfect cover for Lando to switch the flip again.

She sits with her phone in hand, eyes down, pretending to scroll as if she’s reading something really important that has her undivided attention. In reality, it’s the only shield she has against the warmth that’s growing inside her.

Under the table, Lando’s hand is on her thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles against bare skin where her dress has ridden up. Every pass is so gentle, enough to make her nerves spark like live wires.

“Lando,” she protests, lips barely moving. “Can you stop that?”

She can’t look at him without blushing, but she feels the smirk curve his lips even before he answers. “Relax. Everyone’s too drunk to notice.”

Her thumb taps uselessly on her screen, trying her best to ignore a touch that has become so normalized behind the closed doors. She wouldn’t have believed that Lando was such a touchy guy, but can’t complain about his need to have his hands on her at all times either.

“This dress,” Lando pauses to drag his thumb slowly along the hem, brushing her skin in a way that makes her spine straighten. “You look like an angel. From every angle. I can’t stop staring.”

The girl swallows the lump in her throat, forcing her face to remain impassive, as though she’s still absorbed in whatever is on her phone.

And then he leans closer, adding, “Can’t wait to get you home and take it off you.”

Everything around fades, leaving just the weight of his hand on her thigh. She turns her head then, finally meeting his smug grin with curious eyes. “Since when are you the type to wait?”

The words land like a dare and, before Lando can reply, she pushes his hand away, the absence of his touch a cold shock, and stands. Her dress clings to her thighs as she adjusts it, then she gives him one last look, slipping away from the table with the faintest sway of her hips.

Lando frowns, caught off guard. For a moment, he stays put, watching her disappear into the crowd and down the hall. Then instinct takes over. He glances left, then right, ensuring no one is paying him too much attention, before sliding out of his seat and following her while keeping a careful distance that he’s been perfecting over months of hiding.

The various sounds muffle as they move through the hallway, shadows swallowing the chatter until it’s just them. Lando shuts the bathroom door with a soft click and then his hand is on her throat in a heartbeat. The motion is fast, almost desperate, and he kisses her hard, crushing their mouths together like it’s the only language he knows. The subtle burn of alcohol lingers on their tongues as though the champagne is still fizzing between their lips. None of them minds it though. If anything, they welcome each other in like they always do.

Her back hits the door, rattling against the frame, and she doesn’t hesitate before her fingers dive into his curls, tugging with enough force to make him wince.

Lando groans against her mouth, breaking the kiss only to breathe and question, “What’s wrong with you tonight?” he pants, tight with frustration, but there’s a trace of worry behind his voice too.

Her chest rises quickly in uneven breaths, his curiosity only making her emotional. She wants to cry. Scream. Confess. But instead, she steels herself, building walls brick by brick before she can collapse.

“We’ve had a good run,” she admits, “But I think we should stop after this.”

Her words take her by surprise too, causing them both to pause, their mouths still pressed together. Slowly, Lando pulls away from her, his lips lingering on hers before parting, as if they are not ready to say goodbye yet.

Standing still, his hand slackening against her throat, Lando’s eyes search for her, studying her face like he didn’t hear her right. The girl doesn’t give him the chance to ask any other questions. Her gaze drops to his chest then down at the floor, anywhere but his eyes, because if she looks at him now, everything will crumble under the weight of her mixed feelings.

“No… why?” tries Lando, his voice suddenly so small. “Did something happen? Did anyone—”

“Nothing happened,” she rushes to say. “We made very sure of that.”

The silence that follows is uncomfortable for the first time they’ve known each other. She can hear his heavy breathing and his snort, which suggests that he can’t quite figure out what brought her to this conclusion.

“Yeah, we did,” Lando points out. “So what’s the matter? I thought this was what we both wanted, right? We’re good.”

“It was,” she replies, failing to add at first. But not anymore.

Lando looks at her as if he sees a completely different person in front of him. “Then what?” his eyebrows arch high on his forehead.

She sighs. “Then nothing. Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“What?” he freezes, the insult of it knocking the breath out of him. It’s been a while since Lando had been left speechless, but now it’s like his entire brain shut down. He just takes a step back, clenching his jaw in frustration. “No,” he continues, taken aback by her sudden bluntness.

“No?” she repeats, unable to believe that his rejection is final.

“No. Not like that. Baby, what the fuck?”

Her throat tightens. “Alright, got it. Cheers, mate,” she reaches for the door, but Lando is faster. He kicks it shut with his foot, the sound echoing through the small space like a gunshot.

“The hell you’re walking out on me like that,” he says, breathless but firm.

“Like what, Lando?” her voice is shaking slightly but refusing to break. “We’ve already got what we wanted from this, so why does it matter what happens after?”

His nostrils flare. “Don’t go there.”

“Why not?” she bites back. “The second we walk out of here, I go back to nothing anyway.”

His voice is so close to breaking into desperation next time he speaks, “It’s not nothing, and you know it. Do you even get how fucking hard it is not to touch you when you’re right there?”

Her laugh is hollow. “But that’s pretty much about it, isn’t it?”

Lando can’t stop the humourless laugh that slips past his lips, “Oh, wow. You think that’s all I want from you? Really?”

Her eyes flicker up, even though her chest aches as she forces the response out. “If anyone saw us right now, that’s exactly what they’d think too.”

The remark ignites a storm inside him. His jaw tightens again, voice climbing in volume a little. “Are you serious?”

“Dead. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Jesus, if all I wanted was an easy fuck, I could’ve had someone new every night,” the jab lands, sharper than he meant it to. He sees it in the way her face hardens, in the way her shoulders straighten like she’s bracing herself for impact.

“Then maybe you should. If it’s that easy for you, then go do it, and leave me the hell out of it,” she turns on her heel before he can say anything else, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the hinges.

The slam echoes, final and merciless, right into Lando’s face.

“Fuck,” he breathes, kicking at the bottom of the door before slamming his fist into it, the sharp sting radiating through his knuckles.

For a long moment, he struggles to understand how everything spiraled this fast. How something that felt so simple turned into such a mess in a blink of an eye.

═════════════════════════

“MATE, YOU’RE TRENDING on Twitter,” says Max once Lando gets back to their table.

He blinks, still affected by the bathroom confrontation, the words barely sinking in. “What?” he asks, snatching Max’s phone before he can think better of it.

His thumb swipes across the screen, and his chest goes cold: the group snap from earlier is already reposted everywhere, either cropped or zoomed in. Or cropped and zoomed in. The tweets and replies are endless, and they keep coming, forcing his eyes to go over dozens of them in the shortest time:

landosarchives

Group photo looks normal until you zoom in *insert Lando’s hyena laugh* is he aware he’s not subtle AT ALL?

  ⤷ grussell63 right?? Lando all up on that girl in the back LMAO.

  ⤷ nocontextf1 the hand placement is weird tho, who is she 👀

  ⤷ charlesless Are you guys okay? Like, in the head?

  ⤷ fullsend NO. look at his arm!!! ass grab + leaning in is insane behavior since he claims he’s single with every occasion he gets

5s4ocon

Debate of the evening: what’s actually happening in this photo?

1️⃣ Whispering something dumb

2️⃣ Kissing her cheek

3️⃣ Hard launch (by accident)

Poll ends in 24h

  ⤷ fromthepitsoff1hell combo between 2&3, guaranteed

  ⤷ papayacore I love you guys but some of you are delusionalllll

  ⤷ letsgoln4 No bc what’s that angle ://

  ⤷ teabreak.f1 can we talk about hand placement? im losing my shit the man is a GRABBER

⤷ goat_pastry Leaning angle = whisper. Hand placement = no comment 😗😗

⤷ russellesque_attitude also why is everyone pretending we can actually see his mouth? the girl is like 3 rows back. stop being obsessed lol

⤷ lnfourette ok but how close is he though…

⤷ dnf1 doing FBI-level analysis over a birthday pic. can we not 🤢

f1girliesassemble

idc what anyone says, lando’s hand is NOT where it should be in this photo 😭😭

  ⤷ de.lulu.44 girl that’s literally her waist 💀

  ⤷ f1girliesassemble r u blind 🍑.🍑

55operator

he either said ‘cheese’ or ‘bend over’ there’s no way in between

aston.m14

the girl in the black dress next to lando >>> who is sheee???

  ⤷ cutthechicane i checked the people in the post but no one’s tagged :(

  ⤷ pookietsunoda cutthechicane then she’s either a gf or someone lowkey 👀👀

  ⤷ papayarulezzz SHUT UP lando would not hard launch at max’s party of all places

  ⤷ sunshinepiastri papayarulezzz obviously, but judging by how everybody reacted so far, what makes you think this was planned lmao

tea_formulas

bro the way his entire palm is curved around her hip is killing me. which one of y’all are holdin your friends like that speak 🤨

gri77thegr1d

imagine being her. u get a kiss from ln in the middle of a photo while his hand is planted on u?? like that?? when’s the wedding LandoNorris

  ⤷ yukisdinner imagine being her when the internet finds out who you r tho... YIKES.

  ⤷ nando.lorris i think i found her insta oop 👀👀👀

  ⤷ landowecanbewc nando.lorris can you send it to me?

  ⤷ nando.lorris landowecanbewc dms :)

  ⤷ tripod_10 nando.lorris me too pls

⤷ landosformula nando.lorris ME THREE!

“Well, shit,” exhales Lando on the verge of panic, as he slowly hands the phone back to Max. When he lifts his eyes, his best friend is already staring at him, waiting; somehow, Max doesn’t expect an explanation. He already put the pieces together.

“What now?” asks Max.

Lando shakes his head, not knowing what to reply. Instead, “Where’d she go?”

Max shifts in his seat, his expression tightening with a mix of concern and reluctant understanding. “She came to me earlier. Said she had fun, but had to leave.”

“Do you think she knows anything about this?” asks Lando, pointing at Max’s phone.

“Not yet, I dont’t think so. But I reckon it won’t take long to find out if she opens her apps.”

He wants to add something more to that, maybe even come at Lando’s throat for acting like they’re not close enough to tell him what’s been happening in his personal life lately. But Max decides to leave all that for later, because he sees that his friend is currently in distress, his internal wheels working overtime in order to find the quickest way to fix this.

But before Lando can get up, Max catches his arm, searching his face. His eyes flick once to the phone screen still lit up with speculation, then back to his friend. Is it true?

Lando swallows, his jaw working. He doesn’t bother with excuses, and definitely doesn’t have the energy for lies. He just gives the smallest of nods, almost imperceptible. Yes.

═════════════════════════

IT DOESN’T TAKE him long to find her. Truthfully, it doesn’t take him any time at all, because even in her anger, even when she walks away from him with the kind of attitude that makes his stomach knot, Lando knows her well enough to guess there’s only one place she’d go to hide: home.

By the time she opens the door, he’s half out of breath, curls sticking to his forehead, shirt a little wrinkled like he hasn’t bothered to fix himself since leaving Max’s party.

She doesn’t even ask him what’s wrong. Instead, her voice comes out clipped. “Max’s picture is all over my feed.”

Initially, he says nothing, just stares at her, as though he hadn’t expected her to start there. Then he pushes past, uninvited but not unwelcome, slipping into the familiarity of her flat like it’s second nature.

“I know,” says Lando, dragging a hand through his hair. “But it doesn’t matter, right? No one knows who you are. They can speculate all they want, but I’ll make sure it never goes—”

The girl shuts the door behind him with more force than necessary in order to silent him, the sound echoing like a period at the end of a sentence. “Shut up, Lando.”

For once, he does.

“It’s whatever. I don’t mind,” she admits, her affirmation hanging between them, unexpected. And for the hundredth time tonight, he looks genuinely off balance.

“Of course you do,” Lando blinks, trying to square it with everything they’ve built: the months of secrecy, of slipping out the back doors and timed arrivals, of keeping their laughter and their touches tucked safely behind locked doors. “This was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to protect you from this.”

She crosses the living room, sinking into the couch with a grace that doesn’t feel natural, like she’s measuring his every movement, waiting for him to join her. The champagne has worn off, leaving only clarity behind. Her hands fold in her lap, gaze slipping away from him to somewhere far away. Perhaps to simpler times, when they didn’t have to stress about every step they took, either forward or backward.

“I know what we agreed,” she finally speaks in her soft voice, the sweet cadence he loves so much. “But I am exhausted. Aren’t you?”

Her confession curls into the silence like a claw around his lungs. Truthfully, he is, but Lando can’t go back to the way it was a year ago, before all this. Not when they went through so much together — a relationship that offered them more joy than sadness. Taken aback, he realizes that up until tonight, they never had a real argument. He used to get upset when she watched their show in advance, and she always scolded him when he left his clothes scattered around the apartment, whether it was at his place or hers. But nothing more serious than that. The realization settles with a kind of heaviness in his chest, one that Lando can’t quite disguise.

She finally looks back at him again. The anger from earlier is long gone. What’s left is something more complicated. A longing, a weariness. A love that hurts because it feels trapped between worlds that are so different.

“I don’t mind if they know,” she repeats. “Hiding what we have doesn’t make it any less real, does it? In time, it just made it harder.”

Her statement knocks something loose in him. Lando finally sits, not next to her but close enough, like he’s giving her space even though every part of him aches to close the distance. Then, he searches her face, desperately trying to understand the direction they’re now heading in, full throttle.

The fact that she is calm does not calm him down. That could mean that what she told him in the bathroom earlier still applies. And if that’s the case, he cannot come to terms with that scenario yet.

“Are we done?” her head lifts like she just heard a loud noise, caught off guard. Lando’s eyes are on her, a flicker of panic behind the question he hadn’t meant to sound so desperate. He swallows then tries again, “Like, for real? Is this it?”

The girl exhales slowly, leaning back into the couch cushions. Her hands twist together as she tries to choose her words. “I don’t know, Lando. I’m not quite in the mood to think about it right now.”

It’s like a knife twists in unison with her admission, but he understands. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. “If that’s the case, I don’t want to lose you,” he confesses before managing to filter his thoughts. “I’m just… I’m trying to keep you safe. Keep us safe. That’s all I’ve ever been doing.”

She studies him, searching for more than he gives her at the moment, and when she finally speaks, it’s enough to make him flinch. “Safe doesn’t mean happy. Plus, you can find yours in someone new every night, apparently.”

Lando blushes instantly, the memory slamming into him like a slap. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologizes in a small voice, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “It was stupid. I was just pissed off at the situation you simply threw at me out of the blue.”

She smiles, but it’s not genuine. “You made it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” he cuts in quickly, finally meeting her eyes again. There’s no flippancy now, no cocky grin to hide behind, just honesty. “But even if it was, why would I want to? I already have what I need. With you. You’re the only one who makes it feel like I can stop racing for a second.”

Her throat constricts, forcing her to look away before the sting in her eyes can betray her. Because as much as she wants to believe him, it’s hard to accept it’s true. And excuses don’t erase the heaviness that’s pressing between them.

She opens her mouth to add to Lando’s confession, but her phone lights up on the coffee table in front of them, vibrating once. The sound cuts through the quiet of her apartment, pulling both of them out of the mood that they’ve been sinking into.

She reaches for it out of habit, finding a message from Max on the screen:

MAX F.

You good? Did Lando find you?

Her heart skips a beat, feeling his eyes on her in an instant, a brow raised in question.

“It’s Max,” she explains.

Lando huffs a quiet laugh through his nose, but there’s tension in the way his shoulders stay coiled as he watches her typing something back quickly.

Yeah. He’s with me.

The next notification pulls her eyes down before she can stop herself.

MAX F.

Good. Tell lover boy I said hi. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.

Her lips twitch upwards, and for a little while, the knot in her chest loosens. A smile breaks free, real this time, making her giddy at the thought that these two always have each other’s backs the way they do.

“What’s so funny?” asks Lando.

She hesitates for a second, then turns the phone around so he can watch the realization dawn on her face. “Max knows,” she says simply.

A weight that she’s been carrying for months slips just a little, and for the first time since this began, it feels really good. Good that someone else knows. Good that their secret isn’t locked so tightly it doesn’t even feel real anymore. Good that they exist outside the four walls of hotel rooms and closed doors.

It makes them real, because now, they exist as an item in someone else’s perspective too.

Her smile fades a little as she sets the phone aside, fingers brushing against her knees. “I don’t want to keep secrets anymore, Lando,” she says. “But I’m also not ready to fully commit to this. I’m sure you can see why,” she adds reluctantly, referring to the media situation.

Lando doesn’t hesitate. His hand finds hers, big enough to cover hers completely, curling around her small fingers. His thumb brushes gently over the back of her hand. “I do,” he nods. “But if you give me the chance, I’ll make it my life’s purpose to make everything easier for you. Worth every bit of the chaos that comes with me.”

═════════════════════════

📍 Somewhere in the Mediterranean

Liked by maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and others

lando off the market for quite a while now, ladies and gents. really happy btw, cheers for allowing me to keep this part of my life private. cya after the break ✌🏼

Comments...

maxfewtrell oops.

⤷ formula.gossip bro forces his bro to come clean about his rship and all he says is oops 💀😭

ln444 “allowing me to keep this part of my life private” after the absolute chaos that pic caused on Twitter is CRAZY work lando 😭😭

⤷ itsnearafish ikr i heard people already found her socials. he’s subtly begging us to leave him alone LOL

oscarpiastri Finally.

⤷ lando tf u mean finally??

⤷ oscarpiastri For someone who has their driver’s room next to yours at all times, I know enough. Against my will, may I add

⤷ lando sweet.

⤷ f1teabreak oscarpiastri don’t be shy, tell us more

⤷ oscarpiastri f1teabreak What do you wanna know?

⤷ lando oscarpiastri oscarpiastri oscarpiastri 🤡??

carlossainz55 A lot to talk about on our next golf trip no?

⤷ lando 😏😏😏

ln4.fans everybody say thank you for your service max

⤷ l4nd0p1 okay but like. this is still the cutest thing ever. let him be happy 🥹💙

⤷ offtrackdrama Cute?? He lied for over a year and now he comes online and demands privacy from people. Such a joke.

⤷ ln4.fans lmao imagine being this pressed over a public person who’s choosing to date out of the public eye 💀💀

pitlanelurker NAH. this is clearly damage control after Max’s bday post 😭 he panicked

⤷ all.about.that.f1grid I think he saw people started to drag his girl online and he had to put a stop to that nonsense immediately 😤💕

⤷ el_plan_14 he’s a good man savannah 🫶🏽

xoxof1gg I know it’s supposed to be sweet but why do I feel like he’s hiding her somehow 🫠

⤷ russellsgap because he IS. he doesn’t want us to know who she is

⤷ 81pastries good. they deserve privacy.

@landooscurls Imagine hiding her from us all year

⤷ @trashytracktales two can keep a secret if at least one of them is madly in love ;)

THE ECHO OF the waves hadn’t really left them once they got back inside. Their sound is ghosting faintly through the open balcony doors, salt and warmth still clinging to the air of the hotel suite. Lando sits half naked propped up against the headboard, scrolling through his comments, liking and replying to some of them, his thumb dragging across the screen without focus. His curls are still a bit wet from the shower, and his skin carries a subtle trace of deep pink that only comes from sitting in the sun an entire day.

She moves barefoot across the cool floor, tugging a loose shirt over her thighs. Her skin smells of sea spray, her cheeks flushed from the shower she just got out of. The exhaustion in her limbs makes her movements languid, like the tide itself is still pulling at her. When she finally slips into bed, Lando doesn’t think twice before setting his phone down on the nightstand, catching her wrist before she can roll to her side. A quick tug and suddenly she’s straddling him, her knees sinking into the mattress, his hands finding their way to her hips like they always do.

“What’s the verdict?” the girl asks with a little nervousness behind her voice, even though she tries to mask it as casual. Her fingers toy with the chain around his neck, twisting it lightly.

Lando exhales through his nose, slightly amused. “Mixed feelings,” he says, eyes catching hers. “Some think it’s sweet, some think I lied, some are just here for the memes.”

“I definitely am here for the memes,” she says, earning a small smile in return.

His lips quirk, though a subtle weariness lingers behind them. “I just hope it’ll die down eventually.”

She tilts her head. “That’s a bit optimistic.”

He nudges her side, making her laugh despite herself. “I said hope, not expect. Besides,” he goes on, squeezing her waist, “You should see the theories about who you are. They’re convinced you’re a hired model, just based on Max’s picture.”

“A model?” she asks. “How did they even get there?”

Lando shrugs. “Yeah,” he grins, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “They’re not wrong, though. You could be.”

“Not gonna happen,” she leans closer, shaking her head as her nose brush against his.

His voice drops slightly. “What if you model for me only?”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrays her. “Well, that can be arranged.”

As a response, Lando leans in, letting his lips ghost teasingly against hers before kissing her properly. A kiss that empties her lungs and fills her with weightless tenderness. A kiss they’ve shared so many times before, but it didn’t quite feel like this, old and new at the same time.

“Thank you,” he whispers when he pulls back, quiet enough to sound like a secret. “For walking into my life like that, and for staying.”

She just looks at him, not trusting her voice enough to speak without spilling a tear or two. Instead, she kisses him harder, pouring all her gratitude and want into the press of her mouth against his. It draws a delicious sound out of him, a whimper that tangles with her own as their hips shift closer. Her weight settles over him as a result, and the friction is enough to make them both gasp at the feeling.

Lando’s hands waste no time, slipping under the hem of her shirt, palms skimming the warm skin of her waist and stomach before traveling higher. His smile turns wicked when he discovers she’s all bare beneath it, his fingers curling and pulling her closer, like even if they merged, it still wouldn’t be close enough.

She whimpers, her breath shuddering as his thumbs trace tiny circles into the soft flesh. The rhythm is coaxing, but the tension between them builds as fast as it always did. Instinctively, her hips rock against him like muscle memory, and the solid heat she finds beneath the thin fabric of his shorts makes her pulse throb deep in her core. As a response to her action, Lando reacts by letting out another string of needy noises, as if she’s stripping away every last shred of composure he pretends to hold. His tongue brushes hungry against hers, and every drag of his mouth feels like a claim.

Ever since everything got out in the open, a new fire spreads through her chest whenever she thinks about it. One born not of fear that the people can find out who she is at any moment, but of knowing; everybody knows now. Lando is no longer hers in secret. He’s hers, period.

Impatient, he cups her thighs harder, his his cock pressing thick and insistent between her legs. Her kiss turns desperate at the feel of him, teeth grazing his lip, and when Lando hisses into her mouth, she smiles through the kiss, knowing he wants much more. So, she helps him shove his shorts down, freeing him underneath her. The sight alone makes her mouth water, but before he can even try to flip their positions, she presses a steady palm to his bare chest.

“Let me,” she says, and the determination alone has him sinking back against the headboard. For a fraction, Lando looks at her like he wants to argue, because he needs to be the one in control more than ever. But then her hand wraps around him without warning, and his protest dies in a choked breath.

Her other palm traces soothing lines down his thigh, assuring him that he’s going to be taken care of, before she leans forward to kiss along his chest. Upward, soft little brushes of her lips over the hollow of his throat, the angle of his jaw, until his body starts to loosen beneath her. And the moment her hand starts stroking along his length, his lips twitch, the barest flicker of a smile breaking through his parted lips.

That alone encourages her to stroke with more intention.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, hips jerking up to meet her, helpless yet excited. His chest heaves in uneven rhythm, breath catching on every exhale as the sweet, involuntary sounds spill from his throat.

She can’t help but look down at the picture he makes with flushed skin, curls damp against his forehead, and his cock ready and flushed in her hand, a sense of pride blooming in her chest. He’s gorgeous like this, without even knowing how much it turns her on to have him laid bare for her.

The girl drags her fist over him too slowly for Lando’s liking, but she knows exactly what she’s doing. He can tell judging by the way she looks at him, and by the pressure of her thumb swirling over his slit until precum beads and drips down his shaft.

She lets a satisfied sound out of her mouth, making Lando’s head tip against her shoulder, letting a moan out as he forces himself to watch her movements.

“Say you’re mine,” he says mostly to himself, body arching into her. “So I don’t fucking forget it when I see the shit they post online.”

Her free hand wraps around the chain around his neck like a snake, pulling him towards her. “All yours, Lan,” she breathes in unison with him. “We should’ve let them find out sooner, hm? Let them know how easily you get me soaked.”

The thought makes his cock throb in her hand.

It’s the way she knows exactly what turns him on, because she knows him better than anyone. That unravels him, catching them both off guard. His hips stutter as his orgasm rips through him, spilling hot and slick over her fingers.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch as her strokes stay steady, pushing him further than he thinks he can take.

“That’s a good boy, aren’t you?” she whispers. The praise makes his cock twitch in her hand again, still hard, still throbbing even through the aftershocks.

“Yes,” he moans. “Fucking hell, what are you doing?” louder this time, too far gone to care. His hand shoots up, wrapping around hers, their fingers curling together as they keep stroking him simultaneously, precise and relentless. “Need you,” Lando groans, sounding more desperate than he’d like. His hips thrust into their joined grip, his forehead pressed into her shoulder. “Need to be inside you. Baby, please.”

She breathes wetly against his cheek. “Shit. They’d never believe me if I told them you’re whining for my pussy like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive, would they?”

The worst part is that she’s already a mess herself, wet and aching, every nerve lit up from watching him fall all over their hands. The need in his voice only feeds the fire already burning in her stomach, threatening to consume her sooner rather than later.

With a satisfied sound, Lando grabs her and shifts her onto his lap, his fingers curling tight around her waist. He can’t help but admire how well she fits against him, the sight making his chest full, her thighs bracketing his hips and sweet warmth pressing against the hard line of him. His palms span her skin easily, guiding her into place as if she weighs nothing. The second her core settles over his lap, right where he needs her, he has to bite his lower lip, fighting back the embarrassingly needy moan clawing up his throat.

He can feel her, all slick and hot, every shift of her hips sending a pulse of heat through his own body, his cock quivering against her, begging for more.

Impatient, he slides one hand down between them, his fingers brushing over her soaked folds. The wetness coats his fingertips instantly, and he lets out a low laugh, teasing her, “All this just from getting me off?”

Her eyes close, but Lando doesn’t give her long to hide, because he pushes inside in one gentle motion, meeting no resistance at all. He groans at the way her body clenches immediately, velvety walls pulling him in deeper with every curl of his fingers.

“Look at you,” his voice is rough with awe. “So perfect like this.”

With a gasp, her hands fly to his shoulders, clutching for balance as he works his fingers inside her, stretching her open.

“Dripping already,” Lando notices, brushing his thumb over her clit as he pumps into her. His eyes flick up to hers, only to find her buzzing already. “That eager for me to fuck your pretty hole, baby?”

Her only answer is to roll her hips, riding his fingers, using his hand for her own pleasure. He grins, his free hand tightening around her waist, anchoring her to him even as she writhes.

“Yeah,” he whispers, leaning in a bit closer. “That’s what you want, hm? My cock instead of my fingers? Or...”

The desperate little sound she makes in response nearly throws him into a spiral. His thumb circles her clit faster, while his fingers scissor her entrance with every movement, dragging against that sensitive spot that makes her nails dig into his shoulders.

She moves against him, breathing heavily while chasing that sweet edge. Lando keeps holding her, his eyes locked on her every expression. Her body is quickly shuddering, trembling, and it only makes his cock throb harder. Unable to hold back, the hand on her waist moves down, curling around his length instead, already leaking and pulsing with the need for her. He groans at his own touch, jerking himself slowly while she squirms on his fingers. Then, with a sharp exhale, he guides the swollen head to her entrance, where his fingers are already buried, coaxing her body open.

“Fuck…” he swears, eyes closing shut for a moment. The contrast of his thick length pressing in alongside his fingers nearly wrecks them both at the same time.

She lets out a strangled moan as the head of him finally slips past her entrance, stretching her until her walls are clinging around both his cock and his fingers. She feels so full that her brain is soon short-circuiting under the sheer overload of sensation. “Lando, oh my god.”

He groans at the sound of her pleasure, overwhelmed by both the squeeze and the unbearable heat of her. “Shit, baby. You’re sucking me in. So tight like that,” his voice breaks as his hips flex up pushing deeper, careful but relentless, until he’s fully seated inside her.

Her nails scrape down his shoulders, back arching as the pressure tips over into more pleasure. He watches her face twist and crumble with every roll of his hips, and the sight alone can make him come. But then she starts to move, rocking, lifting, and sinking back down onto him with desperation. He meets her halfway, driving his hips upward in careful thrusts that push his cock and fingers into her over and over, filling her so thoroughly she can barely breathe.

The sounds their bodies make are slick, every thrust squelching as his cock slides into her soaked heat, his fingers still pumping. Soon, the room fills with shared echoes, that always come back to them: her delicious cries, his ragged curses, and the slap of their bodies meeting all over again.

Overpowered, she bows as the tension inside her finally snaps. The orgasm rips through her, violent and all-consuming, her thighs trembling as slick gushes down between them, soaking both of them. Her moans are shooting through him, muscles tightening until he can barely move. At that, Lando follows her lead, dragging his fingers out of her drenched body, coated to the knuckle. He barely has time to marvel at the sight before he grips her waist with both hands now and takes over, continuing to thrust up into her with urgency; it’s like he needs to etch himself into her until she’ll never forget the feel of him.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, eyes fixed on her tear-streaked face, the way her mouth falls open with every sharp thrust. “They’d lose their fucking minds if they saw you this wrecked on my cock. My dirty little secret, yeah? Except you’re not a secret anymore. No... everyone’s picturing me inside you right now.”

She shakes with overstimulation, gasping and whining with every stroke of his cock. But even through the overwhelming rush of it, she clings tighter, nails raking down his back, silently begging him not to stop. Ever. And he doesn’t. He can’t, not when every squeeze of her body around him drags him closer to the edge, and definitely not when the sound of her makes his chest ache with more than lust.

“Such a pretty girl, letting me hear how good I fuck you.”

Just like that, Lando is losing the fight with his own lungs, every breath breaking ragged against her chest as his hips snap in uneven thrusts. She’s still wearing her shirt, damp with sweat now, but he couldn’t care less as he mouths at her through the thin fabric, tongue circling until her nipple peaks against the cotton. The sensation makes her jolt, a whimper breaking free as her body reacts to him without warning. The squeeze rips another helpless whine from Lando’s throat, so he buries his face deeper into her chest, muffling his sounds against her while her fingers fist into his hair, keeping him exactly where he is.

She rides him with determination, bouncing despite the exhaustion etched into her trembling limbs, her body so far past overstimulation that it feels like she’s coming with every drag of his cock inside her.

“Mine,” she gasps silently, his rhythm shattering as his body takes over.

Lando’s hips jerk wildly upward, instinct driving him deeper, until he finds the perfect thrust that finally pushes him over the edge. He tenses, every muscle straining before the release hits him in a wave so powerful it tears the air from his lungs. A high, whiny moan slips from him as his cock pulses violently inside her, spilling thick warmth that fills her to the brim. She breathes heavily at the sensation, her walls clenching greedily like she refuses to let him go. The pressure tips her over again, pleasure biting at her clit as she grinds down on him, shuddering through another messy release that leaves slick over his length.

Their sobs and gasps mix together as their bodies finally surrender, exhausted and wrung out. Her strength gives way, and she collapses onto him, her hair sticking to her flushed face and neck. His chest heaves against hers, sweat and salt and the humid press of their bodies melting them together in a bubble that’s just theirs.

She can feel the sticky warmth between them, but when Lando shifts slightly beneath her, trying to angle her more comfortably against his body, the movement makes his still-softening cock slip, and with it, their release spills hot all over them. He groans at the sensation, a sound equal parts overstimulated and cocky, his lips brushing her ear.

“See how much of me you can take?” he chuckles, brushing his nose across her cheek.

Her laugh bubbles out breathless but full of warmth, her body vibrating with the sound against his. She hides her face in his sweaty neck, giggling despite her exhaustion, while his arms lock tighter around her waist.

When her breathing finally evens out, her body melting boneless above his, she speaks shily, “That thing you did with your fingers,” Lando tilts his head, humming questioningly, but she continues, cheeks warming even though the room is dim. “I couldn’t breathe for a second.”

Lando’s hand, still splayed over her waist, freezes. His brows furrow, guilt flickering across his face even through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss. “Shit. I didn’t even think,” he says, regret lacing his tone. “Sorry if I pushed it.”

Her laugh is soft yet a little shaky, but there’s no mistaking the honesty in it. She tilts her face up, catching his eyes in the dark. “No, it felt so good. Weird at first, but so good.”

He smiles, relieved. “Yeah? So next time,” his grin deepens, mischief sparking despite his exhaustion, “We should do it with a toy?”

She sighs, swatting at his chest. “That’s pushing.”

“That’s innovative,” he corrects with mock seriousness, but his voice is already giving out, weighed down with yawns he can’t quite hold back.

Their banter drifts lazily into the quiet, and when that’s all she can hear, her fingers find his nipple in playful revenge, giving it a sharp pinch; Lando jolts, half whining, half laughing.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me,” she says. “I’m not waking up in this mess.”

He smirks, eyes closing shut anyway as he buries his face in her hair. “We’re official now. You’re gonna wake up in a mess either way.”

She knows that. She had time to think about it on her way home earlier. However, the thought didn’t scare her then, and it doesn’t scare her now. Because she realized that no mess can be that bad as long as they clean it up together.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Don't Let This Pass

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, friends to lovers, humor, forced proximity, fluff, smut (oral f and m receiving, p in v sex,), light angst, love confessions

Summary/Warnings: Dean is your best friend, and nothing more, no matter how much you want that to be different.

But he's trying to tell you something. And when you get trapped together for a week, he finally gets the chance.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! I lost my goddamn mind.

Word Count: 17.7k

“Are you smelling this, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you sigh, wrinkling your nose as another blob of something drifts past your feet. “We’re standing next to each other, Dean.”

Dean points his flashlight up, enough for you to see his grin in the dark. “You remember when Sammy farted last month, then pretended it was my Baby leaking something?”

You snort, kicking away something strangely hard that you don’t want to think about. “Yeah?”

“Least this still isn’t that bad.”

You look up to give him a flat, amused look, and freeze. 

“Dean-“

“C’mon, he’s not here-“

“No, Dean, fuck-“

You grab out your gun, aim it right over his shoulder, and shoot. 

The last swamp monster thuds into the water, and Dean stares at you with wide eyes.

“Uh, how close was I to bein’ a swap snack?”

You shrug, giving him a small smile. “Don’t undervalue yourself, dude. You would have been swamp dinner.”

Dean snorts, wading through the water to your side, and rests his hand on your back. There’s no real reason for him to do that. You’re standing up just fine. No serious injuries. No panic. 

He’s just touching you. Casually. The way he always has, without thought, because he trusts you enough not to turn around and try to cut off his hand. 

And it’s always driven you out of your mind. 

Dean’s casually put his hand on your body since you met him. Since the first hunt, where he and Sam saved the helpless little vampire victim, and you tried to shoot them because you didn’t know that the people carrying machetes were the good guys. Dean had put his hand on your upper arm and lower back, helped you to your feet, and been the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. 

You can still feel where he touched you, all those years ago. It’s branded a level right under your skin, the lightening and fire sensation of a broad, rough hand being so gentle on your skin. And every time he’s touched you since, you’ve still been able to feel it. Sinking deeper and deeper, spreading and growing with every accidental brush of his hand and shoulder bump and time you’ve been pressed right against him on a hunt. It’s going to burn forever. You don’t want it to go out, even if it drives you out of your mind. 

Days the bunker is empty, and you lock the door to your room with your legs spread. Whenever he makes you—and Sam, but that’s not important—breakfast. If you’re watching a movie, and he puts his arm over your shoulder because he’s comfortable. Every time he whispers a joke in your ear, grins so wide when you laugh. Every fucking night you have to spend in the same room with him, pretending you don’t feel like you’re burning alive with a light that won’t flicker out. 

Most motels don’t offer three beds. So there are times where the couch fits Dean—never Sam, and you’re not allowed to sleep on the couch because they’re dumbasses who think they’re gentlemen—and times where you just have to suck it up and share. 

Sharing with Sam is fine. You can’t grind into the sheets as the fire sweeps into your core—Dean likes to walk out of the shower without a shirt, and he might hate you—because fucking Sam is right on the other side of the bed. 

When you share with Dean, it’s… different. 

You can’t fuck yourself then, either. But it becomes unbearable. Your body seems to ache, just to touch him. Sometimes the light will be angled just right through the window, and you’ll be able to watch the passing headlights of the cars drift over his pretty face. 

Because Dean’s face is still so fucking beautiful. It’s one of those few things you know will never change. 

But you don’t want anything to change. Change is the thing that leaves you alone, dead in the water, trying to use the stars to guide yourself when the sky is pitch black. You’ve never been good at it. When you joined hunting, it took months for you to fully adjust just to living in the bunker. 

Dean had gotten you through that. Made you comfortable. Taught you how to hold a gun, and throw a punch, and made you waffles when you’d finally managed to knock him on his ass. 

“I know you went easy on me,” you’d told him, spraying the whip cream on your plate, and he’d chuckled. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“It’s okay,” you’d shrugged. “Next time you can go all out, and I’ll still win.”

Dean had grinned at you, and you’d felt that heat rising to your cheeks. It wasn’t fair how he could do that. How you’d gotten so good at being around him and not acting like just one word in your direction made you feel high. At this point it had just been a crush, on the big handsome man who saved your life. 

Even then, it had still felt like a massive, consuming type of crush. The kind like a tree, that wouldn’t stop rooting into your heart and growing. The kind that you’d known would get you in trouble, if you weren’t careful. 

“Sure you will.” Dean had reached for the whipped cream can, and you’d whacked his hand with it. “Hey, c’mon-“

“I’m not done.” You’d finished the pile with a little swirl, and passed him the can with a smile. 

He’d stared at you, then the whipped cream mountain. “You trying to drown yourself?”

“Maybe.” 

Dean had reached forward, taken some on his finger—ruining the artwork, but it had been Dean, so you were never mad—and dabbed it on your nose. He’d laughed at your glare, and you’d tried to bite his finger. 

It had just made him laugh harder. 

“You look cute.” He’d said, lookin back to his own waffle, and it had been like being shot up with fire. 

He thought you were cute. Dean thought you were cute. And he’d touched you again. And maybe if you’d asked him to, he could have kissed you and you could run your hand through his hair and taste the salt of his sweat, and he could show you how to do a few other moves, right here at the table, and- 

“You good?” He’d asked you, and he’d sounded concerned. Not starved for you, just worried. Like a friend would be. 

And you didn’t want anything to change. This was already better than you could have dared to ask for. 

So you’d smiled at him, and nodded. 

And nothing ever had to be different.

Friends. 

You were so fucking lucky just to be his friend. The one-night stands came and went, and you were still here, with Dean. You could take that. 

Take it, and use it to kindle all that heat in your body. Burn it and burn it until it was ash. 

Keep pretending that your hunger and fever for Dean would ever go out, when you know that this is forever. 

You’ve known it was love since you were in a diner, almost a year ago, and he made the waitress get you the children’s coloring mat, because it had crossword puzzles and you didn’t want to ask. 

“Don’t bother her, Dean

“I’m not bothering her, sweetheart, it’s asking her to carry freakin’ paper-“

“No, it’s stupid, I’ll get a newspaper-“

“We’ll get you a newspaper after.” He shrugged, giving you a shockingly serious look. “But it’s not stupid. You’re not stupid. We’re getting that kids mat.”

You’d flushed, and nodded. And you loved him. 

Love him. 

Now, even in the swamp monster mess, his touch and attention do the exact same thing to you. It’s going to drive you out of your mind, one day. But you don’t want to try and stop it. 

That would mean moving yourself away from Dean, where he couldn’t touch you. And it might not even do anything, but make you miss him. Make things change. 

So you’ll lean slightly into his touch—just in case—and smile at him in the dark. 

When he smiles back, it’s like the whole world lights up. 

And you never want that to change either. 

“You think we need to clean this shit up?” He nods around you, making a face as a fresh wave of swamp-stench drifts through the air, and you shake your head. 

“Can I suggest an alternate plan?”

Dean nods. “You know I love a backup, sweetheart.”

You flush again, bowing your head to make sure he won’t see. “I vote we just blow it up.”

“That’s a plan.” He bumps your shoulder, and you can hear the joy in his voice. “I’m team blow it up.” He pauses. “Can I-“

“Yeah.” You smile at your feet. “You can do the work.”

“Awesome.” He starts to walk towards the exit, and all you can do is follow him. “Then we’ll get all this shit off us.”

You hum an agreement, and try not to pick apart his happiness too much. It’s always good when Dean is happy, but you’ve developed a bad habit of trying to pinpoint why. If he gets excited when you buy him pie because you bought him pie, or it’s pie. If he grins at you when he sees you because he’s happy to see you, or just to see a friend. 

If he just wants to use his grenade launcher, or if he’s happy you gave him a reason to. 

It never gets you anywhere, to think of that. And no matter what conclusion you draw, it’s never going to change anything.  

But it’s still a fun way to torture yourself. Watching him with a smile as he blasts the old cabin, and the whole thing goes crashing down. Returning his thumbs up with a smile, and giving him a high five when he walks back to the car. 

“Another monster, ganked.” He puts the launcher back in the truck, and you hum. 

“And it’s a swamp monster. Big day for you.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, guess it is. Didn’t really think about that.”

You blink at him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, giving you an odd smile you don’t really understand. “Guess I was worrying about other shit.”

“Other-“

“C’mon.” He raises his voice over yours, grabbing your arms and starting to herd you towards the passenger’s seat. “We gotta get you back to the motel. You’re gonna catch a cold.”

“Me?” You frown at him. “You’ll get one too, Winchester-“

“Nah. I don’t catch colds.”

You snort as he closes the door behind you. You wait for him to get behind the wheel before you’re leaning forward, raising your brows. 

“Everyone gets colds, Dean.”

“Not me.” He winks at you, turning on the engine. “I run hot, baby.”

Jesus. 

That’s like being doused in gasoline and struck with a match. It is freezing outside—swamp monsters somehow ended up in Montana—and you are drenched in something worse than water, but all you can feel is the wired heat under your skin, as you play that over and over in your head. 

It’s just another moment, that means nothing to Dean and everything to you. 

But there are so many of them. They make up the tapestry of Dean, that lines your ribs. Remind you over and over that you love him, and every bit of his happiness—whether you’re the direct cause or not—is a rare, priceless gift he gives to so few people.

Dean does love you. 

As a best friend. 

You really can pretend that’s enough, just as long as it never has to change. 

Dean opens the door to the motel room for you, with a wide, smug grin. “You want first shower?”

“Sure, but-“ You flick a chuck of Swamp Monster off his shoulder with a pointed look. “I think you need it more.”

“I’ve been covered in worse.” He shrugs. “You go, I gotta call Sammy and give him the update.”

“Dean, he’s on vacation, don’t bother him-“

“He can pick up the damn phone at the beach.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Eileen won’t care. Go shower, sweetheart.”

You sigh, but give in. Once Dean decides something like that—you aren’t holding your pee for the rest of the drive, they will find a diner that serves Sam’s stupid rabbit food, this place does have a broken heater and Dean’s going to goddamn fix it��there’s no talking him out of it. 

And the shower is nice. Warm. The motel shampoo actually smells like something for once—flowers, nice, sweet flowers—and they water is loud enough that, if you lean against the wall and let your hand wander between your legs, Dean won’t be able to hear it. 

He never hears it. He doesn’t know that you’d get on your knees for him, if he ever asked. That you’d sleep in his bed and hold him through every nightmare, if he let you. 

Dean doesn’t know that you have to bite your tongue to swallow moans, as you think of his hands so easily on your body, and the deep sound of his voice as he said baby, and his eyes, shining on yours. You’ve pictured them above you too many times. Glinting and blown out, as he unravels you below him. Or under you, fluttering and squeezing tight as you ride him. And he’d buck his hips up into you, driving deeper and deeper, and when you moan his name he’d drag you down into a kiss, and all this heat would finally burst into a firework-

You shake, tossing your head back as your release hits. It’s a small one. You’re too tired to do anything properly, and even angling your clit under the water didn’t do as much as you wanted it to. You don’t manage to swallow the squeak of Dean, but the water is still running. You barely heard it. ‘

And as you walk out of the bathroom, Dean’s still on the phone. 

You’re in the clear. 

He scans over you with a tight frown, and you raise your brows. He just shakes his head, pointing to the phone, and you nod, shuffling over to the bed.

“Listen, uh- Sammy. Sam.” Dean shoots you another look. “I gotta go, man, shower is open- No, I’m not gonna- Sam.” His voice lowers to a hiss, and you smile to yourself. That’s the shut your face voice. Sam’s probably trying to convince him to do something. “No, I ain’t calling you after, bitch, I don’t- Fucking Christ. Yeah. I know.”

He hangs up, and you glance at him, having settled on your bed with a book.

“Not saying bye?”

“He doesn’t deserve it.” Dean grumbles, moving to his feet. 

“What did he do-“

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Well,” you wrinkle your nose, leaning forward. “Now I am worried.”

He sighs, running a hand over his face. “It’s not a big thing, sweetheart. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Or, you could tell me now.”

“I, uh- gotta shower.” He makes for the bathroom, and you raise your voice after him. 

“Dean-“

“Tomorrow!” He calls over his shoulder, and closes the door behind him. 

You sigh, looking back to your book. It’s probably nothing. Dean doesn’t keep big secrets, not from you. If it was something for you to be worried about, he’d probably have told you already, to try and convince you to lay low at the bunker while he and Sam handled it. Your bet is on another hunt, that Sam’s trying to send you on. 

Nothing big. 

Just more time you get to spend, only you and Dean. 

Dean mutters your name from the doorway, and when you look up, your breath hitches in your throat. 

There’s steam, billowing out of the bathroom and casting in a halo-like light. His hair is damp and spikey and soft looking, his bare chest looking almost golden—you don’t know how he tans, when you all live in a fucking basement—and water running over his muscles. And you’ve dreamed about pressing your face into his pecs, or scratching at his abs while he kisses you, or kissing over that V before he grabs your hair and pulls you back and stuffs your mouth with- 

You cough, and force your attention back to your book. You can’t look at him too long, or you’ll do something really stupid like beg him to fuck you stupid. 

“Yeah, Dean?” Your voice isn’t steady, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I, uh-“ Dean coughs, and you risk a glance up to see him scratching the back of his neck. “You know we ganked those gross assholes real fast. Thought we’d be here longer. And Sam says there’s a story coming, tomorrow, so we’re gonna have to hit the road in the morning.”

“Storm? What storm?” You frown at him, and he gives you an oddly sheepish grin.

“Snow-storm. Supposed to be bordering on a blizzard or something. ‘Less we wanna be stuck here for least a week, we should haul ass soon.”

“Oh.” A week stuck in a motel with Dean doesn’t sound that bad. It would be torture, but the kind of torture that you’d get a thrill out of. The kind that could fuel a lot of dreams for months to come. 

Or everything could get fucked up. He’d get sick of you. You’d moan his name in your sleep. Too many things could change, if you were stuck together. 

It’s best if you go in the morning. 

“I, um-“ You bite on your inner cheek, watching him carefully. “Is that was you were talking to Sam about?”

Dean blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “That’s what we talking about, sweetheart. The storm.”

You narrow your eyes at him—he’s being weird, and you don’t believe him—but Dean only clears his throat and gives you another grin.

“And since we gotta go in the morning, I was ho- Uh, wondering. If you’d wanna get a drink.”

You frown at him again. “We have beers in the fridge, Dean.”

“Yeah. We do.” He mutters, throat bobbing, and you’ve never seen him like this. Looking at the floor a lot. Not walking around with a puffed-out chest and mastered, cowboy swagger. Like he knows how pretty he is, and he’s using it as a shield. Trying to flash bright enough that people won’t see anything but that smooth voice and boyish, charming grin.

You’ve been allowed to see beneath it. Because he’s your friend. Because he’s not trying to impress or trick you. Not trying to sell himself to you, even though you’re kind of already his. He doesn’t care if he gets your love or affection. Some part of you always wonders if he knows he already has it, and that’s why you get to know Dean, the perfect, sweet, broken but strong man, instead of Dean, the sex-god and hunter legend. 

And you don’t want to go out drinking with him. You love him. But if you have to watch him flirt with someone else the whole night, you’re going to go find another swamp monster and let it eat you.

You don’t get to open your mouth and tell him that, before he’s continuing on. 

“There’s kinda this bar I’ve been dying to check out, since we pulled into down.” His gaze feels like it’s buzzing over your skin. “And we should celebrate. So. Drinks.”

“Drinks.” You repeat, tilting your head at him. He gives you a crooked half-grin and nod, and you pull your lip between your teeth. 

He’s being so fucking weird.

“You can go yourself, Dean-“

“No.” He shakes his head, standing up a little taller. “You saved my life tonight. I’m getting you a drink.”

“You’ve saved my life more. And I never buy you a drink.”

“That’s different.” He dismisses you quickly, and you frown.

“How-“

“C’mon,” he drawls your name, his tone almost challenging. “One drink.”

Fuck. 

He’s got you. He must know he’s got you, otherwise he wouldn’t have pushed it. All he has to do is poke you, and you cave. Give a mumbled nod and agreement, and trying not to burn from within at his happy grin. 

And you don’t know if he’s happy because you said yes to getting drinks, or because he’s getting drinks. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He’s still happy. 

It’s a quick drive, from the motel to the bar. And it’s nice, but not the kind of place you think Dean would be dying to see. It’s just like all other bars you’ve seen, in every corner and county of America. Posters on the walls, dartboards and pool tables, and jukebox that really should be out of commission by now, and dirty, chipping wood tables. The drinks are strong, but no stronger than any other drinks. They’ve got pretty good maraschino cherries, and the bartender doesn’t seem to judge you when you ask for them—which is a plus—but there’s also a gaggle of girls in cowboy hats at the other end of the bar, and you know how this night is going to end. 

Or you thought you did.

But they’ve been giggling and shooting looks at Dean all night, and he hasn’t so much as turned around. 

“What else do you have on your list?” You ask him, playing with the stem of a cherry, and he frowns at you.

“My list.”

“Your bucket list.”

“I don’t have a bucket-“

“Don’t lie to me, Winchester.” You kick his shin lightly, with a small grin. “It’s not befitting of a lady.”

He snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“I’m not the one being questioned.” 

“Oh, I’m bein’ questioned?” He grins, leaning a little closer, and he smells like pine trees. You never should have gotten him that body wash, but you’d also found out he hadn’t been using body wash, and you couldn’t just let that slide. “What’re the charges, sweetheart?”

You shrug. “Lying about your bucket list.”

He opens his mouth, and you give him a flat look. 

“I saw it, Dean. You keep it at the bottom of your bag.”

“You-“ He shakes his head. “Why the hell were you looking in my bag?”

You flush, staring down at the cherry stem. The knot won’t stick. “You said I could use your shirt. When mine got vamp blood on it.”

“Right.” He gives you an odd look. “Y’know, I never got that shirt back.”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

You didn’t forget. You keep it in your drawer and sleep in it when you haven’t seen him in a few days. He doesn’t need to know that. 

Dean shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “It’s whatever. I got other shirts.” He gives you a small grin. “You remember what else was on that list?”

“Um,” you wrinkle your nose at the air, biting on your lower lip. “Meet Burt Reynolds, save his life. Give Baby guns. Try an Oreo pizza.” You swallow, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on your hands. “Have the sex.” You can’t look at him. Not right now. “Dean, I’m pretty sure you’ve had sex before.”

“Yeah. But this is, uh-“ He coughs. “Special sex.”

That makes you look at him. He’s picking at the label of his beer, a deep frown on his face. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with you.

“Well,” you mumble, tugging on your cherry stem. “I think you’ve got three options, if you want to go for that one.”

He glances at you, brow drawn. “What?”

“The cowgirls behind you.” You’re going to rip the stem in half. “I think they’d be down to have the sex with you.”

It’s meant to come out as a joke, but you mostly sound bitter. It’s sour on your tongue, because you hate being jealous. It’s not Dean’s fault he doesn’t see you like that. And you can’t place any claim over him, or even blame the cowgirls for taking him away from you. If you saw Dean in a bar, you’d do the exact same thing. And maybe then he’d give you the lazy, hungry smirk he always gives everyone else. If you could just be a pretty face. 

There’s a hollow, vile sneer in the back of your head that reminds you he might not even think you’re pretty, and that’s why you never stood a chance. You’ll drink it away, when he leaves you at the bar.

But he doesn’t. Dean doesn’t even look at them. 

He just keeps watching you. 

“Nah.” He shrugs, and you blink at him. 

“Nah?”

“I got better things to do, sweetheart.” 

You stare at him. “Like?”

Dean just grins at you, and that’s not fair. It’s making you feel molten and important, and he doesn’t even mean it like that. 

“Alright.” You let out a soft laugh, and that sounds bitter too. “Who even are you?”

“I dunno, sweetheart.” He shrugs. “You tell me.”

“I- I’m-“ You take a sharp drink of your own, giving him a tight-lipped smile. “So you’re not going to flirt with them.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not going to flirt with the dudes watching you.”

You snort. “There are no dudes watching me-“

“Yeah.” His tone has changed. Gotten firmer. Deeper. “There always are.”

“Dean.” 

“It’s true. You just never freakin’ see it.”

“What, and you do?”

His jaw tics. “Yeah. I do. Beard and flannel, 2  o’clock.”

You look before you can stop yourself, and he’s right. Over your shoulder is a broad, bearded man, wearing a green flannel and looking right at you. He winks, when you meet his gaze, and you swallow. 

“I, um-“ You look back to Dean, who looks oddly annoyed for having pointed the guy out to you. “That’s different.”

Dean let out a dry laugh. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

“It is. I don’t do… that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah-“

“So what do I do, sweetheart?”

He’s staring at you, something behind his voice that sounds like it’s important. It’s written all over his face, as well. He still hasn’t looked at the cowgirls. You’re not sure what the fuck is happening.

“I don’t know, Dean.” You murmur, wrapping the stem around your finger like a ring. “What do you do?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. And when you look back up at him, that strange expression has returned. You wait. You’d wait forever. 

And you don’t want to say the wrong thing and fuck this—whatever the hell this is, because he’s never looked at you like that before, but it feels like you’re being turned into starlight—up.

“We, uh-“ He cuts himself off with a frown. “You and me. We’ve known each other a while.”

You’ve felt like you’ve known him your whole fucking life. You felt like that almost the first time you saw him. Sort of like you’d looked at him, and known that this always ends with you falling in love. 

Another thing he doesn’t need to know. 

So you just nod. 

“Right.” He glares at the bottle, like it’s personally responsible for something bad happening to him. “And we’ve been through some shit together. I mean, mostly me. Causing you problems-“

“You don’t cause me problems.” You say before you can stop yourself, and he chuckles.

“I know. You always say that. But, uh- I got news for you, sweetheart. I cause you a lot of problems. And,” he raises his voice before you can protest again. “You never give up on me. Shit, I might of given up on me, but you didn’t. You’re always- No matter how shit this gets, it feels alright long as I got you.”

He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to know what that means. When you stare at him back, he just clears his throat. 

“You mean a lot to me.” He mutters. “You- Your trust means a lot. More than anyone.”

“Oh- okay.” You feel kind of dizzy. “Cool.”

He swallows. “Yeah. And I know I do go home with other chicks, uh, I- It’s not. It never means anything. They know that. And a lot of them have been in…” His ears go slightly red, his voice dropping lower. “Situations. And that ain’t for to them, or- Yeah. And I always go back in the morning.”

You’re lost. “What?”

He sighs. “I always head back to you, sweetheart.”

“I know, Dean, we live together-“

“No- I mean, yeah, but-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re kinda the best friend I’ve ever had,” he grunts your name, and you sit a little taller. “I don’t tell you that enough. And I was- Uh, I’ve been thinking- A lot.”

You’re going to chew through your tongue. “About?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and you wait. 

Dean takes a deep breath, his gaze darting over your shoulder, and he shakes his head. 

“Nothing, sweetheart. Never mind.”

You frown. This doesn’t feel like a never mind. “Dean-“

“You want some help with that?” He nods to your cherry stem, giving you a bright grin. “I can do it with my tongue.”

His tongue. He can do things with his tongue. And it’s flicking out over his lips, and he’s grinning at you, and you’re the best friend he’s ever had. 

Friend.

Best friend.

“I’m okay.” You mumble, fiddling with the stem and dropping it in your glass. “Thank you, though.”

His jaw twitches again, and he opens his mouth, then closes it. The cowgirls seen to have wandered off to another corner of the bar. The music is playing quietly in the background, and it’s not a bad song, but it feels like nail scratching your ears. You just don’t want to hear anything right now, other than what Dean decided not to tell you. 

You know he wasn’t building up to the fucking cherry stem. But if you ask, that would be pushing it. And it might not be something you want to hear. 

So you let it go, and give Dean a small smile as you stand up.

He frowns. “Where’re you-“

“Bathroom.” You shrug. “Be right back.”

Dean’s hand flexes, like he’s going to try and reach for you. But he doesn’t. So you walk away. 

But you smile at him, because you’re pathetic. Smile and squeeze his bicep. 

You’d like to run your hand through his hair. 

That’s not a friend thing. 

The bathroom of the bar is just what you’d expect. Flickering lights, cheap looking stalls, a toilet seat that you’re careful to wipe down, because you really don’t want to round all of this off with an infection. 

It hasn’t been the most shit week. You got the monster. Hung out with Dean. Broke your own heart over it, almost every second, but that’s nothing you haven’t been doing for years. And maybe he’s not going to tell you whatever the hell he was building up to, but maybe it’s another thing that’s just not about you. Dean’s being weird because he and Sam are fighting about something stupid. Dean had sounded tense on the phone, earlier. 

So it’s not about you. Tomorrow, Sam will probably call you bitching about Dean, and ask you to talk some sense into him. Sam seems to be under the impression that you’re the only person in the world that Dean listens to without question, but you’ve been in multiple situations where that proved not to be true. The time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone, when you asked him to borrow the car to go into the city—which is something he lets Sam do all the time—the kitchen indecent, when he wouldn’t let you help him figure out how to bake a cake for your birthday, the other time he wouldn’t let you hunt alone- 

“You should totally go talk to him!” A girl’s voice cuts through the air, and you freeze. 

You’d sort of forgotten other people could, hypothetically, use the bathroom. 

“No, it’s okay. There are plenty of hot guys in the world, right?” Second voice. Different girl. 

“Not hot like that.” The first girl says again. “I mean. He looks like he fell right out of the fucking sky. That’s once in a lifetime hotness.”

Dean. They’re talking about Dean.

Fuck.

You should make your presence known. You should just cough, or say yeah, he’s hot, but he’s got a weird penis. Which would just be possessive—which you’re not doing, you’re not—and a straight up lie. You’ve heard the reviews, from girls in the morning. You’ve heard the sounds, when he used to get separate rooms just to rail women in. Sam would put in headphones with a sigh, and you’d try to pretend it wasn’t happening until you’d heard screams of Dean, and you’d decided to find whatever bar was closest and had the highest cut off.

These girls could be the ones screaming, tonight. 

Unless you embraced the jealousy thing, and told them he has a weird penis-

“Yeah, he’s hot, but the woman he was with,” the second girl sighs, and you freeze. Too late to make yourself known. “I think she’s like his girlfriend or something.”

You gape at nothing, and third girl pipes up. 

“No, actually, I agree with that. Don’t talk to him, he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Are you kidding me?” The first girl scoffs. “That was not his girlfriend.”

You scowl. She didn’t have to say it like that. She’s right, but she might not have been, and She didn’t have to be rude about it-

“Why not?” 

“Because if that’s your boyfriend, you don’t leave him alone in a bar.”

The other two girls make sounds of disagreement, and that shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does. 

“No,” the third one says. “Maybe he’s just like, a loyal guy. And she trusts him.”

“Please,” girl two laughs. “Men who look like that aren’t loyal.”

That almost makes you stand up. Dean’s loyal. Arguably, it’s his worst quality, because it’s nearly given both you and Sam multiple aneurysms. You manage only to curl your fists, though. And the second girl continues. 

“Like yes, she was really pretty too. And they looked to be having a serious conversation-“

“Which isn’t what people just hooking up do-“

“I know that. But like, he wasn’t touching her. Maybe they were sitting really closer together, and he ordered her those cherries before she asked-“

“That was really cute-“

“Yeah, but, maybe they’re just like friends!”

“Kaylee.” The third girl says, voice flat. “Did you see how he looked at her?”

“No. You’re the one who pretended to go the jukebox.”

“Well, it was like a puppy dog face. He love loves her.”

You feel like you’re being shot. The girls don’t stop talking. 

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yeah, just pretend to walk past them later. It’s super obvious.”

They leave a few minutes after that. And you have to remember how to move your legs, but a lot of things are crashing around in your brain. You’re pretty. You and Dean look cute together. 

Dean looks at you like he loves you. 

It feels like you’re floating, when you make your way back to the bar. Dean’s fidgeting with his sleeves, mostly staring at his bottle, and when you tap his shoulder, he looks up at you with a frown. 

It quickly turns into a grin. And he holds up your folded cherry stem with a proud grin, puffing out his chest. 

“Did it while you were gone. In one shot, by the way. You can, uh- Keep it? I dunno. Didn’t think past doin’ it, I guess.”

You give him a softer smile, and tuck the cherry stem into your pants. “I’ll keep it. Thank you.”

“Course.” He shrugs, glancing around the mostly empty bar. 

The cowgirls are watching you. 

Dean’s hand is resting on your wrist. You’re not sure if he knows he’s doing it, but it’s warm and electric over your whole body.  

And when you scan over his face, there’s nothing on it that screams he loves you. That’s just Dean’s face. Maybe the third girl just had too much to drink, or is rooting for him to be in love with you, which is very sweet but overall useless to you-

“You wanna head back?” Dean squeezes your wrist, giving you another easy, causal grin. “We should get our three hours, before we beat the storm.”

You sigh, giving him a tight smile. “It’s eight hours.”

“Yeah, if you’re a health nerd.”

“Dean-“

“It’ll be six hours, if we go now.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, and he just grins back. It really is the same grin he’s always given you. But you hear the cowgirls giggling, when you pass them. They’re probably reading into Dean’s hand, on your back, way too much. You know you have.

But reading too deep into things is what you’re best at. 

And now that they’ve mentioned how Dean looks at you, it’s impossible stop. 

You’re picking it apart, for the rest of the night. For the entirety of the drive, as you analyze every shift in his face, when he glances your way. How he smirks at you, when he opens your door with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. How he laughs when you roll your eyes, and the face he makes when you mumble that you’re getting changed. Then the face when you come back, and he looks up from the TV. 

“Dean.” You lean over the back of the couch, making your voice as firm as possible. “Six hours. You promised.”

He groans, but turns off the TV, and flicks your nose. “After all I do for you, sweetheart, you’re gonna make me sleep?”

“Yep.” He’s so close. You can see every handsome feature of his face. “Go to bed, Dean.”

He grunts and his gaze is trapped right on yours. His eyes are so fucking green, and they’re shining on yours. His breath is warm on your face, and in the cold of the night, it’s impossible to ignore. How all the heat is coming from Dean. You could move. Just an inch. Press your lips against his, and see what it does. Maybe he’d pull you over the couch and into his lap, kiss you until he’s all that you can feel. Until you’re burning alive, but he’s burning with you.

Or it could change everything. And you’d lose your best friend. 

You pull back. And don’t look at Dean again, as you go to bed. You need to stop torturing yourself. You’ll do it enough on the car ride tomorrow. 

Dean’s true to his word. He goes to the bathroom, takes another shower, then gets into bed right after you. Enough for six hours, even if he’s up first. 

He doesn’t wake you up, as he gets ready to go. Packing his bag, then yours, then the remaining supplies. You mostly just drift in and out, listening to him shuffle around the room, pause, then move again. At one point, after you hadn’t shifted around in a while, his hand rests on your brow. And because he thinks you’re just sleeping, you nuzzle into it. 

He lingers. 

Fingers trace over your face. Your cheeks and nose and eyebrows, then up into your hair. 

He sighs, and moves away, and there’s another thing to over think. He could be disappointed in you. Annoyed with you. Tired of you. Just tired overall, and that was a yawn. But Dean doesn’t really yawn.

He also doesn’t just touch people’s faces. 

But- 

“Son of a bitch?”

Your eyes shoot open, and you sit up in a second, reaching for your gun. No one seems to be in danger. Dean’s glaring out the window. 

You rub your eyes, pushing up to your knees. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

“Come look.” He mutters, and you shuffle to your feet, peering out the window.

“Oh.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Yep.”

You didn’t beat the storm. 

The storm beat you. The world is all gray and white, falling snow and sheets of white over the whole world. 

So you’re trapped in the motel. With Dean

———

“We did try to leave early.” Dean grunts into the phone and you sigh, holding your knees to your chest on the bed.

It took five hours for the storm to clear enough that Dean could call Sam. Another hour for Sam to pick up, because he is on vacation. 

And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive this. 

Not the storm. The storm will be easy. You’re what Dean’s called paranoid—but is proving itself to just be prepared—and there’s no possible way you’re going to run out of food. The water is still running, as it electricity. The heater did break again, but Dean’s spent the last two hours on his knees, trying to fix it.

Most of his tools are both for cars, and in the car. 

He’s improvised. 

And he’d given you this big, boyish and proud grin, when he’d realized he could use the wire hooks without being electrocuted. And that’s why you’re not going to survive this. 

You’re trapped with Dean. And his smiles and voice and body and general everything. It’s one room—two if you count the bathroom—and it’s just you and Dean. No buffer to stop you from saying something stupid, like how you love him. No distractions, because the electricity is working but this motel only has cable, and that’s down. Just you and Dean.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” Dean mutters under his breath, shooting you an odd look.

You mouth what back at him. 

He rolls his eyes, and mouths back Sam, before speaking aloud. “Yeah, I know how waitin’ out storms works, Sam, I freakin’ taught you- We ain’t gonna run out of water, this isn’t a drought, we can drink the snow- I’m not drinking it right now.”

You giggle, and Dean gives you a flat look. You only shrug in return, and that eye roll is for you, but you don’t really care. At least it’s for you.

“No.” Dean turns back to the heater, his voice having dropped. “I ain’t doing that. No- Sam. Shut your face or I’m calling Eileen and telling her she’s got a funeral to attend. Not mine-“

Dean groans, running a hand over his face, and you climb out of the bed. The blankets have to stay wrapped around you—it’s fucking freezing—but you can still help. You kneel down at his side, holding out your hand and nodding to the hanger. Dean frowns at you and shakes his head, and you flex your fingers, giving him a pointed look. 

He pulls the phone away, covering the speaker—Sam’s voice muffled through his hand—and grunts, “I got it, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”

“Dean.” You sigh, just grabbing it out of his hand. He doesn’t fight you, just staring as you shift on your knees. “Finish your phone call.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then sighs, and nods. He squeezes your shoulder, as he moves to his feet, and you watch him walk to the other side of the room. 

You’ve been studying his face all morning. The cowgirl’s words haven’t stopped replaying. He looks at you like he loves you.

But you really don’t think he does. 

He’d given you tight smiles all morning, until you’d finished sorting the supplies and decided that you’d easily survive this without eating each other. 

“If we don’t have enough,” he’d said, hanging over your shoulder. “I want you to eat me.”

You’d sighed, and whacked his thigh. Better not think about how firm it had been. How if you turned your head, you would have been at perfect eye level with his bulge. And it had been freezing, but that was the kind of heat that was going to kill you just as much as it made you come alive. Now, trapped in a motel during a blizzard, was not the time to test the waters of how much Dean would want you. You’d rather turn to ice than have to spend a whole week, awkwardly pretending you hadn’t come onto Dean and gotten rejected.   

“I’m not going to eat you, Dean.” You’d muttered, and he’d shaken his head. 

“I’m telling you to eat me, sweetheart.” He’d dropped at your side, and you’d focused on your sorting. If you looked at Dean, you’d stare and try to figure out if he loved you. “It’s my last wish. You not gonna honor a dying man’s last wish.”

“No.”

“That’s pretty damn rude-“

“You’re not dying.” You’d looked at him, because you’re weak. No promise you ever made yourself about Dean lasted more than about twenty minutes, because most of them were don’t look at him or don’t talk to him, and actually committing to that would mean more change. 

He hadn’t been looking at you like he loved you. 

It had just been the same way he always looks at you. Open, handsome, with a small grin and light in his eyes. 

That’s just his stupid, pretty face. And it had been hard to keep pretending to be annoyed with him, when this was the first real smile he’d given you all morning. 

“We’ve got enough.” You mumbled, your eyes seemingly trapped on his. “I- I won’t need to eat you.”

“Awesome.” He’d grinned at you, and you’d swallowed, and nodded. 

That was just another expression he always made. It didn’t mean anything. 

He is scowling at the air, now that he’s focused on his phone call. He hasn’t looked at you like that, ever. But you also haven’t been saying anything to piss him off. 

It’s very rare, that you actually do piss Dean off. 

But you’re his best friend, so that can’t mean much. 

You have to drag your gaze back to the heater. You’re going to drive yourself out of your mind, before you even hit day five. 

Dean keeps talking, and it sounds like a serious conversation—serious enough that you’re not allowed to hear it, which you’re trying and failing not to read into, but it can just be another way to fucking torture yourself—when you hear the rattling buzz from the heater that means it’s working.

You turn to Dean with a wide grin, sitting up straight and making a ta da gesture to your work, and he grins at you again. Gives you a thumbs up, even his brows remain furrowed at whatever Sam is saying.

“Sam.” He grunts, walking towards you. “I’m going.”

There’s a sound of protest from the other end of the line, and you bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing again. 

“I know how rationing works, Sam, I taught you that shit, too- No, we’re not fuckin’ talking about that- Bye.”

Dean hangs up, Sam’s voice dying mid-sentence, and you give him a curious look.

“Not talking about what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean mutters your name, crouching down at your side and scanning over the heater. “Nice work.”

That shouldn’t make you flush as much as it does. But Dean’s really close, and he’s praising you, and suddenly the room has spiked from freezing cold to almost insufferably hot. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, and Dean just shrugs, clapping you on the shoulder. The way he would a friend.

“No problem. So.” He scans around the room, and his brow pinches together the moment he’s not looking at you. 

He’s thinking. That’s all it means. 

“We got food, water, heat, shelter.” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Overall we’re not half fucked.”

“Only a quarter.” 

Dean snorts, and his brows un-pinch as he looks at you.

Which still probably means nothing. 

“What do you think that quarter fucked is, sweetheart?”

Him. Being trapped with him. Already starting to spiral about what everything he does and says means, if this is going to make things change, if he’s going to get sick of you, if he does look at you different. You really can’t tell anymore. You might have already gone mad, or the heat is just getting to your brain. 

Making you hallucinate how close he is. How his attention on you is undivided, how his thumb is rubbing small circles where it’s still resting on your shoulder. 

That’s your quarter fucked. 

But you also know what Dean’s is, so you say that instead. 

“No TV.” You give him a mock pout, and he lets out a dramatic groan. 

“It’s not funny, sweetheart-“

“Yeah, it is.” 

“You’re saying that now, but what are you gonna do when you get sick of talking to me?”

You frown at him. “I won’t get sick of talking to you.”

He scoffs. “Sure-“

“I’m serious, Dean.” You lean forward, which is a mistake. He steadies you with a hand on your knee. He’s still like a furnace. You’re going to catch his heat and melt into nothing. “I won’t get sick of you. Are-“ You swallow. You shouldn’t ask it. “Will you-“

“No.” He mutters, scanning over your face. “But I still miss TV.”

You give him a small smile, a weightlifting off your chest. “It’s been like, twelve hours.”

“Fifteen.”

You laugh at his grumpy face, and his lips twitch.

“We’ll find something to do, Dean.” You cup his face as you move to your feet. He might have leaned into your touch. Another thing to pretend not to think about. “I promise.”

———

“Checkmate.”

Dean groans, leaning over the board with a glare. “No, that’s- Son of a bitch.” He looks up at you with wide eyes. “I fuckin’ had it, sweetheart, what the hell.”

You shrug, starting to reset the pieces. “You never had it, Mr. Winchester. You’re a fool and your knowledge of the gentleman’s game is weak.”

He snorts. “I think you’re just cheating.”

“Maybe.” You grin at him. “But if I am, you haven’t caught me.”

“So you have been-“

“Do you have proof?”

Dean sighs, and grumbles, “No.”

You hum. “Innocent until proven guilty.”

“Or until you admit it.”

“I’ve never admitted anything. In my life.”

Dean raises his brows. “Half an hour ago, you told me you used to sing lyrics to classical music.”

You flush, and throw a pawn at his face. “That was a secret-“

“I haven’t told anyone! I’m just sayin’ back to you what you said to me-“

“Well, you used to name your toy cars after different cartoon characters-“

“Hey.” Dean wields the pawn at you like a knife, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t bring She-Ra the Pontiac into this.”

He glares at you, you glare right back, and there’s only a beat of silence before you both burst out laughing. 

This has been most of the last two days. You’d raided the entire room, to see exactly what type of amenities were provided, and found mostly paper, meaning that you and Dean spent most of last night playing drawing games. He drew genuinely the worst tiger you’ve ever seen, and you drew a snake so worm-like he spent twenty minutes laughing on the ground. This morning—before you got up—he went outside during a brief lull in the storm, grabbed your playing cards from the trunk of Baby, and raided the lobby for board games. 

He beat you at two-person poker, twice. You won gin rummy, and cribbage, so he insisted on a third poker round. You know he just wanted it to win again. But you love him—and his stupid, dopey grin whenever he does something well—so you let him have it. And he did win. But you kicked his ass in Candyland. 

Dean said this one was a kid’s game, so it didn’t count.

You’d pulled out the chess, after that.

This is your fifth win in a row. And you’re not cheating. 

But Dean is adorable when he’s grumpy. And just for now, you’re giving up on trying not to look at him too long. You won’t mess up, because this is already such a fragile situation. You’re on a high alert to not do anything too obviously in love with him. And already spent all of last night with the sheets tangled between your legs, looping over and over how Dean had made you dinner. Stared at you when you’d come out of the bathroom in a towel and coughed. Talked to you until two in the morning, because for once neither of you had anywhere to be in the morning.

In a very, very strange way, this feels like a vacation. A precarious one, where you’ve sealed over half the things you want to say to him—I love you, Dean, I want you, I spent that whole shower thinking about what it would feel like if you were with me, on your knees or behind me or anything, I’d take anything—and allowed yourself to look at him to keep it together. To keep him from noticing.

It would be suspicious, if you didn’t look at him. And it’s quelling that unending heat, in your body. 

You’re going to get through this. Walk out the other side, with only good memories, and nothing changed. 

You’re probably going to be trying to figure out how Dean looks at you forever, but that’s only hurting you, so it’s fine.

It’s all just fine.

“No more chess.” Dean grumbles, grabbing a rook out of your hands and bumping it on your nose. You blink at him kind of stupidly. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go back to cards.”

You take the rook back, poking it into his chest. “Why, so you can win poker?”

He shrugs with a grin, and you sigh. 

“How about war? No skill. Just luck.”

Dean frowns. “I got shit luck, sweetheart.”

“And I don’t?”

“Better than mine.” He mutters under his breath, and you frown. 

There’s something heavy to his tone that you don’t understand. But before you can try and find the words to ask him about it, he’s moving on. 

“One poker game, just to level out the field. C’mon. I’ll make you lunch?”

“And- Do I not get lunch if I say no?”

“No, but this doesn’t work if you keep bringin’ reason into it, sweetheart.”

“Sorry.” You pick at your nails, giving him a small smile, and he sighs. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart. But if we play war, I’m shuffling.”

You nod, giving him a wider smile, and his jaw twitches. It’s been doing that a lot, today. You spent most of breakfast staring at it, trying to figure out what it meant. Probably just that he’s tense, from the stress of the situation. Even though it started last night. And overall, the situation hasn’t been all that stressful. 

Again. Trying not to think about it. 

“Deal.” You hold out your hand, and Dean shakes it. His hand fits perfectly, in yours. It always has. You’ve had a lot of fantasies about just Dean’s hands, alone.

And it’s impossible not to stare, as he shuffles. His fingers have always moved so deliberately, with such exact, measured movements, and they’re big and thick and rough, and when you passed him the cards, he’d touch your forearm and you felt like you were going to fly out of your skin- 

“Ready?” Dean nods to the pile of cards in front of you, and you blink. 

Right. 

The game.

“Ready.” You mutter, sounding breathier than you meant to, but you’d also worked yourself into a small frenzy, thinking about his hands. His smirk isn’t helping. 

You really don’t think he knows, exactly what he does to you. 

But if he does, this is downright cruel. 

“Alright,” he drawls your name, picking up his own deck with a dramatic roll of his shoulders. “Let’s skirmish.”

You laugh—it’s stupid, but you always laugh—and Dean’s grin widens.

It’s not clear if he’s smiling because you laughed, or just he got a laugh. 

You really have to stop picking yourself apart like this. 

The first few flips run by, and soon you’re not even counting down to flip anymore. You and Dean have gotten somehow merged your game brains, and you’re flipping in perfect sync. You’re winning most of them. Dean hasn’t seemed to notice yet. 

“Would you rather be attacked by a duck, or a hippo.”

You blink at him, flipping over another card. “What kind of question is that, obviously-“

“Wait.” He grins at you. “The duck has a gun, and the hippo is a baby.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head at the air. “Does the duck know how to use the gun?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, and is the hippos mom around?”

Dean frowns. “Why does that matter.”

“Mothers are incredibly aggressive when their babies are threatened, Dean. A grown mom hippo kill me.”

“Huh. Well, we don’t want that.” His brow furrows, and you try not to let that make you feel too gooey. “Let’s call it that the mom hippo is around, but far enough that she won’t know if you’re careful.”

“Careful? The hippo is attacking me-“

“So you gotta kill it.”

You gape at him. “I’m not killing a baby hippo, Dean.”

“Fair.” He nods, flipping over a nod. “So you’re going Gun Duck.”

“Do I get a gun?”

“If you can take his.”

“I can do that.” You watch him grab the cards he won. He’s rolled up his sleeves, so you can see his forearms. It’s distracting. “What would you choose?”

“Gun Duck.” Dean shrugs. “I think I could take that mama hippo, though.”

You snort. “No, you couldn’t.”

He gives you a mock look of offense. “Sweetheart, I’ve fought the Devil-“

“Hippos kill 500 people a year, Dean.”

He scoffs. “So?”

“So there are about 180 plane crashes a year.” You give him pointed a look and he gulps, going a little pale. 

“Good point. No hippos.”

You hum, pulling more of your own cards forward. “Would you rather live on the moon, or underwater?”

Dean pauses, thinking about it as you both flip. “The moon. Space would be pretty awesome. Can I guess your answer?”

You nod, a little desperate to know what he thinks you’re going to say, and he grins at you.

“Underwater.”

You keep your face perfectly neutral. “Why?”

“Because you think space is scary.”

“The bottom of the ocean is scarier.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t live at the bottom of the ocean.” He gives you a look like that’s obvious, and sighs when you just stare at him. “I think you’d be like, a lady of the lake or whatever.”

“A-“ You blink at him. “Like in King Arthur?”

“Yeah.” He grins at you, wide and toothy. “I’d be a pretty awesome King, right. I’d get to sit at the round table.”

“Sure,” you return his grin, setting out three cards. “What are your stances on tithes and feudalism?”

“Uh.” He makes his tight, adorable thinking expression—the one where he’s really trying, but doesn’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about—and you want to kiss him all over his stupid face. “Anti?”

You hum and nod, and he raises his brows.

“Was that right?”

“I don’t know, you’re the King.”

“Yeah, but you’re my- Lady advisor.”

You snort. “Lady Advisor?”

“The- Guinevere lady-“

“That was Arthur’s wife.” You say, and it’s really hard to sound causal about that. “And she cheated on him with his best friend.”

Dean recoils slightly, shaking his head. “Okay, so you ain’t that.”

You give him a cautious look. “Do I have to be something, in your fantasy land?”

“Course you do, sweetheart.” He says that like it’s obvious, too. “It ain’t a fantasy land if you’re not there.”

You flush, and Dean sits a little taller, clearing his throat. You don’t know if he meant it like that. He probably didn’t. But now he’s not looking you in the eyes, and he probably thinks he’s leading you on—even if he doesn’t know he doesn’t need to put you on a leash or offer you a reward, you’d follow him to the end of the earth no matter what—and things are going to change-

“I’m the Lady of the Lake.” You mumble, folding a card between your finger and giving him a small smile. “Of course I’m in your fantasy.”

He coughs, but grins at you, and he’s ears are red again.  

Don’t think too much into it. 

“Awesome.”

———

It’s only been three days.

You’re falling into a far too comfortable pattern. 

Dean makes you breakfast, you do lunch, he does dinner. You play card games and talk, Dean goes out to check that nobody’s stolen Baby—it doesn’t matter how many times you tell him that won’t happen, he has to do it anyway—and you make him hot chocolate for when he gets back. You spent most of today talking about superheroes, Dean hanging your paper stars on the ceiling because he’s perfect, and you don’t know how you were ever supposed to not fall in love with him.

“Can I have the purple?” You ask, and he passes the marker to you with a small grin.

“I still don’t understand why you these in the car, sweetheart.”

“For organizing. Duh.”

“Right. Duh.” He chuckles, nudging your side with his foot, and you squeak. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He laughs above you, and he kind of looks like a God. Big and strong and handsome, so far above you, so untouchable, but offering you more with his joy than you can understand. 

Because you haven’t seen Dean this happy in years. He’s fully relaxed, he’s not scanning around every few seconds to check that everyone is safe, and he’s still sleeping with his gun under his pillow—that’s never going to change—but when you woke him up this morning, you didn’t end up with the barrel in your face.

It’s probably because there are no threats. 

It’s getting harder and harder to think it’s not about you.

“Can you pass me my book?”

“Sure.” He shuffles away, and your body seems to want to follow him, which isn’t fair. “What, you gonna use the pages to make more stars?”

“Don’t joke about that.” You mutter, frowning at the star in your hands. “I just want to use this one as a bookmark.”

Dean just hums, and the book is passed into your hands as he sits at your side. “You, uh- Liking it?”

You angle your head to see him, and he’d grabbed a beer while he was getting your book. He’s picking at the label again. His jaw is ticking. 

You really don’t know how to ask him what that’s about. 

“The book.” He adds—after you’re quiet for a beat too long—giving you a sheepish grin. “How are you liking the book.”

“Oh. It’s- Good. I’ve always wanted to read it, and I- yeah.” He’s sitting too close. It’s making you short circuit. 

Dean just nods, turning the bottle in his hands. “So it’s on your bucket list?”

He gives you a half-grin, and that makes you almost go limp. He’s smiling at you like it’s a secret. Like it’s something only you get to know about, even if it was because you accidentally snooped. 

You smile back. It always makes his grin wider, and his shoulders relax, and that could be about you-

No. 

You’re not doing that. 

“Maybe.” You shrug, and he raises his brows.

“You gonna tell me what else is on there?”

You sit up, holding his gaze. Your knees are bumping together. You could swear his eyes widen slightly. 

“The sex.” You whisper, and he groans, shaking his head and looking back to his bottle with a tight smile as you giggle. 

“Bet you’re proud of that one.”

“I am.” You poke his thigh, lying back down as his nostrils flare, and he gives you an odd look.

“You should write one.” He says suddenly. “We got a shit ton of paper. Sammy says they’re good for you to do. Reckon with your own mortality or something.”

You snort, fiddling with one of the stars. “Like you’ve ever reckoned with your mortality-“

“I’m serious,” he says, and when you look back up, he’s staring right into you. “It’s useful. Sammy’s usually out of his freakin’ mind, with that therapy bullshit, but-“ He sighs, tipping his head back to rest against the bed. “It’s not half bad.”

He glares at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe what he’s saying, and you take a risk. It won’t change anything. You’ve comforted him before, and he’s comforted you, so this won’t change anything.

“Dean.” You murmur, resting your hand on his thigh. “I believe you, I just- I don’t want that many things.”

“Everyone wants things.” He mutters, and you shake your head. 

“Not me.”

He finally looks at you, and that strange expression has returned. His eyes lock onto yours, and there seems to be a heaviness to him that you’ve never really seen before. You smile at him gently, and his lips only twitch. He’s looked at you like this before, as well. In the dead of night, when he woke up shouting and you were the only one who heard. 

But you’ve never seen it in the light before. 

And it’s the way he always looks at you, but more. His eyes are softer, but his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried he’ll hurt himself. There are deep lines on his face that you want to trace with your fingers, and his lips are in a tight line you want to pry open with your tongue. 

“Nothin’ you want, huh.” his voice is deeper than only a moment before, almost a little hoarse.

You sigh, your eyes darting to your hand, still resting against him. “Nothing I can have.” 

He gives you a curious look. “What, going back to civilian life?”

“No. Never.” You bite on your inner cheek, playing with the fabric of his jeans. “You’re stuck with me, Winchester. Sorry.”

He lets out a low laugh, leaning back once more. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I think I’ll live.”

———

Dean taps on the top of your head, and you look up to find him grinning down at you, holding your book. 

“What-“

“I read it.” He stands a little taller, seeming to puff out his chest. “You were right, sweetheart, it’s pretty good.”

“It’s- The book?” You blink at him. “You read the book?”

“All of it. Except the acknowledgments.”

“Yeah, you don’t really have to read the acknowledgments-“ You shake your head, chewing on your tongue. “Why did you read the book.”

“I dunno. You,” he gently bops your head with the book. “Fell asleep early. And you didn’t stop reading it yesterday, so- I dunno. Wanted to see what the big deal was.”

You nod, watching him carefully. “And you liked it?”

“Sure.” He pauses. “Did you like it?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and you’re not sure why this is hitting you in the chest so hard. It’s just a book.

But he read it for you. 

And he’s been looking at you all week. Laughing with you. Not pushing you away or shutting you out when the conversations get too serious. Acting like you’re the only two people in the word, which is what it feels like. 

It’s just you and Dean. In this room, and—even though you know that it’s not true, that he’ll probably turn around and walk right into another bed when you’re free—in the whole fucking universe. 

It’s really impossible to think that none of this is about you, now. It probably isn’t, but playing pretend is getting easier and easier. You’re not getting sick of him. He’s not getting sick of you. 

And if you never had to leave, you might ask him. If he’s happy here with you, or just happy here. If he thinks he looks at you differently, if there was any truth to what the cowgirls said. 

If he really was never going to go home with them. 

What the hell he was going to tell you, at the bar.

If he can feel how humid it is, here. How outside, the storm is still raging, but in here your skin is hot and sweaty because Dean’s been pulling your legs over his lap when you’re on the couch. And the steam keeps following him out of the shower and into your dreams. 

Last night you had to take an emergency shower, because you’d had a fucking wet dream. It had been all hands and lips, everywhere over your body at once. Soft on sensitive skin and rough on your neck and tits and between your legs. You’ll woken up with your hair stuck to your brow, and your hips grinding into the mattress. Chasing release in nothing, until you’d scrambled into the bathroom, turned on the water, and finished where he wouldn’t hear you. 

Couldn’t hear you. 

Didn’t hear you. 

Dean couldn’t have heard you. If he had, he wouldn’t be looking at you right now. He’s been trying to let you down gently, instead of sitting right next to you. Waiting for your attention. Pressing his thigh into yours. 

Best friend. 

He’s comfortable with you because you’re his best friend. And you’re getting really, really bad at remembering that. 

But he’s really not making it easy. 

“You- Uh-“ He clears his throat. “You ever think about how Sammy’s doing?”

“Like- Emotionally?”

“No, like-“ Dean lets out a slow breath, watching you so carefully it feels like he’s pulling you apart. “With this life he’s got goin’ for himself. Less hunting, more time with the missus. Thinking about that white picket fence, payin’ taxes, apple pie shit. You ever think about that?” 

You swallow, and speak slowly. This sort of feels like a warzone. You don’t want to misstep. 

“Sometimes.” With you. “I- I mean, I have the dream.”

“The dream?”

You nod, and he frowns.

“I thought you didn’t want things.” 

“I don’t want things I can have.” You correct, and Dean raises his brows.

“It’s a dream, sweetheart. Doesn’t gotta be something you can have, think that’s the whole freakin’ point.” He pauses. “I’ve told you about my dreams.”

Fuck. 

“I- Don’t know.” Your gaze drops to your hands, but Dean’s gaze keeps searing over your skin. “It’s dumb.”

“Nah. You’re never dumb.”

Fuck. “Dean-“

“You don’t have to tell me.” He mutters, something oddly edged in his tone. “But I’m here. If you wanna-“

“I’d like it.” You cut him off softly, and he stills at your side. “What Sam’s doing. I mean- Not exactly that. But we- I would kind of want both, I think. Keep helping, even if it’s mostly research. Having something good, my way.” 

You give Dean a small, nervous smile, and his mouth is hanging open. He’s closer than he was, only a second ago. You could lean forward and bump your noses together, if you tried. 

And you want to. 

But Dean’s just staring at you, and your knees are starting to feel weak, despite sitting down. 

“Why isn’t that something you can have?” Dean’s voice is so low you can almost feel it in your chest, and he only seems to be getting closer. 

“Because there’s no one I can do that with.” You say, before you can think about it, and Dean’s jaw twitches. 

He’s so fucking close. You can really smell that pine tree wash. Your heartbeat is in your ears, along with a strange rattle that’s bouncing around your skull with every heated thought—his hand wandering up your leg and between your thighs, his body covering yourself, his lips wherever the hell he wants them, as long as it’s on your skin—and most of your brain is just a haze of Dean. 

But you can’t move first. Things can’t change, when this inevitably ends. 

The rattling sound is getting too loud to just be the hunger, bouncing around your ribs.

“The heater is making noise again.” You whisper, and Dean licks his lips, his voice still low and hoarse. 

“It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “You fixed it.”

That is not a good enough reason for it to be fine, no matter how confident and smooth Dean says it. Even if it ignites in your lower gut, and spreads humid between your thighs. “But-“

“You want dinner?”

You frown. “It’s my night-“

“It’s fine.” He moves to his feet suddenly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh- Pasta. And those frozen meatballs, we haven’t used them yet.”

“At least let me help.” You try to stand up, but Dean just blocks you, shaking his head. “Dean-“

“I got it, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t argue with him after that. Not because he’s right—he’s not—but because you’ve forgotten how to walk. Or talk. Or do anything at all. 

Baby.

Dean called you baby. 

———

He doesn’t do it again. Not for the rest of the night, or in the morning. The next day is mostly spent making up a new card game, that’s mostly based on you and Dean yelling at each other, and trying to steal cards. At one point he tackles you, starting a mock wrestling match, and it’s like being tossed into a wildfire. You giggle too much. Give in too fast. 

Dean stands abruptly, and goes to the bathroom for twenty minutes after that. 

You don’t think that’s about you. Not when he immediately drags you to your feet and announces that he’s ready to learn how Zodiac signs work. If he was pissed at you—if something had changed—he wouldn’t be talking to you at all. But he doesn’t move from your side for the rest of the day.  

So the heat doesn’t die. 

Not until you crawl into bed, and the heater stops rattling.

Stops all together. 

And everything starts to freeze. 

For the first hour, you try to just bundle yourself as tight as you can, burrowing yourself in the blankets and curling up in a ball. But the temperature drops faster and faster, and these are motel sheets. Thinner than they should be, a little itchy, and not made to withstand the cold of a blizzard. Your fingertips start to go numb, and you can feel the cold almost in your bones, until you have to clench your jaw to stop your teeth from chattering. 

Dean’s snoring soundly, in his own bed. You don’t even think he’s realized how cold it’s gotten. 

But the man runs like a furnace. A warm, big furnace that could wrap around you, and make you warm, so fucking warm- 

You sit up, and stare at him in the dark. Just as handsome as always, with all the panes of his face cast in sharp long shadows that only make him more beautiful. You could easily lose yourself kissing along his jawline or running your finger through his hair. Sitting in his lap and pressing your face into his chest, just feeling him until the whole world is lighter.

And this isn’t about that. 

It can’t be. You roll out of bed—keeping the blankets wrapped around you—and this isn’t about how you’re in love with Dean. If it becomes that, you’ll spiral into what every single brush of his skin and breath means. You’ll stare at him all night instead of sleeping, and he’ll notice, and you’ll ruin everything. 

So it’s just about heat. 

You nudge his arm, and drop your voice to a loud whisper. “Dean.”

He grunts, and you sigh, poking him again. 

“Dean.” 

He rolls over, making a low sound like your name, and his hand rests over yours as his eyes flutter. He looks so comfortable. Peaceful. At complete ease, in a way you’ve almost never seen. 

It’s so fucking selfish to wake him up, just for you. 

But another chill runs through your body, and you don’t have another choice. 

“Dean.” You shove him gently, and he makes an adorable grumbling sound, slowly opening his eyes. 

“What- What’s’a matter.” He frowns around the dark, then up at you. His hand over yours tugs you a little closer.

It doesn’t mean anything. 

“I’m cold.” You whisper, he frowns, and this was stupid. “Never mind. I’m sorry, I just- I’ll go back to bed-“

“Wait, just-“ Dean pulls you back with a small yelp, and his hand rests over your brow. “Son of a bitch, sweetheart, you’re freezing.”

“I- I know.”

“Well, we gotta-“ He cuts himself off, scanning over you carefully as his nostrils flare. 

You just stare at him back, and whatever he can see on your face, it’s what he wants.

Dean gives you a tight nod, and throws open his blanket. “C’mere.”

“No- It’s okay- I’ll be fine-“

“You’re already not fine-“

“But you don’t have to-“Dean grunts your name, and it’s a good thing he can’t see the flush of your cheeks. “Get in the fuckin’ bed. Please.”

Please.

He did say please.

You crawl onto the mattress, and before you can build any sort of safety barrier between your bodies, Dean’s pulling you right into his chest. And that’s enough to make the heat spike and return, stronger than before. But then he bows his head so his lips brush over your hairline, and his hands dive just under your shirt to rub your skin, and his legs tangled with yours until all you can feel is Dean. 

Hot. 

So fucking hot, you’re worried you’re going to evaporate and turn into nothing but steam. 

“Relax.” He mutters, deep and right in your ear, and you almost go limp in his arms. “There you go. Warmer?”

You hum—speaking feels like a taller order right now—nodding against his shoulder, and Dean lets out a slow breath. 

“Good. Go to sleep, sweetheart, I’ll fix it for you in the morning.”

He’ll fix it. For you. Dean will fix it for you. 

That’s about you. 

And he’s fixing it now. But not in the way he probably thinks. 

You’re warm, but you can’t fall asleep. Also you can think about his Dean’s fingers, brushing over your spine and spending smaller, pleasurable shivers through your body. His knee is pressed far too close to the painful ache between your legs. His breath his fanning over your brow, and he’s wrapped an arm around you to pin you right against him. Every inch of your body feels alight, just in his presence. The heat between your legs is almost painful, and when you rub your thighs together, you can feel your arousal.

You’ve never been hotter in your life. You’re on fucking fire, trapped in Dean’s everything, and there’s no fucking way you’re going to do anything but memorize him. The way his body shifts, how it feels to be swimming in him, and the feel of his strength keeping you so tight. 

You can hear his heartbeat.

It’s faster than you thought it would be. 

And when you wiggle in his arms a little, trying to get more comfortable, his fingers curl on your back and he holds you tighter. 

“Don’t move.” He almost growls in your ear, and you swallow.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he grunts, the sound vibrating through your whole body. “My leg is falling asleep.”

He moves you without another word, but the friction just makes you hornier. And now his lips are pressed against your neck, making your core molten and forcing a soft, high sound from your throat. 

Dean tenses around you, immediately pulling away and readjusting you again, but you don’t get the chance to over think it. 

Because you feel it, first. 

His erect cock, pressed right over your pussy. 

You lean back to stare at him, your mouth hanging open, and Dean looks at you like he’s looking at the sun. His jaw is clenches, his features blown out with hunger, and his fingers on your spine have started a soft, slow dance that makes you arch into his touch. 

His eyes flick down to your lips, and then expression he gives you is almost pleading. His thumb traces over the shape of your lower lip as you try to remember how to speak, or move, or do anything. 

Then he mutters your name, dropping his brow against yours, and you grind fully into his knee. 

“God, fuckin’-“ Dean groans, his lips so close you can almost feel them. “Tell me I can, baby. Please. Let me- Fuck-“

You can’t remember how to speak. 

But Dean’s knee pressed right against your clit, and it jumpstarts your memory of how to move.

You grab his face, and slam your lips over his. He responds in a second, flipping you flat on your back and dropping his hips, keeping you pinned beneath him. He’s rough, hot and wet and desperate, with grabbing your jaw and angling it back, using his tongue and lips and teeth until you’re slack in his hands. 

He pulls back suddenly, examining you for a second before starting to kiss on your neck. Sucking small spots that feel like flares, sparking through your body and making you squirm with a desperation for more. 

“Dean-“ You gasp, tugging at his hair as you try to spread your legs. “I- I need- Dean-“

“I know.” He growls against you, his teeth grazing over a soft spot, and you arch off the bed with a high whine. His free hand finds its way between your legs, cupping your pussy over your clothing, and you gasp, wiggling until his palm is pressed against your clit. “Heard you callin’ for me last night, baby. Christ, you have no goddamn idea how much I- Fuck-“

You start to grind into him, and Dean rises over you, something like awe written all over his face. 

“That bad, huh.” He mutters, and you nod weakly. “You want me? Gonna let me warm you up?”

You don’t know why he’s doing this. Don’t know what it will bring in the morning. 

All you know right now is that Dean’s pulled your pants down, and is teasing your slit over your underwear with two broad fingers. That he’s above you, and looking at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

So you nod, letting your brain turn into only a fog of Dean and good, so fucking good.

And Dean grins. 

A sharp, almost predatory grin that makes your breath hitch in your throat, and your hips jolt as he flicks your clit. He gives you a deep, heavy kiss, pressing his tongue between your lips and down your throat, all while circling his thumb right around your clit, and you’re melted within seconds. 

“Can you say it?” He drawls, his lips still brushing right over yours, and you just blink at him through the daze. “Say it, baby. Tell me what you want.”

He rests his thumb right over your clit, his fingers playing with the wet spot on your panties, and you just manage to whine out what he wants to hear. 

“Touch me.” You gasp, and he chuckles, giving you a soft, rewarding kiss. 

“Good girl.” He hums, and you don’t even have time to register how that makes your moan before Dean’s moving. 

Your shirt gets pulled over your head, as he kisses down your neck and over your shoulders. Dean makes a small stop at your tits, taking one in his hand to palm and knead, the other being almost attacked by his mouth. Licking and sucking and kissing everywhere he can reach, before pulling your nipple between his teeth. He groans as you shiver and writhe below him, switching his attentions until you’re flushed and tugging at his hair, silently pleading for more.

He hums, kissing over the curve of your breast before continuing down. Under the covers where you can’t see him, making every single touch even more electric. Your eyes close as he gently works over your stomach abdomen, gasp when he nips at your inner thigh, and fist the sheets as you try to guess where he’s going to be next. 

Dean kisses your clit softly, over your panties, and he squeezes your ass as he slowly pulls your hips off the mattress. 

You hold your breath, when you feel the cool air hit your dripping cunt. 

And Dean doesn’t move right away. 

His breath is warm over your pussy, his stubble brushing sensitive skin as he kisses your thigh, but he’s not touching you. All you’re getting is his hands on your ass, the phantom feelings when he’d been before, and it’s starting to make you go cold again. He could not like what he sees. You might have pushed this—whatever the hell this is—too far, and he’s going to come up and tell you this was a mistake- 

Dean licks a rough stripe up your pussy, and you almost fly off the bed. His arm plants over your lower stomach, pinning you to the bed as he swirls his tongue around your clit, and pinches your ass gently. You flop back down with a deep breath, shooting a hand under the covers to tug at his hair—unsure if you’re trying to move him away or urge him on—and Dean moans against your pussy as he starts to eat you out like a man starved. Sucking your clit and rapidly flicking his tongue until you’re panting, before starting to lick your pussy as a feverish speed. 

You never know where he’s going to be next, and it’s driving you out of your mind. It doesn’t take long for you to feel that coil in your gut tightening, set to snap any second, and Dean seems to know that. His hand on your ass rolls and squeezes as he tongue fucks and licks you, his arms holding you firm against his mouth. Every yank of his hair only makes him groan, and the sound vibrates in your pussy, making your eyes roll back in your head. 

“Dean.” Your voice is high, almost whiny, and Dean hums. “Please, I- I’m going to-“

He presses his tongue flat over your clit, shoves two fingers into your pussy, starting to pump them at a brutal, rapid pace, and your mouth falls open as the heat flood through you. You see white, your thighs clenching around Dean’s head and toes curling as he eats you out through the orgasm. 

Dean gently pries your legs away, as you float back down, and presses an almost mockingly sweet kiss over your clit—making you shudder in his hands, and earning you a second one—before shuffling up your body. 

You stare at him, as he reappears from under the covers. His chin is shining with the wetness from your pussy, and you take a ragged breath as he wipes it with his thumb, and hold your gaze as he sucks it clean. 

“I-“ You take another breath, almost grabbing at the air to try and get him up, with you. “Dean, Dean-“

He crashes up, angling his lips over yours for a sloppy, open-mouth kiss, and you moan, tangling your fingers in his hair. You can taste yourself, on his tongue, and just like that you need more. 

You need to taste him. 

Dean pulls away first, resting his brow against yours with a wide grin. 

“Hi.” He mutters, and there’s something soft in his voice you didn’t expect. “Anyone ever told you how good you taste, sweetheart?”

You flush, fingers curling on the nape of his neck. “No.”

He hums, giving you another soft kiss on the nose. “Well, you do. Taste like fuckin’ heaven, make so many pretty sounds.” He rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and grins when you squeak. “So sensitive, baby. Even better than I imagined.” 

You blink at him, your sex-addled brain not really able to understand what he meant by that, so you just say the only thing you can think of. 

“You’re really good at that.”

He gives you a look that’s awfully close to pride, and kisses up your neck, stopping to whisper in your ear. 

“Easy when I got such a pretty fuckin’ pussy to worship.”

You take a sharp breath, and Dean trades it with his own, almost pushing his tongue fully down your throat. He keeps kissing you like he’s trying to mark you, or maybe just fuse you together. 

You really wouldn’t mind that. 

But you have something else to do first. 

“Dean,” you whisper, and he pulls back with a tight expression. 

“What’s-“

“I wanna put it in my mouth.”

You say it fast, before you can lose confidence. Dean stares at you for a long beat after, his eyes dark and jaw clenched, and you suck on your lower lip, trying not to focus on how his cock is pressed against you. It feels thick. Big. You need it. 

“Please.” You add, and Dean’s eyes flash, his voice hoarse. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to-“

“I want to.” You manage to push up on your elbows, and Dean swallows. “Please, Dean, I- I want it so bad-“

He slams you back down into the bed with a kiss, and you grab his face between your hands. You want to feel him. Have this passion branded into you, until you can feel it forever. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, pressing a softer kiss to the side of your mouth. “You wanna suck my cock, baby?”

You nod, and Dean hums, leaning back to give you an almost strict look, after. 

“I’m not comin’ in your mouth. If I finish, it’s in you.” He pauses, then adds. “Long as that’s- I don’t wanna make it something you gotta give me, just like- Head would be awesome-“

You rise up to meet him this time, hooking your arm fully around his neck and cutting him off with another kiss. 

“I’m on the pill.” You say, nipping at his lower lip. “And I- I’d like you to- Do that.”

Dean looks like he just won the lottery. You even get one last kiss, before he’s flipping you over and helping you settle between his legs. He is big. Mostly thick, but still big. And pretty.

You want to choke on him. 

Dean smirks at you as he lazily strokes himself. “Like what you’re looking at, sweetheart?”

Somehow, that gives you whatever little jump you needed to move. You roll your eyes, swat his hand away, and take him into your mouth in one, quick movement. Dean grabs your hair with a grunt, as his cock bumps against the back of your throat, and you take what you can’t fit in your free hand. It’s easy to set a pace, rubbing his cock as your tongue swirls and you suck him off like he’s candy. He’s heavy and perfect on your tongue, and even moan of your name only makes you speed up. You hum around him, grinding your hips into the sheets, and Dean makes the most animalistic sound you’ve ever heard. 

His hips jerk, making you gag, and he tries to pull back. 

You squeeze his leg, and go faster. Faster. He’s twitching in your mouth and saying your name like a prayer, and- 

Dean yanks you off with a grunt, and you giggle as he drags you up his chest, glaring at you with a lustful, dark expression. 

“You think this is funny, baby?” He mutters, and you smile at him, nodding. 

His lips twitch, and he reaches up to grab one of your breasts, smirking when your breath catches in your throat. 

“You want to fuck you?”

“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean hums. 

“Gonna be a good girl for me?”

You nod, and Dean’s hand trails between your thighs, slowly circling your clit until you’re grinding on his abs, nails digging into his chest. 

“Felt how tight you were.” He says under his breath. “But you’re fucking soaked, sweetheart. Think you can take it?”

A whine leaves you, and Dean chuckles, the sound rolling through your cunt.

“Yeah. You can take it.”

He picks you up, and your mouth falls open as you’re driven slowly down onto his cock. The stretch burns, but it’s so good. Dean lets out a deep moan as he bottoms out, and he doesn’t waste any time. He guides you up and down, helping you bounce on his dick, and you try to roll to meet him but you’re alight, high on the feeling of him dragging every needy spot inside of you, gasping whenever he slams you down and you feel fuller than even in your life. Dean slams up to meet you, every time, and you arch in his hands, starting to set your own, desperate pace of grinding on his dick.

Dean groans, and he looks at you under hooded eyes, hands starting to roam and grope anywhere they can find. You roll your hips and he grabs your throat, hissing when you clench around him. Dean starts to jackhammer up into you, and you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, squeezing hard. He sits up, taking your breast back into his mouth, and you yank on his hair, trying to warn him that you’re close. You can’t remeber how to do anything but whimper his name, though, and he somehow understands. 

Dean sucks on your neck as he starts to tap on your clit, and you go slack in his arms, trying to fight it off. 

“Come on,” He growls, pressing down hard as he slams up. “Give it to me baby, fucking cum on my cock-“

You gasp, as your orgasm crashes into you. Stars dance behind your eyes as white-hot pleasure washes through your body, and Dean gives you one last, bruising kiss as he groans your name with his own release. It paints inside of you and sends you over the edge one last, shivering time, and you whine as he stills inside of you. 

And this doesn’t feel real. 

It’s the type of heat that feels like steam. Like a drug. As if, when Dean kisses your brow and pulls out, it could only be a dream. 

You’re too fucked out to think about it. You can only let Dean move you around—clean up, bathroom, back to bed—in a trace like state, before you’re tucked back into his chest. In his bed. 

Warm. 

You drift easily off into sleep with your body spent, and you’re so easily, happily, perfectly warm.

———

The world is slow, when you open your eyes. There’s a deep comfort you haven’t felt in a while, a comfortable warmth settled in your body—not wired, not goin to burn you, but just peaceful—and you take a deep breath, settling into the covers. 

Dean groans, and his lips brush over your ears. He shifts behind you, tugging a little tighter against his chest. 

You still. 

His chest. His arm, wrapped over your stomach. Because you slept with him. 

You fucking slept with him.

And he’s still here, in the morning. Still holding onto you. When you roll over, his features are relaxed, and his mouth is hanging open as he snores. His chest rumbles with each breath, and his fingers trail over your waist in his sleep, and you slept with him. 

You can’t stay here. In his arms. You don’t want to sit in it too long, let yourself get too high on the smell and feel of him around you, then have him wake up. Stare at you, then jump away. Tell you this was just a casual thing, you’d just been stuck together too long, and this doesn’t change that you’re just friends. You’ll have to pinch yourself, to stop from crying. And then the car ride back will suck, and Sam will come home and notice things are weird, and you’ll have to stop yourself from crying again.

It’s easier, if you just pretend nothing happened. Nothing will actually change. Your heart will remain in its fragile shape—made like glass, so fucking easy for Dean to shatter—and Dean won’t have to go to the trouble of rejecting you. 

So you, very slowly shift your way out of his arms. It takes longer than you thought it would. Dean keeps pulling you back, and grumbling in his sleep, and at one point his morning wood ends up pressed right against your bare ass, and you have to take about fifty deep breaths. 

But you manage. With a lot of help from the sheets, stuffed into his arms as you move away, you get out of the bed. 

Take a shower. Wrap yourself in blankets and layers, because the heater is still broken. Make coffee. 

Drift through the early morning, trying to think about anything but the thing. If you think about it, you’ll start crying all by yourself. 

And when you look out the door, it’s a small blessing. 

You won’t have to think about this at all. The storm has stopped. Someone cleared the roads, last night. 

You and Dean can leave. 

Dean groans your name, a few hours later, when he wakes up. Shoots upright with his gun, when he realizes you’re not in bed with him. 

“Over here.” You say, rubbing your hands against the quickly cooling coffee, and Dean grunts. 

His eyes still aren’t in total focus. He’s rubbing his face, his hair spiky and the sheets pooling around his lap. You have to stare at your coffee mug, because now all you can think about is how those abs had felt flexing under your fingers, how  his chest had looked above you, heaving as you sucked his cock- 

“What’re doin’ over there?” He mutters your name, and the heat isn’t need anymore. It’s prickling. Sore. You just want to leave this behind. To give him the out he’s probably looking for, and not think about how it’s not you. Dean doesn’t regret sex with you.

He just doesn’t want to do any sex that leads to expectations in the morning.

“It’s safe to drive.” You mutter, glaring at a carving of a flower Dean did on the table. It’s making you think about his hands. On your tits, holding your neck, inside of you. Focus. “Heater’s broken. We should probably go.”

Dean stares at you. You can feel it. And when you look up, there’s an expression you’ve never seen before. You don’t even know how to read it. His face is tight, but his brows are relaxed, and his mouth is open. It’s not even there long enough for you to analyze it. Dean just shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, and stands up. 

You flush, biting your lip and looking back to the table. His cock is hanging between his legs, and you can still taste him, still feel him when you shift in the chair, and it’s going to maybe haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Right.” Dean mutters—not seeming to notice how you’re squirming in the chair—and you can see him pulling on his boxers in your periphery. “We should. I’ll start packing-“

“I already did everything.” You tilt your head to the couch, where you’d hauled the bags. “You just- Have the keys. And I need your help carrying them.”

He snorts, voice dry. “What, you gonna take off with the money?”

You frown at him. “We don’t have any money.”

“It’s- Never mind.” Dean shuffles to the bathroom. “Gonna take a leak. Get dressed. Then we’ll leave.”

You don’t know why he’s saying it like that. He wanted to leave. He wanted to beat the storm in the first place. And this has been perfect, this feeling of peace with him you haven’t known in years, but if you were still stuck here that would have to change. He wouldn’t have this clean, neat out. 

But it feels like he’s pissed at you. You’re not trying to talk to him, but he’s not trying to talk to you. Dean almost stomps out of the bathroom, grabs the bags, and hauls them outside without a glance in your direction. While you go to the front to turn in your key, he walks a pace behind you. When you grab a blanket from the trunk and slide into shotgun, he doesn’t tease you about being cold. 

Dean glances at you, his jaw ticks, and he starts the engine. It warms up quickly, but you can’t really feel it. Your fingers are still numb. Your heart feels like it’s going too fast and too slow, all at once. 

There’s only that hot, uncomfortable prickling sensation, and pure fucking cold.

Dean’s not moving at all. Not driving away, and leaving this all in the dust. He’s just drumming on the wheel, glaring out the windshield, and pressing his lips tight together.

He’s going to tell you no anyway. You did so much to avoid it, to get out before the change could sink and stick, but he’s just going to do it here-

“I just-“ He takes a long breath, and you swallow. “Before we go, you gotta tell me, sweetheart. Are we locking it?”

“Are we-“ You blink at him. “What.”

“Locking it.” He grunts, giving you firm, almost heavy look. “This. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Oh. 

You don’t want to lock it. You don’t want to trap it and push it down, because it’s just going to bubble up and you’re going to explode. 

But you don’t want things to change. 

“If that’s what you want.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low, dry laugh. 

“Yeah. Alright.”

It doesn’t sound alright. He sounds pissed, and tired, and he’s still not looking at you, but he usually looks at you all the time. Maybe he’s never going to look at you again, maybe your friendship is going to melt away with the storm if you don’t-

“Is that what you want?”

You speak before you can think. But it gets Dean to look at you. 

Stare at you. 

With that same strange expression from before. Seeing it closer, for longer—his breathing heavier than it should be, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled—it looks almost broken. 

Almost as cold as you feel. 

And you shouldn’t speak again. You should just let it go. Speaking it will change everything, without any way to stop it. The water will run, and you’ll either be smoothed out and locked into the riverbed, or you’ll be swept away with the current. 

But everything has already changed. Dean’s never not looked at you for so long. You’ve never felt this hot discomfort around him. 

So you take the leap. 

“I- I don’t want it.” You whisper, and his jaw ticks. “I want it to be more. I want to go back to bed, and I want to wake up next to you, and I want you to pee with the door open and make up stupid games together and order me cherries- Everything else we’ve always done but you kiss me after. Like- I cut out paper stars and give them to you and you kiss me, and you take a shower, and I kiss you, and you keep making me breakfast but now it’s just me-“

“It’s always just you.” Dean grunts, and you blink. 

“What?”

“Breakfast.” He mutters, still staring at you. “I don’t really make Sam breakfast.”

Oh. “Oh.”

Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean chuckles. 

“Yeah, and, uh-“ He clears his throat, his ears going red again. “You’re the sex. The one I’ve kinda- Since I freakin’ met you, I- Yeah. So, guess I got two bucket lists this week.”

He gives you a small, crooked grin, and it’s like a spark in your chest. Warm. Bright. 

Maybe guiding you to something really, really good. 

“You know the bar we went to?” You say carefully, just because you have to be sure. “The girls who tried to flirt with you?”

“Not really.” Dean shrugs, and that just makes the spark start to catch fire. “What about them?”

“In the bathroom, I heard them talking, and-“ You give him a tight, nervous smile. “They thought you were my boyfriend. Because of how you look at me. Like you- As if you love me.”

You expect him to dismiss it. To say he has feelings you, but avoid the L word. To awkwardly tell you he just wants to keep having sex, and the cowgirls were just drunk. 

But he doesn’t. 

Dean just grins at you. 

The exact way he always has. 

“Y’know, Sammy says I do that.” He twists to fully face you, his fingers still drumming on the wheel. “Said it was obvious. So obvious I needed to man up and tell you out loud. But you never acted like you could see it, so I guessed he was just being a bitch. But I guess that’s kinda the only face I make, when I’m looking at you. Guess I can’t blame you for that one.”

He gives you a smaller grin, raising his brow, and you breathing heavy through your nose. 

Obvious. 

It’s been obvious. 

And he’s- He’s not say-

“Dean.” You whisper, leaning forward until your hand is braced on his knee. “Do you-“

“Yeah.” His voice is low, but not like it’s secret. Like he’s telling you something so critically important, it has to be said slow and deep, just to make sure you understand. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Dean’s jaw twitches, and his eyes flick down to your lips. “Can I kiss you, then? Whenever I want?”

You nod, and Dean crashes forward. It’s slow, this time. With music in your chest and a high feeling in your head, as Dean pulls you closer and hold your face like it’s something priceless. There’s no rush, to try and imprint yourself upon each other. You’re already molded into him, and he’s already branded all over you. 

And things have changed. 

But you’re never going to go back. 

End Note: Thank god for that snowstorm. I choose to believe Sam summoned it to trap them together.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)

Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101

@chi-raz @lori19 @wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey

@and-i-wish @jsudsgf @fullbelieverheart @wowzabowza69 @bonbonnie88

@pillowjj @barnes70stark @kamisobsessed @happyfxckinghorrors @deans-yn

@jofinka

[faerieinthehumanworld]

Screw it, let’s do this. Consider this a cleaning house post or whatever it is. (This is gonna be Frankenstein).

Oh god, where do I start? Might as well just name the whole damn cast. But no, let’s answer this, I believe that people get the Creature wrong a Lot. He is not some innocent little baby, he is aware of his actions. Are the reasons behind those actions relatable? Sure. But he still committed cold-blooded, premeditated murder. Several times.

Victor Frankenstein is aromantic asexual and you can fight me. Just LOOK at that man.

That long ass post that complains about ten things wrong with Frankenstein or whatever? I reblogged the thread a while ago. Worst take I have ever heard in my life and bordering on ableist. Thank god someone wrote a rebuttal already or I would have to.

Haven’t run into anyone that annoying yet, but I’m watching all of you. I still might.

Don’t do discord enough to comment.

Oh lord, I don’t know. Shipping two characters together just because you think they’re attractive drives me nuts.

No one. I don’t hate characters for their less than stellar fan interpretations. I judge on source material and whether or not the voices in my head like them.

If one more person says that a) they hate Victor Frankenstein and/or b) that Elizabeth doesn’t have any depth, I will be coming at them with a rust-covered nail spiked baseball bat.

As much as I love Frankenstein, I feel like the De Lacey section is maybe just a tad too focused on. Like could have been cut down somewhat.

… Clervalstein. Also whatever Victor and Walton’s ship name is. And Victor X Creature. See point two above and also just… why.

None. Yet.

See point eight. I will defend Victor until the day I die and I am willing to kill you on this hill.

The Creature. And for the love of all that is goddamn holy can we stop calling him Adam??? He didn’t choose that name either.

The boys being gay for each other. Nothing wrong with gay, gay is in, gay is hot, I will always support, but like… see point two.

The white streak in Victor’s hair? Where’d that come from?

The Frankenstein family. Why is everyone so sure they’re perfect? They’re really not!

More happy ending fics. Always. More fics of Victor deciding to stay and try to be responsible. More fanart of this too.

Te emotional tie characters seem to have to the scenery. It’s just such a good artistic device???? Also the Gothic/ Romantic vibes.

Nope. You’re not getting with that. I am feral and unapologetic when it comes to Frankenstein.

There are some places where I’m reminded, oh, yes, this was an eighteen year old’s first book. No slander to Mary, of course, I love her.

Mmm. Can I say Creature’s entire existence? Okay, hold on, don’t stab me, I have a point. I think the way he is treated by fans (woobification anyone?) means that there’s just No Nuance in any discussion and that Gets Old Fast.

Honestly, I love how weird and specific and unhealthy Victor and Elizabeth’s relationship is. I want to read all about their childhoods. Fascinating stuff.

No.

mmm… probably the false feminism thing. That whole thing about there being very few important women and the whole “destroying the female creature was misogyny” thing tends to get ridiculous quick. Sometimes I wonder if anyone has critical thinking skills, then I see one of those types of posts and I know they don’t.

The goddamn bit about how “oh, his eyes were just creepy, Victor is a coward.” Okay bitch, I’d like to see you try! Try and be reasonable in the face of the uncanny eight foot tall man mountain who does not look like any creature made by god and has golden predator’s eyes and tell me you’re still sane. Go ahead. I dare you.

🔥 choose violence ask game 🔥

the character everyone gets wrong

a compelling argument for why your fave would never top or bottom

screenshot or description of the worst take you've seen on tumblr

what was the last straw that made you finally block that annoying person?

worst discord server and why

which ship fans are the most annoying?

what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them?

common fandom opinion that everyone is wrong about

worst part of canon

worst part of fanon

number of fandom-related words you've filtered

the unpopular character that you actually like and why more people should like them

worst blorboficiation

that one thing you see in fics all the time

that one thing you see in fanart all the time

you can't understand why so many people like this thing (characterization, trope, headcanon, etc)

there should be more of this type of fic/art

it's absolutely criminal that the fandom has been sleeping on...

you're mad/ashamed/horrified you actually kind of like...

part of canon you found tedious or boring

part of canon you think is overhyped

your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

ship you've unwillingly come around to

topic that brings up the most rancid discourse

common fandom complaint that you're sick of hearing

[redemptions]

obviously secret

pairing: jongho x reader

genre: fluff

wc: 4.2k

summary: everyone is pretty sure that jongho is dating someone. in fact it might be super obvious.

authors note: there needs to be more jongho fics in the world

masterlist // request: open

——————————————————————————

“Have you noticed that Jongho seems…happy recently?”

Hongjoong slow blinked at Mingi. He’d woken up to a message from his younger member, asking him to be in the living room when Jongho goes to the gym that evening.

At the end of the message, Mingi had added: don’t tell jongho. It’s IMPORTANT.

All caps.

The members, baring Jongho who had shouted his exit from the dorm right on schedule, gathered on the sofas and watched Mingi with interest.

“You called a meeting,” Seunghwa said slowly, “because Jongho is…happy?”

Mingi huffed and shook his head. “No, not just happy. Like really happy.”

San tilted his head. “I’m not following.”

Mingi leant forward and lowered his voice, words coming out in a whisper. “I think Jongho is dating.”

Hongjoong blinked again. Dating? Their maknae? And they didn’t know about it? It sounded ridiculous. The eight of them were crammed into each other’s spaces pretty much at all times, during their free time and much of their work hours. It seemed inconceivable that anything secret could be taking place at all, let alone a whole separate relationship, but Mingi looked dead serious, not a hint of a joke in his voice or on his face.

That didn’t stop Wooyoung from laughing though. “Jjong? Dating? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” Mingi insisted, eyebrows furrowing in offence. “Like, have you noticed he’s been going running recently?”

“And?”

“Jongho hates running for the sake of running,” Mingi reminded them. “He already goes to the gym every night, why add on morning runs? And, what about that time he brought choco pies but wouldn’t let anyone eat them? He kept saying ‘they’re not for you’. But he’d always share his snacks before. Who were they for?”

Yeosang pressed his lips together into a hum, turning his eyes to the ceiling as he thought. “He has been smiling at his phone more,” he offered.

“Ooh, and he’s been locking his phone when I come up behind him,” Yunho jumped on, leaning forward in his chair.

“See?” Mingi pointed, “Like he’s hiding something.”

Hongjoong could see the pieces knitting together, but coincidences didn’t mean anything. Not really. “Jongho is allowed to have privacy, and go on runs, and not share his snacks,” he reminded them, “but I do admit, it seems fishy.”

“I think I know who it is too,” Mingi announced, his smile wide and confident as he saw the member’s coming around to his idea. He said your name simply and clearly.

“The make up artist?” San asked.

You’d been working as part of their glam team for a while, on big and small projects. You’d be shy at first, quietly starstruck but intensely professional. They’d broken down the walls in the way they had with all those they worked with consistently - professional friendship is what they’d call your relationship.

“Why her?” Yeosang asked.

Mingi gave a one armed shrug. “He’s softer with her, I don’t know.”

“He could just be being respectful,” Hongjoong argued but Mingi shook his head in disagreement.

“I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel like that,” Mingi murmured, “sometimes I think I see him looking at her and it’s just…different.”

They thought back to the last time they’d seen you two together, preparing for a photoshoot. You had laughed with all of them, told jokes and got teased in return. Jongho had definitely been speaking to you, his voice low, private. You had blushed and smiled. Maybe that was warmer than with the other members too. Maybe.

“Why wouldn’t he tell us if he was?” Wooyoung pouted.

Seunghwa flicked his ear. “Because none of us would let him live it down.”

“So, do we…wait for him to tell us?” Yeosang asked.

There was a long pause before San leant forward, a sly smile breaking across his face. “50,000 won for whoever gets a confession,” he challenged.

“You can’t seriously be betting on this,” Seonghwa shook his head, “Make it 50,000 and paying for the next BBQ meal.”

“Deal,” Mingi agreed.

“I want my winnings in cash please,” Yunho teased.

Hongjoong pinched the bridge of his nose and couldn’t help but laugh.

-

You got the ‘coffee?’ message about 3 hours into your day. Your team meeting had just finished, organisation of jobs and glamour looks for the next photoshoots, video shoots and upcoming live stages. It was a lot of information that was settled in front of your head, messy notes scrawled on to lined paper and an increased to do list. You were relieved at the chance to clear your brain, even just for a moment.

You made your excuses for your sunbaes and made your way out of the main team work space.

You always met in the same place, a hidden corner between the recording studio and your usual office. It wasn’t exactly private but in the fast paced work day, there was only so much time you had. It hadn’t started out as a ‘date’ (Jongho wouldn’t let you call them that because I can do way better than this) but you had to stop yourself from skipping in excitement.

He was in comfy clothes, baggy shirts and sweatpants, a usual work day outfit. “Recording all day,” he’d told you. You weren’t sure if he’d actually be able to slip away but of course he could.

He always found a way to see you.

Jongho had a tray of drinks at his feet, and he held yours out as you approached. You couldn’t lean in as close as you wanted, couldn’t curl your fingers around the base of his neck or kiss him like you wanted. You smiled sweetly. He made sure his fingers brushed against yours as you took the take away cup.

You took a sip and hummed. “With hazelnut today?”

Jongho gave a half shrug. “Hazelnut is for planning days.”

You’d told him that once, that the extra boost was always needed to get you through those long meetings. You couldn’t stop the grin that formed around your straw.

He rocked forwards and backwards on his heels, letting his elbow knock against your arm. It shouldn’t make your heart rate pick up, but it does, just the same as if he had slid his arm around you.

In this closeness, both of you could forget expectations, forget boundaries and just be.

Jongho reached out to brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear, following around the curve of your jaw. He kept the contact as long as he could, unwilling to let go before he had to. The gentleness belied the pounding of your heart in your chest.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked quietly.

“Well enough,” you promised, “just…a long morning.”

He hummed in understanding, and brushed his thumb along the clef in your chin.

“Jongho?”

You both startled at the name, a familiar voice that pierced the comfortable silence that blanketed you. Jongho’s hand dropped.

Behind Jongho, Yunho stood in the hallway, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, which lifted a moment later, eyes jumping between the two of you. Your heart thudded, and your head ducked, avoiding eye sight.

You didn’t see Jongho’s face harden just so, from the face he wore with you, to the one he wore with his members. Still soft but different. It always felt different with you.

“Hyung,” he greeted easily. When he turned, his broad shoulders blocked you from view just so. “Manager-nim asked me to drop a drink to ——-sshi.”

“Manager-nim…” Yunho repeated slowly.

Jongho hummed, bent to pick up the members iced drinks, melting freely in their holder on the floor. “Couldn’t you wait for your drink?” He complained.

“Thank you Jongho-sshi,” you murmured and bowed deeply, before making your exit.

Later, Jongho would apologise against your temple, muttering his complaints about impatience things, and laughed when you suggested a better meeting place for their coffee dates.

“It’s not a date,” he corrected.

-

Yunho: he lied, i can’t believe he lied to me

Yunho: we need to have serious words with jong about this

Yunho: and he just sat their in the recording studio

Yunho: like it didn’t matter

Yunho: with his drink of lies

Hongjoong: i think you’re taking this too personally

-

Jongho gave his clothes freely to you. In fact, you were pretty sure he was deliberately leaving them around. There was always a reason for you putting on a hoodie or t-shirt of his, each excuse more outlandish than the next. Not that you it stopped you from actually wearing them. You liked wearing his clothes as much as Jongho liked you in the them.

But then things like this happen. He leaves the wrong hoodie at your home and, on your late start day, you’re woken up by a phone call with a sheepish Jongho telling you that his manager says that jumper needs to go back into catalogued rotation.

“Can you bring it for me?” He asked.

You stifled a yawn. “I can’t exactly say no can I?”

Jongho huffed a laugh. “I’ll bring you another one,” he promised.

“One I can keep this time.”

When you go to find him, he’s in the dance studio. You had suggested that you just put it on the hanger yourself, since you were going that way, but Jongho had reminded you it would look weird for you to have the clothing that he was supposed to have kept. The reminder was like ice down your back.

Right, of course. Sometimes, you forgot that you were keeping things quiet when Jongho had taken over so much of your life at this point.

He’d sent you a text, letting you know that the coast was clear, and so you had gone to him. Jongho smiled at you, eyes creasing sweetly in the corners, as soon as the door slid closed behind you.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he muttered, hand slipping over yours to handle the bag.

“I am missing sleep wear,” you counted.

His eyes moved from your face, down, with a knowing tilt to his eyebrows. “Don’t worry on my account,” he teased, “I don’t mind.”

Your cheeks burned. “Jong,” you admonished, but he didn’t blink, grin widening into a smirk, a cheeky dance in his eyes.

Like this, when it was just the two of you, things felt easy. The knot that had formed in your stomach lessened, your shoulders felt lighter and, for a moment, you were just every other couple.

Jongho was still holding your hand, and he used it to tug you closer. You went willingly on stumbling feet until your shoes bumped together. That was the thing with Jongho, you had realised early on - you couldn’t resist.

“You look pretty,” he murmured, voice soft and honest, eyes jumping around your face as he took in everything.

You flushed and bite your bottom lip as you smiled. You weren’t used to compliments, not the way that Jongho did them. So earnest, so honest, just for you.

You almost missed the door opening behind you. But then Jongho’s hand was slipping from yours, feet stepping back and the distance between you felt like a sudden dunking in ice.

You turned to see Seonghwa, dressed for rehearsals, pausing in the doorway. “Oh, am I interrupted something?”

“Of course not, Seonghwa-sshi,” you answered quickly. “I was just….”

“Dropping off something for me,” Jongho finished.

“Yes,” you nodded, “and now that I have, I’ll go back to work.”

You bowed to both members before making your leave. You barely heard Seonghwa’s soft, “have a good day”, as you sped past him.

This was happening more and more, and honestly, you were not the best liar under pressure.

But when he pressed you into the mattress that night, kisses burning as they trailed down your neck, you found yourself repeating that the lie was worth it.

-

Seonghwa: i asked him why ——- would have his hoodie

Seonghwa: but he just pretended he couldn’t hear me

Yeosang: i think we need a more direct approach

Yeosang: lets be honest

Yeosang: jongho would never lose a battle of wits

Yeosang: especially against you clowns

Wooyoung: rude

Yunho: and yet fair

-

It was four hours into a photoshoot when Wooyoung noticed. They were doing a photos in pairs, Jongho and him, as part of the upcoming comeback. He couldn’t remember if this was for the album or a photocard or anything else. The photographer, Byungmin, was a new hire. They’d done a few shoots before but this was the biggest one he was leading.

“The concept is rock gods, got it?” Byungmin had expressed.

Wooyoung had an elbow resting on Jongho’s shoulder, jaw angled upwards as they stared down the camera.

“Excellent,” Byungmin checked the image through his lens, and gave a satisfied grin, “last one, and we’re good. Can you turn to face each other? Think enemies during peace time. Verge of fighting. I want to feel the tension through the camera.”

Around them, the photography assistants fluttered, readjusting limbs and leg stances until they got the approval of their boss. Wooyoung didn’t enjoy this part of the job - the hands that pushed and prodded and arranged you like a child would a doll. But he let them, did as he was told, and waited to be told he was done.

Wooyoung’s head was angled downwards by one of these insistent hands. His eyes followed downwards momentarily, and he caught it. Just below neck line. Wouldn’t even have been noticeable if it wasn’t for the way he was standing and that he looked down just as Jongho’s collar was readjusted.

Lip marks.

Those were lips marks on his collar.

Jongho had lipstick marks on his collar.

It was pink, a noticeable shimmer on the curve of Jongho’s neck. It sat there, like a hidden claiming mark.

Byungmin paused to tell Wooyoung that childish wasn’t really the vibe of the shoot right now.

“Sexy, right? Alluring,” he reminded.

“Of course, sorry,” Wooyoung apologised quickly. It took a moment to school his features appropriately, professional as he was. He couldn’t stop the way his body hummed in excitement and his fingers tapped an agitated beat against his thighs.

Oh, he couldn’t wait to see Jongho’s face.

Jongho noticed the behaviour change, and arched an eyebrow in silent question. What’s up with you?

Wooyoung returned the look, teasing, letting his lips twitch upwards into a giddy smile.

He leant closer for a moment, tried to make the movement smooth and effortless, just another poise, as he whispered, “Next time, you should probably tell your girlfriend not to wear lipstick on a shoot day.”

Jongho’s lips turned downwards into a frown, confused.

Wooyoung grinned, eyes darting to his neck for a moment. When Byungmin ended the shoot, and called for the next pair - Mingi and Yeosang - to make their entrance, Wooyoung tapped his own neck knowingly.

He laughed when Jongho’s ears went red.

-

Wooyoung: IT WAS PINK DO YOU KNOW THAT MEANS

Hongjoong: Jongho looks good in pink

Seonghwa: it was really obvious and we’re all blind that it took us that long to notice that he’s dating anyone

Mingi: jong is getting smooches

Mingi: and you’re not

Wooyoung: rude san would smooch me

San: don’t drag me and my smooches into this

Yeosang: can we please stop saying smooches?

-

“I think they know,” Jongho mused.

It was late. Jongho had gone on his usual workout session at the gym before making the short walk to your apartment. He’d showered, redressed himself in cleaner clothes, and made himself at home on your sofa.

It was a part of life now, the end of each of your days that you enjoyed every moment of. It wasn’t exactly sneaking around, but it was private, just for the two of you. Everything with Jongho was quiet, private. A comforting touch, a familiar sigh.

The televison was playing the ending credits of a drama you had been watching together. Soon, it would be time for Jongho to head back to the dorm rooms, a time that made your stomach twist with bittersweet longing. Which was silly, you knew, because you’d only see him again the next morning. You just wished these moments could stretch on.

You huffed a laugh. “I’m surprised it's taken them this long. Honestly, you’re not exactly subtle.”

“Who left their lipstick on me?” He challenged.

You groaned in embarrassment. Honestly, you couldn’t believe that had actually happened. A momentarily weakness that had seemed thrilling and sexy at the time, now just made you feel deeply mortified. “You’re the one that said Seonghwa has been asking about the missing hoodie since it happened,” you reminded.

“Hey, the hoodie one wasn’t my fault,” he argued, “You borrow a lot of my stuff.”

“You let me,” you challenged.

Jongho’s fingers slid along your chin affectionately, smirking at the blush that bloomed on your cheeks. “But you look so cute in them,” he murmured.

“Jjong,” you slapped a hand against his chest, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

He arched an eyebrow, challenge clear in his face. You wanted to accept it, let him show you, but you were firm. Your fingers curled into the loose ties at the front of his hoodie. “You need to get back.”

Jongho hummed. His hand moved so he could stroke your cheek, and you leant into it. His hand felt so warm against you, you could float away. His eyes darted over your face, like he was memorising every detail over and over again. “Soon,” he promised.

You turned your head to kiss the palm of his hand. Such a simple act, so sweet, and it made Jongho’s heart clench before the uptick of its beating. Yes, he was so completely in love with you.

“I should tell them soon,” he said.

You looked at him under your lashes. “Whenever you want to,” you agreed.

“It’s not that I don’t,” he reminded. You hummed in understanding. Things were far more complicated than that. “Once they know, I just need to figure out how to keep you.”

You were quick with your answer. “You’ll always have me.”

Jongho said your name, quiet and revertant, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. His hand moved to your neck and dragged you closer, until your lips could slot together. He always kissed like this - firm, with purpose, like he would crawl into you if he could. It made you breathless, lightheaded, lost in the moment.

When Jongho finally left, your lips were swollen and your heart ached even more to say goodbye.

-

Admittedly, Jongho wasn’t even trying to pretend anymore. He left your home three nights before, a heavy weight in his stomach that he wasn’t able to just stay. He never liked going, having to leave you behind so that no one noticed, but something about that day itself just caught him sideways.

You hadn’t really been able to see each other this week due to schedules, leading up today - the new music video. He’d watched you out of the corner of his eye as you moved around, bumping shoulders with your coworkers, nodding at your managers when they gave an update, laughing with his members while you assisted other make up artists before those on your rotation were ready to sit in your chair.

You’d finished Yunho before him, laughing at jokes that Jongho was pretty sure weren’t funny. Mingi was in the chair next to him, and the conversation flowed easily. You fit in there so effortlessly and he was once again struck by the thought that he was so lucky to have you.

“Jongho-sshi,” you called over your shoulder as you straightened your supplies, and then turned to flash him the brightest smile.

His mouth felt dry.

God.

Yeah. He was gone.

He watched you as you worked. You had to move around him constantly, applying and blending, adding powder to set. His eyes followed you, smile soft, like he couldn’t bear to look away.

You caught him, blinked in surprise. He had looked at you like this before, but never so out in the open. It felt like a spotlight blinking to life upon you.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, voice low, slipping into secrecy. He traced the flush from your cheeks to the tip of your nose with his eyes, wishing desperately to do so with his fingers.

“You’re cute,” he replied, quiet, honest.

He saw how the surprise in your gaze melted into warmth, affection. “Jongho,” you shake your head in amusement.

“What? Am I making it hard for you to concentrate?” He teased.

If you could have, you would have flicked his forehead. “You’re the worst client,” you joked.

“Lies, I’m your best,” he counted.

You hummed in amusement. You swapped one brush for another. “Close your eyes,” you instruct. “I need to do your shadow.”

He obliged. Even in darkness, you surrounded him. The touch of the brush on his eyelids was delicate. The end of your overshirt - an old button up that you wore over a tank top - brushed the top of his hands where they rested on the chair. Your perfume wrapped around him. Your free hand curved around his jaw so gently, holding him steady as you worked.

Jongho shuddered a breath he couldn’t hold any longer. Like this, he could pretend you were alone, lost in sensation. Your thumb stroked on the underside of his jaw once, barely noticeable to anyone but him, before you withdraw. “Okay, open.”

His eyes were dark, hooded, lost, only for you. You didn’t think anyone else would notice, but you did. You always did.

“Looks good,” you comment, throat dry, voice croaking.

Jongho makes a noise of agreement. His fingers twitch from the urge to pull you closer.

Later, in the shadow between the stage lights, Yeosang approached quietly and said, “You have failed at subtly my friend.”

Jongho huffed a laugh. “Kind of stopped caring that I needed to be,” he admitted.

“Does this count as a public announcement then?” Yeosang joked, sliding an arm over his shoulder.

He angled his head to look at the older member. “Honestly, it took you guys long enough.”

“Yeah, probably,” Yeosang admitted, “Mingi noticed.”

Jongho’s smile became a tad wider. “And now, you all know.”

“I mean, once it was pointed out, you do have that soft look about you.” Yeosang poked his maknae’s cheek.

“Yeah, I do,” Jongho agreed.

-

Jongho: Meet at the dorms after shoot

Jongho: we should talk

-

They gathered back in the dorms living room. Yeosang was already there, looking smug, while Jongho was splayed in the arm chair, a set look of determination on his face.

“What’s this about?” Seonghwa asked.

Of course, they already knew.

Jongho leant forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m dating ——-,” he said simply.

Mingi hissed his intake of breath. “Yes, I knew it.”

Jongho raised his phone screen, showing a timer. “You have three minutes to ask whatever questions you want. Then, my relationship is just a normal part of life, got it?”

He didn’t wait for a response and hit go.

“How long have you been dating?” Hongjoong asked first.

“10 months.”

San jumped in. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Jongho shrugged. “I wanted to keep it just for a us, just for a little while,” he admitted. “Plus, with our jobs…it was easier.”

“Is she nice to you?” Yunho asked.

Jongho’s lips twitched. “Yes hyung.”

Yeosang counted, “are you nice to her?”

“She hasn’t complained so far.”

“When can we meet her?” Seonghwa asked, “you know, officially, as your girlfriend.”

“Next team dinner,” was the quick answer.

“What shade is her lipstick?” Wooyoung wondered.

San raised his eyebrow. “That’s your question?”

“It was a good shade,” he defended, “—— and I always wear the same brand!”

“I’ll find out for you Woo,” Jongho promised.

“Was it love at first sight?”

“Of course not.”

“Not a romantic bone in that body,” Mingi complained under his breath. “How he got anyone to date him…”

Wooyoung vibrated with energy when he asked, “Who asked who out?”

“She asked me.”

“Good for her, girl power and all that shit.”

The timer went off. Jongho turned it off and returned his phone to his pocket. “And now we’re back to normal,” he emphasised. He stood up, pushed his hair away from his face and began to walk towards the door. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Hey, where are you going?” Mingi stammered, startled by the sudden dismissal.

Jongho grinned at them, teasing and amused. His eyes creased at the edges. “I’m going to see ——-. Don’t have to sneak around anymore, so don’t wait up for me.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Wooyoung sniffed mockingly. “Oh baby is all grown up.”

Yunho flung an arm around Woo’s shoulders and pouted. “They grow up too fast. Bring me back my baby Jongie.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes but the smile across his face was warm. “Jongho seems happy,” he concluded.

“Smitten,” Yeosang added. “And on that note,” he grinned widely, “I’ll take those bank transfers now.”

——————————————————————————

a/n: if you have any fic requests (sfw/nsfw) feel free to ask! like and reblog if you enjoyed this one 💕

[comatosebunny09]

where all the worlds begin | snowcrow x you

sum: you wanted to take them out for a change. cw: tooth-rotting fluff, mild language, gendered terms, brief alcohol mention, snowcrow being ridiculously sweet, disgustingly romantic & self-indulgent, i took out the part that got steamy, 2k wc, shaking off the writer’s block recommended listening: la vie en rose - aoi teshima

You don’t know why you’re so nervous. You’ve seen each other naked. Watched each other bleed. Wiped one another’s (read: your) tears.

This? 

This is nothing. 

Still, your impromptu pep talk doesn’t make the gnarl in your stomach any more bearable. 

After pacing the gleaming floor of the hallway just beyond Sylus’ study, you finally slip inside, deciding to don your big girl pants. 

Two sets of eyes greet you when the door hisses shut. Your body vibrates with cold fright, and you press yourself against the ornate wood to calm your rabbiting pulse. 

Zayne is hunched over Sylus’ desk, quietly appraising you from behind his glasses. Sylus, seated in his leather chair, regards you with that typical amusement as if he’s gleaned through your thoughts. 

You bypass a greeting. Gods know you’re beyond formalities. Clearing your throat after a steadying breath in, you lean against the doorframe, opting for calm, praying your voice doesn’t waver. 

“You guys wanna…go out?”

Zayne’s brows knit quizzically. One corner of Sylus’ lips twitches up.

Straightening in his chair, Sylus is thankfully the first to snap the awkward silence. “Out? As in a date?”

You nod, pulling at your fingertips, feeling small and foolish beneath their scrutiny. Maybe you weren’t ready for this. 

While you’re busy studying the scuff on your shoe, Zayne chimes in. “You want to take us out?” he queries in that even tone. Humor curdles beneath. “That’s…new.”

You scoff, looking between them. Way to make you feel even more ridiculous. “Well, try not to sound so enthusiastic about it.” 

You get it. Typically, they’re the ones orchestrating your outings. Inviting you to indulge in lavish things. Initiating. So what if you want to do something different for a change? Take them out? Spoil them instead if the other way around?

Zayne stands to full height, crossing his arms over a virile chest. He taps his bicep, the faint, upward arc of his lips unmissable in the jaundiced hue of Sylus’ study. 

“I’m not saying I’m opposed to it. It’s just an…interesting turn of events.”

The leather of Sylus’ chair squeaks, followed by a laugh reminiscent of a low-purring engine. You watch Sylus lean back, tapping his bottom lip in deliberation. He intends to murder you with the suspense of a response, yet he does a terrible job shielding his mirth behind his hand.

“She wants to spoil us for a change, Zayne. What do you think? Should we check her for a fever?”

You glower when Zayne stifles a chuckle into his fist, disguising it as a cough.

Pushing off the doorframe, you near the desk, arms folded, eyes narrowed. “Ya know, if you’re gonna be dicks about it, I’ll rescind my invite.”

Zayne’s entertained gaze slides from Sylus to you. It softens along with the round of his lips. “I have no qualms about it.”

The tension between your shoulders loosens the slightest bit. Leave it to Zayne to shift the air into something more bearable. You would kiss him if your nerves weren’t firing off like solar flares beneath your skin in anticipation of what your other half might say.

You watch Sylus expectantly as he sits up, sighing theatrically, slapping his thighs like you’re holding him at gunpoint. He loves to give you shit—they both do. Yet, Sylus is always the one to prolong your suffering. 

“Well, if the good doctor here agrees to your terms, then I suppose I have no choice but to accept, too.” He pitches forward with his elbows on the desk, fingertips pressed together, as if he’s taking part in a steep negotiation.  

Rolling your eyes, you can’t disguise the upward tick of your lips. 

“Now, where are we off to?” Sylus prods, slowly rising from his seat and shoving his hands into his pockets, standing in that lax slouch. 

Zayne quirks a brow at you, equally curious.

You anticipated this. Hell, you half-expected Sylus to parse through the layers of your poker face to take a conveniently spot-on guess at what you have planned. 

It’s your turn to drag the knife of suspense across smooth skin. 

Pressing your index finger to your lips and winking, you murmur, “It’s a secret,” before skipping out of Sylus’ office, your maniacal cackle reverberating off grandiose walls. 

Your perplexed lovers watch you retreat before eyeing each other with varying degrees of amusement and exchanging a shrug. 

—

For days, you prep. Painstaking. Secretive. All until the night of your grand scheme. 

You pack their favorite snacks into a basket—an amalgamation of sweet, salty, and sour. Stuff a case of beers into a mini cooler filled with ice. Procured a nice bottle of Scotch for Zayne, an expensive dry red for Sylus. Anything to make the night more comfortable for your favorite duo.

Packing the bed of your truck with an air mattress, you layer it with way too many pillows and blankets. So many, you struggle to close the cover. 

It’s cozy. Maybe not plush like the king-sized sprawl of a bed in a luxury hotel, courtesy of Sylus. But it’s something to make what you have in store that much more endearing.

You told them to dress comfortably for the evening. No need for tailored waistcoats or expensive shoes. 

It’s comical, watching Sylus and Zayne walk into your apartment in what they deem “casual.” Ah well. At least they tried to humor you. 

The three of you load into your truck, Sylus in the passenger’s seat, Zayne behind you. They fill the drive with idle chatter and music, not asking questions until the glaring pulse of the city lights fades in the rearview.

“Are you planning to kill us?” Sylus teases, a hand on your thigh, burning through your denim. 

You give him a flat look over the soft blue of the dashboard, fingers tight on the steering wheel. “Of course not.”

His responding grin is impish to match the twitch of Zayne’s lips in the mirror.

“With our combined strength, we could easily subdue her,” Zayne adds from the backseat.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t blame them for being curious. You’ve been driving for nearly an hour, not giving them an inkling of where you’re taking them.

Eventually, you trade the seemingly endless darkness for the yawning maw of a canyon. It stretches towards a violet canvas littered with stars reminiscent of spilled milk. The dusty band of the Milky Way powders the sky on the horizon. It’s a scene out of a movie. A well-timed shot in a science magazine. 

You pull the truck onto a flat overlook and kill the engine. Eyeing them with an omniscient grin, you hop out, kicking up moon dust and stirring loose gravel. 

They trade wary yet entertained looks before unbuckling their seatbelts and joining you in the back.

With a flourish of your fingers, you reveal your project—the truck bed transformed into a comfortable nest beneath the stars. A standing tray housing the snacks, wine, Scotch, and cooler sits in the center of your cozy chaos. 

For a moment, their silence discourages you. You think you’ve mucked up, dragging them away from the city for something languid and modest.

The awestruck gleam in Zayne’s eyes as he ingests the scenery sends a warm thrill down your spine. His earthy gaze falls on you, earnest, stripped of its usual cold detachment. 

“Did you do all of this for us?” 

After taking in the setup, Sylus studies you, too, lips slightly parting as his eyes gleam a luminous red beneath the moonlight. Almost like the idea of you organizing something so plain has pilfered the air from his lungs.

You press your index fingers together, nodding sheepishly. “Do you…like it?”

It might be simple. May not be a fancy restaurant with menu items you can't pronounce. And maybe it’s not a private tour on a yacht worth more than your annual salary. But it’s a break from what’s typical. Your attempt at giving your two loves a glimpse into your mind. Your vices. 

You feel vulnerable beneath their perusal. Study your sneaker twisting in the sand until a large hand falls onto the crown of your head, affectionately tousling your hair. 

Sylus peers down at you with a youthful shine to his eyes, lips rucked up into something soft and unhindered. Zayne drops a hand onto your shoulder, squeezing it with reassurance.

“It’s beautiful,” Zayne whispers, voice tapering with emotion. 

Warmth blossoms in your chest. A slow smile takes possession of your lips. You didn’t do too bad, now did you?

They take either of your hands, guiding you onto the truck bed. Zayne crowds in beside you, cross-legged, still donning that smile that rivals the nebulous halo of the stars overhead. 

Sylus lingers just beyond, his riotous white hair dancing in a breeze as if he’s searching the cosmos for all its secrets. He joins you soon after, sitting across your makeshift table at the truck’s tail.

—

The conglomerate of sounds played by distant wildlife fills the valley below, accompanied by the soft croon of tunes leaking from the speakers of your truck. 

You’ve had a beer or two. Zayne’s peach-faced from the burn of the Scotch gleaming in the canteen cup you gave him. Sylus wears half-mast eyes, swirling the scarlet contents of his wine bulb you poured earlier. 

They’re both smiling. Haven’t stopped since you brought them out and invited them into your tiny slice of sanctuary.

You’re housed between them, shoulder to shoulder, swaddled by hypnotizing heat, your shoes discarded and legs tangled together. It’s a tight fit—they’re uncommonly large, yet they bear the discomfort to indulge you.

Soft sherpa swaths your body. The Earth is a boundless sprawl of stars above, so voidless and vast, you could fall into it if gravity didn’t tether you to the ground. 

Blinking sheepishly, you direct your boyfriends’ attention to the sky with your finger, your voice scant above a whisper. 

“Give it a sec. Something cool’s about to happen.”

They cram close until their heads rest on either side of yours, already committing the patchwork of constellations to memory. 

As if timed by your instruction, the first streak cuts through the sky in a brilliant flash. So brusque, you could miss it with a blink.

With childlike glee, you point again to a different patch of sky, another flash soaring across the firmament. Another joins it. And another. One more before the world suddenly erupts with stunning veins of white like rain trailing down a windowpane.

One by one, meteors burn arcs through the mesosphere, winking out of existence as quickly as they spawn. 

So caught up in the beauty of the meteor shower, you hardly register Sylus pulling you into his side, your head falling onto the rigid pane of his chest. Barely notice Zayne curling up behind, his chin notched into your shoulder, his voice vibrating your spine. 

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” he mocks, chuckling when you elbow him in his ribs.

Sylus weaves his fingers in your hair, his heartbeat mollifying beneath your cheek. 

Warmth envelops you, spreading outward from your chest like coronal ejections spuming from the sun. A product not only of the blankets piled over your bodies and the booze coloring your veins. But a consequence of your loves surrounding you, their hands subtly seeking yours out. 

You bask in the soundlessness and the sky splitting itself open overhead, smiling so wide, your cheeks ache, a hot film of wetness blurring your periphery. An expensive hotel suite could never compete with this. No grand tier seats at a play, nor luxurious dining on a rooftop. 

Wrapped intimately between your lovers, their hold feels as infinite as the galaxy spread overhead.  

[batsandbirdbrains]

I rly love fics where Roy is actually a really good friend & older brother figure to Dick, especially in a yj setting. I don’t know at what age Roy usually is when he’s adopted by Oliver, but let’s say he’s a young teenager. Around 14. That puts him in the picture about a year after Bruce gets Dick. So just hear me out hear me out

Little nine year old Dick Grayson is accompanying Bruce Wayne to yet another charity gala. But this time, Uncle Ollie is bringing the boy he recently took in. Dick has met Roy a handful of times, but it’s always been brief. The most they’ve said is “hi” and “nice to see you” and “bye.”

Dick doesn’t particularly enjoy going these events, because sometimes the snooty socialites say backhanded compliments to him or make snide remarks about him, but he’s hoping Roy will be fun to hang around with. Plus, Roy is so cool. He’s in high school, and that’s very exciting to a kid who’s not even in middle school yet.

And maybe Roy isn’t thrilled about being what he thinks is a glorified babysitter, but the longer he spends around Dick, the more he realizes he actually kind of likes the little squirt. Dick is funny and has a sharp tongue and isn’t afraid to pull out the puppy eyes to get them extra dessert plates from the servers.

Over time, the two of them become something akin to cousins. Then later when Roy becomes Speedy and they spend even more time together, they become a bit more like brothers.

Sure, Dick can be annoying and clingy and bratty, and Roy can be bossy and moody and grouchy, but they always end up having fun. They bicker, but then they plot together.

Then Donna joins the scene, and she’s between the two of them age-wise. She becomes the sister of their little trio, and they’re inseparable. They do everything together. They hang out all the time. They team up together a few times even.

Roy calls Dick and Donna the Wonder Twins. Donna calls Dick and Roy Dumb and Dumber (she won’t tell them who’s who). Dick calls Roy and Donna Thing 1 and Thing 2 (Roy is Thing 1, Donna is Thing 2, and he makes it clear it’s based solely on the order he met them).

They all bicker but then they play together. They argue and then Roy takes them out to a movie. They get on each other’s last nerve, but Roy will always pick them up if they call him, no questions asked.

Eventually, they meet Wally and Kaldur, but they’re never as close with them as they are with each other.

So fast forward to when the yj Team is formed. Dick is upset because Roy won’t join them and because Donna is too busy on Themyscira to commit to a team. But the three of them still hang out together frequently. Roy is still as much the big brother for Dick now as he was before, even if he is angry at Oliver and has stopped going by the name Speedy.

So when Dick, who’s still wearing his mask even though he’s showered and changed after training on Mount Justice, sees Roy enter the lounge area he’s hanging out with the team in, his entire face lights up. He darts up from his seat on the sofa and crashes into him. They haven’t seen each other in three whole weeks, that’s way too long.

“Roy!” he greets, a grin on his face as he looks up. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to pick you up, pipsqueak,” he says, flicking Dick on the forehead and snorting when Dick whines and rubs at it. He laughs when Dick play-punches him in the gut, then pushes him away with a hand kept firmly on Dick’s head. “We’re gonna go pick up your Wonder Twin then get froyo or something. Sound good?”

“What’s the catch?”

“The catch is that you get to pay with that not so secret credit card I know the Bat gave you for emergencies.”

“Why do I have to pay?” he whines. “I’m the youngest!”

“I fly, you buy,” he says, pulling his car keys out of his pocket and twirling them around on one of his fingers. “Besides, Ollie cut me off. So it’s really the least you could do, buying your favorite person in the whole wide world a measly cup of frozen yogurt.”

“Well I’ll pay for Donna, but I dunno what you’ll do if Ollie cut you off.”

“Brat,” Roy laughs, shoving Dick’s head down.

Dick whines and complains and tugs at Roy’s arm unsuccessfully. Roy knows he likes it though, that it’s all for show, because the kid could easily flip him over if he really wanted to. Dick’s just a brat like that.

“Come on, let’s get this show on the road,” Roy says. But when Dick starts to leave, Roy snorts and tugs him back by his hood. “Hey, Boy Blunder, aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Oh, right,” Dick says quickly. Then he pops his head back around Roy to tell the others, “Bye, guys! See you later!”

“Not that, doofus,” Roy says, and he flicks the edge of Dick’s mask. “Not exactly discreet there if we’re headed to Yogurtland.”

“I’ll take it off in the car,” Dick whines, swatting Roy’s hand away.

And that sends the others into an uproar. Because what does Robin mean he’ll take his mask off? Does Roy know who he is? Why does Roy get to know who he is? Why won’t he share his secret identity with his actual teammates? Doesn’t he trust them?

Idk I just like Roy and Dick being close and the others finding out that Roy is one of the very few people who gets to know who Batman and Robin are behind the mask.

[silkensago]

hi! i love your jason fics and if it not too much to ask i would like to request where jason and bat!reader having a fluff or romantic moment on a rooftop after patrol and the other bats on other rooftop just like ‘here they goes again’ but in a endearing way that they know both of them are good for each other. Thank u and have a nice day<3

hi, thank you sm for your request lovely! hope you enjoy <3

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ jason todd x fem reader. fluff. ⭑ after patrol, the batfam tunes in for their favorite rooftop romcom.

Tim squinted from the ledge he was perched on.

“Think they realize we can see them from here?” 

Next to him, Dick shook his head with a grin. “Nah. That rooftop could go up in flames and Jay’d still be making heart eyes at her.”

“Can someone pick me up already?” Damian huffed. “I never get to see.” 

“Maybe when you’re a little older, Dami.”

“No. I demand elevation now.”

“Sorry buddy, no can do.”

“So what’s the bet this time?” Steph raised an eyebrow as Damian went to sulk, swinging her legs. “Five minutes before Romeo starts quoting poetry?”

Tim snorted. “How about two?”

“Oh, you’re all hopeless,” Barbara’s amused voice crackled over comms. “Everyone ready for me to patch you in?”

“Do it! Do it!” Steph and Dick chanted in unison. Orange and pink began to bloom across the sky as the sun dipped lower.

A soft click buzzed through their earpieces, and static briefly filled the channel. Then,

“—ason no, stop moving! I am not kissing you with that cut on your lip.” 

“Then what am I supposed to do while you’re sitting there looking like that?” Jason murmured.

“How about you behave first, mister, and I might consider it later?”

The low, soft chuckle that followed elicits a collective groan from everyone.

“Aaand he’s gone.”

“Dude, he’s been gone.”

“What are they saying?” Damian asked stoutly, still sulking. His tiny head barely met the walled fence of the rooftop, but he was still stubbornly trying to peek. 

“Uh…” Dick exchanged a look with the others who were furiously shaking their heads, before he shot a grin at the youngest, almost a little too quickly.

“They’re saying they’re going to make a honeyed date banquet next week with a tasting panel for Titus and Jerry!”

Damian perked up instantly, eyes wide. “And Bat-cow?” 

“Oh, yup." Dick looks at Tim, help, who just shrugs in response. "And Bat-cow.”

Somewhat satisfied, Damian finally sits down. 

Meanwhile, through their earpieces, the rest of the team leaned closer as the voice of Jason crackles through the channel again.

“Did you hear that?” Steph whispered, nudging Tim.

“Yep,” he replied, suppressing a grin. “I can’t believe he actually—”

“Hurry and pay up.”

“What?”

“Five minutes and a millisecond. I won.”

“You were counting!?”

“Shhh, you two.” Dick lifts a finger to his lips, though a small smile tugged at the corners. “It gets even better.”

As the team fell silent to continue their eavesdropping on the rooftop, they leaned closer to the edge to watch as you cleaned a shallow cut on Jason’s cheek with your med kit. 

“Doc, I think you missed your calling,” he teases.

You respond by swatting him lightly. 

When you finished, Jason caught your wrist and pressed a quick kiss to your knuckles. “Guess I’ll survive another night, thanks to you.”

Steph covered her face in her hands. 

Now your feet dangled off the edge while Jason settled in beside you, shoulder flush against yours. He handed you a thermos.

“Well now I know where my morning tea went,” Dick mutters.

“—Best view in Gotham,” came Jason’s voice, eyes fixed on you rather than the city. Everyone laughs, Dick was right. 

A soft retching noise cut through the air and the team whirled around—only to reveal a disgusted Damian. Tim’s hand flew to his left ear, eyes widening.

“Hey! He’s got one!”

He swiped at Damian’s hand, who dodged just out of his reach. They freeze as your voice floats through the earpiece between his fingers. 

“You always pick the highest rooftop just to show off, don’t you?” 

Under his breath, Dick muttered, “He sure does.” Steph and Tim share a laugh.

“Guilty.” It was getting too dark to see as clearly as they could before, but they didn’t need to in order to know that Jason was smirking. 

“You’re a dork,” you laugh.

“Yeah? Only for you,” he replied softly, but just loud enough for the earpieces to pick up.

Steph and Tim’s hands fly up to their foreheads, pretending to swoon dramatically. 

“Only for you!” They chorused. 

“I think I just lost five years off my life,” Barbara’s dry voice crackled in their ears. 

Jason leaned closer, hand reaching for yours, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t expect this every time I patch you up. I have other patients too, you know.”

 Jason grinned, tilting his head. “Then I guess I better keep you busy.”

At the same time, the team groans, knowing full well what’s coming next.

“Okay, that’s cute, but I’m officially blinded,” Steph murmured, pressing her hands to her face.

“Me too,” Tim added, shaking his head, and he yanks his earpiece out. “I can’t watch. Or hear.”

“I want to see–”

Dick’s hand covers Damian’s eyes. “Nope.” 

Damian chooses that moment to let out a yawn, and the group chuckles. 

“I think it's past someone's bedtime,” Dick laughs. 

“No! I shall not surrender to slumber until justice has been adequ—” Damian’s protest cuts off as his eyelids droop, and he collapses into Dick’s arms, who catches him effortlessly.

Back at the manor, once Damian was finally tucked in, Dick freezes mid-step, eyes widening.

“Wait…” 

Steph and Tim stopped to look at him.

“The honeyed date banquet.”

“Oh my gosh!” Steph whispered, panicking slightly. “We can’t lie to him… he’s actually looking forward to it.”

Tim nodded. “We have to make this happen.”

Phones were in hand in an instant, thumbs immediately flying over the keys.

Meanwhile, on a rooftop high up above Gotham, the sun has set. 

As the city’s lights twinkled around you, Jason’s head rests comfortably in your lap while you gently stroke his hair. There’s an insistent buzzing against your thigh, and your hand reluctantly stills as you use your free one to fish your phone out of your suit’s pocket. He whines in protest, pressing his forehead into your palm.

You giggle and pat him in consolation, before blinking at the sudden flurry of texts lighting up your screen from the group chat.

richard:

PLEASE DO THE HONEYED DATE BANQUET THING FOR TITUS AND JERRY

stephie weffie <3:

AND BATCOW

richard:

AND BATCOIW

stephie weffie <3:

PLS PLS DAMIAN COULDN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT IT

timtam: 

PLEASE

babs bunny: 

PLEASE

richard: 

PLEASEEEE

you: 

WHAT??? 

i mean i’ll do it but

WHAT????????????????

‎

[roze-latte-zz]

Fractures and Firelight

Harry Potter x Slythrine!reader

Summary : You thought he hated you, that being sorted into Slytherin had destroyed everything you two once shared. You believed his words when he said he didn’t want to be friends, when he laughed with Ron and Hermione as if you never existed, and for years you forced yourself to stay away, to act like you didn’t care. Warning : a little angst with fluff, friend to enemies to lovers !! <33 1k

You and Harry had been inseparable once, the kind of best friends everyone teased about, whispering that it was only a matter of time before you two became something more. You had secrets tucked between your fingers, laughter pressed into the spaces of your days, promises whispered in empty hallways that you’d always, always be there for each other.

But all of that shattered the moment the Sorting Hat shouted “Slytherin!” across the Great Hall. You hadn’t chosen it—didn’t even want it—but the green tie around your neck was enough to tear you away from him. At first, you thought he just needed time, that he would come around. You ran after him between classes, tried to sit beside him in the library, slipped him notes during History of Magic like you used to. But every attempt was met with cold silence, clipped answers, or worse—him walking away without a word.

It all came to a head one evening outside the library when you caught his arm, refusing to let him brush past you again. “Harry, please, I don’t understand why you’re avoiding me. It’s still me. I didn’t choose Slytherin.” He spun around so sharply you almost stumbled. His face was drawn tight, eyes blazing with an anger that cut deeper than you thought possible.

“You think it doesn’t matter?” he hissed, his voice low but sharp as glass. “Do you know how many dark wizards have come from that House? Malfoy’s in there. His family, his father—they’re all already serving Voldemort! And now you’re one of them!” Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at him, wide-eyed and trembling. “I’m not Malfoy,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m not his family. I’m me. The same me who shared every Chocolate Frog with you on the train. The same me who helped you with your homework and stayed up until midnight laughing at Peeves. Doesn’t that matter?”

“It matters too much!” His voice broke, frustration spilling over. He raked a hand through his messy hair, eyes wild. “Don’t you get it? You’re going to end up just like them. And I—I can’t—” He cut himself off, choking on his words, before shaking his head like he was trying to shove something back down. “I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

Your heart cracked so loudly you swore the whole corridor heard it. You felt the sting of tears but forced them back, glaring through the burn in your chest. “So that’s it then? Years of friendship thrown away because of the color of a tie?” But he wouldn’t even look at you. He just stared at the floor, jaw clenched, saying nothing. And that silence was worse than if he had screamed.

From that day forward, you stopped trying. You passed him in the corridors without a word, your laughter louder when you knew he was near, his head turning away when you dared glance his way. Meals in the Great Hall became battlegrounds of stolen looks and deliberate ignorance. He sat pressed between Ron and Hermione, eyes sliding past you like you were invisible. At night in your bed in the dungeons, you clenched your fists in the sheets and swallowed the ache, telling yourself you didn’t care anymore. But you did. God, you did.

By the time sixth year rolled around, the silence had hardened into something like ice. And then Slughorn, in his cheery obliviousness, paired you with Harry in Potions. The universe was cruel. Harry stiffened at the announcement, your name on his lips sounding foreign, unwanted. You sat down beside him, careful not to brush against him, though your hearts seemed to beat in the same painful rhythm. “Let’s just… get this over with,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the cauldron. “Fine by me,” you snapped, though your throat felt like sandpaper. The next hour was suffocating. Every movement, every brush of fingers when you reached for the same ingredient, every time your elbows nearly touched, sent a sharp current through you. When his hand grazed yours on the silver stirrer, you both jerked back as if burned. Slughorn bustled past, booming, “Excellent teamwork, you two!” and you wanted to laugh at how wrong he was.

But it wasn’t the last time fate shoved you together. When the DA formed, you joined. A Slytherin in Dumbledore’s Army was nearly unthinkable, but you slipped into that room anyway, wand in hand, loyalty unspoken but clear. You taught charms better than most, shield spells that impressed even Hermione, and you saved Harry more times than he knew—distracting Snape with excuses, redirecting Filch when he came too close. And though he tried to ignore it at first, you saw the change. The way his eyes softened when they landed on you, the way his voice was quieter when he corrected your stance, the ghost of a smile when you teased him after a successful spell. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you didn’t care. But your chest betrayed you every time his green eyes lingered too long.

And then came the night that changed everything. DA had just ended, the last of the members slipping out of the Room of Requirement, but Harry had forgotten his wand. You went back with him, rolling your eyes but unwilling to let him get caught alone. Of course, the sound of prefects echoed down the corridor—the very Slytherins who would ruin you if they saw. No time to run. Harry’s hand seized yours, tugging you under the invisibility cloak, and suddenly you were pressed flush against him, chest to chest, heart to heart, his breath hot against your cheek.

You froze, every nerve screaming. His eyes, so close, flickered to your lips. You wanted to shove him away, scream at him for breaking you, for years of silence and pain. But you couldn’t. Not when his heartbeat thundered against yours, not when his voice broke on your name like it hurt to even speak it. “I can’t breathe,” he whispered, his lips brushing your skin. You almost laughed, though it came out shaky. “Then stop holding me so tight.” But he didn’t loosen his grip. His eyes burned into yours, and before you could think, before you could run, his mouth crashed against yours.

It wasn’t soft. It was messy, desperate, years of anger and longing and heartbreak spilling into the space between you. His hands cradled your face like you were both fragile and the only thing keeping him alive, and your fingers twisted into his robes, terrified that if you let go, he would vanish. The world outside the cloak didn’t matter—the prefects, the risk, the danger—none of it touched you here. There was only the warmth of his lips, the ache in your chest, and the taste of every unsaid word between you.

When you finally broke apart, gasping, the silence was different this time. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes raw and desperate. “I was wrong,” he whispered hoarsely. “I was so bloody wrong. I never stopped… I never stopped caring about you.” Tears stung your eyes, threatening to spill. “You broke me, Harry,” you whispered back, voice trembling. His hands tightened around yours, fierce and unyielding. “Then I’ll fix it. If you let me.”

After that, it was awkward—painfully so. Every glance across the common room, every accidental brush of fingers, felt electric. People noticed. They whispered. But you didn’t care. When he finally asked you out, fumbling and red-faced, you kissed him before he could even finish the question. From then on, it was stolen kisses in hidden corridors, laughter that mended wounds you thought would never heal, love that burned brighter for all the years you thought it was gone. You still fought, still clashed, but at the end of the day, when his arms were around you and his lips pressed against yours, none of it mattered. You weren’t enemies anymore. You weren’t strangers. You were home.

[maria021015]

Clueless

Fred Weasley x FemRavenclawReader

Y/n was pretty much a textbook Ravenclaw. Studious, intelligent, and creative. Unfortunately for her, she was also quiet, reserved, and went completely unnoticed. Fred Weasley was the exact opposite. Loud, chaotic, and always in the public eye. Maybe that was why he was failing transfiguration. Nevertheless, Fred needs a private tutor, and in exchange y/n wants him to teach her how to stand apart from the crowd. Unfortunately for them, they are both entirely clueless when it comes to each other.

———————————————————————

The courtyard was soaked in sunlight and early October warmth, that rare sweet spot between the chill of Scottish wind and the bite of winter. The stone benches were still warm from the morning rays, and a half-empty Honeydukes bag sat between you and Luna as you popped Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans and tried not to eat another earwax one.

Ginny was telling a story, all bright eyes and expressive hands, reenacting some disaster from Quidditch practice that ended with a Bludger nearly taking Jack Sloper’s nose off.

You snorted into your sleeve. Luna laughed softly, dreamily, licking sherbet off her fingers. She wore radish earrings that gleamed in the sun and a necklace of Butterbeer corks that clinked faintly as she moved. She looked like a painting no one would understand but would keep staring at anyway.

You loved being around them. Ginny was fire and confidence, and Luna was calm and strange and steady. You felt…safe here. Even if you didn’t quite know how to jump into their rhythm the way they did with each other.

And then, of course, the boys showed up.

Michael Corner and Andrew Kirke strolled up with that casual, obnoxious swagger that meant they were trying to look cool but had practiced the move in a mirror. You could smell the bravado before they even opened their mouths.

“Hey, Gin,” Michael said, planting himself on the bench arm beside her. “You were brutal with that Bludger. Thought poor Jack was going to cry.”

“Don’t flatter me, Corner,” Ginny said, grinning. “I meant to miss.”

Kirke snorted. “Not bad for a third year.”

You glanced up. You and Luna were on the same side of the bench, slightly tucked away, quiet. Luna was examining the sky with distracted interest. You just sat there, half-forgotten, trying to think of something to say.

Michael’s eyes flicked over you for a moment. “Hey. You’re…the Ravenclaw girl, right? The one who always sits in the front.”

You nodded, already regretting it.

He smirked. “You’re like…the answer girl.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“You know. Always got your hand up. Like a walking textbook.”

Kirke laughed. “Bet she does everyone’s homework.”

“I don’t—” you started, but your throat caught.

Michael grinned at Ginny. “You should introduce her to someone, Gin. Help get her a date or something.”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. You felt your stomach twist, the familiar burn starting up behind your eyes. The ‘here we go again’ ache. The way people only saw your answers, your robes, the stack of books in your arms. The way no one expected you could get a date on your own. And they were right. You hadn’t had a single offer.

Luna blinked and tilted her head. “That’s not very kind,” she said calmly, licking a bit of icing off her thumb.

Kirke chuckled. “Alright, Loony.”

Ginny stood up so fast the bench nearly tipped. “Say that again.”

Kirke blinked, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Go on,” Ginny snarled. “One more word about Luna, and I swear I’ll test out my Bat-Bogey Hex right now.”

Michael dragged his hand up and down Ginny’s back, trying to calm her. “Okay, alright. He’s just having a laugh.”

“Find a better punchline,” Ginny snapped.

The boys backed off, muttering. You watched them go, every cell in your body buzzing. Not with gratitude, but with embarrassment. Hot, awful shame.

Ginny sat back down beside you. “Bunch of gits.”

Luna nodded serenely. “They’re afraid of people who don’t beg for their attention.”

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, voice small. “Why do they never treat me the way they treat you?”

Ginny’s expression softened. “You don’t want that kind of attention. They’re vultures.”

“I’d rather be a vulture’s meal than invisible,” you muttered, barely above a whisper.

The words hung there. Honest. Raw. Ugly.

Luna reached over and offered you a blue jellybean - your favourite flavour. “You’re not invisible,” she said. “Just…in a different dimension than they know how to see.”

You smiled faintly, but the sting was still there. It lingered as Ginny took your hand and squeezed it. As you told them you were fine. As you packed up your books and pretended your face wasn’t hot from more than the sun.

It lingered into the next morning, through breakfast and the ache of another day of being that girl. The quiet one. The too-smart one. The loser friend.

It lingered, until Fred Weasley slid into your life with a proposition you never saw coming.

———————————————————————

The library was hushed and golden in the late afternoon light, the kind of stillness that only came with rows of whispering students and centuries-old magic stitched into the walls. Your fingers were smudged with ink, your parchment rolled half-off the table, and your nose was practically buried in Intermediate Transfiguration: Theory, Practice, and Practical Catastrophes. The title wasn’t exaggerating. One mistake and your arms could vanish for a week.

You weren’t sure what time it was, only that your back ached from hunching and your tea had long gone cold beside you. Most of the Ravenclaws had cleared out after classes, off to chess matches or debate club or yet another social gathering you hadn’t been invited to. You tried to convince yourself that you didn’t mind.

That was when the chair across from you scraped against the floor with a loud screeeek, and a familiar voice said, far too loudly, “You’ll be shocked to know this, but I’m failing Transfiguration.”

You glanced up. Fred Weasley was grinning at you, eyes bright, his tie crooked, hair windswept like he’d run here from the Quidditch pitch - or maybe from a detention. Which, considering his track record, was equally likely.

You knew Fred, of course. He was the loudest of Ginny’s brothers and hard to miss because of it. Always in the centre of attention. Yet in all your years of being friends with her, he’d never really spoken to you.

Your quill paused mid-stroke. You blinked at Fred, unimpressed. “That is, quite possibly, the least shocking thing I’ve heard all day.”

Fred clutched his chest theatrically. “Wounded. Truly. Here I am, baring my soul, and you strike me down like a harsh winter breeze.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Fred, you once spelled your own hand into a cat paw.”

“And still passed that assignment. Miraculous, really.”

You exhaled through your nose and looked down at your parchment. “Why are you telling me this? You know McGonagall already offers extra help sessions.”

“I do,” Fred said, leaning in like he was about to share state secrets. “But I also know that if I show up to another one of McGonagall’s ‘private lectures,’ she’s going to hex me into a teacup. And George refuses to help because he says I’m ‘unsaveable’ and ‘too annoying when I’m confused.’ Which, rude, by the way.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And?”

“And you, dearest brainiac, top of the class, have a heart of gold and a terrifying knowledge of magical theory. I’ve been watching.”

You tilted your head. “That’s…not creepy at all.”

Fred grinned wider. “Observation, not stalking. I swear.”

You closed your book with a soft thud, folding your hands. “Are you asking me to tutor you?”

Fred sat back like he’d just scored a victory. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“And what, pray tell, do I get out of it?”

He gave you a look like you’d just asked the most obvious question in the world. “The gift of coolness.”

You stared.

Fred gestured vaguely to all of you - your ink-stained sleeves, your perpetually messy braid, your buttoned-up jumper. “Come on. You’re brilliant. Like scary smart. But you know how people talk. You’re invisible unless someone’s using you to copy a scroll. And yes, I understand that technically, that is hypocritical and I’m asking pretty much the same thing. But that’s not fair. And I figure…maybe you want to change that?”

Your mouth opened and closed. Was it that obvious?

Yes. Yes, it was. You had been thinking about it more lately. The way your classmates glanced past you. The way no one ever flirted with you unless they needed help with Arithmancy. You’d spent your first three years telling yourself it didn’t matter, but it was your fifth year now. Life felt like it was getting bigger, and you were still small. Still invisible.

“I don’t want to change who I am,” you said slowly.

Fred’s expression softened. “Good. I wouldn’t want that either. I’m just saying…maybe we work out a little deal. You help me not flunk out of Transfiguration. I help you get…noticed.”

You hesitated. “Like a social exchange?”

He grinned. “Exactly. A top-tier barter between two geniuses. You’re a reformer of the academically hopeless. I’m a reformer of the socially awkward.”

“I’m not awkward.”

“You just tried to hold your quill with the wrong end.”

You looked down at your hand. He wasn’t wrong.

“…Fine,” you muttered. “But this is going to take time. You’re a mess in Transfiguration.”

“And you,” Fred said, smirking, “are tragically unpopular.”

You glared. “We’re going to get along great.”

He stood and clapped his hands. “Excellent! Lesson One begins tomorrow. And don’t worry, I’m brilliant at makeovers.”

“Makeovers?” you echoed, horrified.

Fred winked. “Bring a sense of adventure. And maybe…a hairbrush.”

———————————————————————

The classroom was technically off-limits after five, but Fred Weasley had never been the type to follow rules. Or even acknowledge them. You found him there after dinner, lounging on a desk like he owned the place, arms behind his head, grinning like this was a joke and you were the punchline.

“Ah, my muse arrives,” he said dramatically. “Are you ready for Lesson One?”

You stopped in the doorway, eyeing the space warily. Desks had been pushed to the walls, a full-length mirror stood propped near the chalkboard, and in the center of the room sat an enormous trunk. It was open, and exploding with fabric.

Scarves, jackets, dresses, blouses, some kind of feather boa, and…was that a pair of sequined socks?

You blinked. “Fred…what is that?”

He leapt off the desk, practically bouncing over. “This, my dear Ravenclaw, is style salvation.” He gestured grandly to the trunk like a deranged showman. “Step one to being noticed: look like you were meant to be noticed.”

You folded your arms. “We agreed this was going to be a mutual exchange of skills. Not an exorcism.”

Fred laughed. “Come on, don’t be so dramatic. Everyone loves a good makeover montage.”

“That’s a sexist, conformist, capitalist cliché.”

He looked delighted. “And yet, undeniably effective. You ever seen anything get fixed in a movie without a hairbrush and a slow-motion twirl in front of a mirror?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t want to pretend to be someone I’m not.”

“Good,” he said, reaching into the trunk. “Then let’s find out who you are when you’re not hiding behind oversized jumpers and ink-stained cuffs.”

That gave you pause. Because the truth was, he wasn’t wrong.

You didn’t think about clothes. Or hair. Or how to draw attention. You’d built your identity around staying small and smart and safe. That was your armor. But part of you had always wondered what it would be like…to not hide. To be seen and liked. Not in spite of your brain. But alongside it.

Still. You glared at the feather boa. “If you put that on me, I will hex you.”

Fred smirked. “Duly noted.”

You had no idea how it happened. One second you were refusing to change, and the next you were barefoot behind a transfigured curtain made from old tapestries while Fred Weasley tossed shirt after skirt after suspiciously shiny blazer over the top.

“I swear to Merlin if you throw one more sequin at me—”

“Relax! You’ve got good bones!”

“I am not a skeleton.”

You finally emerged wearing something not from your usual rotation. Something you’d picked out almost by accident. It wasn’t flashy. No sparkles. No plunging neckline. Just a fitted midnight-blue blouse tucked into a pleated black skirt that fell over your curves in ways you didn’t expect. There were little silver stars embroidered along the collar. Your hair - usually up in a practical knot, or swept to the side in a braid - was down now, soft waves brushing your shoulders. You’d pinned the bangs that you usually used to hide behind back into little twists.

Fred looked up from adjusting the mirror and froze at the sight of you.

You shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “Is it bad?”

He blinked, almost too slow. Then shook his head slightly, like he was waking up from a dream.

“No,” he said. His voice was different. Lower, less playful. “It’s…no. Definitely not bad.”

You bit your lip, looking at your reflection. It didn’t feel like a costume. It felt like something you might have chosen, if you ever gave yourself permission.

You turned back toward him, suddenly unsure. “Does it work?”

Fred was still staring at you.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “It really, really works.”

You looked at him, trying to decipher the expression on his face. His grin was softer now. Less teasing. There was something else in his eyes. Something unfamiliar that made your stomach flip.

You cleared your throat. “Right. Well. Now that we’ve survived your fashion intervention…”

“Survived? You thrived.”

“Let’s not get carried away.”

He leaned against a desk, hands in his pockets. “You look like you belong at the front of the room, and the center of the party.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms to hide the heat in your cheeks. “Maybe you’re just surprised I have a face under the bangs.”

Fred tilted his head. “I always knew you had a face. I just didn’t know you had that face.”

Your heart did a weird stutter-step, and you hated how easily he could fluster you. You turned back to the mirror, hiding your blush. “Lesson One is shallow.”

He grinned behind you. “Lesson One is about first impressions. Lesson Two’s deeper. Promise.”

You met his eyes in the reflection. “What’s Lesson Two?”

Fred shrugged. “Witty banter. Flirting. Charisma. Social fencing.”

“Fencing?” you echoed.

He stepped closer, just behind you now. His voice dropped an octave. “Every conversation is a duel,” he said. “And with the right words, you can leave people breathless.”

Your breath hitched, just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice. He smiled like he’d won something.

You rolled your eyes and turned to face him. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re my greatest project yet.”

Your voice was dry. “Good to know I’m a walking science experiment.”

Fred winked. “With spectacular results so far.”

You gave him a withering look, but your heart was hammering, and you couldn’t quite stop the smile tugging at your mouth. Makeover cliché or not…this might actually be fun.

And terrifying. But mostly, fun.

———————————————————————

The library was mostly empty. Just the occasional cough from a different section or the low creak of Madam Pince’s shoes echoing in the distance. The enchanted candles floated lower in the evening hours, casting everything in a golden glow that danced off ink bottles and the glint of brass lamp fittings.

You had commandeered a table near the back wall. It was your favourite of the many nooks and crannies. It was always quieter there, away from the chatter and the scraping chairs of last-minute crammers. Your Transfiguration notes were organized by spell category and color-coded by theoretical complexity. Fred’s notes were…nonexistent.

He showed up with a half-empty bottle of ink, a single quill with a chewed end, and a blank roll of parchment like it might spontaneously write itself.

“You’re not even going to pretend to take this seriously?” you asked as he flopped into the chair opposite you.

Fred offered a dazzling grin. “I am taking it seriously. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Physically, yes,” you muttered. “Mentally, that’s debatable.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “I’ll have you know I’m entirely present. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. Especially now that we’re discussing switching spells. Which is my favorite. Right after vanishing furniture and watching your eyes glaze over when I pretend I know what ‘counter-inversion’ means.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We haven’t even started yet.”

“And yet you’re already glowing with enthusiasm.”

You shoved your notes toward him. “Page twelve. Start there.”

Fred sighed dramatically and scanned the page. “So boring,” he groaned. “Where’s the part where I get to turn Malfoy’s hair into candy floss?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It could be.”

“Fred.”

He grinned again, flipping his quill upright. “Alright, fine. You teach me how to transfigure this quill into a candle, and I’ll teach you how to flirt.”

You snorted, eyes still on your notes. “That wasn’t the deal for tonight.”

“No, but it’s much more fun.”

You glanced at him. He was leaning forward now, arms on the table, chin propped on one hand, watching you with that same look he always had before pulling a prank. Except this time, you were the one about to be targeted. And you couldn’t quite say no.

“…Fine,” you said. “But I swear to Merlin, if you try and teach me how to wink again, I’m setting your hair on fire.”

Fred’s eyes lit up. “We’ll start with verbal flirtation then. Nothing physical.”

“Thank you.”

“Yet.”

You shot him a look.

He grinned.

You rolled your eyes and tapped your notes. “Alright. Quill-to-candle. What’s step one?”

“Concentration?” he guessed.

“Wand formation,” she corrected, and mimicked the spell with her own wand, showing him the pattern. “Now you try.”

Fred picked up his own wand and copied the motion, over and over and over again until you gave him a satisfied nod. “And the incantation?”

Fred squinted. “Um…Calidus Lumina?”

You blinked. “That’s the spell to light a torch.”

“…Ah.”

“Try again.”

“Fine. Candeficio.”

You nodded. “Better. Now focus on intent.”

He lifted the quill in his palm like it was about to give him a prophecy. “Intent…intent…” He muttered the word like a chant. “Turn into a candle…turn into a candle…”

Then he pointed his wand and said the incantation, and…nothing happened.

You reached across the table, nudging his hand. “It’s not just about wanting it to change. You have to know it can change. Transfiguration requires conviction.”

He gave you a dry look. “So I just need to believe in myself harder?”

“Basically.”

He groaned. “Fine. Teach me confidence, Professor.”

You smirked. “That’s your job, remember?”

“Oh right. Lesson Two.” He leaned forward again. “Rule number one: it’s not about what you say. It’s how you say it.”

You quirked a brow. “That’s vague and unhelpful.”

He smiled. “It’s all about being flirty.”

You sat back, arms crossed. “Alright. Go on then. Flirt with me.”

Fred blinked. He hadn’t expected that. You watched his mouth twitch. Just slightly. He recovered fast, but not fast enough.

“Gladly,” he said, smoothing his expression. “Let’s see…”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table. His voice dropped. “If you were a spell, you’d be Accio, because every time I walk into a room, I end up right beside you.”

You stared at him. “…That’s awful.”

Fred grinned, delighted. “But did it make you smile?”

You tried not to. You failed.

“Now your turn,” he said, sitting back. “Flirt with me.”

You faltered. “I…I don’t—”

“Come on,” he teased. “Hit me with your best line. Try to make me blush.”

You studied him. The way his hair fell just messily enough to look effortless. The faint freckles across his nose. The confidence that curled in his smile, like he knew exactly what you’d say before you said it.

So you raised your chin, steadied your breath, and said in a low tone, “If you keep leaning across the table like that, I’m going to assume you want me to kiss you.” You tilted your head, sweeping your hair over your shoulder to expose your neck, where your jumper had slipped off your shoulder. His eyes instantly followed suit, and you smirked. “And I might just do it.”

Fred froze. His eyes darting to lock on yours, and for once, he didn’t have a comeback. You waited. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

“…Okay,” he said finally, voice slightly hoarse. “You’re terrifying.”

You blinked. “Was that…too much?”

“No,” Fred said quickly. “That was…alarmingly effective. I think I forgot how to breathe for a second.”

You snorted. “Now who’s glowing with enthusiasm?”

He gave you a wobbly smile and picked up his quill like it was a lifeline. “Right. Quill to candle. Candeficio. Intent. Confidence.”

“Exactly,” you said, hiding your smile behind your notes.

The quill wobbled. Shimmered. Transformed into a lopsided candle.

Fred stared at it.

Then at you.

Then at the candle again.

“…You’re a witch,” he whispered.

You grinned. “That would be correct.”

He laughed, loudly and freely. You felt it reverberate in your chest.

As the candle flickered to life with a simple Lumos, casting shadows over your table, Fred leaned in just slightly - his knee brushing yours under the table - and said, softly, “I think we’re both better at this than we expected.”

And he wasn’t just talking about the spell. But you were too distracted by the flurry of butterflies his touch had awoken in your stomach to notice.

———————————————————————

The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the castle courtyard, casting long, slanted shadows across the stone benches where you, Luna, and Ginny sat. You were cross-legged on a blanket Ginny had magicked onto the flagstones, picking absently at a sandwich while your textbooks sat, momentarily forgotten, in a heap beside you. Luna was reading The Quibbler upside down, humming faintly, and Ginny was twirling a daisy between her fingers, eyes sharp and mischievous as ever.

You’d barely said a word. Not because you were unhappy but because your brain had been on a week-long Fred Weasley loop. It was ridiculous. Study sessions became almost a nightly thing. And last night he’d even had the gall to lean across the table - grinning with his crooked smile - and those long fingers of his brushed your knuckles as he corrected your posture (for ‘educational purposes’). Studying Transfiguration with him had quickly morphed into an emotional minefield, especially since the flirting practice was starting to feel suspiciously not like practice.

Ginny smirked and leaned back on her elbows, as though sensing your thought process. “So,” she said lightly, “how’s Fred?”

You choked a little on your food. Coughing, you waved your hand, and fixed Ginny with a glare. “He’s…Fred. He’s fine, as far as I know. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Just, you seem to spend more time with him than I do nowadays.” Ginny’s smile widened.

“We’re studying.” You defended.

Ginny raised a brow. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”

You flushed and swatted her with the corner of your Herbology textbook. “We’re actually studying! He’s just…he’s helping me too.”

“Oh, I bet he is,” Ginny said, grin spreading wickedly. “Helping you with what, exactly? Getting over your…unfortunate romantic drought?”

“Ginny!” you hissed, horrified, glancing around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Merlin’s beard, can we not broadcast that I’ve been single since the womb?”

Luna looked up again, dreamy. “You haven’t been single. You’ve just been…patiently waiting for someone whose inner aura aligns with yours.”

“That’s beautiful, Luna,” Ginny said solemnly, before breaking into laughter.

You covered your face with your hands. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Ginny said, nudging your knee with hers. “And honestly, I think the Fred thing is great. He’s nice, he’s funny, and most importantly, he’s actually paying attention. That boy hasn’t studied a day in his life and now he’s showing up to the library early just to flirt with you. That’s gotta mean something.”

Your heart squeezed. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not real,” you muttered. “It’s just part of this deal we made. This whole ‘Reformer Program’. I’m helping him pass Transfiguration, and he’s helping me learn how to be…not a total loser.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Sure, because Fred Weasley is famously altruistic and willing to endure hour-long Transfiguration lectures for the greater good of your social life.”

“He did say he wants to pass his exam.”

Luna smiled softly. “But maybe he wants more than just a passing mark.”

Before you could unpack that, footsteps approached and a voice - soft and unsure - called your name. You almost thought you’d imagined it as you looked up and Dean Thomas came to a stop beside your blanket. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and he had a slightly bashful smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, sitting up straighter and brushing crumbs from your lap.

Ginny and Luna exchanged an amused glance and then both looked studiously elsewhere, like they hadn’t just been plotting your romantic life a second ago.

Dean scratched the back of his neck. “I was just wondering…There’s a party in the Gryffindor common room on Friday. I mean, it’s not an official thing, more like a casual get-together, but it’s gonna be fun. There’ll be snacks, music. Seamus said he might charm the pumpkin juice again.”

You smiled nervously. “That sounds…potentially dangerous.”

He laughed. “Only mildly. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d wanna come with me.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Like…with you, with you?”

He nodded. “If you want.”

You glanced at Ginny, who was failing spectacularly to hide her glee, her eyebrows bouncing toward her hairline. Luna was watching a beetle crawl across her skirt like it was a sacred ritual.

“I’d like that,” you said, voice a little shaky. “Thank you.”

Dean grinned. “Brilliant. I’ll meet you outside the portrait hole?”

“Sure. See you friday.”

He gave you a thumbs-up and strolled away.

There was a brief, stunned silence.

Then Ginny exploded. “WELL, WELL, WELL!”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, collapsing back onto the blanket.

“You’ve barely started the popularity crash course and you’re already getting asked out,” Ginny said, triumphant. “Fred’s gonna combust.”

“He won’t care,” you mumbled, trying to slow your racing heart. “He’s the one who told me I should try to socialize more. And flirt. He’s big on rule number one - it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.”

Ginny rolled onto her side and gave you a knowing smile. “Yeah. But I don’t think he thought anyone would beat him to it.”

You looked up at the clouds overhead and tried to convince yourself that this was exactly what you wanted. You were being noticed. Invited. Flirted with. This was the plan. This was how things were supposed to go.

So why, then, did your stomach twist with dread instead of excitement when you imagined telling Fred?

———————————————————————

You were late.

You hated being late. But you hated rushing down four staircases while trying to simultaneously apply tinted lip balm and shove a quill behind your ear even more. By the time you skidded into the library - curled hair slightly windblown, bag slipping from your shoulder, breath slightly wheezy - you were fully prepared to set up for today’s study session and wait for Fred to show up.

But the moment you rounded the corner into your usual tucked-away table, Fred was already there, feet up on the opposite chair, lazily flipping through an Intermediate Transfiguration textbook.

You blinked. “You’re early?”

Fred looked up, a slow smirk curling on his lips. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to show up ten minutes late to her own study session.”

You dropped your bag into the chair with a thud. “I’m three minutes late.”

He held up his wristwatch like a judge with damning evidence. “Eight, actually. And I’ve been here the whole time. Revising. Diligently. You may want to sit down before you faint.”

You rolled your eyes and flopped into the seat across from him, only to freeze mid-motion. He had notes before him. Real ones. Neatly written, color-coded, and everything.

Your mouth opened slightly in disbelief. “What are those?”

Fred glanced down at the parchment like he’d forgotten it was there. “Ah, yes. My noble sacrifice to the gods of academia.”

“You took notes?”

“I brought notes. There was bribery involved. Let’s not talk about it.”

You laughed, leaning forward on your elbows. “Who are you?”

“Frederick Gideon Weasley,” he said, tapping his quill to his forehead. “Soon-to-be master of flirtation and feline transfiguration. Stick with me and you’ll be turning hedgehogs into handkerchiefs in no time.”

You smiled and tugged your own book from your bag, but the jitter in your stomach returned almost immediately, swirling around a question you knew you had to ask before you chickened out.

“So…I got asked out.”

Fred paused mid-page-turn. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Dean Thomas. Asked if I wanted to go to the Gryffindor party on Friday.”

A long beat passed. You didn’t look up. You were too busy pretending to organize your inkpots.

Fred’s voice came a second later, lighter than usual. “That so?”

“Yeah.” You finally peeked up. He was watching you, but the corners of his mouth were curled just enough to mask…something. You couldn’t quite place it.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, desperate to fill the sudden silence, “this party. I have no idea what to expect. What do I need to know?”

Fred set his quill down, leaning back with a slow stretch like he was preparing for a monologue. “First of all, you’re telling me you’ve never been to a party before?”

“I mean…not like that.” You shrugged. “Just, like…Ravenclaw movie nights. Someone enchanted a popcorn bowl once to never go cold. I think that was the peak.”

Fred let out a noise that could only be described as an affectionate scoff. “That’s not a party, love. That’s a slightly rowdier study group.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a fixture in the Gryffindor social circuit.”

“Yet,” he said, leaning forward. “Which is why the most important thing you need to know is how to dance.”

You groaned and dropped your forehead to the table. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“I am awful. Like, unsalvageable.”

“How bad could it be?”

You raised your head slowly, like a cursed puppet, and fixed him with a warning look. “You’ll see.”

———————————————————————-

It was twenty minutes into lunch, and Fred had found an empty classroom with just enough space to work with. He’d borrowed a Wireless from Lee and had it charmed to play something upbeat, snappy, vaguely Muggle - but not fast enough that you could use it as an excuse.

You were mid–uncoordinated spin when Fred winced so hard it looked like it hurt him physically.

He darted over and turned off the music. You stopped moving, breathless.

“Okay,” he said, hands on his hips. “It is that bad.”

“I told you.”

“I thought you were being modest!”

“I would never joke about my lack of rhythm.”

Fred ran a hand through his hair and gave you a long, squinting look. “Okay. Okay. No worries. We’ll start small. Forget what you think dancing looks like and stop pretending you’re waltzing with your great-aunt Gertrude.”

You snorted. “Her name’s actually Betsy.”

“Even better,” he said. “Look, the point isn’t perfection. It’s confidence. It’s fun. You’re supposed to vibe, not audition for the ballet.”

He stepped closer, one hand outstretched. “Let me show you. Just mirror me.”

You hesitated but took his hand anyway. He started with a sway, simple and easy, and you followed, trying not to think about the fact that his hand was warm, and his smile - when he noticed you were watching his feet - was way too soft for comfort.

“See?” he said. “Not horrible.”

“I don’t trust your definition of horrible.”

“I’d tell you if it were a crime against humanity,” he said. “I might lie to a professor, but never to you.”

You stared at him for a second too long. “That’s weirdly sweet.”

“Ah, what a compliment. What every man dreams of hearing.” He drawled sarcastically.

“Would you rather I shower you with fake compliments?” You shot back.

“Who says they have to be fake, love? Surely there’s one nice thing you could say about me that’s genuine.” He prompted you.

The music kicked back in, and he spun you suddenly, catching you before you could wobble.

You laughed, flushed. “Okay, fine. Maybe you’re a decent dancer.”

“I’m an excellent dancer,” he said, smug. “But clearly, drastic measures are required.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of measures?”

Fred grinned, dropping her hand and already moving toward the door. “You’re not the only one with talented friends, darling. I’m calling in the big guns.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“Don’t you worry,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I have my sources. And if they can get a first year to move like a backup dancer for the Weird Sisters, they can definitely fix this.”

You folded your arms. “Rude.”

“But true.”

“Unfortunately.”

He winked. “Stay here, two-left-feet. Help is on the way.”

And with that, Fred Weasley disappeared down the corridor, whistling, while you stood alone in the classroom with your heart hammering against your ribs.

Because you knew this was all still pretend. But the way Fred had looked at you when he said “darling”? That didn’t feel like pretend at all.

The room was still echoing with the faint thrum of music from the enchanted wireless in the corner when two girls walked in. Fred was nowhere to be seen. But you instantly recognised the dark-haired girls. Though when you usually saw them, they were both wrapped in scarlet quidditch robes. Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet. Star Gryffindor Chasers.

You stood awkwardly in the middle of the cleared classroom, your arms hanging limply by your sides, your back stiff as a broomstick. “Hey,” You greeted with a slight wave.

Angelina Johnson leaned against a nearby desk, arms crossed, her Quidditch-toned frame draped in a crimson jumper with the sleeves pushed up, her curls pulled high into a puff. Alicia Spinnet stood beside her, fiddling with the volume knob on the wireless, the bassline of a sultry beat pulsing through the floorboards.

“So…you’re the girl whose been monopolising Freddie’s time,” Angelina said, cocking an eyebrow at you with an easy grin.

You arched a brow at her word choice. “Monopolising?”

Alicia laughed, the sound like a bell. “He’s been blowing off Quidditch practice, that’s all we need to know. So you must be interesting.”

“I thought he, George, and Harry were banned this season?” You arched a brow defensively.

“They are,” Angelina nodded. “Doesn’t mean they can’t show up to practice and watch. Instead he spends all his spare time making eyes at you across a desk in the library.”

You flushed, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. “I’m just tutoring him. He’s helping me…with something too.”

“Mhmm,” Alicia smirked. “Sure.”

They exchanged a quick glance, both grinning now, and then moved forward, surrounding you like friendly wolves.

“Okay,” Angelina clapped her hands. “Let’s start with the basics. You’ve got a body, yeah?”

You blinked. “Last I checked?”

“Good. Then let’s use it. This isn’t ballroom dancing, and it’s not your grandpa’s retirement celebration,” Angelina said, stepping behind you. “At parties, it’s about rhythm, energy, and confidence. You’re not just moving, you’re saying something with your body.”

“Like what?” you asked warily.

“Like, I know who I am. I know how to move. And yes, I see you watching.” Alicia winked, then demonstrated a slow, deliberate sway of her hips, letting the beat guide her.

You tried to copy her, but it felt robotic. Clunky. Awful. Your arms didn’t know where to go, your knees locked, and your hips—

“No, no, you’re thinking too hard,” Angelina said gently, reaching to adjust your stance. She placed her hands on your waist and rotated your hips slightly. “Loosen up. Feel the music, don’t dissect it.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying not to panic as Alicia moved in front of you again and mirrored the motion slowly.

“Try again. Right foot, then left. Let your shoulders follow. It’s not about looking good. It’s about feeling like you own the space.”

You focused this time, not on the mechanics but on the music. Letting it vibrate through your chest, into your spine, down your legs. You moved your hips again, more fluidly this time. Alicia smiled and matched your rhythm. Angelina clapped once.

“There you go!”

You laughed, a little breathless, a little stunned. “That didn’t feel horrible.”

“Because it wasn’t,” Alicia grinned. “You’ve got rhythm in there somewhere. You just bury it under…a stiff but admittedly cute outfit.”

You giggled, and the tension began to melt away. The three of you danced together now, taking up the center of the room. Alicia taught you to pop your hip on the downbeat; Angelina spun you around and corrected your footwork when you fumbled.

Soon you were laughing with them as though you’d long been friends. You didn’t know when the awkwardness had evaporated. Your body felt warm, your heart light. They weren’t mocking you. They weren’t pretending. They were just being girls, helping another girl feel like she belonged.

“Now,” Alicia said, flipping her hair behind her shoulder dramatically, “let’s talk hairography.”

“Hair-what?” you blinked.

Angelina grinned. “It’s all in the hair, babe. The flip. The sway. The over-the-shoulder smirk.”

Alicia demonstrated, letting her hair cascade down one shoulder while rolling her hips. You giggled helplessly. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can,” Angelina encouraged, flipping your hair over for you. “Just pretend you’re in a slow-motion scene from a movie.”

You tried. It wasn’t exactly elegant, but you were getting the hang of it. Slowly. Kind of.

And that’s when the classroom door opened.

Fred stepped in, book bag slung over one shoulder, hair windswept and face flushed like he’d run to make it in time.

“Alright, troops,” he said. “How’d it—?”

He froze mid-sentence. You were in the middle of a tentative body roll, your hair tossed to one side, the beat of the music still thudding faintly in the background.

Angelina and Alicia exchanged one look before smirking simultaneously.

The taller of the two girls walked past him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

Alicia followed, patting you on the back. “She’s ready.”

Then they were gone, their laughter echoing down the hallway. The moment the door clicked shut behind Angelina and Alicia, the air seemed to still. You reached for your bag, the inside of your cheeks still warm from blushing so hard, your scalp tingling from how much flipping and tossing of your hair you’d just done. Your thighs ached slightly, your ribs buzzed with laughter, and for once in your life, you felt a little…magnetic.

You glanced at Fred, about to say something about needing to get to class, when he cocked his head and raised a single eyebrow.

“Oh, no,” he said, voice dipping low and dangerous in that way that made your stomach flip. “Not so fast. You’re not leaving before I get a proper demonstration.”

You froze with your hand halfway to your satchel. “A what?”

He strode past you, utterly self-assured, and reached for the music device on the windowsill and turned the dial with dramatic flair.

A sultry rhythm bloomed in the air. Throbbing, and low.

You stared at him. “Fred, class starts in like five minutes.”

He ignored that completely. “Come on. Show me what they taught you.”

“I’m going to be late,” you tried, but even to you, it didn’t sound like much of an argument.

Fred stepped closer. Much closer. He offered you a hand, palm open, mischief glittering in his eyes. “Live a little, Ravenclaw.”

You hesitated. Then you placed your hand in his.

He didn’t waste a second. In one fluid motion, he pulled you forward and spun you into him. Your chest brushed his as he caught you at the waist, your back curved from the sudden momentum, hair fanned out around your shoulders. You let out an instinctive little gasp.

Fred smirked. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“I wasn’t expecting a sneak attack,” you managed, trying to calm your racing heart as he settled both hands lightly on your hips.

“Here’s another lesson,” he murmured, lips almost brushing your ear as he swayed you gently into the music. “No one expects a sneak attack. That’s why it works.”

You laughed under your breath and turned, your arms hesitating before wrapping - lightly - around his neck. It felt too intimate. But he was already guiding your hips side to side in time with the beat, his own movement easy, loose, practiced.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your exposed neck. “Don’t think. Feel.”

You tried. You mirrored him at first, but more cautious. A little stiff. Fred didn’t give you time to stay nervous. He slid one leg between yours, closing the space between your bodies with an audacious little smirk, and your whole brain short-circuited.

“Fred—” you started, breathless.

“Yes, darling?”

“Is this supposed to be educational?”

“Deeply,” he said with a grin. “Purely academic.”

He spun you again, and this time when you returned to him, you let your body fall into his. Your hips moved more fluidly now, naturally syncing with the music, and with him. He pulled you even closer until your thigh brushed against his with every sway, your bodies catching the rhythm like fire catching oil.

Your hand slid slightly down his shoulder. His eyes dipped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

You laughed nervously. “This is not how I thought today would go.”

“What, you didn’t plan for a private dance party with a dashing Gryffindor in a dusty classroom?”

“I had ‘rehearse Transfiguration theory for two hours’ on my schedule.”

He dipped you suddenly, one hand supporting your back, the other gripping your hip. “Change of plans,” he murmured.

When he pulled you upright, your face was inches from his. Close enough to see the constellation of freckles on his cheekbones. Close enough to smell the cinnamon sugar from whatever he’d snuck at breakfast.

His hand trailed slowly from your hip to your waist, his fingers pressing into your side just enough to make you feel tethered. His gaze dropped again to your mouth. Yours flickered, traitorously, to his.

You were just about to say something - something clever, something flirty, something that might’ve changed everything - when the creak of the classroom door opening shattered the moment like glass.

Both of you jerked apart so fast it felt like you’d been electrocuted. You scrambled to turn off the music, heat roaring to your face, while Fred looked almost guilty.

Professor Babbling stood in the doorway, her silver spectacles perched low on her nose, frowning at the two of you as if she were trying to determine whether to scold or laugh.

“Classes are starting,” she said, clearly amused.

Fred cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck, trying for innocence. “Yup! We were just…studying kinetic energy?”

You elbowed him. Hard. Then grabbed your things and bolted for the door with him at your heels.

In the corridor, you both slowed, breathless, the lingering tension between you still clinging like static.

Fred finally broke the silence, voice lighter than it should’ve been. “So…what did we learn today?”

You didn’t look at him. “That I’m definitely going to be late for Charms.”

But even as you walked away, part of you was already replaying every second of that dance. And wondering where it might have gone if no one had walked in.

———————————————————————

Ginny’s dorm room was a warm, cozy chaos of discarded clothes, perfume bottles, and a scattering of make-up products. Luna sat cross-legged on Ginny’s bed, adorned in a flowing silver skirt and a delicate blouse covered in embroidered mandrakes, combing glitter into her already wavy hair. You were perched on a stool in front of the mirror, cheeks lightly dusted in blush, still in your original outfit - a sensible blouse tucked into a leather skirt.

Ginny was applying the last touches to your make-up - boldening your eyeliner and blending it with some shadow to create a smokey look. When she was done, she spun your chair round the face the vanity mirror. Leaning in behind you, squinting at your reflection, she frowned.

“You look hot,” she said matter-of-factly. Then her gaze narrowed. “But you could be hotter.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hot isn’t hot enough?”

“Not when you’re trying to impress Fred Weasley,” Ginny shook her head.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not trying to impress Fred. Or did you forget that Dean was the one who asked me to come with him?” You pointed out.

“Oh, pish posh,” Ginny waved her hand, crossing the room to riffle through her wardrobe.

Luna, dreamily brushing silver highlighter across her cheekbones, chimed in. “You know, he looks at you differently now. It’s softer. Sort of romantic, really.”

You swallowed. “He does not.”

Ginny rolled her eyes and spun toward her trunk. “He so does. But whatever. If you’re going to a Gryffindor party, you’re not wearing that blouse.”

You stared at her. “Gin, what’s wrong with my blouse?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just…not the right look for a party. And you’re leveling up tonight.”

From the trunk, Ginny pulled a black top that looked more like a suggestion than an actual garment. It was tight and cut in a deep, plunging V, with delicate halter-style laces that tied around the neck, leaving the back and shoulders exposed.

You choked on your own breath. “Absolutely not. That’s a bra with ambition.”

“It’s a top,” Ginny said cheerfully. “And a very cute one.”

“I couldn’t wear that.”

“Couldn’t or won’t?” she challenged, tossing it at you. The fabric was buttery soft in your hands, deceptively light, and you could already imagine how it would cling, how it would reveal the shape of your collarbone, the slope of your waist.

You glanced up at Luna for backup.

She looked ethereal and vaguely hypnotized, as always, her eyes glittering like moons. “I think you’d look like a siren,” she said calmly. “The kind that makes sailors drown themselves on purpose.”

You hesitated. Ginny saw it - the moment of weakness - and pounced.

“Just try it,” she said. “If you hate it, you can take it off. But if you love it…I get to do your hair.”

You sighed, then grabbed the top. “Fine. But no laughing if I look ridiculous.”

“Oh honey,” Ginny said with a grin, “we’ll be too busy staring.”

You turned toward the corner privacy screen and quickly slipped off your blouse. The moment you pulled the top over your head and tightened the back laces, you froze. It fit like a dream.

Your reflection emerged slowly as you stepped around the screen. The low neckline revealed your collarbones and just a tasteful hint of cleavage. The skirt - now far more visible without the blouse covering it up - hugged your hips like it was made for you, ending mid-thigh, the shine of the leather catching the light. The sheer black stocking you wore beneath it provided a hint of modesty, but the knee-high leather boots still kept the look sexy.

The girl you saw in the mirror wasn’t the one who panicked in Potions or second-guessed every glance from Fred Weasley. She was sharp angles, soft curves, confidence dipped in ink and shadow. Your jaw dropped a little.

Ginny, standing behind you, gave a low whistle. “Now we’re talking.”

You turned toward her slowly. “I…look amazing.”

“You are amazing,” she said. Then, grinning wickedly, she stepped closer. “But for the piece of resistance…”

You barely had time to frown before her fingers were in your hair, undoing the careful little braid you’d worked in earlier. She gave a few gentle tugs, and your hair fell around your shoulders in a soft, glossy cascade. Thick and effortless, a little wild.

Luna clapped quietly. You met your own gaze in the mirror again, and this you could hardly believe what you saw.

Ginny stepped back, hands on her hips. “We are so ready to ruin lives tonight.”

You turned to them with a grin, heart hammering in your chest. Not from nerves, but from excitement. Ginny threw on a red leather jacket, and linked arms with you.

“Dean’s not going to know what to do with you,” she said, smirking.

You grinned back. She was probably right. Dean was all polite smiles and genteel manners. He wouldn’t know what to do with you. But you knew one person who might.

———————————————————————

The bass from the party pulsed through the walls, a rhythmic heartbeat that thudded in your chest before you even opened the door to the staircase. You could already hear the roar of conversation, laughter, the occasional glass clinking too hard against another, and the unmistakable whistle of Lee Jordan egging someone on from across the common room.

Ginny gave your hand a final squeeze at the top of the stairs. “Remember, be the storm, not the ship.”

You smirked, heart hammering as you took your first step down.

The Gryffindor common room was glowing with warm reds and flickering gold light from floating candles and levitated lanterns. The couches had been shoved to the edges of the room to make space for a makeshift dance floor, already crowded with students grinding, swaying, and spinning each other around to the beat of the music.

It was easy to spot Fred amongst the crowd. Your eyes seemed drawn to him like a beacon. He was leaning back against the stone wall near the fireplace, one hand curled around a butterbeer bottle, the other gesturing lazily as he joked with George and Angelina. His head turned, casually, like he was just surveying the room.

But the moment his eyes landed on you, everything in him stilled. Your gazes locked across the room.

And you saw it. The way his expression froze for just a heartbeat too long, like he forgot how to be cool. Like you’d actually managed to rattle him. Then his eyes dragged downward. Slowly, shamelessly. Down the bare expanse of your collarbones, over the curve of your waist, the leather clinging to your hips, the way your legs looked in stockings and boots that made your stride just a little more sensual.

When his eyes finally flicked back up to your face, something unreadable flickered behind them. Heat curled low in your belly.

You did that to him.

Before you could look away, a hand brushed your elbow.

Dean.

“Whoa,” he said, blinking a little as his eyes flicked over your outfit. “You look…amazing.”

You smiled, polite, but flattered. “Thanks.”

“Can I get you a drink or something?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly bashful under the light.

You could feel Fred’s gaze still lingering.

“Sure,” you said smoothly. “Why not?”

You shot a look toward Ginny and Luna - both of whom gave you tiny, knowing smirks - before letting Dean guide you toward the drinks table. The corner was filled with magically chilled butterbeer, pumpkin fizz, and someone’s very illegal stash of firewhisky.

Dean handed you a drink and leaned casually against the table.

“This is wild, huh?” he said, shouting a little over the music. “Gryffindors go big.”

“They do,” you said with a grin, sipping from the chilled butterbeer bottle. “Your parties have a very…unhinged charm.”

He laughed. “Better than Ravenclaw’s?”

“I mean, nobody’s quoting spell theory in a corner, so you’re winning.”

He chuckled, but you caught the way his smile was softer. “It’s nice talking to you like this.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. You just seem more relaxed than you do in class.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. “Yeah. It’s nice seeing you without a bunch of plants inbetween us.”

Still, something in the conversation felt a little…safe. You leaned in slightly, brushing your arm against his as you took another sip.

He noticed. His gaze dropped to the way your lips wrapped around the bottle, then back to your eyes. Curious, not bold. Flirty, but not electric.

You tilted your head. “Wanna dance?”

Dean stammered. “Uh, yeah! I mean, sure. I’m not…great, but I’ll try not to crush your toes.”

You laughed and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the center of the room where the music was thudding hard and bodies were moving without rhythm or hesitation.

The beat shifted into something faster, sultry, laced with bass and low vocals. You moved your hips in time with it, letting your hair fall over one shoulder as you turned back toward Dean.

He was grinning - blushing a little - but he caught your rhythm and started to sway with you. His movements were a bit awkward, but there was something endearing in the way he didn’t take himself too seriously. You laughed when he nearly tripped over his own foot and steadied him by the collar of his shirt.

It was fun. But as you rolled your hips and let your arms float up with the beat, you couldn’t help but think it. This was nothing like dancing with Fred.

Dean didn’t press too close, didn’t touch the small of your back like it was instinct. He didn’t brush his fingers along your spine or whisper anything cocky in your ear. There was no teasing, no fire.

He was sweet. And that was nice. But your mind - your body - remembered how Fred had held you with one hand at your waist and the other at your hip, the way his mouth had hovered near your throat without ever touching. How dancing with Fred had felt like someone striking a match too close to your skin.

Dean caught your hand and spun you, and you laughed, hair spinning with the motion. You liked Dean.

But Fred…Fred was still watching. You could feel it like heat against your back. And you liked that, too.

———————————————————————

The sun spilled through the tall library windows in pale golden shafts, warming the worn oak of the table where you and Fred sat side by side. It was early - too early to be up on a Saturday after a party like last night’s, in your opinion. But Fred had been oddly insistent that you go over Transfiguration before lunch.

He hadn’t even brought any jokes with him. Which was suspicious.

The redhead sat with his elbow propped on the table, twirling a quill between his fingers with less of his usual flair. His notes were open in front of him, though judging by the way his eyes kept darting toward the window instead of the page, he wasn’t exactly laser-focused.

You, on the other hand, were trying to explain the concept of multi-object transformations without throwing your textbook across the room.

“So,” you said, biting the end of your quill, “if you’re transfiguring two objects into one, it’s not just about visual cohesion, it’s magical function too. Like, turning a candle and a fork into a lamp requires merging two seperate enchantments, not just sticking them together with one.”

Fred blinked, slowly turning to face you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you even listening, or did your brain sneak off with your sense of humor?”

He blinked again. “Yeah, no, I’m listening. Sorry. Just…distracted.”

“You’re distracted?” you teased. “What is this, a cry for help?”

He gave a weak smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You tilted your head slightly, searching his face. “You alright?”

Before he could answer, a voice interrupted. “Hey.”

You looked up to see Dean standing at the end of the table, smiling in that easy, casual way that made him seem like he was always halfway through a relaxed conversation. His eyes flicked toward Fred for a second before settling on you.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but…I was wondering if you wanted to go to Hogsmeade later. Like, properly. Just us.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the boldness in his tone. And then you smiled.

“I’d like that,” you said. “That sounds nice.”

Dean’s grin widened, and he rubbed the back of his neck again. “Great. I’ll let you get back to—” He nodded toward your book. “That.”

You laughed softly. “We need all the help we can get.”

He gave you a little wave and turned to go, his steps light.

You turned back to Fred and the change in him was immediate. He wasn’t looking at you. Or the table. Or his notes.

He was staring straight ahead at the bookshelves, jaw slightly clenched, his hand no longer spinning the quill but tapping it once, twice, three times against the table in a short, sharp rhythm.

You tilted your head again. “Fred?”

“Mm?”

“You alright?” You echoed your earlier question.

“Peachy,” he muttered, finally flipping his book open with a little more force than necessary. “So, you were saying something about candle-fork-lamps?”

You frowned, watching him carefully. “That’s what we’re going with?”

He didn’t look at you. “Yeah, why not?”

You leaned in a little. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m fine,” he said too quickly, flipping another page even though he hadn’t read the last one.

“Fred.”

His eyes finally flicked to you, but the usual spark - the mischief, the warmth - was buried under something else. Something quiet and simmering.

“Is this about the time?” you said softly, trying to ease whatever strange tension had settled between you. “You’re the one who wanted to meet this early.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And I regret it deeply.”

You huffed a laugh and nudged his leg with your boot. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m always dramatic.”

“But you’re not usually this bad at hiding it.”

He let out a long breath and slumped back in his chair, finally dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, it’s not…I just didn’t think he was your type.”

You blinked. “Dean?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. He’s all…neat. And polite. And doesn’t set things on fire for fun.”

“Not like you, you mean?” You tried not to smile. “Are you saying you’re my type?”

“I’m saying I didn’t think he was.”

You felt your cheeks warm, and for a second, the awkwardness between you felt like a live wire. Crackling with everything unsaid. You wanted to press it. Wanted to ask what he was really saying.

But Fred clapped his book shut and stood up suddenly. “Anyway,” he said. “You’ve got a date to prepare for, and I’ve got things to blow up. See you around.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his usual swagger missing, his shoulders just a little too stiff. You watched him go, heart suddenly heavy with something you didn’t quite have the words for.

But it wasn’t nothing. It definitely wasn’t nothing.

———————————————————————

The Great Hall buzzed with the low hum of lunchtime chatter, the clink of goblets, and the occasional screech of an owl dropping off packages. Students lounged in their usual clusters, laughter and gossip drifting through the enchanted ceiling’s sun-dappled midday glow.

Fred Weasley all but ran into the hall. He clutched a folded parchment in his fist - creased from how tightly he’d been holding it since Professor McGonagall handed it to him. 84%.

He’d smashed it. His highest score in Transfiguration ever.

And it wasn’t just dumb luck or even hard work. It was thanks to her. She’d sat with him through every confusing charm, every chaotic diagram, every time he’d zoned out and asked her to repeat herself. And somehow, she’d made it all make sense.

He spotted her almost instantly at the Ravenclaw table, sitting at the back of the hall, laughing. Her eyes sparkled under the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, and Fred felt that familiar twist in his stomach that he was slowly beginning to accept had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with her.

She wasn’t alone though. Dean was beside her again, grinning, too close, his arm brushing hers as he said something that made her laugh. The look on her face was soft and bright. Fred watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile tilting as she nodded along.

He slowed. Then stopped.

She hadn’t seen him yet. She was focused, engaged, leaning slightly toward Dean like she was genuinely interested in whatever he was saying. It wasn’t the awkward flirty sway from the party or the stiff politeness from their study session. It was comfortable now. Too comfortable for his liking.

Fred stared at the parchment in his hand, his fingers tightening until it crinkled. The words he’d been rehearsing - “Guess who got a bloody 84 thanks to you?” and “I owe you at least five butterbeers and a personal firework show” - all turned to ash on his tongue.

He looked back at her one last time, heart giving a dull thud as she laughed again at something Dean said. Then he turned and walked off.

He didn’t head toward the Gryffindor table. Didn’t look back. Just shoved the parchment into his back pocket and stalked our of the doors, muttering under his breath.

“Yeah. That’s fine. Good for him. Great bloody job, Thomas.”

Fred shoved his hands into his pockets as he stalked across the courtyard, boots crunching gravel beneath him. The sun was warm but did nothing to loosen the knot coiled tight behind his ribs. His thoughts looped viciously: her laugh, Dean’s smug grin, how close they sat, how her hand touched Dean’s arm.

He didn’t hear her behind him. Didn’t see her until her hand snatched the parchment right from under his arm.

“Oi!” he spun, startled, but she was already backing away, holding the test result aloft and squinting at it.

Her eyes widened. “Fred! Eighty-four?!” she practically shouted, grinning wide. “That’s incredible! You nailed it!”

Fred tried to grab the parchment back, his lips pressed tight in a line, but she danced out of his reach with a teasing laugh.

“I told you you could do it. I knew it!” she beamed, and there was something so proud and sincere in her voice that it made his stomach twist again, but not the same way. This was worse. He should’ve been able to just enjoy this moment. He wanted to. But all he could see was Dean bloody Thomas sitting beside her like he belonged there.

He reached for the parchment again, this time with less play and more force. “Yeah, well. Thanks,” he muttered, snatching it back.

She blinked at the coldness in his tone. “What’s your deal?” she asked, tone light but tinged with uncertainty. “Someone didn’t get his beauty sleep last night, huh? Well I’ll let you off the hook today but you better rest up tonight because we’ve got another study session tomorrow morning. Bright and early, no excuses.”

“Studying for what?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Whatever your next lesson is, of course. What comes next now that I no longer boogie like great-aunt Betsy?” She flashed him a mischievous grin, and his stomach dropped.

Fred shrugged. “I’m sorted now.”

“What do you mean?” she frowned, adjusting the strap of her bag.

“No more lessons,” he said flatly, folding the parchment again. “That’s what I mean.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what? Just like that? You get one good score and suddenly we’re done?”

“You said it yourself. I nailed it.” He gave her a thin smile, eyes sharp.

“But we made a deal, Fred,” she said, brows pinching together. “You teach me the ropes, I tutor you. That was the whole thing.”

“Well,” he shrugged, “I got what I needed. And so did you. You’re a killer dancer now, remember? You’ve been…reformed.” He punctuated it with a mocking little wink that didn’t reach his eyes.

Her smile faded completely. There was a long pause between them, tense and crackling.

“Oh,” she said, voice dropping. “So that’s how it is? You get what you want and then just toss the rest?”

Fred crossed his arms. “It’s not like you need me anymore. You’ve got Thomas for that, don’t you?”

Her jaw dropped slightly. “Wait, is that what this is about?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a scoff. “What is this about? Why are you following me around if you’re so busy with—”

“Because I care, Fred!” she snapped, stepping forward. “Because I was happy for you! You worked your arse off and smashed it, and I thought we were—” she cut herself off, exhaling sharply.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her. And that silence? That said more than any bitter retort.

Her eyes narrowed. “Right. Okay. Well…guess I got it wrong.”

She turned, boots crunching hard against the gravel as she stormed off, the hem of her skirt whipping around her thighs. Fred didn’t stop her. Didn’t call after her. Just stood there in the courtyard, jaw tight, hands still curled in fists inside his pockets, hating himself a little more with every step she took away from him.

———————————————————————

The sun was warm through the Ravenclaw tower windows, casting hazy golden light across the wooden table where she and Dean sat side-by-side. His Charms textbook was open between them, but they hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.

“…and then he had the audacity to say we’re done? Like, poof, contract over. No goodbye, no thanks for the help, just ‘you’re reformed now’, whatever that’s supposed to mean,” she rambled, flipping her quill in her fingers.

Dean gave a polite laugh, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. She didn’t notice.

“And the way he said it,” she continued, voice rising slightly, “like I was some…some flavour of the month that he got bored of. He couldn’t even look at me when I called him out. Just stood there all smug, pretending he didn’t care. It was such bullshit.”

Dean shifted in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right.”

“Don’t you think that’s insane?” she asked, looking over at him with wide eyes, seeking validation. “I helped him for weeks. And I was nothing but nice to him. Okay, mostly nice. But still, he just acts like it never meant anything.”

Dean looked at her for a long beat. “You talk about him a lot.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Fred,” he said simply. “You talk about Fred…a lot.”

She hesitated, caught off guard. “Yeah, well. He’s been annoying lately.”

Dean gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

She stared at him, unsure of how to respond.

“I like you,” Dean said gently. “You’re clever, and you’re fun.”

Something twisted in her chest. “But…”

“But I think your head’s somewhere else. Or with someone else.”

She sat back slowly, mouth parting. “Wait, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he said kindly, “that maybe we should leave this here, before it gets complicated.”

Her heart beat uncomfortably fast in her chest. “Because of Fred?”

Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sort of.”

“Did he say something to you?” Her voice sharpened.

He met her gaze for a moment, steady and knowing, and then began quietly gathering his things. He didn’t respond. She didn’t move. Just watched him walk away, heart thudding hard and fast in her ribs. And when he disappeared out of the common room, the silence that followed was too loud. Too telling.

Her jaw clenched. Her fists balled. This was Fred’s fault. Dean had all but admitted it. But what on earth was it that Fred had said?

———————————————————————

The sky had turned a low, clouded grey by the time she actually found him, casting a hazy glow over the lawn behind the greenhouses. The air smelled faintly of dirt and grass, damp from the recent drizzle. She spotted Fred alone near the edge of the garden beds, sitting against the bark of a twisted tree. His shoulders were hunched, one hand buried in his pocket, the other absently picking at a patch of stubborn weeds beside him. A stack of open books lay abandoned before him. If she had to hasten a guess, she’d say he’d been trying to study himself and had long since given up.

She crossed the gravel path with clipped steps, the crunch loud enough that his head jerked up. His eyes landed on her, but he didn’t smile.

“Oh,” Fred said flatly. “It’s you.”

She crossed her arms, standing just a few feet from him now, the tips of her shoes brushing the edge of the stone path. “Yeah. It’s me.”

He squinted at her like she was backlit by something inconvenient. “You alright?”

“Did you say something to Dean?” she shot back, skipping pleasantries entirely.

Fred’s brows pinched together. “What?”

“Did you say something to him? Threaten him? Tell him to back off?”

He turned his attention toward her more fully now, clambering to his feet and gathering his things into his bag. “What are you on about?”

She stepped closer, close enough to see the startled flicker in his eyes. “He dumped me.”

Fred blinked, pausing his actions and standing up straight. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” she said with a bitter little laugh. “Said we shouldn’t keep seeing each other. When I asked him why, he just said because of you.” Her gaze narrowed. “So what did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say anything to Dean,” Fred said, voice low, sounding truly baffled. “I haven’t even seen him since Monday.”

She crossed the final step between them. “So he just decided I wasn’t worth it anymore? For no reason?”

Fred’s eyes flicked down. His jaw clenched, lips twitching upwards.

She caught it before he could hide it. “You’re glad he ended it. Aren’t you?”

Fred didn’t deny it.

Her hands dropped to her sides, fingers curling. “Of course, you’re loving this! Just another moment to add to your scrapbook of ways to make me miserable.”

“That’s not fair,” he said sharply.

“No? Then why do you act like you care one minute and act like I don’t exist the next?” Her voice cracked despite herself, but she didn’t back down.

Fred’s mouth opened, but no words exited it.

She turned away from him, rubbing her fingers over her temple, overwhelmed by the burn rising in her throat. “I’m so bloody tired of trying to figure you out.”

“I didn’t do anything to Dean,” he said quietly, behind her. “But I’m not sorry he ended it.”

She whirled back to face him, exasperated. “Why not?”

Fred stepped forward, slowly, until she could smell the faint trace of earth and cinnamon on his clothes. His voice was low and tight. “Because I want you to myself.”

Her breath hitched. Her arms dropped.

Fred looked down at her, eyes flickering across her face like he was memorising every line of it. “I want you when you’re laughing. When you’re annoyed. When you’re ranting about homework or pulling faces in class or threatening to hex me for not showing up to a lesson.” His voice grew rougher. “I want you. Not because you’re some project. Not because of a deal we made. Not because of anything except the fact that you’ve been stuck in my head since the moment you leaned across that table and flirted with me. Even though it wasn’t real.”

Her heart was pounding.

“I want you,” he said, more quietly this time, “and I don’t know how to not want you.”

The wind blew lightly through the trees. The branches overhead shifted and scattered filtered light across his freckled cheeks, over the faint pink rising in them now.

She stared at him, lips parted, eyes scanning his face as if trying to find the lie. There wasn’t one. “I can’t believe you,” she whispered.

His face tensed, already prepared for rejection. “I—”

“I can’t believe you’re such an idiot.”

She grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him down into her kiss.

Fred gasped softly into it, frozen for the first beat. Then he moved. His hand griped her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her fingers tangled in the red locks at the nape of his neck as she deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, pliant, and tasted faintly of sugar - probably a stolen treacle tart from lunch.

Her back bumped against the low stone border of the garden, and he steadied her with both hands now, one on her lower back, the other rising instinctively to her jaw. His thumb brushed just under her cheekbone, the motion tender despite the storm brewing between them.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, her lips tingling and cheeks flushed, she muttered against his mouth, “You really are a complete idiot.”

Fred rested his forehead to hers, his nose brushing hers, eyes still half-lidded and dazed. “Takes one to kiss one.”

She laughed, chest still heaving, and kissed him again. Softer this time. Slower.

When they finally pulled apart for good, Fred was grinning like a man who’d just walked out of an explosion unscathed.

She smoothed his wrinkled collar. “You owe me an apology.”

“For what?”

“For being the most clueless boy in the history of Hogwarts.”

He raised his brows. “Excuse you. I’d say you were equally as clueless here.”

She shoved him lightly in the chest. “Doesn’t matter. You’re still an idiot.”

Fred caught her hand before she could retract it. “Maybe, but I’m your problem now.”

———————————————————————

Tag list: @vivianette @ellouisa17 @wisp1q @divineani @cattleray

[afronime]

trans!sylus and genderfluid!mc!reader

genderfluid!mc with their memories back and thinking that Sylus won’t love them because they aren’t her anymore. They have top dysphoria, wishing that their breasts would disappear, but sometimes they don’t hate them. They feel like many genders in one body. Some days they don’t have a gender, sometimes it’s too unique to describe, but they know they’re never 100% a woman or 100% a man.

genderfluid!mc having no idea that Sylus is trans, fulling expectating him to be a cis man. They’ve never seen him wear a binder, never seen old testosterone bottles or needles around, and mc can see his bulge through his pants (they don’t intentionally stare! it’s just always…there).

genderfluid!mc coming out to Sylus after he confronts them on why they keep rejecting his dates and advances when they both know they love each other.

“I’m not the woman you fell in love with in our past lives…over half the time, I’m not even a full woman.”

Trans!Sylus being confused by their insecurity, then it’s like someone turned the lights on in his head. He should’ve known sooner with the binder, the gender neutral outfits, and the way their gender expression ebbs and flows from day to day, week to month, sometimes month to month. He chuckles in disbelief and tells them to follow him to his bathroom.

genderfluid!mc is already weirded out by the command and starts freaking out more when he takes his shirt off.

“Relax, kitten. I’m not in the mood for that right now. I need to show you something.”

genderfluid!mc trying not to faint when Sylus takes their hand and places it at the bottom of his chest. He shushes them, tells them to pay attention, and with their fingertips, they feel raised skin lining his pecs.

“I told you. You and I. We’re the same.”

enby!mc in shock of him coming out to them but shedding tears of relief knowing that Sylus loves them for who they are.

trans!Sylus reassuring genderfluid!mc that he’ll love them in whatever shape, form, size or gender they come in because Sylus belongs to them in every way.

@leighsartworks216 thank you for motivating me to finally post this🤩I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy your work❤️

don’t see a lot of trans/nonbinary LI’s and MC stuff so I guess I’ll have to be the change i want to see 😏

[loverboymike]

milkvan endgame will never be a good writing choice, it will never be satisfying for the story and characters and it will never not ruin the show.

this isn’t about us not getting what we want, it’s about the way they deliberately CHOSE to write the show.

1. the way milkvan is written

milkavn is supposedly the main ship of the show. so tell me why they lack literally everything. they do not have anything in common, they don’t have anything they just like to do together besides “making out”, they knew each other for barely a week when mike kissed el and she didn’t even know what it means. el didn’t know what a friend meant when she met them. every character in the show hates milkvan together because they bring out the worst out of each other when they’re involved romantically, the ga hates mike in s3&4 when he’s with el. they broke up in s3 because mike lied to her and in the end of the season she just kissed him and said she loves him and they got back together, mike did not apologize, they didn’t even have a conversation about what they did wrong. they can’t communicate and mike can’t tell el he loves her even when she’s begging him and crying. their arcs are always separate, mike’s arc is usually with will and el’s is always about herself, alone. el needs independence, not a relationship. the monologue was complete bullshit and mike lied the entire time, they didn’t even talk at the end of s4. they situation between them stayed really open ended.

2. mike’s queer coding

mike is one of the most queer coded i’ve ever seen in media. the conversation he had with karen when will disappeared. every single time someone bullied will for being gay (he wasn’t even around) it was directed at mike. the one way sign in his room that points directly to his open closet. the triangle pocket on his shirt. the way he looks at will. the way he did not kiss el back and had his eyes open in front of an open closet. the way he flirts with will. that boy has never shown an interest in a girl. every proof to him being “straight” is connected to el.

3. the way byler is written

from the very first scene of them together it’s established that they’re relationship is different than the rest of the party. when will disappears and when they find his “body” mike is the one they put focus on. they didn’t show lucas or dustin going home and crying in their mothers’ arms because will is gone. mike is the only one that insisted will is still alive. he dragged them to the woods at night to look for him, he would not give up on will EVER. mike kept all the drawings will ever gave him and he even went through them and caressed them when he thought he was dead. when will woke up in the hospital we see mike staying awake wanting to be the first to see him while lucas and dustin fell asleep. mike always notices the little things about will. when he’s too quiet or when he wanders off. mike can always bring him back from the now memories. will saying that the others wouldn’t understand or that they treat him like a baby but not mike. literally the crazy together scene. mike saying that asking will to be his friend is the best think he’s ever done. the hand mike held is the one that tapped the morse code that told them to close the gate. mike saying hawkins isn’t the same without will and that he feels like he lost him. mike riding his bike in the rain to apologize to will immediately because he knew he hurt him really bad. just the way mike always takes accountability when it comes to will. will loves mike the way he wants to be loved.

this is not how you write a friendship.

4. the message of the show

this show was made for the outcasts, the nerds, people who feel like they don’t belong. it’s been said so many times. the duffers did not have the ga opinion in mind when making it and they won’t change anything just to please some homophobes. the show is optimistic, it shows you how love is stronger than anything else, how it defeats fear. it would simply be against everything the show stands for to have the only gay boy end up alone and rejected by his best friend. and they even used his feelings to fix the hetero relationship.

5. el’s arc

el has never felt loved, she has been kept in a lab her entire life, she had no freedom and didn’t even know basic things about life. her entire arc is about finding that love in hopper, joyce, will and jonathan, in her friends. that’s the love she needs, not romantic love. her storyline in every season of the show has been about her gaining her independence. she needs to stop existing only for others and find herself. she doesn’t even have her own style, she’s constantly influenced by who she’s with. el hates being seen only for her powers, she’s so much more than just that but mike always refers to her as a superhero.

that’s the relationship we’re supposed to be rooting for??

6. the contrast between milkvan and byler

when milkvan broke up in s3 it was all sunny and bright colors, it was a comedic relief and there was even happy music, el laughed and with max and looked happier than she looked the entire show. while mike and will’s fight was dark and rainy, it was dramatic, emotional. and when max told el that mike would come crawling back to her he did not, but who did he crawl back to? WILL. in s4 when el and mike are fighting he completely dismisses and gaslights her, calls her ridiculous for being upset and does not apologize. but after mike and will fight, he comes to will and fully takes responsibility, mike initiates it. mike is always so vulnerable with will, he talks to him about his feelings, they have so many heart to hearts and milkvan never do. mike’s face after talking to each of them at the end of s3 says it all.

7. mike’s weird behavior in s3&4

no because we already know that mike is not homophobic. he defends will against bullies in s1. so wdym he says “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls” to his best friend. wdym after everything he’s done to get him back and to save him, he just kinda abandons his best friend in s3. wdym after six months of not seeing his best friend he can’t even hug him properly at the airport. wdym the first thing he asked will about is the painting (even though he knew what it was from el’s letter) and why would he not ask his best friend about the girl he supposedly likes (he asked dustin about suzie). wdym mike was supposedly ignoring will all day but he actually paid such close attention to him, noticing how he was rolling his eyes, moping around and barely talking. the defensive af “we’re friends, we’re friends” no one said you were more michael.

try explaining any of this without mike being in love with will.

8. saving hawkins

el lost for the first time in the whole show at the end of s4. because of the monologue. mike’s words aren’t genuine, he doesn’t actually love el that way and he’s lying so he can’t save her. milkvan’s love isn’t gonna save the world in the final season but who’s will? byler. will said it himself, mike gives him the courage to keep fighting. and will reminded mike of the leader he his, he called him the heart. mike’s love is strong enough to bring will back from possession. they will fight together, be a team again and they will win.

and then there’s all the deliberate choices like the music, the colors, the lighting, the parallels, the last shot of s4.

just try and tell me that it won’t be awful writing to have milkvan endgame after all these things. it would make zero sense writing wise. it would be lazy and ignore so many details in the show.

[pls-readnowayu]

Warning: Very Long Post

Okay, let's see here,

Oppression is wrong. Period. The age of the oppressed and of the oppressor is irrelevant in the analysis. (Or is it okay for adults to oppress each other because they’re all adults?) So there’s no need to further complicate the matter by twisting into a pretzel to call the oppressed a child when they are not.

First of all, no one said adults don't oppress other adults here. Youth Oppression is a type of oppression, its' existence doesn't deny the fact that there are other types of oppression. Young people being an oppressed class doesn't mean POC or LGBT+ or disabled people aren't oppressed. All of these types of oppression don't contradict each other.

Secondly, each types of oppression require different solutions. They can overlap, but you can't solve the problems disabled people face with the exact same solutions you'd use for the problems Black people face. The same applied for Youth Oppression, because it is its' own type of oppression.

Also sexualizing an adult isn’t oppression. As long as it’s just a thought in someone’s head it’s not even an act.

I agree with the "just a thought" part, we don't do thought-crimes here folks. However, sexualizing an adult can be oppression, not always, but let's not pretend as if oppressors don't oversexualized and objectified marginalized people as a way to discriminate against them.

Then where the adult agrees to any sexual conduct that arises from that sexualization it’s consensual. Provided there is no threatened detriment to induce the consent or some exploitation that takes advantage of a disability, it’s not even oppression adjacent.

I think I might be misunderstanding or misreading this part in a way (English isn't my first language), but did you account for situation that involve Gaslighting, Manipulation or Grooming at all? What does "threatened detriment to induce the consent" actually include here? What about people who've tricked/lied to? What about those who genuinely don't know?

Sexual conduct by itself is not harmful. It is not bad. Most of the time a sneeze is less consensual than sex and what happens after sex is similarly as consequential as a sneeze.

Okay, this might actually be me misunderstanding but, WHAT???

Do you- are you people just going around sneezing on each other???? What???? I thought you're not allow to do that to other people because it's bring health issue with it and is rude as hell???? Can you like, elaborate a bit more here????

A middle-aged person having sex with a young adult, however you want to quantify that over 18 category, isn’t doing harm to that person as a function of the sex acts.

That would depend on a lots of other things as well, no?

Sex isn’t any more potentially harmful than most sports.

Sex is, in of itself, a neutral thing. But I've never seen sports being used to harm people in the same way sex is. Not saying sports don't cause damages, because some of they are super dangerous even with protection. But they can't be used as a weapon the way sex can be.

They’re old enough. Old enough to vote. Old enough to make a contract. Old enough to seek enforcement of their rights in a court of law.

I'm pretty sure not fucking someone isn't going to necessarily kill you. Or the person you'd like to fuck, either.

But voting affect everyone, not just a singular voter at a time. For example, voting somehow get us Trump being president a second fucking time. Now, we're all seeing the result of that.

I'd take it "make a contract" is talking about having a job here? Which, is it's own set of issues deserving another post.

Also, shouldn't "seek enforcement of their rights in a court of law" a thing that everyone regardless of their age be allow to do?

Old enough to live where they choose. Old enough to opt out. Old enough to say no and have all the protections of law in doing so.

Again, might be me misunderstanding but have you considered the outside/societal problems involved in all of these?

Old enough to deserve the respect all young adults get before they’ve earned even more respect or screwed up so much they get less respect.

You mean the basic, barest respect that everyone should've had for each others to begin with? You know, as we are all people?

If you decide an adult is a child because they are being oppressed then you’ve infantilized them.

I'm pretty OP is talking directly about younger people being oppressed, not calling every adults who are oppressed children.

Using that logic no young person who falls for nonsense political rhetoric (because they’re so young) should be able to vote.

... As if they're allowed to right now? This is part of the youth oppression we've been discussing, hello???

the freedom to make mistakes and the freedom to convince people to do things that will benefit you even if there is not commensurate benefit to the other person.

Sir, Ma'am, dude, I- alright, I have to be misunderstanding something here becuase the other option is you just straight up saying that "doing whatever benefit yourself is fine! Even if other people are harmed because of your action!"

Just, WHAT????

Vilifying the older adults who decide to have sex with younger adults is far less likely to protect potentially vulnerable young people than trying to help younger people learn about good and healthy relationships, safer sex, planned parenthood, and the potential for exploitation.

Agreeing with the education part, always agree with educating people about important topics. Not agreeing with the "vilifying" part, how is making grown adults take responsibility for their own action a bad thing????

I'm not going to discuss the part about USA laws and stuff, 'cause I'm not a westerner nor USAmerican so, all I'm going to say is: USA laws are all over the place. There's a rapist as the president, no guns regulations and a whole other lots of abhorrent things in there. It's a wild mix of good and bad and very bad laws from my perspective, so I don't find it in me to defend nor argue against it.

Whenever I see middle-aged adults being called creeps for dating 18 year olds, a lot of people call that "infantilizing". They insist that its wrong to make a blanket assumption that someone lacks the mental capacity to make their own decisions just because of their age.

And when taken out of context, I completely agree. Ever since I was a teenager, I've felt like young people are an oppressed class. I always hated when someone's young age was used as an excuse to deny their autonomy.

But when standing up to oppression, it's important to make sure you're counteracting the oppressive forces that exist, not just declaring an action to be inherently oppressive or liberating.

Young people are frequently oppressed by being treated like children as a way to deny their autonomy. But they're also frequently oppressed by being treated like adults when it's an excuse to downplay abuse toward them, to expect more of them, or to otherwise selectively treat them like an adult when it's convenient at the time.

It's not as simple as "treating them like a child is oppressing, treating them like an adult is liberating". It's more like "oppressing them is treating them like both a child and an adult depending on what gives the oppressor more power at any given time".

And when someone much older than them is sexualizing them, that's an example of them being treated like an adult when it's convenient. They're often not even treated like adults other times. 21+ age resrictions pass easily. Middle aged adults rarely hang out with 18 to 20 year olds as peers. Middle-aged adults would never respect an 18 year old boss. When a middle-aged adult has an argument with an 18 year old, suddenly the teenager becomes a child as an excuse to dismiss their side. It's very clear that middle-aged adults as a whole consider 18 year olds to be children. Only when trying to dodge being seen as a pedophile do they suddenly insist that an 18 year old is just as much of an adult as they are.

Liberators need to counteract what the oppressors do. When oppressors are treating them like children, liberators should be biased in favor of treating them like adults. When oppressors are treating them like adults, liberators should be biased in favor of treating them like children.

[brithebri747]

Haii could I request saja boys with a disabled reader who hates their mobility aids? Like, their legs are very weak and they often exhaust themself moving around but they feel too embarrassed to be using anything like a wheelchair/crutches. I don't see many disabled reader fics LMFAO

-I Love You, and Your Pain-

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •Saja Boys with an embarrassed, disabled!reader•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

-°• Contents: A series of headcanons which focus on comforting a reader who struggles with physical disability, as well as embarrassment from using their aids.

-°• Warnings: minor mentions of the reader being talked down upon (not by the boys)

-°• Bribri Speaks!: Thank you so much for the request! At first, I wasn’t sure how to go about it, as I didn’t want to minimize or over emphasize anyone’s struggles with physical ailments. Despite that, I think it came out pretty well! I hope you enjoy it! ♥︎

Jinu Saja:

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Anytime you need him, he’s there. Any hour. Any place. He will show up for you, that’s a vow he made the moment he learned of your condition. He’s at every single appointment, either in the waiting room, or in the office with you.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When the doctor informed the two of you you’d need aids, perhaps for the remainder of your life, he knew you’d be devastated. Despite your ailments, you’d always made the best of your situation.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ As he held you that night, his typical dorky, smug attitude faltered. His heart ached as you cried. All he could do was hold you. He felt helpless.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ The next day, you awaken to a selection of different aids, each custom, each unique to suit your needs. A wheelchair, a pair of crutches, a scooter, and several other modes of assistance you had never even seen.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “You can use whichever you like, sweetheart. They’re all for you.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He’ll gently guide you through each aid, explaining the customizations and how each part worked. He helped you size your crutches so they’d fit snug under your arms. He showed you the various bells and whistles of the wheelchair, even having had a cup holder installed. He wanted you to feel safe, no matter what mode of transportation you had to use.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Jinu knows you like the creases in his palm. He can tell you’re embarrassed, due to the rosy flush dusting your cheeks. The way you fiddle with the armrest of your wheelchair is a dead giveaway.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He will never let you feel inferior to those who are more physically-abled than you. He always includes you in everything he does. He gets you private seats at his concerts, helping you into your chair before he runs onto stage. He brings you to his fittings, showing you all his outfits and asking for your input; anything to make you feel included.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ If you ask for more independence, perhaps some time walking around the house without your chair, he will allow it. He’ll be watching very, very carefully, though. While he’d never restrict you to your wheelchair or crutches, he still feels uneasy when he sees you clinging to the kitchen counter and wobbling around.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “Be careful! The floor is slick”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Devotion wasn’t a word Jinu used to be familiar with. However, the moment he realized the extent of your disease, and the depth of his adoration for you, he found himself hopelessly devoted to you.

Abby Saja:

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He’s always exceedingly gentle with you. He’s a rather strong, large man, and he’s terrified of harming you. While he doesn’t see you as fragile, he thinks of you as something precious that he needs to protect. That includes when it comes to your use of aids.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ If you’re embarrassed about your wheelchair or crutches, don’t worry! Abby will ensure you feel comfortable in your sickness. He’s the type of person to use crutches, even if he doesn’t need them, just to make you feel less unordinary.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “What?! I don’t look silly! I look hot!”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ On occasion, when the two of you go out, you stubbornly refuse to employ your wheelchair. It bothers him, but he refuses to take the little mobility you still have. Despite your instance that you’d be alright, halfway through, you’re exceptionally exhausted, your limbs feeling like pure lead.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He will swiftly scoop you up and position you on his back. Piggyback rides had become a rather common occurrence for the two of you, so this wasn’t exactly abnormal. However, he preferred when you used your aids. This wasn’t because he disliked carrying you, but rather because he adored when you had personal freedoms; one being freedom of movement. You couldn’t have that when you were wrapped around him.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ In an effort to get you more comfortable with the concept of using an aid consistently, he’ll have you come to slightly discreet public places with him. Perhaps the gym for the Saja Boys’ rehearsal or the recording studio. He’ll give the boys express instructions—which all but Baby manage to fulfill—to be kind and complementary to you.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ If you’re in too much pain one day, unable to even uncurl from the fetal position, he will drop everything. His concert for the night is cancelled. Plans are put on the back-burner. He turns off his phone, his whole focus being you and your comfort.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He will bring your favorite warm beverage, as well as some medication to ebb the pain. Switching on a movie to take your mind off the discomfort, he’ll tuck himself behind you, not touching unless you ask him to. All he wants is to be there for what you need. Anything you need.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “I’m here, babe. It’s gonna be ok.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Essentially, Abby embodies the stereotypical ‘gentle giant’ archetype. He will hang on your every whim, listen to every request and desire you voice. He refuses to let you suffer alone; and so long as he’s alive, you never will.

Baby Saja:

⋆.𐙚 ̊ One of the few times he actually shows he’s concerned for your health, is when you’re unable to walk.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ The concept of you not being able to move petrifies him. Despite his best attempts to keep his nonchalant facade in place, you can see glimmers of anxiety shining through the cracks.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Whenever you collapse, he’s instantly there to catch you before you plummet. He murmurs a slightly exasperated, “use your aid, sweets,” before returning to whatever he was doing, as though it never happened. He doesn’t want to embarrass you with his overbearing presence.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ At first, he does little things, still wanting to maintain his idol persona. He leaves your wheelchair by the couch in hopes you’ll use it. However, if you refuse to use it when you get up, wobbling to the kitchen for a snack, he will most definitely try to find more creative solutions.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He leaves your medications in easy-to-reach places and discreetly massages your weakened muscles when you sit together. A casual hand on your thigh could actually be him trying to soothe you. Nonetheless, you still can’t walk for long on your own, exhausted by simple movements. By the time you next collapse, he’s grown even more anxious under his unbothered mask.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “Look, I understand you don’t like them, but you need them.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When you explain how abashed the aids make you feel, he understands, letting a ripple of care seep through the surface. He understands how you despise feeling dependent on objects to help you. He’ll press a rare kiss to your temple, gentle and full of comfort.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ The next day, he comes home with crutches. They’re discreet, and allow you more mobility and freedom than the wheelchair did.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When you finally, finally, begin using them to aid you in getting around, he practically glows with pride and joy. He pads over to you, taking in the sight of you on the crutches, silently proud of himself. You look significantly more comfortable, too.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “Finally, dude. Took you forever to be willing to use them.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ If anyone has the audacity to make fun of you for your aids, he will not hesitate to start a riot. He wouldn’t ever hesitate to square up to protect your honor. He’s fiercely protective when he wants to be.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When you get home, he won’t say anything directly, but he’s secretly agitated. He’ll gently pull you into his arms once you settle on the ottoman, his chin resting atop your head. He does his best not to grind his jaw, but it’s plainly obvious he’s rightfully irritated. You don’t exactly know where this flurry of protective cuddles came from, but you’re completely willing to indulge him.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Though he’s acts unattached, he truly would do anything to make sure you feel safe in your own skin. When you’re hurting, he would do all he could to help you feel even the slightest bit better.

Romance Saja:

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Romance sees the whole ordeal as a trial in your love story; the universe’s way of testing if the pair of you can withstand the intensity of your condition.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When you’re too embarrassed to leave the house, Romance will create the most wholesome at-home dates. The table will be set with a wine red table cloth, topped with your favorite candles and flowers. Jazz flows through the air like a private symphony. You can smell your comfort food baking in the oven, the scent wafting through the house. The whole atmosphere radiates love and care. He doesn’t mind if you’re at home or in the most opulent restaurant, he just wants you to feel special.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “Oh! I just whipped this up when I realized you wanted to stay home!”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Romance decorates your wheelchair or crutches upon your request. He would even be willing to get you multiple pairs of them, each stylized to match your various outfits. They range from simple decorations to more ornate designs. The end result is a whole wardrobe of all your different crutches and wheelchairs.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When you cry, he will cry with you, his arms tightly looped around you. His heart aches, and he longs to take this torment from you. He wraps his arms around you like a supportive vice, quietly cooing about how he’ll always be by your side.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “I’m so sorry, my heart. I wish I could take all the pain from you.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ When the two of you go out, he still holds your hand, as if you were walking beside him. He doesn’t want you to feel different than any other couple.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ In the event that someone taunts you for being disabled, Romance won’t say anything in the moment, aside from a sharp, “don’t speak to my beloved like that.” However, when the both of you are homeward bound, he’s plotting a dramatic revenge ark.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He makes a post on all his socials, broadcasting the incident to his millions of loyal followers. Of course, he deliberately avoids mentioning the person’s name from privacy. Even then, people quickly begin speculating who the post’s antagonist was. A few fans even saw the incident occur. The offender speedily found themself being bashed over the internet. Romance assured they got black-listed from any future Saja Boy events.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Concisely, yes, your love can thrive even in the most dire of circumstances. Romance has ensured that.

Mystery Saja:

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Mystery quietly supports you. He offers a hand when you’re struggling to rise from your seat, carefully steadying you. He will keep your emergency medications in his pockets, always prompt to assist you in the event of a nasty pain flare.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Simply put, Mystery absolutely loathes your condition. It’s not because he blames you, but he despises the way you struggle to even maneuver around your own home. His heart aches desperately for you.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He silently observes the way you obstinately refuse your aids, watching as you stumble sluggishly around the living room, trying to get ready for his concert.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He then makes a split-second decision, scooping you up in his arms and carrying you bridal style to your room. Even as you ask why he had suddenly whisked you away, discombobulated by the sudden loss of your footing, he just keeps walking. He kicks the door open, before gently setting you on the plush mattress.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “Concert doesn’t matter. I’m not going until you use your crutches.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ You protest, explaining that his fans will be upset if he’s not there. However, he refuses to budge on the matter, until you’re left with no choice but to relent. You didn’t want a hoard of his angry fans coming after you. They were quite intense and scary sometimes.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ After the concert, he’ll lean down, still in his stage attire, and wrap his arms around you.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ “Thank you, angel.”

⋆.𐙚 ̊ He will silently massage your sore, exhausted muscles. If you require it, or can’t stand in the shower, he will run you a bath, filling it with your favorite essential oils and bathing salts. He helps you run the warm water over your body, cleansing any grime and easing the ache in your limbs.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ Mystery, though quiet, would go to the ends of the earth for you. His affection is noiseless, but his actions speak volumes louder than any words ever could.

[batsandbirdbrains]

Wait Wait Wait Okay but Dick and Artemis developing a big sister & little brother dynamic in s1 and hanging out in Gotham (even tho Artemis doesn’t know Dick’s identity, Dick let’s it slip to Artemis that he knows who she is and doesn’t care) and M’gann getting jealous or upset by it because everyone on the team adores Dick but M’gann still has trouble connecting with some of them. Plus, M’gann wanted Artemis to be her best friend, but now she’s spending most of her time with Dick. She knows that Artemis and Wally like each other even if they pretend not to, so she decides to mess with them by implying that Artemis and Dick are dating and provides photos of them hanging out all throughout Gotham and patrolling together (she was lowkey stalking them). Even though both Dick and Artemis insist they’re more like siblings, there is some doubt on the team. Maybe the boys are feeling a little neglected because they haven’t gotten to hang out with Dick as much. Somebody snaps one day (idk who, but they’re spurred on by M’gann) and Artemis decides to put a bit of distance between herself and Dick to makes things easier (again, an idea planted by M’gann), now Dick is getting more and more isolated from the rest of the team. None of them even realize until they get their mission and notice that Robin isn’t there, that he hasn’t been to the mountain in weeks. They start to get a bit bitter towards Robin, until they’re all on a mission together and he gets hurt somehow (maybe they’re not watching his back like they should be). It snaps them out of the hold M’gann had one their mind, and they realize how shitty they’ve been towards Robin, even if they don’t know why. Then Failsafe happens, and they’re all feeling shitty, and J’onn decides to scan their minds just to make sure there’s no lasting psychic damage or anything, only to find months of mental manipulation by M’gann, all targeted towards isolating Dick and making him feel like an outsider. He tells the JL at first, and they pull M’gann from the team. The team doesn’t know why, but then they find out the truth and they’re horrified. They spend the next few nights all having giant sleepovers and spending time with Dick to make it up to him and so that they can all feel better.

This is so so saaaaad tho that little Dickie just feels left out and like no one wants to be around him until he gets hurt?? Like even if he finds out it was because of M’gann manipulating them, I think he’d still be rightfully a little distant bc “oh you only want to be nice to me when I got hurt because of you” sort of situation.

I could also see him being sad about the isolation before he gets hurt and telling Bruce about how the team doesn’t seem to want him around. And Bruce, in return, tells him something along the lines of, “Well you don’t need them anyway. You’re my partner, you’re always have a place right here with me.” And that makes Dick feel a little better.

[carbon-dating-everything]

saw that your request was open and I immediately took my chance hehe

so like, I have a hc about Dirk, about how he smells like you (bo, natural musk, parfume/cologne, hands&body lotion, etc) and whether or not he's possessive, he definitely takes pride in it as well- sometimes to the point of making him a little smug or cocky about it

so imagine this- the objects in the laundry room are bickering about reader/mc for whatever reason, and then out of nowhere Dirk just goes "well, say what ever you want. just know that, at the end of the day, I'm the one being marked by them" or something along those lines

I also image he'd deff be into reading smut- aside from Mac and Lyric, he'd be pretty well versed in a/b/o stuff and probably used the worded "scented" as well lol

this scenario might work better/be a little more fun if Dirk and Harper are already exes hehe

hello!!! thanks so much for requesting - this was such an interesting request to fulfill, and the hc that dirk smells like the reader makes a lot of sense! hope you enjoy this :DD

an olfactory tapestry

pairing: dirk deveraux x gender neutral reader (slightly implied to be one-sided)

content warnings: lightly suggestive (scent kink, possessiveness), dirk is an asshole to harper because they’re still toxic post-breakup, liberties taken with the reader’s scent preferences

word count: 1 k

You are Dirk’s favorite perfume in the world. No contest.

If he had to give a reason why, it’d be because the way you smell tells him so much about who you are. There is so much to take in as your clothes accompany you in your daily activities, whether they be during the day or night, come rain or shine, sunny or snowy. Each time you buy a new article of clothing and the faint smell of formaldehyde leaves him as he’s washed, bit by bit it’s gradually replaced by your own scent, and he gets to observe yet another angle of you in a different way.

More than that, your smells hold memories: the fragrance of an apple shampoo you wore weeks after a crush had told you they liked it, the sweat pouring off you on hot summer days, soaking him as he clings to you, and once, the iron reek of blood from an injury long since scarred over.

But whether your clothes are flowery, soaked with sweat or anything else, they always undeniably smell like you, and it’s all his — only his — to savor. He’s your dirty laundry, after all. He gets to have a little of you wherever he goes, until he goes back into the bedroom closet. If he could, he’d bottle your scent and inhale it all day long, but he’ll gladly settle for almost all day.

All of it builds up to a sort of rich olfactory tapestry of you, an everlasting bouquet that he gets to appreciate at anytime he wants. He’s no linguist, but he can think pages and pages’ worth of the way you smell, guaranteed.

He takes a special pride in the fact that he thinks he knows you intimately in a way that so few others do; they might know your habits, but few can correctly describe the scent of the almond lotion you massage onto your limbs every evening, or the perfumes you apply on your rare nights out, or even lingering traces that remain after occasional intimate moments. Even when he’s sent to the laundry room, you still hold some measure of control over him, almost like he’s been claimed by you in some way; and each time he gets clean, he gets to slowly drink all of your scent in again.

Is he a bit of a freak for that last part? Yes. But does he care? Absolutely not. This is the closest he can really get to you, and it gives him a slightly twisted sense of pride to know that he’s one of the only ones who can be.

——

Dirk is back in the laundry room again, listening to the bickering of the other dateables as they go about their routines; and yet, he also feels himself being worn by you as you work in the office, the shirt you’re wearing shifting against your arms and smelling faintly of the coffee you’d drunk that morning (you’d spilled some on your shirt, but it must not have been bad enough to you to want to change straight away).

He wishes he were holding you in his arms instead of being on your arms, but he’ll take what he can get. He basks in this sense of duality for a while.

His attention is brought back to the laundry room when the conversation around him pivots to the question of ownership. Your ownership, specifically, as the two aerialists brag about how you’d gotten them as a pair long before many others, meaning they’ve got value, and Hoove counters with the fact that you’ve done a lot of vacuuming lately, so he must be more useful, surely.

And he wouldn’t say anything about his own thoughts, ordinarily. He’d keep this secret under wraps, where no one else can get to it. But Harper has to go and run her mouth about how she thinks she’s the most useful object, and he doesn’t even stop to listen to the rest of her explanation before he can’t help but scoff.

‘Sure, say whatever you want. Just know that at the end of the day, I’m the only one that actually belongs to them.’

Through the messy mop of his hair, he can see that the others’ heads snap to him, and whereas the others simply look curious, Harper stiffens and narrows her eyes accusatorially at him.

‘And just what do you mean by that, Dirkie?’

‘It’s Dirk,’ he snaps, the old nickname sending a sharp pain into his heart, before he settles back into cockiness. ‘And I mean that while you guys are being used by them, I’m actually being worn — I get to have the pleasure of being with them, and I get to smell like them. So I’m theirs in the best sense of the word.’

Harper’s nose wrinkles in disgust. ‘That’s — really fucking creepy, you know that?’

‘Maybe.’ He pauses, formulating what might be the worst thing to say to her at that moment. ‘But at least I’m always in contact with them, even when I’m also getting clean. Whenever I come back here, you’re forced to just watch.’

Harper goes silent at that, eyes brimming with tears, and exits the room in a huff — she’s still broken up over them breaking up, after all. The others stare for a bit, mildly perturbed, but eventually turn to another avenue of conversation once it’s clear he won’t elaborate further.

And Dirk won’t lie; it hurts him to see Harper so upset, but even after all this time, he can’t resist throwing punches each time he can to get away. He only mildly fixates on the fact that he’s replaced feeling clear-headed when he’s away from her to always being just a little drunk on your scent.

He turns his attention back to the office. You’ve just finished putting on some hand cream — it smells like roses — and are rubbing it into your hands; the scent permeates the clothing, and it’s as if you’ve personally given him a fresh bouquet, like you’re in the honeymoon of a new relationship before it all goes to hell.

He closes his eyes, inhales, and smiles.

a/n: writing this actively reminded me to go put lotion on, and for that, anon, i thank you

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

i adore like ALL of your writing it is not even funny. i sort of had a thought that the bad batch is actually more sheltered than the other clones… being socially outcasted a little and then kept super busy with crazy missions.

we all think of tech as being inexperienced cause. i’m sorry but like. look at that little cutie. but they’re ALL lowkey incels. not by choice obviously but because they’re even less exposed to real life than regs.

you always think about tech being inexperienced but we neverrrrr think about hunter being inexperienced since he’s usually the one people are first drawn to. but since he’s fucking sheltered he doesn’t KNOW he’s conventionally attractive.

so if they were to ever develop a crush on anyone OR VICE VERSA, it would just be… chaos. like first graders or middle school boys.

curious to see your take on this/if you could think of some shenanigans that might ensue.

Yessss, I love this take so much! The Bad Batch as socially sheltered, awkward little incels by circumstance is such a honestly kind of funny but adorable dynamic.

Below are my takes on each of them🫶

HUNTER

Headcanons:

• Completely unaware of his own attractiveness; sees himself only as the leader and protector.

• Has never really been “on the dating scene” and assumes everyone just respects him as a commander.

• Develops crushes but confuses the feelings with heightened protectiveness.

• Gets flustered easily when the object of his affection speaks directly to him or compliments him.

• Accidentally stalks (in a very polite and concerned way) his crush under the guise of “keeping them safe.”

• Is incredibly awkward trying to flirt, often resorts to military jargon or blunt honesty.

• His teammates tease him mercilessly, but they have his back when it counts.

• Uses physical gestures like a reassuring hand on the shoulder, but often misreads the response.

Hunter’s First Crush

The briefing room was empty except for Hunter, who was nervously adjusting the communicator in his hand.

He had seen her around the fleet—[Y/N], a new pilot assigned to their squadron. She was competent, sharp, and, well… she made his heart race in ways he didn’t understand.

Hunter took a deep breath, attempting to find the right words.

“[Y/N], uh… would you want to join me for a caffeinated beverage?” His voice cracked just slightly.

She blinked, processing the unexpected invitation. Then she smiled softly. “Sure, Hunter. I’d like that.”

The communicator nearly slipped from his grasp as his heart hammered painfully against his ribs.

Hunter glanced at the door nervously, wondering if Wrecker or Tech had overheard.

When he finally got up to leave, he stumbled over his boots, muttering, “This is harder than any mission.”

⸻

TECH

Headcanons:

• Approaches romance as a complex algorithm and data set.

• Creates flowcharts and spreadsheets analyzing potential crush scenarios.

• Knows all the theory of flirting but zero practical experience.

• His advice to others is overly logical and awkwardly blunt.

• Often confused by emotional nuances and sarcasm.

• Attempts to help teammates with “romance hacks” that usually backfire.

• Finds “small talk” difficult but tries hard to adapt.

• Is the go-to “love advice” bot but ironically the worst at romance himself.

Tech’s Romance Protocol

Tech sat on the edge of the ship’s bunk, holo-projector buzzing softly as charts and bullet points floated in the air.

“Effective Compliments for Potential Crushes: a statistical review,” the title read.

Wrecker hovered nearby, eyeing the glowing data with confusion.

“Tech, buddy, why not just say, ‘Hey, you’re cool,’ like a normal person?” Wrecker asked, scratching his head.

Tech adjusted his glasses. “That’s far too simplistic and inefficient. I’ve cross-referenced 53 romantic interactions, and direct compliments about skill proficiency yield the highest positive feedback.”

“Okay…” Wrecker nodded, trying to keep up.

Tech glanced at his wrist console. “I am going to attempt a social experiment: ‘Hey, [Y/N], your piloting accuracy is exemplary.’”

Hunter groaned from the doorframe. “Dude, just be yourself.”

Tech hesitated. “Myself is a series of protocols optimized for survival, not social interaction.”

Wrecker chuckled. “That’s what makes you cool, Tech.”

⸻

WRECKER

Headcanons:

• The big lovable goof who thinks feelings are straightforward and simple.

• Doesn’t understand subtlety or nuance; if he likes someone, he wants to protect and feed them.

• Loudly announces crushes and feelings to everyone within earshot.

• Tries to “coach” teammates on love, but his advice is usually dumb but well-meaning.

• Loves physical touch as a form of comfort and affection.

• Gets confused when crushes don’t immediately result in snacks or hanging out.

• Has a protective streak that kicks into overdrive when he senses awkwardness.

• Laughs off teasing but secretly wishes he understood feelings better.

Wrecker’s Love Lessons

“Alright, Hunter,” Wrecker said, bouncing on his toes, “you gotta say, ‘Hey, wanna hang out?’ but, like, mean it, you know?”

Hunter’s face was tomato red. “I don’t think this is helping.”

“Nah, dude, it’s all about confidence. You gotta look ’em in the eye.”

Hunter tried, but his eyes immediately darted to the floor.

Wrecker grinned. “Okay, okay. Practice makes perfect. Now, Tech, you try.”

Tech’s voice was quiet but determined. “I will initiate the interaction with a calculated approach.”

Wrecker watched as Tech awkwardly approached [Y/N], then immediately retreated after a stilted “Your piloting statistics are… impressive.”

Hunter snorted. “I’m glad I’m not the only disaster.”

Wrecker laughed. “See? Love’s just another mission. We got this!”

⸻

CROSSHAIR

Headcanons:

• Skeptical of emotional nonsense and finds romance frustratingly inefficient.

• Uses sarcasm and dry wit to mask any awkwardness.

• Is often blunt or harsh but sometimes inadvertently flirts with biting honesty.

• Secretly envies the closeness his brothers share but wouldn’t admit it.

• Has no idea how to initiate romantic interactions; often fails spectacularly.

• Prefers actions over words but struggles with expressing feelings.

• His teasing can both wound and intrigue the target.

• When interested, he’s a mix of distant and surprisingly protective.

Crosshair’s Brutal Advice

Hunter sat on a crate, nervously fidgeting.

Crosshair lounged nearby, arms crossed, watching with mild amusement.

“If you want their attention,” Crosshair said flatly, “try not looking like you’re about to pass out every time you see them.”

Hunter groaned. “Thanks for the helpful advice.”

Crosshair smirked. “You’re welcome. Now quit being such a dork.”

Hunter threw a glance toward the hallway where Lira was approaching.

Crosshair watched the blush bloom across Hunter’s face and muttered, “Idiots.”

⸻

ECHO

Headcanons:

• Has been isolated for so long he struggles with social cues.

• Tries to emulate others’ behavior to “fit in,” often awkwardly.

• Thinks a successful mission together is the ultimate expression of affection.

• Observant and empathetic but slow to understand romantic signals.

• His idea of a gift might be scavenged tech or something practical.

• Finds humor in social mishaps, even if he feels like an outsider.

• Deeply loyal and protective once he forms a bond.

• Wants to connect but often feels “wired differently.”

Echo’s Social Experiment

Echo stood near Hunter, watching as the squad’s crush passed by.

“Initiating social bonding protocol,” he muttered and stepped forward.

From his pack, he produced a small flower he’d picked on the last mission.

“Hunter, present this to the target,” Echo said quietly.

Hunter stared at the flower in stunned silence.

The crush blinked in surprise, then smiled softly.

Hunter muttered, “You’re ridiculous.”

Echo shrugged, “Data shows kindness is effective.”

Hunter laughed, “You’re lucky you’re so useful.”