maddie0101

[maddie0101]

pretty sure i just sent you an ask on my side blog lmfao, anyways i miss you (again) <3 hope you’re doing good

you sent the ask on your main acc! 🤣🩷 I love and miss you too, love!

[maddie0101]

i love and miss you so so so much, hope you and your boy are doing wonderful <3

I love and miss you too, faith! 🥹 we are! little man came home from the nicu 6 weeks ago and is doing awesome! this mama is exhausted but it’s so worth it! hoping he starts sleeping better so I can get some writing done soon! I hope you’re doing well also? 🥹 ik college is very stressful but you got this! 🩷

[maddie0101]

[maddie0101]

love this one! 😍

dean was so mad 😭

ᯓ★ˎˊ ‘fake dating’

Dean Winchester x fem!reader

content: fake dating, tension, nearlyyy kissing

pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

summary: fake dating dean for a case turns into an almost that causes awkward tension.

word count: 1.3k

You sighed as you put on your earrings, the last part of your outfit for the dinner party tonight.

You and the Winchesters were currently hunting a shapeshifter, and you had tracked it down to be at an expensive dinner party that night. So, logically, Sam suggested that you and Dean should pretend to be a couple. You both protested at first, but eventually gave in to the idea after realising it might actually be the only way they could get in.

You walked out of the bathroom, smoothing out the dress that clung onto you. It wasn’t something you’d wear any other day, but you couldn’t deny you looked good in it. Not that you’d be wearing it again, though.

“Right. You ready to go?” You asked Dean as you crossed your arms. You shook your head as you noticed how he looked tacken aback by your whole look. You never got dressed up, never really seeing the need for it nor having the time while hunting. “Have you never seen a girl in a dress before? Stop staring and come on.” You scoffed, stepping closer to him and slapping him on the arm playfully.

You heard a mumble of, “I’m not staring” before the sound of footsteps followed behind you.

Sam was already waiting in the Impala, double checking you guys have the stake and guns to kill the shapeshifter. He looked up as he heard the doors open, seeing his brother and friend get into the front of the car. “You guys can’t pretend to be a couple if you both look like you hate each other.” He teased, watching how you both looked tense.

You listened as Sam repeated the plan for the tenth time, scratching the back of your neck. “Just stay in love until you can track down the shifter and bring it out back.” He said finally. “We know, Sam. We’ll be fine.” Dean sighed as you adjusted your dress again. “Stupid thing keeps riding up.” You mumbled in annoyance.

You reluctantly looped your arm around Deans, allowing him to guide you up the steps to the big house while Sam headed around the back. “You better not be a dick tonight.” You warned him. “Remember I have a gun.” You waved your handbag in his face jokingly.

The house was bigger than anything the two of you had ever been in before. The doors golden accents shined beautifully in the moonlight. Inside, the chandeliers hung high and everything looked, sounded, and felt rich. You could see how Dean took in everything, just as you were. The two of you were in complete awe of the beautiful interior.

The little bubble of wonder was popped when a boy, who couldn’t have been more than 16, approached you with a tray of champagne. “Would- Would you like a glass?” He asked timidly. It was very obvious to you that the little boy looked anxious, afraid to mess up his simple task. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of relatability towards the kid. You smiled warmly and accepted the drink. “Thank you. You’re very sweet.” Dean took a glass of his own and nodded likewise.

You took a sip and your nose scrunched up at the taste. “God, i’ve never drank something so expensive before.” Dean laughed at your reaction, leading him to receive a glare.

“Dean, come on. I’m not dancing!” You denied as a slow song began to play. Dean gave you fake puppy eyes, bringing his hands together as if he was praying. “Pleaseeeee?” He begged, unable to keep the grin off of his face. You raised your eyebrows, silently saying ‘seriously?’ Dean straightened up and now looked at you seriously. “Look. Once we get this shapeshifter, we’ll be back on the road by morning. This is the one night we get to pretend to be normal.” You were surprised that Dean, Dean Winchester, wanted to live a normal life.

You felt sympathy for him, surprisingly. God, when did you ever feel sympathy for him? He was a dick, after all. With a shake of your head, you folded. “Fine. Just one song, though.” A smile graced his lips, a genuine smile. One you didn’t see often.

Deans right hand settled onto your waist, the other bringing yours up to his shoulder, and then to hold your free hand. He pulled you in closer, looking at you in the eyes. You saw a gentleness in them you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. The look was fond, even. Your shoulders relaxed, the tension leaving your body as you let yourself feel consumed by his gaze.

“You, uh.. You should dress up more often.” He gave you a once over, your cheeks heating up as you looked away. “Nope. Not gonna happen. I can barely move in this dress.” You dismissed his comment. He pulled you in a little closer, his grip tightening on your waist. He leaned in and spoke quietly into your ear. “You look good in it, even if it’s uncomfortable.”

You turned your head to look at him again, realising how close you now were, your nose almost touching his. Your breath hitched as you saw his eyes flicker down to your lips momentarily, feeling at a loss for words. You leaned in ever so slightly closer, practically able to taste the words that were on the tip of his tongue on your own lips.

You were both abruptly snapped out of the intimate moment as you felt your left side get drenched. You jumped slightly as you looked at the liquid that was now soaking your dress, and then up to the source it came from. It was the teenage boy from earlier that evening, looking extremely guilty and apologetic. “I am so sorry! I didn’t mean- it was an accident-“

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry, kid. It’s alright. Just a dress.” You quickly assured him, helping him pick up the now empty champagne glasses that were on the floor, smiling softly to show it was okay. After he walked away, you turned back to Dean. His face was screwed up in an expression you couldn’t quite place. He looked confused— disappointed, even. You cleared your throat, feeling a bit confused yourself. “Let’s just go. I think I saw the shifter a while ago. Sam must be tired of waiting.” You tried to lighten the now awkward atmosphere, but all you got was a quick laugh from Dean who simply started to walk away, expecting you to follow.

You slammed the car door shut behind you as you got into the back seat of Baby. You and Dean had successfully lured the shifter outside, and Sam swiftly killed it with the stake. It had been considerably more quiet between the three of you afterwards, the only one who was talking was Sam. He knew better than to question either of you though, thanks to the both of you being extremely stubborn people who loved to bottle things up.

“Careful with my Baby.” Dean commented from the drivers seat, his voice devoid of any emotions. You put your seatbelt on silently, ignoring his comment. Your dress clung to you, the champagne feeling sticky against your side. You removed your heels and tossed them onto the seat beside you. Sam looked confused at the lack of teasing banter and jokes that usually flowed between the two of you. “What’s wrong with the both of you? You couldn’t shut up the whole way there and before you went in, and now you won’t even look at each other?”

“Nothings wrong. Just tired.” Dean said simply as he started the car, looking out the window as he continued to avoid the obvious tension. You hummed in agreement with the older brother, slumping against the window. “Walking in heels all night isn’t exactly comfortable, especially when you’re covered in champagne.” Sam knew better than to pry, so he shook his head and looked out the window himself.

You wondered what would’ve happened if you and Dean had kissed. You had never thought of him in that way before, did he think of you like that? Hunters don’t date. You both knew and agreed on that. It probably just meant nothing, just apart of the whole ‘fake dating’ look.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

a/n: i loved writing this! the fake dating trope is always so perfect, i adore it. can you tell dean is my favourite person to write for??

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taglist: @ambiguous-avery , @deansweetheart , @mulderssweetheart , @butterphii , @butterphiiss

[maddie0101]

i just creamed into my panties

legs spread open!!!

[maddie0101]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘓𝘪𝘴𝘵,

──────── ♱ ─────────

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 1 𝘰𝘧: 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. teenage dirtbag dean winchester x high school sweetheart reader

𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵. 1.3k

-> PART TWO (coming soon)

The first time you end up in detention, it’s not because you did anything wrong—not really.

You forgot to bring your English assignment, something about The Catcher in the Rye, which wouldn’t be a big deal for most people. But for Mr. Sandler, the washed-up football coach turned English teacher who never quite forgave you for dropping cheerleading junior year, it was a cardinal sin. He slammed your name down on the list like it was a death sentence and sneered at you like you were wasting everyone’s time.

So now here you are, Friday afternoon, slouched in a desk that’s chewing gum-stuck and creaks every time you shift. The classroom smells like old coffee and mildew. It’s hot—too hot for late October—and the air conditioning unit in the corner rattles like it’s gasping its final breath.

And then Dean Winchester walks in, five minutes late, with a lazy smirk on his face and a fresh bruise on his cheek.

He doesn’t acknowledge Mr. Sandler. Doesn’t even look in his direction. Just strolls in like he owns the place, flopping into the desk across from yours with all the grace of a rock star and none of the respect.

He kicks his feet up on the table, crosses his arms behind his head, and glances sideways at you.

You look away immediately.

Dean Winchester is... something else. Everyone knows that. He’s the kind of guy people whisper about in the hallways. Not just because he’s always in trouble, but because he doesn’t care. About anything. About school. About his future. About the fact that he’s probably going to end up dropping out just like everyone expects.

And yet, somehow, he still gets under your skin. Like a song you can’t stop humming. Like the smell of gasoline and leather in the hallway after he’s walked by.

“Wow,” Dean says after a beat, his voice low, a little amused. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Princess.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, ‘Princess’? You don’t like nicknames?”

“I don’t like yours.”

He grins. “You wound me.”

Mr. Sandler groans, muttering something about “goddamn delinquents,” then disappears into the teacher's lounge next door, leaving the two of you unattended. Classic Sandler.

You pretend to focus on your homework. You don’t want to talk to Dean. You shouldn’t want to talk to Dean.

You’re dating Chad Branson, remember? Quarterback. Homecoming King. The kind of boy your parents do approve of.

Dean, meanwhile, is everything they hate. Worn-out jeans, metal band tees, and too many bruises that never get explained.

“Seriously though,” Dean says after a few minutes of silence. “What’s a girl like you doing in detention? Did you steal someone’s lunch money?”

“I forgot an assignment.”

He whistles. “Damn. You are hardcore.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

His grin widens.

“I thought you didn’t talk to girls like me,” you say, trying to keep your voice neutral. “Too preppy. Too... what’s the word?”

“Boring?” he offers helpfully.

You give him a look.

He shrugs, unbothered. “Nah, I don’t think you’re boring.”

“Wow. A compliment. Mark the calendar.”

Dean shifts in his chair, finally sitting up straight and pulling a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his jacket pocket. He smooths it out and starts sketching something with a pencil he probably stole.

“You’re dating Branson, right?” he asks, like he’s talking about the weather.

You stiffen. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” He doesn’t look up. “Just curious what a guy like that does for fun. Besides flex in the mirror.”

You bite back a smile. “He... plays football. Lifts weights. Tells me I should smile more.”

Dean snorts. “Sounds like a real prince.”

“He’s not that bad.”

Dean looks up, one eyebrow raised. “If you have to say that out loud...”

You narrow your eyes. “And what about you? You’re in detention every week. What’s yourexcuse?”

Dean leans back again, smile gone now, replaced by something distant. “People like me don’t need excuses. The school just expects it.”

You study him. There’s something under the surface—something tired. Not just the usual bad boy act. Real weight. Real shadows.

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure what you’d say even if you wanted to.

The silence stretches. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s heavy. Like the air just before a thunderstorm.

Finally, Dean slides his sketch across the desk.

It’s a drawing. A pretty damn good one, too. A caricature of Mr. Sandler with devil horns, holding a Shakespeare book like it’s on fire. You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That’s—okay, that’s actually really good.”

Dean smirks, proud. “You can keep it. I’ve got a whole collection.”

You glance at him. “I didn’t know you could draw.”

He shrugs. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

And that’s true. You’ve gone to school with Dean Winchester for years, but you don’t knowhim. Not really. You know the rumors. The whispers. The way teachers sigh when they see his name on the roster. The way girls look at him like they want to fix him.

But now, sitting here, you’re realizing there’s more. There’s a person behind the leather jacket and smartass attitude. Someone funny. Someone talented. Someone lonely.

The door creaks open, and Mr. Sandler comes back in with a half-eaten donut and a fresh coffee. He doesn’t say anything—just sits behind his desk and resumes grading.

You glance at the clock. Twenty more minutes.

Dean catches your eye. “So... you want a ride home?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “Figured you might not want to deal with Branson picking you up. I’ve seen that guy drive—he treats his Jeep like it’s a tank.”

You hesitate. It’s not a good idea. Everything about Dean Winchester is a bad idea.

But when you think about the look Chad gives you when you say the wrong thing, or the way he never really listens, or how he calls you “babe” like it’s your actual name—

“Yeah,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it. “Okay.”

You sit in silence in the passenger seat of his Impala, the engine purring beneath you like a contented beast. The car smells like oil and mint gum, and the dashboard is covered in cassette tapes. Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Black Sabbath.

Dean throws a tape in without asking, and the music starts—something slow and aching, with a gravelly voice that fits the mood of the sunset-stained road.

He doesn’t ask for directions. He knows where you live.

You roll the window down and let the wind tangle your hair.

“Your car’s cooler than Chad’s,” you say casually.

Dean smirks. “Damn right it is.”

A beat of silence.

“You ever think about getting out of here?” you ask, surprising yourself.

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly. “Every day.”

You nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

The car slows as he pulls up in front of your house. Porch lights are already on. Your mom’s probably watching from the window.

Dean doesn’t turn off the engine.

You linger for a second, hand on the door handle.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say.

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

“Anytime, Princess.”

This time, you don’t tell him not to call you that.

That night, when you check your letterbox before heading home, there’s a folded piece of paper inside. It smells faintly like motor oil and cheap cologne.

It’s a mixtape. A real one. Labeled in sharpie: "For when detention sucks." No name. No note. Just a playlist of songs that scream late nights, loud hearts, and the ache of wanting something you’re not supposed to want.

You press play when you get home.

The first song is “Teenage Dirtbag.”

And you smile.

୨ৎ tags: @iloveyou2mia @britt217 @rosemichael12 @aylacavebear @angellust333 @suckitands33

୨ৎ usual tags: @bowbowrry @mostlymarvelgirl

if you'd like to be added to the series’, don't hesitate to let me know!

[maddie0101]

omg, Jolly! I felt like I was watching a new episode of supernatural! this was amazing! 🤩

Lucky Cat

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE Dean Winchester x f!Reader, Soulless!Sam mentioned

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Dean’s POV, Takes place around early season 6, Angst, Dean and Soulless!Sam mentioned, eventually Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Reader is a hunter who had left the hunter life like Dean after Sam 'died', No use of Y/N, English isn’t my native language

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean really didn't want to pull you back into this job, but with Sam's 'soul' problem, he's left with no other choice but to ask you for help. Unfortunately, as always, he will regret that decision. (I'm sorry, I suck at summaries, might edit it later)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,3 k

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTE Moodboard is done by the wonderful @chevroletdean for their 500 Follower Celebration ! I hope this entry lives up to it. :D Congrats once more, dear! You deserve it all and much much more!! ♡♡♡ Big shout out to @ambiguous-avery for helping me with this! Thank you so so much again! I for some reason struggled a lot with getting to the core of this story, and now I might just continue this fun idea :D

Main Masterlist ❀ Dean Winchester Masterlist

The crescent moon grins down at Dean, its light barely enough to paint the outlines of crosses stretching across the horizon.

Dean’s back slumps against a tombstone, then slides down along it until he hits the ground. His feet are planted into grass. Hazy as the fog lingers between the graves and licks at his limbs like hungry souls.

‘Queen of the Witches - Freer of slaves - Glorifier of the oppressed - Daughter of Goddess Diana and Lucifer’. It all sounded like the perfect solution to your ‘Soulless-Sam-Problem’, when Dean and you had stumbled across the lore books about the Goddess of the Moon, Aradia, a couple of days ago.

And honestly, all was going well. You’d gathered all the ingredients thanks to Bobby’s support through the phone. Located a witches boneyard somewhere at the arse-end of the world while you'd made sure Sam was on a goose chase.

You made the hoodoo. Successfully summoned the Goddess.

So far so good. Fucking finally. No curveballs so far.

Until she had Dean pull a card from her deck, urging him to, ‘Bet your lucky star in exchange for your brother’s soul’.

Now his gaze travels up to the silver curve which has been mocking him like the Cheshire cat ever since he made that damn deal.

“You goddamn idiot,” Dean rasps out. His face tilts down, eyes locked onto the trembling card in his hands.

“Why’d you even come-“ Why the hell did you drop everything the moment I called? You idiot should’ve stayed away from me and this goddamn life like we’d agreed…

His thumb trails the golden letters edged into the black paper. “The World,” he scoffs the name out loud. Bitter. With a tinge of sardonic. Not like you’re his whole World without him realizing it.

He slides his finger pad further up and across the intricate illustration. Careful, reverend. Like he’s afraid he might break the white lines which depict you.

You’re sprawled out, like you’d been knocked unconscious and decided to take a nap inside a golden frame – that is, the image of you – or perhaps it was you-you? The Queen of Witches didn’t really give him much to work with.

“Damn it…” I shouldn’t have called you. You shouldn’t have come. Why are you so goddamn stubborn? … Why do you even care so much about me and my crap?

Okay, here’s the thing about you and Dean; You always talk back. But not the ‘sucker punch to the gut’ kind of talk back. But the ‘I’m here for you’ kind of. The ‘talk to me’. The ‘I’m not gonna judge you, promise’. The kind, Dean didn’t know how to deal with.

You’d ask, “How are doing?”, he’d reply, “I’m fine.”

You know better. Of course you do. ‘I’m fine’ is the equivalent to ‘I’m too broken to open up’.

So you try once more. “Dean, c’mon. Talk to me…” He on the other hand brushes it off more aggressively this time. “I said I’m alright, okay?”

This is the point where Sam would go ‘yeah, okay.’ and drop it. Maybe because he knows better than to push him. Maybe because he knows Dean will only clam up more and eventually lash out when put on the spot. Maybe because he’s just learned to accept his older brother’s stubornness.

You know all that, too. But the big difference is; you continue nonetheless.

“Dean,” you’d sigh his name, for some reason which is beyond him, still patient, even though it takes all of your nerves to not shake the emotions out of him. “Please. I can see that you’re not doing well. You know you can tell me anything, right?”

How can you be so damn caring? I’m literally a walking-talking broken time bomb.

And since you’re not raising your voice, that’s usually the point where he’d start to yell. Accompanied by a warning finger pointing your way. “I swear to God, if you ask me one more time to spill my guts, I’ll forget my manners and deck you.”

And guess what? You’d still fuckin’ pester me.

Even on our drive to this godforsaken graveyard you didn’t miss a chance to make me want to strangle you — to just make you shut up. You were meant to help me get Sammy’s soul back, not bare my soul to you.

He hated the way you saw right through him. The way you read him as if he was an open book even though you were one of the people he wanted least to see behind his facade.

And right now I wish for nothing more than your annoying voice. Prodding and pestering me about my emotional constipation.

Anything.

One word.

“C’mon, sweetheart… don’t do this to me…” he whispers. Voice hoarse. Raw.

Please.

But illustrations don’t answer prayers. And neither do regrets.

His hand trembles. Clenches. Fingers curled around the edge of the black tarot card. It dents under the calloused palm closing around it - then gets tossed through the air before it hits the ground between his feet.

“Son of a bitch!” he rasps out, the curse like a rip through the air before it sinks into the empty, silent night.

His empty hands are now both shaking. He drops his head. Face buried into his palms to steady them. To hold himself together.

But at this point it’s like he’s trying to hold a sinking ship together. Worst is, he’s not the captain. He’s the ship. He’s the one who failed the crew. Their only ground. When he breaks, everyone drowns.

Problem is, as of right now, not many are left for him to keep afloat.

This is my fault — I should’ve — I shouldn’t have asked you for help. It should’ve been me, not you.

“Why didn’t you just stay away from me…”

He pushes his fingers between his strands of hair. All the way back as he buries himself deeper.

I should’ve listened more to you. Every time you tried to make me spill my guts — you never gave up on my stubborn ass and I just —

A strangled sound wrecks through him. Muffled by his hands and barely loud enough to rip through the unspoken grief. Hanging heavy between the tombstones.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry - I’m so goddamn sorry - I-

He rakes his fingers down. Until the hair caught between them is pulled taught. The heel of his palms press into his stinging eyes. A poor attempt at damming the tears that threaten to break free.

“You wanted to know whether I’m fine..?” he murmurs. His voice is low and broken. Breath shudders as the raw admission forces its way out now. “You want the truth? I’m far from fine. Sammy’s gone. I’m left with his Terminator version driving shotgun with me and he freaks me out to the point that I’m sleeping with a finger on my colt’s trigger. Lisa and Ben are — they’re better off without me. I should’ve never even showed up on their doorstep.”

He pauses. Bites back a soft sound close to a sob. His voice suddenly drops to a raspy whisper, the sound of it taking on an edge of anger. Driven by disappointment and helplessness.

“You wanted me to open up? Fine. I’ll talk. I –… I’m afraid, when I’ll let someone in, I’ll shatter and you’ll be the one picking up the pieces. And– And that’s not supposed to be your job. I’m the one who’s doing the fixing. But truth is…” — his hands slip off his face, his rolled up eyes water and his lips press together to fight his tremors — “I can’t — I —… I am beyond repair, sweetheart. But the only thing that kept my messy mind together was—“ his voice cracks when he sheds a single tear. Squeezes his eyes shut as he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Damnit… please… I’m begging you,” he croaks.

His hand reaches for the card on the ground. Desperate. The way he’d reach for the closest bottle of whiskey if he could. The grip on it tightens, his thumb digging into the centre of the paper where your curled up form is edged into.

“Talk to me —“ he pleads your name.

…

“What’s the matter?” Dean jumps to his feet as the voice pops up next to him. He whips around. Eyes narrowed at the familiar Goddess.

“What do you want?” he growls. His free hand reaches for the colt while the other holds onto the only thing left of you and instinctively pulls it closer to chest.

Aradia’s perched on a large tombstone as she tilts her head down at him like an owl, “If you crumple her body’s vessel like that you’ll crack her bones.”

“What?”

“The card, you snivelling monkey.” She waves a hand his way. Dean stares at her. Befuddled. She sighs and rolls her silver glowing eyes behind her glasses. Hops off the tombstone like a school girl as she prances over to him with her pretty golden shoes.

“You’re clearly not as emotionally dense as you make yourself out to be.” Dean’s eyebrows furrow and he whips his colt up which makes her stop in her tracks.

“Shut the hell up and get her back!” he demands, his voice deep and still hoarse. Aradia cocks an eyebrow, unimpressed.

She steps up to him, her blond, curly hair bouncing with every step. Way too close for Dean’s taste as he backs up until his knee pits hit a tombstone.

She leans in, corners curled up into a sweet smile. Dean’s lips twitch in response. Not good. Way too close for a skeevy mother of all witches.

Her index pushes the barrel aside. Her piercing gaze boring into his.

“Now, now… we don’t want to put any unnecessary holes into our contract.”

Dean narrows his eyes. But he knows she’s right. The witch-killing bullets would hardly be enough to make her flinch. Reluctantly he lowers the colt to his side.

She nods approvingly.

Her long fingernail trails along his arm, runs down his chest, and Dean’s hand curls into a tight fist around the gun’s grip. The anger flickers through every muscle that jumps under the force of his clenched jaw.

“Keep your damn germs to yourself.”

A chuckle skips off her pursed lips. “One would think you’d be a little more grateful. I’m willing to make you a new offer…”

She taps his nose - he startles, open-mouthed, a row of appalled curses forming on his lips - but she silences him when in the same motion her finger flicks against the edge of the card still in his hand.

Fucking hoodoo.

Sparks fly off the corner, like she just struck a match… with her oozing black-gold-glittery fingernail. His eyes widen as he watches in befuddlement, how your pictured form begins to squirm into the card nook while the burnt upper corner spreads in slow-motion.

Well. At least you’re moving. Means you’re still somewhere alive in there… right?

She snaps his attention from the now smouldering edge back to her.

“Want her body back and another chance on a certain someone’s other missing part?” The Goddess asks, then smiles knowingly as she continues, “Then find your lucky star.”

My lucky star..? Like Twinkle Twinkle Lucky Stars?

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” But she ignores him and turns on her heels. Dean’s desperation grows, mixing with anger as he bellows after her. “Hey! At least tell me what I’m looking for!”

She stops, turns to face him as she pushes her glasses back before she gives him that look his teachers always would.

“Oh but that’s part of the lesson, Winchester. Be grateful for it.”

“Hold on– Damn it!” Dean curses out loud as she vanishes into thin air right in front of him. Colt still gripped tightly in one hand, the card with you on it in his other.

He looks down at your image. How you’re cowering in one corner as the card smoulders at the other, almost imperceptibly, like a silent countdown. His teeth clench, cursing inwardly this time.

“Hang in there, sweetheart…” he mutters before he carefully shoves the tarot card into his jacket’s inside pocket.

Dean makes his way back to Baby, which is parked at the end of the narrow path of the graveyard. He wants to fish out the car keys from his pants pockets – when his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“What the…” he pats down his front and back pockets. His green eyes widen in panic before they snap around the place in search of them.

Across from him and his Impala, sits a black cat on one of the square tomb stones. Its tail flicks as their eyes lock.

It greets him with a soft, muffled meeeow.

Then Dean’s focus is pulled down to the creature’s open mouth.

There it is. Hanging from between the feline’s teeth.

Baby’s keys.

“How did you –” his breath catches in his throat when it tugs the keys back between its jaws.

“Whoa- o-okay, okay, easy… c’mere kitty, kitty…” he holds his hands up in a placating gesture while he takes a slow step towards it.

The cat startles, then begins to chew on it. Dean instantly freezes up.

“Don’t…” he warns and perhaps his tone came off a tinge too aggressive, “Don’t you friggin’ dare –”

Gulp.

Dean’s face drops. “Oh you gotta be kiddin’ me.”

The next moment he lunges for the black cat. It tries to leap off the tombstone and make a break for it but Dean is quicker. He scruffs it, ignoring its hissing and thrashing.

Then shakes it like a Polaroid picture.

“Spit it out!” he yells in a mixture of panic and disbelief, “C’mon! Spit it out! Gimmi back my baby!!”

But the key’s long gone to the belly. The cat meows desperately while being rattled left and right, your golden eyes searching his in vain.

Damn it! Dean, it’s me!

EDIT NOTE: For anyone who saw my side note in brackets and was scratching their head 😂… It was 5 AM and I was dead on my feet when I posted this and forgot to delete it. Lmao I’m sorry, please just ignore all my weird wording and typos I haven’t found yet 💀

Dean Tag List:

@aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @livya99 @supernotnatural2005 @Ms-kayla-readinglover @youdontknowe @zepskies @waynes-multiverse @123passwort @lamentationsofalonelypotato @my-stories-vault

@champagnepoets @salemslostwitch @chevroletdean @multiversefanfics @toxicfataldestiny @sunnys-struggles @kimxwinchester @nesnejwritings

[maddie0101]

still so salty about how the spn writers didn’t let us have this

[maddie0101]

All right, well, see ya at High Noon tomorrow. 

[maddie0101]

That should hold. Thank you.

[maddie0101]

Omg I love how dean is trying to learn the aussie ways 🥺 (btw, thank you for the aussie glossary!) 🤩

True Blue Steele (Dean’s Hot Like A Sunrise)

Read on AO3 || Main Masterlist

Dean Winchester x Aussie!Reader

In Australia we have a guy called Bubble O’Bill. He’s an icon. A delicious blend of chocolate, caramel and strawberry ice cream with a chocolate back and bubblegum nose. This is Dean’s reaction to him. 1000 words (don’t count them 😜)

A/N: I planned to give Dean a Bubble O’Bill ice cream, I conquered - and squeezed in as much Aussie slang as I could. Glossary below the fic for any non-Aussies who dare to read. This was written for @ambiguous-avery’s Summer Snapshot Challenge

There’s nothing like an Aussie summer. It’s no different from anywhere else you’ve been in the world, if you’re honest, but that isn’t what you tell people. No Australian does.

You’ve already warned Dean about the drop bears and their love of Vegemite sandwiches. Told him to avoid standing under any tree. And, hey. You once had him believing Crocodile Dundee was your uncle. Lived down the street from you growing up. That part was half true.

Jokes aside, there’s something magical about the sunburnt country. The sea air on the coast, the fragrance of wattle and eucalyptus swept through it. The sand, the dirt, the bitumen on the road that sticks to your thongs and breaks the fuckers, leaving most of the population barefoot and shirtless.

That was you once. A feral kid running around town.

But there’s a monster to hunt now, for some rando reason, and you and Sam and Dean are here hunting it down.

Only sometimes you need to refuel.

Sometimes Dean does too.

While he’s living it up with his newfound addiction to meat pies and sausage rolls, and Sam’s god knows where, you’ve wandered across the street to the servo, gunning for lollies, chips and, best of all, the ice cream you’ve been craving since you hit the ground.

You step out onto the main drag. The edging of the famous bright blue and pink wrapper in your hands.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had one, and you might just have two more in your bag.

You’re quick to draw, much like your beloved is with a real gun, tearing the plastic open, careful not to lose his nose. You pinch the stick between finger and thumb as you get rid of your rubbish. Take your first delicious bite and cross the street.

The sun draws a sheen to your head, but the creaminess of Bill’s chocolate hat and crispy chocolate backing counteracts the heat. Soothes the tip of your tongue.

“You didn’t tell me they do bacon ones, too,” Dean says as you step up to the picnic table he’s all set up at. White paper bags and empty tomato sauce sachets littered in front of him. Hints of bottle-green paint chipped below it, all blending into the grass before you. Even the ocean looks green today.

“It’s just diced ham. Nothing special.” You shrug. Take another bite of your ice cream, only to splinter the base in two.

Your palm reaches out to catch a large flake, lip swiping low to reach a sliver of the strawberry layer that caught your chin as you moved.

“What’s that?” Dean’s pastry lined shadow points to the cowboy in your hands.

“A Bubble O’Bill.”

Dean repeats it like the name is holy. Eyes lit up as he comes closer to inspect the face, nose to nose, with yours and with Bill’s. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s an ice cream,” you say.

“Yeah. But-but it’s a cowboy one. You guys don’t have cowboys here.”

“No one has cowboys anymore.” You snort. “But, yeah, he’s a cowboy. You want one?”

Dean’s eyes light up like it’s the last smile he’s ever going to give. His freckle-dusted cheeks, as pink as the bubblegum nose on your Bill.

“You got me one?”

“I got you two.” You’ll just pretend you hadn’t planned on eating all three. Not when he looks the way he looks. A child on Christmas. One who’s been given a million bucks, and out too long in the unforgiving Australian sun.

You’ll forgive him this once for not listening to you about slip, slop, slapping. He’s the Rhonda to your Ketut, hot like a sunrise, raccoon eyes and all. Looking mighty adorable as he takes his first bite. His brilliant greens, candy-like against the equally green gumball nose.

“So what’s with the cowboy?” he says.

“Dunno, why?”

“Figured you guys’d have that blue dog or that guy with the bucket for a hat as an ice cream over a gunslinger.”

You stare into the distance for a moment at his comment, dumbfounded. Not sure whether to be surprised he knows who Bluey is or that he’s heard of Ned Kelly.

“How the hell do you know who either of them are?” you say as you pluck out your gumball with precision so you can finish the strawberry centre.

Dean just looks at you like you insulted John Wayne. But while his eyes narrow at you, his tongue still works his Bill. “Hey, Ledger’s no Leto,” he says between licks, twisting his arm to scoop up a drip forming at the side. “But he sure beat Nicholson. And that dog is cute like Dory.”

Cute comment aside, “Don’t you mean Nemo?”

“He’s not blue.” He swipes his head through the air, matter-of-fact, and you’re just as dumbfounded as before,

“She’s not Aussie.”

“She wouldn’t go for a guy like me, either.” His non-eating hand grabs yours, intertwining his fingers, squeezing gently. “Not like you.”

“Well, I’m not a fish.”

You turn towards the surf, sticking the whole stick in your mouth to get the last morsels of ice cream, dragging it back with your teeth. You pucker and pop your lips when you release it, knowing he’s watching.

“No, you’re not.” He chuckles. “You’re making mighty fine work of that stick, though.”

You grin. Wiggle your brows and hips a little. Play into the sultry look he’s giving you and rub your thumb over the back of his hand. “If you don’t hurry up and eat that other ice cream, I’m making work of it, too.”

There’s no way you’re letting that thing go to waste. You’d gladly eat it and get two more. Who cares about the belly ache after?

But Dean’s grabbing it and peeling back the wrapper, before you can so much as blink.

“Get your own,” he says.

“It was mine,” you spit back, and he feigns hurt to insult, to a playful smirk.

He puts the bullet-hole end of Bill’s hat up to your mouth, but you don’t bite, knowing he’ll just pull it away. You know him too damn well, so you do what any sweet girl would do in a pinch, and push it into his nose instead.

Of course, you don’t leave him this way.

You kiss the strawberry off his chin, lick the caramel from his top lip and let him taste them both on his tongue. “But you’re mine, too.”

Obligatory Jensen chewing gum because why not.

True Blue Aussie Glossary

True Blue: genuine, quintessentially Aussie. Someone or something can be true blue.

Drop Bears: feed on the tourists. Give them a Vegemite sandwich and they might leave you alone.

Vegemite: that black, salty spread no one outside of Australia likes. I’m telling you guys, it’s delicious on toast when done right. Even Mark Sheppard says so.

Sunburnt country: it’s a nod to a poem we (at least, my generation) learnt in school.

Wattle: is a native Australian tree. Bright yellow and tiny flowers.

Thongs: lol - just in case anyone’s scratching their head who hasn’t seen me or anyone else use this one before. Flip-flops are sticking to the road there, not the underwear kind (we call them g-strings or g-bangers - I don’t know why).

Rando: random. We shorten everything.

Servo: short for service station. AKA a gas station.

Lollies: candy. Except it’s anything but chocolate. Think gummy bears, bubblegum, lollipops as a collective.

Slip, Slop, Slap(ping): a campaign we had here to wear sunscreen. Slip on a shirt, slop on some sunscreen, and slap on a hat.

Rhonda and Ketut: the greatest love story of all time (it’s a bunch of TV commercials selling car insurance). Rhonda has a beautiful brake foot, and she’s hot like a sunrise. Ketut is her Balinese toy boy. In one of the commercials her sunburn forms raccoon eyes where her sunglasses had been.

Bluey: that adorable blue heeler. If you don’t know her, you’ve been living under a rock.

Ned Kelly: a famous name in Australian history. He was a bush ranger. Heath Ledger played him in a movie based on his life. I figured Dean’s love of movies might make him aware of the role.

Ten points to Gryffindoor if you spotted any extra slang or references!

I wanted to squeeze in another pun about Rhonda and Ketut at the end, or a “I just want milk that tastes like real milk,” but they just didn’t fit. Hope you enjoyed ❤️

Dean Taglist #1

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse @kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573 @lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly @my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories @middleearthlife @yeehawgiddyup13 @redwinexsupernova @artemys-ackles @kimxwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @impala67rollingthroughtown

[maddie0101]

[maddie0101]

Happy Birthday, America

Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader | The Boys

NOTES: this is definitely a little cliche but I think it’s so cutie, I don’t even mind. Enjoy it <3 I hope all my USA besties have a happy holiday and all yall other friends have a great Friday!

TW: set in the 1960s, illusions to social anxiety/being uncomfy around crowds, Ben having a womanizer reputation, cliche “I know I’m just a right now girl” kind of trope, Ben being a sweetie pie because he wuvs her (not that he actually says it)

It was supposed to be dazzling.

That’s what the Vought publicist kept chirping in your ear while she pinned the little rhinestone star through your earlobes: You’ll be dazzling. Like something out of the pictures.

And maybe you were.

The ballroom was certainly built for it—glittering chandeliers, swags of red and white silk, a brass band striking up marches while the high-society crowd tried not to spill their cocktails. It was 1963, and everything was bright and patriotic and just a little unreal.

But no one dazzled quite like him.

Ben. Soldier Boy.

He was the shining star of the Fourth of July gala—his face plastered across posters, his name on every tongue, his laugh carrying over the orchestra like he didn’t have a care in the world. He’d posed for photos with senators, kissed a few powdered cheeks, signed autographs with a wink that made grown women giggle.

And you…well, you were just trying to remember how to breathe. You weren’t just some girl tonight. You were the one on his arm—the flavor of the month, sure, but the current one.

And Vought wanted everyone to see it.

You’d lasted almost an hour at his side, gloved hand resting light against the crook of his arm, smile pinned in place. You were getting good at the smile—it didn’t quite reach your eyes, but no one seemed to notice.

But when the toasts began, you slipped away.

You told yourself you’d be back before anyone noticed. Just five minutes of quiet. A little air.

The terrace was cooler, the music muted behind the heavy doors. You pressed your palms to the marble balustrade and watched the boats in the harbor.

For a moment, it felt like you could just be you again, not some polished accessory for America’s favorite hero.

Then the door opened behind you.

His steps were unhurried, his presence filling the space like gravity itself.

You didn’t have to look to know he was smiling. You could hear it in his voice when he spoke.

“Well,” he drawled, his voice rich and smooth as the bourbon he’d been nursing, “aren’t you just a vision”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” You could hear the grin in his voice. “Haven’t even said anything yet.”

His footsteps crossed the stone, unhurried. When he came into view, your stomach did that ridiculous flutter it always did.

He was broader up close, all that swagger and self-satisfaction taking up every inch of space. He was carrying a fresh class of dark liquor, ice clinking against the glass.

“You gonna tell me what you’re doin’ out here, darlin’?” he asked. “Or should I guess?”

“I needed some air,” you said, trying for steady.

“Mmm.” He cocked his head. “That what you call it?”

“What else would I call it?”

He smiled—slow, knowing. “Hidin’.”

Heat climbed up your neck. You looked away, out over the harbor. The fireworks hadn’t started yet, but you could see the barges anchored in place, waiting to launch the spectacle.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you muttered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just set his drink on the railing beside you. Then, in one fluid motion, he braced a hand on the iron beside your hip, leaning in close enough you could smell the tobacco and aftershave on his collar.

“Am I?”

His free hand lifted, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he was wiping something away.

“You looked like you were gonna pass out in there,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “All that fuss over me, and you standing there like a scared little rabbit.”

You huffed a little laugh, your breath almost catching in your chest. “You love it.”

He grinned. “Course I do. What better way to say ‘happy birthday, America,’ than with it’s favorite hero.” His thumb traced your lower lip, pressing just enough to make your heart jump.

“Can’t say I blame you, though,” he drawled. His gaze tracked down your dress—slow and appreciative. “That room’s enough to make a man want to jump ship. One of the worst of the year, if y’ask me.”

He turned more fully toward you, pulling you to face him all the same so he could take you in—slow, head to toe.

“You look somethin’ fierce tonight, honey.”

You swallowed. “It’s just the dress,” you shook your head, eyes not meeting his.

He chuckled—a low, easy sound that made your stomach flutter.

“No.” His thumb brushed your collarbone. “It’s the way you wear it.”

Heat prickled at the back of your neck. You looked away, out at the harbor where the fireworks were being readied.

“Everyone’s been staring,” you murmured.

“Mmm. They always stare.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

He tipped his head, studying you like he was working out how best to tell you a secret. Then he leaned in, close enough you could feel the warmth of him.

“I’ll let you in on somethin’,” he crooned, voice velvet-smooth. “I’ve been doin’ this a long time. The uniforms, the parades, the photographs.”

His knuckle traced your cheek, tender in a way that almost startled you. “But when I walk in a room and you’re lookin’ at me the way you do…” He smiled, slow and sure. “That feels better than anything else.”

Your breath caught.

“Ben.”

He didn’t let you look away this time. His hand framed your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it like he was memorizing your shape.

“You know what I was thinkin’ when I saw you sneaking out across the ballroom?”

You shook your head.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “God help me,” he murmured, “I’d rather be out there alone with her than in here playin’ hero.”

Your heart fluttered hard enough you thought he’d feel it against his chest.

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered.

His mouth curved against your hair.

“Sure I do, sweetheart,” he crooned, “I never say anythin’ I don’t mean to you.”

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze—steady, warm, hungry in a way that made your knees weaken.

“You look like you’re about to bolt,” he said softly.

You tried to answer, but he quieted you with a gentle press of his thumb against your lower lip.

“You don’t have to,” he promised. “You can stand right here with me. Let ‘em look all they want. They’ll all be comin’ out soon for the display,” he dipped his head toward what lay beyond the balcony. “I’ll give ‘em a show they’ll never forget.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He smiled—a slow, wicked little thing—and his hand settled at your waist, palm splayed over the curve of your hip.

“Or,” he drawled, a playful tilt to his voice, “I can take you down to the car, drive us out past the bay, and we can watch the fireworks. Just you n’ me.”

Your pulse tripped over itself.

“What do you want?” he asked, low and coaxing. “The stuffy gala…or your handsome superhero of a date all to yourself?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering, and realized you’d never stood a chance.

“Just you,” you whispered.

His grin flashed—bright and boyish, the movie-star smile that made headlines and broke hearts.

“That’s my girl.”

He bent to kiss you, slow and warm, while the first flare lit the sky behind him.

You were still catching your breath when he drew back, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“All right,” he said, that movie-star grin sliding back into place, “let’s get outta here before somebody decides they can’t live without another picture.”

You laughed before you could help it—soft and incredulous.

“Wait , Ben, you can’t just leave in the middle of your own party—”

“Sure I can.” He was already reaching for your hand, folding your fingers into his warm, calloused palm. “They’ll survive.”

“Your publicist will kill you.”

He gave your hand a tug, urging you away from the balustrade. “Sweetheart, they’ve been tryin’ to get rid of me for twenty years.”

You shook your head, a helpless giggle escaping as he swept his cap off the railing and tucked it under his arm.

“Come on,” he coaxed, crooning low as if you were some shy little thing he was luring into the dark. “Trust me.”

And God help you, you did.

He led you across the terrace to a side stairwell, every step muffled by the red carpet runners. You passed a pair of catering staff, who gaped openly—Soldier Boy, in full uniform, star studded date in tow—and he just winked at them like it was the most natural thing in the world.

By the time you slipped through the service exit into the warm summer night, your heart was pounding for an entirely different reason.

“Ben—”

“Hush,” he teased, glancing over his shoulder with that wicked glint in his eye. “You’re gonna give us away.”

You pressed your hand over your mouth, trying to stifle another laugh as he steered you around the corner of the building to a sleek, shining. The kind of car that belonged in a glossy magazine ad.

Of course it was his.

He opened the passenger door with a little flourish. “Your chariot, m’lady.”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t stop the grin tugging at your mouth. “You are completely impossible.”

“Mm-hm.” He leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “And you love it.”

You slipped into the seat, satin skirt whispering over the leather upholstery. He shut the door with a decisive click, then rounded the hood to slide in beside you.

As soon as he turned the key, the engine rumbled to life—a deep, purring growl that somehow suited him perfectly.

“You really just…walked out,” you marveled as he pulled away from the curb.

He shot you a sideways look, one hand steady on the wheel. “You think they’re gonna fire me?”

You snorted. “I think they could try.”

“Let ‘em,” he drawled, and the sheer careless confidence of it made something warm bloom behind your ribs.

You settled back against the seat, your heart still tripping along in time with the engine.

He drove fast—not reckless, but with the easy assurance of someone who knew everyone would get out of his way. The city blurred by in a glittering wash of glowing signs and streetlamps.

You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You didn’t have to.

The road sloped upward, out past the edge of the city. When he finally pulled over, you could see everything—the skyline sprawled in glittering silhouette, the barges in the harbor ready to launch their fireworks.

He cut the engine. The hush that followed felt intimate, like you’d both stepped out of time.

Ben turned toward you, his green eyes catching the glow of the dash lights.

“C’mere,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing.

Before you could ask what he meant, he was out of the car and coming around to your side. He opened the door, offering his hand.

You took it, feeling absurdly shy all of a sudden.

“Trust me,” he said, soft and earnest, like he already knew you would—that you already did.

And then he bent, one arm curling behind your knees, the other bracing your back—lifting you effortlessly against his chest.

You gasped, clutching his shirt. “Ben—!”

He just laughed, low and delighted, as though your outrage was the best thing he’d ever heard.

“You’re gonna wake up the whole damn city,” he teased, crooning close to your ear.

But you couldn’t stop giggling, breathless and a little dizzy, as he carried you the few steps to the front of the car.

With one smooth motion, he set you down on the warm edge of the hood, his hands bracketing your hips to steady you.

“Better,” he murmured, his thumbs rubbing slow circles against your waist. “Got you right where I want you.”

You tried to glare at him, but he was smiling that lazy, movie-star smile again—and God help you, you melted.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek that was somehow more intimate than any of the showy things he did in public.

“Stay put,” he murmured. “I’m gettin’ the blanket.”

He ducked back to the trunk, rummaging for a moment. You were still catching your breath when he returned with a folded wool blanket, spreading it carefully behind you.

“Don’t want you scuffin’ up that pretty dress,” he teased, helping you move a little further up the hood and over top of the blanket.

He stepped in close again, palms sliding up your stockinged calves to the backs of your knees—an absent, proprietary touch that made your breath hitch.

“You all right?” he asked, voice softer.

You nodded, smiling helplessly. “Yeah.”

His grin went crooked. “Good.”

Because then he braced his hands on the edge of the hood and hoisted himself up beside you, one boot planted on the bumper.

From here, the city looked small. The sky was starting to glow with the first burst of fireworks—white sparks cracking open the dark.

You felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you in against his side.

“See?” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “Best seat in the house.”

From the hood of his car, the city looked like something out of a dream. Glittering towers silhouetted against the harbor. Ferries drifting past the barges stacked with fireworks. The big hotels lit up in patriotic colors.

And Ben—Soldier Boy—sitting beside you like he wasn’t the most famous man in the country. One arm wrapped around your waist as though you belonged right there along with him.

Maybe you did.

Just for tonight, at least. Or until he got bored again.

You leaned back against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it under your palm. When the next firework went up—a shimmering red peony—he lifted his free hand and pointed.

“Look at that,” he murmured. His voice was so soft you almost didn’t hear it over the echoing boom. “Ain’t it somethin’?”

You smiled, tilting your face to watch the gold sparks trail down.

“It really is,” you whispered.

For a little while, neither of you spoke. You just sat there in the hush between explosions, your satin skirt gathered around your legs, his hand resting warm over your hip.

You’d never felt so much like you were living someone else’s life—a glossier, more beautiful version you could never quite trust to be real.

A cool breeze lifted the hair at your nape, and you shivered. Ben’s thumb rubbed an absent circle against your waist.

“Cold?” he asked.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just…”

You trailed off, feeling silly.

“Just what?” he coaxed, his voice gone all honey and rough edges.

You swallowed, watching a white chrysanthemum bloom over the harbor.

You hesitated, then blurted it out before you lost your nerve. “It feels like a dream,” you murmured.

He shifted, his chin brushing your hair from your spot tucked against him. “What does?”

You traced the crease in your skirt with your fingertip, trying not to look at him. “All of this,” you said softly. “The dresses. The parties. The way people look at me when I’m with you. Being here with you. The way it feels…like someone else’s life I get to borrow for a little while.”

He was quiet, and you felt your chest tighten a little.

“I know I’m lucky,” you went on, trying for a smile. “I know girls would kill to be in my shoes.”

You felt him take a slow breath, but he didn’t interrupt.

“…Sometimes I just can’t help but think about how much I’m going to miss it,” you admitted, eyes still fixed on the sky.

His thumb stroked the side of your waist, just once. A careful, almost steadying touch.

“Miss it?” he asked, his voice gentle.

You swallowed. “When it’s over.”

This time he did go still. Not shocked—just quiet.

You dared a glance at him, your heart thumping.

His eyes searched yours for a long moment—steady, unblinking, the green of them dark in the glow of the fireworks.

“Sweetheart,” he said, so low it felt like a promise. “Where in God’s name do you think you’re goin’?”

“I know I’m not the kind of girl a man like you keeps around,” you said softly. “And that’s all right. I didn’t expect to be. Never expected to be here at all.”

“Darlin’,” he murmured, and there was something in his voice that made your throat go tight. “You don’t have to talk like it’s already said and done.”

Your chest squeezed. “It’s just…” You trailed off, feeling silly. “You’re…you. And I’m… just me.”

He tipped his head, watching you like he was reading a language no one else knew.

“You think I don’t know? What people say? What they think,” he asked, quiet, almost matter-of-fact. “You think I didn’t hear every wiseass in that ballroom talk about how I get tired of the same girl too fast?”

You felt your face go warm, and he sighed—deep and low, like he’d been carrying something heavy he wasn’t sure how to set down.

“It’s not that I’m shocked you’d think it,” he said, voice low and a little rough. “I created that reputation for myself. I’m just…disappointed you’d think that way about yourself.”

You swallowed hard, and before you could look away, he caught your chin in his fingers—gentle, coaxing.

“You’re the first person in a long damn time who looks at me like I’m just a man,” he said, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. “Not a brand. Not a headline. You didn’t want anything from me. You were just….happy to be here. With me.”

He didn’t look away.

“You think I don’t know that’s somethin’ worth holdin’ onto?”

Your breath caught, something soft and startled moving through you.

He smiled then—small, a little crooked, a lot more real than the ones he wore in front of the cameras.

“You probably been sittin’ here all night thinkin’ I’m gonna get tired of you,” he murmured, voice warm as the July air. “And all I’ve been thinkin’ is how I’d give just about anything to keep you lookin’ at me the way you are right now.”

For a moment, you didn’t trust yourself to answer.

So you just leaned up, pressing your forehead to his, and let the next firework burst over you both—brilliant white raining down like a blessing.

He exhaled, and you felt it, the way his shoulders eased, the way his hand tightened at your hip like he couldn’t help it.

And neither of you said another word for a while.

The next few fireworks went up—silver and red—and he leaned up, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“You’re my very best girl,” he said, soft as a secret. “Don’t you ever doubt it.”

Something in your chest cracked open at that—something you hadn’t even known you were holding back.

You nodded, blinking fast. “Okay,” you whispered.

He kissed you then—slow, sweet, so careful it made your eyes sting. Like he needed you to believe it.

And for the first time all night, you did.

You kissed him back, your hand sliding over the broad line of his chest, and let yourself have this moment—warm and golden and impossibly bright—without wondering how long it would last.

This kiss was so soft, almost like it was an apology. For the headlines, for the reputation, for the fact you’d ever had to feel doubt that you were truly wanted.

You stayed there with your mouth pressed to his, feeling the way he softened under your hands, how the tension that always seemed to live in his shoulders finally eased.

When you pulled back just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead to yours, his thumb brushing tenderly over your cheekbone.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough, “I haven’t much cared what anybody thought of me for a damn long time.”

You blinked up at him, your lashes damp.

“But sittin’ here with you…” His throat worked, like he was searching for the right words. “Makes me wish I’d tried a little harder to be the kind of man you could believe in.”

Your heart gave a small, startled ache.

“You don’t have to try, or apologize,” you whispered. “You already are.”

For a moment, neither of you could said anything. You just looked at each other, the fireworks casting flickering light across his face—first gold, then silver, then blue.

He exhaled, something like relief in the sound, and brushed your hair back behind your ear with a care that nearly undid you.

“You’re my girl,” he said, steady as a promise. “And if you’ll have me…I’m gonna spend a long time provin’ that means somethin’.”

And this time, when you smiled—small and a little shy—it didn’t feel like you were waiting for it to end.

It felt like something was finally beginning.

TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @suckitands33 @lunaleah @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @fratboychrisera @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @maneaterarabella @ralilda @ilikw @lupinslibraries @ladykitana90 @kyleighsstuff @deans-yn @k-illdarlings @ohperiodtpoohhh @poisonivy2267 @scrmqwn @sadpods @mochminnie @estelleyyyy @spookyysinsanity @nevercameraready @ladykitana90 @mindfulmesses

let me know if you’d like to be added ❤️🤍💙

[maddie0101]

[maddie0101]

I hate when people ask me what I do to relax because they’re expecting something normal but I get home from work and read Dean Winchester angst fanfics before bed.

[maddie0101]

Confessions Can Be Sweet

╰┈➤ Mark Meachum

Mark Meachum x reader

request: request with a type 1 diabetic reader. + angst + hurt/comfort + enemies to lovers + miscommunication + sick/comfort + trapped together.

estelle yaps: okay, first off.. i LOVED this request. Mark would totally be the sweetest if someone was sick no matter who they are to him. I also hope I did this justice. I read up on type 1 diabetes and I hope I wrote the symptoms correctly (or well, at least!).

cw: discussions about murder. mentions of violence. mentions of death. swearing. medical emergency for reader. being trapped in an elevator. name calling [ sweetheart ]. fluffy. proof read!

word count: 3.9k

divider by @uzmacchiato

When you walk back into the precinct bullpen, sneakers scuffing softly against the tile floor, you don’t startle when you see Mark.

When thinking about all the things you knew about Mark, the word ‘workaholic’ could slip off the tongue the easiest. And that wasn’t a bad thing. You’d been working alongside him for the last year on different cases. He would come in guns blazing, and he didn’t stop until the job was done; the perp being behind bars. Mark was like a tiger in that respect. He came upon cases and pounced, not daring to let anything slip from his jaws.

The next big case filling up your days was the Valerie Scouts case. A woman had been found dead in her kitchen. Her clothes had been shredded, blood seeping through her shirt from thirty stab wounds. The images of the scene were gruesome, and walking the perimeter was even worse. It always felt like walking along a graveyard. The knowledge that someone had once been living—standing in perfect health until someone came along and stole that from them—in the same vicinity where you had stood was deafening.

It was horrible. It was scary.

Like with any other homicide case, you’d taken up OT. Someone was running around the LA streets getting away with murder. If there was anything you could do to decrease that time, you would damn well do it. Sometimes, over time felt like the only thing you could do. There were always downsides to it, of course. When there’s a dead end. You’re holding your breath, waiting, because that’s the only thing you can do, for another body to drop. It’s a taxing job; but being able to bring justice and the full weight of the law onto those scumbags always outdid the long hours.

And tonight would hopefully be one of those times. This case was so close to being solved. You could feel it in your gut, that levitating feeling in your gut that always left you with a smile. So, it was no issue to be staying so late. Everyone else had gone home, the precinct now quiet from the events of the day.

Your eyes narrow through dimmed light, glaring over at Mark. With an aura of confidence, he’s perched in your chair. Feet kicked up on your desk like an untrained dog. Like he owned that desk. His jaw is set tight with an unreadable expression. He was reading through your notes on the case.

Of course.

“You missed something,” he roughs out, eyes not once looking up from the file.

Mark’s got his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, red pen in hand like a damn teacher. But there was nothing casual about the way he was speaking. It was cold. Clipped. Like he’d been waiting.

A soft hum leaves your lips, walking over to look down at him expectantly. Your hands rest on your hips, body language already showing you were in the early stages of being annoyed. Although you could keep a straight face, your body was tired from a long day. And skipping dinner to finish your report wasn’t helping at all—you could already feel your blood sugar dipping.

“Get out of my chair, Meachum.”

“You left this out.” He extends his arm, a piece of paper waiting in his hand. He waves his hand around in an aggravated way, eyes not once looking up to see if you were reaching for it. There were red marks all over the page from his pen. The ink was bleeding from how hard he pressed into the margins and scribbled under sentences. “Report says COD was stabbing. ME told us asphyxiation was the cause. The stabbing occurred postmortem.”

You want to let out a curse, squinting down at the tiny letters on the page. He’s not wrong.

“We got a different cause of death from the consult,” you say tightly, taking the page from his hand. “This is my report from the consultant's statement.”

Mark finally looks up. His eyes flick to yours, gaze hardened. His eyes burn a deep shade of green. “You didn’t specify that.” His words are clipped, head tilting back to look down at you as if you were a child. As if he was your superior, not your coworker. “If it doesn’t hold up under cross, the case is scrapped.”

“You think I don’t know that?” you finally snap, the words tumbling out harsher than wanted. You’re running on adrenaline and a headache that was blooming behind your skin—the same one that had only been occurring around Mark.

His eyes narrow, sharp slits of emerald green. His brows furrow in time with the change of atmosphere. It’s not an abrupt change. It’s slow, it’s in the curve of his lips as a snarky smirk upturns the corner of his mouth. It’s in the way he straightens, legs swinging off your desk. It’s in the way he tosses your report, heavy file smacking against the wood. It’s a loud sound, demolishing the quiet around your charged energies.

“Maybe you don’t,” he grits, shaking his head as if he’s flabbergasted by your question. “Or you didn’t care to. You’re good at that.”

That strikes you silent for a moment.

The comment strikes a soft chord of guilt in your chest. Of course, he’d been referring to the incident that had happened last month. Which now you understood was the reason for his cold, clipped demeanor towards you.

Mark had asked you out. He had done so in his own clunky way, sarcastic comments about how he couldn’t believe the two of you hadn’t celebrated wins at the bar. He had smiled back then, soft grins that lingered in your mind whenever you tried to fall asleep at night. Back then, you had been the same. You told him you’d be glad to celebrate a closed case with a soft grin.

And so plans had been made. He’d told you to scrap the bar idea—he wanted to take you out to dinner. He put a real spin on his reason—claiming you needed a good meal after all the nights you spent living on chicken and weird fruit snack packages you kept in your desk. Back then, Mark had cared. He was kind.

Then, on the night of your planned outing, your body had decided it had other plans. Maybe it was a cruel joke—the universe always needed something to laugh about. Happiness couldn’t last too long in your job, and the universe had been hellbent on forcing that fact to bleed into your personal life. Your sugar had dropped. And a terrible drop at that—you weren’t even sure how it could have happened. You had checked your levels twice more than needed that day.

You canceled on Mark. It was a last-minute decision with shaky hands, a dizzy mind throwing out the reason for any sort of explanation. And when your body finally felt normal again, it was well into the night. And shame had buried itself into your chest. You’d never told Mark about your condition, deciding you’d apologize to him on Monday morning.

But that Monday, he hadn’t acknowledged you at all. His responses were sharp. Gone was the soft-tongued, sarcasm-flavored honey that fell from his lips. In the space of half an hour, you’d decided you had dodged a damn bullet. If that was how he reacted to a canceled date, when normally you were always punctual, how would he react to something worse?

In the dim lighting, your eyes narrow at him. Your chest feels tight with guilt and anger. It twists deep in your chest and spreads through your nerves like splashed ink, overbearing your lines of softness. “Get out of my chair, Mark.”

He stands abruptly, tall frame towering over you. He turns and practically stomps back to his desk like a toddler throwing a tantrum, eyes downcast from you as he stews in whatever the hell was going on in his mind.

Your eyes roll, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of your nose as you sit down at your desk. After standing for so long, you felt a small wave of dizziness wash over your senses. It wasn’t a bright, wild light of dizziness. It was the soft start of a warning of dizziness.

Your hand drifts down to your drawer where you kept snacks and juice boxes for cases like these. There’s a slight tremble in your hand as your fingers curl around the handle, pulling it open. The sight below you causes annoyance to blossom in your chest.

Somehow, you’d forgotten to restock your drawer. Which was something you had never done before—hell, you kept an alarm set on your phone that went off every few weeks to restock the thing. Your mind thinks back to the past few weeks. Mentally, you scroll through memories to find out how this could have happened.

Then you stop. Last week your phone didn’t charge. You had woken up and saw the stupid thing dead, the plug pulled from the wall. And you had left your phone there when you went to work, knowing your work cell would have been enough.

It obviously was not.

A soft scoff leaves your lips at your own actions, mentally scolding yourself. You lean down, ignoring the spike of dizziness in your mind as you grab your bag to root through. Moving stray papers, pens, files, notebooks, and other things around, you find nothing. Not even glucose tablets.

Perfect.

Your eyes glance over to your filed report. Mark's words swirl in your memory—and despite how annoying he’d become, he was right. If they solved the case and it went to trial, your report would not be admissible in court. So, with a mental groan, your hands grab a sticky note and jot down the note to change your report and stick it against the paper.

You’re quick to collect the papers and stick them in the folder dedicated to the case, filing them away in your desk drawer. You had about half an hour before things went sideways.

Just fifteen minutes to your apartment. You’ve done this before.

When you stand and shoulder your bag, you feel it. A pair of eyes on your back. The only other person in the entire bullpen—maybe even precinct—being Mark.

“Where the hell you goin’?” His voice is a sharp drawl, cutting through the silence the two of you had found yourselves in.

“Home,” you quip, weaving past desks on your route to the elevator. You don’t look back, your hand tightening on the strap of the bag. “I’ll finish tomorrow.”

Behind you, the soft scrape of chair legs is heard. Mark’s on his feet, grumbling about something before joining you. His voice is too quiet to catch, but you knew it was something about you.

His footsteps are slow behind you. Steady. Close.

By the time you reach the elevator, you can feel his presence looming behind you. His presence is thick behind you, shadow looming over like a weighted blanket. The quiet pressure of his presence presses against you like a storm front.

When you let yourself glance over quickly, you see his bag slung over his shoulder. His bag is neat and compact, hanging off his shoulder as if he’d been ready for hours. Yours is a haphazard mess of papers and pens.

“You make it a habit of leaving halfway through fixing your mess?” he asks, voice low. His hand comes out to press the elevator buttons again, impatience rearing its head as his folly.

“You make it a habit to follow people to the elevator to be an asshole?” you ask him, a soft huff leaving your throat.

The old elevator dings with a tired groan, metal doors taking their time to peel open. You walk in first, not looking over at Mark. He follows, his shoulder bumping your shoulder just enough to dredge up more annoyance. Then the doors slide shut.

The number above the door blinks softly from six to five, then four.

You adjust the bag on your shoulder, saying nothing as your fingers silently tap against the strap. The stupid thing truly couldn’t go any slower.

Mark is leaning against the wall opposite you. His eyes are cast off, looking anywhere but at you. His gaze drifts from the ceiling to the floor, then settles on the button panel—as if the inanimate objects were great conversation partners.

And in reality, you were fine with this. He was a jerk. You could suffer through three minutes of this to be able to get home.

His mood radiates off of him, sourness changing the energy of the whole elevator. If you hadn’t been focused on getting home, you probably would have asked him what it was like always having a stick shoved up his ass.

The red number blinks to read floor three.

“You know,” he mutters, voice low in octave but sharp in tone, “you’re really good at wastin’ people’s time.”

You bristle, hand clenching around the bag strap. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch as his jaw ticks. Then you feel his gaze shift onto you. It’s like an eclipse—dark and heavy.

“Don’t act like everythin’s okay. You’re rushing. Skipping crucial steps like an—”

“I’m working.” You cut over him, voice sharp.

You were about to keep going, the anger bubbling in your tummy. You wanted to quelch your anger with a comment that shut him up—if that was possible. But then the elevator jolts. It knocks you toward the wall, back thumping softly against the metal. It lurches once.

Then the elevator stops.

The overhead lights flicker quickly, almost unnoticeable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention. But your senses were on high alert. The lights steady, but the panel of buttons goes black. Your stomach drops, anxiety already starting to claw up your throat.

“No,” you mutter, staring at the machine as if it had threatened your life.

In reality, it just had.

Mark pushes off the wall silently, pressing the button that’s supposed to open the doors. Nothing happens. It doesn’t even light up. He huffs and presses the ‘emergency call’ button. Again, as if the universe was plotting against you with an evil grin, nothing happens.

“No, no, no.” You mutter, panic spreading through your nerves. Your hands fumble in your pocket, taking out your phone with shaky fingers.

“You claustrophobic or just dramatic?” Mark huffs, shaking his head as he gazes over at you.

Your back slumps against the wall of the elevator, cool metal biting at your skin through your clothes. There’s a tightness curling in your chest—something far more horrifying than panic. Something chemical.

“Do you have service?” you ask him sharply, biting your lip as you stare down at your phone screen. You have no bars.

Mark checks, an annoyed sigh leaving his lips. “No.”

You shake your head, vision starting to get fuzzy around the edges. You blame it on the flickering lights. And the anxiety was starting to make you sweat. This was fine. It was just late. You just needed to get back home. You just needed those damn doors to open.

You slide down the wall, legs folding under you as your bag drops like dead weight. All the chaos was making you feel it faster. Your limbs were feeling heavy, pinprick static crackling in the nerves of your fingers.

“Stop bein’ dramatic,” Mark roughs out, pressing against the emergency call harder. He glances over at you, his gaze faltering for a second. He could see your skin paling. He wanted to scoff, not wanting to believe you were actually gonna have an anxiety attack over something as trivial as this.

“Sugar’s low,” you murmur finally, voice thin. “Didn’t get to eat. Thought there was time.”

Mark shifts his body toward you, muscles taut under his clothes. He had stiffened, the gears in his mind turning. His mind offers up memories—seeing you take fruit snacks and juice boxes from your desk, padding off to the bathroom periodically after you ate.

He himself starts to feel dizzy.

How could he have been this stupid? The signs of this were obvious—even upstairs as you were walking toward the elevator. The slight temple in your step. The far-off look glazing over your eyes. He had missed something so important.

When he sees your eyes flutter shut for a second too long, he springs into action.

His bag is slung in front of him, ripping the zipper in half. “Shit,” he breathes, looking through the neat, organized chaos inside his bag. His heartbeat had started to quicken as he remembered any training he had on something like this. He’d been through the police academy training program that only spent a few days on diabetic sugar crashes. He wanted to curse.

Mark takes his bag off his shoulder, dumping the contents onto the floor. He crouches down to sort through it. With sweat starting to bead on his temples, his ivory fingers curl under papers and toss them about like a madman. “Just hang on a minute f’me, sweetheart.”

He sorts through files, gum wrappers, half-dead pens, and broken pencils. Nothing. He digs deeper, a string of curses leaving his throat. Then, finally, like a miracle from above, his mouth cracks into a grin. He sighs, holding up a lollipop.

It’s a little dusty from being in his bag for so long. But it’s sugar. It’s gonna be at least a little helpful.

He tears the wrapper off with a tremble in his fingers, tossing it behind his shoulder somewhere. Mark drops to his knees and practically crawls over toward you. His hand comes under your jaw gently, his calloused hands surprisingly soft against your skin.

“There we go,” he murmurs as you take it, your hands grazing his as you take hold of the stick. “Look at that. You’re gonna be fine, sweetheart.”

His hand comes down next to your leg, anchoring him. Guilt settles over his chest and rips through his nerves, clawing at his heart. He’d asked you out. You disappeared. He was a jerk. And now, here, he was watching a sugar crash. The probable reason for you canceling on him. He leans in slightly, body wanting to crack from the weight of the words he wanted to say.

“You should have told me,” he mutters softly, gaze drifting over your features. It was slow, but he could see the color coming back to your cheeks. “We would’a figured it all out.”

Silence settles over the two of you again. This time, the silence isn’t from a place of aggression. It’s a bit softer than that. It stretches thin as minutes pass, only punctured by your shallow breaths. Mark doesn’t take his eyes off you once. He stays kneeling at your side like he’s afraid to move.

He wants to say something more. But the words die off on the tip of his tongue, not able to find a good enough string of words to form a sentence. So instead, he lets himself sit in the feelings he hadn’t let himself feel.

Then the lights flicker once, and the soft buzz of mechanical whirring is heard.

The groan of metal licks up the elevator walls, a crack ringing out. His gaze flickers over to the panel above the door. It blinks to life, the floor indicator seemingly fixed.

Mark’s hand clenches next to your leg, gaze stuck on the door until it opens. He holds his breath.

A rush of fresh air gets let into the elevator as the doors peel open, a hum of voices drifting in. Maybe it’s the maintenance men. Maybe security. Mark can’t tell—he’s just thinking about you as he barks out orders to the men standing in front of him.

As he tries to stand, he feels your hand gently curling around his wrist. It’s a silent communication asking him to stay. Or not go far. Either way, he was going to comply easily. Mark nods, holding onto your hand as he helps medical assistance hold you up.

They insisted upon checking you in the med room—standard protocol, they said, as they led you and Mark down the hallways of the precinct. You’re hooked up to an IV, sugar tabs in your system, and a juice box tucked away in your lap.

Mark is standing outside the glass door. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t say anything. He’s standing like a guard dog outside the door, overseeing your behavior and flat-out refusing to leave. When he catches your gaze, he hesitates, a flash in his emerald eyes. He takes a moment before stepping through the threshold—steps tentative and slow.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you murmur softly, voice scratchy.

“Didn’t want you waking up alone,” he replies, sitting down in the chair next to you.

A beat of silence.

“I wasn’t unconscious.”

“Close enough.”

Silence swallows you both again. It’s different from all the other silences between you. Heavier.

Mark exhales, hand resting against his neck. He scratches his skin awkwardly, stopping to rub the back of his neck. Something you’d never seen him do before.

“I was mad, y’know.”

By the sound of his voice—soft but taut on his tongue—you realize he isn’t talking about the whole elevator incident. He’s talking about last month. The almost-date.

Your gaze drifts down to the juice box in your lap, the straw seemingly the most interesting thing ever at that moment.

“I figured.”

He sighs. “Not ‘cause you canceled.” He shifts the chair a little closer to you. “I mean, yeah, it sucked. It took two weeks to work up the balls to ask you. But I was mad because you never said anything. No explanation-”

“It wasn’t personal-”

“It was to me.” His voice is quiet. Firm. “I figured you changed your mind. Figured out that a man like me wasn’t who you wanted to bring home.”

You go still beside him.

“But now I know it wasn’t that,” he sighs. “And I feel fuckin’ awful, sweetheart.” His eyes glance over to catch yours. His gaze is soft, something you can’t quite place swirling in his eyes. “You were caught up in your own shit—scared. Hell, I’m scared right now.”

You swallow, looking over at him, letting his words absorb into your mind.

“But I need you to know if I knew—if you had told me—I would have scheduled something different. I would have showed up. Like I’m doing right now.” His hand drifts over slowly, grazing your knuckles. Almost like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he really touches you.

He hesitates. Then his voice comes out softer than before.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care, sweetheart.”

The room is quiet now. So quiet. So quiet you could hear your heart slowing to something a little steadier, calmer in the chaos of the last hour. Your hand grazes his, thumb gently rubbing against his knuckle.

“When you’re ready,” he almost whispers, eyes set on your fingers, “I’d like to take you out for real.”

Your fingers curl around his. Soft. A promise.

“I’d like that.”

estelle yaps some more: hello, my love! if you liked this, my other works are here. my requests are open! and if you really liked it, join a taglist!

[maddie0101]

thanks for the tag @bettystonewell ! 🩷

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

no pressure babes!

@ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @supernotnatural2005 @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @mellowyellowdaydream @voodoochildthings @aylacavebear @losers-clvb @wchswift @kamisobsessed (I’m sorry ik Beth tagged most of y’all but 😅🩷)

tag game 🤭

rules: color the sentence that's true about you

i’m over 5'5 / i wear glasses or contacts / i have blonde hair / i often wear sweatshirts / i prefer loose clothing over tight clothes / i have one or two piercings / i have at least one tattoo / i have blue eyes / i have dyed or highlighted my hair / i have or have had braces / i have freckles / i paint my nails / i typically wear makeup / i don’t often smile / resting bitch face / i play sports / i play an instrument / i know more than one language / i can cook or bake / i like writing / i like to read / i can multitask / i’ve never dated anyone / i have a best friend i’ve known for over five years / i am an only child

this is a whole lot of yellow lmfao

no pressure tags: @marthawrites @schniiipsel @aemonddtargaryen @aemondsbabe @adragonprinceswhore @arcielee @black-dread @lovelykhaleesiii @aemondsbabygirl @valeskafics @connorsui