#going to make that conversation with Sam more awkward

[daddymaster21]

Review time!!! I’m already scared by your authors note. Sorry this took so long!!!!

1. Is this the darkness??? Amara, sweetie, is that you????

2. All my homies hate the PTSD nightmares. Smh my head.

3. LMAOOO HER WRITING DEANS NAME ON HERSELF. ME TOO HOMEGIRL.

4. Mmmh. Not sure about that one, Princess. You don’t really have normal dreams

5. Ohhhhhh okay, death makes more sense

6. Man, she’s going even harder than Dean on how she wants to serve him. Which, like… same.

7. DEAN IS SMART AND HES NO LONGER ALLOWED TO THINK OTHERWISE

8. I FUCKING KNEW IT AHHHHHH

9. Fun fact: my birthday is two days before deans

10. Her and Cas are just Creatures, trying their best. I love them.

11. AHHHH THE SMILEY FACE DETAIL

12. Bobby and Sam going through it for real, trying to get their idiots to kiss

13. LMAOOO “PILLOW TALK”

14. NOT BOBBY GETTING THE CONDOM, THEA I CAN’T

15. “You wanted that boy before you even knew him” PLEASE MY HEART CAN’T TAKE IT

16. Yeah, it doesn’t count if you only think about doing something stupid!

17. Girlie. I don’t even know what we’re doing, but I’ll tell you what — it’s gonna stupid, and Dean’s gonna be pissed.

18. CROWLEY MY BELOVED!!! (If I drowned in Mark Sheppard’s voice, I’d die happy)

19. why are you British lmfaoooooo

20. This isn’t going to end well.

21. I’m just like Sam fr. Pretending to be stupid is HARD.

22. Yay!!! More nosy bitch hours!!!! (I love them learning abt each other through the dreams so much. You really knocked this one out of the park.)

23. John Winchester is IN DANGER.

24. Oh. Oh no. The image of him kneeling in front of her. In a church. Thea the symbolism is too good, send help

25. Dean, asked to suffer for everyone: I just don’t know if I can do it. It’s too much. Dean, asked to suffer for princess: truly, I’d volunteer for this.

26. He literally can’t sleep when she’s not there, his body wakes him up every time she leaves 😭😭

27. Team Creature!!! Aw man, if Jack is born in this universe, it’ll be Creatures all the way down!

28. They’ve GOTTA have a conversation, they can’t keep turning into awkward teenagers any time sex is involved

29. Dean describing wanting to fuck her literally just bc she exists lol

30. Jesus Christ WHY WOULD SHE KEEP KISSING YOU IF SHE DIDNT WANT TO KISS YOU. PLEASE I BEG ITS ACTUALLY SO EASY.

31. It’s okay. They’re just babies. I can be patient.

32. I- please??? Why wait??? Do that now, please??????

33. LMFAOOO THE CREATURES ARE FIGHTING

34. “She already explained them to me” I love her and Cas so much I can’t explain

35. literally the only thing I can say about this part is woof.

36. Listen. I know that Princess is gonna be the one who cracks first, but my god if I got to read Dean actually dropping to his knees and asking for that, I would combust on the spot.

37. She’s literally never been wrong about a monster, Cas, just work the odds. It was never gonna be a Cupid.

38. ….either Sam is gonna catch these hands, or this is the monster trying to trap Dean. I hope it’s the latter, but I think it’s the former.

39. Ohhhhhhhh he drank it cause Famine is in town. Alright, he’s forgiven. We’re good.

40. Dean is going to be Very Incredibly Normal and definitely not go out of his mind with lust for her.

41. THAT’S WHY CAS ATE THE BURGERS. OKAY YEAH I SEE YOU.

42. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HE ADMITTED IT

Final thoughts: I’m fucking FERAL right now. And scared for the next chapter.

Chapter 24 - Just Hold On

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Huge chapter for fans of emotional whiplash, Dean's feelings, and Princess and Cas being creatures. Enjoy!

Chapter Title from Twin Skelton's (Hotel In NYC) by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 19.1k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You try to keep it together, get an offer, and Dean learns something about himself. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 23 - Chapter 25

Read on A03!

It’s smiling at you. 

Everything is smiling at you, and you aren’t in control. There’s a hand on your neck—it might be your own—that’s strangling the Silver out of you, and you can’t feel the pain but only because you are far too big for anything like that.

You are everything. 

Your nails are digging into something strong and cold, and black and titanium, and you’re ripping it open as teeth—those aren’t yours—sink a level lower than your skin. You want to stop. You have to stop. You wish you knew how to fucking stop, but it’s right in front of you, and you’ve never been good at control, and-

There’s a laugh, echoing in your ear. There’s gold and purple stained on the walls. The air is thin, but you’re not sure you need it anymore. You just need it to be over. For everything to fall away because you’re so tired, and you’re not in control, and you want to go home.

If you were better—less than a plague, less than just a cancer twisting into whatever’s in your hold—you’d stop. You’d save the choir of souls that are hanging right over your head, forming a stained glass of a picture you recognize, but don’t remember. You’d look up and beg for their forgiveness, because you didn’t mean to. You never mean to. But you’re sick and wrong and you’re a little burrowed in everything, and the teeth in your neck were going to bite Dean- 

Dean.

He’s not here. 

But that’s his Gold. And the Spiderweb is going haywire around you—light dancing off the walls and bursting like a supernova—and you’re fucking everything, and where’s Dean-

The world shakes. It rattles, and all the souls above you let out a high moan, and there’s a soft, delicate hand that’s brushing the hair away from your face and asking ‘are you strong enough, little one? Are you bright enough to bring the rat home?’

You’re not sure. 

You still look at your hands, just to see. But all you find is Gold and pastel blue.

You’ve never been able to save either of them.

And the Sky is high over you, just a level past the souls howling for your attention. But it never does anything except fucking watch when you need it, and rip things in half when you’re trying to keep them. 

It hurts so fucking much. All of it. 

You just want to fucking go home. 

And the strong thing cleaves apart. 

The teeth—stained with blood and singing your name—crow like you’ve brought them a great gift. The hands on your face maybe turn to ash—or maybe they were never there at all—and in their wake is Gold. Shifting, strong Gold and pretty green eyes. You should be falling back into yourself, but the Dean before you isn’t real, so he can’t call you back home

And you can see it. 

Tall. Thin. 

Old. 

It looks old.  

Pale and hanging off of bones, smooth and quiet and content. None of it is trying to escape itself. It doesn’t seem all that interested in being here at all. It doesn’t run like a machine the way white-eyed demons do, and it isn’t humming with a neon power like an angel.

It just is.

And it doesn’t smile at you. It just tilts its head—not quite a head, more of a gentle, black shadow that looks like it should be hiding something, but isn’t—and holds your gaze.

It doesn’t really have a gaze. 

It’s really only mist, in its eyes—not eyes, more like dying stars that have chosen to remain in a stasis—but the mist is boring right into you, and you can’t move. 

You can’t look away.

But it’s not painful. There’s nothing wrong with it looking at you.

It’s not home. But it’s familiar. You might have known it your whole life, moving in its wake as it waited for you to find it, just so it could tell you this. 

No. 

You can’t hear it, but you can feel it in every dark space between the stars and under the dirt, in every decayed bit of life that’s pleading to be called back up. And it’s telling you it doesn’t want you. 

And when you frown at it, you can feel it. 

The power. 

And everything shatters apart. 

Your eyes fly open, but you can’t move. It’s almost paralyzation. Your body is still stuck in the nightmare, and your eyes are darting around but all you can see is the dark, and-

Dean. 

He’s here. He’s fine. Knocked out at your side and snoring into the pillow, his hand resting over yours and his knee bumping near your thigh. 

Slow breaths. Deep, slow breaths, and find what you can see. What you know is real, and not just another haunting terror. 

You’re real. And right now, you’re yours. The Silver is dormant, and the Spiderweb is a little wired, but with every rumbling snore from Dean it settles back down. The sheets are sticky from cold sweat, and Dean’s shirt is bunched uncomfortably on your back. There’s no light leaking from under the door, so it must be impossibly early. Dean’s shoulder still has the bandage from his last hunt, and he’d whined like a baby when you put it on, but still grinned at you the whole time. The book Sam brought you is open on your side-table, and when you manage to sit up, you can still see Dean’s name in Enochian, written in pen on your forearm. 

It’s only been a night. Nothing new has happened, and that wasn’t an omen or a vision, like Lucifer and the cage.

Only another nightmare. 

And it hurts so much. There’s all the usual pain, but then there’s also the noose that’s formed itself around your throat, and it’s made of Death. 

Death looked at you, and it didn’t want you. You raised him, and he told you no. And you don’t remember anything else but pain, and knowing that you’re something so horrible and sick and fucking wrong, that Pestilence calls you pure, and Death doesn’t want you.

It’s not like you can blame him.

You don’t really want you either. 

Dean says to wake him up, when this happens. That if he’s off dealing with apocalypse shit, you should call him or go get Bobby. If you’re drowning in it—in the blue on your fingers, or dying stars seeping into your soul, or all this fucking pain that’s not allowed to kill you, because Death doesn’t want you—then you need to get him or Bobby. If there’s something hollow that’s spreading over your chest, and it’s filled with winding, distorted colors that are calling for you, but you can’t seem to reach, that you can’t just curl up and try to wait it out. 

But he looks so peaceful. His mouth is parted slightly, and there are no lines in his brow of worry. No deep look his eye that reminds you that you’re just a fucking problem. That you’re making this harder for him, because he’d asked you to come home so he wouldn’t have to worry about you, but now he’s fucking worried anyway. He’s been texting you every day to make sure you’re eating, and when he’s home, he doesn’t move from your side.

You don’t deserve him. You’ve never deserved him. He’s always stronger than you’ve ever been, and he’s always too good to you, and he needs some rest. 

When you dare to trace your hand over his cheek, Dean mumbles something you can’t make out and leans into your touch. 

You’re not going to wake him up. 

But you can’t just stay here. Can’t just sit in the pain, or it’s going to shred you into ribbons that Dean will—for some reason—decide are worth braiding back together.  

You shuffle out of bed on unsteady feet, and Dean grunts, but doesn’t wake up. You’re moving quietly. Pulling on sweatpants—they’re a little too big, so likely Dean’s and not yours, but that’s better—and fumbling for a sweater and socks in your dresser.

You don’t bother with shoes, when you slip out of the door and down the stairs. 

The jagged sticks and rock below your feet help you anyways. 

You’re not sure where you’re going, as you walk through the yard. Not too far. You’d promised Dean you wouldn’t run, so you’re only wandering. Letting the cold wind and morning mist bite into your skin, until it starts to buzz with the relief of being numb. 

And you walk in circles—sharp rocks cutting into your feet, but no blood on the dirt behind you—before you end up at the usual place. 

The Impala is locked. Dean always locks it, because—even though Bobby’s yard has newer, better cars for people to steal—he’s careful. 

He’s always so careful. 

And Baby is covered in his Gold. She smells a little like him, too. Lingering cinnamon and leather, and it’s like a tiny haven you don’t deserve. A shield around you so that, when you lay on its hood, you’re not left alone with the Sky. 

Staring down at you, and doing nothing but watching.

“I hate you,” you whisper, and your voice is almost swallowed in the wind. “I fucking hate you. Leave me alone.”

It flashes, but it’s not in warning. It’s a reminder. 

It’s everywhere. You’re never going to escape it. And no matter how much you hate it, nothing will change. 

The Sky will keep watching. Waiting. 

And you’ll just keep growing sick.

You don’t know how long you lay here. Your fingers start to shake and the Sky blinks—now in warning, it doesn’t like when you damage it’s toy—but you just close your eyes. It hurts. Over all your nerves and sore in your gut, it fucking hurts-

“Son of a-“ Warmth wraps around you, and you squeeze your eyes tighter.

If you look at him, you’ll start crying. Again. And Dean doesn’t need that.

“Goddamnit, sweetheart.�� He’s tugging you up, until your face is pressed right against his chest. “You’re fucking- How long have you been out here?“

You don’t answer. Your fingers just curl against his shirt—you don’t deserve to have him here, worried about you and holding you so close, but if he leaves you might split into a million fractures that scatter further than the universe—and the ache in your throat grows unbearable. You know you woke him up, and you made him come outside to get you, and you wish he’d just leave you alone, leave you to freeze into a glassy, perfect and docile statue of the monster that you are-

Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head. He’s keeping you wrapped in his jacket like you’re a baby kangaroo, and it’s so warm here. 

His chest heaves with a deep sigh, and your arms shoot around his torso. He can’t go. This can’t be the time he decides to leave you. You should let him—you’re not something that can be saved—but you need him to grab you before you fly away, and your head is swimming with too much pain and you’re so tired-

“It’s okay,” Dean murmurs, his lips brushing over your brow, and a weak sound escapes your throat as your eyes start to sting. “You’re okay, Princess. I’m here.”

You’re not okay. You can still see him staring at you. 

Death. 

Not greeting you like a friend, but something more. Something worse. 

But Dean’s here. And he’s slowly tugging you back, keeping you stuck to his chest as big hands frame your face. His thumb strokes down your nose as you collapse into his touch. The sting grows to a wet blur when you take a staggered breath, and drag your eyes open. 

He’s watching you, so carefully. Holding you the same. As if you might shatter under his touch, or turn to ash if he blinks wrong.

So fucking careful.

“You with me?” Dean’s voice is barely a rasp, still clogged with sleep and deepened from the cold, and you swallow down a sob. 

You did that. Made those lines on his brow appear with worry, make him wake up, made him come save you from drowning yourself.

And he’s more than Golden, in the fog of the slowly rising morning. He’s brighter than the Sky, and that odd, intangible thing his soul is made of is turning and glowing in the light.

Running through it, you can still see it. The shining, silvery river that’s always flowing inside him. That you wove there, and he’s never seemed to find it foreign. 

And that’s likely because Dean can’t see souls. Can’t know that there’s a parasite burrowed into him, can’t even feel it.

But you can lie to yourself a little.

Say he doesn’t fight against it because you’d never hurt him.

Just like you tell yourself that he’s in your orbit by choice, and not because you demanded his attention like a loud, feral beast. 

You’re only the beast to serve him. 

But you’d climb up to the Sky and lay yourself on its alter, if that served Dean. You’d bow your head and let yourself be put on a leash, if you knew he’d be safe. 

He’s still watching you. 

He asked you if you’re with him.

So you nod, and whisper the only thing you can think of.

“All the way down.”

Dean’s throat bobs, and you get a small nod as he tugs you a little closer, and tucks your head right back against his neck. 

“All the way down.” He murmurs, the sound from deep inside his chest and his heart beating right near your ear, and that’s all it takes. 

The first sob is soft, and muffled in Dean’s shirt. He still hears it. Still holds you tighter, instead of shoving you away and leaving you to erode alone. 

Maybe if he did, you’d grow into something better. A tall tree, that he could keep visiting, which would never hurt anyone again. You’d offer him shade in the summer and wood in the winter to keep him warm. And he could come back when he finds a better woman and marries her, and bring his future children to visit you, and you’d just be a tree, but you’d be Dean’s tree-

Your body is shaking with it, now. The pain, rolling out of you in heavy waves and clawing out of your throat.

“I-“ You sniff against Dean’s shirt, your nails digging into the muscle of his back. “I- I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“ Another sob wracks your body, and Dean’s arms tighten around you. “I’m sorry-“

“I know, ba- sweetheart. It’s okay-“

You shake your head—he doesn’t understand—and you’re not sure when your legs wrapped around his waist. You’re not strong enough to move them away. “I’m sorry-“

Dean shushes you, pressing another kiss to the top of your head, and then your face is back in his hands. His thumb pets down your nose once more until your breathing is even, and your tears dry out.

Baby. You know I love you, baby.

His gaze is driving straight into you. And you’re still sniffling and blurry eyed, but he only wipes your nose with his shirt, and lets out a long, heavy sigh.

“You wanna dance?”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Dance.” He mutters, his knuckles brushing the last lingering tear from your cheek. “You owe me one, Princess. C’mon.” 

Dean starts to tug you forward, but you’re just staring up at him with an open mouth. You’re not sure you heard him right. Or that this isn’t just another hazy dream. But you can feel his warmth, and his deep voice is so clear in the night air, so it has to be real.

You need it to be real.

You don’t think you’ll be able to manage waking up and replaying this whole scene all over again like a cruel joke-

He sighs and bends down, holding your gaze with a slight frown. “Sweetheart, I can carry you if you need, but you gotta work with me-“

“Sorry.” Your voice even sounds fucking weak. “I- I don’t know what- You-“

“I’m asking you to dance with me,” Dean says your name, his voice low and soft, and your lips pull into what might be a pout. “Please.”

You couldn’t say not to him if you wanted to. And your nod is tiny, but Dean still sees it, and a grin you don’t deserve splits his handsome face. 

And you can’t stop yourself. From reaching up and tracing his jaw, feeling the slightly prickle of stubble against your skin, and knowing he’s real. Golden and alive and—despite all reason—here with you.

But reason has never been either of your strong suits. And knowing you should shove him away and scream for him to just let you go, it would be so much fucking easier for everyone if Dean would just let you go, doesn’t help you at all. 

So you let him help you to your feet and guide you inside, Dean’s hand on your lower back quickly turning into you stumbling a single step, and him hauling you up into his arms. 

“I-“ He clears his throat as you climb back upstairs, his gaze fixed ahead. “Got that honey-cereal thing you like. When I went out with Sammy last night.”

You hum, letting your fingers play with the collar of his shirt. It’s better than scratching at your own skin. “Did the bar have a grocery aisle?”

“Nah.”

“So you just… Found it?”

Dean rolls his eyes, his lips twitching slightly. “Saw it at the gas station. There’s a pack of root beer’s waiting for you, too. Just don’t touch the strawberry ice cream. Hid a condom in there.”

“You- Why?”

“Don’t worry, Princess, it’s for Sam.”

“I think that’s more worrying-“

“Shut up.” Dean kicks open the door, poking your rib slightly and grinning at your small squeak. “He found a blonde chick last night that seemed pretty into his whole wet puppy thing. I’m trying to make sure he stays safe.”

You give him a flat look. “With an ice cream condom.”

“Yep.” He slowly sets you down to your feet, but doesn’t make a single move to pull away. “It’ll remind him.”

“I don’t think it will-“

“Well, sweetheart.” Dean grins down at you, his arm slipping down to hold your hip, and you swallow. “Good thing you don’t need to worry about it. If Sammy gets himself knocked up, I’m not lettin’ him dump the baby on us.”

You giggle, dropping your face into his chest, and you know what he’s doing. He always does it so well, until the pain is there, but faded slightly. Only a drum of your heartbeat—a little heavier than usual—and a pressure in your lungs that gets lighter with Dean’s every word. Your fingers are still tingling from the cold, but you can feel it when Dean takes your hand and tugs you fully against him. Your knees are okay, but you’re not worried about them giving out. 

Dean’s here. 

He’s got you. 

“I- Uh-“ Dean sighs, and you look up at his almost nervous expression. “I don’t know if you want music, but- uh- I don’t have any-“

“You have a phone, De.”

“For calling people.” He grumbles. “Not music.”

You giggle again, not bothering to hide your smile. “You are going to make an excellent old man one day.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m an idiot-“

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it-“

“No. I wasn’t.”

Your words are quick, a small frown on your face, and Dean raises his brows. “You got something you want to tell me, Princess?”

You sigh, resting your brow on his shoulder, and Dean starts to sway you back and forth. 

The dancing. 

You’re dancing. With Dean. And it’s less dancing and more letting Dean move you around in silence, but it has the same effect.

You’re a little dizzy.

A little drunk on the smell of him and the Gold that’s flowing all over you.

And the silence means to you can hear his breathing. Steady and slow and almost in time with your own, making you come down, down, down. 

Back to Dean.

Always back to Dean.

“You’re not dumb.” You mumble against him, your free hand digging into his shirt. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

“Pretty sure you know yourself, sweetheart-“

“I’m serious.” You snap, pulling back to hold his gaze. “You are not dumb, Winchester. You’re the only reason I even know what I am.”

He frowns. “That’s-“

“You figured out I was mistranslating the Enochian in my head. I only asked Cas to look into the Magdalene’s because you gave me the idea.”

“You would have figured that out yourself-“

“It had never even occurred to me.”

Dean jaw ticks, his gaze locked onto yours, and you’re still dancing. He’s so close. His hair is mussed from sleep, his lips slightly swollen from the same, and it’s a good thing he’s got you. You might have fallen too far into him, otherwise. Dragged him down, until you were both on the floor and you’re straddling his abdomen, trying to show him. Prove that it hurts, so much, all the time, but you love him.

That even when you thought Dean was something that hurt, it was only because you didn’t get to have him at all.

And, for better or worse, he’s here now. 

You’re not allowed to say you love him. Not allowed to show it. 

But Dean’s hand squeezes yours once—checking in—and you squeeze it back three times. 

It means I love you, now. 

He just doesn’t get to know that. 

“We’ll see if I make it long enough to be an old man,” Dean hums, and you blink. 

He’s trying to divert the conversation. And you don’t want to let him, but he just keeps talking.

“And I’d get one of those iPod thingys, but they’re a million freakin’ bucks. I’m not made of money, sweetheart.”

You let out a slow breath, press your cheek back to his chest. Tonight, you’ll let him have it. “I could get you one. For your birthday.”

“You even know when my birthday is-“

“January 24th.” You mumble. “Soon."

You could swear you hear is heart stutter. “Ah. We’ve, uh- I didn’t think I told you that-“

“Think again, Winchester.” Sam had told you.  

“You don’t have to get me anything-“

“Yes I do.”

Dean mutters your name, and you lean back with a glare. 

“I have a whole untapped credit card to burn, Deano. Watch your fucking back.”

He’s still frowning. “But-“

“Shut up.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “So bossy.”

“Dean-“

“Alright, alright.” Dean chuckles, and you yelp as suddenly he’s twirling you around, then pulling you right back into his chest. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

You. The Spiderweb sings as you gape at him. I just fucking want you, Dean. 

But you’re not allowed to say it.

So you hum, and let Dean keep swaying you in the silence. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you can feel sleep creeping up the corner of your vision, even as sunlight starts to leak through the window. 

You still don’t want this to end. 

“You getting tired, sweetheart?”

“No.” You grumble, moving your free arm to hook around Dean’s neck. “Shut up.”

His laugh is low and deep and right in your ear. “I don’t know, you sound kinda tired-“

“‘M gonna stab you.”

“Okay, Sleeping Beauty. Let’s get you to bed.”

You shake your head, even as Dean pulls you up to his chest and you fold right against him. “De?”

He grunts, and you swallow, the sting of tears building back up behind your eyes. He’s so good. Strong and resilient and careful, and all you do is make him lose sleep, but he’s still carrying you to bed.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean sighs, and you feel his lip brush over your collarbone as he speaks. “I know, ba- Princess.”

You mumble something even you don’t understand as he sets you back in bed, and grab his hands when they cup your face. 

“I need you to promise you’re gonna call me.” He mutters your name, and your lashes flutter as you try to hold his gaze. “I’ve gotta go with Sammy in a few hours, we’ve got a case in a nuthouse to take care of. We’re gonna use that truth-telling thing you did in-“ He cuts himself off, and you know why. 

He’s trying not to remind you of San Francisco. 

It’s sweet.

But it’s still going to hang over your head like a blade. You’re never not aware of it. 

That’s how you ended up here in the first place. 

“De-“

“We’ll only be gone a week, and I’m not gonna have my phone, but I’ll call you from the hospital line. And if start getting the urge to do something stupid, call it like crazy and don’t stop until they let me talk to you.” He’s frowning, his grip tightening slightly against you. “Please. I- Even it’s the middle of the fucking night, just call-“

“Okay.” You breathe out, settling down into the pillows. You’re too tired to argue anyway. “I will.”

Dean nods slowly, then raises his hand between your bodies. 

Your pinky locks with his fast, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your brow as the hand still on your face strokes a line down your nose. 

You let out a soft sigh, and Dean might be saying something, but you can’t really hear it. 

It’s just Dean. 

It’s always just Dean. 

And you sleep dreamlessly, through the morning, and into the afternoon. 

Your days are a little more flexible now. In the weeks since San Francisco, you haven’t been hunting. And the nights like these keep you from Bobby’s hunter fever, because you know.

It’s safer for you to be benched right now. Safer for everyone.

You’d raised Death. You’re not sure how you did it, but you hadn’t needed Cas to tell you that’s what happened. You, with only pain and grief and the Silver, had raised Death for Lucifer. And nobody is pissed at you about it—a bitter, raw part of you really wishes they would be—but they all agree you’re most useful on book duty right now. Trying to figure out where Death might be, helping Sam and Dean with easier cases over the phone, using your spare time to try and transcribe everything you can about the Magdalene’s onto paper. 

You’d called Cas around midnight a week ago, when you were alone. Prayed to him carefully—just in case Gabriel was on the line again—and barely flinched when you’d heard his voice behind you.

“Dean says I am supposed to insist that you sleep,” he’d said as you turned around. “If you call me at night.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “Dean is dramatic. I’m fine.”

Cas’ head had tilted slightly. “Yes. You seem fine.”

“Was that…” You blinked at him. “Sarcasm?”

“An attempt at it, yes. Did it land?”

“Sure.”

“Good.” Cas had paused, still holding your gaze. “You do not seem fine, to be clear. You are… very bright.”

You’d scowled, rubbing at your wrists. “I thought I was supposed to be bright.”

“You are. It is just… Distressing.”

“Distressing? I’m distressing?”

Cas had nodded slowly. “There is a commercial Dean showed me. Where a dog dies, and it makes the other humans very sad. This is similar.”

You’d blinked at him. “So I’m a dog?”

“You are in pain. And it is distressing. To me.” Cas’ frown had deepened. “I can hear it. If you were not hiding yourself from my brethren, they would likely feel it to. Heaven would weep.”

“Oh.” You’d swallowed. “Sorry.”

Cas had shrugged. “Are you going to go to sleep now? Dean was very clear that you should either go rest, or call him-“

“Dean can shove it.” You’d kept your voice flat, even as the Spiderweb had howled at just the sound of his name. “I need to talk to you. I- I have some questions.”

Cas had paused, and you’d sighed. 

“You did your job, Cas. I’ll go to bed after we talk.”

“Alright.” He’d nodded slowly. “What are your questions.”

You’d let out a slow breath, watching him carefully. “You want some ice cream?”

“Is that your question-“

“No. Do you?”

Cas had blinked at you for a second. “I have never had ice cream.”

“Well, let’s fix that.” You’d turned around, calling over your shoulder as you opened the door. “I think we’ve got strawberry and chocolate. You’ll love it.”

Cas had loved it. You’d sat in dark, letting Cas devour the whole bowl, then the chocolate carton as you turned your questions over in your head. You’ve been trying to track Ellen’s soul, but it’s as if she’s vanished off the face of the Earth. It’s not worth asking Cas about that, though, given the whole cut off from Heaven thing. And if none of Bobby’s hunter contacts know anything, she doesn’t want to be found. 

You’ve still been searching though. If only to find Her and say I’m so fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have left, I should have saved Jo, I’m sorry and if you hate me, I understand, but just know that I’m so fucking sorry- 

“You haven’t asked me your questions.” Cas had cut through your thoughts, and you’d sighed. 

“It’s- You might not have anything. And it might be nothing all, but-“

Cas had said your name carefully, and you’d rushed out the rest of the sentence. 

“I found this thing about Men of God, and I’m not sure what it means, and I- Angels are of God. So-“ You’d let out a heavy breath. “Yeah.”

Cas had stared at you for a long moment, then shaken his head. “I have never heard that phrase before. Was it in Enochian?”

You’d shaken your head. “I heard it. In English. From, uh- Lilith, Alistair, and Anna.”

“Anna?”

You’d nodded, and Cas had sighed. 

“She was of a higher rank than I, in Heaven. And Alistair and Lilith were very old demons, both of whom seemed to be aware of you, but- I’m sorry. I don’t know what men of god are.”

“Alright.” It had been a long shot anyway. “I-“

“I can look, though.” Cas had jumped over you, and you’d blinked at him. “If you wish it. It might be able to help with my search.”

“Yeah, uh- Sure. Thanks.” You’d poked your ice cream—now only soup—with your spoon. “How’s the God search going, by the way?”

“Not well. There is… A lot of Earth.”

You’d snorted. “Yeah. Small, big planet.”

Cas had frowned. “Those are antonyms-“

“It’s a dialectic. Contradictory things that are both true.”

“Ah.” Cas had tilted his head at you. “I am sorry. That you have not been able to see it.”

“I’ve seen more of it than Sam and Dean.”

“Maybe. But there is- You are not Sam and Dean.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?“

“Dean told me what Anna said.” He’d murmured. “That your name is written in parts of Heaven I have not seen. And it does not seem to only be Heaven.”

“I-“

“May I ask you a question?”

You’d frowned, but nodded, and Cas had leaned forward. 

“What do you love? Of what this species has created?”

“Humans?”

Cas had nodded, and you’d rubbed your palm as you thought. 

“I- I don’t know. I don’t really think about it. But maybe- Nothing?”

Cas had frowned and opened his mouth, and you’d shaken your head. 

“No, not nothing. Just- Nothing.” You’d sighed. “Nothing that we’ve created. I’ve never been happy because of something. Like I-“ You’d let out a long, slow breath. “You know my knife?”

“The one you keep in your jacket.”

“Yeah, that. It’s- Dean gave it to me. And I love my flask because Bobby gave it to me. And I- I don’t care about the thing itself. I just- I love other people. And the things we do for each other.”

That had been pure fucking nonsense. You’d known it.

But Cas had nodded slowly. 

“I… believe I like that too.”

His attention had returned to his ice cream, and before you could push about the written in Heaven thing, he was talking about how he was fond of bridges.

And you’d remained benched. Researching and spending most days with Bobby, then trying not to smile like an idiot and kiss Dean’s big, stupid and pretty face whenever he came back. 

No demons knock at the door, but Lucifer might be keeping them on a leash. The angels are still after you, but the only reason they haven’t landed on Bobby’s roof to rip you away is because you warded the place to Hell. Four sleepless nights, utilizing Sam’s longer arms to get the ceilings and serval calls to Cas—Dean scowling in the corner and muttering that he’s surrounded by crazy—and Bobby’s house might be the most secure building in the country. 

So you read, and write, and pass the time trying to just get through it. 

You will.

You always do.

When you wake up there’s a glass of water on your dresser, paired with a little paper note folded beneath it.

Nuthouse is in Alabama. Sammy thinks it’ll take five days, so with the drive we’ll be back next Friday. Call tonight, then when we get there - DW

You smile, and tuck the note into your pocket. Maybe you can track down Ketch and demand he give you the first note back—or search all Mexico until you find it floating on the wind—so you can start a shrine. Even the paper has a little Gold on it. And Dean added a little smiley face that he scribbled out at the bottom, and he’s the most adorable thing on the planet, and you love him. 

It might be written all over your face, when you walk downstairs. There’s no other reason for Bobby to roll his eyes at the sight of you.

You stick your tongue out at him, but you’re not doing yourself any favors when you shuffle over to the coffee machine, and see that there’s extra left. Made with your grounds, and the cereal box waiting out for you.

A stupid, wide smile overtakes your face, and Bobby sighs. 

“You look drunk, kiddo.”

“I don’t drink-“

“Wish you did.” He mutters. “Maybe it would give you the balls to tell that idjit you like him back.”

You flip him off over your shoulder—this isn’t a useful conversation to have right now—and focus on the cereal. Dean even cleaned your mug and left it out on the counter, right next to an empty bowl and spoon. And if it were anyone else you’d be pissed about it. About the coddling and gentle treatment, like you’re just a little girl. Like you can’t carve your way through demons with only a knife, or kill monsters with nothing but your head and hands. 

But it’s Dean. 

“You know about this case they got?” Bobby asks as you drop across from him, and you shrug. 

“Dean said it was in psych ward last night. I think they’re going to try and get into it. But that’s all.”

Bobby raises his brows. “You’d already gone to sleep when Sam got the case.”

You sigh, giving him a flat look. “You know Dean and I sleep in the same bed, Bobby.”

“I don’t know shit.” Bobby holds your gaze. “Far as I was aware, you were just sleepin’, not having, uh- Pillow talk-“

“Jesus Christ, it’s not- We don’t-“

“I’ve told you, I ain’t gonna judge if ya are, long as you’re both aware of what’s goin’ on-“

“Bobby-“

“And you’re bein’ safe!” He runs a hand over his face. “I mean, if it comes to it, I’ll help ya, but now ain’t the time to be caring for a-“

“No.” You cover your ears with your hands. “Nope. It’s- We’re not even- Why would you-“

“Found a condom in my ice cream this mornin’.” Bobby shrugs. “Wanted to tell you that’s just gonna make it useless.”

Your face might be burning, and you glare at the cereal in the hope Dean can feel it, even halfway across the country. “Great. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.“ There’s a long pause, and then- “You can do a hell of a lot worse than Dean, kiddo. And he’s fuckin’ dedicated to ya-“

“Bobby.” You poke at the lingering cereal, floating around in the milk. “Please.”

Bobby grunts your name, and you shake your head. 

“We’re not sleeping together. Or dating. Or-“ You swallow, unable to finish the sentence, and Bobby sighs.

“You remember when you were nine, and I took you out to that safe house I got, in Alexandria?”

You nod, and Bobby clears his throat. 

“Was supposed to be a break. I’d had a rough hunt with a wolf, and you’d been havin’ those nightmares where you’d wake up screamin’ that someone was watchin’ you. But I’d brought the boys up there, month before that. Your magic thingy had started gettin’ out of hand, and John was gonna drop them with me for the week, but I wasn’t about to have you runnin’ to Rufus’ when you were freakin’ out about how the lamps were tired and the walls were gettin’ sore.”

“Rufus stayed with me.” You mutter. “He brought me new crayons, watched soccer, and told me to draw whatever I was seeing. Then you came back and said you were glad I asked about monsters and not math.”

“Sam spent the whole week talkin’ my ear off about fractions.” Bobby mutters. “And you gave me one of those drawings. Drew me green and the grass gold. When I asked you why, you said cause you’re green, and I like grass.”

You swallow, dropping your gaze back to your hands, and Bobby pushes on.

“I keep that in my desk. With all your other…”

“Crazy shit?”

He chuckles. “Sure. But the point I was tryin’ to make is that I brought you up to Alexandria, but I’d forgotten to clear it out. Some of Dean’s shit was still lyin’ around, and you were goddamn fascinated by it. Few of those old movies he loves, car magazine he’d grabbed from a library, and a bunch of candy he’d nicked for Sam. Think that was the first time you ate candy. Your eyes got real wide, and you asked if there were other things that tasted like it. Then you watched all the movies three times, and asked me to bring you more of ‘em.”

The world is blurring a little again. “All you could find was Indiana Jones.”

“Yep. Got you that, and a root beer float, and you never fuckin’ looked back.”

“Bobby.” You don’t want to look at him. To see what you know, written all over his face. “I- I don’t- I can’t-“

“I know you can’t, kiddo.” Bobby lets out a long, slow sigh. “All I’m tellin’ you is that whatever the hell you two got goin’ on, it’s not new. You wanted that boy since before you even knew him.”

“I-“

“You don’t gotta do anythin’ about it. But if you think it’s nothin’, it’s not. I still remember Dean bein’ twelve and askin’ me why that blanket you kept on the couch smelled good. And he’s a dumbass, but he’s good for you.”

“He’s not a dumbass.” You mumble, and you don’t care if it’s not helping your case. You still have to say it. 

Bobby only sighs. “I know he ain’t. But he can be. Just like you.”

You give a tiny nod, and keep your eyes fixed on your fingers. You’re picking at them again. “Can we please talk about something else.”

“You hear me? ‘Bout Dean?”

You nod, and hear Bobby let out a slow breath. 

“Okay, then. What’d you wanna talk about.”

“Uh- How’s the hunt going for Death-“

“Same as it was last night.” 

Your glare shoots up, and Bobby gives you a small, dry grin.

“Finish your breakfast, kiddo. Then we’ll talk Armageddon.”

You sigh, but listen. 

And the hunt for Death isn’t really making progress. Wherever Lucifer sent him, it’s not for television appearances. Most of the day is spent playing the news in the background in hopes of blatant omens. 

You won’t be useless. You might not be allowed to hunt, and you might lose Dean sleep by wandering out in the dead of night, but you won’t be useless. You won’t start screaming about Death in the middle of the night and make it Bobby’s problem. You’ll go sit on your bed and work on what you do best. 

Weird things.

New spells and rituals, trying to resketch that map of Heaven, ideas for how to help Bobby or find Ellen. Through the whole night, ignoring when your eyes go dry and you can feel your teeth, because you won’t be useless.

True to his word, you get a call from an unknown number the next morning. Early the next morning. Your phone buzzing before the sky has even started to lighten, starting your attention away from the notes in your lap.

“Dean?” You pick up in a second, and he laughs from the other side. 

“You know, one day you’re gonna pick up the phone and it’s gonna be the feds. Then you’ll have some explaining to do, Princess.”

You sigh, tipping your head back and smiling at the ceiling. "The feds don’t know who I am, De. Some of us are good at our jobs.”

“Hey, I’m good at my job. I got me and Sammy into this psych ward, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Your smile grows. “With my strategy.”

“Shit.” Dean mutters, and you let out a soft giggle. “I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“Nope.” You pause, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

Dean’s shirt. 

Dean’s shirt that you’re wearing, because you’re an idiot who misses him and loves him and wants him all the time. 

“I, um,” You swallow. “Are you there? And safe?”

You can hear him sigh through the phone. “Yeah. We’re safe. I mean, we got full bended and spread, but we’re safe.”

“Bended and-“

“Medical exam.” He grumbles, and you can almost see his sour expression. “It don’t know what the hell my ass has got to do with being bananas, but they still had to take a look.”

“Oh.” You flush, and force it to stay out of your voice. “That’s, um- Did it hurt?”

“Nah. It was fine. I-“ Dean cuts himself off, his voice dropping slightly when he continues. “Princess.”

Your flush is spreading. Growing hot between your legs. “Yeah?”

“Why the hell are you up right now.”

“You’re up-“

“I snuck out to leave you a voicemail so you had the number.” He snaps. “I didn’t think you’d actually be awake. Go back to sleep-“

“I never went to sleep.” You raise your voice over his, your knees drawing up to your chest. “I- I can’t.”

The line is only static for another second, then Dean clears his throat. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay. You haven’t been-“

“I’ve been writing.” You whisper, turning one of your notes in your hand. “And thinking. But that’s it.”

“Good.” Dean mutters, and you hear a rustle through the speaker. He might be rubbing his face. “I can try and stay on the line with you, b- sweetheart, but if they catch me, I lose pudding privileges.”

You smile softly at the air. “Woe is you, Deano. I-“

“It ain’t that bad.” Dean speaks over you before you can convince him to hang up. “All they got is butterscotch.”

“Wow. Woe really is you.”

He chuckles. “You have no idea, Princess. You want me to stay?”

“Yes.” Your grip tightens on the phone. Like you can force his voice to stay with you.  Please.”

“Alright, then. I had a great fucking milkshake on the road. Tasted like mint.”

“Dean, you hate mint-“

“I hate toothpaste. The, uh- sharp kinda mint-

“Spearmint?”

“Yeah. That. This was better than that. I’ll take you sometimes. If you- Uh, if you’d like.”

You smile into the air.  “I’d like.”

“Good.” Dean coughs. “Sammy got a salad. Fucking health freak.”

You giggle, and stay on the phone until you blink, and realize the sun has long risen back into the sky, and you’re slumped across the mattress to Dean’s side of the bed. 

He’s fine. The first thing Bobby tells you when you get downstairs is that Sam called that morning, saying they think they’re hunting a wraith and nothing else. If Dean was in trouble, Sam would mention it. 

“Bobby.”

He grunts, and you push one of your papers across the table. 

“Can you read that?”

“The Enochian?” He gives you a flat look. “No.”

“Not that.” You tap the bottom of the page. “That.”

Bobby sighs, and frowns at the paper. “Congelo.”

“Great. Now take this,” you shove a fistful of mint into his hands. “And keep it in your pocket.”

“In my-“ Bobby say your name with an incredulous expression. “What the hell are you talkin’ about-“

“It’s a defense.” Your tone is almost frantic. You can’t help it. “If you eat the mint and then say congelo, then everything within a ten-foot radius will freeze. I tried to keep it as simple as possible, but we’re going to have to up the salt in your diet and get you some pebbles to throw over your shoulder. And you, uh- You’ll have to keep the house about five degrees colder-“

“Kiddo, I ain’t doin’ any of that.”

“It’s not forever! It’s-“ You grab another fistful of notes, shoving them forward as if Bobby could read a single word. “It’s just until I figure out how to heal you-“

“No.” Bobby shakes his head, and you frown.

“But-“

“No. I don’t want you wastin’ your time on me.”

Your brows knit tight, and you scowl. “It’s not wasting time, Bobby-“

“It is if you’re lookin’ for ways to get me out of this chair instead of stop Lucifer.” He snaps. “I ain’t gonna lie and say I’m happy with this agreement, but I sure as shit ain’t putting myself before the damn world.”

“What if I want to put you first-“

“Then you need to remember that there’s no me, no anybody, if there ain’t world.”

You shake your head, your words growing strained. “What- What if something attacks you, Bobby. What if I’m not here and a demon gets to you again, and you can’t get to your shotgun. Then that’s three people that I could have helped, but I failed-“

“Hey.” Bobby grunts your name, and you take a slow, slightly shaking breath. “Breath. I got a piston on me, I keep extra guns places in this house that would shock ya’, and I know my exorcisms.”

“But-“

“If we’re bein’ honest, kiddo, my life expectancy is probably doubled in this chair. You’ve made this place more secure than fuckin’ Alcatraz. I’ll be fine.”

You take a heavy breath, your voice dropping under your breath. “People escaped from Alcatraz.”

“Yeah, three dumbasses who got themselves drowned.” Bobby sighs your name, rubbing his beard. “I’ll be alright kiddo. I got you lookin’ out for me, and if it makes you feel better, I’ll keep the damn mint. But I ain’t doin’ all the other stuff.”

You’ll take it. Just to give yourself a false sense of comfort, you’ll take it. 

But it doesn’t help you sleep better. And the pain still crushes your lungs in the dead of night, but you don’t call Dean. He’s working. He needs the sleep too. 

You’d promised you’d call him, if you were going to do something stupid. But you’re not. Every time you want to go outside and scream at the Sky until your voice is gone and your skin is frostbitten, you just keep writing under your hand cramps. It’s not even spells anymore. It’s Dean’s name in Enochian, a record of things you did that day, a bunch of fantasies you’re never going to speak aloud—that part comes with your hand between your thighs and a small gasp that sounds a lot like Dean—and a list of ideas for Dean’s birthday. 

But it still hurts. 

And you can’t just sit in it. 

You take the knife and the Blade, as you slide out the door. You won’t need them—anything that can really hurt you will trigger the Silver, and then it’s everybody’s problem—but it will be good to have a defense in the morning, when Bobby asks what the hell you were thinking, sneaking of in the middle of the night. You brought a weapon. Everything was fine. 

It isn’t.

Not really.

And you’re not really sure where you’re going. For a second, you’re driving the Firebird to the trail, ready to hike to the waterfall and see Jo—hiking at night might be a dumb idea, but animals tend to like you, and you do have your knife—but you’re not ready. 

You can’t do it alone. 

So you turn around, and end up at a bar. It’s the one Sam and Dean always go to. And you’ll always refuse Dean’s invitation, because they’re going to be drinking and you don’t want to be a bummer. The stick in the mud loser who can’t play pool, won’t drink, and is clinging to Dean’s side, stopping him from getting laid.

Sam had said Dean doesn’t look to get laid anymore.

That doesn’t mean he’d turn down an offer.

You try not to think about it. 

But there’s still the fucking fantasy. Where you do go the bar with them, Dean’s only looking at you. Grinning at you and ordering you a Shirley Temple before guiding you to the pool table with his hand on your lower back, and talking to you through the whole game. Then he wanders over to your stool and stand between your legs, smirking at you before pulls you into a long, deep kiss-

“Are you waiting for someone, darling?”

You blink at the voice from your left—you’ve been staring at your eggnog for maybe twenty minutes—and nod. “Yeah, my boyfriend.”

The voice hums, and your skin crawls. It’s British, and all you can think of is Ketch. “Some boyfriend he is, leaving a lovely thing like you hanging.”

“He’s not leaving me hanging.” You shrug. “He’s a mechanic and I make him shower before he joins me. And I’m really not looking for company, so-“ You turn to look at Mr. British, and your words die in your throat. “Fuck.”

The demon is seeping and sticky and smooth. Blood red.

Crossroads demon. 

His vessel is shorter, dressed on all black with a clean beard. 

Easy body to hide.

You reach for your knife, and the demon just sighs.

“Don’t do that.” He tilts his head to your hand, and you scowl.

“Shucks, buddy, you don’t really get a say-“

“I am not here to hurt you.” He hums, taking a slow sip of his own drink. “No fun in that.”

You pause. The Silver isn’t rising anymore, but it’s not going back down either. Just humming in static. Waiting.

You don’t pull out the Blade, but you don’t move your hand, either. “No fun?”

“God, no.” The demons turns to face you with a smirk. “If I’m being self-aware, no point in trying, either. I’ve seen the news. As far as I recall, San Francisco never had hospital that looked like a hanging garden. Not until you visited it, anyway.”

The Silver flares slightly at that, and your words are pushed through your teeth. “What do you want.”

The demon laughs. “Think I’d rather introduce myself first, actually.” He extends a hand, his smirk growing. “I already know who you are,” he says your name, and you sit a little taller. “But I’m afraid I missed you, when your two handsome buffoons gave me a gentlemanly call. Crowley, King of the Crossroads, anti-Lucifer demon.”

Fuck. 

You’re staring at him, trying to weigh the merits of stabbing him and running. If one demon found you, others could find you. And even if Crowley is—as he very pointedly said—against Lucifer, that doesn’t mean other demons won’t find you and call Lucifer-

“What’s wrong?” Crowley cuts through your cold panic, his brows raised. “Not a toucher?”

His hand.

You’re not going to shake it.

“You didn’t answer my question.” You say, pulling your hand out of your jacket. “What do you want.”

“Well, if we’re skipping formalities,” Crowley withdraws his hand, and his smirk grows. “I want to make a deal.”

“No.”

He sighs. “You haven’t heard my offer yet, you can’t just say no-“

“Yes, I can. No.”

“You are-“ He scowls, scanning over you carefully. “I’m not asking for your soul, darling. This isn’t another Dean’s got a year situation.”

You narrow your eyes, the Silver flaring slightly. “I’m still not interested.”

“Yes, because you don’t know what I’m offering-“

“I don’t care-“

“You will.” His grin returns in full force, wide and snake-like. “Because I can give you Death.”

The Silver flares again. Still too deep in your body to be dangerous, but brighter. You can feel how cold your glass is, from the ice in your drink. “Death.”

“That’s right.” He hums. “And since I can’t take your soul, all you’d owe me is one little favor.”

One favor. 

Death, for one favor. 

You’re not a fucking idiot. And Crowley might have played nice with Sam and Dean, but he’s still a demon. Still smiling at you from inside the vessel, hideous and crude and bloody. 

But Death.

You could fix your mistake. You could make it better.

Dean told you not to do anything stupid. 

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” Crowley says, before you can even open your mouth. “But I promise. I don’t break my deals, and I am very much in favor of a world without the Devil. He doesn’t even do any of the real work. Made us govern ourselves for years, he’s barely more than a figurehead.”

You frown, and speak before you can stop yourself. “Why are you British?”

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you American?”

“Touché.” You sigh and rub your thumb over your palm. “I-“

Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t answer yet. Sleep on it. And if you need proof of my allegiances,” Crowley leans forward, holding your gaze. “So I can offer you a step forward. For free.”

“Offer me- A step forward.” Your eyes narrow. “Why would you do that?”

“Call it an investment. I’ve been told some interesting things about you,” he drawls your name with a small shrug. “And while I’m not looking for friends, I’d have to be a fool to be on the bad side of the girl who kills angels and raised Death.”

“What’s a step forward-“

“You’ll have to find that out yourself, I’m afraid. But I promise I’m good on my word.”

You swallow, the Silver twisting in your body. “And it’s… free.”

Crowley nods, his grin never dropping. “As long as you promise to think about my real offer, yes. It is free.”

And Dean told you not to do anything stupid. 

But thinking about it doesn’t mean you have to do it.

“Fine.” You lean forward, holding Crowley’s gaze, and his smirk grows. “I’ll think about it. Promise. Your turn.”

“Los Angeles, California. See what you find.”

You open your mouth to push, but before you can, Crowley snaps his fingers. And he’s gone. 

Fuck.

——————   

“Dean.” Dad grunted, and Dean’s sat up. 

If Dad needed him, he always had to sit up. Look ready. Prove that he was listening, and that he would be worthy of whatever was needed. The kiddie gun Dad let him keep was in his pants. He couldn’t get into smaller spaces anymore, but he could strong-arm them open. Or just force himself into them, so Sammy didn’t have to. 

Whatever it was, Dean would do it. He could do it. He always did it, and it hurt sometimes, but he was being fucking useful, so-

“Take these.” Dad muttered, passing a pair of scissors into Dean’s hand. “Go inside, cut some cloth, then come out. Anyone ask you what you’re doin’, you pretend you’re dull in the head. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Dean didn’t understand. But he knew better than to tell Dad that. Then Dad would just give the scissors to Sammy, and while Dean could play stupid, Sammy couldn’t. Kid didn’t know how. He’d just freak out about getting caught and start making up frantic excuses until they were screwed.

But Dean could play stupid. He was good at it, too. And he’d figure out what Dad wanted. 

Get cloth. 

That couldn’t be too hard.

Dad had parked around the back of the Church. Out of the view of the road and—more importantly—patrolling cop cars. Dean had heard him on the phone with Bobby this morning, while Sammy was sleeping. Someone had ratted out the guy in room 105 at the motel on Kirk Street, with a bunch of guns and two kids that didn’t go to school. Now they had to wrap up the case and hit the road, before everything got worse. 

That was why Dean was going in, and not Dad. Dad would be in danger.

Dean might be too, but no one was going to hurt a kid. 

Usually. 

And Dean had never been in a church before. He didn’t remember Mom being that kind of religious, and Dad always said ‘you’d have to be a crazy asshole to believe, knowin’ what’s out there.’ Sometimes they’d pass big, dusty churches on the highway, but they looked like nothing. Single-colored building with crosses stuck on the top, all wood or clay or brick. The door always seemed too big, and the signs all said things like ‘There will be judgement’, which Dean wasn’t sure was true.

If there was judgement, it was a little slow. Or misplaced. If there was judgement, Mom never would’ve gotten ganked, and Sammy would’ve gotten to know what normal was. If there was judgement, Dad would get to sleep more, and he wouldn’t ever be angry because everything would be fine.

Dean didn’t remember what fine felt like. 

He was sure he wouldn’t be finding it in an old building that smelled like wet wood and smoke, with some old bald guy yelling at him. 

And that was what he’d been sure all churches would be.

But this wasn’t that. 

Maybe it’s because they were in a city. Dad rarely took them to cities. But Chicago had a problem, and Dad was the only person who could solve it. So, city.

And Dad rarely let them near churches, either. But here they were.

And when Dean shuffled through the too big doors, this wasn’t the wooden box filled with guilt and dummies praying to nothing. 

It was big.

Beautiful.

A ceiling that seemed higher than the sky, and arches that curved over his head like doorways. There was a big organ at the front, stained glass windows lining the walls, and Dean felt small. He felt like he was somewhere he shouldn’t be. It was too bright and colorful, too well-kept and clean. That might be gold, lining the alter, all the benches were shiny and polished, and not one of them was going to give him a splinter. 

It was empty. Oddly empty. It was a Thursday, but a place like this felt as if it should be filled with a hundred people, shouting and singing and doing church things. But it was just Dean, and the stature of the guy on the cross, hanging over the dais.

That looked painful. Really freaking painful. 

Dean didn’t think he’d be strong enough to do that, if he had to. He knew the whole Jesus story—he wasn’t that much of an idiot—and if Dad asked him to hang himself for the sake of everyone else, he didn’t know if he could. 

He wanted to be able to. Wanted to be worthy of whatever people saw in that guy, to make something this beautiful for him. Maybe if he bled enough, just one person would leave a flower at his grave. One person would sit on all those shiny benches, and think of Dean. 

He would never be worthy of all this beauty. Of those painting on the glass of angels, or the spotless shine of the floors. A flower and one person could be all he asked for. 

Maybe one day he’d earn it.

Right now, he had to get cloth. 

There was no one to stop him wandering right up the steps to the big preaching area, and there was some red, soft looking fabric hanging off the alter. That could be what Dad was looking for. And if it wasn’t, Dean would just take the blow, then run back inside until his brain started freaking working and he figured it out. 

He knelt down behind the alter—where nobody would see him, if they walked in—and raised the scissors to make a small, clean cut.

“What are you doing?”

Dean’s head shot up, and there She was. Sitting on the alter with hair shinier than the gold in the pews, looking at Dean with eyes brighter than all the sun leaking through the glass. Dean whispered Her name, his voice a little hoarse, and suddenly he wasn’t small anymore. He was kneeling, but at Her eye level. The scissors were smaller in his hands, and the alter was far from hiding his body from sight. 

He didn’t want to be hidden from sight. He wanted Her to look at him, all the fucking time. And smile, and lean forward while holding his gaze. 

“Dean.” Her voice was teasing, mimicking the tone with which he’d said Her name. He really wanted to kiss Her. “Why are we in a church?”

“I, uh-“ He cleared his throat, grabbing Her knee. 

A little bit to steady himself, but mostly just to touch Her. Make sure She didn’t vanish into the air as the dream fell back into a boring pace. 

“I’m working a case. With Dad.”

“Huh.” She frowned, glancing down at the scissors. “What?”

“He needed cloth from a church.”

“Why couldn’t he get it himself?”

“There were cops.” Dean shrugged. “And this isn’t that bad, sweetheart. One time he had me crawl into the sewer cause he dropped the wolf killing bullets.”

Her brow furrowed into a tight wrinkle. “Dean-“

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “But shit happens. And he got the wolf.”

“I- How old are you?”

“Right now?” Dean frowned. “This is, uh- The ’89 case in Chicago. Woulda been ten.”

The little wrinkle deepened, Her lips falling into a full pout. “That’s-“

He sighed. “Look, Princess, I know. And I’ve come to terms with it-“

“I don’t care.” She whispered, Her fingers reaching up to trail his jawbone. “You didn’t deserve that, De. I- He never deserved you.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “That right, Princess? I’m just that good, huh.”

“You are.”

She was holding his gaze, and there wasn’t anything mocking in Her voice. She just had that little furrow in Her brow, a siren-like voice that might be the most gospel this stupid church had ever heard, and Dean didn’t even feel small now. The felt like he was something important, with how She was looking at him.

And he wasn’t. 

But for Her, he’d always wanted to be.

“Well,” Dean drawled Her name, raising his brows. “Who would deserve me, then?”

She frowned. “Nobody.”

Dean blinked. She’d said it like She meant he was too good, when really nobody deserved having to deal with him. Deal with all his shit. The bits he’d forced into himself, the mud he’d been born into, the violence and horror that came with just knowing him. 

And She’d said it so simply, too. Like it was a fact and not just an outright lie. Moving on before he could push it. 

“You know, I’m from Chicago.” Her voice was a hum, Her fingers still lingering on Dean’s face. “Sort of. It was the closest city. I actually came to this church a lot.”

Dean frowned. “You did? If I’m ten, you’re-“

“Seven. Still with my family.”

“Huh.” He scanned over Her carefully, catching Her hand before She pull it away, and pulling Her a little further forward. Until he was higher on his knees, settled between Her spread legs and holding Her gaze. 

“Dean.” She whispered, and he pressed a kiss to Her knuckles. 

“What do you think woulda happened?” He murmured. “If we met then?”

“I- I don’t know.”

“I do.” He shrugged, taking Her face between his hands, and brushing his thumb over Her lower lip. “I’d start goin’ to church a lot more.”

She gave him a flat look. “Dean.”

“Yeah, baby?” He grinned at Her, and She flushed.

“You would hate church-“

“But I like you.”

She sighed. “You’d have to sit still for hours. Without music.”

“So I’d sit next to you.”

“My family wouldn’t have let you sit next to me.”

“Then I woulda snuck you out.” Dean shrugged. This was a stupid, impossible fantasy. That didn’t stop him from having it. “We’d hang out with they did whatever church people do, and if you still wanted to run away, I would’ve taken you with me. But if you stayed trapped with your douchebag family, I would’ve kept coming back, over and over, forever.”

She sighed, giving him a sad smile. “That’s a long time, Deano.”

“Nah.” He shrugged. “Not if I was with you.”

Her throat bobbed, Her fingers curling on the collar of Dean’s shirt, and She was so fucking beautiful. This was what the world should be worshipping. Her. But She shouldn’t have to suffer for it. She was too untouchable, too divine. People should be the ones bleeding for Her.

Dean certainly would. 

And when She leaned forward, brushing Her lips over his, Dean understood how people could dedicate their lives to something they could never be sure was real. 

This was only a dream. Dean was only crashing up into Her in the haze of light and color that was his dream, and only leaning Her down on the alter in his head. And he may never get this again, out there in the real world, but he didn’t care. He’d keep himself as Her shadow out there, and He’d keep Her like this in his mind all the time. 

Sighing easily into his mouth and mumbling his name, pliant and soft under his touch but scratching at his back when he nipped Her lower lip or pulled Her tongue between his teeth. 

Just for the idea of Her, he’d do unspeakable things. 

And for Her herself, he’d bleed all over the floor if She asked it of him.

Everything Dean had to give was Her’s.

All the way down.

Something slammed right into his fucking face, and Dean’s eyes shot open with grunt.

“What the- Goddamnit-“ He dragged the towel off his face, shooting a very smug looking Sam a glower. “This is still fucking wet, bitch-“

“You weren’t waking up, jerk.” Sam shrugged. “C’mon. I already started the car.”

Dean frowned. “You- Why? If you think you’re driving-“

“I’m not driving, Dean. We just need to hit the road, if we want to get to LA before midnight.”

“Before-“ Dean shook his head, and he could still fucking smell Her in the air. It hadn’t helped clear his thoughts. “Sammy, there’s no way we’re going right to the next case without-“

Sam said Her name, and Dean froze. “I know. You want to go back to Bobby’s to see her-“

“I- We need to check on Bobby and the Horsemen-“

“Sure, dude. But she’s gonna be there. So let’s go.”

“Be- In LA?”

Sam nodded, tossing Dean his jacket, and he caught it with a scowl.

“Why the fuck is she in LA, she’s still benched-“

“It’s her case.” Sam shrugged on his own jacket. “I guess she un-benched herself.”

He was way too goddamn relaxed about that. She shouldn’t be on a case right now. And it wasn’t just Dean being overprotective like Sam kept saying. Sam wasn’t there with Her, almost every night. Sam didn’t hold Her while she cried in the dead of night, or see that She was picking at her hands again, or notice how She’d been rubbing Her wrists until they were raw and looked rope burned. 

Sam didn’t wake up to find Her missing from bed. Didn’t feel his heart jump into his throat as he ran outside to find Her, and have it sink right back down into a pit at the sight of Her. Shivering and curled into Herself, all the color drained from Her features.

Sam didn’t feel goddamn useless when he got Her to smile again, but still left Her in the morning. 

Dean didn’t want to leave Her. Ever. If it were up to him, he’d live at Bobby’s and never stray further than he could hear Her calling his name. But the stupid fucking apocalypse meant he had to. And he wasn’t sure if it was the shit in San Francisco that had pushed Her too far, or something else she wouldn’t talk about, but he knew She shouldn’t be in the field. Shouldn’t be anywhere where She might hurt herself more.

And She’d agreed with that. Dean had double checked that She really was fine staying with Bobby, and She’d agreed. 

So he wasn’t sure what the fuck was happening. 

“What do you mean, it’s her case.” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, and the kid sighed.

“I mean she called last night, and she said I’ve got a case in LA. Meet me there. That’s it, Dean.”

“She called you?”

“Yep.” 

Dean’s jaw clenched, and Sam gave him an amused look. 

“Holy shit, dude. You were asleep-“

“Shut up.” Dean stomped to the door. “Call her for the details, then tell her to go back to Bobby’s-“

Sam snorted. “No. There’s no way I’m doing that.”

“I’m not asking-“

“No, Dean.” Sam gave him a flat look as they moved across the parking lot. “And glaring at me isn’t going to change my mind.”

“Sammy, she shouldn’t be hunting-“

“Then tell her yourself. I’m not jumping in front of that bullet for you.”

Dean scowled, and Sam let out a long sigh. 

“Look, dude, you’re not gonna be able to stop her. You know that better than anyone.”

Dean did. 

Son of a bitch, he really did. 

And he only grunted at Sam and turned up the radio, but Sam didn’t need Dean to admit he was right. The little smirk on his stupid face meant he already knew.

Trying to stop Her wouldn’t work. It had never worked. If Dean went up to Her and said Princess, go home, he’d get a glare that might hurt just as much as being stabbed. Then She’d been pissed at him, and wouldn’t let him talk to Her, and if She started crying, Dean wouldn’t be allowed to comfort Her. 

The best thing he could do was be there. With Her. For Her. Next to Her as her shadow, all the time. 

Hopefully, this would be a quick case. If not a salt and burn, a monster that She could gank in Her sleep, and She just wanted them there to help her with. They’d take care of it, then maybe actually get to the beach this time around.

And that wasn’t what was going to happen. She wouldn’t have left Bobby just for a monster of the week. 

She wouldn’t be waiting for them at the motel—the drive had been long, but Dean had only stopped for gas once and told Sam to hold it whenever he started whining about the bathroom—with Cas at Her side, if it was something that would be done in a day. 

They were settled in, too. Cas sat at the table, frowning over some of Her notes. She beamed when She saw Dean—and it filled him with light and made him stand a little taller, ignoring Sammy’s eyes roll entirely—and stood up, crossing the room to pull Sam into a quick hug. 

Sam got to go first. That was fine. There was no reason—at least not a logical one—that Dean should be hugged first, so he just rocked on his feet with his hands in his pockets, and he didn’t need to Her to hug him at all-

She almost slammed into him, and Dean let out a wheeze. It was tight. And long. And his arms wrapped around Her in a second, holding Her head to his chest and swaying back and forth slowly.

He could smell the fruit, and Her hair was so shiny, and Her lips were brushing against his neck whenever She took a breath-

Dean squeezed Her once, just to check, and She squeezed back twice. 

His jaw clenched, and he held Her a little tighter.

Something was wrong. 

“Hey, Cas.” Sammy cleared his throat, shooting Dean a should we be worried about this look. “You’re, uh- I thought you were still looking for God, right?“

Cas said Her name, and She pulled back from Dean’s arms with a sigh. “I can tell them, if that would be easier-“

“I’ve got it.” She took a pace back, looking between Sam and Dean with a small, tight smile. “I’ve got a lead.”

“A lead?” Sam frowned. “Like, on a horseman?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t know yet.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean you don’t know.”

“I know it’s something.” She gave him a grimacing smile. “Jury is still out on what.”

“How’d you find the lead.” She sighed, twisting the skin on her finger. “Research.”

Lie. That was a fucking lie. 

But before Dean could call Her on it, Sammy was talking again. 

“What is the lead?”

She walked back to the table with Cas, who gave Her a tight nod and passed her a paper without a word.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe they should be worried about that.

“People are fucking each other when they try to have sex.” She said, and Dean couldn’t stop his smirk.

“I think that’s what’s supposed to happen, Princess.”

Flush. Hitched breath. Parted lips that feel into a tight frown. “I know that,” she muttered. “I mean they’re fucking each other up. Like, ripping each other apart.”

She held up the photo—red and gruesome with a lot of guts on the outside of bodies—and Sam recoiled.

“That’s… so gross.”

“It gets worse,” Cas muttered. “Another couple suffocated. To death.”

Dean frowned. “How the hell is that-“

“They were also engaging in sexual acts.”

“Sexual-“ Sam shook his head, then said Her name. “What sexual acts?”

Her voice was barely a mumble. “Uh- 69ing.”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyed widened. “Oh. Shit.”

Dean couldn’t look at Her too long. At how She was very obviously avoiding his gaze and rubbing at Her wrists, hiking her knees up to Her chest as she dropped back at the table. It was just sex. And maybe Dean imagined it with Her, every time he took a shower and whenever She was lying with him in bed—or when he was alone in bed, or when She bent over and he wanted to crowd all Her space and kiss over Her neck, or when She fluttered her lashes and pouted Her lips and it felt like a goddamn spell was being cast over him—but that didn’t mean this was weird. She didn’t even know Dean thought those things.

He was pretty sure She didn’t know. 

If She knew, She’d never said anything. She would have said something. Or, more likely, stopped sleeping in a bed with him. And he played this out a million times before in his head—if She could see Dean’s desire and need for Her, spinning out of control from his soul and trying to touch Her, Dean always wanted to touch Her—but never stopped to circle around what if She could see it, and didn’t say anything, but didn’t hate it, either. 

He wasn’t sure what to do, then. She might be waiting for him to something, just like the kiss in Florida. But Dean wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing and fuck it all up. 

And if She wanted him, if She was flushed and nervous because of that, then-

Now wasn’t the time to worry about that. People were dying. Fucking each other to death. He needed to focus.

The more he focused, the faster they’d get through the case, the faster they got Her home, the sooner he could think about falling to his knee in front of Her and asking do you want me to touch you, baby girl? Are you thinking about touching me? Cause not a goddamn second passes where I don’t think I’d be a happy man suffocating between your legs-

“Do we have any theories?” Sam asked, moving to stand over the table and Dean clenched his fists. Focus. He needed to goddamn focus. “I know you guys have only been here a day, but-“

“We have ideas.” Cas cut Sam off with slow, careful words, looking to Her. 

Still staring at the floor as Cas said Her name.

“The Enochian. Tell them about that.”

She frowned. “You tell them about it.”

“But you’re the one who found it, and translated it.”

“But you keep saying I translated it wrong.”

“You still got it, though.” Cas frowned, and Sam shot Dean another worried look. “Do you wish me to explain it?”

She swallowed, but shook Her head. “I- Yes. Please.”

“Fine.” Cas looked back to Sam and Dean. “It’s a cupid.”

She rolled Her eyes. “It’s not a cupid.”

“You said I could explain it. I’m explaining it.”

“But you have to say my side too-“

“Your side is incorrect, why would I give them incorrect information-“

“Cas.” Dean grunted, looking between them with a frown as he muttered Her name, and She blinked up at him with shining eyes. “What the fuck is happening here.”

She sighed. “We have a bet.”

Sam blinked. “A… bet?”

“I found Enochian markings on the victims.” Cas said, pushing another paper—this one covered with Her handwriting in the margins—forward. “It is a Cupid’s mark. One may have gone rogue.”

She shook Her head. “But it says meat.”

“It says mate. Meat is a mistranslation.”

“But the word mate in English is derived from meat. And the people were hungry.”

“Hold up.” Dean shook his head, leaning over to frown at the paper. “Mate? Like- Soulmate?”

Cas sighed. “No, Dean. Soulmates aren’t real. Unions are pre-ordained by Heaven for higher purposes, or chosen at the free will of humans. Mate means…”

Cas trailed off, giving Her a helpless look that she only shrugged at, and Dean cleared his throat.

“Sex. It means sex, right.” He frowned between them. “You two are allowed to say sex-“

“We know that.” She snapped, and Dean’s lips twitched as She snatched the paper back with a glare. She was so fucking pretty. “We’re just tired. We’ve been working this all day.”

Sam frowned. “So you can’t say sex?”

“Sam.”

“Oh- Uh, sorry.” Sam scratched the back of his neck, reclining slightly from Her glare. Dean couldn’t blame him. She looked scary. “So- Do we think it’s a Cupid?”

She said no at the exact time Cas said yes, and Dean sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Well, it’s gotta be something-“

“That’s the bet.” She said, crossing Her arms over Her chest. “If it’s a cupid, he wins. If anything other than that, I win.”

“Win?” Sammy frowned between them. “Win what?”

“She will buy me more ice cream.” Cas muttered. “And I will find her a cat.”

“Cas.” Sam said slowly. “You’re an angel. I don’t think you need someone to buy you ice cream.”

“And,” Dean grunted Her name, holding Her gaze. “You can’t get a cat.”

“Why not?”

“I’m allergic.”

“It… will not be your cat, Dean.” Cas frowned at him. “I am getting it for her.”

“Yeah, Dean.” She stuck Her tongue out at him. “He’s getting it for me.”

“But only if you win, right?” Sam frowned between them. “I mean, that’s how bets work-“

“I know how bets work.” Cas said Her name with a shurg. “She explained them to me.”

“And we’ve already shaken on this one.” She sat up a little taller, raising Her chin. “So that’s that.”

Sam had definitely been right. Whatever this was—Her and Cas both staring them down with smug expressions and a bunch of Enochian notes covering the table—was maybe going to give Dean a heart attack.

“Oh- Okay.” Sam sighed, shooting Dean a defeated look. “Did you guys make a plan?”

“We have had a plan for hours, Sam.” Cas’ tone was flat, and Sam blinked. “We were waiting for you to arrive, so it could be executed.”

“Exe-“ Dean shook his head. “Cas, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but it’s damn near two in the morning-“

“We’re gonna go to bed, De.” She gave him a softer smile, and his heart might have just done a freaking flip. “But in the morning, I’m going to take Sam, and you’re going to go Cas, and I’m going to win.”

Cas frowned. “Unless it is a cupid-“

“It’s not a cupid.”

“The point of the bet is that it may be a cupid-“

“No, the point of the bet is that I want a cat-“

“Guys.” Sam raised his hand, raising his voice over theirs. “Splitting up isn’t a plan. I mean- It’s kind of a plan, but not really-“

“Don’t worry, buddy.” She gave Sam a wide grin. “You’re with me. And I’ve got a real plan.”

“Oh- Okay.” Sam put his hand back down. “And Cas and Dean-“

“I have a plan as well.” Cas gave Dean a small nod, and he felt a little frozen. “Dean, there is a diner down the road with burgers you will like. We’ll meet there.”

“We’ll- Where the hell are you going now?”

Cas frowned, rising slowly. “I do not sleep, and there are,” he glanced down to Her. “Other things. For me to attend to.”

Dean scowled. “Like what.”

“Things.” Cas’ voice remained flat. “I will see you in the morning, Dean.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Wait-“

There was a rustle, and then Cas was gone.

And She was still staring down at Her hands, the skin of Her nails picked raw. 

Something was wrong.

“Shit.” Sam muttered Her name, shaking his head. “Do I need anything for tomorrow?”

She shook Her head. “No. Just get some sleep.”

Sam nodded slowly, turning around with a clap of Dean’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go get our bags,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll take whatever bed you guys aren’t in.”

Dean grunted an agreement, and didn’t look away from Her as Sam moved away.

The door closed, and he crossed the room to kneel before Her, his hands resting carefully on Her thighs. She could shove him away if She needed to. And it would sting over his heart and skin if She did, but he’d let Her. 

She just met his gaze under Her lashes, a small furrow in Her brow.

She looked so fucking tired. 

Dean muttered Her name, slowly reaching up to hold Her face in his hands. “You’re not supposed to be hunting.”

“I- You’re not my boss, Winchester-“

“But I’m your-“ Friend. Best friend. Pathetic guard dog. Shadow. “I know you, Princess. Better than anyone. And you need rest-“

“I- I know, okay. But I need to see this through.”

He frowned. “Why.”

“Because.”

Dean grunted Her name, and She shook Her head. 

“I- I just do, okay. Please.” 

She was saying please. And fluttering Her lashes slightly. And Dean was orbiting around Her, and falling up into Her, but goddamnit, this felt like a shit idea. She was lying about something, and he didn’t know how to push Her on it. He’d never been good at applying the right amount of pressure with Her. And Dean might be damn good at taking care of Her—brushing a little of Her hair back and running his thumb down Her nose—but he’d also been good at hurting Her. 

He hadn’t hurt Her in a while. He never wanted to hurt Her again.

But he couldn’t make it better if he didn’t know what was wrong. He couldn’t protect Her if he was off with Cas for the whole hunt. 

“Princess-“

“I- I want to go see it soon.” She whispered, and Dean frowned.

“See-“

“The waterfall. Where Bobby-“ She swallowed, and it clicked in Dean’s head. 

“Jo.”

“I- I can’t go alone, De. I- I’ve been trying. And I can’t. And I promise I’m not running, and I know this is a bad idea, but it’s my lead and I have to do it-“

Her words turned into soft, weak tears, and Dean swore under his breath. He wasn’t making Her cry. But he wasn’t fucking helping either.

“I- I’m so tired,” She was falling over him, and Dean adjusted in a second. Pushing up to his knees and tucking Her into his chest. “I wanna go home-“

“Then go home,” he muttered Her name. “We can take care of this ourselves, cupid or not-“

She shook Her head against him. “No, I- It has to be me. I- I’m just tired.”

This was more than tired. She was leaning back with sniffles and pouting lips, and Dean knew this was more than tired.

But son of a bitch, he didn’t know how to push Her on it. And at least She’d have Sammy. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Her, if not for Dean, for Her. The kid adored Her. And She was strong. She’d gotten through months alone, right after Jo’s death, without a single scratch.

That Dean could see. 

But he couldn’t push Her on that either. Or on whatever the hell She and Cas were up to. And it definitely wasn’t the time to talk about how—when he kissed Her brow and helped Her to her feet, guiding Her into bed and pulling off his shoes before falling at Her side—he couldn’t stop wanting to fucking kiss Her.

He needed to just be there for Her. Lay at Her side and take Her hand, carefully testing if She’d kick him out of bed like a dog if he tugged Her a little closer. 

She didn’t.

And that should be enough. It had to be enough. 

But it never was. 

She shifted, in the night. Dean drifted in and out of sleep, and every time his eyes would open and he’d regain fully awareness, She’d have moved. Her body now facing his. Her chest pressed to Dean’s side. Her leg hooked over his waist, and their hands still tangled together.

Her face, burrowed in Dean’s shoulder, Her breath warm on his skin. 

It was torture. It was the best goddamn torture in the world, because Dean got to hold Her—kind of—but it wasn’t enough, and now he couldn’t fucking sleep. 

The rest of the night passed with lights on the ceiling, their hands pressed to Dean’s chest the smell of fruit and sugar getting him high on an amazing, horrible drug. 

He shouldn’t think about it right now. It was wrong. Sick. She was his best friend, and She was in fucking pain, and She’d been crying in his arms only a few hours before. 

But She was also humming softly whenever She took a breath, and nuzzling against Dean’s throat, and Her knee was real damn close to brushing against his cock. And in another world, maybe he’d be allowed to flip Her over until she was staring at him all pretty, splayed out below Dean and whispering his name in that siren-like way only She had ever said it. Then he’d kiss the sound off Her lips, and she’d hum softly and tug at his hair, and he’d give Her more. Give Her everything. All She’d need to do was relax into it, and Dean would make Her see all those stars that only seemed to shine for Her. Make Her feel that perfect, slightly pained paradise he lived in, whenever She so much as fucking smile at him. 

He’d made Her scream his name until Her voice was hoarse, then wrap Her safely in his arms, getting Her whatever she needed before She had to ask. He’d fuck Her until She couldn’t walk, then carry Her wherever She needed to go. He’d praise Her and kiss Her until she was a flushed, fucked out mess, and kiss Her again just so She knew. 

That as long as Dean had a say in it, She’d only feel good things. Be good places. Be happy.

He just needed to be the luckiest, most undeserving son of a bitch in the world, and be the one She wanted to be happy with. The asshole from the mud that hadn’t dragged himself up, but had hardened into clay. And She could mold him into whatever She wanted him to be. 

Dean just really fucking hoped it was something where he got to kiss Her, and She stayed wrapped around him for maybe the rest of time. 

He got up the moment light cracked through the blinders. He’d be fucked if She woke up first, and felt the raging boner pressed into Her thigh.

The cold shower sort of helped. The gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, and jacking off to the fantasy of Her in bed with him—curled at Dean’s side, smiling at him with fluttering lashes and maybe grinding onto his thigh while Her hands wrapped around his cock—helped a lot. And Dean dressed in the bathroom, grabbing coffee from the desk and setting in on the nightstand, with a little scribbled note that he was out with Cas, and to call if they got any leads. 

She and Sammy needed the sleep more than Dean did, anyway. They both looked peaceful, and they’d both been beating themselves up every damn moment they’d been awake, and Dean had been trying to help them but maybe he was only making it worse-

Problems for later. Right now, Dean needed to get a start on the case. The sooner they wrapped it up, the sooner Dean could get Her home. Take Her to go see Jo. Maybe stop and get Her food—not that day, that day would be a lot more holding Her while she cried—and then find the words to ask am I allowed to kiss you still, Princess. And if I am, could we do more than kissing. Could you maybe see yourself holding my hand, wearing even less clothing when you slept, and letting me build you a house that might not be the fanciest thing in the world, but would be fucking ours. And you’d be mine, and I’d just keep being yours. 

Always been yours, Princess. He stared down at Her like a fucking creep, tracing his hands over Her cheekbones. Never gonna be anything else. All the way down, right?

She didn’t answer. 

So Dean headed out the door, and called Cas at the diner. 

“How certain are you it’s a cupid?” Dean asked, right through a mouthful of burger—Cas was right, this place was awesome, they served burgers at six in the morning—and Cas sighed. 

“I am positive.” Cas muttered Her name. “She is caught up on the semantics of the translation. I will admit that I’ve never seen a rogue cupid do something like this, but this year has been… full of firsts.”

Dean grunted. “Yeah, it has. Never seen an angel place a bet before. Or take orders from a human.”

Cas frowned. “I have taken orders from you, Dean.”

“Those were suggestions-“

Cas said Her name carefully. “I am speaking of her. You did not suggest that I ensure she slept.”

Dean scowled. “Well, did you?”

“Of course I did.” Cas frowned. “You asked me to.”

Dean blinked. “Oh, uh- Thanks then. You’re not really gonna get her a cat, right?”

“I will have to. If I lose the bet.”

“What, did you two make a blood oath-“

“I don’t have blood.” Cas paused, his gaze flicking down to Dean’s burger. “You are eating slower than usual.”

“It’s early. And you better lose that freakin’ bet-“

“I am confident in my theory, Dean. You can come with us when we get ice cream.” Cas was still staring at the burger, and Dean cleared his throat. 

“How’d that other thing go?”

Cas’ gaze flicked back to Dean’s with a frown. “What?”

“Your other thing that you left us for. Last night.” Dean narrowed his eyes, and said Her name. “Was it something for her?”

Cas sighed. “If you are looking for me to tell you of our private conversations, Dean, it won’t work.”

“Why the hell not-“

“Because I won’t betray her confidence. Just as I wouldn’t betray yours about the bottle of her perfume that you keep in the bottom of your bag-“

Dean sat up. “How the hell do you know about that.”

“You asked me to grab you a gun, a few weeks ago. And I have eyes.”

“Well- I-“ Dean shook his head, leaning forward. “This is different, Cas. She might get herself hurt-“

“I will not let that happen.” Cas was looking at the fucking burger again. “Dean, I know how you are about your food, but-“

“Take it, man.” Dean sighed, pushing the plate forward. “I’ll get another one for the road or something.”

Cas nodded, grabbing the burger a lot faster than Dean expected, and he frowned. 

“I thought you didn’t need to eat-“

“I don’t. I’m trying new things.”

That didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

Wasn’t enough time to push it.

“Well, if it’s a cupid, how are we gonna find it-“

“You won’t have to find it.” Cas shrugged, frowning around the diner. “This city is a high priority location for cherubim-“

“Cherubim-“

“Cupids. They are low level angels. Not a threat, though.” Cas nodded slowly, and it mostly seemed to be to himself. “I will find it and deal with it easily.”

Dean frowned. “Then what the hell am I here for-“

“The bet.”

“Ah. Right. The bet.” He let out a slow breath, turning over his fork on the table. “If cupids are angels, do you think this is a rebellion situation? Lucifer flips one of them, diapered douchebag goes around ganking anyone he can?”

“Cupids don’t wear diapers.” Cas took another bite of the burger. “They’re naked.”

“Course they are.” Dean muttered. “Awesome.” 

Cas nodded, speaking through a mouthful. “And I am not sure of this one’s motivations. There is no reason for Lucifer to want a cherubim. Human love would not be… of his interest.”

“So you’ve got nothing.” Dean said flatly. “No motive, no theory, no explanation for why this might be happening.”

Cas shook his head, his mouth still stuffed with his burger, and Dean sighed. 

“Dude, we’re going to fucking lose this bet.”

And Cas kept saying they wouldn’t. Dean got his second burger—Cas ordered his own as well, and they were good burgers, but not that good—before they left, and whenever Dean muttered that it would probably be better for them to be helping Her and Sammy, Cas shook his head and said it’s a Cupid. Only they make those marks.

But it wasn’t a fucking cupid. 

Cas summoned the damn thing, and it crushed their freaking bones with hug, then started sobbing about how it would never do that. 

“Are cupids good actors?” Dean muttered in Cas’ ear, and Cas sighed. 

“No. They’re not.”

“So you lost-“

“Apparently, yes. Congratulations on your cat, Dean.”

Dean scowled—there needed to be a way to talk Her out of that—as Cas moved forward to comfort the sobbing cupid.

There was something off about this whole thing. There was a case here—people didn’t just eat each other—but if it wasn’t the cupid, Dean didn’t have a goddamn clue what it was. And She still hadn’t said how she actually found the lead, or given any alternate theories, and this cupid was sobbing, but both the vics had been marked with that meat or mate thing-

“Wow.” The cupid gasped, still hugging a very rigid Cas and staring at Dean, and he blink. “I’ve never seen anything like you.”

“Anything like-“ Dean pointed to himself. “Like me?”

The cupid nodded, and before Dean could open his mouth, the guy was naked and right in front of him. Poking him. His chest and face and arms and-

“Cas.” He grunted, his tensed with the effort not to throw a punch. “What the fuck is this.”

“I am not sure. Brother,” Cas caught the cupid’s hand, and it gave him an almost innocent expression. “I cannot recommend poking Dean Winchester-“

“I know, I’m sorry, it’s-“ The cupid took its other hand, and fucking poked him again. “Can you not see it? The bond in him?”

“The bond?!” Dean looked back to Cas. “What bond? I- Is there something in me-“

“There is nothing in you.” Cas sighed, and the cupid shook his head. 

“But- Look at that! He’d so shiny, and I- I’ve never seen such intricate work, and it’s not even angel made-“

“It?” No punching. He wasn’t allowed to punch. “What is it? I- Cas-“

“You have a connection.” The cupid whispers, his eyes wide on Dean’s. “It is the purest love I have ever seen. It’s-“ The cupid grabbed Dean’s face between his hands. “It is beautiful, Dean Winchester. Your love.”

Dean was frozen. 

His- He- That wasn’t- 

Cas muttered Her name, slowly pulling the cupid away. “He’s seeing her. Cupids are more attuned to souls than the average angel. They can see the webs you weave for each other-“ 

“Webs?” Dean blinked, and his voice was hoarse. “Cas, I- What-“

“Human souls are the most complex in creation.” The cupid offered eagerly. “They are all made of other people’s souls, too! You have your soul, then little bits of all the souls that have affected you the most! And as a cupid, my job is to take my arrow and weave certain souls together, but you- Your love-“ The cupid tested out Her name slowly, and Dean was going break his own hand. “You love her so much-“

“Cas.” Dean felt like something was pressing on his chest. “We’re done, right.”

Cas nodded, and that was all Dean had needed to say. There was a whoosh and then both the angel were gone. 

And it wasn’t pure. 

Dean wasn’t pure. He was made of mud and guts, and the was a shadow, not some shining prince in a fairytale. He killed things for a living, he lied and cheated and stole, he was barely better than the fucking monsters he chopped the heads off of and burned like it was a sick fucking sport. At least they hadn’t gotten a choice. They’d just had shit luck, a bad draw of species, born evil and wrong without a say in the matter. Dean had made that demon deal. He’d picked up that blade in Hell. He’d failed to keep Sammy off the demon blood, and he’d just let those Hell’s assassins keep a gun to his head while Anna killed Jo. 

And he’d held Her, after. And waited for Her. 

But that was because it was a law of fucking nature. She needed to be good. If She wasn’t good, nothing was good. She was warmer than the mud Dean came from, and stronger than the oceans he’d drown in, if She asked him to. More vital than the air he was taking in shallow gasps. Brighter than holy fire. 

And Dean still thought about fucking Her. About getting on his knees until Her legs were shaking, or stuffing Her mouth with his cock until She was moaning around him. That wasn’t pure. 

She was ethereal, and brilliant, and made of damn stardust or something, but Dean had always known he’d only turn that into something bloodied. 

He hadn’t. 

He tended to Her. Been careful. Waited. 

But- The cupid- It-

Dean’s phone rang, buzzing in his pocket and ripping through the air, and-

It was Her.

He picked up in half a heartbeat.

“Hey, Princess, what’s-“

“It’s not a cupid.” Her words were frantic, and Dean could hear how She was running out of breath, and Dean’s grip tightened on his phone. “Dean, it’s not a cupid, you have to tell Cas and come back right now, I- I need you-“

Fuck. “I’ll grab him, sweetheart, but- I need you to slow down and tell me exactly what’s happening-“

“Sam.” She whispered, and Dean’s blood went cold. “Fuck, Dean, he’s- We were looking at the morgue and I turned around for a second, but he was gone. And he’d been acting weird, and I’d seen that there was demon, but-“

Dean muttered Her name, and there was a muffled bang from the other side of the line. “What-“

“He took a hit of demon blood.” Her voice was so fucking soft. “I- I knocked him out. And dragged him back to the motel. He’s tied up. But I- I don’t know what to do-“

She didn’t have to know what to do. 

That’s what Dean was for. 

“I’ll be there in ten.” He muttered, already walking out to the Impala. “Keep him tied up, and don’t answer the door for anyone but me. We’ll deal with it.”

“Oh- Okay.” Dean heard Her shaking breath. “I- I’m sorry-“

“Don’t.” He grunted. The engine wouldn’t start fast enough. “You did good, Princess.”

“I hit him with a hospital poop pan.”

“And he’ll thank you when he’s up.”

She sighed, mumbled an agreement, and Dean forced himself to let Her hang up. It might be better to keep Her on the line. Just in case She thought of doing something reckless-

“Dean.” Cas appeared in the passenger’s seat, and the engine started. 

“Thank Christ,” Dean muttered. “Cas, we gotta go-“

Dean said Her name, and Cas cut him off with a shake of his head. “I don’t think it’s wise for you to be near her, Dean. Not right now.”

“Cas-“

“I have a working theory.” Cas said, his words slow. “And it may be dangerous-“

“I don’t care.”

“Dean-“

“No, Cas. I don’t give shit what’s doing this. We’ll work on the case after. My girl calls me, I go.” Dean pulled onto the street with a scowl. Speed limits were suggestions anyway. “That’s it.”

Cas made the smart choice. He shut the hell up, and let Dean drive. 

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, crossed legged and curled into herself, eyes a little red as She stared at Sammy across the room. There was blood dried on Her lower lip, and it was swollen from chewing. Blood on Her nails as well. 

Sam was tied to the chair, his face still a little stained with demon blood, and bowing his head. 

That was good. If Sam wasn’t fighting it, all they’d have to do is wait for the detox. 

So Dean walked right over to Her. 

There was nowhere else to go. 

His arms wrapped around Her shoulders, Her face buried in his stomach as she held him back, and they stayed like that until Cas cleared his throat and muttered Her name. 

“You have connected it?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, and Dean stepped off to the side so She didn’t have to lean around him. “Meat. Mate. It’s hunger.” Dean frowned. “Hunger?”

“Famine.”

Cas nodded in agreement, and shot Dean an odd look. “I asked the cupid if it’s seen other cases like that. It said it had heard rumors, of pairings gone wrong. And lust is the most… potent of the sins-“

“So he’s been tailing after cupids.” She muttered, pushing to Her feet. “Sirens too. Found a few cases scattered across the country, but they somehow got missed. They start in Maryland.”

“Ilchester?” Dean muttered, and She nodded. “Shit, that’s where Lucifer-“

“I know. It’s Famine.” She let out a slow breath. “Cas and I will deal with it.”

She started to walk to the door, and Dean barely registered the words fast enough to grab Her around the waist with a scowl.

“You and Cas are not dealing with it-“

“It would be the most effective.” Cas offered, very unhelpfully. “I may be affected by the desires of my vessel, but I can overcome that.“

“And they can’t do shit to us.” She said, holding Dean’s glare. “Famine eats souls. Cas has grace, and if he does try to touch me, I’ll blow him up.”

Dean scowled. “I’m not exactly falling apart either, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” She squeezed his hand three times, Her gaze so fucking soft. “Please.”

God fucking damnit. “Fine. But if you’re not back by sunrise, I’m launching a search that’ll make a manhunt look like a lost sock-“

“I know.” She wrapped Her arms back around Dean’s neck, Her face falling into his chest. “Thank you.”

Dean only grunted. “Call me if you-“

“I will.” She was going to choke him, with the way She was clinging to him. He didn’t really care. “I fucking hate California.”

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “So we’re not goin’ to the beach.”

“Maybe we can try an east coast beach.” She mumbled. “I’ve always wanted to go to cape cod.”

Dean had been to cape cod. Lot of box houses and gray sand and dune. No place for a walking, breathing star. 

But wherever She wanted to go, Dean would follow. Just like the goddamn shadow he was. 

And he wasn’t going to just be reduced to dog, pacing around the motel and looking at the door, waiting for Her to return.

That ended up being most of the afternoon, though. The TV played in the background, Dean and Sam ate in silence after the kid had mostly detoxed, and every time Dean glanced at his phone, there wasn’t a new call or message.

“Why aren’t you affected?” Sammy broke the silence around dusk, his voice a little gravely. “I mean, you’re like, the hungriest guy I know, Dean.”

“And I eat when I’m hungry.” He shrugged. “It’s not that complicated, Sammy.”

“Yeah, but, if lust is something that Famine can feed-“ Sam cut himself off with a shake of his head. “I mean, you haven’t gotten laid in a while-“

“I take care of myself.” Dean muttered, and didn’t fucking know why he wasn’t affected. He just wasn’t. And he wasn’t a soul scientist or something-

The cupid. It could see him. It had said his- That it was pure-

“Maybe it’s- I mean, you do eat, and I’ve, uh-“ Sam cleared his throat, and Dean really needed him to just drop it. “Heard you-“

“Sam-“

“You’re loud, dude. It’s sort of a miracle that-“ Sam said Her name, then froze. “Holy shit. You should be like, all over her.”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was almost a bark. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry about it. “I’m not affected. That’s it.“

“No, it’s not. You- Dean, even if we ignore feelings, you at least want her physically-“

“I-“

“And denying that isn’t going to do you any favors right now, so-“

“I’m not denying it.” Dean pushed the words through his teeth, holding Sam’s gaze with a scowl, and Sam blinked. 

“You’re… not?”

“No. I’m not.” Dean was going to snap a few teeth. “You win, Sammy. I want her. I think about her all the time. I dream about her. She’s my whole, stupid world, and I can’t live without her, and I-“ He choked on the last words. Pure. “I know that I want her. But it’s complicated. And yeah, I’ve been thinking about fucking her, but I’m not feeling whatever the hell hit you and Cas, so I’m fine.”

The room was silent for long. Too long. Dean shouldn’t have fucking said that. He’d let a lot of Sam’s teasing about it slide, over the years, but this- She was holy. Sacred. And Dean couldn’t let the fact that he had feelings taint that, or let Sam ruin the very thin line he’s been walking for damn near nine years-

“Dean.” Sam’s voice was barely a rasp. “Oh my god, dude. It’s-“

“Don’t-“

“I knew.” Sam said quickly, and Dean frowned. “I mean, I’ve known. Everyone’s known. But I- I didn’t know.”

Dean stared at him. “Man, if you keep talking in riddles-“

“How long have you felt, uh- That? About her?”

“Yeah, no, I’m not showing you my fucking diary-“

“Dean.“ Sam sighed “I’m trying to help. Just tell me.”

It took a second to say it. This conversation fucking sucked. “Long as I can remember.”.

“As long as- You mean-“

“Yeah.”

“Oh. I- Do I need to say it?”

Dean let out a long breath, and shook his head. He understood. And Sam, to his credit, finally shut up. The detox wrapped up with Sam knocked out—his hands still tied together, and one leg to the bedpost for safety—and Dean just… 

Waited. 

For Her to come home. 

He sat on the couch and stared at the door, and he was fucking pathetic. Dad would have shot him, if he could see Dean now. Would’ve yelled at him about lettin’ the lyin’ little girl boss him around.

All Dean would’ve had to say in his defense was that he liked Her bossing him around. She looked hot while She did it, and She knew what she was talking about all the damn time. And She wasn’t a liar. Not about the stuff Dad thought. She was just bright and consuming and amazing, and Dean knew when She was lying anyway, so it didn’t really matter. 

Dad would’ve then snapped that Dean wasn’t being a man, havin’ Her do all the work. Sittin’ around on his ass like a bitch.

And Dean wasn’t sure what Dad had thought being a man was.

But to him, it felt a lot like when the door opened, She walked through without a single drop of blood on Her body but a heavy look of Her face, and Dean was the first place She went. 

Before the bed. Before Her shoes were off, before Cas was even in the door. 

She went to Dean. Folded into him, with Her arms back around his neck and their bodies slotted perfectly together, letting Cas take the lead as She just stayed in Dean’s arms. 

“Famine’s ring.” Cas muttered, holding it up for a second before dropping it on the table, and Dean nodded. 

“Did, uh-“ He glanced down to Her, and Cas understood.

“It was a clean cut. I stayed outside, she got him with her blade. Is Sam-“

“He’s feeling better.” Dean muttered. “How about you, man. Still craving burgers?”

“No. It passed.” Cas paused. “Dean, I believe we should discuss how you-“

“No. We shouldn’t.”

“Dean-“

“I know.” Dean muttered, his gaze flicking down to Her. 

She was passed out. Warm against him. So fucking beautiful, even with Her hair knotted from the hunt and a little drool already falling from Her lips. 

And Dean knew.

He knew when Cas nodded, and muttered that he had those other things to take care of, but to call if they needed him. He knew when he carried Her to bed, and She let out a soft, sweet sigh. He knew when She curled closer to his body, and Her hand moved into his like a magnet.

He’d felt it forever.

But he only knew now. 

Pure. 

It wasn’t pure. It was just big. Consuming. Easy to get lost in without ever needing a way out. Safe to be trapped in because he’d never want to be anywhere else. It was every single star, and all the planets Sammy used to love telling him about. The deepest parts of every ocean where light didn’t touch, so She’d told him that the fish made their own. The first time Dean had stepped into a church, and he’d felt so small, but wanted to be more. The loudest parts of all the songs he had memorized and all the words She knew that still would never be enough to properly say it. The whole universe, and then whatever was going to devour it in the end. 

Her. 

It was all Her. All the way down.

And it didn’t matter if She tried to rip herself apart again, or if She left a million more times. I didn’t matter if She came back and fell into his arms, or tried to take a bite out of him. If She screamed and cursed his name, or let him hold Her until the pit in his body was only light.

It didn’t matter that the world was ending. Or that She was being hunted by angels, or had raised Death, or had Lucifer making Her friendship bracelets. It didn’t matter that Dean might have to play puppet for an archangel, if he didn’t get killed in the process.

It didn’t matter that it was complicated, because it wasn’t. Everything else sure as shit was, but this wasn’t. 

Dean loved Her. 

And that was all the way down, too. 

End Note: John Winchester turning in his grave right now. Good. I hope he explodes when they fuck.

I'm back!!! Thank you guys so much for waiting the two weeks! I posted a few bonus chapters in the pslams while I was on vacation, so check those out if you want to.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[asexualjedi]

Lmao wait is the thunderbolts premise that Bucky as a senator just kidnaps random villains/people he’s heard of and is like girl help let’s go kill god

[soulrox]

DPxDC #32

Danny, Sam, and Tucker are on the outskirts of town, waiting for Jack to reveal what he dragged the kids out here to show them. A giant structure is covered by a tarp.

"Hey Dad, whatcha make this time?"

"Danno, my boy, this is," dramatically ripping off the tarp, "The Fenton Trebuchet. It automatically sends out a net to catch the ghost. Fire this bad boy and we'll knock any ghost outta the sky." Jack hits the lever, very excited. Nothing happens; it doesn't even move. "Sigh, another failed invention."

"Oh no, that's too bad, Dad, maybe next time," Danny says while thinking back to the other night when he sabotaged it.

Jack dejectedly drove back to the house, leaving the trio behind. Danny, Sam, and Tucker get very excited. A giant trebuchet the size of Fenton works, and no supervision.

The trio stares at the trebuchet with matching grins.

"Dibs," Danny calls. He quickly fixes what he sabotaged and hurries into the sling. "3, 2, 1 fire," Sam yells as Tucker releases the lever, and Danny gets launched.

An involuntary scream turns to laughter as he flies. Quickly switching to ghost form before he completes his arc right into the ground.

Sam gets launched. Laughing the whole way until Danny catches her. Quickly going back to allow Tucker his turn.

Tucker records and uploads their shenanigans to his blog, where immediately Wes Weston sees it and gets the rest of their year group to join. A chance to go "flying" and be caught by their favorite hero, even the A-listers join.

A good system gets going. Allowing Danny ample time to catch and release people, but gets interrupted by a sleek black plane.

-

"Red Robin I know you're mad at Batman but I think stealing the Batplan and hiding out in the Cave isn't the best plan." Conner says while lounging in the passenger seat.

"Well then B shouldn't have been such an idiot with my case which he completely ruined by BLAH BLAH BLAH and further more BLAH BLA-"

PING, the radar goes off. As quick as it came, it was gone. A moment goes by, and it happens again. Tim directs the plane in the direction of the unknown object. Tim and Conner look at each other, at the radar, then out the window, hoping that the other understands what they are seeing.

A person shooting through the air, making silly poses as they go, only to get quickly caught by a glowing, flying teen. Soon followed by another person being sent flying.

Very concerned, Tim gets closer, dropping the cloaking, and into the line of sight of the glowing flying person.

"STOP FIRING! PLANE!" Yells the glowing teenager as he catches a little girl. The little girl in his arms giggles. "To the person flying, please move out of the way or land and join in." The glowing teen says before flying down to where a very large gathering of teens and kids awaits. They are standing around a very large glowing green trebuchet.

Tim quickly seems to understand what's happening. However, the glowing flying teenager is of high interest, so he quickly lands the plane for answers.

-

A hush falls over the crowd when the plane lands, and out walks Red Robin and Superboy. Tucker looks like he's gonna pass out about meeting his second favorite vigilante, Red Robin. (Oracle, of course, is his #1.)

Danny, Sam, and Tucker greet the duo. A quick introduction and a conversation occur, where the duo gets some of their initial questions answered. Enough information was shared that Red Robin decided he wanted to be launched.

RR gets launched and caught by Superboy. After, RR starts to mingle and gather more information from the crowd. Everyone starts to take pictures with him, and they are very open to answering his questions.

Superboy and Danny end up chatting while they are on catch-and-release duty. The conversation is sort of awkward. Both of them are in a gay panic over the other. Several teens who have been caught get front row seats to the awkward, bad flirting. Sam makes sure to get launched a few times to watch the show.

[fireinmoonshot]

misunderstanding | joaquín torres x fem!reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: When you overhear Joaquín talking about you being clingy, you assume he secretly hates that you have been lately. Joaquín sets out to make you realise it was all just a misunderstanding. Warnings: Mentions of food. Word Count: 3.1k A/N: This was requested and I loved the idea so much so I just had to write it. It took me a few days but I've gotten around to it. I love how it turned out as well – it ended up being one of my longer Joaquín fics!

“So, is Joaquin your boyfriend?” Cass Wilson, Sarah’s oldest son, asks.

You’re sitting in the living room at Sarah Wilson’s house with her two sons sitting on either side of you on the couch. You’d offered to babysit them for a bit while Sam and Bucky took Joaquin out for some training and Sarah finished up with her shopping in town. For a while you’d been watching something on TV, but then the boys had gotten bored and started an interrogation instead.

“He is,” you confirm.

AJ, the youngest, nods, as if pleased by your answer. “Are you an Avenger too?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not an Avenger. I’m just a normal person.”

“That’s a bit boring,” AJ sounds a little disappointed.

It’s then that you hear the sound of a car door closing outside, followed by the sound of laughter – Sam, Bucky and Joaquin are back from training, saving you from a possibly awkward conversation with Cass and AJ. You stand up from the couch. 

“It sounds like your Uncle Sam is back, I’m gonna go open the door for them, okay?”

Your hand is on the door handle, about to open it, when you hear what the men are talking about. It makes your heart drop into your stomach. 

“Yeah, she’s really clingy lately,” Joaquin says, his voice unmistakable. “It’s kinda weird cause she never was before, but after everything happened and I was in hospital for a while, she has been.” 

Your hand falls away from the door handle and as you hear footsteps coming up the stairs, you step backwards away from the door, feet leading you away before you can think too much about it. You walk straight through the living room, ignoring AJ and Cass’ confused voices asking you why you were going in the opposite direction of the front door, and head upstairs, going straight for the bathroom – one place you can trust Joaquin isn’t going to barge in looking for you when he notices you’re not downstairs. 

With a deep breath, you lock the door behind you and put your hands down on the edge of the sink, trying to calm yourself down and slow your heartbeat. Joaquin’s words are on repeat in your mind. She’s really clingy lately. Had you been? You hadn’t really meant to be. It was true that you’ve never been a particularly clingy girlfriend before, but after almost losing him, maybe you had become one of them. 

And Joaquin doesn’t like it.

Joaquin, who is quite possibly the most clingy boyfriend on the planet, doesn’t like having a clingy girlfriend. It’s almost laughable. You stop yourself from actually laughing out loud, which ends up being a good thing when you hear a knock on the bathroom door.

“Angel, you in there?”

Your head snaps towards the door and you stifle a groan. While Joaquin wasn’t going to barge into the bathroom looking for you, it clearly wouldn’t stop him from knocking and sussing out where you were. There are only so many places to hide in this house.

“I’ll be out in a second!” You call, trying to keep your voice steady and not show how much you’re hurt. You don’t want Joaquin to know that you overheard him, but it’s clear to you now more than ever that you can’t be clingy to him anymore. He wants his space or he wouldn’t have been telling Sam and Bucky all about how clingy you are.

When you exit the bathroom, after splashing some water on your face to try and calm yourself down a little more, Joaquin is still out in the hallway, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom and scrolling on his phone. He looks up as soon as he hears the door open, a smile on his face. 

“How did training go?” You ask, trying to be casual about it.

Joaquin puts his phone back in his pocket and walks towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist in greeting. It’s only been two hours since he last saw you but to him, two hours is basically the equivalent to two months. He can’t help but notice the way that you don’t drape your arms over his shoulders like you’d usually do.

“It was good,” he replies. “I kicked Sam’s ass, actually. Bucky was even impressed.”

You give Joaquin a tight lipped smile and extract yourself from his arms. “That’s awesome, baby. I’m proud of you.” You can hear voices downstairs – Sam, Bucky and Sarah, who has obviously returned back from town while you were in the bathroom. “Is that Sarah I hear downstairs? I promised her I’d help her with dinner tonight.”

Before Joaquin can so much as utter another word, you’re walking down the stairs. He watches you, confused, and shakes his head as he follows you downstairs to the kitchen where Sam and Bucky are helping Sarah put away the groceries. 

He really had had a good training session. It was nice to spend some one on one time with Sam and Bucky like that, to learn different things from each of them and watch them sparring together. If he was even a little bit of a better fighter after it, he’d consider that a win. 

The fact that he couldn’t stop talking about you on the way home had probably lost him a few points with Sam and Bucky, though. He couldn’t help it, though – you’re the love of his life and you’d offered to look after Sam’s nephews so they could go out and train. He’s always thinking about marrying you and starting a family with you, so to see you do something like that just made him love you even more. 

Even though he really would have loved to have you come and watch him train. 

When he’d mentioned that to Sam and Bucky though, they’d given him a strange look. 

“You two aren’t one of those couples that can’t ever be separated, are you?” Bucky had asked, looking a little disturbed at the idea. 

Joaquin snorted. “Did you not just notice that I spent two hours away from her so I could go and train with you guys?” 

“Yeah, and talked about her for at least an hour of that,” Sam added.

“It’s no secret that I’m clingy as hell when I’m around her,” Joaquin shrugged as they got out of the car and started walking towards the house. He had a skip in his step just at the thought of you being inside the house. “But to be fair, she’s been really clingy lately. It’s kinda weird cause she never was before, but after everything happened and I was in hospital for a while, she has been.” He paused to smile to himself. “I love it though. She should be clingy with me more often.” 

They’d walked inside then and the first thing Joaquin did was ask the boys where you were. They said you’d just run upstairs, so Joaquin assumed you were in the bathroom and headed straight upstairs to check on you.

Now, as he walks into the kitchen behind you, he doesn’t even think twice about placing his hands on your hips as he stops behind you. He’s glad when you don’t immediately shake him off. You’re standing next to the counter, right by the door, watching as Sam and Bucky argue over which cupboard salt goes in.

Sarah rolls her eyes and snatches the salt from Sam’s hands before putting it in the correct cupboard in an attempt to stop the men from arguing in her kitchen. You laugh a little as you meet Sarah’s eyes and she just sighs and shakes her head.

“You want me to help you and Sarah with dinner too? I don’t mind,” Joaquin says in your ear, his hands still on your hips. He’s completely unaware that you’re fighting your instinct to lean back into his chest and also trying not to pull yourself out of his grip.

“It’s fine, baby,” you say, voice only loud enough for him to hear. “Sarah and I will work better once all of the men are safely out of the kitchen.” It’s a little harsh but it’s true.

Joaquin laughs, the sound making you feel warm and comforted. “Yeah, I’m actually gonna agree with you on that one, angel.” He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before stepping away from you. He doesn’t want to leave, but he can sense that you’re not yourself and until he can get some alone time with you, he doesn’t want to push you. “Guys, lets go show AJ and Cass that new move you taught me and leave the ladies alone for a bit, yeah?”

Somehow, his words actually work and Sam and Bucky leave the room after Joaquin. It’s remarkably more quiet inside now that they’re gone and Sarah lets out a breath of relief.

“I’m actually impressed Joaquin didn’t join in on that and managed to get them outside,” Sarah admits. “That kid can usually talk more than Sam and Bucky combined.”

You chuckle and walk further into the kitchen to help Sarah finish unpacking the groceries that Sam and Bucky hadn’t gotten around to. “Yeah, you’re right about that one.”

Outside, Joaquin is smiling as AJ and Cass freak out over how cool the new move is after Joaquin shows it to them. But in the back of his mind, he’s still worried about you. Something is off – with the way you’d pulled yourself out of his grip upstairs and the way you’d been less affectionate with him downstairs. Has he done something wrong? He can’t think of anything off the top of his head. Everything has been normal with you until now.

“Hey Cass,” Joaquin starts, pulling the older boy to the side as AJ asks Sam and Bucky to show them some more cool moves. “Did something happen with my girlfriend while we were out?”

Cass looks up at Joaquin, confused. “No, we just watched a show and talked. Then she said she was gonna go open the door for you guys and then she came back through and went upstairs really quickly.”

Joaquin thinks. What were they talking about as they were walking towards the house? It hits him, then. He was talking to Sam and Bucky about how you’d been clingy ever since he’d gotten out of the hospital. You had to have overheard him… had he said something that had hurt your feelings? Whatever it was, he needs to fix this right now. 

He doesn’t even bother to tell Sam and Bucky where he’s going, just thanks Cass and heads straight for the house, ignoring Sam as he calls out to ask him where he’s going. There’s only one thing he needs to do right now and it’s not out here.

You’re still in the kitchen, mid-way through washing some of the vegetables that Sarah had gotten to cook dinner with tonight. Sarah is cutting up the ones you’ve already washed. She looks up as Joaquin walks in the room, a little breathless from having basically ran back inside the house. 

“Everything all right, honey?” She asks him. 

“Yeah,” Joaquin nods. “Can I borrow your sous chef for a second though?”

From your spot at the sink, you put the vegetables down and grab the hand towel to dry your hands. You hadn’t expected Joaquin to come back in so soon, letalone to ask to talk to you. But maybe you hadn’t been as successful at hiding your hurt as you thought you were.

“Of course you can,” Sarah says, watching as you walk over to him.

Joaquin reaches down and grabs your hand before tugging you out of the room and up the stairs towards the bedroom that you’ve been sharing while you’re visiting Sarah and the kids. He’s a little surprised that you don’t resist him, but once the bedroom door closes, you drop his hand just like he’d expected you to do since he first took it.

“What’s this about, Joaquin?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

He looks at you for a moment, trying to read your expression but failing. “I owe you an apology, angel. I think I said something earlier that hurt your feelings. That’s why you brushed me off earlier and have been kinda short with me, right?”

Joaquin is more perceptive than you’d thought and there’s no point in trying to deny it when he already somehow knows that he said something that hurt you. 

“You did,” you admit. “I didn’t think you minded that I’ve been clingy with you since your accident, especially because you’re so touchy with me. But I’m sorry, Joaquin. I never meant to make you uncomfortable or make you feel like I don’t give you space.” 

You watch as Joaquin opens his mouth, then closes it again. He furrows his eyebrows and runs a hand through his hair. “Wait, what the heck are you talking about? When did I say that I didn’t like you being clingy or that it makes me uncomfortable?”

“Earlier,” you frown. “When you were coming back inside after you went out with Sam and Bucky. I was at the door and I heard you telling them that I was clingy. That I never used to be but ever since you were in hospital I became that way.” 

Joaquin laughs softly and runs a hand over his face. “Okay, angel. You didn’t hear everything I said, did you? When you ran off upstairs like the boys told me, you left before you finished hearing what I said.” He steps towards you and takes both of your hands in his. “You missed the part where I said I love you being clingy with me. That you should be clingy more often.” 

For a moment you just stare at him, a little confused. “Are you just saying that to try and make me feel better or something?” You ask, apprehensive.

He shakes his head. “You can even go and ask Sam and Bucky if you don’t believe me. They heard me say it,” he says. “I mean, come on, angel. I’m clingy with you, why would I not love it when you’re the same to me? I love it when you touch me, when you put your hands on me or when I hold you and you lean into me. I love that you’ve gotten in the habit of randomly kissing me whenever you see me and texting me in the middle of the day to check in whenever we’re not together. I mean that.”

Much to your dismay, tears start to form in your eyes. The second Joaquin sees them, he drops your hands and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. One of his hands rests on the side of your head, stroking your hair gently.

“Angel, why are you crying?” His voice breaks a little. He can’t help it. Joaquin always gets emotional whenever you do. It’s something deep within him that he can’t control.

“I feel like an idiot,” you mutter into his chest, your hands balling up in the back of his shirt. “I misunderstood what you were saying and I’ve been treating you badly for it ever since you got back without even hearing your side of it. I just assumed.”

Joaquin sniffs, rubbing your back. “You are not an idiot. If I’d heard you saying something like that, I probably would’ve jumped to conclusions as well. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” 

You pull back from the hug a little, but keep your arms around him. You don’t want to let him go, especially when you see the tears sliding down his cheeks. “Joaquin, why are you crying?” Your eyes widen, one of your hands moving to his cheek to wipe away a tear.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Cause you’re crying! And I’m the reason you are.”

“No!” You shake your head. “I’m the reason I’m crying, baby.”

“Yeah, but I’m part of the reason,” he mutters.

You wipe another tear as it falls down his cheek and he does the same for you, gently swiping underneath your eye too. You stare at each other for a moment before both of you begin to laugh. 

“I bet we look ridiculous right now,” you grin up at your boyfriend. “Both of us, standing here in the middle of the room crying our eyes out. It’s a good thing you picked this room for us to have this talk rather than the backyard, for example.”

Joaquin laughs. “Yeah, Sam and Bucky would think we’re going insane.”

You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek, still a little wet from the tears that had been falling down it only moments earlier. “You are not the reason I was crying, Joaquin. I shouldn’t have assumed that you hated it. I should’ve finished listening to what you were saying before I ran off and hurt my own feelings. You’ve never made me cry.”

“I hope I never do,” Joaquin mumbles, tightening his arms around you. “I’m still sorry that something I said hurt your feelings, even if I didn’t mean to, angel. Do you accept my apology for that? I’m not gonna be able to drop it unless you do.”

“Yes, Joaquin. I accept your apology.”

He lets out a breath of relief. “I suppose I should return you to Sarah,” he sighs.

“Not just yet,” you shake your head and move closer to hug him again, resting your face against his chest. His warmth spreads through you, giving you comfort after all the stress of the last hour or so. It’s a good thing Joaquin is a quick thinker because if you’d had to sit and stew on all of this for a bit longer, you would’ve been a bigger mess. “I just want a few more minutes with you now that you’ve told me you like me being clingy.”

Joaquin smiles. “You know I’m not gonna leave you alone for the rest of the night once you and Sarah are done cooking dinner, right? I’m gonna be glued to your side. Sam and Bucky might tease me about it forever but it’ll be worth it.”

“Good,” you hum. “I missed out on some of my favourite kinds of PDA when I was hurting earlier, so we have a little bit to make up for. I want a hand on me at all times. You got that, Torres?” 

He chuckles softly. “I think that can be arranged.” 

[wendichester]

please can I request Sam x reader where Sam’s like a lovesick puppy and reader is obvious even though it’s painfully obvious

also plz can I be 💌 anon? (I’m the one who requested happier hehe)

₊ ° ⊹ ♡ truly, madly, deeply,

summary. sammy is absolutely smitten for you but you're clueless

pairing. sam winchester x reader

wordcount. 607

notes. thank you so much for requesting hon! you always have the best ideas ehe 😙🩷

Sam Winchester is completely, hopelessly, stupidly in love with you.

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea.

Dean sees it. Cas definitely sees it. Hell, even random strangers you meet on hunts seem to pick up on it within five minutes of talking to him. But you? You remain blissfully oblivious, flashing that gorgeous smile of yours at Sam without realizing that every time you do, it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

He tries to play it cool, he really does. But then you go and do something unbearably cute—like scrunching your nose when you’re trying to decipher old Latin texts, or singing off-key in the car like nobody’s listening—and suddenly, he’s a goner all over again.

“Dude,” Dean mutters one evening at a dive bar, watching Sam’s gaze track your every move as you laugh at something on your phone. “You’re making heart-eyes so hard it’s embarrassing.”

Sam tears his eyes away from you (which is a Herculean effort, honestly) and frowns at his brother. “I am not.”

Dean just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You sigh dramatically every time she leaves the room, Sam. If this were a chick flick, you’d be the guy writing sad poetry in the rain.”

Sam glares, but before he can argue, you slide back into the booth next to him, all bright eyes and warmth, completely unaware of the conversation you just interrupted.

“Guys,” you say, holding up your phone. “Did you know baby goats scream like people? Listen to this.”

You press play on the video, and sure enough, the high-pitched shrieks of tiny goats fill the bar. You dissolve into giggles, pressing a hand against Sam’s arm as you lean closer, and just like that, his heart forgets how to function properly.

Dean looks at him like, See? You’re doomed.

And honestly? Sam kinda is.—

It gets worse when you fall asleep on him in the Impala.

You start nodding off somewhere outside of Tulsa, head lolling against the window before eventually finding its way onto his shoulder. Sam freezes. He can literally feel the warmth of your breath against his neck, your body soft and trusting as you curl into him.

Dean catches his panicked expression in the rearview mirror and smirks. “Try not to combust, Romeo.”

Sam ignores him, carefully adjusting so you’re more comfortable, letting his fingers brush lightly against your arm. You sigh in your sleep, pressing closer. He’s pretty sure this is what heaven feels like.

The problem is, Sam doesn’t know how to tell you.

He could. He should. But every time he works up the nerve, you flash him that beautiful, unsuspecting smile, and he panics. What if it ruins everything? What if you don’t feel the same?

So, he suffers in silence. Until one night, when he wakes up from a nightmare and finds you sitting beside him, worry creasing your brow.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing his hair from his forehead. “Bad dream?”

He nods, still catching his breath. You don’t hesitate. You just shift closer, resting your head against his shoulder, the same way you always do when you want him to know you’re there.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion or the way your hand finds his without thinking, but before he can stop himself, Sam blurts out, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

His heart nearly stops.

Then, you pull back just enough to look at him, your expression unreadable. Sam braces himself for rejection, for awkwardness, for anything but the soft, breathless way you say, “You think?”

And then you kiss him, and suddenly, Sam doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

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[sosa2imagines]

Hiii please can I ask for a Steve x reader where they have broke up for some stupid reason and the whole Avengers team trying to make them up again? Maybe something like a team-trip and they get them "stuck" in a "only one-bed" situqtion or Bucky/Thor trying to flirt with the reader in a Tony party just to make Steve jealous and make a move. Thanks 🫶🏻

Hi thanks for this ask. I have used both of the suggestions and I hope you like it. Warning- Angst, fluff, idiots in love, misunderstanding.

The party was in full swing, the hum of conversation and laughter echoing through Tony’s sprawling penthouse. You found yourself in a corner, nursing a glass of something you weren’t entirely sure was non-alcoholic, avoiding Steve like the plague. After the last mission, it was easier this way, less awkward, less painful.  

That mission. Damn that mission!

It had started as a straightforward retrieval op, but things had gone south fast. You’d disobeyed Steve’s orders, convinced there was a better way to secure the asset without risking innocent lives. Your plan worked, but the fallout had been brutal. Steve had confronted you the moment you were back at the compound, his anger laced with something deeper, disappointment, frustration, hurt.  

“Do you even trust me?” he’d asked, his voice low and wounded.  

Your response had been defensive, born of exhaustion and stubbornness. “Do you trust me? Or do you just want someone who’ll follow orders without question?”  

It was the kind of argument that didn’t end in resolution but in silence, the air between you heavy with everything you didn’t say. Two days later, you broke up.  

Now here you were, trying to pretend you weren’t glancing at Steve every few minutes as he stood across the room, talking to Natasha. You wondered if she knew. Probably, Natasha knew everything.  

Unbeknownst to you, the rest of the team had noticed the tension and decided to take matters into their own hands.  

“Alright, here’s the plan,” Sam said, leaning over the bar where Tony and Bucky were gathered. Thor joined them, a gleam of mischief in his eye. “Steve’s too stubborn to admit he still loves her. So, we make him jealous.”  

“What are you thinking?” Tony asked, turning to look at Sam and Thor. Bucky raised an eyebrow, looking just as puzzled, “How?” Bucky asked, his tone skeptical.  

Sam grinned. “Thor and you are gonna flirt with her. Get under his skin, make him realize what he’s missing.”  

Thor’s booming laugh earned a few side-eyes from partygoers. “I am more than willing to assist in this endeavor. Who could resist the charm of a god?”  

“Subtlety’s key, big guy,” Sam muttered, patting Thor’s arm.  

It didn’t take long for the chaos to begin.  

Thor approached you first, his smile dazzling. “Lady Y/n,” he greeted, taking your hand and bowing dramatically. “You are radiant tonight, as always.”  

You blinked at him, a laugh escaping before you could stop it. “Thank you, Thor. That’s sweet of you.”  

From across the room, Steve’s posture stiffened, his jaw clenching. Natasha raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Interesting.”  

Next came Bucky, his approach smoother but no less deliberate. “Hey, doll,” he said, his voice low and familiar. His hand brushed your arm as he leaned in. “You look incredible tonight. Mind if I steal you for a dance?”  

Your cheeks flushed. “What’s going on with you two tonight? Did Tony spike the drinks or something?”  

Bucky chuckled, but his gaze flicked toward Steve for a brief moment. “Just saying what I feel.”  

Steve, who had been silently watching the exchange, clenched his jaw, his gaze on Bucky and you. He was clearly bothered by the scene unfolding in front of him. Steve’s glass hit the bar harder than necessary, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. His expression was thunderous as he shot Bucky and Thor a glare before abruptly turning on his heel and leaving the room without a word.  

“Steve?” you called after him, your voice lost in the music and chatter. He didn’t stop, the doors to the balcony swinging shut behind him before he disappeared entirely.  

“What the hell was that about?” you muttered, turning to Bucky, who looked sheepish.  

“Uh, maybe we went a little overboard,” Bucky admitted, scratching the back of his neck.  

“Overboard with what?” you demanded, your frustration growing.  

Sam approached with an innocent grin that didn’t fool you in the slightest. “Just trying to give Captain Grumpybear a little nudge in the right direction.”  

“What?”  

“You two are miserable without each other,” Sam said, shrugging. “We were just trying to help.”  

Your heart clenched as his words sank in. Miserable wasn’t the word you’d have used, at least not out loud, but it wasn’t entirely wrong, either.  

Tony, overhearing, smirked from the bar. “You’ve got to hand it to him…Rogers has perfected the art of storming out dramatically.”  

“Real helpful, Tony,” you snapped before turning back to Sam. “What do I do now?”  

Sam gave you a knowing look. “You go after him. Talk to him. The rest of us did our part, it’s your turn now.”  

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Clutching your glass tightly, you headed toward the balcony, hoping Steve hadn’t gone too far.  

Behind you, Thor clapped Sam on the back with a booming laugh. “A most excellent plan!”  

Bucky shook his head, “Yeah, except for the part where I nearly got murdered.” 

The cold night air on the balcony seemed to cut through your resolve as you found Steve leaning against the railing, his shoulders tense and jaw tight. His gaze was fixed on the city lights, but you knew his mind was elsewhere, likely back in that room, reliving whatever had caused him to storm out.  

“Steve,” you started softly, approaching him.  

He didn’t turn around. “Go back to the party.”  

“I’m not leaving until we talk.”  

That earned a bitter chuckle. He finally turned to face you, his blue eyes sharp and guarded. “Talk? About what? How you let Thor and Bucky flirt with you like it’s some kind of game?”  

Your mouth fell open, incredulous. “Let them? Steve, I had no idea what they were doing! I thought Thor was just being, well, Thor, and Bucky...”  

“Don’t!” Steve interrupted, his tone laced with anger. “Don’t defend them. Do you have any idea how it felt, watching them act like that? Watching you laugh with them?”  

“Steve, that’s not fair,” you argued, stepping closer. “They’re our friends. And I…”  

“Friends,” he spat, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t do this, Y/n.”  

He turned away again, his broad back a wall you couldn’t seem to break through. Frustrated, you finally gave up and returned to the party, your chest aching.  

The next day, Natasha strode into the common area with a smug smile that immediately set everyone on edge.  

“I’ve got a plan…” she declared, crossing her arms.  

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Another one? Because the last one almost got us all killed.”  

Tony, who had been nursing a cup of coffee, raised an eyebrow. “What kind of plan?” he asked.

“Watch and learn!” Natasha said, smirking.  

The plan was simple, send you and Steve on a mission. Steve's eyes had widened when he heard the news. He did exchange a glance with you, the implication not going unnoticed. “Oh, great...”/ he muttered under his breath.

Before you knew it, you and Steve were assigned to a mission together. Natasha conveniently left out the detail that the safe house you’d be staying at had… limited accommodations.  

The tension was palpable the moment you and Steve arrived. The safe house was small, with a single bedroom, a tiny kitchen, and a living area that felt more like a closet.  

Steve grunted as he set down his bag. “Not much, but it’ll do.”  

You ignored him, dropping your gear on the table and surveying the room. The bed caught your attention immediately.

One bed. Of course.  

“Don’t even start!” Steve muttered, catching your look.  

“I wasn’t going to!” you shot back, already irritated.  

The next few hours were filled with petty bickering. You struggled to reach the top shelf in the kitchen, refusing to ask for help. Steve watched you for a moment, then muttered under his breath as he came over to grab what you needed.  

“You’re welcome.” he said, handing it to you.  

“I didn’t ask for your help!” you snapped, cheeks heating.  

“And yet, here we are…” he replied, walking away.  

When it came time to gear up for the mission, you predictably forgot to strap your knife correctly. Steve, out of habit, fixed it for you without a word.  

“I can do it myself…” you grumbled.  

“You never could…” he retorted, his fingers deftly securing the blade.  

Later, when Steve came back with a shallow cut on his arm, you instinctively grabbed the med kit and started cleaning the wound. He watched you in silence, his gaze softening despite himself.  

“You don’t have to…” he murmured.  

“Shh…I always do.” you replied, your voice quieter now.

But the real test came, when it came time to sleep. That’s when the real battle began.  

“I’m taking the bed!” you declared, crossing your arms.  

Steve raised an eyebrow, like hell you are getting the bed, “We’re sharing it.”  

“Like hell we are.” you mumbled.

You then told Steve to turn around so that you can change your clothes. But Steve simply shrugged, seeing no point in turning around.

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you without clothes before,” Steve said, smirking and your face turned crimson. “Steve!” you hissed, throwing a pillow at him.  

Eventually, you both relented, setting a clear line down the middle of the bed. “This is my side!” you warned.  

“Fine…” he said, lying down already dozing off to sleep.

But as the night wore on, old habits took over. You turned in the middle of the night and curled against his chest, his arm draped protectively around you. Steve instinctively pulled you closer.  

The next day, as the sunlight shined in the room, you stirred awake to the feeling of soft lips pressing against your forehead. Your eyes fluttered open to find Steve gazing down at you, his expression unguarded for the first time in weeks.  

“Steve…” you whispered, your heart pounding.  

“Morning…” he murmured, his voice warm and familiar.  

The moment shattered when you both realized the state you were in. Scrambling apart, you began arguing again, this time over who got to shower first.  

“It’s my turn!” you insisted, clutching your towel.  

Steve smirked. “We could always save time and…”  

“Don’t even finish that sentence, Rogers!” you snapped, shoving him aside, though Steve saw the way you blushed.

Later, as you sat across from him, the tension finally broke. Steve couldn’t take it anymore and neither could you. 

“I miss you…” he admitted, his voice soft. “Every damn day, I miss you.”  

You swallowed hard, your defenses crumbling. “I miss you too. But you have to trust me, Steve. I’m not your soldier, I’m your partner.”  

He nods, his blue eyes earnest. “I know. And I’m sorry. I should’ve trusted you then, and I should’ve listened.”  

Before you could respond, he leaned across the table and kissed you, his lips capturing yours in a way that made your heart race.  

When he pulled back, you smirked. “Tit for tat,” you said, as you pulled him in for another kiss.  

You and Steve talked. Talked about trust, understanding, communication, respect. By the end of the conversation, you and Steve decided to start afresh.

When you and Steve returned, hand in hand, the team was waiting. Natasha’s smug grin was matched by Sam’s triumphant cheer.  

“Finally!” Sam yelled, high-fiving Bucky.  

Even Tony clapped sarcastically. “Congrats, lovebirds. Don’t ever make us suffer through that tension again.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling, especially when Steve’s fingers tightened around yours.  

Everyone was happy, but not more than you and Steve.

Taglist- @imyourbratzdoll @blackhawkfanatic @ordelixx @sapphirebarnes @ilovetaquitosmmmm

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@pattiemac1 @lovely-geek @hzdhrtss @kpopgirlbtssvt

[vamplvs]

oooooo first date with joaquin? would be kinda cute tbh!!!

notes: joaquín torres is singlehandedly keeping chivalry alive <3

joaquín's so stressed about the date, the poor thing. he carries this easy confidence with him everywhere he goes, but in the hour leading up to the date? he's sweating, he's changed his outfit twice, and he nearly booked a whole new reservation for the night even though the restaurant he has lined up is one of his favorites. he stands in front of his bathroom mirror, hyping himself up and fixing his hair—there's one strand that just won't stay in place, no matter how hard he fights with it.

but he looks good, he tells himself. he's wearing a green dress shirt with the top two buttons tastefully unbuttoned—he hopes it's tasteful, anyways—and some slacks that make his legs look great. shit is this too dressed up?

but it's not like he has the time to change again, so he shrugs on a jacket and runs out to his car. he spends the drive fidgeting and skipping through every song on his playlist. are his first date jitters a little uncharacteristic? yeah, but it's you he's going on a date with. sue him for wanting it to be perfect.

he's already spent so long worrying about his own outfit that he hadn't even stopped to think about what you might be wearing. so when you step outside, he's awestruck.

"oh, wow," he mutters, taking you in. you look unbelievable, and he can't take his eyes off you.

"too much?" your eyebrows furrow and you start to pat down parts of your outfit like there's anything to be fixed.

"no! no, you look amazing." and the smile on your face lights up the night.

"likewise." he pretends his ears don't go warm at the compliment and puts out a hand for you to take.

by the time you get to the restaurant, conversation has bloomed from awkward small talk to something more. he has you laughing at his jokes—it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. you hang off his every word as he recounts a story about sam, and he does the same when you get reminded of a story from your job. he could listen to you talk for hours and never be bored for a single minute. hell, he already has.

when you ask him for recommendations from the menu, he excitedly lists of a few of his favorites, and grins like an idiot when you end up ordering one of them. that grin only grows when you damn near moan at the first bite you take. maybe a small part of that is the bottle of wine he orders for the table, but who can say, really?

though, when joaquín really thinks about it, the wine hasn't done anything, not even the vaguest hint of a buzz. the flush that's spread across his cheeks is from something else entirely.

"told you it was good!" he taps your foot lightly with his in a playful gesture, and you mirror it right back to him.

"i mean, yeah, but i wasn't sure it'd be this good."

conversation carries on as you two finish your meals. it's easy and the most fun he's had on a date in a long time. he's sure he's sprung a few tears from laughter by the end of the night. once the waiter comes back around with the check, joaquín puts down his card, no questions asked.

"i'm the one taking you out. i'm not letting you pay for a thing, angel," he says with a cheeky smile when you offer to split it with him.

when it's finally time to go—which you only realize because your waiter has walked past the table one too many times with a glance at you both—joaquín drives you back to your house. he opens the car door for you without saying a word about it.

and then comes that dreaded awkward end of every first date, and he's sweating all over again. for the half second you pause before turning to him in front of your door, his heart is pounding in his chest.

"i had a really great time tonight," you say with a smile and fidget with your keys in your hands. your eyes search his face, flitting between his eyes and his lips. he'd be a fool not to do the same.

"me too," he replies. the dim light of a street lamp illuminates you both in a dreamy glow. he takes a small, tentative step forward and places a hand on your waist. "can i-?"

"yeah."

his lips are on yours, just as soft as you thought they would be. it's all light touches at your waist and a gentle hand on your cheek. your arms find themselves swung around his neck, like this is some rom-com ending.

as far as joaquín is concerned, it may as well be. he's giddy with it all: the ache that lingers in his cheeks from laughter, the heat that's found permanent residence in his ears, and even the fluttering of his chest every time you so much as breathe in his direction.

"i, um, i need to get to bed, but i'd like to do this again sometime," you say when you pull away, voice low and breathy. your eyes take a moment to linger on his lips as his tongue darts out for the briefest of moments, and then they're back to his eyes.

"yeah, i'll-" he clears his throat, trying to keep his voice even, "i'll call you?"

"please do." you press a final kiss to his cheek and unlock the door. "goodnight, joaquín."

"goodnight." he waves as you walk inside.

you can hear him cheer quietly the moment you close the door. a myriad of hurrahs and muted whoops are muffled through the wood, but you hear them all the same.

[littleredwolf]

Hungry Eyes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: The team overhears Nat and Y/N's 'girl talk' through the comms and feelings surface as a result.

Warnings: Suggestive content. Sex references.

Words: 956

A/N: PART 2 CAN BE FOUND HERE

--

“Bucky's done nothing but undress you with his eyes since you walked in,” Natasha's husky voice came over your earpiece and your eyes snapped to the super soldier on the other side of the room, your cheeks reddening to find him already staring in your direction. 

You let your gaze casually pass over him, playing the brief moment of eye contact off as a coincidence as you scanned the room for the mission, but your heart was pounding and you were sure he could probably hear it. 

“Doubtful,” you scoffed, though you couldn't ignore the tingle that travelled up your spine at the thought of Bucky finding you attractive. You'd had the hots for him for months, but your fear of rejection strongly outweighed your desire to tell him so you'd kept your little secret to yourself…and Nat of course. 

“Stop living in denial, anybody with half a brain can see how he practically drools over you every time he sees you,” Nat argued, and you rolled your eyes as you continued to survey the room. “Don’t roll your eyes at me, it’s true.” 

“Stop watching me, you know it creeps me out when I can’t see you,” you hissed, eyes roaming the crowd in an attempt to spot the redhead. 

“If you could see me, I wouldn’t be very good at my job,” she teased, and you resisted the urge to roll your eyes again. 

“Just hurry up and do your job, Romanoff - the quicker we finish and I can get out of this dress the better,” you stated, readjusting the silky garment that Natasha herself had picked out for you. It suited your cover well, but it was a little provocative for your usual tastes. 

“I’m sure Barnes would agree with you on that one…”

“As much as I’m enjoying watching Bucky squirm from this conversation, head’s up that this is an open channel,” Sam’s voice cutting in over the comms caused any reply you had prepared for Natasha to die on your tongue, the blood draining from your face as you turned to look at Bucky.  

The super soldier was no longer on his mark, but as you searched the crowd you caught a glimpse of him as he was making a swift exit. More than anything you wanted to follow him, to defuse the awkwardness and recover from the embarrassment of him overhearing Nat’s comments, but you stayed rooted to the spot, unable to leave your position. 

“Go,” Nat urged, as though sensing your inner turmoil. “Me and Sam have got this.”

A quick look towards Sam confirmed that he agreed, and you wasted no time in hurrying towards the same door Bucky had gone through moments ago. 

Surprisingly, he hadn’t gone very far, and you found him leaning against the wall in the foyer. Heat rushed to your cheeks as his eyes landed on you, and you smiled sheepishly as you approached.  

“Hey Buck,” you softly said as you reached him. “Sorry about what you heard back there - Nat was just teasing, she didn’t mean any of it.” 

“Didn’t she?” He asked, raising a single eyebrow. 

“What?” You frowned, unsure how to interpret his response. There was a way you wanted this to go, but you didn’t want to get your wires crossed and make even more of a fool of yourself. 

“You said she didn’t mean any of it, but how can you be sure?” 

He pushed himself off the wall and fixed you with an intense gaze, making your knees weak and your breath short. You didn’t dare look away - afraid that if you did, this moment would end. 

“I-uh…I don’t know what you’re getting at here, Buck…” you stammered, too dumbfounded to form a better response. You were very aware of how close the two of you were and the smell of his cologne and warmth emanating from his body was making your brain short circuit. 

“Then let me show you.”

There was no hesitation as he took your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours, and you melted into him with a whimper. The sound gave him the encouragement he was looking for and he spun you round so that he could press you up against the wall, moaning into your mouth as you raked your hands through his hair. 

Everything around you ceased to exist and all sense left you as you gave into your desires, the feeling of Bucky’s hands roaming your body setting your skin on fire. You couldn’t believe this was happening, you’d never even let yourself hope that Bucky might actually feel the same, yet here you were, making out with him while his sizable bulge pressed up against you. 

Had Sam not cleared his throat over the comms, you were sure you’d have let the super soldier take you right there and then, regardless of the fact that you were in public and on a mission.  

“Channel is still very much open, guys,” he informed, and Bucky’s eyes widened in horror as he pulled away. You giggled and gave him a quick peck on the lips. 

“I’m not even sorry,” you told Sam teasingly, straightening up and readjusting your dress. You were aware of Bucky’s eyes on you and you looked up to meet his hungry gaze. 

“I can’t wait to get that thing off you when we’re finished here,” he blurted, and you bit your lip as heat flooded your core. 

“Then we’d better hurry up and finish,” you replied, taking him by the hand and leading him back to the main room so that you could get the mission, and later on your clothes, out of the way. 

PART 2

[fallen-w1ngs]

'' flower shop of new feelings ,,

[ 05 : run ]

|| pairing : james "bucky" barnes x florist!reader

|| warning : nothing ! jealous bucky makes a brief entrance 🔥

|| wc : 2.1k

|| btw, if any of ya'll wanna be apart of the taglist, js comment :3 or dm idc <3

The Avengers Tower’s atmosphere was awkward. Like, a weird tense awkwardness. Clint, Wanda, Sam and Bruce got back from their mission which.. Did not go according to plan, and were already bummed out with that, despite there being a backup plan. Tony had a fight with Pepper, yet again, which let’s be real, no one’s surprised about. And last but certainly not least, Peter had seen Bucky leave your apartment the previous night.

I would love to say that Bucky did a graceful job at covering for himself and explaining it.. But that’d be a lie. The second Peter uttered the words “Mr. Barnes?” Bucky ignored him and sped walk outta there. But being an Avenger, and having Peter practically live in the Tower made it virtually impossible NOT to run into him at least once.

“It’s not that big a deal, James, I promise.” You said, your phone pressed against your ear and shoulder. Currently, you were out checking on your shop and running a few errands. That’s when Bucky called and told you the whole ordeal after you shut the door. “I really don’t see how it’s such a big deal. Just explain to Peter that we’re friends.”

But I don’t want to. He thought, I want you as my secret. As strange as it is, you were one of the only things he felt he had that wasn’t poisoned by Hydra or the Avengers. He loved the Avengers (.. sorta) but he needed to have something that was his.

“Yeah, okay. Okay. Just- the team can be.. Unbearable with gossip.” He groaned and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry for calling you ‘bout this”

“Hey, no, I get that. You don’t gotta explain why you freaked out about Peter,” Your voice was full of understanding. Oh, god, Bucky absolutely loves- no. No, no no. “Oh, and never apologize for talking to me, I love talking to you”

“Oh,” He felt his cheeks warm up. “I like talking to you too.”

A small laugh could be heard from your end of the line, god, he could melt with how warm your laugh was.

“Hey, I gotta head off, I’m meeting up with my brother and his wife for a small get together, but I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, I thought I told you ‘bout him! His name’s Silas? He’s a pretentious fuck. Love him to bits, but I don’t like him, y’know?” This made Bucky let out a small chuckle. He had remembered a past conversation of yours where you rambled on about how your older brother was the golden child in your family.

“Good luck with him, [Name]”

“Thanks, James, I’ll call you later”

“Bye” He tried to hide his disappointment in his voice before hanging up. Man, what were you doing to him? He’s a lone wolf, never likes anyone, always grumpy, and rarely smiles. But with you? Seemed like he was the jolliest guy on Earth.

Ah, but he can sort out his feelings later. Right now he needed to talk with a certain Peter Parker.

–

“D-Did you need something, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky was quick to find the spiderling, he was up in the lab with Bruce. Tinkering away at some sort of more protective type of suit, trying to replicate vibranium without using vibranium. He made up some bullshit excuse for why he needed to talk with Peter, even if Bruce knew it was a lie, he didn’t fight it.

“What you saw last night–”

“You leaving [Name]’s apartment last night?”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, god the way he said it felt like he was caught in an affair. “Yes. That. It was nothing.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes, but if it was nothing, why’d you run away?”

“I didn’t run away,” He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the teenager. “It was.. A strategic retreat.”

Peter deadpanned. “Mr. Barnes, I don’t care if you’re dating-”

“We’re not dating.”

“Oh.” Peter sighed and snapped his fingers. “I owe Aunt May 20 bucks now.”

“Maybe you deserve it.” Bucky sighed and tapped his finger against his arm. “Look, just.. Don’t tell anyone I’m friends with [Name].”

Now.. This is where Bucky lost Peter. Why? What?? It was a strange request. A doable one! But a real strange one. “W.. Why?”

“Because Sam’ll bring it up non-stop and I’ll get teased.” It wasn't a lie, but again, not the full reason he wanted to hide you away from the team.

Peter’s puzzled look turned into a more sinister one. “I won’t tell anyone.. But I want you to give me 20 bucks every week I gotta keep your secret”

“Wha- fine. Yeah sure.” Wasn’t like Bucky had anything to spend it on. “If you tell anyone, I’m ripping your arms off.” He said with a small glare before turning away and walking off.

“.. Arms plural? Wait! Mr. Barnes! Arms plural??”

–

With that small confrontation over, Bucky was able to rest easy. Sure, he’d lose a couple of bucks, but really it was Tony who was throwing his money around. I mean, let’s think about it. So many people live in one tower, with electricity running practically everything. The electricity, water and heating bill must be skyrocketed. Ah, but that wasn’t our dear Bucky’s problem.

No, Bucky had to sort through his feelings and try to label your friendship. So he did the one thing that allowed him to feel.. Better, run.

Leaving the Tower was easy enough, being the “Winter Soldier” made it so everyone was automatically scared of him. Slipping away was easy, what was a problem was where he wanted to run. He let his legs take him.

The wind in his hair, the small burn in his legs as he ran farther and farther. His heart rate beating every time he was able to run longer and faster due since there weren’t many people around or stops. Bucky loved to run. He would run all day if he could, it felt like freedom to him. Something he wouldn’t let anyone take from him.

Bucky ran around a few blocks multiple times, by the end of it his face was damp, but not as sweaty as the normal person would be. Again, Super Soldier. Barely got tired. But, he still wanted to get something to hydrate himself. He sped walked over to that one Cafe that was across from your shop, your friend Finn ran it? At least, that’s what you told him. Maybe he could visit you af–

“James?”

Or now. It seemed you were taking your lunch break or something, ‘cause you were standing at the counter. Leaning against the solid surface, talking with Finn. And for some reason, that made a pit form in Bucky’s stomach. But, like many things, he ignored it and walked over to you, giving a small wave to you and.. Finn.

“Hey man, you want anything?” Finn had a charming smile on his face, he seemed.. Boyish. Certainly younger than Bucky, I mean, he looked like he was in his mid-twenties, younger than you.

“Black coffee.”

You snorted and tilted your head up at him. “No cream or sugar? Pegged you for a sweet guy”

The corners of Bucky’s lips perked up for a moment and he just huffed. “Got used to it.” He did, as a young adult and the war happening, everyone had to ration. That meant when he had coffee, it had to be black. None of the fancy sweeteners.

“Boring,” You hit your hip against his in a playful manner.

In a matter of seconds, Finn came back with Bucky’s drink. Some shitty ass black coffee that was overpriced. Ah, love New York. Though, it was fine. What wasn’t fine was how Finn just kept smiling and practically flirting with you.

“We should definitely go together, it’d be really fun, hell I could pay for your ticket too.”

“Finn, you shouldn’t, I’d be able to!” You giggled behind your palm. “But, I’m not opposed to that”

“We could get dinner, hangout beforehand too?”

Smooth. “I’ll definitely think about it, Finn”

Stealing a quick glance at Bucky, you realized his confusion. “Ah, me and Finn were talking about watching a musical together!”

“Which one?”

“The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals!”

“That’s a thing?”

“It’s definitely a thing.” You crossed your arms with a wide smile. “It’s really good! I should show it to you, there’s a recorded version of it up on Youtube.”

He hummed in reply and gave a lazy shrug. “You’ll have to send me a link to it.”

With a small check of your watch you took in a sharp inhale. “Shit, sorry guys, my breaks almost over, Bye Finn! Bye James!”

“I’ll walk you t’your shop.”

Now this you wouldn’t pass up on. You turned back and gave a small wave to Finn as you and James walked out. The second you felt a wave of fresh air roll on you, Bucky put his arm around your shoulder. A small smile tugged on your face as our eyebrow raised. “What’cha thinkin, big guy?”

“.. There’s a lotta cars.” He muttered. The both of you were standing side by side, he was walking on the outer edge of the sidewalk while you walked on the inner. Something you didn’t even realize.

“Such a gentleman, ey, James?”

He glanced over to you, a small smile tugging at his lips as he held you close. You didn’t mind it, didn’t mind that he was warm, didn’t mind when his grip on you tightened when crossing the street, didn’t mind the momentary lingering he had before pulling away from you when you got to the shop.

“Thanks for walking me!” You pushed open the door and grabbed your apron as Bucky stood in the doorframe. He wanted to stay longer, but he didn’t want to distract you as you worked.

He nodded to your thanks and looked around the shop. It still smelled like a garden, everything still felt humid. Everything was still the same. The flowers were in neat rows but they still perfectly transitioned into one another, the small rotating seed holder was still fully stocked. You talked about how people would grab the seeds and buy them, bunches at a time, but you never let it look like that. Always wanted it to be full, just in case.

“On the house.” Shit, he didn’t even realize you were behind him. What great assassin skills guys, real good. You had a hydrangea in your hand. “It’s blue, like your eyes.”

A few beats of silence settled between you two. Bucky just stared at you as your face got increasingly hot.

“T-That was stupid! I dunno why I did that, uh- it’s just what I like to do with friends, give ‘em flowers on the house I-” He cut you off by taking the flower from your hand, all gently and he quietly examined it.

“It’s real pretty.” He muttered and held it close to his chest. “Thanks, [Name].”

“You’re welcome! I-”

Again, you were cut off, not by Bucky, but by his phone. He muttered a small curse and a “sorry” before walking a few feet away. As much as you’d love not to eavesdrop.. IT WAS SO EASY. Not like you had much to work with.

“Mhm… No, I’m out right now,went on a run.. No, I didn’t see Sam… You can tell him to suck it up. I’m not–” He groaned and stayed quiet as the other person on the line kept speaking. “I’m not- just ‘cause they screwed up shouldn’t mean-.. Ugh. Fine, you’re the captain, punk.. Yeah yeah, I’ll be back soon.”

With that he hung up the phone, glaring at it as if it just cursed everyone in his family line.

“Sorry for that, doll, it was work. Turns out next time Sam and the idiots go out, I have to go with them ‘cause they can’t do shit.” He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath, calming himself before he spoke up again. “I gotta go, but I’ll text you.”

“Goodluck with uh, Sam and the idiots.” It wasn’t funny, Bucky was genuinely ticked off, but you couldn’t help but giggle. Thankfully, that seemed to ease some of his tension. His shoulders dropped as he walked over to the door, shooting a small wave to you before leaving.

Hydrangea still in hand.. It was pretty. Like you.

|| the title of this chapter makes this part seem real scary 😭😭 its not, its cutsie. also, i wanted to just show small bits of jealous bucky cz i love jealous bucky. jealous bucky WILL be getting a full part of his own later down the line.

taglist : @iyskgd , @highhopes1008

[peachy-skies-writings]

Hi! I have a small scenario: The farmer'a parents are visiting for dinner or something, can you do HCs on how the bachelors would react to meeting their partner's (the farmer obvi) parents for the first time? Female farmer prefered, but it doesn't matter much

Hello, apologies for the delay! Here you go - hope you like it.

Bachelors Meeting f!Reader's Parents for the First Time.

💚🏈 Alex 🏈💚

Alex would be nervous but he’d conceal it pretty well.

Definitely would tell jokes to his partner’s dad to get on his good side and compliment her mother (in a nice way, like “Oh? Y/N? You never told me you had a sister!”). If your dad likes sports, bonus! Alex would be in his element.

He’d be pretty chill around them and I think he’d come across really well.

🧡📖 Elliott 📖🧡

Sauve. But he’s still a bit nervous about it. I think most people would be. He’d really want to make a good impression because he really loves you.

Would dress up in his finery and would speak incredibly well. This man has played out this day in his head with 100 different scenarios, he knows what he wants to say.

Good impression for sure, your mother is like wow this guy is so fancy but your dad is like “can he support you with being a writer?” Overall though, they’re happy for you.

🤍🩺 Harvey 🩺🤍

Not the first parents he’s met since he’s a bit older than the other bachelors but definitely more nerve-wracking than the others - he’s pretty sure you’re the one.

Would bring the wine and just hope that he picked something that everyone liked. Honestly if he believed in Yoba, he’d be praying.

Your parents LOOOOVVEEE him, like this dude is a doctor AND he’s in love with you. Solid. 10/10. They love him so much.

💙🎸Sam 🎸💙

Sam has this thing when he’s nervous where he just talks. Just keeps going. You might have to remind him to calm down and just shhh a little bit.

Honestly though, I think your parents would find it endearing. I think he would just talk about how great you are.

Overall, it goes well and they like him. Just hopefully he gets less nervous next time.

💜🎮Sebastian 🎮💜

He’s very nervous and is quiet throughout most of the dinner. Seb manages to pluck up the courage to talk a few times when he remembers that Robin said to make a good impression, and it goes over well.

You’d already explained to your parents that he was really quiet so they were expecting it. No surprises there. Your mother did wear her frog brooch though as a talking point which you thought was sweet. (Seb did talk about frogs for 15 minutes though, but hey, at least it got him talking)

He’s sweet and I think parents would like him, he’s just quiet and if he makes you happy, your parents are happy for you.

🖤🐓Shane 🐓🖤

Shane would be the most nervous of all the bachelors. May have to get a pep talk from Marnie.

He’d stumble over words a few times but overall, I think he’d do quite well. He’d make conversation and I think he’d be quite funny at times.

Your parents are pretty understanding that he’d be nervous so they don’t mind the awkwardness at first. Once he’s settled though, it’s like he’s part of the family.

[authortelevision]

george, the hockey player: chapter one ₊˚⊹♡

words: 2,747 ✦ .ᐟ

♯┆ george clarke slow burn, university au, hockey george

you start university in bristol as a film student and meet a hockey player who will change your life completely

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁౨ৎ. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

The train ride to Bristol had been a mix of nervous excitement and mild existential dread. The city, with its hilly streets and graffiti-covered underpasses, felt like a place where something big could happen. But right now, all that mattered was getting through move-in day without looking like a complete disaster.

You haul your suitcase up the stairs of your new flat, already regretting bringing so many decorations. The shared kitchen is a mess of half-opened suitcases, stacked IKEA crockery, and the awkward small talk of strangers who will, apparently, be your new best friends.

A girl with pink-streaked hair and round glasses glances up from where she’s struggling to assemble a drying rack. “Oh, thank God. Someone else who looks just as lost as I feel.”

You laugh, setting your bags down. “Completely lost. Do you need help with that?”

“Please. It’s like IKEA’s playing a cruel joke on me.” She grins. “I’m Lily, by the way. I do history, unfortunately.”

You introduce yourself just as the front door swings open and two more people walk in, dragging boxes. One of them, a guy with messy brown hair, lets out an exaggerated sigh. “This is it. Our prison for the next year.”

“I hope not.” says a voice from behind him.

The four of you quickly exchange introductions, and you learn that the negative voice is Matt who is studying Economics, and the other is Sam, taking Biology. Within ten minutes, you’re all gathered in the kitchen, swapping stories about where you’re from and who packed the weirdest thing (Matt wins with his five-kilo bag of protein powder). It’s surprisingly easy, the awkwardness fading fast.

Then, Lily claps her hands together. “Okay, so Freshers’ Fair is happening today. We need to go.”

Sam frowns. “That’s the one where all the societies try to recruit you, right?”

“Exactly. It’s essential. Free stuff, maybe a few weird clubs, and we can all pretend we’re super well-rounded people.”

You weren’t sure if you had the energy after lugging all your stuff around, but the idea of seeing what Bristol Uni had to offer was tempting. Plus, it beat sitting in your empty room.

“Alright,” you say, standing up. “Let’s go get bombarded by enthusiastic second-years.”

————

The Student Union building is packed, a sea of students weaving between booths with banners ranging from “Join the Debate Society” to “Quidditch Team Tryouts This Weekend!” Every few steps, someone shoves a flyer into your hands, promising everything from cheap cocktails to life-changing friendships.

Lily gets dragged away almost immediately by a group advertising a Feminist Reading Club. Sam disappears in the direction of the Rugby stall, while Matt, despite his initial complaints, is deep in conversation with a Chess Society rep.

That leaves you wandering alone for a bit, taking it all in. The Hockey Society booth catches your eye, but only cause there’s a crowd gathered around it, and a bunch of sporty-looking guys are chatting with possible members. You consider stopping, but hockey isn’t really your thing.

Instead, you find yourself drawn to a quieter stall tucked between the Art Society and the Drama Club. A banner reads “Photography Society – Capture the Moment”, and a student with a camera slung around their neck waves at you.

“Hey! You interested in photography?”

“I mean… kinda?” You glance at the sign-up sheet. “I do film, so I guess I already mess around with cameras.”

The student grins. “That’s basically half of it. We do sports photography, exhibitions, and the occasional trip. No pressure, though.”

It sounds like exactly the kind of thing to make friends you need. Before you can overthink it, you pick up a pen and sign your name.

By the time you regroup with your flatmates, your bag is full of leaflets and your group decides to escape the chaos and grab something to eat. The campus cafés are packed, so you settle for the Student Union bar, where the tables are sticky, the nachos are cheap, and the music is just a little too loud for a casual conversation.

Matt dumps his bag of free society merch onto the table with a dramatic sigh. “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.”

He pulls out a ridiculous amount of random freebies like stress balls, lanyards, a frisbee, and even a reusable coffee cup with Bristol Uni Quidditch Team printed on the side. Sam snorts. “Did you even sign up for Quidditch?”

“No, but they were giving out free stuff, and I’m not an idiot.”

Lily rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. She turns to you, seeing your tote bag. “So, what made you go for Photography Society?”

You take a sip of your drink, considering. “I think I just wanted something creative that wasn’t coursework, you know? Something fun, no pressure.”

She nods. “Good call. I was considering the Creative Writing Society, but then I overheard a guy saying they only discuss ‘serious literary work,’ and I feel like I’d get kicked out for writing fanfiction.”

“That sounds insufferable,” you say with a laugh.

“What about you, Sam?” Matt asks. “You looked way too invested in that rugby stall for someone who claimed they definitely weren’t joining a sports team.

Sam shrugs, looking vaguely guilty. “Okay, maybe I’ll go to tryouts. I haven’t played since school, but it might be fun.”

“You just want an excuse to go to the sports socials,” Lily teases.

He smirks. “And what if I do?”

The conversation drifts into plans for the rest of Freshers’ Week—pub crawls, club nights, and the dreaded 9am introductory lectures no one is ready for. It’s strange how quickly everything is falling into place, like the awkwardness of earlier has already faded into something more natural.

Eventually, you all decide to head back to the flat, the evening air crisp as you make your way across campus. Bristol feels alive at night, students spilling out of bars, the hum of conversation echoing down cobbled streets. The streetlights cast long shadows, and for a brief moment, you pause to take it all in.

Lily nudges you. “You alright?”

You nod, smiling. “Yeah. I think I am.”

————

The next morning, you wake to the sound of footsteps in the hallway and the faint clatter of someone making something in the kitchen. For a few seconds, you forget where you are, then the unfamiliar ceiling and the plain white walls bring you back to reality. Your new life at university has officially begun.

After forcing yourself out of bed, you shuffle into the kitchen, where Lily is perched on the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. She’s wearing an oversized hoodie, her pink-streaked hair all over the place. “Morning,” she says between bites.

“Morning,” you mumble, grabbing a mug and searching for the kettle.

Matt wanders in next, still in his pajamas. He blinks at you both. “We should’ve made a pact never to speak before noon.”

Lily laughs. “Good luck with that. We’ve all got a welcome meeting at ten, I’m not sure where yours is but mine is in the Oliver building.”

Right. The dreaded introductory stuff. You groan internally but force yourself to stay optimistic. First years always say it’s useless, but there could always be something important about the university you wouldn’t know about.

After breakfast, you grab your bag and head out with Lily, who insists on walking with you even though the history department is in a completely different building. “Moral support,” she says dramatically as you weave through the crowds of students trying to find their way around.

The film department is tucked inside a modern glass building that looks sleek and intimidating. Inside, the lecture hall is already filling up, the hum of conversation blending with the sound of chairs scraping against the floor. You slide into a seat near the middle and pull out your laptop, trying not to look as awkward as you feel.

A few minutes later, a girl with short curly hair and a nose ring drops into the seat next to you. “Hey, do you mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Ava,” she says, setting her laptop down. “Film Studies?”

You nod. “Yeah, first year.”

“Same! What kind of films are you into?”

That kicks off an easy conversation, by the time the lecturer finally arrives and starts their speech about “the power of storytelling in visual media,” you and Ava have already bonded over your mutual love of indie films and your shared distaste for pretentious film bros who only talk about Pulp Fiction.

The lecture itself is mostly introductions—professors explaining what to expect, a few awkward icebreakers with the people sitting nearby, and a long-winded speech about academic integrity. By the time it’s over, your brain is buzzing, and you’re more than ready to escape.

“Wanna grab coffee?” Ava asks as you head out of the building.

“Definitely.”

The two of you make your way to the campus café, where you spot Sam and Matt sitting by the window, deep in conversation. When they see you, Sam waves you over.

“How was your lecture?” Matt asks as you slide into the seat across from him.

“Long.” You take a sip of your coffee. “What about you?”

“Boring. I already regret choosing Economics.”

Ava laughs. “Wow, you’re all so motivated.”

“Oh! This is Ava, by the way, we both do film studies.”

As the conversation continues, it starts to hit you, this is your new life. New friends, new routines, new experiences waiting just around the corner.

————

By the time the sun sets, the nerves of the first day have been replaced with something else entirely: anticipation, excitement, and the lingering feeling from the vodka shots you definitely shouldn’t have taken so quickly.

Your flat has changed into pre-drinks. The tiny kitchen table is covered in half-empty bottles, discarded mixers, and the remnants of an intense game of Ring of Fire. Someone’s put on a ridiculous throwback playlist, and now everyone is shouting the words to Mr. Brightside like it’s a national anthem.

You’re sat on the counter, legs swinging, cradling a drink you don’t need but don’t want to put down. “Okay,” you announce to no one in particular, “I think I might be a tiny bit drunk.”

Lily cackles from where she’s trying to apply eyeliner on a very uncooperative Matt. “No shit. You’ve been swaying for, like, ten minutes.”

You blink, realizing that the floor does seem to be moving slightly. “That’s just because I’m—” You wave your hand in the air, trying to find a reason. “—graceful.”

Sam laughs, throwing an arm around you dramatically. “You’re gone.”

But the night is young, and there’s only one destination in mind—Lola Lo’s. Everyone has been hyping it up since you arrived, promising neon lights, questionable cocktails, and the kind of night you’ll only half remember.

After one final shot (a terrible idea in hindsight), you all spill onto the street, voices loud and laughter echoing down the road. The walk to the club is only fifteen minutes, but your brain seems to have abandoned all sense of coordination.

Somewhere along the way, you trip over nothing and stumble into Lily. “Okay,” she says, catching you, “I think we need a pause.”

You find yourself plopping down onto the curb, the cold pavement grounding you slightly. Sam sits next to you, amused. “You know they’re not gonna let you in like this, right?”

You groan, resting your head on his shoulder dramatically. “I know.”

Matt crouches in front of you, squinting like a concerned doctor. “Alright, what’s the game plan? We can’t have you getting turned away at the door.”

Lily laughs. “We could walk in first and pretend we don’t know them.”

You gasp, offended. “Betrayal.”

Ava, who has been quiet up until now, holds up a bottle of water she somehow smuggled out of the flat. “Here, drink this. Try to look less… like this.” She gestures vaguely at you, which is fair.

You take a sip then make a face. “This isn’t gonna work in time.”

Matt nudges your shoulder. “Alright, let’s problem-solve. How do we make you look sober?”

“Serious face,” you declare, straightening up and attempting your most responsible expression. It lasts about three seconds before Sam bursts out laughing.

Lily wipes away fake tears. “Oh yeah, that’s gonna fool the bouncers.”

You groan, dramatically falling back onto the pavement. “Okay, new plan. I’ll just live here now. The curb is my home.”

Ava rolls her eyes but helps you up anyway. “Nope. We’re getting in that club. You’re gonna drink water, act normal, and stop being a liability.”

You let them half-drag, half-walk you down the street, still giggling. Maybe you won’t get into the club. Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow with no recollection of this conversation.

Somehow—somehow—you make it past the bouncers.

Lily had given you a very serious pep talk before you reached the front of the queue: “No swaying. No giggling. And for God’s sake, don’t say anything stupid.” You had nodded along, doing your absolute best to channel the energy of someone who had only had one sensible drink and definitely wasn’t clinging to Sam for balance.

Miraculously, the bouncers barely look at you before waving you inside, and suddenly, you’re in.

Lola Lo’s is everything people hyped it up to be, neon lights glow under bamboo decor, the music vibrates in your chest, and the air smells like a mix of fruity cocktails, sweat, and regret. Your flatmates disappear into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of the dance floor, still slightly overwhelmed.

But there’s one thing you do know, you need another drink.

Stumbling your way to the bar, you lean against the counter, blinking up at the bartender like focusing really hard will make you seem more sober. “Can I get a—” You pause. What did you want? A cocktail? A vodka and coke? You squint at the menu, as if the words will rearrange themselves into the perfect choice.

Eventually, you just blurt out, “A rum and coke, please,” and slap some cash onto the bar, feeling very responsible.

The bartender hands you your drink, and you turn around. Too fast.

Because the next thing you know, your arm collides with someone, and suddenly, your entire very full drink sloshes forward, spilling straight onto them.

“Oh shit—”

The guy flinches, looking down at his now-soaked shirt. “Oh, for fu—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply before looking up at you.

And that’s when you see him properly.

Tall, messy brown hair, sharp features softened by the kind of face that probably gets away with way too much just by smiling. But right now, he’s not smiling, he’s staring at you, stunned, as cold rum and coke drips down his front.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, hands flying to your mouth. “I am so sorry.”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, it’s not fine!” You grab a handful of napkins from the bar and start patting at his chest, which is definitely not helping, because now you’re basically rubbing the mess into his already ruined shirt. “I didn’t mean to—oh my God, I’m such an idiot—”

He lets out a breathy laugh, finally grabbing your wrist gently to stop your attempts at fixing the situation. “Hey—hey, it’s fine. Seriously.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed, and suddenly, your brain catches up with what’s happening. You just spilled an entire drink on a very attractive guy and are now borderline manhandling him in a drunken panic.

This is not how the night was supposed to go.

“I’ll buy you a new drink,” you blurt out.

He smirks. “What, for me or for you?”

You open your mouth, then shut it. That was a fair question.

Before you can respond, Lily appears out of nowhere, looking between the two of you with sharp amusement. “What the hell did I miss?”

The guy chuckles, shaking his head. “Your friend just redecorated my shirt.”

Lily glances at you, then at the napkins still clutched in your hand. Then she grins. “Oh, this is fantastic.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Kill me now.”

But when you peek up, the guy is still looking at you, not annoyed, not pissed off, but amused. Like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all night.

“I’m George” he says, still smiling.

George. You’ll keep that in mind.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁౨ৎ. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

author notes:

hello everyone !! sorry i’ve been gone for so long !! i’ve been very busy with uni life and have kind of abandoned this account !! but i’m back and i’ve decided to bring my uni life into this new slow burn i have !!

I KNOW THAT GEORGE DIDNT GO TO BRISTOL BUT I DIDNT KNOW ENOUGH ABOUT HIS UNI TO WRITE ABOUT THAT ONE !!

much love x

[rivendell-poet]

Hello! I love your work so much!! Can you do a headcanon on the fellowship's reaction to a reader who has trouble on social cues so they are preceded as awkward and weird to others at times?

First of all, thank you so much anon! That means a lot ❤️

Secondly - sorry for disappearing for ages, I've been both very busy and trying to combat writing block for a while. Apologies that this isn't super long, but it's nice to be back and I hope you enjoy this.

And of course, I hope I've captured what you wanted (and sorry for the wait).

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐞𝐬❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « headcanons »

○ Aragorn ○ Legolas ○ Gimli ○ Boromir ○ Pippin ○ Merry ○ Sam ○ Frodo ○

GN!Reader | Wordcount : 1.8k | TWs : None

𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐧

✧ It might be surprising to some, but not picking up on precisely what he should do isn’t always unusual for Aragorn.

✧ He’s been immersed in so many cultures, played so many different roles, that sometimes he misses a cue as well.

✧ So he’s always very understanding, and non-judgmental, whenever you miss something. Or don’t quite pick up on a tone inflection.

✧ Over time, you notice small gestures that he’ll do to make it more obvious. Or even just a quiet nod to you, when the conversation calls for you to speak and you just missed who said what.

✧ Picks up on your mannerisms quite quickly as well; he often sees what you mean much quicker than most people, and adjusts accordingly too it.

✧ Aragorn is also generally a very calming presence, and he never seems judgmental when the two of you are together.

✧ It’s easy to not feel nearly as nervous around him, and when you do miss something you never feel judged. The worry you get that he’ll think you’re odd never seems to take hold in the same way.

✧ Later, when he has to present you to the court you can feel the butterflies (more like snakes) fluttering in your stomach.

✧ But it’s an event he’s gone over with you as many times as you need, patiently going through as many scenarios as you require.

✧ His hand gently squeezes yours, a reminder that he’ll be here beside you the entire time.

✧ “Whatever happens, I could never love you any less.”

𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐬

✧ If anything, Legolas sees you as more of a kindred spirit.

✧ As much as he tries to understand mortals, there are certain conventions he never quite understands. Certain bits of human culture he simply misses, because people thought they were too obvious to explain.

✧ It happens when some words are exchanged at Rohan, and people laugh in a way he didn’t realise was expected. His heart does a little jump as he wonders if it’s too late to join, and then he sees his own worries reflected in your eyes.

✧ The two of you hold each other’s gaze for a second, before he gives a smile of recognition. You see each other.

✧ For the rest of the night, the two of you are by each other. Sometimes it’s you who misses something, sometimes it’s him - but there’s a sense of reassurance that wasn’t there before.

✧ You are each other’s safety nets, in a way. That refuge of understanding, and knowledge that you won’t be judged.

✧ Once, a quick comment is said to the two of you and the speaker laughs. At what? No idea, both of you missed the subtext.

✧ There’s a second of anxiety from you - the fear of being judged as you stand there - before you realise that Legolas has missed the cue as well.

✧ He catches your eye, a smile playing on his lips. His eyes seem to shine a little.

✧ And then the two of you burst out laughing together.

𝐆𝐢𝐦𝐥𝐢

✧ Again, he has to learn to pick up on new social cues in the Fellowship, although he takes to it far better.

✧ You’re almost envious, that he can learn so well so quickly, yet you’ve been in this culture your entire life and you still feel you’re playing catch up.

✧ His eyes sometimes drift to you, when you don’t speak quickly enough or laugh too loudly at the joke that wasn’t that funny.

✧ Then, suddenly, your laughs aren’t as lonely anymore. Your silences go from isolating to more comfortable, as the dwarf occasionally joins in with them.

✧ Gimli never does it when it’s just you or the Fellowship - he loves you as you are, and he’d be damned if he tried to change anything - but he sometimes helps when he knows you’re nervous.

✧ If you’re truly worried of messing up, or that anxiety is too high, all you need to do is give him a look he somehow knows how to read.

✧ All attention on faux etiquette is then on the dwarf, who’s silver tongued enough to pass it off later. To make others forget.

✧ Until the only evidence something ever happened at all is when he gives you a little wink, and a small grin.

✧ “Couldn’t have left you alone, could I?”

𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐫

✧ Boromir is probably one of the least likely to struggle with social cues in the Fellowship. He was also privileged enough that, when he made an error, people didn’t comment on the heir’s slip up.

✧ So he always extends the kindness that he was given to you.

✧ The only time he’ll ever truly acknowledge what you did was ‘odd’ or ‘unusual’ is when it happened alone - then he might have a small smile, a quick laugh. There’s never anything malicious behind it, and in an odd way it sometimes helps you feel more comfortable.

✧ He’s also been immersed in enough cultures - Gondor’s elite, to soldiers, to Rohan - that he can mix how he talks fairly well.

✧ If there a certain phrases of social cues in languages that you always seem to miss, he makes a conscious effort to avoid using those in his everyday speech.

✧ (And the same goes for the opposite.)

✧ Boromir is also great when it comes to talking to him about the awkward silences, or the sub-text that you know you’ve missed (but aren’t sure what it is).

✧ Will always explain things if you need it, without condescension, or he’ll simply rephrase it in a way that’s more obvious - and then that becomes his newer speech instead of the old phrase.

✧ A somewhat bad habit of his is that he can sometimes have quite fragmented conversations - jumping topics or leaving gaps in the silence - so even when you’re unusually quiet he sometimes doesn’t notice it.

𝐏𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧

✧ Relates to your struggles a lot. Pippin sometimes struggle with when to or not to say something, or if his wording is appropriate for a situation; and then he says it anyways.

✧ He’s never sure if he regrets speaking up or missing the cue - but he does know that it’s better when you and Merry are around.

✧ Because he knows he has someone to turn to, someone who won't judge him.

✧ And of course he’d never even dream of judging you back.

✧ Now, his sheepish smiles after he misspeaks are still a form of an apology but they’re an inside joke between the two of you as well. It starts genuine, but when he catches your eye the corners of his mouth turn into a true smile.

✧ Becomes very in-tune with the way you speak very quickly.

✧ You missed something and didn’t speak? Pippin is remarkably quiet as well. You interjected and made a comment? Words have probably come out of Pippin’s mouth, or there’s been an agreeable hum at your statement.

✧ Does it mainly on accident, but there’s a part of him that does it to make sure you never feel alone or two uncomfortable.

✧ Pippin is also a wonder when it comes to dealing with awkward silences.

𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲

✧ Linking back to Pippin’s answer, for a lot of his life never been picture perfect about ‘social cues’ (nor have the people around him been).

✧ Although at the very start he doesn’t understand quite deeply enough as to why it’s so awful when you fumble through a social interaction.

✧ The Shire is quite a forgiving place - and he enjoys your talks so the few pauses or quick words don’t phase him in the slightest.

✧ Why on Earth should your company be any less than someone else's just because of how you interact with others? Especially when all your interactions are good, make him laugh or smile; a correct word choice is meaningless when up against that.

✧ But when being perceived as ‘weird’ gets to you too much - he doesn’t immediately understand it.

✧ “You’re already perfect. Why does it matter that you spoke too soon?”

✧ Becomes very understanding the minute you explain it to him. Why precisely you hated being perceived in that way.

✧ After that there’s a few, very subtle changes. Nothing about his interactions with you, there’s just a steady support when you’re talking.

✧ And if you ever falter - he’s instantly there to fill an awkward silence.

𝐒𝐚𝐦

✧ I think Sam sympathises the most with you, not least because he can relate.

✧ Sam tends to revert to formality when he doesn’t know how he should speak, because at least he knows he’s following some speaking etiquette. Even if it’s not always proper for the situation.

✧ And no-one else seems to fully understand his troubles - he can hardly see your awkwardness, or Pippin’s - until you speak about it together.

✧ He confesses about his nerves, and how he hopes he hasn’t fumbled over anything too badly. In response you relate and apologise for any missed social cues.

✧ Surprise is an understatement when he discovers you’re sometimes self-conscious about how you speak. He almost seems stunned for a second before he rushes to reassure you.

✧ “I like you most when you’re the authentic you. Not when you’re speaking different just to appease someone who shouldn’t be caring about that kind of thing.”

✧ There may be times when you fumble, but he knows he can lean on you (and he hopes you know you can lean on him).

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐨

✧ Frodo is somewhat odd in the Shire based on how he speaks, the dreams he shares and the tales that he’ll happily tell to young hobbits who will listen. But he was never judged for that.

✧ People accepted that he was simply how he was, and that was the end of that matter. No-one really had any problems with that, and he was free to go about his days.

✧ Which is why his heart broke a little when he discovered you were sometimes self-conscious about it.

✧ He could hold conversation with you for hours, or simply listen to your voice if he wanted too. Where was the oddness people talked about?

✧ The things you most missed, or disliked, hadn’t ever occurred to him as something wrong. To Frodo that was just how you are, and still is.

✧ One of the most reassuring things is simply his presence in conversations. Frodo’s certainly eloquent enough to carry a conversation if you want attention taken away, or a slip to be brushed out of people’s minds.

✧ But he’s also a quiet enough hobbit, one who’s content to listen. Frodo is always the first to respond appreciatively to your points, to keep a new flow of the conversation.

✧ It’s subtle, yet Frodo will always be there for you where you’re nervous about this sort of thing.

A/N : Yes, the irony is not lost on me that my last posts are all about being being happy I'm back before disappearing again for a month. Hopefully this makes up for it! (and if you ever just want to chat, I do check this blog regularly - I'm active here and on @wisheduponstars even if I'm not posting)

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[daylighted]

Do u think baby would mention the things she’s seen dean do in the car? I feel like that would be the most funny and awkward (on deans part) conversation

omfg yes 😭😭 yes she would bring it up bc she has no semblance of shame and yes it would be just as awkward as u are imagining. something like ...

"dean?"

that innocent voice never meant anything good, dean had come to realize, so it's with great reluctance that he turns to face you, that typical brace-for-impact wince on his face.

"how come when sam drives you're not back here with me?"

literally, you could not have caught him further off guard, because what kind of question is that? your questions tended to have a million hidden meanings and things he was just supposed to innately know, and so he smiles a little. "word that better for me, will ya?"

common occurrence. some of your questions became a tad more intelligible with the request, sometimes they only ended up confusing the both of you more.

expectedly, your face contorts into wild irritation. it's amazing how much attitude one person could have within them, especially one that did not even know that you were acting bratty. "you like girls in the backseat."

dean blanches. "what?"

your face is more furious now, somehow. at this point, though, he really is avoiding the question at hand, so at least your irritability is justified. "i am a girl. and you always used to have girls in the backseat, laying on them."

laying on them. yeah.

"naked."

there it was.

sam glances up from behind the laptop screen with a grimace. he meets dean's eyes and shakes his head, grabbing the convenient investment he'd made and plugging the earbuds into his ears. great. so this was all on dean.

you are still going though, taking his silence for the avoidance that it was. "i can get naked! i do not care. if you only sit with the naked girls, fine. i will—"

"you are so damn cute, baby," dean says, muffled by the hand he scrubs over his face, "i can't stand it."

"then sit it," you shoot back at him, lips twisted into a fiery pout. "every other girl in the universe has had you sitting back here with them. but you won't sit next to me."

dean frowns. every other girl in the universe is a bit of an exaggeration, but, sure. he'll take the bait. "it's not been that many."

"it's so been that many. i remember."

your memory was about as selective as a toddler's hearing, so that evidence was out the window.

dean crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in the wooden dining chair he sat in, rocking on its back legs. "and what do you wanna do with me in the backseat, huh?"

"sit!" borderline shouted, like it was the easiest answer in the universe and not something that was practically life or death for dean. "i want to sit next to you. i hate leaning forward in the middle to talk to you guys. that is not safe."

now you were schooling him on road safety.

it's the genuine hurt on your face that makes him take pause. sometimes, these conversations were funny, or amusing, or just as uncomfortable as this one was. sometimes, though, dean didn't take in the account that every word out of your mouth was genuine. no corners cut, no beating around the bush.

"every other girl in the universe has gotten to sit next to you," you repeat, slower this time, your voice so much smaller. god, you really were so damn cute; he couldn't stand it or sit it. "and they were so happy about it. they were saying yes so many times. i wanna say yes."

his lips thin to try and repress the smile. it was not funny. this was serious. you felt like an enigma (and you were, but that certainly wasn't going to make you feel any better right now. the least dean could do was pull his head out of the gutter and grant you the reassurances you needed.

"how about, next car ride, i sit back there with you?" dean asks, raising his eyebrows to punctuate the question. "or we kick sam to the backseat and you sit up there with me? then you can talk my ear off."

you stare at him for a long while, seeming to contemplate it. without answering, you reach over to tap sam on the shoulder, prompting him to tug an earbud loose. "dean wants to kick you to the backseat so i can sit up front this time."

sam's mouth opens and closes a couple of times, completely lost. "...okay?" he looks over at dean with that same grimaced wince from earlier.

dean shrugs. "you were incapable of defending yourself. shut yourself out of the world, lose your freedom of choice in seats."

"new car rule?" sam's cheeks dimple with the force of his thin smile. "it was fine when you made up all those rules when we were kids. not fun anymore."

another shrug. "baby's choice."

he was right, though. dean hadn't implemented car rules since he'd inherited (hijacked, really, but semantics) baby from his dad's clutches, years ago. the fact that your arrival was causing dean to make up new things to make you happy and comfortable was...

not something he wanted to think about, thanks.

expectedly, that happiness radiates off of you like its own heat source, warm and inviting. your hands clap together quickly, grin wide enough to blind a car driving by the motel.

"yes, yes, yes!" you say, all of that genuine joy on your face somehow keeping dean's head out of the gutter, too blinded by it to care about any sort of innuendo. "see? i already sound like all the other girls in the world."

sam closes his eyes, breathing a sigh out of his nose. "alright. i'm done here." the earbud goes right back in, leaving dean and you staring across the table at each other.

fuck. he was screwed.

[spaceycat]

okay but imagine young tony or steve knowing your college schedule and planning his whole schedule around it which means he plans his whole life around it (bonus if he’s not dating you yet)

just an idea lol, take ur time and do it if you wanna :))

AHHHHHHHH UESNUES YESY EYEES, COLLEGE!STEVE LET ME AT HIM!! i might make this a two parter ??? maybe the second one will be smut, but the first one will be them getting together LET ME KNOW IF YALL WANT THAT!!!!

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༄.° ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ...  ╰┈➤ 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝟷/𝟸 🧸ྀི

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: i love you the way you are by bobby vinton (2:54)

✰ pairing: college!steve rogers x college!fem!reader

✰ cw: fluff, swearing, kissing, lowkey stalker-ish if you squint, love confessions, characters getting together but not actually stated, steve is a dork

✰ word count: 2.1k+ (lord)

✰ summary: steve notices you in his politics class, he starts to develop a crush on you and he then asks a mutual friend for your schedule - purposely posing himself outside your classrooms so he could make conversation and sitting next to you during politics.

✰ a/n: THEEHHEEHEHHEHEH, there's kinda alot of dialogue but YUHH!! COLOURING MAKES ME WANT TO EXPLODE, SOME OF THE COLOURING IS WEIRD - I BLAME TUMBLR

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༺colour chart༻ reader ❀ steve ☀︎ sam ✈︎

Steve first saw you in his Politics class, he thought you were cute - but nothing really developed from it. That's when your professor paired the two of you up for a project, he then noticed the small things about you - how your pens were chewed, how you sniflled every so often, how you always did your hair in a different way everytime he saw you. Suddenly, a feeling of affection developed into a crush. 

And now, you were sitting in his dorm - he kicked out his roommate as soon as he heard word that you were going to come over for the politics project. He wasn't really focused on the project, not even in the slightest - he just looked at you, his eyes big and wide filled with awe and appreciation that somehow you managed to be the one that was paired up with him.

The two of you were sitting on the floor of his dorm, a few stray pieces of clothes or pieces of paper scattered across the floor. Steve tried to clean up, he really did - but there is only so much you can do in 5 minutes.

He occasionally shifted his eyes down to the notebook infront of him, pretending to atleast do some work - his page was filled with scribbles of some notes, some doodles and now his pen was just absentmindedly scribbling across the page as he continued to keep up this facade.

You were on your computer infront of him, humming to yourself as you scrolled through presentation templates - he was mainly just looking at you know, his notebook discarded on his lap. He took note of your hair, which was down - some strands falling across your face that you had to tuck back behind your ear periodically. He wanted to do that, tuck your hair behind your ear and tell you how pretty you were and kiss you all over and--

Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, I mean you two have solely talked over the presentation - nothing more, nothing least and yet he was nothing short of obsessed.

"We should play some music." Your voice broke him out of his thoughts, he then realised that you were looking straight at him - probably knowing that he's been staring at you for an unhealthy amount of time. "Hm?--" "Music, we should play some." "It's just.. awkward silence, and I want to know what kind of music you're into, Rogers." "Would you believe me if I said hard-core rap?" You stared at him for a moment, squinting your eyes as to figure out if he was serious or not - you'd giggle. "No-- not in a million years."

You put on some music on your computer, it was quiet - just so you could still hear eachother. "Thanks for letting me come over on such a short notice." "Yeah, yeah-- of course."

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The next day, Steve didn't see you - you guys didn't have Politics with each other, so he didn't even see you in the hallway, no awkward eye contact, no overcompensating conversations. He missed it, he missed talking to you and making you laugh.

That's when he saw his room-mate Sam walking down the hallway, he knew that you and Sam were close friends, closer than you and Steve ever were.

"Sam--" "Hey, Steve." Sam continued to walk, Steve caught up with him. "Uh-- you know that one girl, that I was talking about who's in my Politics class?" "Mhm.." "You're friends with her, aren't you?" "Steve, what's this about." "Nothing-- nothing, I just wanted to know what classes she's in." "You better not be trying to get into her pants, Rogers." "No-- no, god no. I just- want to see her more." "Sure." "I'm serious--" Steve stood infront of Sam, stopping him in his tracks. Sam sighed, "Alright fine-- just.. don't be weird about it- okay? I'll talk to her." "God-- thank you, thank you, thank you--" "You owe me, okay?"

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Later, Steve was in his dorm - scrolling through social media on his phone, when Sam walked in setting down his things. Steve looked up at him expectingly, that's when Sam sighed; pulling out a printed out copy of your college classes schedule.

"This is some weird stalker shit yknow--""Dude, shut up." "You must be crazy for this girl if you're literally forcing me to get her schedule.""I didn't force you-- you said you would." "It's still fucking weird, Steve."

His eyes skimmed over the piece of paper, noting that you had night literature class the next day - but that means that he would need to stay on campus hours after his classes just to remotely see you, but that's something he was willing to do.

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The next day, Steve was at the college - his classes have been over for hours now. He was waiting outside your Literature class, ensure how to pose himself. Should he like pretend to accidentally walk into you and be like "Oh, sorry-- I didn't I see you there." No-- no, that's weird. He opted to be pretending to be on his phone, looking busy. That's when people started filtering out of the class. Then he saw you - posing up against the wall.

"Steve?--" "Hm? Oh.. hey." "I thought your classes were over." "Uh-- no, no. Still here." "Well I was about to head to that café up the road.. do you wanna join me?" "Yeah.. I could eat." I could eat? God, his mouth speaks faster than his mind thinks sometimes, but even then he followed you like a lost puppy out of the english building at your college.

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The two of you filed into the cafe, it was late at night at this point - the moon replacing the sun and stars filling the sky. You sat down a booth. Steve ordered a coffee and one of the sandwiches on display while you ordered just a latte, already having eaten.

Awkward silence covered the two of you, your fingers drumming against the table while Steve ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm the stubborn strays.

A waiteress came over, placing down the food and hot drinks - you muttered a thanks as she walked back the way she came. You took a sip of your drink - looking up at Steve hesitantly. This all suddenly felt real.

"What were you doing before I came out of class?" "Oh, y'know-- studying and stuff." "Mhm.." You smiled a bit, taking another sip of coffee - you didnt believe a word Steve had just said but you thought it was charming. "What? You don't believe me?" "Is this another add-on to the hard core rap thing?" "Very funny." He'd cross his arms, tilting his head at you. "What were you actually doing." He let out a sigh, thinking it was better to come clean. "Waiting for you.." "Waiting for hours on end for me?" Steve just shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. "How'd you know where I was anyways?" "Hm?" He looked up at you, he definitely heard what you said - but as he asked again he silently hoped that the question you asked would miraculously change once he questioned you. "How'd you know where my literature class was.." "..I dont know-- Sam must've told me or something." "Oh shit, I forgot Sam was your roommate." You said with a chuckle taking a sip of your coffee. "Yeah.." "Wait, Sam told me yesterday that he needed my schedule like desperately.. was that you who needed it?" "Well-- well I wouldnt say I needed it like bad or anything--" "It actually was you?" "Well, yeah.. it was.""Why?" "I needed it so see when you were free for the project." "Bullshit--" "What?--" He chuckled, not seeming to get anything past you. "You're a pathological liar, Stevie." He smiled at the nickname, looking down at his coffee - biting his tongue between his teeth as he nodded. "Alright you caught me.." "Oh really?" "I just wanted to know when I could take you on a date." You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms. "Smooth." Steve fiddled with the coffee mug, his attention solely focused on you - his gaze almost nervous. "What do you say?" "Walk me back to my dorm and I'll think about it." "..Alright." He stood up, paying for the food - practically ushering you out of the door.

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As the two of you walked across the campus, Steve noted how cold it was getting as December rolled near. His hands were shoved in his jacket pockets as he walked slowly beside you - watching as you looked up at the stars of the night sky. The two of you soon neared your dorm building, Steve dragged his hand out of his pocket, grabbing your hand before you could walk inside - his touch gentle and soft.

"You didnt expect me to just forget about the whole date thing did you?" "What, did it seem like I did?" "You're awfully silent, sweetheart.." The nickname just rolled of his tongue, spur of the moment. He watched as you moved closer to him, almost seeking warmth from in from the cold surroundings.

Steve then saw a snowflake fall down into your done-up hair, he then looked up and around - snow started to fall around the two of you. The whiteness coating the trees and the pavement, snow perching itself on each other's hair, shoes and shoulders.

Steve didn't even notice how your attention didn't divert away from him, your eyes still on his face as he looked around the environment. You then pulled him back to reality, back to you by grabbing his chin with your fore-finger and your thumb and tilting it back to face you. The two of you just stared into each other's eyes as you dragged your thumb across his soft bottom lip as you leaned up to place a kiss to his lips - a short and sweet one.

You'd move back down to the soles of your feet, looking up at him. "Was that dumb?--" He didn't even give a response, capturing you in another much needed kiss - filled with love and adoration. It's everything he's ever wanted all in one, your lips still tasting faintly of coffee and the lip balm you were wearing. A hand slipped to cup your face, feeling the soft skin beneath his fingers that his wanted to touch and feel for the longest time. You didn't shy away, you didn't pull back, you kissed him back like you were waiting for this moment as much as he was.

As you both pulled back from the kiss, he noticed a single strand of hair that fell across your face - he then tucked it behind your ear, smiling widely down at you. Adoring the snowflakes adorning your hair and eyelashes as you looked at him with big wide eyes.

"I'd like that date.." "Yeah?" "Yeah.." "Cool." "Cool?-- that's all you're going to say?" You said with a giggle, as a sheepish smile adorned his face. "You're a dork, Steve." You then pulled him back into another short kiss, gripping onto his jacket.

You soon parted ways, as you entered your dorms he just stood there, grinning like an idiot - looking down at the snowy ground. His hands resumed their place in his jacket pockets as he walked back to his dorm building that was on the other side of the campus - but he was willing to make that walk everyday if it means seeing you.

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As Steve walked into his dorm, he took off his jacket and placed his keys near the door. That dorky smile still plastered on his face. Sam noticed almost immediately. "What's got you smiling?" "Nothing, it's nothing." Steve walked over to his bed, sitting down. "Did stalking really get you somewhere?" Steve smiled at him, before nodding - Sam's jaw dropped. "What?!--" "Okay so-- we went out to some cafe, we talked and then we walked back to campus and it started snowing and then we kissed." "Man, what the fuck-- why do you get a romance movie scenario for being a weirdo." Sam leaned back against the wall near his bed, crossing his arms. Steve just shrugged, looking down to the floor.

He was excited for that date, and just to see you again - see you smile, see you laugh because of him. And then he realised that his part of the politics project was due tomorrow and he barely made a dent in it because of him swooning over you, he couldn't have it all.

But he has you, and that's all he really cares about.

[wendichester]

｡𖦹°‧ across the room,

summary. you've seen sam around. he's seen you too. all you're both waiting for is the perfect opportunity to go from strangers to something more.

pairing. stanford!sam winchester x reader genre. slow-burn fluff

wordcount. 1504

notes / warnings. light drinking, mutual pining!!!, butterflies ehe

It’s the kind of party where the bass is a little too loud, the drinks are a little too cheap, and the floor is a little too sticky. But no one seems to care. Not when midterms are over and freedom tastes like warm beer and late-night freedom.

You’re with your friends, tucked into the corner of the living room with a red cup and your back against the arm of a sagging couch. Someone’s talking about that one impossible class, someone else is trying to light a joint with a candle. You laugh at the right times, nod along, but your mind keeps wandering.

To him.

Sam Winchester.

You know his name, of course. Everyone in your Psych 101 class does. He’s tall—ridiculously tall—and smart in that quiet, I-don’t-need-to-show-off way. You’ve watched him scribble down perfect notes in lectures while you try not to chew your pen cap in frustration.

You’ve never spoken. Not really. Just a few exchanged glances when you arrived late or bumped into him outside the building. But tonight, he’s here. And he keeps looking at you.

It’s not like constant staring, no. It’s fleeting, hesitant. You glance up, catch him watching, and he looks away like he got caught peeking into a diary.

You try not to grin. You fail.

He’s standing with a group of guys who scream douchebags and frat energy, but Sam looks... different. Like he’s just there for the company, not the chaos. Like he’s thinking too hard for this kind of scene.

You know the feeling.

Eventually, your cup runs low and the conversation around you drifts into territory you don’t care to follow. So you make your way toward the kitchen—the holy land of refills and slightly quieter vibes.

That’s where it happens.

You reach for a red cup from the counter, fingers brushing plastic. At the same time, a hand comes in from the other side, aiming for the tequila bottle beside it.

Your arms tangle. Not dramatically. Just enough to make you both freeze.

“Oh—sorry!” you blurt.

“No—uh, my bad,” he says quickly, his voice a little too loud over the music. “Didn’t see—wasn’t trying to, uh, block you or anything.”

You look up.

He looks down.

And there it is. The moment.

That shy little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. That faint blush blooming under his cheeks like he’s not used to this kind of proximity. His hand drops back from the bottle like he’s afraid of touching you on accident.

“You can go first,” you say, voice softer than you meant.

Sam straightens a little, chuckling as he reaches again—carefully this time. “Thanks. Tequila probably isn’t the best idea, but... well, here we are.”

“College logic,” you reply with a smile. “I was just going for more soda, so you’re not holding me up.”

He nods, pours himself a shot into a plastic cup instead of taking it straight—adorable—and leans back against the counter with a nervous glance.

“I’ve seen you in Psych,” he says, like it took all his courage. “You sit near the back, right?”

Your heart jumps stupidly. “Yeah. I’ve seen you, too. You take really good notes.”

He laughs, embarrassed. “Yeah, I kinda have to. I’m... not great at winging it.”

“I can tell. You always look like you’re solving world hunger during lecture.”

That gets a real laugh out of him, deep and warm. He shakes his head, eyes glancing sideways at you. “I’ve wanted to talk to you before, but, y’know... classes aren’t really made for starting conversations.”

You shift your weight, surprised but not complaining. “Yeah, a party with no chairs and too many people is way better.”

He grins. “You’re not wrong.”

It’s quiet for a second. Not awkward. Just the kind of quiet that makes space for possibility.

“I’m Sam, by the way,” he says, even though you both already know it.

You tell him your name anyway, pretending you haven’t written it beside his in notebook margins more than once.

You don’t say much else after that. Not right away. But he stays beside you, sipping his drink like it's water and asking easy questions—what your major is, if you hate the professor as much as he does, whether you always look this calm at parties (you absolutely don’t).

Eventually, your friends come looking for you. His group hollers for another round of beer pong. But you linger. So does he.

And when you both drift back to your circles, the promise is still there—tucked between glances, hidden in smiles.

You’ll talk again. Soon.

This is just the beginning.

You don’t expect to see him the next day.

Parties are weird like that—filled with little flashes of chemistry that vanish with the sun. Things said under dim lights and drunk logic don’t always translate in the morning.

So when you walk into the campus café just off the quad, bleary-eyed and caffeine-desperate, and see Sam Winchester already in line, something in your chest misfires.

He’s standing there in jeans and a hoodie, hair still a little damp from a shower, flipping through the cracked screen of his phone like he’s trying to read the meaning of life in a text.

And then, like some perfectly scripted dream moment—he looks up.

He sees you.

And God, the way he smiles? It’s soft and a little startled, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like he wasn’t sure last night was real.

You smile back before your brain catches up. Then immediately glance down because why is your heart racing like you’re about to get called on in class when you didn’t do the reading?

He steps out of line. Walks toward you.

Oh no. Oh yes. Oh hell.

“Hey,” he says, pushing his sleeves up like his forearms were being kept a secret until now. “I was kinda hoping I’d run into you.”

Butterflies. Absolute stampede.

“Yeah?” you say, trying to sound casual and not like you just internally screamed. “Because you forgot my name already and needed a reminder?”

He laughs. That honest, bright laugh that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “No,” he says, a little shy. “I remember your name. I just wanted to use it again.”

Stop. He needs to stop. Your cheeks are on fire.

“You, uh… wanna grab coffee?” he asks, glancing toward the counter. “I was gonna order, but I’d rather wait and sit with you if you’re cool with that.”

You blink. “Are you always this good at this?”

“Good at what?” he asks, utterly confused.

You gesture between you. “This. Being all charming and polite and hot in the morning?”

And just like that, he blushes. Full-on pink ears and everything. Jackpot.

“I’m usually a disaster before noon,” he says. “Guess you bring out the better side of me.”

Okay. That’s it. You’re marrying him. Or kissing him. Or maybe just having coffee first because you’re barely functioning and this boy is very tall and very much making you feel sixteen again.

You end up in a little booth near the back, two steaming mugs in front of you and an hour to kill before class.

The conversation is easy—shockingly so.

You talk about music and professors and how awful the dorm water pressure is.

He watches you like he’s listening with more than just his ears. Like he’s studying your laugh, your fidgets, the way you stir your coffee without even sipping it.

And he’s nervous. It’s in the way his fingers tap the side of his cup, the way he looks at your mouth when you talk, then quickly away like he didn’t mean to.

You’re nervous too. But it’s the good kind. The butterflies in your stomach, heart skipping like a scratched record kind.

You don’t even realize how long you’ve been sitting there until your phone buzzes with a reminder that class starts in ten minutes.

You groan. “Ugh. The universe really said ‘no peace for the pretty.’”

Sam laughs again, and you swear you’d sit through five back-to-back lectures just to hear that sound on repeat.

He stands up with you, slinging his bag over one shoulder, hesitating just slightly before speaking.

“Hey, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “Would it be totally weird if I asked for your number? I mean—we’ve already shared tequila and psych notes. Might as well keep the streak going.”

You pretend to think. “Hmm. I don’t know. What if I’m secretly terrible at texting?”

He grins. “Then I’ll just have to see you in person again.”

Butterflies? Fully evolved. You are levitating.

You give him your number. He types it in like it’s sacred information.

And as you head off to class, your brain spinning, your phone buzzes with a message:

[Unknown Number]

hey :) it’s sam. coffee again soon? no hangover required this time.

You smile at your screen, already planning your reply.

It’s slow. And awkward. And incredibly, overwhelmingly sweet.

And you can feel it already— This is how it starts.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[nameless-ken]

Bucky Barnes x Reader

The Stranger That Knows Me Best is a heartfelt story about connection, vulnerability, and taking chances on the unexpected. Through letters and shared experiences, two introverts discover that sometimes, the person who understands you best is the one you’ve never met.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: none really, mostly fluff and some angst

Masterlist

The first letter arrives on a Monday, stuck between a credit card offer and a pizza coupon. You stare at the plain envelope for a moment, debating whether to open it right away or let it sit on top of the unopened pile stacked up on the kitchen table. Honestly, you wouldn’t even be holding it if Wanda hadn’t forced you to sign up for this pen pal thing.

“It’ll be fun!” she exclaimed as she leaned dramatically across your desk while you tried to study. “You need to talk to someone who’s not me for a change. And how exciting to meet someone across the country!”

You rolled your eyes at her and muttered something about spam emails and book characters being more your speed. But she was insistent. “Imagine it. Getting to know someone without all the noise of social media. Just words. Just paper. It’ll be good for you.”

Now, standing in the kitchen, envelope in hand, you weren’t sure if she’d done you a favor or set you up for the most awkward exchange of your life. The return address displays Brooklyn, New York, in handwriting so neat it almost looks printed.

On the other side of the country, Bucky sits at a worn, small kitchen table in his tiny Brooklyn apartment, mouth turned down at the envelope in his hands. His roommate and best friend, Sam, somehow roped him into this, using every trick in the book to sign him up.

“You’re too serious all the time,” Sam teased. “You need to lighten up, meet new people or at least, like, write to one person.”

“I meet people,” Bucky muttered, already regretting the argument.

Sam laughed. “Right. The way you avoid everyone at parties? Sure, bud.”

And now here he is, a couple of weeks later, holding a letter from some stranger in Oregon and wondering if Sam had a point. Bucky has never been good at opening up, not even with people he knew. The idea of putting his thoughts down on paper for some stranger to read made him uneasy. But at the same time there was a comfort in only writing–no faces, no judgments, just words.

The truth is, Bucky doesn’t have a clue what to say or where to start. He agreed to this so Sam would get off his back about meeting new people. Bucky is tired of the monotonous routine of the same frat parties every week. How is he supposed to get to know someone through blasting music and dozens of beers? He’s never been a fan of crowds or casual conversations. 

Maybe that’s why he’d said yes when Sam showed him the ‘Around The World’ pen pal website. To meet someone genuinely and in the most organic way his social anxiety will let him. 

You sit down at your kitchen table, coffee growing cold as you carefully peel open the envelope. The paper inside is simple, lined like the kind from a spiral notebook. Nothing fancy, just a letter. The words on the page surprisingly feel honest. 

Hey, I’m not sure how to start this. I guess an introduction is a good place? My name’s Bucky. Well, technically, it’s James, but no one calls me that. I signed up for this because a friend of mine said I should give it a shot. I don’t know if I’m good at writing letters, but I figure it can’t hurt to try. So, uh… hi.

Somehow Bucky’s awkward words bring a faint smile to your lips which makes you feel a little less self-conscious about your first letter.

Meanwhile, Bucky unfolds his letter in the quiet of his apartment, reading the loopy handwriting of his mystery pen pal.

Hi, I guess this is the part where I tell you about myself? My name’s Y/N, and I live in Oregon. Honestly, I signed up for this because my best friend wouldn’t let it go. She thought it would be fun, and I figured… why not? So here I am. I’m not sure what else to say yet, but I’m looking forward to hearing from you.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, almost smiling. There’s something disarming about the tone, like you are just as uncertain about this as he is.

Neither of you expected much from those first letters, just a few introductory words sent across the miles. But as you sit at your table, thinking about what to write back, you start to feel something you haven’t felt in a long time: curiosity.

And across the country, Bucky feels the same.

Only a week later, the third letter arrives with something extra—a pressed flower, its petals delicate and pale blue. It slips out from the folded paper and lands softly in your lap.

I found this on a walk and thought it was too pretty to leave behind. Don’t ask me what kind it is, I’m terrible at flowers. But it made me think of something you might like.

You smile, gently picking up the flower and holding it up to the light. The sunlight streaming through your living room window turns the petals almost translucent. It feels strange, how something so small can carry so much meaning. In this moment, it wasn’t just a flower, it’s a glimpse into how Bucky sees beauty in the world. 

You tuck the flower carefully into the pages of your journal, pressing it between the lines of a half-finished poem you have been struggling to complete. Somehow, it seems to fit perfectly there, like it has been waiting for you to give it a new story.

You pick up a new blank page, finding yourself writing more freely than you had before. You practically spill out everything you’re thinking at the moment. You tell him about the books piled on your desk, the way your apartment smells like coffee and your favorite hazelnut candle, how the flower petal reminds you of a poem you read recently for class. You include a few lines of said poem on a piece of homemade paper you created a few days ago (a skill you learned from a YouTube video), a small gift in return for his. 

Evening light slants through Bucky’s half closed bedroom window as he opens your next letter. 

A muted tone bookmark slips out first. 

I thought you might need this for all your textbooks. Kinesiology sounds intense, so hopefully this will help keep your place when you’re too tired to keep going.

He turns the bookmark over in his hands, studying the intricate design—a swirl of blues and greens, almost like a wave frozen mid-motion. It’s sturdy, practical, and yet oddly personal in a way that catches him off guard. In both of your previous letters, you learned about each other's majors.

Bucky is studying Kinesiology and you, creative writing and English literature. 

He glances at his own textbooks scattered across his desk, a half-empty mug of tea sitting close to the edge. The long nights spent studying, the endless diagrams of muscles and tendons, the impending need to study for an upcoming test overwhelming his mind. 

He doesn’t say it out loud, but it feels nice to be thought of.

Bucky pulls out the old cigar box he keeps on his bookshelf, the one where he stashes little things that matter—ticket stubs, Polaroids, a dried four-leaf clover. Carefully, he places the bookmark inside, alongside the growing pile of letters.

Later, as he writes his reply, he mentions how the bookmark reminds him of summers at the beach when he was a kid. 

My mom used to drag me and my sister there every weekend. I pretended to hate it, but I think I loved it more than I let on. The waves were calming, you know? Kind of like the way your letter felt. Thanks for that.

He hesitates for a moment before folding the letter, then slips a small photo inside, an old snapshot of his hometown beach at sunset. He doesn’t remember exactly when he took it, but it felt like the right thing to share.

As he seals the envelope, his smile grows. A private gesture that no one else besides Sam usually sees. For the first time in a long time, the act of sharing doesn’t feel so hard.

Did you ever climb trees as a kid? There was this big oak in my backyard growing up. I used to climb all the way to the top, even though my mom always yelled at me for it. There was this one branch that stuck out just right, and I’d sit there for hours. It was the one place I felt like I could breathe.

When you read his words, something clicks in your memory. The reminder of your grandmother’s magnolia tree comes flooding back. Its branches were low and sturdy, perfect for climbing, and the flowers always smelled faintly sweet, even when they were just starting to bloom. That tree had been your secret world, a place where you could escape everything else and just… be.

You respond, telling about your afternoons of sitting in the tree with a journal, scribbling drawings and stories no one else has ever seen. 

It was the first place I felt like I could dream. Funny how trees do that for you too, huh?

Bucky leans back on his couch as he reads about your memory. He hasn’t thought about that tree in years, not since it was cut down after a bad storm. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the texture of the rough bark under his fingers and how the world seemed so small from up there. 

That night, instead of going straight to bed, Bucky finds himself sitting by the window, staring out at the sparse trees lining the streets below. The city doesn’t have the same kind of quiet his backyard had back then, but his memory of that oak tree now feels like it was something he could reach out and touch.

Your conversations about trees continues. In your next letter, you mention how you used to take a backpack filled with snacks and book up into the magnolia tree, like you were setting off for some great adventure. You confess how you fell asleep up there one afternoon and scared your grandmother half to death when she couldn’t find you. 

Bucky’s laughter fills his bedroom as he reads that part, trying to put a face to you as he imagines that scene play out. 

I used to stash stuff up there too. Snacks, comics, even a pair of binoculars I borrowed from my grandpa. It felt like my own little hideout, you know? Like the world couldn’t touch me when I was up there.

As the letters went on, the conversations turned into something deeper. You start talking about the feeling of having a place to escape, a space where the world feels manageable. For Bucky, it used to be the oak tree and now the gym, where he can lose himself in the rhythm of movement and focus. For you, it’s always been words—books, notebooks, even napkins when nothing else was around.

Do you ever feel like you’re still climbing? Like you’re still looking for a branch high enough to sit on, where you can finally just… breathe?

Bucky stares at that question for a long time. 

Yeah. But sometimes I wonder if I’m looking in the wrong places. Maybe the branch isn’t what I need anymore. Maybe it’s just knowing there’s someone out there who gets it.

When you read those words it’s like the miles between you two has gotten a little smaller.

You must write a lot for your classes. Creative writing sounds… intimidating, honestly. I don’t think I could do it. I’m better with structure, you know? I like knowing how things work, how muscles move, how the body functions. It feels concrete, there’s always an answer.

You giggle at his admission. It’s not the first time you’ve heard that writing seems almost impossible to accomplish but to you, it’s almost the easiest but scariest thing in the world. 

Concrete sounds nice.  Writing feels like a brewing storm you can see from hundreds of miles away but as it creeps closer the weight of what to do next has you frozen on the spot. It’s easy in the sense of how subjective it is and everyone always has something to say. The scary part is being brave enough to expel your own thoughts or imagination for the world to have an opinion on.  But I can’t imagine kinesiology being any easier. Do you ever feel like you’re carrying too much? Like the weight of learning all this stuff about the human body just… piles up?

Bucky nods to himself as he reads, his pen pausing above the paper. He hasn’t told anyone, but sometimes, the pressure of being in his program is overwhelming—the constant exams, the endless memorization, the unshakable feeling that one mistake could mean letting someone down in the future.

Yeah, it gets heavy sometimes. But I think about what it’s all for, and it makes it easier to keep going. What about you? What keeps you writing?

When you read his question, you stop to think. What keeps you inspired? The answer seems obvious–it was just something that came naturally to you, from a young age. But the longer you sit and dive deeper into his question, the harder it is to really put it into words. 

Because I don’t know who I am without it.

You didn’t expect those words to carry a weight you didn’t know you have been holding. 

It’s not always easy, though. Writer’s block isn’t some fantastical word people use as an excuse. It’s brutal. Trying to put the right words in the right order drives me crazy most of the time. But even when it’s hard, it’s the only thing that makes me feel like… me, if that makes sense.

Bucky thinks about how he feels when he is at the gym, or working with the human anatomy models in class. He doesn’t always love the grind of school, but there’s something about the act of moving, of learning how things worked, that makes him feel like he is on solid ground. He taps his pen against the table, thinking before continuing his next letter.

That makes a lot of sense, actually. I don’t know if I feel the same way about kinesiology, but I get what you mean about needing something to hold on to. For me, it’s movement. It sounds weird, but when I’m working out or studying how the body works, I don’t feel as… stuck, I guess. Like I’m figuring out the puzzle one piece at a time. And yeah, sometimes the puzzle sucks, but I think that’s just part of it.

He hesitates before adding:

Do you ever feel like writing is your way of figuring yourself out? Like it’s not just about telling a story, but about finding pieces of yourself you didn’t even know were missing?

His question lingers in your mind for days. It isn’t something you’d ever admitted to yourself, let alone anyone else, but he’s right. Writing isn’t just about creating, it’s about uncovering. 

You write back:

All the time. It’s like every time I write something, I leave a little piece of myself on the page, but I also find something new. It’s terrifying sometimes, to feel so exposed, but I think that’s why I can’t stop. It’s the only way I know how to make sense of the world and myself. What about you? Does movement ever feel like that for you? Like it’s not just physical, but… more?

Bucky’s next letter was slower this time, but when it arrives, it’s longer than usual.

Yeah, I think it does. I never thought about it like that before, but now that you mention it, maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to it. When I’m moving—running, lifting, even just walking—it’s like the noise in my head quiets down. I don’t have to think about everything all at once. It’s just me and my body, and for a little while, that’s enough.

He pauses, then adds:

I think that’s why I want to help people. I want to give them that same feeling, like they’re not trapped in their bodies, but free because of them. Maybe that’s the piece of myself I’m trying to figure out.

With his next letter, Bucky includes a small, fraying string bracelet. It’s clearly worn from age, some threads are thinner than others, and a few have almost completely unraveled. 

I used to wear this all the time as a kid. It’s nothing special just something a friend gave me back when life was simpler. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years, but I figured maybe it’s time it meant something to someone else.

You hold the delicate bracelet, running your fingers over the worn strings. The softness of the fibers and each fray holding a story Bucky hasn’t shared yet. There’s a weight to it, not in size, but in meaning. The way he decided to pass it down to you. It makes you think of the small tokens you’ve saved over the years–notes from old friends, concert tickets, friendship bracelets–those scraps are pieces of who you are, fragments of a past you’ll never be ready to let go of. 

You didn’t want to just thank him for the token. It deserves more than that. 

You decide to package a worn, dog-eared paperback book, edges wrinkled from the years of being opened and reread. It’s one of many copies of Pride & Prejudice you have. The first book that made you fall in love with writing. You can remember all the late nights you spent highlighting lines, making notes in the margins. 

This was the first book that made me want to be a writer. It’s been sitting on my shelf for years, and I think it’s time someone else enjoys it. Maybe it’ll mean something to you too.

You hesitate for a moment, a knot swirling in your stomach. It was something small, seemingly insignificant but also personal. The book was more than a vintage piece of writing. It’s a piece of your past, something that has shaped who you are. 

Bucky opens the package carefully, turning the book over in his hands. It looks like it’s been loved, its pages soft and curling at the corners. He can tell it’s been read over and over again.

He smiles genuinely. He’s never been a huge reader—always preferred the practicality of learning from textbooks or manuals—but this book makes him grateful to have a part of your world that you’re willing to share with him. 

Bucky flips to the first page, the ink of your handwriting spells out a note ‘I hope this means something to you’ 

With a sigh, Bucky carefully places the book beside his bed. He’ll start reading it soon, maybe later tonight. There’s something comforting about knowing that, through these letters and small tokens, you are building something real, something that isn’t defined by distance or time, but by the simple act of sharing.

I’ll start reading it tonight. I can’t promise I’ll be as into it as you are, but I think it already means something to me. That bracelet I sent you, it isn’t just a piece of string. It's a piece of me, one I wasn’t sure how to share until now. I don’t know why I’ve kept it all these years, but I’m glad you’re the one who has it now.

He folds the letter and slips it into the envelope, sealing it with the same quiet smile that has been creeping into his letters more often. 

Over the next few weeks, your letters became less about what you both do in a day and more about the things that have shaped you. Bucky told you about him joining his school's track team and local races all the kids in the neighborhood would have every summer. You told him stories about how you would write stories for your stuffed animals and act them out alone in your childhood room. 

With each letter, it’s become harder to imagine not knowing Bucky, who in so many ways, is still a stranger. But also the one person in the world you feel free enough to share parts of you that you can’t with the closest people you see daily. 

Your heart clenches at Bucky’s next admission:

It’s not that I don’t like people, but it’s like there’s this invisible wall between me and them. Like I’m always watching, but never quite part of it.

You couldn’t write that feeling any better. 

I guess I’ve always been more comfortable in other people’s worlds than my own. Books made sense when nothing else did. I could lose myself in them and forget everything else—even for just a little while.

One day, his letter comes with a sketch tucked between the pages. It’s rough, the kind of drawing someone might do absentmindedly, but it has this subtle energy to it. It’s a street corner in Brooklyn with buildings stacked close together, fire escapes twisting up their sides like veins.

You’d like Brooklyn. There’s something about it, almost restless but steady at the same time. The city’s always moving, but if you look close enough, there are these little pockets of stillness. I think you’d find it inspiring.

You could almost imagine it. The sounds of the city, how different the air might feel. You’ve never been to the east coast. Your finger traces over the sketch, admiring the little piece of Bucky’s city he offers you. 

That night, you feel inspired. You pull out an old journal and try to put words to his drawing. Imagining what Brooklyn must feel like, blending his description with your own ideas. You aren’t sure how cohesive your stream of thoughts are but you don’t take time to edit it. You rip the page out and fold in, slipping it in with your letter. 

When Bucky opens the envelope and finds your poem, he reads it twice, then a third time, trying to imagine his own city through your eyes. You make Brooklyn feel less gray and crowded. As he sits by his favorite coffee shop window, he draws another sketch of what’s in front of him, he even includes a sticker the shop sells. 

Your letters have become a map of sorts. A shared exploration of places neither of you have been to but can picture so vividly because of each other’s words. You print a picture of your favorite spot back home, a cliff overlooking the ocean where you’d sit for hours. 

Writing on the back of the photo: The kind of place that makes you feel small but full of light.

In his reply, Bucky describes a park in his neighborhood where he goes for runs when he needs to clear his head. 

There’s this one bench under an old sycamore tree. Sometimes I stop there and just sit for a while, watching people go by. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet. Peaceful.

With every letter, the walls between you seem to shrink. And yet, there’s still so much you don’t know about each other, so many questions left unspoken, fears left unsaid. Would the connection you’d built survive outside the pages of these letters? Or was it something that only made sense in this space you’d created?

You’re sprawled across the couch in your shared apartment, a blanket draped over your legs as Wanda flips through a magazine on the other end. The soft glow of fairy lights makes the room feel cozy, even as the stack of textbooks and your half-drunk coffee mug on the table scream anything but relaxation.

“You’ve been smiling at that piece of paper for ten minutes,” Wanda says, not even looking up.

You glance down at the letter in your hands, catching yourself before you grin again. “No, I haven’t.”

Wanda raises an eyebrow, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. “You totally have. That’s a ‘someone special wrote me something adorable’ smile if I’ve ever seen one.”

“It’s not like that,” you mumble, though your cheeks are already heating up.

Wanda scoots closer, pulling the letter out of your hands before you can stop her. She scans it, her face softening as she reads. “‘You’d like Brooklyn. There’s something about it—restless but steady at the same time.’” She looks up, her expression a mix of curiosity and teasing. “Okay, first of all, swoon. Second, who is this guy, and why haven’t you told me everything about him yet?”

You groan, snatching the letter back and holding it to your chest. “He’s just my pen pal. You know, from that website you made me sign up for.”

“I strongly encouraged you,” Wanda says with a smirk. “And clearly, I was right. You like him.”

“It’s not like that,” you repeat, but even you don't seem to believe your words. “We just… get each other. Like, in a way no one else does. It’s hard to explain.”

Wanda grins, leaning back and crossing her arms. “Oh, it’s not hard at all. You’re totally falling for him.”

You roll your eyes but can’t deny it. Because maybe, she’s right.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, the photograph of the cliffside you sent him in his hands. His thumb traces the edges of the picture absently, his eyes fixed on the jagged rocks and the expanse of sky above them. Sam sprawls in the armchair across the room, one foot lazily rests over the armrest. The faint sounds of the video he’s watching on his phone fills the room. 

“Is that the photo your pen pal sent you?” Sam asks, nodding toward it.

Bucky glances up, startled slightly. “Uh, yeah.”

Sam smirks. “You’ve been staring at it for, like, twenty minutes, man. What’s up with that?”

Bucky shrugs, setting it carefully on the nightstand. “She said it’s her favorite spot near where she grew up. Told me she used to sit there when she needed to clear her head. I don’t know—it’s just… personal, you know?”

“Yeah, it sounds like it,” Sam sits up a little. “So, what? You’re into her now?”

“She’s just my pen pal,” Bucky sounds unconvinced by himself. 

Sam laughs, leaning back again. “Don’t even try it. I know that look. It’s the same one you had when you started watching that baking show and tried to convince me it was just for the ‘techniques.’”

Bucky shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not like that,” he mutters. “She’s just… easy to talk to. Like, I don’t have to explain everything, you know? She just gets it.”

“Yeah, you sound totally detached,” Sam’s grin widens.

Bucky rolls his eyes and tosses a pillow at him. “Shut up, man.”

But as he picks the photo up again, studying the way the sunlight played across the rocks and the faint edge of the ocean in the distance, he knows Sam isn’t entirely wrong.

The next morning, you’re sitting at your desk, chewing on the end of a pen as Wanda brushes her hair in the mirror.

“So, what’s his name?” she asks casually.

“Bucky,” you say before you realize. 

Wanda freezes mid-brush. “Bucky? That’s his real name?”

You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “Technically James but he prefers Bucky.” 

“Okay, first of all, iconic. Second of all, why aren’t you, like, booking a flight to meet him?”

You look at her shocked. “Because that’s not how this works.”

Wanda frowns, turning to face you. “That’s so stupid. What if he’s your soulmate or something?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

But later, as you reread his latest letter, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like to meet in person. 

Meanwhile, Bucky is walking to class with Sam, the book tucked under his arm.

“So what’s her deal?” Sam asks.

“She’s a writer,” Bucky says. “Creative writing and English lit major.”

Sam whistles. “Damn. She sounds deep. You sure you can keep up?”

Bucky smirks. “Shut up. It’s not like that.”

But as he heads into class, flipping open the book to one of your underlined passages, he knows he’s not fooling anyone—not even himself.

I know this pen pal, letter sending thing is supposed to hold some kind of anonymity but sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to meet you. Don’t worry—I’m not suggesting anything crazy. It’s just… you’re such a big part of my life now, and it’s weird to think I wouldn’t even recognize you if I passed you on the street. I’d probably walk right by and never know.

Bucky pauses as he writes his next letter, staring at the words he’s written, debating whether to cross them out. Instead, he adds more

Have you ever thought about it? What would it be like if this wasn’t just on paper?

When you read his words, something inside you shifts. Of course you’ve thought about it too—what his voice sounds like, what kind of expression he wears when he writes to you.

Sometimes, I imagine what it’d be like to meet you too. It feels strange to think about, like breaking some kind of rule we’ve been following for three months. But if I’m honest, yeah, I’ve thought about it. More than once.

You hesitate, chewing on the end of your pen before adding:

What if we start small? Like a phone call? It’s not the same as meeting, but maybe hearing your voice wouldn’t feel so strange. What do you think?

Bucky sits with your letter in his hands, rereading your suggestion. A phone call. He’s thought about hearing your voice before, but seeing it written makes it real in a way he hadn’t expected.

A phone call sounds… terrifying, if I’m honest. But also kind of exciting? I mean, I want to hear what you sound like. I want to know if the way you talk matches the way you write. If you’re sure, let’s do it. Just don’t laugh if I sound awkward—I’m not great at this kind of thing.

You’ve never been good with phone calls. Honestly, you surprised yourself when you offered the suggestion to Bucky along with your phone number. But, knowing that Bucky feels similar, eases some of the nerves. 

When the time comes, you sit on your bed with your phone clutched in your hand, nerves fluttering in your stomach. You exchanged numbers in the last letter, but staring at his name in your contacts feels surreal. After a few deep breaths, you hit the call button.

“Hello?” His voice was quiet, a little hesitant.

“Hi,” you respond, smiling even though he can’t see it. “It’s me.”

Bucky let out a small laugh. “Hey. This is… weird, right?”

“Yeah, but in a good way.” 

There’s a moment of quiet, the kind that might feel awkward with anyone else, but with Bucky, it’s comfortable. Like the pauses in his letters, deliberate and thoughtful, holding space for meaning.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually call,” Bucky admits. “Not that I thought you wouldn’t. I just… I don’t know. It’s different hearing someone’s voice after reading their words for so long.”

“I know what you mean,” you reply, tucking your legs under you. “It feels like meeting you all over again, in a way.”

He hums in agreement, and you try to picture what he looks like by his voice. “So… what’s new?”

You laugh at the simplicity of the question, but it’s grounding in a way. “Not much. I’m still fighting my way through this writing project for class. I swear, my professor has a personal vendetta against me.”

“Or they just know you’re good at it and want to push you,” Bucky offers, his tone lighter now. “You ever think about that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

“What’s the project about?”

“Character studies,” you reply, leaning back against the pillows. “Creating these detailed backstories for characters we’ve made up. It’s harder than I thought it’d be.”

“I bet you’re great at it,” the sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten.

“Thanks,” you say softly, caught off guard by his compliment.

Bucky’s sitting on the edge of his bed, phone balanced against his ear, a faint smile tugging at his lips as you tell him story of the stay cat you see everyday on your way home from class. “So, what’s the cat’s name?”

“I don’t know. He’s not mine—he just hangs out around my apartment building. But I’ve been calling him Poe.”

“Poe, like the writer?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course,” Bucky chuckles. “I should’ve guessed.”

“What about you? What’s new in your world?”

“Honestly? Not much. Sam tried to make lasagna last night. I’m pretty sure he invented a new species of food poisoning instead.”

You laugh loudly, the sound hitting a spot in his chest unexpectedly. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” he says, grinning. “I think the smoke alarm’s still traumatized.”

The conversation drifts, covering everything and nothing at once. You talk about your classes, your friends, your routines. He tells you more about his favorite places in Brooklyn, the way the city feels alive even when he feels anything but.

And soon, the nerves melt away completely, replaced by the same ease you’ve always feel through his letters.

“You know,” Bucky says after a long pause, “I think I like this. Talking to you.”

Your heart skips at his words, and you’re grateful he can’t see the flush creeping up your face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “It’s nice. Like… you’re real now. Not just words on a page.”

You smile, staring up at your bedroom ceiling. “I like it too.”

When your call ends two hours later, you sit for a moment, staring at your phone. The world feels quieter, smaller, like it doesn’t quite matter as much.

And on the other side of the country, Bucky feels the same, staring at your name in his recent calls and wonders how someone so many miles away feels closer than ever. 

What started as one phone call quickly became a routine. 

Some nights, you call Bucky while sitting at your desk, the sound of his voice filling the quiet as you work on an assignment. He talks about his latest lecture or the annoying guy in his study group, and you share stories about your professor’s dramatic poetry readings or the characters in the story you were writing.

“You have a nice laugh,” he compliments, during a late-night call. “It’s different than I imagined, but in a good way. I like it.”

“Thanks,” you say with a smile tugging at your lips. “I think you’re the first person to ever say that.”

“Well, I mean it. You have a good laugh. It makes everything sound less… heavy, you know?”

You sit back in your chair, glancing at the screen of your laptop, but your focus is entirely on the phone now. “I guess I could use a little less heaviness. Especially with my current assignment. I swear, my professor’s idea of ‘creativity’ is to make us write the most pretentious stuff imaginable.”

“I think every professor thinks they’re shaping the next great mind,” Bucky states. “Mine’s the same. My last one made us analyze a yoga position and turn it into a thesis. Like, what is this, ‘Kinesiology 101: Zen and the Art of Muscle Movement’?”

You giggle at the absurdity of it. “That’s both weird and kind of genius. Imagine doing that for one of my stories. The whole plot could be a yoga class, but with a secret mystery and forbidden love.”

“Now that’s a story I’d read,” Bucky jokes. “But seriously, I get it. It’s like they try to make everything sound deep and philosophical when sometimes… it’s just about getting through the day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” you agree, tapping your pen against the desk. “But hey, at least we’re doing something we enjoy, right? Writing, studying—whatever it is, it keeps us busy.”

“Yeah, but I think what really keeps me going is knowing that there’s more to it. I’m not just learning about muscles or how to help people move. It’s like a way of understanding how everything fits together—how the body moves, how it heals, and maybe even… why it breaks down in the first place.”

“I get that. For me, it’s the stories. I want to figure out why people do what they do, what drives them. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to find the puzzle pieces and just waiting to put them together.”

“And when you do?” Bucky wonders, tone softer now.

“When I do…” You trail off, unsure of how to explain the feeling. “I think that’s when everything clicks. Like, the world makes sense, even if just for a moment.”

“I think that’s the best part of what we’re doing,” he adds thoughtfully. “Trying to understand how we all fit together in this world. You know, why we’re here.”

Another comfortable pause stretches between you.

“You know, sometimes I wish I could just leave all the work behind and go somewhere. Take a break from everything, just for a little while. Do something completely different.”

“Yeah, I get that. I think I’d like to go somewhere quiet. Maybe a cabin in the woods, or… a secluded beach. Somewhere I could just… breathe.”

“That sounds perfect,” he agrees. “No expectations. Just… space. Maybe one day we’ll both get to do it.”

You smile at the thought, imagining the peace that comes with leaving everything behind, even if just for a few days. “Maybe one day.”

Even without the ability to see one another, to meet face-to-face, you’ve found a space where you belong, right here with Bucky, in this quiet corner of the world you’ve created together.

The phone calls haven’t replaced the letters; if anything, they made them more special. You still send small items tucked into the envelopes, like pressed flowers you found on a walk or the postcard from a local bookshop with a note scribbled on the back: ‘This place feels like it belongs to you.’

Bucky sends things, too—a tiny seashell he’d found on a rare trip to the beach with Sam, one of his favorite protein bars (“I’m convinced these are the only reason I survive exams”), or a handwritten note on the back of a kinesiology diagram he thought you’d find funny.

I’m glad we started talking on the phone. It’s weird, but I don’t think I realized how much I needed it.

The next time Bucky’s name appears on your phone, you find yourself talking for hours, the way you always do. Bucky tells you about a new project he’s working on for class and you share the struggles of keeping up with your creative writing assignments. You laugh together about how you’ve both procrastinated on something important, even though you know you’re going to pull through in the end.

“You know,” Bucky says, his voice a little softer now, “I never really realized how much I needed to hear from someone like you. It’s just… easy, you know? Talking to you.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I feel the same. I didn’t know I could talk to someone this much without feeling like I’m overdoing it.”

There’s a silence for a moment, and then Bucky’s voice comes through, more vulnerable. “Do you ever think about what it’d be like if we could meet in person? Like… I don’t know, maybe take a trip or something?”

Your heart skips a beat. You hadn’t expected the question, but it feels like it’s been lingering there for a while. “Yeah,” you reply slowly. “I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about what it’d be like to actually meet you. Maybe we could go to that bookshop you told me about, or that café you go to all the time.”

“I think that would be nice,” Bucky agrees, mentally curating a day for you both like it might happen.

You sit on the floor of your room, your textbook open in front of you, but your mind is far away. Wanda, sprawled across your bed, scrolls through her phone.

“So, you’ve been talking to Bucky on the phone a lot lately, huh?” Wanda says casually, glancing down at you.

You look up from your book, the words of your professor blurring in your mind. “Yeah, a lot. Why?”

She raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Because it sounds like you two are practically a thing now. You’re sharing things that nobody else knows, stuff you haven’t even told me, and that’s… kinda big.”

You feel your cheeks warm, but you try to act nonchalant. “It’s just easier, you know? With him, it’s different.”

Wanda leans forward, setting her phone down, her expression turning serious. “So, when are you actually going to see him? I mean, for real, not just through letters and phone calls. You’re both in different states, and I get that it’s complicated, but... aren’t you curious? Don’t you think it’s time to see the real thing?”

There’s a knot in your stomach at the thought of meeting Bucky in person. “I don’t know. It feels so risky. We’ve got this thing, this connection, and I don’t want to mess it up by... meeting and finding out it’s not the same.”

Wanda sits up, her voice soft but insistent. “I get that, but listen to me, this thing you have, it’s real. I can hear it when you talk about him. You don’t have to know everything, but maybe it’s time to take that step. Meet him, see if what you feel is the same in person. If it’s worth it, you’ll know. And if not, you can go back to what you have now. But you won’t know until you try.”

You look down at your hands, the words swirling in your mind. “I don’t know if I can just... show up there, though. What if it’s too much?”

Wanda leans forward, giving you a meaningful look. “You’ll never know unless you do it. And what’s the worst that could happen? You go to Brooklyn, meet up with him, and find out if what you have is more than just letters. If it’s real. You deserve that, okay?”

You bite your lip, thoughts racing. Deep down, you know she’s right. But still, the idea of taking that leap is terrifying.

Bucky leans back against his chair as he closes the kinesiology textbook on the kitchen table. Sam is working on his own assignment, typing away across the table, though his eyes are trained on his friend, the expression on his face full of mischief.

“So, have you talked to her lately?” Sam asks, not looking up from the laptop.

Bucky shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, we’ve been texting. Calls, too. Same as always.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You sure? ‘Cause every time you pick up that phone, you get this dopey grin on your face. Like, way too much of a dopey grin.”

Bucky shoots him a look, but it’s hard to keep the smile off his face. “Shut up, man. It’s just easier to talk to her than anyone else. She’s cool. It’s... nice.”

Sam stops typing and leans forward, his tone shifting. “Look, Bucky, we’ve been best friends for years, and I can tell there’s something more there. You’ve never talked about anyone like you talk about her. You’ve been sending stuff, taking time to connect with her, and now you’re talking on the phone like you’ve known each other forever. What’s holding you back from making it real?”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, clearly wrestling with the idea. “I don’t know. It feels too soon. I’ve only known her for like five months, and I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to be that guy who shows up, and then everything falls apart. What if it’s different in person?”

Sam leans back, crossing his arms. “What if it’s better in person? You’re both out there, being real with each other. But you’re still holding back. Maybe meeting her, seeing her face to face, will show you something you didn’t even realize you needed.”

Bucky looks down at the table, conflicted. “I don’t know, Sam. It’s a lot to ask of her. I don’t want to make things too complicated.”

Sam smirks. “Bucky, she’s probably thinking the same thing. You’ve built something real, and now it’s time to see if it stands up in person. If you really care about her, you should at least give it a shot.”

Sam’s words weigh on him, and he can feel the pull, the desire to take that next step, to finally know what it would be like to stand face to face with you.

“You’re right,” Bucky mutters after a pause, his resolve slowly hardening. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll make it happen.”

Sam grins. “That’s what I like to hear, man. Just don’t wait too long, alright?”

The fall air outside is crisp. You’re favorite time of the year. You sit on your porch swing, finishing up your morning coffee. You’ve been buried in finals for the past few days, and it feels like the weight of them is starting to catch up. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, but you ignore it for the moment, reaching instead for the stack of mail that you checked this morning.

You sift through the usual bills and flyers until something catches your eye—a familiar handwriting. Your heart does a little flip when you recognize Bucky’s name on the envelope. The anticipation surges as you rip it open, the paper inside feeling heavier than usual.

A ticket slips out. A plane ticket to be exact.

You freeze for a moment, not quite able to wrap your mind around what you’re holding. You unfold his letter quickly. 

Y/N, I’m not sure how to even begin this, so I’ll just say it plainly: I’m sending you a plane ticket. I know this is sudden, and I completely understand if you think this is too much or too soon. I don’t want to pressure you into anything, and if it’s not something you’re comfortable with, I won’t be offended in the slightest. It’s a refundable ticket, so no pressure, I promise. But if you’re open to it... I’d love for you to come visit me in Brooklyn. I remember you telling me your Fall break is coming up, and I’ve been thinking a lot about how much I want to show you everything here—the parks, the food spots, the places that always make me feel like I’m home. I’ve even made a little map of things I thought you’d enjoy. It’s not the grandest of plans, but I think it could be a good start. I’m giving you the time to decide, but if you do decide you want to take this leap... I’ll be waiting for you at the arrival gate, next Saturday. I’ll make sure I’m there early, just in case. And if not, I completely understand. You’ve been amazing, and I wouldn’t want to ruin what we’ve got, whatever it is. I hope to see you soon —Bucky

You blink, the words blurring together for a moment. The excitement is a bit overwhelming. He’s giving you space, no pressure, just an invitation. The ticket, the map—he’s really thought all of this through. And the idea of being in Brooklyn, of standing face-to-face with the person who’s been your constant for months now, feels... possible. 

You glance down at the ticket again, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace the flight details.  You take a deep breath, setting the ticket down beside you and run your fingers over the map he made, the carefully marked spots where he hopes to take you. You smile at his gesture. It’s simple, thoughtful... real.

You think of Wanda’s voice, urging you to take the leap.

Are you ready for this?

part two

Thank you so much reading <3 Please let me know what you think and reblogs always help!!