#the way that this could work with every character

[luckyladylily]

This is a very weird post to me because it's the most technically correct thing I've ever read in my life, but in a way that makes me think OP has not only lost the thread on kink vs vanilla but has gotten so lost in the sauce they are missing the point of fan fic in general.

To address kink vs vanilla, I have extensive real world experience and I can tell you right now that you cannot predict or otherwise draw hard conclusions about kink based on a person's personality or lived experiences. There can be some patterns, but they are not hard patterns you can count on. This is the way in which this post is very technically correct. It is absolutely true that character's favorite position could be no frills missionary, even if they seem like the kinkiest mother fucker who ever walked the earth. Some people do in fact have vanilla sex.

But that's a very weird thing to point out because most people already know this, and even in explicit fandom fics with bdsm dynamics are out numbered by fics focusing on more vanilla sex, especially in fics that are actually about character work where bdsm dynamics are so rare fics like this often don't even exist at all for many ships.

I know this because, for personal reasons I won't get into, "vanilla sex" (and how people write it) is deeply uncomfortable to me. I like character focused explicit fic, but trying to find something that doesn't make me want to claw my skin off means sifting through dozens of vanilla fics to find one fic that strays from vanilla dynamics enough to be palatable. And that's when I'm lucky and such a fic exists at all. This has held true in every single pairing and fandom I've ever spent time in.

The only 2 areas where dom/sub dynamics or other heavy kinks outweigh vanilla dynamics in fandom is discussion of sex among kinky fans and one shots specifically dedicated to low or zero context sex. In other words, where interesting sexual dynamics are more important than the actual characters involved. The parts of fandom where characters are just pretty dolls we use to populate our sexual fantasies.

The second post has it completely wrong. In these spaces, It's not that kink is a substitute for personality, it's that kink trumps personality. Fandom is playing with dolls, and maybe for you character work is what it's all about, but that's not true for everyone. We all play with the dolls differently, and it's not like people who are in it for the low context sexual fantasy are suddenly going to be into character work now you've pointed this out, so what's the point? If these people won't play correctly (according to you), then they shouldn't play at all?

Fandom is not a zero sum game. Out of character bdsm one shots are not actually taking away from your character focused works.

This is complaining about people playing with their dolls in a way you don't like. If you prefer one way of playing with the dolls the answer is to find like minded people, not getting pissy about others playing with their toys wrong.

nothing but respect for our troops (smut writers) but listen. i dont want to be the person to tell you this, but not every character is going to be a dom or a sub. some people. and i know this is hard to hear. but some people do have vanilla sex. and some of those people might even be The Character.

[sabrina-senpai]

Saja boys w/ fem manager reader who explains periods to them;

Character/s: Jinu, Romance, Abby, Baby & Mystery

Character pairings: Jinu/you, Romance/you, Abby/you, Baby/you & Mystery/you

A/N: Characters may be ooc, writing style might be messy and just me rambling really

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Jinu:

• “So the uterus just... peels??”

• simply short circuits, he's kinda loser coded from how flustered he gets tbh-

• has to sit down and process what you just said

• will try to act nonchalant and tease you but when you glare at him he's sat there like- 🫥

• he's not sure how to react, bc on one hand he's absolutely baffled by how the female human body works but pretty impressed at how you're not dying on the spot

• (spoiler alert- you are)

• does not know what to do or how to help

• will try to lower your work load just a little by keeping the boys in check and not disturbing you

• for the sake of your sanity and their safety and world domination he will try to help you the best he can

• when you snap at him he just rolls his eyes at you, but hands you a heat compress when he passes by you again.

• you eventually snap at someone else and threaten to throw their stuff out the window

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• he walks on eggshells around you from then on

Romance:

• “Wait… you bleed every month and don’t die?”

• "that's kinda hot"

• the man who looks like he's Wattpad cringey men incarnate find out what happens during your period? ('m kidding he's one of my faves)

• cue the disbelief.

• he thought bleeding meant fatal injury — now you’re telling him it happens on purpose?

• "you are one strong woman manager-nim.."

• wait till he finds out about your hormonal spikes..😟

• a little sht through and through tho, will not stop teasing and flirting with you either way

• he's genuinely confused and lowk worried at how you endure cramps based on your description of them

• "Would you like me to kiss it better-" *smack* "-worth it"

• you snap at him? He's quiet for a second but smirks and says

• "that's kinky.. scream at me more-"

• but when you physically have to lean on something bc your cramps are that bad, he will show a lil bit of empathy and rub your back for comfort

• and holds back on teasing until you feel better (almost fails like separate 3 times)

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Abby:

• “You okay? Need me to fight your uterus?”

• no bc he would if he could

• actually tries- until you smack him upside the head

• does zero damage to him but stops trying for now

• curious as to how painful cramps actually are

• honestly..lemme get a nibble of those shoulders and then we'll talk-

• still thinks you're over exaggerating abt the pain but won't push you (you threaten him with smth. what you ask? no clue either.. but he stops so a win is a win ig)

• respects u a little more bc of it

• for real tho- with enough pain induced persuasion (from you obv) he will reluctantly happily let you bite him if the cramps get too bad

• again no damage done to him whatsoever;-;

• "Is this an excuse to get a taste of my beautiful muscles? If so.. manager-nim there's no need for one"

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• offers you his abs to use as a pillow

Baby:

• “I’m just gonna... not think about that.”

• does not wanna think about it

• fails

• will plug his ears and just la-la-la his way out

• definitely judges you and your cravings

• side eyes you when they're particularly weird

• he's not necessarily cruel abt it but is either immature or embarrassed.. or both

• does slowly evolve into sympathy with the right education (manager-nim? More like seonsaengnim teacher)

• eventually gets curious at how you function normally

• “manager-nim can't you just plug it? Like a cork? Using those tampoon thingies?"

• "how bout I put a cork in your mouth instead-"

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• cue you mid-breakdown trying to explain how tampons work and how they can't just be shoved inside forever

Mystery:

• “How do you not get mad at your own uterus..?”

• will stare at you with the most bewildered frown you can imagine from just seeing his mouth bro is almost impossible to read..💔

• immediately goes into a spiral of mental questions and stands there like 🧍

• frown deepens as he thinks about how much energy you have to use to do day to day activities while in constant pain..

• most likely imagining how painful it feels and his hair physically deflates at the thought..

• pokes at your lower abdomen like he's trying to decipher ancient text

• will growl at you if you try to sass him bro literally barked at a fan wdym he doesn't have undiscovered anger issues??

• he apologizes by massaging your hand later on

• will lay on your lap if you ask beg and become your personal heating pad

• the listener to your yapper frfr

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

• probably falls asleep mid yap but you wouldn't know, his eyes are literally nonexistent to you..

Sorry if it's not that good it's my first time writing headcannons for these gremlins so m sorry if they're pretty ooc, specially since we (I) don't know much in general abt them at all.

But I'm tryna improve with every fic:^

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

And asks/requests are open:)

Thanks for reading!!!

(credits for the original divider post bc idk if it's F2U)

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 2

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

E:

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

E:

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned. Instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

Then waited.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet. Expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” Then she sank into her desk like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, then quietly turned toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

Instead, you reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Calm. Measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Then, without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

Then slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you. Quiet. Focused.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp, deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance. Brief. Sharp. But not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, just twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. Just kept staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapped the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. Just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands slipping from her hoodie.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unseen. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glanced up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back, hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. Just looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

tag list:

@eclipcee8 @darkdanixoxo @chappellroankisser @senjukawaragitr @saverdelrey @appleofmyii @wzcoffeefloomo @fatbootymuncher @oneinameliann @ilahrawr @spiderx18 @vampirq @mioluvzsevika @ff4mi @ggutpunch @ellies-dinosaur @butchchase @bambiaches @velvetinkbym @rhian88 @azxteria @yxsmina @zaunite-516 @sweetshrew @eriiwaiii2 @bluminescent-moon @elliespotion @mascspleasegetmepregnant @dykeissih @babydoll-ivory @summerdaysout @tiedinbows @eilishfike @vixenkii

[roquog]

Thinking about it a bit more, maybe Pomni being an urban explorer is fitting. Something that jumped out at me in the first episode was Pomni going through the exit door when it reappeared because it wasn't something I would've done. I would have been too scared to go through on my own and I'd rather potentially miss my chance to escape than get stuck somewhere alone. I imagine urban exploration being a hobby where if you see something weird you just get out. Earlier, when she entered the circus, the first thing she did was run towards an exit. When an abstracted Kaufmo attacked Ragatha, she got out of the way and stood back to watch. I think she had such a big freeze response because she was fighting every instinct in order to not leave someone behind. The way she looked around the circus in search of Caine made her seem like a natural too.

In episode two, she fell into an out-of-bounds area and she was level-headed enough to grab onto one of the floating objects. When she landed, she seemed mostly uneasy because of Gummigoo's panicking. After talking to him, she got right to work in finding a way out. In episode 3, while being pretty freaked out, she kept her goal set on finding a way out. She tried to walk through a cloud of souls even though she was warned twice.

So Pomni has a reserved personality but is brave enough to explore abandoned buildings? It feels contradictory. It's possible we misunderstood her behavior during the initial shock as social anxiety when she might have acted differently in real-life. Or the fear of people and the fear of a dangerous environment could be completely separate for her. Maybe Ponmi finds reassurance in being able to navigate an unknown place. Reassurance that would be hard to get in social interaction.

I also want to point out how she looked when she shared she was an urban explorer.

[ID: Pomni speaking at the bar scene. She's looking to the side and has her hand on her other arm. The subtitles read "-and I would seek out mild thrills." End ID]

She seemed ashamed which was a little weird. I wouldn't know but in a casual group I thought these kinds of hobbies would be looked at with intrigue despite their danger and legality. It does seem out of character, so maybe she was embarrassed because of that?

[ID: Pomni in the same scene looking down into her drink where her face is reflected. She has a finger on the rim of the glass. She says, "It was just something I did for me." End ID]

It feels significant, but there are many ways to interpret her reaction. What I thought was that she was lying with a partial truth about her reasons for going into the C&A building.

[mechncheese]

Do you have any tips for drawing transformers/simplifying transformer designs :0?? Your art retains their 3-dimensionality without sacrificing their posability and all this while using 'simple' looking shapes, it's genuinely very satisfying to look at

Thank you ! One of the biggest challenges for me when I first got into drawing transformers was trying to keep their movement from being too stiff while keeping their design robot-like so I'm glad that it reads as fluid to people !

I'm used to drawing organic characters, working with simpler designs, and emphasizing movement and flow so this was definitely new territory for me !

I'll talk about my simplification process below !

The easiest way to go about simplifying transformer designs is reducing them to their basic shapes and then building them back up. You can see it a lot in G1. Since G1 characters are designed to be animated (and also look like toys) they can't make their designs too complex so it makes a good starting point when breaking bots down.

The comic designs are a different story. Because it's a different medium, artists can go ham with details.

IDW Thundercracker has a lot going on ! You can see all his mechanics and joints, he looks a bit overwhelming to draw !

G1 Thundercracker is more blocky and simplified, definitely less intimidating to draw, he's mostly just cubes

When I simplify transformers, I break them down and then gradually add details. I think about it like carving out a statue, you have your block of marble and you carve out details until you're happy. You definitely do NOT need to draw every detail, I always leave out a bunch of detailed parts in favor of simplicity.

Let's simplify IDW Thundercracker, if you break him down into shapes, he is also just cubes. The red underneath is my initial sketch and the blue outline is just there to show the shapes.

It also helps to have an understanding of perspective and the way 3D shapes work.

I'd say this is the base for him ! He follows almost the same base as g1, we're keeping it blocky but I do take liberty to taper parts of the body like towards the knees and or along the arms to give my pose some fluidity. Then we shove on his details bit by bit

A lot of it is just picking and choosing design elements you like about a character and finding ways to make it fit onto the design. Thundercracker's IDW design has these cool ribs that go along his torso and I tried to include that while simplifying it.

Something I try to avoid is shoving as Many details as possible onto a design. It can make the design look cluttered and busy and that might be good if that's what you're going for but it's just not for me. I find that more details make it harder to pose my robots so I keep it minimal.

Applying color also gives you a good look at how much room your design has. Here's TC colored !

I could stop here and call him done but I think he looks a bit too spacious so I'm going to add some more details. Here's where I get a bit wild and kind of just do what I want. For me, the references are a base and as I get further along down the design I add seasoning to taste. More plating, different hues and colors, bits and baubles, and artistic flare. Here's where I wind up !

I'm happy with this ! I think Anymore detail and he would be a bit too cluttered (his wings are already reaching the Clutter Point for me)

As you draw more and more designs you'll develop an eye for what you like ! The world is your oyster and you can always go back and redesign/adjust !

[kxsagi]

I always pronounce your name as Kissagi because you love Isagi so (Kiss Isagi) 😭

Also every time I see you post about Sae, I have to take a breath to not go feral cause he’s my favorite and it’s bad for my heart 😞

And to all the people thirsting about Sae, I love you all, I relate so hard like you have no clue– He takes up like 30% of my brain at all times (⸝⸝๑﹏๑⸝⸝) I’ve made 3 playlists (about to be 4) for him and drawn him multiple times, guys help me–

~ 💜 anon

“𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐟 𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞”

a/n: OMG I PRONOUNCE MY USER AS KISSAGI TOOOO like kiss isagi yessssss mwah mwah 💋💋💋

please don't be shy and share the playlists and drawings 😩 (only if you're comfortable!!)

also, for your kind message, take this sae drabble i had in my drafts ❤️

the rain isn’t heavy, but it’s persistent, enough to soak the hem of your jeans and leave misty streaks on your cheeks. the train station is quieter than usual, the fluorescent lights above humming with an indifferent buzz. you’re standing there like a character in a drama you never asked to star in, arms crossed over your chest, waiting for the person who always makes you wait in ways that aren't just about time. 

sae itoshi shows up five minutes late, umbrella tilted lazily over his shoulder, hair slightly tousled by the wind. he doesn’t apologize. of course he doesn’t. he just glances at you, lips pressed into that unreadable line, like your presence here is both expected and inexplicable. 

“you’re wet,” he says flatly. 

“great observation,” you reply, deadpan. “next you’ll tell me the sky is blue.” 

he doesn’t respond, just lifts the umbrella higher so it covers the two of you. his arm brushes against yours, barely, but you feel it like a spark anyway. 

you hate how calm he looks. you hate how he does this – appears in your life again like he never really left. one text. that’s all it took. “you still take the 7:15?” and you said yes. gosh, of course you said yes. 

“so… what is this?” you ask, voice low. “you miss my sarcasm or something?” 

his eyes move to yours then, slow and deliberate. sae’s always been like this – silent, heavy with meaning, like he communicates in pauses more than words. and you’ve known him long enough to read between them, even if it hurts. 

“i saw that photo,” he says finally. “the one with you and that guy.” 

you blink. “what?” 

“the one where he’s got his arm around you. you were smiling.” he says it without inflection, but there’s a sharpness to it, like he’s testing you. or himself. 

you cross your arms tighter. “so? people smile in photos.” 

sae looks away, jaw tight. “you looked happy.” 

“and that bothers you?” you ask, stepping half an inch closer. “why? because i moved on?” 

he doesn’t answer. just stands there, rain dripping off the edge of the umbrella like it’s marking time. you want to hit him and hug him at the same time. classic sae effect. 

finally, he says quietly, “i didn’t think i’d care. but i did.” 

that makes your heart thump in a way that makes you furious. you hated how he left things. always cool. always distant. always expecting you to read the fine print of his silences. 

“you could’ve said that months ago.” 

“i know.” 

“so why now?” 

he shrugs, but it’s not casual. nothing about him is, when it comes to you. “i thought if i gave you space, you’d forget me. or i’d forget you.” 

“did it work?” 

his eyes flick to yours again, sea-green and solemn. “no.” 

you should be angry. you should tell him it’s too late. that you’ve built a life without him. that you learned how to stop checking your phone every five minutes. but somehow, all you do is sigh. 

“i don’t know what you want from me, sae.” 

he’s quiet for a moment. the kind of quiet that aches. 

then he says, voice barely above a whisper, “i don’t want anything. i just… wanted to see you. make sure you’re still real.” 

your chest tightens. 

the train screeches in the distance, and the moment feels like it’s suspended between then and now, like you could choose to walk away and it would hurt, but it wouldn’t kill you. you’re not sure you could say the same for him. 

you glance up at him, still standing close, still sharing his umbrella with you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“you don’t have to say anything,” he adds. “i know i messed it up.” 

your voice is softer now. “you did.” 

he nods. doesn’t try to defend himself. doesn’t move away either. 

but as the train pulls in and the wind gusts again, you feel his fingers graze yours under the umbrella – tentative, like he’s asking for a second chance without the pride or the words. 

and for some reason, you don’t pull away. 

not yet. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[darkmatilda]

𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐧 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: truly awful day in every sense of the word — and then there’s him, spencer reid, armed with a small moral mission to make it at least a little better for you. the question is — will he succeed?

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, light cat scratch on reader's face (nothing serious) reader being mad and frustrated at the entire universe (fair enough) mention of their little argument and the overall tension, “what happened to yearning—” ITS RIGHT THERE B* + neck massage xx

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 3.2k

𝐚/𝐧: request

That day started with a scratch.

And quite literally.

Somehow, your beloved fluffy muffin tiny bundle firstborn princess dearest kitten daughter managed to land her paws right on your face, leaving behind a souvenir running along your cheekbone. The first pain you felt that day. The second one settled in your neck and shoulders, taking the form of sharp tension — you and your flatmate had a rule of taking turns with the big, comfy bed, which meant that every other night you had to sleep on the couch.

In the morning rush, you didn’t even have time to properly look at the scratch — you simply covered it with a layer of makeup and headed…to the subway station. The car was in the shop, and it was going to stay there for a few more days. A solidly unfortunate start to the day.

Funny how everything that happened next turned into a real rollercoaster of bad luck, with people riding it, throwing their hands up in euphoric excitement and screaming whaaat dooo youuu saaay nooow biiitch!

The barista messing up your order — and on top of that, arguing with you that you must’ve given it wrong. Rushing into work late thanks to that argument. Spilling coffee all over your favourite shirt on the way to the lab. And a whole crowd of people collectively deciding that this was the perfect moment to cut their IQ in half, execute the last of their brain cells, bombard you with a stream of pointless, redundant questions and generally piss you off.

The ones who weren’t pissing you off got caught in the crossfire too. Poor Winchester had already been trying to tiptoe around you all day — bless him for that — but even that didn’t save him from the curse of this particular day.

By the time it finally ended, you made your way back to the apartment…also by public transport. Judging by the smell, the people around you had had a rough day too. A very sweaty one. And they all apparently shared a passionate disdain for that remarkable human invention called deodorant.

But even though you had a strong urge to just storm into the apartment and throw yourself onto the bed — which, for tonight, finally belonged to you — you hesitated for a second before putting the key in the lock. You and Spencer had…argued. The thing with you two was that you could argue loudly, dramatically, and passionately — about the most ridiculous, pointless topics, like the mother of the main character in a novel you both happened to read one after the other, which, frankly, wasn’t even that rare now that you shared an apartment, space, and therefore, a bookshelf.

But then there were the more serious fights. The quiet ones. The ones that echoed between you for days, even though barely a word had been spoken.

This…was one of those.

You hoped he wasn’t inside. That he got wrapped up in some time-consuming case and wouldn’t come back until you were already asleep. Just…hopefuly not a really hard case for him.

*

Spencer, of course, couldn’t have known about the hesitation happening on the other side of the door. It just so happened that he was waiting for her arrival and had sprung to life at the sound of the key in the lock, rehearsing a general script of the conversation he wanted to have. Above all, he wanted to apologize once more for slipping up to Penelope about their shared secret. Not that it would turn back time, but he felt it was necessary. Or at least it was something he could do to slightly melt the icy wall that had formed between them. He had no other ideas.

Standing in the living room, he froze for a moment, motionless. He heard it — the sound of the door closing with force and the abrupt toss of keys onto the dresser by the door. And that was all it took for him to retreat. Those were not signals indicating any desire for interaction with the person who had recently pissed you off and toward who you still held a grudge or let alone any desire for a genuine conversation.

He spun around in circles like an ant, a bit unsure of what he should do. His flatmate almost immediately went to the bedroom that was hers that day, she didn’t even stop to greet the cat, who was currently doing yoga on the TV cabinet. And that alone was a clear sign that something was wrong. Maybe the whole day was just off.

As he pondered what to do — mainly considering abandoning his apology plans altogether or postponing them to another time — his gaze landed on Marie stretching out her front paws, and he thought about how apologies didn’t have to be a huge, loud gesture with fireworks and a big red bow, they could also unfold more gently, evolving naturally.

He started by finding the TV remote and turning on RuPaul’s Drag Race show he absolutely didn’t understand at all, but knew she liked. He was careful with the volume: not too loud so it wouldn’t seem intrusive, but loud enough for her to hear and catch her attention. Then he went to the kitchen to grab two mugs and start brewing tea. He pretended to be completely focused on the process and acted as if he hadn’t heard her leave the bedroom and appear on the opposite side of the kitchen island, gliding her hand along it as she approached.

He looked up at her only when she was standing directly across, separated by nothing but the sharp edge of the countertop, her eyebrows raised suspiciously. “Watching my show?” she asked.

Spencer shrugged, the nonchalance and innocence in the gesture perhaps a little overdone.

“I’m just making some tea,” he replied calmly, pouring boiling water into the two mugs. “Maybe Marie accidentally stepped on the remote.”

He turned to put the kettle down just as she snorted.

“Definitely,” she commented sarcastically, pausing for a moment. “I don’t recall you ever drinking my tea before.”

“Well, I figured I needed some…” he dragged out the sentence, recalling what kind of tea it was. Lavender. What does lavender do? “Calming down.” Every tea is good for calming down.

She snorted again. Spencer turned back toward her.

“You must really need it if you made two cups right away.”

He parted his lips, staring intently at the mugs as if the second one had just materialized before his eyes.

“I have no idea how that happened. But since it’s here…” he nodded suggestively toward the cup that just happened to be her favorite.

He saw in her gaze that she perfectly understood why he was doing this, but she wasn’t about to just give in and forget how things stood between them. Spencer, however, felt unusually confident in his game, sensing this would soon lead to progress between them. Like it or not, she was already part of his teasing and that always spoke well of their relationship.

But that confidence and ease suddenly left him when he dropped his shoulders in surprise, noticing something odd on her cheek, gently emerging from beneath the hair covering it. Instinctively, unable to stop himself, he reached to brush it aside and reveal the scratch.

“What happened to your cheek?” he asked.

As he could have predicted, she turned her head, dodging his fingers.

“Nothing,” she replied.

Spencer didn’t stop staring, a little too insistently, so she sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Marie scratched me when we were sleeping together. Somehow.”

Okay, he was willing to believe that version, but that didn’t mean he intended to drop the subject. Especially not after taking a closer look.

“Your nothing is all swollen,” he remarked.

Her arms crossed over her chest, shoulders rising slightly in a dismissive gesture.

“Because it was suffocating under makeup all day, which I only just took off. That’s why it’s swollen now.”

“That’s…not exactly reasonable from a medical point of view.”

“Oh, wow, what an absolute breakthrough,” she snapped at him so unexpectedly that he flinched a little. Her arms dropped to her sides in frustration, there was nothing dismissive about her posture anymore. “I know it’s swollen! And that it’s not exactly reasonable from a medical point of view,” she dropped her voice dramatically, twisting her face to mimic his expression.“But I had to deal with it somehow, because I had to leave the apartment in a rush since my car’s at the mechanic’s and it’ll be there for another week, which means I’m stuck with public transport full of people who apparently don’t believe in basic hygiene!”

Spencer didn’t interrupt that sudden crash out, letting it run its course as he listened to the string of bitter words spilling from her mouth. When she finally finished, a moment of heavy silence settled between them, broken only by the sound of the cat jumping off the cabinet somewhere in the distance.

“I think you should take a shower,” he finally stated, slowly.

Her head recoiled slightly in confusion, followed by a dismissive wave of her hand.

“And on top of that, my flatmate telling me I stink.”

He couldn’t help it — he snorted. Gently.

“What I’m saying is, it helps. Public transport is literally a germ chamber, and that awareness always makes me feel gross for a few hours after I get off. And when I feel gross, everything feels overwhelming and frustrating. So, that’s my heartfelt advice,” he declared, patting his chest chivalrously.He watched her expression carefully, noticing it wasn’t nearly as sharp as before, so he risked adding, “And when you’ve showered, come back here. I’ll take a look at that scratch on your cheek.”

He saw the subtle bite to the inside of her cheek in thought, and how her arms returned to their crossed position over her chest. He expected a slight nod, maybe an enigmatic answer along the lines of we’ll see.

Shaking her head in clear refusal, she surprised him.

“No. Don’t forget we’re still not on good terms and I haven’t forgiven you for spilling to Penelope.”

Spencer pressed his lips together. He held her gaze, unsure what to say, until he realized…she hadn’t moved. She was still standing right there, eyes fixed on him. If they were really on bad terms, for starters, they wouldn’t even be living together.

So, he decided — a little impulsively — that he’d handle this by briefly assuming the role of a dictator. He grabbed the handles of both mugs.

“You’ll come. Otherwise, your tea will go completely cold and I’ll have to pour it out.”

With those words, he sent her one last expectant look before heading to the living room, where the episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race was just wrapping up.

When she actually went to take a shower and the next episode started, Spencer didn’t bother watching. Instead, he gathered the most basic items to disinfect the wound and ease the swelling.

He also put a great deal of effort into keeping his face from betraying any trace of triumph when she returned 15 minutes later with damp hair and dressed in more comfortable clothes.

With exaggerated, fake displeasure on her face — to show just how indifferent she supposedly was to his advice — though even in the way she moved, there was a clear, undeniable hint of relaxation.

She sat down, tucking her heels onto the couch and taking a sip of the still-warm tea. Spencer allowed himself to take advantage of the moment to gently, with literally one finger, brush the damp strands of hair away from her cheek and carefully spray it with disinfectant.

She winced at him accusingly.

“In my opinion, rinsing it under the shower would’ve been enough, it’s a shallow scratch. Marie would never hurt her mom badly, not even by accident. But do what you want, doctor.”

Completely undeterred, Spencer set the spray aside to grab the cold compress meant to reduce the swelling and pressed it against her cheek for a moment — after which her hand took over on its own, holding it in place.

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he declared arrogantly, glancing meaningfully at the scratch. “Since this happened…”

She kept her eyes on the TV screen the entire time, but suddenly shot him a brief sideways glance and he could’ve sworn there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips.

“It’s all because of the bed swapping. It messes with her little head. She probably thought she was attacking you.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And why would she want to attack me?”

An innocent shrug.

“Possibly because I whispered her a word or two.”

Spencer went quiet for a moment not because he didn’t know what to say, but because he was scanning the living room for a certain small, black creature. And when he finally made eye contact with it, he had to let out a soft pspspsss for the naive little thing to trustingly trot over to him.

The woman pretended not to watch as he picked up Marie (whose body behaved like a loose spring, stretching downward until he settled her comfortably in his arms) but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Her eyes were supposedly glued to the TV but if someone asked what exactly she was watching, she’d stumble over the answer.

“Well hello there,” he whispered to the cat, scratching her behind the ear. “I heard someone here wanted to attack me in my sleep. How do you explain yourself, young lady?”

He glanced at the woman out of the corner of his eye, catching her gaze just as it slipped off his face and landed on Marie. He continued, “You can’t always trust your mom, sometimes she tells pure lies—”

He got smacked over the head with the cold compress.

“Hey, don’t you dare turn my baby against me!”

Beneath all that outrage, there was a solid dose of amusement — and he fully intended to bring it out. He scooted closer to her on the couch, positioning Marie right in front of her. He cleared his throat.

“She’s a little shy to ask herself but she wants to know if you’ve forgiven her. It really was just an accident, and she regrets it. She doesn’t want it to have a bad impact on the two of you.”

He said it under the weight of her stare, fixed directly on his face. Spencer finished speaking, his lips pressing together with a certain awkwardness that was entirely his, not hers. The moment he had to spend sitting in that discomfort was probably his punishment — but the kind that felt so deserved you almost went through it willingly.

Only after a long pause did she roll her eyes, a faint smile curling at the corners of her lips.

“Tell her that yes, I forgive her,” she requested, leaning forward slightly to press a kiss to the cat’s head.

But suddenly, she caught his gaze and held it firmly.

“Almost.”

“What do you mean almost?” he asked, a little impulsively.

She took a calm sip of tea.

“Well, there’s one thing you could do to make it fully happen,” she announced mysteriously. Spencer patiently waited for her to tell him what that was. She tilted her head to the side, stretching her neck.

“My neck’s killing me from that couch. My whole shoulders are tense.”

“You want a massage, am I right?”

As much as understanding anything usually came to him — well, euphemistically speaking — slowly, he figured that one out almost immediately, which seemed to surprise even her. She gave him a skeptical look.

“You seem weirdly excited about that idea.”

“That’s because, as it happens, I’m an expert at it.”

She snorted, clearly not buying it. She was probably waiting for him to say he was joking, that he actually knew nothing about massages — but that moment never came. Because Spencer really was an expert at it.

Or well…at the very least, he was very good.

She shook her head in firm denial.

“No, you’re not,” she stated confidently.

Spencer nodded in agreement — but to himself.

“I am. When JJ was pregnant…”

“…you gave her massages?”

“Not her. Will. In the third trimester, she was a little moody and the poor guy kept ending up sleeping on the couch. So yes, as it happens, I can consider myself an expert in this field.”

She snorted with laughter at that little story and took the last sip of her tea, widening her eyes slightly, as if she couldn’t believe she was actually agreeing to this.

“Alright then. Let’s give it a try.”

“Alright then,” he echoed her a little absentmindedly, nodding to himself. But then he quickly pulled himself together and cleared his throat twice for good measure.

“Turn around.”

First, she made sure her hair wasn’t resting on her neck or back before fully complying with the instruction. Meanwhile, Spencer took a deeper breath. Okay — this was a little different from massaging a sleep-deprived Will, who would’ve probably been grateful even if Spencer had treated his neck with a jackhammer and called it the most relaxing experience of his life.

He deliberately hesitated before touching her — forcing himself not to give the impression he was bluffing his way through this.

First, only the tips of his fingers rested just below her ears, followed by his whole hands slowly gliding down. That’s how this process was supposed to start — warming up the skin.

Thankfully, he’d just finished his tea, so his body was naturally warm, especially his hands from holding the mug. That alone had to feel pleasant…but the woman gave no indication whatsoever that it actually did, which sent him spiraling into quiet self-doubt.

He gave that stage all the time it deserved, until his hands started moving along her neck and shoulders with growing confidence and ease. He gave it so much time, in fact, that it earned him a doubtful shake of her head.

“You know what, I’m not sure it’s supposed to—”

She abruptly cut off when his fingers found a spot on her neck where he could clearly feel the tension, pressing into it with practiced precision.

Her entire body shifted under the influence of the breath she drew in and then released as a quiet, involuntary moan of relief.

And although that sound was particularly encouraging when it came to continuing the massage, Spencer paused for a moment, his hands resting gently on both of her shoulders as he leaned over her shoulder to ask,

“So, how’s that forgiveness coming along now?”

She tried to turn her head to look at him, which didn’t work because of the way their bodies were positioned. But if she had managed it, he’d bet anything it would’ve been the most electrifying, impatient glare in the world.

“Keep that up, and then we’ll think about it.”

Spencer smiled—to himself, since she couldn’t see it anyway. He smiled with certainty, because if that small taste had caused such a reaction, he was curious how she’d respond to more.

[xo-adeline]

"To Change For You..." - Twisted Wonderland

⋆°• ☁︎ - Things they do after picking it up from you!

Feat. Pan Nikos, Peyn Algos, Idia Shroud, and Leona Kingscholar

AN: The wonderful Pan Nikos and Peyn Algos belong to @kokii-omii ! (I’m so tempted to write for a bunch of the their other oc’s as well-) ☁︎ - Gn!Reader - Reader is described as Yuu (Leona’s Part and Peyn’s Part)

Pan Nikos - Gets (a little) better at not yelling at/threatening people during multiplier games If you had asked anybody in the Ignihyde dorm, or really anybody who had come in contact with him while playing video games, they would tell you the same thing: He’s scary. Whether they explained about the time that he had tried to leak the dorm's browser history, or just any time that they had been playing a co-op game, and they got a loud earful from the vice-housewarden. But everything was still the same, other times, though he could definitely mellow out, especially not in super stressful instances.

The first time that it had even been talked about was the night after a 5-hour co-op game between Idia and Pan. Of course, at the time, it was a little confusing, but even when Idia had stumbled into Pan later, he still seemed much more chill, even with all the hectic stuff that had been throwing the dorm members for a loop. And at every new problem that was brought up, there was a sense of tension in the air, and every time, there was a deeper scowl on Pan’s face. But before he could actually blow up and threaten anybody else, there was a deep breath, and he just let it go? Not only did it confuse the hell out of everybody who had seen it, but also Peyn and Idia, who were just standing there.

The second time this had ever shown up was when he was mid-boss battle, and one of his characters, which he had spent months building and perfecting, didn’t crit. Even with the lineup being perfect and every artifact in place, signature weapon, even 10-10-10 talents. And still it didn’t work, so in anybody's situation, they would have been pretty upset, and Pan, of course, was, but yet this time… There was just a little bit of some under his breath words, a pained noise, and then that same sigh, and instead he moved onto building one of his other characters. This was the time that they finally started to question it. And lo and behold, the only thing that was in common between both occasions. The fact that you, of all people, had made mention of the fact that it wasn’t the nicest to yell at everybody and that they were just trying to do their best, and yet somehow, even when Idia had mentioned the same thing, he only applied it when you had said it. And this had only added to the fact that he definitely played favorites, but hey, at least he was getting better at it?

Peyn Algos - Being (a little) less spiteful If there was one thing that anybody close to Peyn knew, it was the fact that he would only go out of his way to do things that would piss people off, case in point the many times that he would get into arguments with Riddle due to the abserdity of the Queen of Hearts rules. So, the first time that at a clear opportunity to make some sort of snide comment, he didn’t, people started to question everything. Was the world finally ending? No, or at least not yet. But the more times it happened, the more people started questioning it. Riddle was probably the first person to notice it, knowing how the Ignihyde student was one to jump at any moment to call him out on something, especially when it came to one of the 810 rules. Even the next time that he didn’t argue with Sebek about anything across the sun was the tell sign that something else was happening. And with their game on an update, Pan and Idia were about to find out why. Pan had the upper hand here when it came to understanding the majority of Peyn’s attitudes towards things; they were really good friends after all. But, it wasn’t long before they finally started to notice that this was an ongoing thing. Even if at some moments he didn’t end up making more comments, and the times that he didn’t, there were definitely unspoken words, and the way that he was really trying to bite his tongue was also supporting that fact. Now, after a few more minutes, there was only one person who really stuck out against everybody else. You. The one person who already stood out enough at the lack of magic, but even more so at the fact that you could get Peyn through a scolding without him back-talking whatsoever.

But that was the main thing that Pan and Idia noticed, the way he didn’t even seem like he wanted to. There was no sense of malice, no matter what you had said; it was like he really didn’t care what you were saying, just that you were around him and talking to him. And the more that the two of you talked, the more they had noticed that even at chances were there could have been a comment made, he didn’t even look like he was thinking about it. Or more often, when there was a chance that either he or you could leave the conversation, he never took it. Peyn had even when the extra mile to walk you back to Ramshackle, even knowing that Ignihyde was almost the exact opposite direction. Now it all made sense; it was only because you were the one who had mentioned it to him that he would have even considered it.

Both Pan and Idia were definitely making note of this for later dates…

Leona Kingscholar - Showing up to classes more often Safe to say that the first time in months that the Savanaclaw housewarden had actually shown up to class, there was a bit of a shock to everybody else. Most people had even forgotten that he was at the school, let alone even in their class. That’s how bad it was… Even the teacher had a confused look on his face when he saw Leona sitting in his assigned seat, when class was set to start. Of course, the initial reaction was just thinking that it was only because he knew that he had to get a certain number of days in to graduate, and it must have only gone towards that. But that idea was quickly shut down when the lion showed up 3 days in a row, was he on the verge of falling asleep every time? Hell yeah. But was he at least there? Also yeah.

This is also why a few of the students had launched a full-fledged undercover plan to figure out why he was coming so much. It didn’t take long or very much following around of Leona before they had found out the true reason behind his return. You. The magicless prefect that resided in Ramshackle. The very one that over anything else, had at least showed up to class and tried to keep their grades as high as they could, even without the use of magic. The group that had looked on this from afar was confused when they realized that one person could break him down and actually make him show up to class, but the more they started investigating, the more they found out about why that was.

The subtle glance from the housewarden when he watched as you spent your hangout time studying, the talks about some of the material that you were working on at the time - and more about asking him if he remembered anything about it and could help you, and last but certainly not least, the repetitive questions about how he could do nothing during the day and not get bored? Wasn’t there anything that he wanted to do other than just being part of the royal family? Wasn’t there anything that he wanted to learn about, or even just learn more about?

And maybe it was the way that you often asked these questions, that he finally started to do as you, offhandedly, suggested, and showed up to class. Now, there was no way that he was showing up with nothing in return. And what was he getting in return? For everything he was doing in class, he was also able to help you more and more, which meant less time for you to be constantly studying, and more time that you could be spending with him. It was a subtle difference, but to him, it meant everything in the world.

Idia Shroud - Leaving his room once in a while Before you, it was safe to say that he almost never left his room, and if he did? It was a beeline almost anywhere he actually needed to go. And being the good partner that you were, there was a constant trying to get him to at least see the sun before the end of the day. And yet, every day, there would always be some reason that he wouldn’t be able to leave. Whether it was some new event, online grinding for an upcoming event, or even some rereads of manga that you know he read, but says he didn’t, just so he didn’t have to go outside. Even Ortho had tried his hardest to get him up and out of the dorm, but there was only once in a few months that he would end up leaving the room, and for no longer than 15 minutes, max.

So there definitely was some gasps and onlookers the first time that you had actually dragged him on a walk around the campus, and for longer then the time he would normally be seen outside. Many of the people who had known about the ignihyde housewarden's tendencies were shocked to say the least. Luckily for Idia, nobody really interfered with the two of you at all, just choosing to stay away and instead pass the news on to friends through text message. Even if you were oblivious or not to the onlookers, there was a slight firmer grasp on the hand that he was holding, even if it did turn the ends of his hair slightly pink in the process. Good thing he had his hoodie that was pulled up ever so slightly.

From that day most people had just assumed it was a one time thing, they knew that both you and the housewarden were close so of course you would be trying to look out for him a little bit, but that was quickly shut down when a week later, around the same time, the two of you were back out and walking through the same area. And how long did this continue for? Months. Once a week, around the same time every week, and through some times the same area, other times different ones. But for some reason, it was only around you that he would ever even make the chance to leave the room he loved oh so much.

And little did anybody else know, that the whole reason was because he knew how much you hated that he never left his room. It was bad health after all! So, he was the person who proposed the idea of maybe taking small walks here and there, until it became a weekly trend that the two of you would partake in. It was a win-win in his eyes, he was able to spend more time with you and you got to see that he was actually leaving his room and getting some of the fresh air and vitamin D that he oh so desperately needed.

[mareastrorum]

This is only half a thought so far, but maybe other people want to chime in.

I’m doing Watch Machina (currently at episode 15) and Nein Again (currently at episode 21) while I also keep up with current Critical Role content (Age of Umbra episode 4) and something that bothers me a little is Matt’s current method of narration.

In C1, Matt’s style is very informal with regard to the narration. There’s little added drama via his tone, pace, or choice of words. “Toothy maw” became a meme pretty quickly, but the point of every description was to efficiently set the scene so the players could start their RP and choose what to do. There wasn’t as much precision with his descriptions, and of course that is a talent that takes a long time to hone when you’re describing lots of different things over the course of several hours. However, the narration was far less formal and calculated than his NPC dialogue, so (in combination with voice acting) it was very easy to determine when Matt was in character or not. It wasn’t a bad thing; Matt’s very casual narration and formal dialogue leading up to the Chroma Conclave’s attack on Emon was excellent because it was so sudden, leading the players and the audience to experience the exact same shock the NPCs would have. It’s not a bad way to narrate. If anything, it made the heartfelt moments so poignant, especially at the end of the campaign. That description of snow drops would not have been nearly as impactful if Matt had narrated that way all the time.

In C2, Matt started getting more descriptive and slowed down his narration to match. As Aabria would put it, he “paints a word picture” and includes more environmental storytelling for the setting itself, not just things for the characters to expressly interact with. I think this is part of what led to the Nein interacting with the set dressing more: Matt mentioned it, so it must be important! This led to some fun hijinks as time went on, and it gave Wildemount a different feeling than Tal’dorei. I couldn’t tell you that Emon had a particular vibe to it other than it being a big city, but howdy do we know that Berleben is full of nosy, bored people in a smelly swamp, and we sure know that Zadash is a bustling city with stark class segregation while Nicodranas is a beautiful trade hub with a mixture of different cultures. I think part of that may have come from working on the source books (they have similar language for the plot hooks and location entries). However, that method of narration was mostly limited to first descriptions of a new place or events (“cutscenes” like the attack in Zadash). Within a scene, Matt was still fairly casual in his discussions with the players.

But currently in Age of Umbra, and with a good chunk of C3, Matt’s narration is far more deliberate. There is a consistently slower pace compared to earlier campaigns, usually only speeding up in combat. Part of that may be for production purposes (easier for transcriptions and closed captioning), but it also impacts the pacing of the game itself. There’s also that presence of a new character: the narrator himself has a voice, and that is now part of the story. It’s extremely noticeable when the cast gets Matt to “break character” as the narrator to only be a DM. It requires a baseline level of formality for that to happen, and Matt committed to it in nearly every scene, regardless of the context of the scene. While that doesn’t feel all that strange for Age of Umbra (it fits well with the soulsborne style of game), it does make me realize that it’s part of why C3 felt incongruous. Like, sorry about the dead horse, but I was expecting C3 to be pulpy, which very much benefits from the narration style of C1 rather than the formal narration style Matt prefers currently. Punchy, informal narration sets a player expectation of “you’re here to get something done and I’ll tell you if it works,” while the current style instead lends itself to “you’re part of my story and this is the tone.” The former is great for fast-paced roleplay and the latter is suited to unhurried storytelling—which wouldn’t feel as mismatched if C3 hadn’t been a story where the PCs needed to prevent a second calamity within the course of a few weeks.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that this was a mistake. Matt clearly enjoys how he narrates currently, and every DM is entitled to their preference. However, I think there’s a lesson in here that varying the narration style to match the purpose of the scene and story would benefit the players and the audience.

To be fair here, Matt is not the only DM who doesn’t mix it up very often. Brennan Lee Mulligan (Dimension 20) is far closer to the C1 style of fast, informal narration with very limited, specific instances where he would slow down for drama; there is no “narrator” character in his players’ story. D20 has a far more casual tone to its seasons than CR does in its campaigns. Luis Carazo (Tales Unrolled) narrates similarly to Matt, with a focus on instilling an emotional reaction for the players to deal with, and the players collaboratively join Luis as the narrator for their own characters; it’s a back and forth where the DM and players contribute to that additional presence. Tales Unrolled is on the opposite end of the spectrum from D20, with a clear feeling that it is a storytelling experience.

Again, choosing one narration style over another isn’t necessarily a flaw. However, I think varied narration is a tool that most DMs underutilize. If used carefully, adjusting narration styles within sessions on the fly could enhance the experience of an Actual Play campaign for everyone involved. It could be used as a signal to the players for what type of scene this will be or when a scene is shifting. It could also signal to performers in a show for pacing within an episode (hijinks are over, time for some drama; time to cool down from the tension).

But, as always, it’s easier to point stuff out like this than it is to do it in practice.

[sharkie-shifts]

SOTM spoilers (specifically for the 3rd ending, MOON.EXE)

I don't think Moon or Sun as an animatronic was ever AT Fallfest- like you said, Moon has always been a stand in for Edwin, and the Sun for Fiona in a representative/symbolic sense. The minigames in Help Wanted 2 were a mixture of actual tasks the Fazbear Mechanic (player) fixed (Freddy in the Freezer, probably things like Bonk-a-Bon, etc. That are feasibly located in a Fazbear location) and pieced together memories of the Mimic program that has assumedly corrupted the mask the technician wears.

These Fallfest scenes being the mimic's memories could explain why Moon in his Security Breach form is there - the technician is used to working with the modern version of the character, and his mind is melding with the memories imposed on him by the Mimic, who remembers Edwin as "the Moon", and this portrays him as such in it's memories. This explains why 1) Such a modern animatronic that has no references made to it's design anywhere before Security Breach, and 2) why Moon is so aggressive and holds such a targeted anger for the technician (as their POV would be that of the Mimic in it's memory) -- The only way that the Mimic remembers Edwin -The Moon- is aggressive, and upset that the M1 and M2 programs were able to "live" while Fiona and David weren't (an explanation for the "What makes you so special" lines).

The "You rebuilt yourself, but now you are split in two. Moon and Sun, Destruction and Life." is a direct explanation of the Mimic : "You rebuilt yourself" - The Mimic rebuilding himself after Edwin destroys him ("Speaking of legs, I just finished mine") -- "But now you are split in two. Moon and Sun" - The 'Mimic' being an aggressive, violent creature, having picked up Edwin's destruction, as that's the only real interaction it's ever really had with him- and 'David' being his mother's son, just a child. A 'life', that truly believes he's a kid.

I called it from the beginning of the game, but especially after having seen the 'MOON.EXE' ending, where the Mimic is placated by the bedtime story and David is able to take control again, I'm certain that the M2 program is running on two different personalities: The Moon (Mimicking Edwin) and The Sun (The Sun's SON, David)

Idrk what my main goal is to this rant tbh; just-

The Moon in the Fallfest minigame is a symbolic manifestation of Edwin from a combination of the Mimic's memory and the technician's experience with the DCA -- the reason the Moon and Sun are in the PizzaPlex is because they're characters Edwin (MCM) owned, and as we know, Fazbear scraped every inch of what they could from MCM, so it makes sense they stole the characters, too.

The line about being "Split in two" doesn't have anything to do with Eclipse from the PizzaPlex, but in the split in M2's personality between the violence of the Mimic and the childlike mindset of David.

At least that's my theory- I'm grasping at straws here, but what's new with that and FNAF theories 🤷‍♂️

sotm spoilers !!!

chat what the fuck does this mean

*i mean ik what it means in relation to the mimic and fiona and david etc. but what does it mean for my dca boys....

We know fallfest burned down and og Fiona died there, and most parts of the Moon.exe game use Sun as a representative figure for Fiona and aren't actually about Sun as a character himself.

like, I get that the "this is where the Sun left, leaving them behind" line when handing over a fallfest ticket is very clearly about Fiona and not actually Sun, but i wonder if the reason they chose Sun to represent her was because he too was destroyed there, and that thats supposed to signify a parallel of Edwin losing Fiona/Moon losing Sun?

we know from help wanted that the dca was at fall fest, and this bit about rebuilding Moon as split/plural, specifically highlighting that he's only now like that after being rebuilt, makes me wonder if that was a decision made after Sun was destroyed in the fallfest incident?

(disregarding that the fallfest minigame dca appears in is in fact Moon fronting while everything is on fire, meaning that if they were separate then they were both there- or if they were combined then their being rebuilt as one happened before fallfest, and doesnt quite fit with the "oh they used Sun to represent Fiona because they both died there and left their other halves behind" theory. idkkkk how to fit these two game lores together </3. also dont know how canon help wanted is supposed to be) i feel like this choice in storytelling is very deliberate and significant somehow, but it very well could be "lets add sun/moon in somewhere because the fans are crazy about them" without deeper lore implications. (*as of writing this op has not looked at the new help wanted update they heard rumors about dropping this month)

EDIT

someone pointed out that while sun and moon represent fiona/edwin, and the baby owl as david, and we the player character put on the owl(david) mask to make moon(edwin) cry- we're supposed to be playing as the mimic in moon.exe

and after fixing the more modern-Moon statue, helpy refers to it as us, saying we fixed ourselves, (nod to the mimic fixing its legs?) but also implying we, as the mimic, are now both sun and moon.

Because the mimic is mimicking both the late Fiona and Edwin now, and learned positive and negative traits from the both of them.

as far as the real Sun and Moon that we know in sb, i'm not sure if this is all just metaphorical and they're being used to showcase parallels or simply tell a story (they are made for theater after all, storytelling is their thing)-

or, if taken a tad more literally, if its trying to hint that they're a mimic. (but not the mimic, as that one is locked beneath the plex for Ruin. But we know there were other attempts at trying to make more?)

anyways idk how literal we can take Moon.exe in regards to dca-specific lore, since the pair's involvement is very much just used as stand-ins to represent other characters. but by god am i desperate for crumbs with these two

[amiya-shirou]

I genuinely believe Federico is like 90% of the reason why the central themes of emotion, humanity vs seaborn, and human connection actually work, because it would be so easy to completely ruin the message by making it a vehicle for typical "love is what makes us humans" "if you don't feel love and emotion exactly like everyone else does you're not an ACTUAL human with a SOUL!" nonsense, like to the point I'm also anxious I might end up sounding like that every time I try analyzing the seaborn conflict in any way, but thanks to Fede being written the way he is while having such a central role in Zwillingsturme and being so close with and important to Arturia we know that when she says "it has to include everyone" and when the game falls on praising human qualities and the power of human connection they don't mean "everyone who can feel normal human emotion :)" "everyone but they're gonna need to become human" but simply everyone, no one left behind, no one erased. The focus on destroying the barriers between people exists as an answer to oppression and discrimination, to bring humanity together so they can work as a whole to face adversity, not because not feeling empathy the same way Arturia does is "wrong". Even during the piano scene when Fede is shown as unable to understand why music, why art move people the way it does, despite it being a focal point of everything about Arturia and everything about the humans who stand against the Seaborn, it's never presented as a failing on his part, never presented as him being fundamentally incompatible with humanity - in fact that scene is where he learns how to approach emotion from his own angle in his own way as a form of data and it's when he grows as a person and becomes able to use it to better get Arturia despite his difficulty in conveying and "feeling" emotion. He doesn't get Sankta empathy, he values logical understanding over emotional connection, he's joked about from other characters as being more like a robot than a human, he's deliberately written as being an opposite to Arturia's unrestrained empathy, and yet he is the protagonist to Arturia's antagonist role, he is the one who understood her the most and who could support her in the finale, he's the one outsider who cared the most about fixing things in the Monastery while the "proper" Sankta were all busy dealing with their own problems or actively worsening things (hi Oren). His character arc doesn't have anything to do with him starting to "get" emotions like "real people" do but just about starting to ask questions, to find a way forward when his strict adherence to logical reasoning fails him, to interpret why he does what he does and feel the way he does, to understand why things happens and why people act certain ways, and in quite a few scenes that's precisely why he could reach a conclusion others couldn't.

His biggest scene in Hortus involves him refusing to accept Clement's position that just because the only flower left from his garden he had a deep emotional attachment to was a bit damaged and not perfect the way he grew all the others to be, the way he wanted it to be, then its survival is meaningless.

Just because Clement couldn't see the worth in the flower's existence it doesn't mean there was none for anyone.

Just like Federico was the one chosen by the Law amidst countless "perfect" Sankta well accustomed to their supernatural Empathy.

Everyone means everyone.

[noirscript]

Inked Possession | part three

pairing: yandere artist x erotic book writer!reader description: At your first fan signing, you felt exposed enough—but when a reader dared to praise the man you wrote with too much longing in his voice, Eleazar reminded you exactly who that character was based on, and who your stories—and body—belong to. warning/s: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, explicit sexual content, obsession, emotional manipulation, jealousy, degradation (verbal), rough sex, public surveillance (implied stalking), power imbalance, noncon/dubcon undertones. note: i don't know when the next part will be posted, but i'll let you guys know. somehow. btw, whoever read this first was able to read the og draft with the og name. hahahahahha forgot to replace it before posting earlier. my bad. enjoy reading!

You told your publisher no the first three times.

You weren’t trying to be difficult, but the idea of being out there again—on display, in front of people whose faces you don’t know and whose eyes you can’t read—left something tight in your chest. You liked the quiet comfort of your work, the cocoon of anonymity that came with hiding behind stories. Signing books and smiling for photos in a public venue felt too much like exposure, like stripping without the safety of Lee’s rope.

But deadlines had come and gone, the pre-orders exceeded expectations, and your publisher, bless their persistent hearts, finally played the only card you couldn't ignore: contractual obligation.

So here you are.

A fanmeet. One city over. A sleek little bookstore with floor-to-ceiling windows, a table draped in velvet, and a line of readers curling out the door. The staff is kind. The readers are gentle. The girl with trembling hands and tears in her eyes says your writing got her through the worst year of her life. The college boy with a dog-eared copy quotes your own words back to you. It feels surreal to be seen like this—for something you created in solitude.

You should be happy. You should be proud. And you are. But still, under the polite smile and gracious thank-yous, you feel it.

A presence.

You don’t see him. Not yet. But it’s there. Like a shift in temperature, a heat against your spine that makes the hair on the back of your neck lift. You force yourself to stay calm, keep signing, keep nodding. Maybe it’s your nerves. Maybe it’s your paranoia.

But you know that weight. That gravity. You feel it every night before you fall asleep, curled into Lee’s chest. You feel it now, stronger than ever.

By the time the fan steps forward, you’ve already braced for it.

He’s young. Maybe mid-twenties. Glasses, nice smile, a little awkward in the way of people who read more than they speak. He’s not a threat—not at all. Just eager. His hands tremble as he holds out your book for you to sign.

“I… I’m sorry if I sound weird,” he says, voice high with nerves. “I just—your writing changed something in me. Especially the new one. The way you described… him. Your male lead. His hands, his mouth. It was so vivid. So real. Like I could feel every touch.”

You nod gently, offering the practiced, polite smile you’ve given to others. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”

He clears his throat, eyes darting between you and the edge of the table. “If I’m being honest, I… I wish he was real. That kind of love? That intensity? It’s rare. Obsessive, sure—but who wouldn’t want someone that devoted?”

You stiffen. Just slightly.

“Anyway,” he laughs, trying to brush off his own words. “Sorry. I just had to say it. You’re incredible.”

You thank him again. You sign. You don’t look up again until he’s gone. And when you do… Lee is standing near the entrance.

He isn’t in line. Isn’t smiling. Isn’t even trying to hide the storm in his expression. He’s watching you—no, watching everyone. No one else notices him. He’s good at that, at folding himself into shadows even when the light’s right on him. You know that look. It isn’t anger. Not yet. It’s the calm before it.

You spend the rest of the event on autopilot, your throat dry, fingers aching from the pen gripped too tight. The moment it’s over, the moment you’re in the car, Lee speaks.

“You liked that?”

You blink at him. “What?”

He turns to face you fully, eyes unreadable. “Hearing another man say he wanted to touch you the way I do. That he wants to be the man in your book.”

“He wasn’t being inappropriate, Lee. Just enthusiastic. That’s what fans do.”

“You wrote me, and he saw himself.”

“I can’t control how people interpret—”

“He wants you.”

You hesitate. “He admires the character.”

Lee leans in, voice low and too calm. “That character is me.”

You don’t argue. You won’t win. And truthfully, he's not wrong. Every word you wrote was pulled from your nights together. The tenderness. The fury. The pleasure laced with something darker. It was Lee—filtered just enough to fit fiction. But for Lee, fiction doesn’t mean not real.

He drives in silence, hands tight around the wheel, until you're home.

The studio is cold. Not from the air, but from the tension. You enter first. Lee follows without a word, locking the door behind him. You hear it—click—and something inside you stirs.

He doesn't touch you. Not right away. He circles slowly, gaze dragging across your body like he’s stripping you layer by layer with his mind. You stand still. Wait.

“You smiled at him,” he says finally, quiet but firm. “You laughed.”

“I smiled at everyone today.”

“You leaned in.”

“He was nervous. I was trying to make him comfortable.”

“He was imagining fucking you.”

You take a breath, trying to stay calm, but your pulse is already racing. “You’re reading too much into it. He didn’t say anything like that.”

“He didn’t have to.” Lee steps closer. “I saw it in his eyes. He wants to replace me. He wants to rewrite my role.”

His hands finally touch you, not with the familiar tenderness of homecoming, but with something rougher, more desperate. He grabs your wrist, not to hurt, but to anchor.

“You’re mine,” he says, dragging your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart. “Every word you write, every scene, every sound—it's mine.”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Do you know what I felt, watching him look at you like that?”

You whisper, “Tell me.”

“I felt the edge,” he breathes, hand sliding to the back of your neck. “I felt it pulling me. Wanting to drag you into it with me so I could erase every trace of anyone else.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not sweet. It’s not patient. It’s consuming.

He undresses you slowly but without ceremony, hands possessive, lips trailing over every inch of exposed skin like he’s reclaiming lost territory. Your bra slips from your shoulders. Your skirt falls. By the time he walks you back into the studio chair—his chair—you’re already shaking.

He sits first and pulls you onto his lap, straddling him. His hands grip your waist. He looks up at you, paint-speckled light catching the edge of his eyes.

“No ropes tonight,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you tied. I want you to stay because you know where you belong.”

You nod. “With you.”

His cock is hard beneath you, pressing against your bare folds as he lifts your hips and slides in—slow, deliberate, deep. You gasp, clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it again,” he growls, already thrusting up into you with sharp, punishing rhythm. “Say who you belong to.”

“You, Lee—only you.”

He grips your hair, pulling your face to his. “Louder.”

“I belong to you!”

His pace quickens, desperate and unforgiving. You’re already close, already unraveling. You feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, beneath your skin.

“You smiled at him,” Lee whispers against your ear. “Now smile for me.”

You do. You smile as he ruins you. As he reminds you. As he marks you from the inside out.

He doesn’t stop when you come the first time. Or the second. He keeps going until your voice is hoarse and your body limp. When he finally finishes, it’s with a broken groan, arms wrapped tight around you as he spills into you. He holds you there, panting, sweating, possessive even in afterglow.

No one else gets to have this. No one else gets you.

He pulls you close, kisses your forehead, and whispers, “Write this down.”

You nod, already dazed.

“Next time someone thinks they can step into my story,” he murmurs, voice like silk soaked in blood, “I’ll show them what kind of ending they earn.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

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[goddamnitmahtin]

Real Robins Can Fly

( a dc x dp prompt)

As a part of a charity event, Bruce holds a cosplay contest where contestants show off their cosplays, explain their processes and even show off a little if they have a talent of some sort that kind of fits the theme of the character.

Problem? Everyone he invited to be judges at the event are league members and they all had a case suddenly interfere so Bruce and his colleagues can’t show up. So he asks Dick to round up as many of his siblings as he can to be judges for this event. The lineup ends up being Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie and Damian. Duke was almost able to make it but he got caught up with work.

Dick was surprised that Damian even wanted to come considering he was drowning himself in studying for his finals. He was about to graduate high school and wanted to make sure his gpa was flawless. Nevertheless, he found a way to drag his youngest brother out of the library and into the judges panel.

The contest was fine. Most people dressed as local vigilantes or villains that were easy to recognize. There were some really good ones. There were a few that none of them recognized. A few only Tim recognized. Apparently they were from animes or something.

The day dragged on and on, all of them having to stop for breaks at different points. Dick needed to get up and walk around because sitting in one place for too long made his joints hurt. Jason had to leave to do breathing exercises when a really accurate second Robin cosplayer came through holding a crowbar of all things. Tim had to leave a few times to make phone calls as co CEO of Wayne Enterprises. Steph called the babysitter (Cass) a few times about her now 2 year old daughter. And Damian used every single one of those breaks to cram in more studying.

What nothing that day could have prepared them for was the last contestant. The 13 year old boy walked onto the stage with a huge smile in a perfect replica of Dick’s very first Robin suit. Down to the last detail everything was correct. Except that… it had been torn up and damaged in places and there were painted on bruises and wounds in the places missing fabric. Part of the mask was ripped off and being held in the boy’s hand. And the face underneath that broken mask looked just like Tim.

Tim: *after recovering faster than everyone else* Wow. What a suit! What’s your name and tell the process of creating your cosplay.

Danny: *smiles* I’m Danny! I’m 13 years old and I wanted to be Robin! Robin is my favorite vigilante because he’s an inspirational figure for younger people. I decided to design my outfit based on the very first Robin in his first ever suit that he was spotted in but I wanted to pay homage to all of the Robins so I changed it up a little bit. I studied the Robins from the past in photos and was able to come up with at least one thing from each.

Steph: I see. Could you show us these homages?

Danny: YES! *his eyes glowed green in excitement, catching Jason and Damian off guard* I designed the suit itself to look like the first Robin as he was the pioneer of the Robin title but I made the entire outfit from materials only used on the current Robin. As you can see the color scheme for the suit is more muted than the original as the current Robin uses shadows and corners more for attacks than the others did.

Damian: *smiles slightly*

Danny: I chose my wounds and distresses in the costume based on photos of the second and third Robins. They took more physical blows than the rest did. *pointing to each wound, pointing to one in the abdomen* This one is just a theory of mine but I think the third Robin might of at one point had a surgery around here from his fighting style. He would protect his abdomen from attack more.

Tim: …… I see.

Danny: And the fourth Robin was a deviation from the pattern because she was a girl that didn’t have the dark hair that all the others had. She wasn’t Robin for very long but her style and decision making were more unpredictable than the rest so if you just give me a second… *fidgets with his gloves for a moment* Whole watching her footage I noticed how her hair was accounted for in her fighting style without it ever getting into her way. *slides off his glove* So on my wrist I have a replica of the headband she used in her suit but smaller so it’s more of a bracelet.

Steph: *noticing how accurate it is* Oh- wow-

Jason: That’s really impressive Danny. Tell us a little bit more about how you actually created the suit. Your process.

Danny: Well the entire thing is made of an armored flex material that I made in my sister’s basement. I studied pictures of all of the Robin suits and noticed parts of the fabric that stood out and made my prototype from there. *smiles* I have a small sample for you guys to pass around! *hands Jason said sample*

Jason: Oh that’s really impressive-

Tim: You said you made it in your sister’s basement? How did your parents feel about it?

Danny: My parents are gone. It’s just me and Jazz. I spent all of my money on the materials to make this. I’m hoping to win because the prize money will be enough for her to buy a car so she can find a new job. And maybe with the rest I’ll finally be able to go to space camp this summer. I’ve always wanted to go! But we could never afford it.

Steph: *covers her gasp softly* Oh-

Damian: Did you have a talent you wanted to show off for us today?

Danny: YES! *pumps his fist excitedly*

Damian: Could you demonstrate that for us please?

Danny: Okay! *climbs up the light tower next to the stage and hangs from the metal bars like a proper gymnast before jumping off, flipping and grabbing frames and pieces of rigging to swing from, replicating old tricks Dick used to do as Robin that he learned in the circus before flipping down and landing nimbly in the center of the stage* Tadah!

Dick: *absolutely shook* Why did you- choose that as your talent?

Danny: Real robins can fly. So why can’t I?

After Danny leaves the stage, it takes a few minutes for them all to collect themselves from that. Especially Dick.

Steph: So that Danny kid is gonna win.

Tim: 100 percent. He was able to recreate the fabric we make our suits out of through pictures!

Jason: We better not tell Bruce or-

Damian: Too late. I already texted father. He’s drafting adoption papers as we speak.

Dick: *who was planning on doing that himself* Dammit!

Damian: I for one, am thrilled at the prospect that this Danny child will take up the Robin mantle when I leave for college.

Steph: Well real robins can fly so why shouldn’t he? *smiles*

Dick: Stephanie I’m literally going to cry.

[lilysouph]

The Hayffie-discourse is dumb and here's why:

They're fictional characters, it really isn't that deep, get over yourself. I feel like this is the most obvious one, but I just had to say it.

"but what about Lenore Dove?" Well first of all, nothing about Hayffie ever interrupts with Haymitch's relationship with LD. Lenore Dove is his first love, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't deserve a second after she's gone. Humans are complex beings, and love isn't a pie chart. Haymitch loving Effie doesn't take away any of his love for Lenore Dove. They each have their own pie, and they're even different flavours. If the sole soulmate thing floats your boat, then fantastic, you go with that. Personally I don't want Haymitch to suffer in a depressed drunken haze for the rest of his life where he continues to punish himself for the Captiols actions, but maybe that's just me. Besides, Haymitch having a dead girlfriend is nothing new to us, and idk why we're pretending otherwise. It was always a part of his story

"they have such differing views, her being Capitol and him hg survivor", did we read the same book? If SOTR told us anything about Effie, it is that she's always had a different view of the tributes and games than other Capitol members. Yes she's deeply brainwashed, in the same way someone in a deeply religious cult would be, but there's a layer of her that doesn't buy into the animalistic view of the tributes and games. And that's sort of the beauty of her character and her relationship with Haymitch, that throughout the years she sees more and more the faults of her people. And maybe her ditsy uncaring nature is a façade, covering her rebel thoughts, or maybe it's a coping mechanism to keep from falling apart every time one of her kids are killed, but it could also be just someone learning from their mistakes. Why does that make them unlovable?

"The age difference tho!" What? The six year age difference between two characters in their 40s? Ok let's address it. Effie is likely between 20-22 ish during SOTR. Why do I say that? Cus in BOSAS Snow is 18 and graduating, meaning he would be 18 starting the University. Now, we don't know how schooling works in the Capitol, all we know is that there's lower grades and upper grades. For all we know, stylist school could be 2 years or it could be 4. Where I'm from, in my actual homeplace, it's 2. That's also my headcanon for Effie, placing her at around 20 as a recent graduate. That's a four year age gap, which isn't a lot even at 16, but it's definitely not a lot at 30/40.

Truth be told, I think a lot of the age difference discourse is a lot to do with plain ole misogyny. You rarely see this same outrage over relationships where the man is the older one and the woman is the younger. People have had no problem shipping Johanna and Haymitch for years, and that's an even bigger age gap. Even canon ships like Remus and Tonks in Harry Potter (13yrs), where the likelihood of him having first met her as an infant is extremely high due to Sirius' close relationship with his aunt Andromeda, but ig that's neither here nor there.

In conclusion:

Fandom spaces lately have had a heavy focus on canon-accuracy, and what's more canon compliant. While there of course is nothing wrong with preferring the canon choices made by the author/creator, it's important to remember that a big part of fan culture is and always has been to be able to take the original stories and material and spin off it with your own thoughts, mind, and creativity. The push for only canon-compliant material has become a bit of a problem, and is to be completely honest, something that does not belong in fandom spaces. Hell, you even see this in fandoms like Harry Potter's Marauders, which is entirely made up of fan-made material, where people are complaining that certain characters are behaving ooc when there is no actual canon material on the character.

Now I get that a lot of y'all are new to fandom, so I'll be kind, but rule number 1 of fan culture is "if you don't like it, don't interact with it", it really isn't that deep. Hayffie is probably one of the most normal and common ship dynamics on the internet, and if you think that's "too toxic", wait till I introduce you to the incestuous and 20+ yr age gap minor/adult ships we've all had to stomach over the years. You've got a tough battle ahead of you if the plan is to take down every ship you don't agree with. If you don't like it, don't interact with it. Hayffie has existed for longer than some of you guys have been on the internet, and ships like Hayffie will continue to exist long after you've left the fandom. Life is too short to spend it on actively hating on ships and shippers you don't like. Let people have fun with fiction, free your whimsy and joy and creativity and all that.

[kaybugga]

𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕪 𝕤𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕓𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕤𝕙 𝕗𝕠𝕣, 𝕘𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕕𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕘𝕚𝕟𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕒𝕣𝕖𝕟'𝕥 𝕪𝕒', 𝕊𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕤?

𝕋𝔸𝔾 𝕃𝕀𝕊𝕋 𝕀ℕ𝕋ℝ𝕆𝔻𝕌ℂ𝕋𝕀𝕆ℕ 𝕄𝔸𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ𝕃𝕀𝕊𝕋 𝔹𝔸ℂ𝕂 𝕋𝕆 ℙℝ𝕆𝔽𝕀𝕃𝔼

-

𝕎𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜 𝕕𝕚𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕟? 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕝𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕘𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕝𝕚𝕗𝕖.  ℂ𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕖𝕘𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕤, 𝕤𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕡𝕤, 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕖𝕔𝕥 𝔾ℙ𝔸’𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕗𝕖.

ℍ𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕖𝕣𝕖, 𝕒 𝕤𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕨𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕟 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕒 𝕗𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕒 𝕛𝕠𝕓. 𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥. 𝕋𝕙𝕖. 𝔸𝕔𝕥𝕦𝕒𝕝. 𝔽𝕦𝕔𝕜.

𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥’𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕝𝕕 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕤, 𝕪𝕒’ 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨?

-

One look at you was all it took. You were… ethereal. A creature this earth doesn’t deserve to see. Him… Well, him and the others are the only ones who deserve to see such beauty. After that day, you stuck. Like an annoying bug, or maybe you were a gorgeous butterfly who stayed by the roses that lined the walls surrounding the property.

“Hello, what can I get for you?” “Just a plain, medium black coffee. Hot, please.” “Alrighty, that’ll be $3, please!” 

𝔸 𝕤𝕞𝕚𝕣𝕜 𝕥𝕠𝕠𝕜 𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕜 𝕝𝕚𝕡𝕤, 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕡 𝕗𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕠 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘. ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖.

-

It was only a matter of time until another member saw you, though, Abby took a more up front approach. Jinu was too… wanna-be bad boy, main character, Abby on the other hand? He couldn’t let such a perfect woman get away. No, no, no. That’s not how it would go. When he heard word of you at a coffee shop from Jinu, he had to take a stop.

“Heya’ there, gorgeous, can I get… A large vanilla protein latte?” “Of course, anything else?” “Yeah, your number if you wouldn’t mind.”

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕓𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕠𝕠 𝕔𝕦𝕥𝕖. 𝕀𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕟𝕕, 𝕙𝕖 𝕘𝕠𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕟𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣, 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕒𝕤 𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕟𝕖𝕕.

-

You were so… bright. A contrast to him. Well, the way he tried to be. He was the type of person to wear sunglasses inside and lower his voice just a tad to seem cooler, but you? You didn’t need to do anything to be better. You were already perfect. Instead of Jinu and Abby seeing you at the coffee shop, Baby saw a different approach. ‘Accidentally’ bump into you and go from there.

“Oh shit, ya' good?” “Yeah, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” “Yeah, but I’m a bit worried about you. Did it hurt?” “Did what hurt? “When you fell from Heaven, of course.”

𝕆𝕙 𝕤𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕’𝕧𝕖 𝕤𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕚𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕓𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕕 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕞 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕨𝕒𝕪, 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕓𝕠𝕕𝕪 𝕒𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕨𝕒𝕪.

-

Mystery was the next to meet you, not at work, but simply while you were chilling by the river at a parkway. It was nice, you were just admiring a pair of ducks when you felt someone come sit next to you. You glanced over to see a guy with this purple-ish hair covering his eyes. It was kind of cute, in all honesty.

“Sorry, do I know you?” “No, but you looked like you could use company.” “That’s… really sweet.” “Did you know that those two ducks actually come here every spring and have chicks.” “Really?”

𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕, 𝕨𝕠𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕤𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤. ℍ𝕖 𝕕𝕚𝕕𝕟’𝕥 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕞𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕕𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕘𝕟𝕚𝕫𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕞 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤. 𝕎𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕖𝕗𝕥, 𝕄𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕𝕟’𝕥 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕡 𝕓𝕦𝕥 𝕒𝕕𝕞𝕚𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤.

-

Romance Saja, last but certainly not least. He, being the man he is, had a whole romantic gesture planned. What? He can make a living off of killing people and still have a heart! Outrageous for you to think otherwise. So, he bought a bouquet of flowers, ones that matched your eyes, a pretty little bow tying them all together that just so happens to be your favorite color. It’d all be a coincidence in your eyes, but in his? It’s all a master plan that definitely didn’t need obsessive watching over you. He made a fake dating profile that catfished you, he admits, he feels bad, but it’s all for the plan.

“I’m never going out on a date again…” “You okay?” “No, I got stood up, it’s bullshit.” “Well, he’s missing out. You’re stunning.”

𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕝𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕒 𝕤𝕞𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕕𝕒𝕥𝕖. 𝕊𝕖𝕖? ℍ𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕟 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕖.

-

𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕥, 𝕓𝕖𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕗𝕦𝕝 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕙 𝕤𝕠 𝕤𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕥, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪'𝕕 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕒𝕓𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦? 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕥 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕣 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕕, 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕙𝕚𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤.

[daddymaster21]

Somehow I managed to reblog this without actually putting a single note. Good job, me. Okay!! Second chapter!!! Pls Thea I’m so excited and scared and SCARED IM SO SCARED

1. I understand that golf takes a stupid amount of skill, but goddamn is it the most boring sport in existence

2. She got that Bucky Barnes walk

3. Babe you know I love you and I’m on your side, but standing in a blizzard is ABSOLUTELY stupid.

4. Calling it now that Adam is a Man of God. He’s gonna be the one that ends up betraying her, bc you said that the men of god always betray the magdalenes.

5. LMFAOOOO WEEDING HER BEDROOM. GARDENERS HATE TO SEE HER COMING

6. We should eat an apple. That definitely falls under the something stupid category, but I’m SO curious about the apples.

7. I mostly hate sports, but volleyball is fun to watch.

8. Even though golf sucks, she would absolutely kill at it. Actually, I think she’d kick ass in pretty much every sport.

9. Me too, girlie. If this man was in front of me making dumb jokes, I could not be trusted

10. Okay. Look. I’m sorry for this, but you’ve activated the Ramble. There aren’t any signs of death because on the whole, death isn’t like the other horseman. He’s not power-hungry or reckless or flashy. He’s cold and inevitable, and people aren’t dying en masse in any particular place, because he doesn’t have to kill them. He just has to wait.

11. Real. Milk sucks, cookies are delicious.

12. Dean grocery shopping and cooking and generally being a husband and girl dad 🫠

13. I can’t lie, I’m still ruminating about you saying I was the only one who caught that princess still talks about Jo in the present tense. Cause you wouldn’t have pointed out me pointing it out unless it meant something WHAT DOES IT MEANNNNN

14. Oop not that being addressed immediately after lmao

15. Oh god. The middle for the first name is fucking ROUGH.

16. I would ALSO like you to kill Zachariah, girlboss

17. John Winchester they could never make me like you

18. GET THAT BITCH. DONT EVEN LET HIM TALK, JUST DESTROY HIM IMMEDIATELY

19. Girl idk how to tell you this, but she kinda does always know best

20. Douche-maggot is my personal favorite. I feel like Ben in particular would enjoy that turn of phrase.

21. Look dude, no matter what happens, there’s literally no way this will go well for you. Cut your losses and run.

22. LMAO THE BRIDGE TROLLS COMMENT HAS ME CACKLING. SOMEONE JSUT GIVE A STRAIGHT ANSWER, WE BEG OF YOU

23. No one in the history of supernatural has been tortured with the torture like the torture Chuck will be tortured with. He’s truly my most hated character.

24. STOP NO STOP HIS FANTASY LITERALLY BEING HER FUCKING HIM AND HER NOT EVEN REALIZING IT OH MY GODDDDD

25. Girl if Chuck is The Sky, I’m DEFINITELY gonna dismantle him. I hate him so muchhhhhh

26. Gabe!!!!! My beloved!!!!!!!!!

27. You know what? We love a man who can admit he’s wrong.

28. That’s the perfect way to describe the boys, actually. Ten points to Gabriel

29. Girl I know this is a Dean story, but if it doesn’t work out with him, I would absolutely jump Gabe’s bones

30. I just have to say, heaven wants to please you is an incredibly raw line. If I ever start a band, that’s what our first album will be called

31. Our poor groceries!!!

32. Ah. My one weakness — being forgiven and shown compassion.

33. I love them so much, they’re such dumbasses

34. Girl I KNOW Dean was panicking bc he thought she was her when he said he loved her

35. I stg hunters are incapable of listening to anything without asking a thousand questions (me too though)

36. Cas is so autism-coded, and I love that for him

37. Lmao the archangels being the primary colors is great

38. Girl the angels all on some shit if they can’t see the absolute devotion she has for Dean

39. Absolutely the fuck not. I would rather be shredded into chicken than marry Chuck. Nope. Not happening. Absolutely not.

40. Thea. Please Thea, don’t do this to me. You can’t kill Ellen and Jo in the same way, PLEASE.

41. OKAY Ellen’s not dead. Or, well, not permanently dead. Counting that as a win.

42. LMFAOOOOO WE HAVE HIM IN A JAR. LITERALLY THATS THE FUNNIEST THING THATS EVER HAPPENED

43. Crowley bout to be the biggest demon ever, my man just made a deal with the bride of god

Final thoughts: Chuck is going down, and when it’s over I’d like to be double teamed by Dean and Gabe, please and thank you.

Chapter 25 - And It Was Written

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: I consider there to be five “big” secrets in Babylon. Here’s the first one.

Chapter Title from The Prophecy by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 19.4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You get a call. Usual Warnings.

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

Chapter 24 - Chapter 26

Read on A03!

“You ever play golf, Princess?”

“Do I look like someone who’s played golf?”

Dean chuckles, the sound a little static through the speaker of the phone. “You want me to answer that?”

“Dean Winchester-“

“You got that fancy walk,” he says your name, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Rich person walk.”

“I do not have a rich person walk-“

“Yeah, you do.”

“Well, then-“ You sputter slightly, scowling at the ceiling. “You have a walk, too.”

Dean snorts. “Good one, sweetheart.”

“Shut up.”

“Bossy-“

“Dean.”

He laughs, the sound filling up the whole room, and you smile into the dark. 

“And I do not have a-“

“It’s not a bad thing,” Dean cuts you off, his words suddenly almost gentle. “You walk like you’re gonna punch anyone who gets in front of you. Like, you got- Y’know. Purpose.”

“Oh. Okay.” You pause. You can have purpose. You can’t think of any ideas for purpose—and when you try to, it mostly just circles around from Dean, to Bobby, to Sam, back to Dean—but you couldhave more purpose. 

Damnation.

Not that kind of purpose. That’s the kind of purpose that got you here in the first place. Lying flat on your back in the dead of night, your phone propped on a pillow near your head, trying to pretend that Dean was next to you instead of across the country. 

Another nightmare. Death watching you and telling you no, Lucifer laughing in the background, Ketch appearing in every shadow, trying to corner you and put you in a muzzle.

Sometimes they end with Death grabbing your hands and wiping Jo’s blue from your fingertips, telling you that she belongs with him, and him alone. Other times it’s Lucifer, slowly shifting into Sam and snapping your neck, but you’re Dean and you can see yourself standing off in the shadows, doing nothing at all. Then Lucifer-Sam will lean down in hiss in You-Dean’s ear that you could have saved him, but just didn’t love him enough, and Dean dies thinking you don’t love him like it’s all you’ve ever really known.

Sometimes, after that, the dream will change. You’ll be back in a motel with Dean—just himself, just Gold, very much alive and not at all real—and you’ll rest your head on his shoulder while he tells you about how this town actually had the best diner in America, and you’ll muffle your giggle against his body because he says that all the time.

But you hadn’t gotten that, tonight. When you do, it’s enough for you to not need Dean. No need to wake him up when he needs the rest more than you do, and you’ll see him in a few days anyway.

He says to call him, whenever you wake up and you’re everything and it’s all too much. You’re the pain of the single tear in your blanket, the strain of the trees outside your window as the wind rips through their branches, the fear of the rain as it falls, unsure where it’s going. 

But Dean’s in Connecticut, hunting a demon hoard that’s been terrorizing a country club. He can’t be caught off guard just because the Silver decided to rear it’s head and you aren’t strong enough to handle it without—as he would call it—doing something stupid.

You haven’t been doing anything stupid. You might have caught a small cold last week, standing out in the sleet-storm while Sam and Dean were in Alabama—Hurricane season, trying to find a reaper that might snitch on Death’s location, a failed experiment—but you’d gotten over it quick. Mostly, whenever the everything hits you, you’ve been curling up into the sheets, dragging them over your head, and pretending that it was Dean holding you. His Gold is marked all over them, when you roll to his side of the bed you can smell cinnamon and grass, and it usually, mostly, works.

It takes longer to come down, you never fall back asleep, and when you shuffle downstairs in the morning Bobby always looks at you like he somehow knows that you should’ve called Dean or woken him up, but it doesn’t matter. If you’re a little extra tired, no one gets hurt but you. 

You’re not hunting.

You’re just looking for Death and Pestilence, trying to work out Lucifer’s next moves, and—in your spare time, when Bobby’s asleep and Sam and Dean are away—talking with Cas about things. 

Things you haven’t told Dean about. 

You don’t know how. How to look at him, in all his Golden, handsome, strong glory and say Cas and I are trying to figure out what Men of God are. All signs are pointing to you being one, Mr. Michael Vessel. And Men of God and Magdalene’s don’t have good track records, but you also don’t seem like a normal Man of God. John was a Man of God, though. Ketch might be too. And they both tried to hurt me. So do what you want with that.

And that doesn’t even cover half of it. How Cas still hasn’t worked out what The Magdalene does, only that it’s different. And he can’t spend too much time on it anyway, because he has to find God. 

You look like God. 

Your name is—according to Cas—written in Marina Trench and the caves of Mount Everest and in the Stone Forests of Japan. The Silver still isn’t cooperating, and Death still doesn’t want you, and after you’d killed Famine, he’s been added to your nightmare roster, but none of this is about you.

You’re not even supposed to be helping. It’s why you’re staying hidden. No matter what the whole Magdalene-Men of God mess is, it’s far from important as the apocalypse closes in. 

So you keep researching. And you get nightmares when you sleep, but you really try not to bother Dean with them. He doesn’t need another reason to worry about you, and he needs the rest.

You can get through it. 

You always do.

But not alone. Not tonight. The nightmare had been Ketch, but instead of the usual ending—the ceiling falls, but you’re trapped with him in the rubble and he starts to touch you, and John and Lucifer and Alistair and Azazel join him, but when you scream for Dean no sound comes out, right up until you’re ripped away and appear in a dive bar with Dean grinning at you from the pool table—Ketch had gotten you. He’d snapped the muzzle on your face, and the Silver had exploded.

You’d sat up with bed, your hand already wrapped around your throat, but it had been too late. 

The Silver hadn’t been contained to your dream. 

Before calling Dean, you’d spent an hour weeding your bedroom. Strange, glowing flowers had sprouted through the floorboards, branches had grown over the windows—as if they were trying to block you from the view of the Sky, flaring out your window without a word—and they’d been growing those iridescent apples that you’d tried to preserve for study, but the moment you’d put them on the dresser they’d shattered like glass, the shards melting into nothing. 

And you’re so fucking tired. And lonely.

You’d needed Dean. 

He’d picked up after the second ring. He’s been on the phone with you for almost an hour, talking about nothing.  

You miss him. If he was here, you’d be able to see his smile, drown in his Gold, and he’d run his thumb down your nose until you were only your own. Then you’d fall back asleep, his hand in yours, and everything would be fine.

Not about you.

Calling him is already pushing it. Him talking to you is more than you deserve. But knowing that never has—never will—stop the want. The pull. The need for Dean to maybe just lay on top of you forever, until everything is always technicolor and the Spiderweb is the only thing you can feel in the world.

But you’ll take this. Dean on the phone in the dead of night, the stains of his Gold still all around you.

Whatever bits of Dean he offers, you’ll always take. 

“I think you’d like golf.” Dean hums, and you twist your head to look your phone, as if he’d actually be there to glare at. 

“Golf isn’t a real sport, De. It’s for rich people and businessmen, trying to jack each other off and assert their dominance while wearing polo shirts. And it’s stupid.”

 “Sweetheart, you think all sports are stupid.”

“Wrong. I like Soccer and Football.”

Dean pauses. “You do?”

“Yep. I used to watch them with Rufus all the time.”

“Huh.” You can hear the small frown in his voice. “You told me you don’t care about where the balls go-“

“I don’t. I like soccer because I’d always got ice cream when Rufus put it on, then more ice cream if his team won.”

“We could just get ice cream-“

“Tastes better with victory.”

“Right. Course it does.” Dean chuckles. “What about football?”

“I like the music shows. And I think I’d be good at it.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice. “Cause of the violence.”

“Yep. I’d beat all those big men’s asses.”

“See, that’s why I think you’d like golf, sweetheart. The clubs make great weapons.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m flipping you off right now, you know.”

Dean laughs, and you can’t stop your own smile from tugging at your lips. The Spiderweb is bursting. Even with Dean miles away and only a voice in a phone, it still knows to light up for Dean.

His voice. His joy. The fact that it’s almost three in the morning—five for him—but he’s not making any effort to end the call. 

Once he does, you’ll have to let him. Not about you.

Until then, you’ll stay on the line for as long as he allows you to. 

“So there’s a joint here that does malt milkshakes.” He says, and you hum, rubbing the scar on your palm as you listen. “And they’ve got the best freakin’ burgers I’ve ever had in my life.”

You giggle. “De, every burger you have is the best burger-“

“Nah, this is it. You’d like it, they cover the whole thing in a fancy sauce, and those milkshakes? They’re free, if you get the combo meal.”

“So they’re not free-“

“They’re free-ish.”

“Something can’t be free-ish, it’s either free or not free-“

“It’s free in my heart,” he drawls your name, and it’s low and deep and teasing, and your thighs press slightly together. “And nothing is better than free food.”

He pauses, and you’re about to take over with a comment about how everything is free for us, Dean, all our money is stolen, but he continues before you can. 

“When this Lucifer-Michael end of the world shit is over, you should come check this place out.”

You swallow. You know Dean likes hanging out with you—he’s your best friend, and maybe more, but your rules mean you’re not allowed to push on it—but it still makes the Spiderweb ignite with light and color when he says it. “The burger place? Or the country club?”

Dean chuckles. “Both. You can smoke all these rich douchebags at golf, then we can go get burgers. I’m serious, Princess. You’d love the milkshakes.”

You probably will.

You mostly love that Dean’s thinking of you. Like you’re worth that much to him, to look at a milkshake and think of you.

You’d like to be worth everything to him. He’s worth everything to you.

Not allowed to say it.

“I’ve never played golf.” You mumble, and you can hear Dean’s scoff.

“Trust me, sweetheart. You’d love it.”

“But-“

Dean drawls your name. “It’s about hitting things and looking fancy. Freakin’ sport was made for you.”

You flush, wrapping an arm around your stomach. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Dean pauses, his voice dropping to something softer. “Would you wanna do that? If you don’t-“

“I would.” You say, too quick. If Dean notices, he doesn’t mention it. “At this point you owe me a tour of diners in America, Deano. The moment we’re done with this, you better put your money where your mouth is.”

“My mouth is on the burger, sweetheart.” You can hear the grin in his voice, and you roll your eyes. “Score?”

“Six out of ten. You can do better.”

“Aw, you got faith in me.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do. And you laughed, sweetheart.”

“Maybe.” You hum, grinning at the light, slowly starting to dance over the ceiling. “You can’t prove that, Winchester.”

“Don’t have to. Know it in my heart. You think I’m hilarious.”

You’re flushing again. Maybe it’s good he’s only a voice in a phone. You might start crawling over his chest if he wasn’t. “Shut up.”

“No, say it. C’mon you can do it, admit you think I’m funny.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re killing me, Princess-“

“I’ll say it,” you hum, grinning at the ceiling. “If you take back that I look like someone who plays golf.”

“Nah, I’ve got integrity. Said it, meant it, and I was fuckin’ right.”

“Okay, integrity, tell me again about that pool hustle you pulled last night.”

He groans, you giggle, and it really is better. 

Even when the conversation turns heavier, it’s Dean, so it’s better.

“Have you-“ You clear your throat, and you don’t want to ask it, but you have to. For your own sanity, so you don’t spend the whole day with your fingers itching and a lump in your throat. “Angels? Or Lucifer?”

“Not yet.” Dean says, and your nails dig into your wrist. “If it is, we’ve got the banishment sigils lined up all over the wall, and all we gotta do is keep saying no.”

You nod, but Lucifer—with all his Red and teeth—flashes over your vision, and you can’t stop your shaking breath.

Dean must have heard it, because he mutters your name softly, but you shake your head and keep pushing on.

“Dean, I- I’m worried about it.”

“I- I know, but shit, Princess, you gotta -“

“The archangels.” You whisper, drawing your knees up to your chest. “I know you and Sam don’t want to say yes to them-“

“We’re not saying yes to them-“

“But they’re not just going to take that.” You raise your voice, and Dean goes quiet. “Zachariah- He hurt Jo just to send a message to me. And Gabriel fucked with you and Sam for a week, then visited me in Europe just because he didn’t want me here-“

Dean mutters your name, an odd strain in his voice. “I don’t give a shit about what Heaven wants, I want you here. And you-“

“I’m not running.” The Spiderweb feels like it’s made of starlight. Not the time. “I’m just- My point is that they did all that just to keep me away. Between San Francisco and LA, they certainly know I’m back by now.”

“So?”

“So Gabriel said I was changing things. And maybe- I don’t know. I just don’t trust that, if we’re playing dirty, they won’t do the same.”

“Princess, they’ve been playing dirty.” Dean’s voice is gentle, but firm. “All those feathered assholes do is play dirty. But Sammy’s not giving Lucifer the green light-“

“What about Michael?”

Dean pauses. “What about Michael.”

“I- I trust Sam-“

“But not me?”

You frown. “Of course I trust you, Dean.”

There’s something sour to his voice that you don’t understand. “Yeah, sure sounds like it-“

“Dean.” You make your voice firm, and he sighs, repeating your name back. “I don’t think you’re going to say yes to Michael, I- I’m just- They’re going to try and make you. And I don’t think they have a lot of lines, and this is already so fucked, and I don’t- I’m not making any progress on Death and things are just getting worse and-“ You take a heavy, shuddering breath, and Dean mutters your name.

It would be really nice if he was here. If he was the one wrapping around you, instead of you just hiking the Golden blanket a little higher over your body. 

“Do you think I should say yes?” He mutters, his voice low, and you shake your head.

“No.”

“Alright. Then I won’t.”

“But it’s not that simple-“

“It is. I’m not saying yes. Michael’s gonna have to fist my asshole if he wants inside.”

You wrinkle your nose, swallowing a soft laugh. “That’s gross, De.”

“Score?”

“Zero.”

“Bullshit, I can hear you laughing-“

“No, you can’t.”

“C’mon-“

“Nope.”

“This is elder abuse-“

“You’re thirty.”

“Almost thirty-one. Basically genetic.”

You smile into the dark. “Geriatric?”

“Yeah, that. I’m just a skeleton, sweetheart, you gotta be delicate with me-“

“So dramatic.”

He scoffs. “You love it.”

It’s good he can’t see how deep your flush is. Heating over your cheeks and spreading between your thighs as he starts to talk about how—if you are celebrating his birthday this year—he’d really like a proper, chocolate cake. And you think you can make that happen.

For Dean, you might be able to do anything.

You’re on the phone with him until Sam starts to stir on his end, and he has to go back to the case.

“We’ll be home in a few days,” he says, and you nod, moving the phone to press right back to your ear. Trying to have him a little closer. “Just some run of the mill demon asshats, so this is going pretty quick.”

“Good,” you let out a slow breath, your grip tightening on the phone. “Let me know if you need anything. And if they show up-“

“We got wards and Cas on speed dial, it’ll be fine.” Dean pauses, his voice lowering slightly. “I- I’m glad you called. Are you-“

“I feel better.” You whisper. “Thank you. For picking up.”

You could swear you hear him let out a long, slow breath. “Don’t need to thank me. You’re- I’ll call you later tonight. And I’m keeping my phone on me, so if-“

“I will.” You don’t want him to go. Can’t interfere with work. “Bye, De. Don’t die.”

He chuckles. “I’ll try. Stay safe, Princess. Call me if you need anything.”

You need him. 

But you let him hang up the phone, and roll over to bury your face in his pillow the moment the line goes dead. You’ll stay there, until the sun is bleeding into your room. Until the Sky becomes unignorable, and you can hear Bobby rolling around downstairs. The world doesn’t care that you’d like to—just for a day—lie here and do nothing. Clinging to the sheets and pretending they’re Dean, taking slow, deep breaths until you’re certain you’ll be able to keep going. All the way to the end, right up to the finish line—wherever it may come—before crashing into Dean and staying in his arms for as long as he lets you.

You’d really just like this to be over. You’re not just going through the motions, but it’s something similar to it. Get through the night and all its terrors, then let the day creep in as you cling to your Dean-Stained blanket like a child. Go downstairs and give a mumbled good morning to Bobby, who gives you a mornin’ kiddo, in return. Make the coffee, wolf down breakfast as fast as you can—Bobby watching you carefully to make sure you finish it all—and get to work. Earthquakes and thunderstorm, new outbreaks of measles in Ecuador, Beijing, and Cairo. Bobby’s got no luck on Death, but neither do you. 

You’ve kept your word to Crowley. You’ve been thinking about it. And the more days pass, the closer you’re getting to making that deal.

You’re not quite there yet.

But you’re close. 

“He’s stayin’ off the radar.” Bobby mutters, frowning at his computer. “Both of ‘em are. Pestilence either changed his vessel or went blackout off the grid, after you and the boys tracked him last time. And Death- Fuckin’ ball, I ain’t seein’ anything.”

“Lucifer’s probably saving him for when he’s needed.” You mutter, flipping a page in your book. “He- I don’t remember him being all that happy, with what was happening.”

Bobby grunts. “You think you be able to do your soul-vision thing on him? If he pops up on freakin’- CNN or somethin’?”

You nod, pushing down the memory of Death looking at you, and saying no. “I’ve been checking local feeds whenever an omen pops up. Nothing.”

“Alright. Keep lookin’. And Pestilence-“

“Did it last night. I’ll put it on the fridge after I go shopping.”

Bobby grunts in approval, and you glance up. You’re almost done with this anyway.

“Did you look at the list?”

“Yep. Added a few things, but you handled most of it. Go armed.”

You pull out your Blade, flash Bobby a grin, and all you get is a flat look in return.

“Don’t forget the milk.”

You sigh, pushing to your feet. “I’m getting you oat milk. It’s better for old men.”

“Yeah, yeah, like Dean’ll be happy with the plant milk.”

You flush. “He doesn’t like any milk.”

Bobby pauses. “That’s true, ain’t it. Never seen him drink it without cookies.”

“Not even with cookies. Those were mine.”

“You don’t like milk either-“

“I like cookies.”

“Just eat the fuckin’ cookies.” Bobby mutters under his breath, and you give him a mock salute, crossing the room to the fridge.

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Shut up and get drivin’ kiddo. You come back with oat milk, and I’m shootin’ Dean.”

You scowl—it’s not good that he knows how effective that is—and grab the list off the fridge.

It’s pinned right between the expired Costco coupon Bobby’s had there since you were thirteen, and your drawings. Crude sketches you’d done a few days after you got back from LA, outlining the Horsemen’s true appearances. You hadn’t bene able to draw Death—something about it had felt wrong—but you’d gotten all the vile oozing of Pestilence, and the gaping darkness you’d seen in Famine. 

He’d been like a black hole. A pit. Bottomless and made of shadows, taking and taking and never satisfied. You’d had a feeling, standing across from him in LA and spinning the Blade in your hands, that you could’ve tossed the world into him and he just would’ve eaten that too. 

And he hadn’t had a single effect on you. Hadn’t been confused by it, either. Just whined about how it wasn’t fair, and if he could eat your soul, he’d never be hungry again.

You’re trying not to think about it. Just like you’re trying not to think about how, the day after, you’d looked into Dean’s eyes and the floodlight had returned. Staring at him in the golden-blue light of the dawn, you’d been able to see all that life, buried deep inside of him, colorful and luminescent and beautiful. 

You missed him. You wanted to wake up like that—next to him, his hand in yours, trying to keep your love off your face while figuring out how you can live in the world of Dean forever—every single morning. 

But the apocalypse. And groceries.  

It goes slowly. With Sam your divide and conquer plan had done wonders, and you’d been able to compensate for each other’s gross lack of domestic knowledge. And grocery shopping with Dean was never really grocery shopping, but rather letting him guide you aisle to aisle and listening to him ramble about all the different meats and sauces and spices, and what was useful and what was the good stuff, Princess. Trust me. And you’d always trust him, nodding a little stupidly and giving him a soft smile, pushing the cart wherever he told you it should go.

Alone, you’re trying desperately to remember what the good stuff was, and you’re not sure you’re succeeding. Mostly, you’re just grabbing whatever’s expensive. All your money is counterfeit or stolen from banks anyway. 

Jo taught you wiretapping a few years ago. She makes fun of you for using it on fancy hotel rooms and makeup, but then she turns around and spends it on a hair mask and the fanciest box of chocolates you’ve ever seen. 

You still haven’t visited her, at the waterfall.

You will soon. Dean promised. It just can’t be done alone. But that doesn’t stop you—every single time you climb into the Firebird—from dropping your brow to the wheel and taking a shaking breath. You could go now. You have a car, and legs, and a weapon. If angels or demons come for you, there’s no better place to lose control than a forest.

Then you think of a small marker in the dirt, and look down at the pastel blue on your fingers, and you can’t. It’s going to make it too real. She’s gone. All that’s left of her is that waterfall, and what’s on your fingertips. 

You still keep thinking of her as alive. You know you do. You know Dean’s caught it, when you’ve said Jo likes or Jo hates or Jo is. 

She isn’t. 

You don’t know how to internalize that. And the moment you see the grave, you’re going to have to. 

You should’ve visited the moment you got back. But you’ve been busy, and in pain, and you miss her and you can’t do it alone, you don’t want to do it alone, she can’t really be gone and you promised her you’d be okay but you can’t-

There’s a faint buzzing, and you freeze. The world had gone blurry, as you’d stared at your hands—you have perishables, you should really get moving—but when you dig your phone out from your pocket, it’s not the one that’s ringing. Your head shoots up, turning immediately towards the console, but save for the Gatorade you gotten yourself and your wallet, it’s empty. 

The buzzing is still going. And the generic ring tone is screaming burner phone, but you don’t keep a burner phone. You have one phone, with five numbers—Bobby, Dean, Sam, Cas, Rufus—and you never just hand out your number. People don’t want to be able to reach you. You’re not someone anyone should just welcome, willingly, into their home, or seek for help. For every good deed you do, you’re ten times as sick and wrong. 

Death. Staring at you. Telling you no, and the Sky glaring down at you, and a million teeth calling you a friend-

The buzzing stops for a second, then starts again. It’s in the car. You know it’s in the car. But it’s not your phone, so you don’t know where the fuck it’s coming from. And it takes pushing your hand between the seat cushions and getting on your knees to check under the backseat for you to think of the glove compartment. And there it is. A little black burner—just enough faded Gold to tell you it was Dean’s—buzzing over and over with a number, and no saved contact. 

Dean gives his burner numbers to a lot of people. Surviving vics, in case they ever need help again. Other, more trusted hunters, for mutual aid on cases. 

Girls. In bars. With pretty skirts and shirts that show of their cleavage, batting their lashes at him and giving him sweet smiles.

And you’ve played it over a million times in your head, almost on a mechanical loop. He doesn’t look for that anymore. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t look for him. Doesn’t mean he says no, when he’s asked. He ends up back in your bed, just sleeping, but he can’t be satisfied with that. Couldn’t ever be satisfied with you, making him worry and waking him up in the middle of the night to talk about fucking golf and milkshakes. Crying in his arms every other hunt, needing him more than he needs you, asking him to stay at your side and let you infect him, failing him all the time and running and sick-

The phone starts buzzing again. 

So you brace yourself—you’ll get through it, no matter who it is, you’ll be fine, and Dean’s his own person, but you’ll be fucking fine—and pick up the phone.

“Hello?” A man’s voice—young, nervous, probably not a sex call—crackles through the speaker. “Is- Is this Dean Winchester?”

You pause. He knows who Dean is. But that’s not exactly a clean endorsement of who he is. “Who’s asking?”

“Oh- Uh-“ The man clears his throat. “Sorry, I, um- I’m just looking for someone, I think I got the wrong number-“

“You didn’t.” Your voice has to stay flat. Neutral. Not too much given away, but if he knows Dean by name, you have to know why. 

“You- Don’t exactly sound like Dean.”

“This is his phone.”

“Oh. Um, is he okay-“

He better be. “Again, who’s asking.”

“Adam? Mulligan? I’m Sam and Dean’s brother.”

You still. Sam and Dean don’t have a third brother. Not that they’ve told you. They would’ve told you, that’s definitely something worth fucking telling you if it’s true- 

Then a vague bell rings in the back of your head. Dean had told you. While you were in Europe. He’d called you at four in the morning—for him, not you—and said that it seemed like John got around, when he was on solo hunts. That he’d even had a son, barely a kid, and he’d claimed that John hadn’t known about him, but he’d still had Dean’s middle name as a first name. And John had taken him to baseball games, and taught him how to drive, and Dean had been angry but mostly with John—you’d bitten down your pride at that, not the right time to encourage Dean that John was a bag of shit—and most of all, at the end of it, Adam had been-

“You’re dead.” You snap, sitting up in your seat. Dean had said the real Adam was dead, had been dead the whole time. “Adam Mulligan got killed by a ghoul, who the fuck are you-“

“I’m Adam!” The man yelps, and you can hear the genuine fear in his voice. “I promise! And I know I died- I mean, I think I know. I can sort remember things that didn’t happen to me, and it’s- it’s really confusing. I woke up in a lot of dirt, and I found my phone with this number, and I remember Dean even though I never met him, so, um- Where is he?”

You frown, weighing your options in your head. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but most monsters are good actors. If you were in danger or confused, you’d also call Dean first, but you’ve known him for almost ten years, and you love him. Adam—if he’s real—has never even really met Dean. But he says he remembers both Sam and Dean, which reeks of angel interference, but if it is, they’re looking for the boys. Not you. 

And angels can’t hurt you.

Adam clears his throat. “Hello?”

“Dean’s busy.” You keep your words careful. If this is angel interference, they’re not getting anything extra out of you. 

You kind of hope it’s angel interference. You’d really like to kill Zachariah.

“Oh. Is he going to be, um, not busy soon?”

“Nope.” You lean back, resting your knees on the wheel. “But I can pass on a message.”

“Uh-“ Adam pauses. “Who are you?”

You give your first name, but not your last. If it is the angels, that won’t really matter either way.

“Oh- Okay. Are you like, Dean’s girlfriend?”

You’re going to jump off a cliff. “It’s complicated.”

“Alright.” Adam, thankfully, doesn’t push it. “Can you tell him I’m in Minnesota? And I’d like some help, please?”

You frown. “Where in Minnesota?”

“Windom? It’s my hometown, that’s where they met… not me.”

Windom isn’t that far. Barely an hour and a half for you, over a day for Dean. If it is a trap, it’s safer for you to take the bait first. If it isn’t—if Adam passes all the tests and there’s no angel brigade waiting—then it’s safer to keep Adam at Bobby’s. 

You do have perishables. But they’ll last three hours. 

“Text me the address.” You say, moving the call to speaker so you can watch for the message on the burner, and text Bobby know you’re taking care of something, you’ve got your knife, and you’ll be home for dinner. 

“Oh, you can just tell Dean-“

“He’s on another coast. I’m in within two hours.”

“But-“ Adam lets out a long sigh, right as your phone buzzes with Bobby’s response.

Dont die.

You smile, type back never do, and open Dean’s contact. 

“Adam, if you want help-“

“I know. I’m sending it now.” There’s another buzz on the burner, and Adam coughs. “Two hours?”

“More or less. Line the doors with salt and don’t answer for anyone but me.”

“How will I know it’s you?”

Fair enough. You give Adam a quick description of yourself, he mumbles and understanding, and you hang up the phone. 

Bobby’s going to call this Hunter Fever. That you’re itching to do this because you’ve been cooped up, and now you’re actin’ like an idjit. But you’re not. If Adam is possessed, you’ll see it. If he’s just evil, he won’t be able to get the jump on you. One wrong movement and you’ll blast his soul right back out of his body. The highway will even get a lovely new garden as a result. And, you’re calling Dean. You’d sugar coated so Bobby wouldn’t worry, but you’re going to tell Dean, because you’re not being an idiot.

“Hey, Princess.” He picks up the phone after two rings, and you try not to sob in relief. He’s fine, you’d known that, but it’s still like a wave of thank fucking Christ whenever you hear his voice. “I meant to call you earlier, but this turned into a whole fuckin’ thing. Nothing we can’t deal with, but this whole town is full of crazies and this blonde chick who thinks she’s Jesus. Had to call in Cas, but we’ll still be home on time. What’s- Are you okay? You’re okay. Goddamnit, you better be okay-“

“I’m okay.” You smile into the air. It would be nice to be able to grab his face between your hands and kiss his nose, but even if he was here, that would be against the rules. “Your brother called.”

There’s a long, static pause. “Sweetheart, I’ve been with Sammy all day-“

“Wrong brother, De.” You sigh, and push out the words as fast as you can. “Adam. He’s alive. In Minnesota. He called the burner phone you left in my car, and I’m close, so I’m going to pick him up and bring him to Bobby’s. You should get home soon though. After the case.”

There’s another pause, and then- “The fuck you’re going to Minnesota alone, it could be a goddamn trap-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I’ve got both knives, and I’m already on I-90.”

“Then get the hell off it-“

“Dean. I’m going. You can’t stop me.”

“I can send Cas-

“You think Cas can stop me?”

“Goddamnit-“ Dean snaps your name, a tension in his voice that you haven’t heard in a long time. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t get yourself goddamn killed without me there to help-“

“I can hunt perfectly fucking fine on my own, Winchester.”

“I know that, but-“

“I’m going because you’re not here.” Your voice is raising slightly, and you glare ahead at the road. “They can hurt you, they can’t hurt me. I’ll be fine.”

“What if you’re not.” Dean hisses, and whatever background noise was on when he picked up is gone. He must have moved to fight in private. “You- You can’t get fucking hurt, Princess-“

“I know I can’t.” You say coolly. “That’s the point.”

He huffs out a dry laugh. “That’s not what I meant and you fuckin’ know it-“

“Dean.” Your voice is harsher than you mean it, and he falls silent. “We’ve done this before. I am perfectly fine on my own-“

“But you shouldn’t have to be.” 

You swallow, a hot and heavy lump forming in your throat. You don’t want to fight. Not really. Not now, when you miss him and love him and everything hurts just as much as always. 

Not ever. 

“Sorry.” Dean mutters. “Didn’t mean to shout, you’re just- Son of a bitch, you need to be here Princess. With me. And I can’t- If you-“

“I know.” You mumble, moving one hand off the wheel to rub at your wrists. Sick. Only making things harder. “I’ll be careful, De. I promise.”

Dean sighs. “I know you will, sweetheart. Just- If you need me, pray to Cas and he’ll zap me over-“

“I know.”

He grunts, and it doesn’t sound like he’s convinced. “Call me when you’ve got him, or I’m leaving these dumbasses to govern themselves.”

“Ooo, a revolution. You’re a kind king, Mr. Winchester. The people love your taxing system and patronage of the arts.”

“Nerd.” Dean mutters, but there’s a softness to his voice that makes you feel molten. “Pinky promise you’ll call.”

“Pinky promise. See you soon.”

Love you.

You don’t say it. You’re not allowed to say it. 

But you can think it, and hope he feels it. Hope that, all the way across the country, Dean knows that you’re going to be fine, because you have to be. You always get through it. You always go back to him. The address Adam gave you might look suspiciously like a church—god fucking damnit, it’s almost certainly a trap—but you’ll get back to Dean.

You always do. 

Adam’s a scrawny kid, sitting awkwardly on the dais. He’s a sort of tangerine orange color, starting in his stomach and burning up like fire in a chimney. He might be a little taller than Dean, but he’s built more like Sam. Hair a little darker than Dean’s, eyes bluer than Sam’s, and it’s not fair to already be comparing him to them, but otherwise you’ll just be seeing John. John’s nose, and mouth, and eyes. The features of the man that tried to kill you. That should have killed you. That kept you away from Dean. And they’re the same nose and mouth and eyes Dean has, but you love Dean. On him, they’re the best features in the world.

So it’s for Adam’s sake that you look at him and think Dean’s mouth. Sam’s jaw. Otherwise the Silver might start to flare. 

You’re going to have it enough trouble keeping it down as it is. 

Because standing at the dais is an angel. Broader than Cas, a little less electric, his rainbows running with an ugly, muted brown. 

Zachariah. 

You sigh, stopping at the front of the pews and crossing your arms over your chest. “I fucking knew it.”

Zachariah grins at you, ugly and shark like, and it’s only for Adam’s sake that you don’t let the Silver burst up and rip everything apart. 

He says your name, clapping his hands together with a mockingly cheerful tone. “You are infuriating, you know that? Think that you always know best, even when you’re walking into my trap-“

“Pretty shit trap.” You mutter. “I don’t think you were aiming for me, douche-bucket.”

Zachariah scowls. “Douche-bucket. I’m assuming that’s from our lovely Dean, right? His little… turn of phrase.”

You don’t answer—Zachariah can wait—and your attention flicks to Adam. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Adam whispers, his eyes wide on yours. “I just wanted to see my mom, I didn’t mean to- I don’t know. I’m not sure what’s happening.”

Zachariah scoffs. “Well, don’t try to figure it out. This is beyond your understanding, kid-“

“Oh, shut up.” You snap, and Zachariah’s eyes narrow.

“You have a nice voice.” Adam cuts in before Zachariah can speak, and you blink at him. “And- You’re- I like your hair.”

“Uh, thanks.” You frown. “You working with employee of the month?” You jerk your head to Zachariah, and the angel’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t answer that,” he orders, and Adam just keeps gaping at you. “And you,” he hisses your name, and you fix time with a bored stare. “You are- Such a fucking brat-“

“Sorry. Should’ve been nicer to Dean, he might have given you his real number, and you wouldn’t be going back empty-handed.”

Zachariah’s jaw twitches, and he takes a deep, heaving breath. “For your information, I will not being going anywhere empty handed. Had I hoped for Sam and Dean? Yes. But honestly,” the smirk creeps back onto his face, and a chill runs deeper than your bones. “You’re better. Bigger game, harder to catch. Boss will be pleased. I might even get a promotion. And, here’s the best part.” He raises his fingers, ready to snap. “This will be way more effective.”

He snaps, and you almost stumble forward. 

Ellen. 

Battered and dazed, a wear in her dark green, but Ellen-

You must call out to her and not hear it, because Zachariah tsks, and holds a finger to his lips.

“I wouldn’t talk to her right now. She’s a little… confused.”

Your jaw clenches, the Silver starting to rise, and while Zachariah’s smile doesn’t falter, his brown does do an odd stutter. Like a short-circuit or fritz in a power line. 

“Now,” Zachariah hums, taking a slightly step back and moving Ellen in front of him. Fucking pussy. “Here’s the deal I was going to offer Dean. Adam walks, Ellen walks, even little Sammy walks, and all he has to do is say yes. But I think-“ He pauses, frowning slightly. “He’ll want to talk to you. Sam and Dean… They’d be a problem-“

“They’re not coming.” You snap, grabbing the Blade out of your jacket. The Silver has to remain down, for Adam and Ellen. You can still cause a lot of fucking damage. “It’s just you and me-“

“We both know that’s not true.” Zachariah scoffs. “Dean at least is going to be trying to get to you, and Sam will help him. I can’t track them, but I can tip off some very angry hunters where they’re going- Yeah, it’ll be easier like this.”

Your eyes widen as Zachariah raises his hand again, the Silver turning and blistering right under your skin. “Like-“

The word is barely out of your mouth when Zachariah snaps his fingers, and the Silver rips out.

It crashed up with less warning than usual.

It’s still a second too later.

You’re everything. More than everything. Parts of you are things you don’t have names for, and a lot of you is light, but just as much is darkness. And you’re made of lava somewhere very dark and hot and lonely, and the Earth is spinning around you but you’re also every smallest bit of grass that feels so big in comparison to the bugs, and you’re the vastness of the water in the ocean, but also the vastness of every space between the stars, and neither of them feel bigger than the other. 

Mostly, you’re a song being played in an old car—old to other cars, young to the pavement it’s driving on and the trees it’s passing, barely an infant to the sky over its head—and the hands gripping a wheel so tight they’re going to strangle it. 

You love those hands. It would be nice to hold them. They’re Golden.

But you’re not you anymore. And you’re following them all the way down the roads, time somehow too slow and too fast all at once. You can see the dusty old church, and there are two hunters loading shotguns, and the shells are building themselves up to burst through a skull. The Gold is driving right to the church, and you need to stop it, but you’re too much and you don’t know how to control it all.

Then, as the Gold walks through the doors of the church, the Purple at his side, it all falls back down. You’re you again, and you can feeling the Spiderweb burning, but it’s not offline. More… confused. Straining a little more powerfully through your chest as you crash into yourself.

And you’re in the most beautiful garden you’ve ever seen.

Water that looks a little more like crystal, sunshine weaving through heavy leaves over your head, angled perfectly to spark at rainbow in every bit of mist. The flowers are blooming with heart and star-like patterns, made of colors you’ve never even seen. A familiar iridescent apple is hanging over your head, growing from a single, weeping tree that seems to be bleeding silver sap. You turn slowly—you’re not sure where you are, but it’s not Minnesota—and stop when your eyes land on an angel. 

There’s no wrath in him. Not like the other angels you’ve seen. His grace runs with green—a little lighter than Ellen, a lot softer than Bobby—and he’s big. Less electric, and more rooted. Wings twisted like branches, and eyes like knots on a tree trunk.

He says your name slowly. Your Enochian name. And when you stand a little taller, he gives you a kind smile.

“You can relax. I can’t do you any harm.”

You swallow. “Can’t?” 

“None of us can. Even the Angels that believe we’ve truly been left to ourselves…” He chuckles, shaking his head. “They are not foolish enough to try and touch you.”

“Because I’m the Magdalene.” You say carefully, and the angel shrugs. 

“Yes, but not quite.”

They must train angels to only speak like bridge trolls. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You are the Bride.” He says simply, and the Silver flares, running right to the tips of your fingers. “Being the Magdalene is, according to him, more of a cruel trick that was played, long ago. He’s told me he thinks you didn’t need the boost.”

“The- What?”

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs. “I don’t get to know everything. Only what I’ve been told.”

You open and close your mouth a few times, and the angel lets out another soft laugh.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just heard so much about you. I forgot you wouldn’t know me. Joshua.” He extends his hands—he’s not in a vessel, it’s all hands—and gives you another smile. “I’m the gardener.”

“Oh.” You say a little stupidly, giving his hand a tight shake and looking around once more. Strange flowers. Everything too perfect, with no actual environmental logic to the botany. You should’ve gotten it sooner. “And I’m in the… Gardens. Of Heaven?”

Joshua hums, and gives you an approving nod. “He did say you were smart.”

You don’t really want to know the answer. You’re still going to ask. “He?”

“God. He likes to…” Joshua pauses, watching you carefully. “Talk to me.”

“And he’s- Told you about me?”

Joshua frowns at you, tilting his head. “Of course he has. He’s been lonely for a long while, and- Well. From what I understand, he’s very happy you’re finally here.”

“Did he…” Deep breath. Too much to deal with, and you don’t feel dead, but you’ve also never been dead before. “Send me here?”

“No,” Joshua sighs. “I believe that was Zachariah. He can’t kill you, so you were sent to me.” He pauses. “I would be on your way, before he comes looking. He’s always been a bitter fuck.”

Your lips twitch in surprise, and you’d very much like more of Joshua’s opinions on the angels, but- 

“Dean.” Your voice is barely a breath, and your arms wrap tight around your stomach. Like you’re trying to keep the Spiderweb trapped in your body. “I- He’s-“

“Dean Winchester is dead.” Joshua says softly, his words moving a little faster as the Silver starts to riot and tear back up. “But he is fine. From what I understand, two angry hunters went after Sam with a little angelic help, and he was… collateral. But God does not wish for him to remain here.”

“Here?” You whisper, squeezing yourself until you’re not sure you’re breathing. “In- Heaven?”

Joshua nods, and you let out a slow, shaking breath. The map. The stupid fucking map Gabriel took away from you, that you’d had about half memorized. You’re in the garden. That means-

Joshua clears his throat. “You want to find him.”

Of course you want to find him. All there ever is to do is find Dean. “Yeah. Where’s, um-“ You pause. Heaven’s made like a sphere. The Gardens were at the center, on the map. All roads in, with the only way out—according to a note that had been in the margins—growing in the roots of God, because the place was designed like the world’s worst, most magical escape room that you could never actually escape. Problems for later. “Where’s the tree?”

“The tree?” Joshua gives you another amused look, and points behind you. “Be careful. It’s old.”

“All of this is old,” you mutter, turning to frown at the bleeding-silver apple tree. “Do I just climb it?”

“Usually one must make an offering, if you’re not accompanied by myself. But I think it will make an exception for you. Just touch it.”

“Cool.” You mumble, and Joshua clears his throat. 

“I would be careful. Once you get to the rest of Heaven, it will be different for you.” You turn back to him with a frown, and he pushes on, his voice still gentle. “For most humans, it is their greatest memories from life. But you are not dead, or human.”

“I’ve heard.” You sigh, raising your hand up carefully. Dean. You need to go to Dean. “Do you, um- Want to come with me?”

It’s an awkward question, and Joshua just shakes his head with a soft smile. “I wish I could. But I like my plants, and they like me. I am… Hopeful for you, though. He seems to think you tend to be different, than he wants you. But you are bright. Good.”

You’re not good. You know, better than anyone, that you are far from good. You still give Joshua a small smile and last thanks before you let the Spiderweb start to light up, and you press your palm to the bark of the tree. 

Dean. You want Dean. 

And it’s all a blur, and you’re everything once more, but you can see Gold. Leaning on the doorway of a motel room, rubbing his neck and saying low words you can’t quite make out. Moving a little forward to be closer to whoever he’s looking at, then grinning like he’s won the lottery when they step to the side, and he can shuffle into their room. He’s looking at the floor and She—it’s a She, you can see shiny hair and hear a musical voice, and you want to hate Her but he looks so happy, and you can’t hate anyone that makes him happy—places a hand on his chest to shoves him onto the bed, and you- This feels like something you should know, and you’re so close-

Something that’s white and wrathful and bright grabs you before everything can come into focus. Yanking you back with so much force as a hollow scream for Dean breaks from your throat, and the Gold flares, but then it’s gone.

Your eyes shoot open, and you’re not in a motel room. 

You’re in a saloon. A big, wide saloon with fancy trim and a creaking floors, low music playing from a scratched-up record player. There’s sunlight that makes the dust seem like it’s swirling in the air. You’re wearing a flowing dress with your knife strapped to your upper thigh, but there’s no monsters here. Nothing but old, dusty bottles on shelves, the music that you somehow know buy heart and you’re humming to yourself in perfect time, and-

“Hey, Princess.” A hand slide to hold your waist, and the moment you turn, he’s there. 

Dean’s grinning down at you, light sparkling in his eyes. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, dressed completely like a character in one of his old movies that he loves to make you watch. And he’s so close, and he smells like grass and spice, but not cinnamon.

And he’s not Golden.

Heaven will be different for you. 

This isn’t your Dean.

It’s an imitation of him, from a fantasy. From the back of your head and rawest little bit of your heart that truly believes—in another world, where everything was less complicated—you could have Dean.

And you do. In this world. Because before you can say a single word he’s leaning down and kissing you. Slow and soft, like he’s done it a million times before, and he plans to do it a million more. His free hand grabs your chin and tips it back slightly, his low chuckle vibrates in your chest as you moan and twist to fully wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

“Was gonna asked if you missed me.” He mutters, grinning against your lips. “Think I can figure it out myself, though.”

You giggle, shaking your head and dropping your brow to his chest, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Just for a second, if this is heaven, if this is all you ever get, you want to have it. “I did. Always do, De.”

“Always, huh.” His arms wrap fully around you, his lips brushing a kiss on your brow. “That’s a big promise, baby.”

Baby. I love you, baby. 

“It is,” you whisper, your fingers curling on his shirt. “Don’t want to make it to anyone else.”

The world rumbles. Whatever stopped you from finding Dean—the real Dean—isn’t happy with you. And you think you know who. He might have been watch you your whole life.

You’re not quite ready to think about it yet. 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper to Cowboy-Dean, even though he won’t understand what you’re talking about. “I- I’m really fucking sorry, for all of it. For making you worry and drive and die for me, and making you wait and getting mad and being stupid and reckless and-“ You take a shuttering breath, holding him a little tighter. He might not be Golden, but he’s built like Real-Dean is. All the same muscle and softness. It’s close enough. “I- I’m sorry-“

Cowboy-Dean mutters your name, tipping your head back with an open, adoring look on his face, his thumb running slowly down the bridge of your nose. 

“I’m sorry,” you gasp out, grabbing his hands to keep them on your face. “Dean, I- I’m- I’m so sorry-“

“I know you are.” He mutters, swiping the tears away from your cheeks. “But I don’t mind doing that, you know. Taking care of you. You do the same for me, and I love you, Princess. All the way down.”

I love you. You know I love you, baby.

You let out a long, slow breath, and lean fully back into his arms. You’re not quite sure how to do this, but the Silver isn’t suffocating here. In Heaven, it’s almost back to how it had been before you lost Jo. Humming and bright, right under the surface, ready to be called forward at your will, as you need it. 

And you need to find Dean.

So you focus, and let the Silver bleed out, and already different from the tree. You’re more in control. You’re everything, and that includes something whatever glowing, misting fabric is weaving this whole world together. You can do this. 

You squeeze Cowboy-Dean three times, before he’s gone. If this is every bit of your heaven, you’re not going to be able to take it. 

And it isn’t. 

Not quite.

You miss your first shot. Your eyes open, and the Silver has just given you another fantasy. You sitting in the back room of that church in Chicago, a younger looking Dean laughing with you as he steals the Body of Christ bread, covers it in Nutella and something fluffy and white, and hands it to you with a wide, proud grin. 

“Sammy found this stuff while we were in Virginia.” He explains. “Supposed to taste like marshmallows. Thought you’d like it.”

“Aw, Deano.” You smile, taking a large bite, and it’s not real but it tastes so good. “You think of me?”

“All the time, Princess. You, uh- You think of me?”

You nod, resting your head on his shoulder. “All the time.”

This one has to go, too. But you miss again. And again. And again. A lot of the times are just you and Dean, but more of them have a cast of side characters. Sam groans as you and Dean appear in his doorway—the fantasy seeming to be Dean didn’t leave, that first time, and everything was easy—and grumbles about how a week’s notice would’ve been nice. Bobby glares at a pale Dean across a table, and you roll your eyes because you know he’s not going to shoot Dean. He likes Dean. He just doesn’t like, in this fantasy, that you’ve been running around with John’s boy behind everyone’s back. And you don’t have any powers, and you can’t see the Sky, and you’re just Bobby’s daughter. Both of them are there in your treasure hunting fantasy, and when you pull that one apart and push it back together you’re in-

The Roadhouse. 

Sitting at the bar. 

Across from Jo. 

“You know, I never should have encouraged y’all.” She wrinkles her nose. “If I walk in on y’all suckin’ face one more time, I’m gonna shoot myself.”

You swallow, barely able to speak over the lump in your throat. “Jo?”

“Yeah?”

“I- I’m sorry.”

“For what, being gross? I ain’t mad about it for you, but now that Dean’s not holdin’ back I can see his boner all the fuckin’ time-“

“For not saving you.” You cut her off with a whisper. “I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jo just gives you a strange look and shakes her head. “Did you sleep last night? I’m fine.”

You can’t speak. You need to say something, to try and grab her even though she isn’t real, and bring her back. To hug her and sob a million more apologies. To do anything but stare at her and let a million words die in your throat about how you don’t know what to do. This is all so hard, and you just need a friend, someone to tell about the Men of God and Lucifer and Death and Crowley, and you have Cas for some of it but you want Jo-

The Silver is moving too fast. The pain pressing on your chest—made of Jo, she’s gone but she’s here, and you failed her and she doesn’t even know—is racking through your whole body, and you don’t want to go, you can’t go but you don’t know how to control it. It hurts and you’re sick and you miss her, it’s beating out of your chest and you have to say something, but the words keep turning to sobs in your throat. You should’ve done more. Been better. You fucking failed and what goddamn use are you if you’re so powerful but you can’t save Jo-

She’s gone before you can stop it. You’re everything again, but it feels wild. Furious. It all hurts—it always hurts, but now you can feel it like you’re the wound and the infection and the scar and the venom—and everything reforms differently. Faster.

Brighter.

This isn’t one of your fantasies or dreams. You’re back in what you’d been wearing in the church, and when you press your hand to your jacket, your knife and the Blade are still there. The room itself is a lot. There’s fire dancing in the air and grass under your feet, waterfalls making up the walls and a throne. A large, pure white throne made of light, high up on a dais of flowers and diamonds and marble. And when you climb up to stand before it, it glows brighter. 

And there is it. On one arm of the chair, shifting in the light without pain. Like it was designed to be there. Has always been there. 

Your name is written places in Heaven. 

On God’s throne.

“Wow.” A voice says from off to the side. “I gotta hand it to you, this is smart one. Nobody’s been here in a long time.”

You turn, and standing a few steps down on the dais is the Blue. Still blond and a little short, still grinning at you with open amusement, rocking back and forth on his feet as he waits for you to respond.

“Gabriel,” you whisper, and his grin widens. 

“Give the lady a cigar! She put it together! I doubt it was all by yourself, Dean and Sammy probably snitched, but I’m proud of you for telling them about our little rendezvous” He takes another step up, but still doesn’t move to the dais. “But, I do have to say, you didn’t listen to me at all.”

You scowl, your hands moving to your jacket on instinct, and Gabriel’s eyes widen, his hands raising up in surrender. 

“Hey, I’m just here to talk, no need to get stabby-“

“You stole my phone, and my notes.” You snap, grabbing the Blade. It looks sort for bioluminescent. Too many problems. “You stole my books.”

“I- I did to that. But, I was trying to help you, this isn’t your fight unless you make it your fight!”

“It is my fight-“

“Right, cause of your family.” Gabriel sighs. “You know, you are a stubborn little one. Sort of a spitfire. I get what they’re seeing in you-“

“Uh huh.” You’re a little sick of being called little, or hearing how people want you. You’re bigger than the fucking universe. And you’ve never cared how people want you, because you just want Dean. “Give me one good reason not to stab you.”

“My charming personality?” 

Your eyes narrow, and Gabriel winces.

“Fine, you’re mad at me. I get that. But I looked at your notes! It’s some pretty impressive stuff, and-“ Gabriel’s hands go higher as you take a step forward. “I was wrong! I was super fucking wrong! You’ve been tearing through the apocalypse like it’s a hacked video game, sweetheart, this is great. We’ll be home in time for dessert, if you keep this up.”

He sounds genuine, but you don’t trust it. So you stop moving, but keep the Blade in your hand. “What do you want, Gabriel. Aren’t you supposed to be hiding from Heaven.”

“That’s true, I am, but this,” he gestures around the room. “Doesn’t count. This is heaven back when Daddy was hands on. I didn’t even know the door was still open anymore, but I shoulda figured you’d shove your way in. Warning signs don’t really seem to be effective on you.”

You frown. “There’s no warning sign-“

“This whole place is a warning sign. Barbed wire, moat of crocodiles, whole shebang. But you just walked right in, so I followed. All I want is to talk, and this is the best place to do it.”

“To talk.” You echo back slowly. “Are you going to knock me out again?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You know, you really should let that go-“ You take another step forward, and his words stutter. “Understandable if you don’t, though. Fair. If it helps, what I pulled was a one-time, Earth specific trick. Won’t work on you up here.” He eyes you wearily. “And I really am here to help. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick an angel blade in my eye.”

You pause. Help. You don’t need help, but you also aren’t getting anywhere close to finding Dean. And, somehow, you seem to have the upper hand here. Over an archangel, in fucking heaven. If he lies, or tries to knock you out again, you’ve got the Blade. You’ll just stab him. “Help how.”

“You’re not gonna,” Gabriel makes a jerking movement with his hand, nodding to the Blade, and you shrug. 

“Not if you’re really here to help.”

“Alrighty, I can work with that. Down to business.” Gabriel claps his hands together, taking a cautious step up, but still not all the way to the dais. “Like I said, looked at your notes. Men of God, soul studies, Magdalenes, translations. You really are a smart cookie. I think you could put this together by yourself, if you got the little push-“

“Gabriel.” You hiss, and he sighs. 

“It’s right under your nose, sweetheart. Chasing Death and Pestilence, chopping off good ol’ Famine’s finger. My brothers aren’t going to be killed by your two bumbling Americana poster boys, and they ain’t dumb enough to not keep precautions against you. But they can be trapped. Put in time out. Shit, Luci got sent to the corner for thousands of years.”

“The-“ You frown, your grip tightening on the Blade. “What.”

“Think about it,” Gabriel says your name in Enochian, grinning up at you. “He got out, Mikey’s gotta kill him, that’s the whole thing. Dad’s not going to step in, he likes watching us beat each other up. Even tapes it to sell. But, he also like his loopholes. Fail safes. Little puzzles to keep us all busy while he fucked around. You think he’d just destroy the cage after it was open?” You open your mouth, and he shakes his head, raising a hand. “You’re smarter than that.”

You pull your lip between your teeth, biting until it stings. “There’s a back door.” You mutter, watching Gabriel carefully. “Another way to open it, and send someone in.” 

“Good girl,” Gabriel laughs, giving you a mock applause. “Of course, you’re gonna have to get Lucifer into the cage. I’d wish you good luck with that, but I don’t think you’ll need it. You’ve always liked finding other ways.”

Deep breath. He’s not taunting you—no more than seems usual—and that is helpful. But- “Why are you helping now. You wanted to stay out of it, Sam and Dean-“

“Sam and Dean,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Are dramatic, self-righteous, annoyingly convincing little asshats. I probably would’ve flipped for them eventually, they’ve got this kinda street dog charm that coulda won me over. But this? It was mostly from watching our lovely Castiel.” He gives you a wide grin. “You know, he doesn’t understand what you are, not really, but he’s following you all the same, rather than some ancient orders from a deadbeat Dad. And I think he’s onto something. I think you deserve a choice, and that’s not gonna happen if this train keeps rolling. Actually, I’m not sure if it’ll happen at all, but Mikey and Luci ain’t gonna help. Plus, I love love. And you,” He lets out a low wolf whistle. “Are way too sexy for my dad.”

The chill rolls through your bones again, and the Silver is burning. Rolling and turning like a storm, not trying to burst out, but strained. Distressed. You don’t even know how to say anything, how to be anything but everything, and you heard Gabriel’s words, but you didn’t really hear them, and you can’t-

“Easy girl.” Gabriel says, raising his hands again. “I’d like to go back underground without being erased.”

You frown. “Back-“

“There’s no way I’m sticking around for the finale. Not my scene. You give me a call, I’ll answer, but only you. Don’t go writing my number on bathroom stalls. And hot tip, don’t be afraid to ask for some help. Not my help, obviously, but some help.”

“I don’t-“

“Also, you’re doing this all wrong.” Gabriel nods around the room. “You think about who you want, Heaven’s gonna want to please you. Try thinking about where they’d be. Their happy memories. Once you get that, you can go wherever you want, babygirl. World’s your oyster.” Gabriel shoots you a wink. “Good luck. Remember, call me.”

You open your mouth—to scream, to protest, to demand more, he can’t just say all that and fuck off—but nothing comes out, and Gabriel vanishes, leaving you alone once more. 

The steps are shocking soft, like sitting on a blanket, grass in the summer. You draw your knees up to your chest, dropping your brow with a low, deep breath. The Silver is still illuminated in your body, buzzing right under your skin and—for maybe the first time in your life—the pain is numbed. Not gone, but numbed. Like it’s being drowned in the Silver, or burned away by the light all around you. This feels like a good time to cry. To let out the guttural howl that’s been building in your throat. You don’t know what to do. You lost Jo, again. And God.

You don’t want to think about that one. Not right now. And it might be why the scream doesn’t come, why the pain remains something a little too far for you to really feel. It’s all too much, just on the right side of overwhelming to sear you together by force. 

You’ll get through this. You’ll get back to Dean. You always do, and then you’ll fall apart. After you save Ellen and Adam, after you find Sam and Dean—and maybe shove them both for dying like idiots—you’ll fall apart about it all.

Don’t be afraid to ask for some help. 

You tip your head up, and squeeze your eyes shut. “Dear Castiel, who art it,” you pause. This is so fucking stupid. “Wallingford, Connecticut. Get over here, please.”

There’s a rustle, and when you open your eyes Cas is standing over you, frowning around the room. “Where did you bring me?”

“Working theory?” You say, pushing to your feet. “God’s old throne room.”

“How did you-“

“Don’t know. Sam and Dean-“

“Are dead.” Cas sighs, and it’s good to know he has the same feelings about it. Dumbasses. “I’ve been guiding them, but they get sidetracked rather easily. And much of my guidance had to come from Earth, as my powers are-“ Cas glances down at his hands, frowning slightly. “Were, diminished. But I am not feeling any weakness now.”

“That might be me,” you mutter. “I need your help, and this place seems to like me.”

“Ah.” Cas’ frown deepens, but he doesn’t push it. “I’ll be able help you to Sam and Dean, if we remain together-“

“It’s not just Sam and Dean.” You tuck the Blade back in your jacket, looking around the room one last time. Your gaze falls back on your name, written on the throne, and you take a deep breath. Heaven wants to please you. “Zachariah said it would be better like this. That the boss wants to talk to me.”

Cas frowns. “Michael?”

“Probably, yeah. He had Ellen and Adam, I think he just killed them to stash them here. We’re going to have to get to them one at a time-“

“Sam and Dean’s heavens have merged. We will be able to retrieve them together.”

“Oh. Good.” You frown at the air, rubbing at the scar on your palm. “I think if we can work out just one of everyone’s happiest memories, I’ll be able to move to their heavens, and you can just hop around, so it’ll be best if we split up. We can meet up at Sam and Dean, you grab Adam, I’ll get Ellen and Jo-“

“Jo?” Cas cuts you off with a frown, and you nod. 

“If we’re bringing people back, I can get Jo, and-“

Cas says your name too gently, and your nails dig into your skin. Whatever he’s about to say, you really don’t want to hear it. “I do not believe Jo Harvelle is here.” His words come a little quicker, and it might be because all the fire in the room had burned a little brighter, right as the Silver started to wail in your body. “She is not in hell, either. But she’s… blocked.”

You shake your head, clenching your teeth. “I’ll get through the block, Cas-“

“We do not have the time.” His voice is firm, and he’s holding your glare. “Michael may be hunting you, and Zachariah is after Sam and Dean. You are powerful here, but you’re unfamiliar with the systems and roads of Heaven-“

“I’ll be fine-“

“It is not you I am worried about.” 

Sam and Dean and Ellen and Adam. “But whatever’s blocking Jo-“

“Is strong. You will likely be able to break through it, but it will cost us time. Time we do not have.” Cas sighs. “You called for my help. I am offering that, and advice. I will not be able to stop you, if you choose to aim for Jo instead of the others. But a soul is needed to bring someone back. And we know where everyone else is stored.”

You fucking hate this. This whole day has been shit. Everyone’s giving you pieces of a puzzle you don’t really want to solve anymore—not as the picture comes together, and it’s more and worst then you’d dared to think about—and your groceries are probably fucked, and you miss Dean, and Bobby’s going to kill you when you get home, and you’re failing Jo again, and Adam and Ellen-

Ellen. You can’t fail Jo and Ellen, again. You’ve already razed Jo just by being near her. You can’t allow the same to happen, again, without ever really apologizing to either of them. 

“Fine.” You mutter, rolling your neck and glaring at the ceiling. “You can get Adam?”

Cas nods, and there’s unmistakable relief washing all over his face. “Yes. I will meet you with Sam and Dean.”

You hum in acknowledgment. “Cas?”

He frowns at you, and you give him a small, sad smile. 

“Don’t die.”

“I will do my best.” Cas gives you an awkward nod in return. “Good luck. I will see you in, hopefully, about fifteen minutes.”

There’s a whoosh, and then he’s gone. And you can do this. Heaven wants to please you—not the time to think about why, or what the fuck that means—and you know what you need to do now. Ellen’s happy memories.

All you can think of is Jo. And it’s splitting open a strong ache in your chest, making your fingers curl to try and protect her blue from the sights of Heaven. But Jo is the same to you that she is to Ellen. Family. And Ellen had told you a few stories, on nights you’d stayed at the roadhouse to hang out with Jo. She’d made you a rootbeer float and talked about how Jo got to ride a horse once, and it was the happiest Ellen had seen her since her dad died. 

The Silver starts to build outwards, and you can see it. Covered in an odd, shimmering veil, but there. Ellen with a beer in her hand, watching a blonde girl ride a horse that’s ten times her size. Both of them are smiling, and there’s a soft breeze that’s offsetting the flat heat of the summer. 

You turn back once, as the Silver started to leak out around you, and the image become clearer. Just to check that it was real. That your name is really right there, written on what can old be the throne of God.

And it is. 

Then it’s gone, and you’re caught in what feels like a soft tide for only a second, before you fall onto soft grass.

The sun is blinding for a second, and you have to squint to look around you. Baby Jo has wandered deeper into the field, and for a second you want to chase her down and bring her with you too. And you know it wouldn’t work—just like in the Roadhouse, that’s not your Jo, just an echo of her—but that doesn’t stop the ache from cleaving your ribs apart. You can hear her laughter on the wind, and it’s a sound you don’t think you’re ever going to hear again. 

That almost shatters you. You can’t afford to stop or slow down right now, but you’re never going to laugh with Jo again-

A hand brushes hair away from your face, and you turn to see Ellen frowning at you, your name soft on her tongue. “What are you doing here, honey?”

You swallow, your voice barely a rasp. “I- I’m here for you.”

“For me?” Ellen frowns. “I’m busy, I’m takin’ Jo to get ice cream after this. You can come with us, but you look…” She pauses, tracing her hand back over your face with a frown, and you swallow down a weak sob. “Tired. What happened?”

It would be so nice if you could just not tell her. If you could leave her here, happy, forever. But you don’t trust Zachariah to let her stay in peace. And you can’t shake the sight of her in the church. Pale and bruised, swaying slightly and unsure of what was around her. Broken.

You won’t fail twice. You won’t.

“You’re dead.” You whisper. “Zachariah found you, and hurt you. I- I don’t know why- But I didn’t stop him and I’m sorry-“

A weak, strangled sound breaks through your throat, the world going a little blurry, and Ellen pulls you into her arms. You don’t deserve to hug her back, you’re the one who got her hurt and killed. But you’re tired, and the physical pain is numb, but the ache is bigger than you know how to handle. So you bury your face in her shoulder and let the tears fall. 

“It’s okay,” Ellen hums your name, rubbing your back, and you shake your head. Nothing’s okay, it’s all too much, and too complicated, and you don’t know what to do- “I guess I shoulda known I was dead. Jo ain’t been this young in a while.”

Another broken sob shakes your body, and you don’t know if Ellen knows that Jo’s- That you- That-

“And I remember the church.” Ellen sighs. “Remember all of it, now that you’re sayin’ it.”

You swallow and lean back, blinking away the tears from your eyes. “I- I’m sorry.”

Ellen frowns. “Bout what?”

“Jo.” Your voice is barely a breath. You’re not even sure how you’re speaking at all, with the feeling of iron in your lungs and ash in your throat. “I- I tried to save her. I promise, but I couldn’t, and I shouldn’t have done the plan at all but I- I’m sorry-“

Another hollow noise breaks out and Ellen shakes her head, brushing the hair from your face. “I don’t blame you. Don’t think she’d ever blame you either. I was always happy you two found each other, even though I wasn’t a fan of her huntin’… I just wanted her to be happy. And you were the only real friend she had. I know you loved her like a sister, honey, and I don’t doubt you tried to save her.”

“But- You vanished-“

“Cause I was furious at everything that hurt her. Not you.”

“But I-“

“Dean told me you stayed with her to the end.” Ellen whispers, giving you a sad smile. “That you didn’t want to leave her at all. She wasn’t alone. And you killed the angel that killed her. Better than I could’ve done.”

You shake your head, your voice bitter. “Just one of them. Other one got away.”

Ellen sighs. “It was that bald asshole that grabbed me, wasn’t it. Zachariah?” You nod, and she scowls. “He’s seemed like a shitbag. You gonna kill him too?”

“I’d like to.” You mutter, sniffing up the last of the tears. She doesn’t blame you. Even if she should, she doesn’t, and you can do this. Focus. Get her out. You won’t fail again. “But he’s going to be looking for me, he-“

“Wants you to talk to the boss.” Ellen frowns. “God?”

“Michael. I’ll explain more later, but we have to go. Cas is meeting us at Sam and Dean-“

“Sam and Dean?” Ellen’s brows raise in surprise. “How’d they end up here?”

“Angry hunters and another trap. Cas will be able to resurrect you all, I think I jumpstarted him or something. I might be-“ You pause. If you’re this powerful, if Heaven wants to please you, you might be able to pull off the angel’s back from the dead trick too. You’re trying to feel out the Silver. It still doesn’t hurt the same, and it’s not dormant, but- 

You don’t want to risk it. You might be able to pull off a resurrection, but you don’t know how. And if you fuck it up, you might infect one of them. Might make everything worse. It will have to be Cas.

Ellen says your name gently. “You okay-“

“I’m fine.” You reach out your hand, holding Ellen’s gaze. “Ready?”

She nods, but glances over your shoulder. “What about Jo? I know that ain’t her, but- If Castiel is bringin’ people back-“

“He needs the souls.” You mumble. And Jo’s is fucking blocked. “I’m sorry.”

Ellen’s throat bobs, and she lets out a long, slow breath. “Alright.” Her hand slides into yours, and you really don’t fucking deserve this. The trust that you’re going to do this right, and not get someone hurt. “This gonna feel weird?”

“Um, no?”

“C’mon.” Ellen says your name with a small smile. “Bobby raised you to lie better than that.”

“No.” You keep your tone dry, and Ellen chuckles.

“That’s better. You bringin’ us to Sam and Dean?”

“Yeah, I just, um- One second.” You squeeze your eyes shut, and let the Silver out slowly. It’s going to have to touch Ellen, but that’s just another thing you’re trying not to think about. You’re saving her, not infecting her. You’re just carrying her with you to Cas. You’ve never tried to do that before, though. You could fuck it up. You could just vanish without her, or land her in the wrong place, or fuck up and raze her soul in the process-

Don’t think about it. 

Just think about Sam and Dean. Their happy memories. You just need one, from either of them. And it can’t be your happiest memory of them—you have to remind yourself that, over and over, because all you can think of is playing Trivial pursuit with Sam in Bobby’s library, and sitting with Dean in the Impala, wiping a smear of chocolate milk from his lip as he grinned at you, and they might not care for those memories at all—so your best bet is something they’d told you about. Sam’s fourth grade visit to a planetarium. Dean getting to drive Baby for the first time by himself. Maybe one of those Vegas weeks Dean’s tried to get you to join last year, or an easier night at the roadhouse. A weekend with Bobby, or the only school dance Sam ever got to attend. 

Or one of Dean’s many fun nights, at bars or on road trips. That one girl Sam mentioned years ago, who he spent a whole week with when he said he was going on a road trip. Or the sex spree after he made the demon deal, while you were still running around the country avoiding Hell’s Assassin’s. A good memory with Sam from their childhood, like a Christmas or Halloween. Or maybe just something simple. Dean loves simple things, and he loves them with all his heart. Pie and music and sleep. Pretty things. Good, easy things. 

Things that you aren’t. That you’ve never been. And you really want to be in his Heaven. You’re best friends, and you know he’s at least a little attracted to you, but Heaven is a high bar, and you’re complicated.

You’ve always been complicated, and sick, and a lot more trouble to tame than you’re worth. 

You’re caught in the tide again, and you’re not quite sure where you’re going. You’re only the Silver—and a spot of dark green, tangled up and flowing with you—but, through the haze of colors and light, you can see it. Dean’s Gold, that you’ll love until someone finally muzzles you properly, and you’re only a feral, gnashing beast trying to rip off your collar and go home. To Dean. 

You love him. It’s really all you can think. And whatever white thing grabbed you before isn’t going to catch you this time. You won’t let it, because you need to get to Dean. 

And you’re yours again, just like that, as you crash down into his gravity.

You’re sitting on something soft, in a dark room. There are blankets over your head and, peaking through a gap, you can see a bunch of little, plastic stars stuck to the walls and ceiling and-

Those are your walls. These are your blankets. This is your fucking room, from right before Dean died. His I’m dying party that you’d hated, but gone to anyway. Because it was for Dean. And you’d loved him, just like always. 

“Was this a trap, Princess?

You turn your head, and there he is. Golden. Your Dean, the real Dean, looking a little older than he did when this had happened, but giving you the same boyish smirk he always has. The one you might rip Heaven apart just to see, every single time. You’re in his Heaven.

“This,” you swallow a lump in your throat, your fingers curling on your calf. “This is your heaven?”

Dean blinks at you. “Course it is. But I don’t think you’re supposed to know that, sweetheart, you’re just a memory.”

Your lips twitch, even as the Spiderweb glows so bright you think it might turn into all that you are. You don’t know if you want to kiss him or shove him or just hug him for a million years and never let go. 

“But you died like, right after this.” You whisper. “How is that Heaven?”

“You made me a blanket fort and said you didn’t want me to die,” he sounds confused. Like he can’t possibly fathom why this wouldn’t be heaven. “You trusted me about your family, and we hugged, it was awesome-“

“Uh, Dean?” The entrance to the blanket fort opens, revealing a ducked down Sam. Purple. The real Sam. He barely even spares you a glance, as if he’d expected to see you here. In Dean’s Heaven. “I think something’s happening. Cas is out here.”

Dean frowns. “Thought he couldn’t get into past the pearly gates to help us-“

“Says that he got a boost.” Sam tilts his head in your direction, saying your name. “She gave it to him. And she’s supposed to be here too. Cas is worried cause it looks like Ellen’s showed up, but they were supposed to come together or something-“

“Sam.” You keep your voice dry, and Sam freezes. “I’m right here.”

They’re both gaping at you. And you adore them, but for all the shit Dean has always given you about hunting alone, you’re not sure how they survived this long without you there all the time. 

“You can see me.” Sam says a little stupidly. “But this is, uh- This is Dean’s heaven-“

“And I’m me.” You have to fight down the flush on your cheeks. You’re not sure it works. “I must have taken Memory-Me’s place.” 

Dean clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with an almost nervous expression. “But you’re, uh- Have you been you the whole time?”

“Uh, only for like five minutes. C’mon,” you reach out a hand before you can think better. “We’ve gotta go, Dean-“

Your words fall into a yelp as Dean grabs your hand and yanks you forward, all the way into his lap. Your arms wrap around him on instinct, your face resting in the crook of his neck, and this really is your Dean. He smells like cinnamon, his Gold is everywhere, and his voice is hoarse in your ear. 

“Thought we lost you,” he mutters, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as the other squeezes your hips, as if he’s checking you’re real. “Son of a bitch, Princess, you were supposed to call me, and when we got to the church the Firebird was parked out from, and- I thought-“

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, bunching his jacket in your hands. “I- I’m okay. I’m not even dead, I just got sent to the Garden, and-“ You sigh, shaking your head against him. “I’ll tell you later. We have to go, Dean.”

He grunts, slowly detangling himself from you, but his hand slides back into yours in a second. One squeeze. Checking in. 

You give him a soft smile as he helps you to your feet, and squeeze back three times. I’m good.

I love you.

He gives a tight nod, and you step out of the blanket for to find everyone else awkwardly waiting for you. Sam gives you a nervous smile, Ellen’s looking around your room with a frown, and Adam is staring at you. 

Cas says your name, and you turn to find him sitting on the edge of your mattress. “Any issues?”

“Not yet. You think you can get all four of them?”

He pauses, then nods. “I will have to go two at a time. Just one resurrection requires effort, but all four them have intact bodies, and I feel… strong. I can handle it.”

You nod, and Sam clears his throat, raising his hand. 

“Can you guys explain what’s going on-“

“Once you’re alive, yes.” Cas pushes to his feet, and Dean scowls.

“Do you two rehearse this or something? I mean, Adam was dead this freakin’ morning, we can’t just move past that-“

“Dean.” You give him a firm look, and his mouth snaps shut. “We have to go. It’s not safe to linger-“

“Why?” Adam cuts in, earning a glare from Dean—which you want to laugh at, because he’d been pushing the same thing only seconds ago—and you sigh. 

“Because-“

“Of me.” Zachariah’s sneer cuts through the air, and your blood almost curls in your body. You don’t want to turn around and see him. You’re so fucking close to getting everyone out. 

But he’s there. And you’re fucked.

“This is very convenient,” he hums, walking around the room with a snake-like grin. “I mean, all of you in one place? And Castiel, too?” Zachariah laughs, and your grip on Dean’s hand tightens. “I mean, it’s like my birthday’s come early.”

“We do not have birthdays, Zachariah.” Cas mutters, taking a side-step to block Sam, Adam, and Ellen. 

His eyes meet yours for a second, and you give him a tight nod in return. You’ve got Dean. He’s got the other’s. 

“You always were so literal.” Zachariah scoffs, rolling his eyes at Cas. “And you shouldn’t be able to be here, either. I thought we made that very clear. Unless-“ Zachariah cuts himself off, turning his glare to you. “Of course it was you. Looks like the whore is learning some new tricks-“

“Hey.” Dean snaps, taking a step forward to block you from Zachariah’s view, and you love him but God, he can be such a fucking idiot. “Don’t talk to her like that, dickbag-“

“I get it, Dean. You’re a big, scary guard dog, and I should be running. But I’m not, am I? Because you’re just a meat sack that’s the perfect temperature, and she,” Zachariah lets out a long, pained sigh. “Is annoyingly the most important soul ever made. She’s my meal ticket. And I need her back, now.”

You swallow, and Dean tenses in front of you. It’s not brave to strong, to press against his back, and try to hide your face in his side. But it’s all you want to do. He’d be warm. Strong. Like a tree that shields you from the view of the Sky, all while keeping you shaded under its shadow. And you manage not to hide, but the pain is building back up as the Silver rushes just a layer under your skin. You don’t know what made the numbness stop. Maybe it’s the same thing that’s making you grab and rub your wrist, trying to keep the Silver down. You can’t explode now. Not here.

But Zachariah leans around Dean, his gaze locked onto yours and his lips twisted so horribly, and you choke on the bile in your throat. 

“Boss wants to talk to you,” he says the words like he hates them. You’re not exactly a big fan either. “And the rest of you,” he stands back up. “As much as I’d like to squish you under my shoe, it’s your lucky day.”

“Zachariah.” Cas says, eyes narrowed. “I am not going to let you touch them-“

“You can’t do anything about this.” Zachariah snaps. “You might be, if she,” his head jerks to you. “Knew what the fuck she was doing, but she doesn’t. And you might be able to break in a window, but I still have the keys, and a shotgun. So get. Out.”

You don’t get a warning this time. Zachariah’s snap is quick, and the Silver doesn’t get to react. The memory of your room vanishes. Sam, Dean, and Cas go with it, it feels like wind is ripping and biting at your skin for a horrible, split second before you land again. 

It’s not clear where you are, over the blur of the world. The Silver is more than burning. It’s molten, almost acidic, and it hurts. It all fucking hurts again, and you can’t really fucking breathe, and Dean. You lost him. His hand was in yours, but you were sick, and you’re a worse sort of pestilence that’s taking everything down with it, and what fucking use is being the Bride or the Magdalene or the Angel Killer or Death Raiser if you can’t ever fucking control it, can’t use it to protect instead of faltering and rotting-

Someone’s calling your name, but you can’t really hear anything over the ringing in your ears. One hand is pressed to the right of your heart, the other on your throat, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to strange yourself or feel for it. The Spiderweb. It’s not dark, not offline. When you press your fingers into the base of your throat, and the rioting of the Silver falters for a second—and the pain builds, but you’ve survived worse—you can feel it. Clear. Bright, and casting rainbow light around your rib cage. Even sharper than a moment before, because Dean isn’t in Heaven, but it’s because he’s alive.

He’s alive.

And if Dean’s alive, alive and on Earth, Sam and Cas are likely fine too. Zachariah said it was their lucky day. They’re okay. And you might need to be a little more worried about yourself.

Your name is repeated, with a little more urgency, and your vision clears as the Silver eases. Ellen is kneeling next to you—you seem to have fallen to the ground—and holding your face between her hands, her eyes scanning over your features frantically. Adam is standing off to the side, looking equally worried, but still mostly just gaping at you. All the furniture is embroidered. Gilded. Expensive. Maybe still Heaven. The Silver is still active, but the pain is too. Every color is a little brighter, but your eyes might just be adjusting. 

It doesn’t really matter. 

Just to test, you try to let a little of the Silver out. To see if you can expand, and turn Heaven to your will like before. 

The room shifts. All the fancy furniture turns to a well-worn couch and knotted wood table. The carpet turns into the rug in Bobby’s living room, and the tapestries on the walls turn to the old sunset painting Bobby keeps in his study. But when you try to push further, it’s like you slam into a wall. It doesn’t hurt, but it rushed through you like a small electric shock, and your eyes shoot open. 

Iron. It’s fucking iron, and it doesn’t do to you what it used to, but it still seems to have an effect. 

You’re trapped. 

Ellen snaps your name, and you blink at her. “You gotta tell me you’re with us-“

“I’m with you.” You mumble, dragging your nails over the skin of your throat. “We’re- Fuck.”

“The boys-“

“They’re alive.” You move slowly to your feet, rubbing the scar on your palm. “Most of them are.” You give Adam a small smile. “Hi.”

His eyes widen. “Hi. You, um- I still don’t understand what’s going on-“

“You’re collateral.” You mutter, scanning around the room. Not a lot to work with. You don’t know if you’re still in Heaven, even if you do escape, you can see the Enochian, etched into the wallpaper and wood. Ownership wardings. No praying to Cas. No getting back to Earth. “They want to talk to me, and I’ve been known to, uh-“ You sigh. “Cause damage.”

“Damage?” Adam takes a step forward, sort of looking at you like you’re some sort of fallen star. “To angels?”

“And others.” You tap your finger against one of the wardings, and it zaps. “Fuck.”

Ellen frowns. “What? You don’t think you can get us out?”

You shake your head. “I- I don’t know. I’ve sort of- teleported before, but only twice.“ Because something had been calling to you, the Spiderweb bursting in your chest, and you’d wanted to follow it all the way down. “And I can’t do it on command. Plus I’ve never- I needed Cas. For the resurrections.”

Ellen pauses. “Think you could try yourself?”

“Maybe.” You give her a tight look. “But I don’t know about two at once.”

Ellen lets out a long, heavy sigh, and Adam clears his throat. 

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on. I don’t know you,” he gestures to Ellen, before turning to you. “And Sam and Dean seemed close with you, and I know I’ve never actually met them, but I would’ve remember you if they’d brought you with them-“

“They didn’t.” You mutter, starting to move through the books on the shelves. When you open on, it’s real. With words, but they’re swimming a little on the page. Enochian. Better than nothing. “I was in Europe.”

“That where you went?” Ellen asks, and you freeze.

“I’m sorry-“

“Honey, I’m just glad you didn’t die, or blow somethin’ up-“

“I blew a few things up.”

Ellen laughs. “Anything important?”

And image flashes over your vision. A child’s soul, stained on the pavement and being delicately placed back into her body. 

Wait. 

Fuck.

Ellen says your name, and you can hear the frown in her voice. “You-“

“I’m okay.” You stand suddenly, the book tight in your hand. “I- I might have it. A way out. We just need to wait.”

They listen, but this is the kind of plan Dean would glare at you about. It’s a little insane. But you can do it. You can. You’ve done it before, even if it wasn’t exactly on purpose. Resurrection will be dicey, but there’s no reason to think you can’t do it. Until you’re violently and horrible proven otherwise, you can. You’re made to touch souls. Heaven wants to please you. And there’s no fucking use to any of it if you can’t do this, and get back to Dean. 

“Hi.”

You look up from your book, and find Adam sitting next to you with a nervous smile. “Hi.”

“You, uh,” he scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking between you and the carpet. “Nobody ever told me what’s going on.”

“Oh, right.” You sigh, closing your book and tipping your head back. “Um- It’s the apocalypse. Michael and Lucifer are going to have a death match, but they need Sam and Dean’s bodies-“

“I know that, actually. The angel guy explained it.” He frowns. “He was, uh- Kind of a dick about it, though.”

You snort. “You have no idea.”

Adam nods, and gives you a strange look. “I was kind of wondering, uh- About you?”

“Me?” You frown at him. “Why?”

“You seem interesting.” He shrugs. “I mean, you showed up threatening angels with knives, and you were flying around heaven. I’m curious. I mean, how’d you even meet Sam and Dean?”

“They were on a case.” You shrug. “Ran into them, told them they were wrong about what they were chasing, fought with John about it-“

“John? You met my dad?”

Shit. “Uh, yeah.”

“Were you-“

“He didn’t like me.” You keep your words short, and a little apologetic, but Adam only frowns.

“Why? You seem cool, and you’re, uh-“ He blushes, and you’re not sure what the fuck is going on. “I mean, you seem very capable, and Sam and Dean trust you-“

“I’ve been hunting with Dean for years. And Sam’s like my brother.”

Adam pauses. “But Dean isn’t?”

Fuck. “It’s complicated.” 

“Oh.” Adam nods slowly, looking back down to his feet. “Sorry, I’m not trying to push-“

“You’re not.” You sigh, tipping your head back to frown at the ceiling. “It’s all a lot.”

“Right?! I mean, I’ve got memories that aren’t mine, and angels are after us, and I- You’re really pretty but everyone seems to hate you- And you smell like vanilla-“

Adam’s words die before you can even fully register them, and when you look up. He’s knocked out. Head lolling to the side, eyes closed, mouth still parted and breathing steady. Ellen is the same, sitting at the table. 

Then a deep voice that you don’t recognize says your name in Enochian, and your head whips to see Yellow. Pure fucking Yellow, with eyes and fists and wings, made of gleaming, wrathful light. A little brighter than the Blue and the Red.

Michael.

“I had to knock them out.” He says, although there’s nothing apologetic in his tone. “They can’t look at me like you. It would’ve killed them, and I don’t think that’s any way for us to be introduced.” 

You swallow, and there are too many eyes looking at you. It’s like the Sky, concentrated down in a crude attempt of imitation. Because Michael isn’t the Sky. You remember the Sky, from when you were younger.

He was a lot angrier, and a lot lonelier. 

“I am Michael.” He adds, extending a hand. “And I know you’ve met.” He frowns. “Zachariah. I apologize for him, he’s a hard worker, but a bit of what human’s would call an asshole.”

Behind him, you can see Zachariah frown, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s a little amazing. 

“I think you’re supposed to introduce yourself.” Michael flexes his hands, frowning down at you. “I’m Michael. The archangel.”

You blink at his hand, then back to his eyes, seeming to crawl all over your skin. “You made me lose my groceries.” Your eyes narrow. “And my car-“

“I returned your car.” He corrects. “It is on the outskirts of your wards, Dean will find it soon. I had Zachariah return him and Sam safely, as well as Castiel. I would have put your groceries as well, but those wards are…” He chuckles. “Strong. You are quite the bright little thing. I like you.”

Your nails are digging into your wrists. “Why?”

“You are quite likable.”

“No, I’m not.” You snap. “And I meant why would you do that. For me?”

Michael frowns. “You are likable. Maybe not to humans, but you were not made for them. You are beautiful and kind and firm. Resilient. Perfect."

“That’s not answering my question.”

“You are stubborn as well.” Michael laughs to himself again. “But what is family if not fighting-“

“We are not family-“

“We will be.” Michael shrugs. “That’s why I saved your favorite humans. Which I understand. You haven’t seen. You don’t know that they’re all really the same yet. But you’ll learn. I can help you, until he gets home. And I understand why my little siblings have been so eager to keep you out, but they haven’t seen either. All they know is that you’re the great descendent of the mistake. The error. They don’t know that it’s part of the plan.”

Your eyes flick to Zachariah. “The- What?” 

“The plan. My father’s plan. He doesn’t make mistakes-” 

“What mistakes.”

“Lilith.” Michael frowns. “The first wife. A Magdalene, made wrong. But she wasn’t wrong, she was exactly what she was meant to be. Lucifer did ruin her,” he’s spitting his words now. “When he knew what the safety of her line meant to our father, but it didn’t matter. You are exactly as you’re supposed to be.”

The Silver is swirling and shifting like a storm in your body. You have an idea of where this is going, and once again, you don’t want to know. You’ve spent your whole fucking like desperate to know, and now it’s here and you want to go back, go home-

“And I would have preferred to keep you out of this,” Michael continues. “But you are moving things along. And the sooner we kill Lucifer, the sooner he comes home. All you need to do is convince Dean, and everything will be as it should.”

“I-“ Shaking breath. You have to keep it together, even if it’s by a thread. Even if it’s just so Zachariah doesn’t see you cry. “I’m not going to tell Dean to say yes to you. Ever.”

Michael sighs. “But you will. It is the only way you’ll be allowed to keep him. If Lucifer wins, he will be tortured for eternity. Alone. In pain. When we win, you will be allowed to keep him until the feelings fade. I will even let you speak to him, if you please.”

Until the feelings fade. They’ll never fucking fade. They hit you like a comet in the middle of June, almost ten years ago, and they’ve hurt, and they’re complicated but you weren’t able to make them fade, even when you tried to make them by force. “Lucifer said the same thing.” You mutter, holding Michael’s gaze. “About letting me have Dean.”

“Lucifer is lying. And he knows that you will grow bored of Dean, one I am gone. He is not who you were made for. Your attraction to him is the human part of you, but that will die when you take your place. When you sit on his throne, and know what true love really feels like.”

He’s wrong.

You know what true love feels like. 

It’s going back. Every single fucking time. Even when it hurts, even when it’s complicated, even when you want to run. Even when something is chasing you, so you do run, and you go and go and go and never stop, until you get a little tired and you want to go home. Back to where it’s safe. Back to where you can sleep through a night and lean on them in the morning. Then they lean on you, and you’ve never felt more important. And when they’re gone, you wish they were there. And you see them everywhere when you’re apart, but you still go back. You can never think of doing anything else. 

And every time you’ve looked up at the Sky, you’ve only wanted to run to where he couldn’t see you. And he’s never held you. Never leaned on you. Never done anything but shove you and yank you away. 

Every single time you’ve looked at God, you’ve only wanted to fucking hide.

“I’m not made for anyone.” You say, your voice far too soft. “I don’t have a place, I’m from fucking Chicago-“

“Your place is here.” Michael cuts you off with a frown. “It is where you were destined to be. And you were made perfectly. To mirror him. You are the Bride of God.”

You can’t speak. And you think, that if time didn’t keep moving, you’d turn to stone here. Maybe melt into only the Silver, and try to stretch to a corner of the universe where you could build something safe. Or just hover over Dean like a halo, too intangible for God to see you, still strong enough to keep him safe. Alive. Happy. 

But time doesn’t slow. And Michael sighs, scanning over you slowly, and says words you can somehow still hear. 

“I know this is likely overwhelming, but it is what you are meant to do. And it will all feel like nothing, in another millennia. I will give you time to think, if that helps. Zachariah?”

“Um- Yes, sir?”

“Do with the humans what you want. No harm to the Bride, but if we need to kid, we can bring him back, and the other one,” he frowns at Ellen, and ice feels like it’s being shot into your veins. Painful and cold. 

Startling you out of your stasis. Ellen.

“I believe her time was up already. Send her back to her Heaven.” Michael dips his head to you. “I will see you soon.”

There’s a flash, and Ellen and Adam groan behind you right as Zachariah’s eyes flash on your, and you step to the side. You said you wouldn’t fail. 

So you won’t. 

“Move.” Zachariah says your name in Enochian. “I don’t care what God wants you for, I’m not playing game with a little girl right now. They’re going back, you’re staying here.”

“I think I’m good.” You shrug, reaching past your jacket for your knife. You don’t really want to touch the Blade right now. “I recommend you move. Now.”

Zachariah sneers. “I don’t take orders from you-“

“I don’t care.”

The blur kicks in, and you’re moving. You slice at your own hand, then let the Silver fall out of you, into the knife. Then you’re rushing across the room and driving it right into Zachariah’s gut. He roars and reaches for you, but you’re faster. Studying Enochian paid off. You smear your blood Zachariah’s brow, paint it into a crude sigil as you twist the knife, and press it. 

He’s gone.

For now.

“We need to go.” You spin on your feet, your attention turning to Ellen and Adam, gaping on the floor. “He won’t gone for long, and if he gets back I’ll have to try something else, and I don’t-“ The image of Anna, ripped up by far too much power, flashes through your head. “I don’t know what it will do to you guys. Just- Adam-“

You grab his shoulders and he stares down at you. “Wha-“

“Stay still,” You mutter, squeezing your eyes shut. Life. Think of life. The summer in Bobby’s yard, and the warmth of home, and Dean, grinning at you and talking and laughing and life. 

The Silver moves forward into orange, and you can do this. You have to. 

“Sorry.”

“Why are you-“

You grab Adam’s orange, and let out a soft breath. The Silver flows with it, soft and delicate, and Life. 

You open your eyes, and Adam’s gone. 

You fucking did it. 

But when you turn to Ellen, any light dies in your throat. 

Zachariah’s holding her to his chest, and angel blade pressed to her throat. Just like Jo had been. 

You can’t fucking breathe.

“I wish,” Zachariah spits. “That I could kill you, you bitch. But I’ll settle for this instead. Maybe then Michael will let me at least chain you up properly.”

His blade presses a little further, your wrists sting with a phantom pain, you’re starting to build out. Too big. To do what you need to do, you’re going to have to be too sick. Deadly. And you’re bubbling lava under the earth and the lightning storms on a planet far away, and you can’t come back down. You said you wouldn’t fail. You said you wouldn’t fucking fail. 

Ellen says your name, and you shake your head. It’s too much. It hurts too fucking much- 

“It’s okay.” She whispers. “I don’t have much to go back to. Never had much except Jo. Always thought I’d end up dyin’ for her, and I didn’t get to, but she still went loved. She’d want you to be happy.”

“No-“

“I don’t think you know what’s happening, lady.” Zachariah scoffs. “I’m killing you, and she’s going to watch, and that’s it.”

Ellen’s gaze doesn’t break from your, and the weight of every single star—hot and pained and burning with fury and life and death all at once—is pressing onto your chest. 

“I’m goin’ no matter what,” she says your name softly. “And I didn’t get to die for my girl. Let me die for you.”

A broken sound leaves your throat. “I- I’m sorry-“

“I know. I’m good though, honey. You’re gonna be okay.”

You won’t be. 

Because when the Silver bursts out, sinking into Zachariah and pulling him out—prying him from his vessel, pressing him down until he’s contorted and his ugly brown is just a writhing little thing, in pain on the floor—Ellen goes too. You don’t think she’s gone. The Silver seems to grab her green and toss it somewhere, like ash and dust in the wind, but she’s not here. Not where you can bring her back. 

You failed.

You fall back into yourself with a shaking breath, and there’s a hole in the walls. Something is roaring for you on the other side of it, and it’s making the Spiderweb sing, tugging on something a little to the right of your heart. And the Silver goes dormant—though not quite as immovable in your body—and it all fucking hurts again. 

You’ll get through it. You have to get through it. You’re not going to be okay, but you have to get through it. There’s no other option, because you’re too far in it now, and God-

Later. A problem for later. 

You grab Zachariah off the floor and put him a small jar, before you step through the door. It spits you out on the side of a dirt road, Adam knocked out in the dirt a few feet away, and you know you’re back on Earth. 

God is watching you. Only watching, as you sit at Adam’s side and send Bobby a text that you’re alive. Dean will probably come to pick you up, and you’ll have to apologize to him. A million times. For all of it. For freaking him out, for failing, for how you have to tell him about being the Bride, and Michael, and everything Gabriel told you. That alone feels like a lifetime ago. 

You stare at Zachariah in his jar, and your head starts to turn a little too fast. You sort of have the Silver. And you’re made to mirror God. You keep saying you won’t fail, and then you do, but this- It could work. And if it doesn’t, maybe you’ll just implode on yourself and take Michael and Lucifer with you.

But you don’t have a lot of time. And you need to move. 

“Crowley.” You look up into the night sky, and there’s a soft rustle behind you. 

“Hello, love.” He’s grinning, when you tip your head back. “You ready to make a deal?”

“I don’t want Death.” You mumble, your voice hoarse. “I want Pestilence. And  I’m not kissing you.”

“One Pestilence, coming right up. And don’t worry,” He drawls your name with a grin. "I won’t take your revulsion to me personally. I’ve heard about you and Dean Winchester’s little bond.”

You ignore the Dean comment. “We got a deal?”

“Seems that we do.”

You nod, and your gaze flicks up to the Sky. 

To God. 

Watching you. Waiting for something you’re never going to give him, as long as just one fucking part of you—even if it’s just a river of Silver, embedded in Dean’s Gold—remains your own. He can call you his bride all he fucking wants. You’re not going down with anyone but Dean. 

Ever.

End Note: Times like these She really wishes she was a drinker.

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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