#⠉⠁⠍⠃⠊⠕⠝ ✟ CHARACTER NOTES.〘 ANSWERED. 〙

[dandydilfdiddler]

Strapped. Sat. Hair tied back. Word open because you broke my fucking notes app with the last fic. It is currently 12:01 am MST and I am preparing to embark on finally finding the smutty fic. You have made me fucking fall in love with Bob all over again and my original small tiny baby stalk of your blog turned into full blown madness and hysteria. Calling you fucking tuberculosis because you are consumption. Good lord. The back, the forth, the tension, the buildup, the breakdown, you are a god of literature and I applaud you.

I am not going to surive this, there is angst again. You say a bit and all that shit and I do not trust you. You took my heart and put it in the blender and gave me a lil kiss after with the sweet resolution and ENDED IT ON ME FASTER THAN A 2 PUMP CHUMP (I say with affection)

If that fucking end sneaks up on me again when I am just getting comfy for love and fluff I am gonna riot

Mmmmmmm angry bob. Jealousy. Yum.

Smut!!!!!!!! Yes. Yes. Yes. I need this man biblically and in ways that are concerning to feminism.

Starting off strong and sweet, I love him and drunken confessions okay.

Oh god we have military shit here, remind me to consult you because what are some of these words. I swear it’s English but I’m running to google to translate

God do I love a well researched fic

Dad Mav is my favorite font of Maverick

I see your Danny in here, I vote they kiss for the plot

YEAH IT’S SWEET – YOU GO NATASHA

You are also correct Nat, is it is fucking adorable

… I had to admit it but Jake is also correct, flight suits do something to my ovaries that I swear is black magic chemical reactions that make me come undone. And someone shouting orders in it? My ass is a sub, I’m gonna fall apart at that

Okay we are going in warm for this one too. He is teasing.

I love sassy reader because, I too, fucking despise cocky men and it makes it so much more me

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” – I love you but you are so dumb Bob. It isn’t even a leap at this point Sir, please the hints are written on the walls.

NO DATES BECAUSE OF YOU LIKE HOW IS THAT HARD

ROOSTER? MAN WHY… YOU… Crawling through the screen to strangle him

Oooo I feel insulted. Peep back the fucking cocky comment

NOT THE CALL OUT FROM MAV MY FUCKING GOD

HONDO NO YOU BACKSTABBER TOO

I’m being jumped in this fic and not in the fun way

I love you Mickey, you silly sassy bitch

Diner? Oh my god are you going to put me out of my misery early in this fic and give me some meat to gnaw on of them happy together? I know the answer is no but I can pray

Annnnd we’re back. I do understand the annoyance but like, girl, good because he likes you and he isn’t cocky and can’t pull that off please

“Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that.” Emily Gilmore shaking her head going “He’s just a man Lorelai”. I have to remind myself of that every 3 seconds with this fucking character

OH

OH

OH

HELLO

HI

HOW ARE YOU

IMMA NEED A VISUAL

MA’AM

YOU DID PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY THIS IS A LIL WARMER

He is flirting. He has to be. Shirtless like that? He knows what he’s doing.

Now we got a screen fog. I respect the game

LMFAO THE READ RECIPTS

OH HE GONNA KNOW HOW LONG THAT TOOK TO RESPOND

“You need an hour alone with your vibrator,” So fucking real for that

Look, I have watched skincare just for the bulge shot and I don’t even give a fuck if it’s fake. I watched Lesson’s in Chemistry for an ass shot. I am unashamed that I have those saved as gif’s on my phone. Save the fucking photo. Heart it. He deserves hearts.

If he has an android and you like a message too it shows up as a whole new message no matter how old it is with a [X liked/loved/ext. “quote whole message here”] – someone who has a lot of friends with iPhones and I got an android

I love that he talks every day. I could live with just daily pretend walk throughs of mundane things reading the life of bob x reader together

Mickey you get a baby sim because you are baby

He says please because he has manners

Phoenix I would ride this man’s lap any time of the week. Any place. Just give me a chance and I will put on a show.

I LOVE THIS TROPE FALLLLLL LITERALLY FOR ME

“you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours.” SO FUCKING REAL FOR THAT

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” Look. I knew you’d do it to me but did you at least kiss the knife before you gutted me?

Oh. Oh you made it worse. Oh you made it so much worse. Oh wow. Oh my god. Oh. Oh this is personal. My feelings are hurt. I would never recover. I could not handle this. “She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She’s not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” You crawled into my brain and rather than taking the fun, horny bits about me riding his joystick you picked the ouchie buttons and added them in like a casual sprinkle of salt on a pasta dish

Yeah… as much as it pains me… fuck that guy

Of course… you know how to hurt me personally with that “his favorite movie” shit because like… hello I would be dumb and, in my annoyance, say that as well

Something is wrong and you are a fool for missing the hints. Bro you said the most devastating and crushing shit that hurts and you can’t even tell

SEE AND WHY YOU GOTTA MAKE IT SOFT WHEN I AM RAGING ON A MONDAY “He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. He’s been carrying it too. Willingly.” Beautiful. This is the love I want and crave. Saving it because real boys don’t exist for this

Ouch, there is the pain, you always crash it back down <3

“The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips.” BOOM SHAKALAKA ON GOD

He knew. I knew he knew.

“He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. “ GIRL WHAT IS THIS. Why are you so fucking effortlessly funny? Hello?

Oh god do I love a desperate man and the cushion grind has me ferallllll

He came thinking of keeping and I gotta say this is chef’s kiss. Respectful and dirty and love and good god I am gonna need you to pay for a new vibrator when I am done with this fic because I am about to break it thinking about this man

“His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants.” I’m doing the fucking poetry slam snap clap here

Don’t. Don’t play with me like this. Don’t. I have a fat crush on Phoenix and her WSO. Don’t play with me. I am too gay for this shit. I love her. I need her. Don’t toy with my emotions because I will break. I love her. I would go home with her.

DID HE MATCH ON PURPOSE MY HEART

I see you. I see you with the fucking cowboy boots. You have seen Lewis in regular clothes.

“His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob.” Baby don’t play with me. Do not. I am a kinky fucking bitch and I am going to lose my mind because I want to take this man’s ticket to heaven and send him to hell with the down dirty nasty ass fucking shit I wanna do. Don’t give me hope and crush. Please. I need this.

“Something heavy. Tense. Possessive.” Lord please, I see what you have done for others, please let this be filth after. I will repent and pray the rosary just gimme that man’s dick so aggressively my cervix can claim worker’s comp

“Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting.” I YELLED SO LOUD I WOKE THE DOGS AT THIS

CONFRONT HIS ASS – TEAR HIM TO PIECES

“his eyes dropping to your chest,” hehehehehehehehe

Oh we fucking in a bathroom

Oh

Oh

Oh

Hello

Hi

Yes

Yo I am about to wake the block up from screaming

Oh damn, hot fuck, yeah buddy on the counter!!!!!!

From a fanfic perspective, hot as fuck. Me in a club? Throwing up.

Oh my god are we gonna get dirty talk? Are you going to bless me?

Oh lord. Oh my god. Oh fuck. This. Oh. Maam. You. Hellow. I have been deprived of this for 2 fics? The fucking. Cocky sassy bob. Oh my god. Yes. Hellow.

Bob Floyd FUCKS

My god I love grinding. I love how needy it is. I love fucking dry humping. You are my hero.

I got you.

I’m pregnant.

YES YOU MARK UP YOU FUCKING GET ME

Yeah hurry up and fuck me good god. I have been edged to hell and back with this. I need it.

Wreck him

This man knows how to play a body like a banjo and I appreciate the game

Oh we adding love to the sex, this is gonna make me emotional

I’ve got you.

Please tell me you gotta walk with cum running down your leg from Bob. I have a breeding kink the size of Alaska and that shit is yummy

But also Bob is sweet and it is a bathroom where you can clean… but also marking and claiming…

Help. Send help. Cardiac arrest. I didn’t die from the smut but I died from the fluff after. Marriage? Yes. This is better than end sneaking up and stealing my joy.

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” RIP me, this would do me in. I would faint so dramatically because how can you write something so fucking adorable? This lifetime? Ma’am. I am swooning. You wrote the fucking romantic plot of a lifetime in this fic.

IT ISN’T CRAZY YOU JUST ARE SLOW TO THE UPTAKE TO LOVE. You shoulda gotten married for BAH. I love marriage of convenience into falling in love and you coulda gotten that bag for being married. Time to hurry the fuck up now. Love you fools.

Thank god it was a yes, I was scared for a minute you’d wind me up to draw me out again

Lmfao telling his Momma that he purposed after breaking your fucking back in a nightclub bathroom stall

YES HE DOES TWIRL. BECAUSE HE’S ROMANTIC. Fucks your heart and your pussy up

Lmfaooo yeah the bathroom

Jake you fucking moment crasher. I get it’s your birthday but let us have a moment. Not like we didn’t just raw dog it in a bathroom but still. Read a room.

Oh it was a performance for the whole group. I said I would, I love that I got it. To show off how hard Bob can break me open like a can of Pilsbury biscuits – he can butter those too

Yes, live in there, you were the one that wanted to go. Show off the fact you just railed Bob. Be proud. Twenty minutes is a long wait to cuddle post coitus

“At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” HELL YEAH BROTHER

Bob has a big dick Jake. This is established that he is packing a monster and knows how to use it. He is gonna make a woman moan.

MICKEY

Fuck Grinder Jake. It will change you.

picture you ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

notes: okay i'm a little nervous about this one, like i hope it's good??? i hope you like it! the start is a little slow, i struggled there, but it picks up! i promise! again, i had no self-control with the word count, and as always, please let me know what you think!!!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, bit of angst, miscommunication (kinda), italics, bob makes a joke about a stutter, some cheesy moments, reader wears a skimpy dress (but detail is vague and there is no detail about body-type), angry bob, dancing with a guy that isn't bob, very horny, a bit of boob commentary, and SMUT (male masturbation, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, and a lil titty worship bob floyd) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 21530

your callsign is lucky

You’ve known Bob Floyd since your second day at the academy. 

You were running late to a classroom session on naval aviation history when you ran into him—tall, sweet, with dark blue eyes and the prettiest smile you’d ever seen. As it turned out, you were both late for the same class, and got chewed out in front of twenty or so of your brand-new flight school classmates. At the time, it was mortifying, but now it’s one of your favourite stories—because that was the moment that bonded you for life. 

You’ve been in love with Bob Floyd ever since he drunkenly told you at flight school graduation—the boy’s a serious lightweight—that you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. 

Well, okay. Maybe you were already halfway there, but that was the moment that really sealed the deal. He was so flushed and pretty, stumbling over his words, looking at you like you were the sole reason for his existence on planet Earth. How could you not fall in love with that? 

But he was really drunk, and he didn’t remember a thing the next morning. So you decided not to bring it up. After all, you would soon be deployed to opposite sides of the world. It never would’ve worked. 

Still, over the years and across continents, you managed to stay close. Through separate assignments, long stretches of radio silence, and deployments that kept you off-grid, you never lost touch. You saw each other when you could—once or twice a year, if you were lucky—and every time, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

You tried dating—at least as much as anyone in the Navy can—but no one ever stuck. Not the way Bob Floyd did. 

Then, as fate would have it, Bob got tapped for a special detachment on North Island—your base. And suddenly, years of loving him from afar turned into months of loving him from a now suffocatingly close distance. Because after that detachment, Bob’s new squad—the Dagger Squad—was commissioned as a full-time elite unit under Maverick’s command. 

So here he is, on North Island. And here you are too. Practically living in each other’s pockets, even if you’re not flying on the same team. So what could possibly be stopping you from telling him how you feel? 

Oh, right. Just the tiny, humiliating fact that you’re still way too chickenshit to risk the friendship for something more. 

“Lieutenant,” Maverick says, stepping up beside you and catching you off guard. 

You blink, dragging your eyes away from the squad—his squad—training just outside the hangar up ahead. 

“Captain,” you reply, nodding. 

He smirks. “Thinking of trading in those shiny fifth-gens for something with a little more grit? Or are you just here to watch Hondo torture my pilots?” 

You huff a laugh, adjusting the helmet tucked under your arm. “The Super Hornet’s got plenty of grit, but let’s be honest—she’s no Lightning.” 

Maverick chuckles, nodding slowly. 

“Actually, I was looking for you,” you say. “Cyclone wants me to offer a brief training program on the F-35’s latest software package—maybe even get your team some sim time.” 

His eyebrows lift. “A training program from the Navy’s golden test pilot? Let me guess—does Simpson know how chummy you are with my squad, or was this more of a personal initiative?” 

“It might be a little personal,” you say with s sheepish grin. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my jet. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t kill for a flight.” 

“A joyride?” he asks. “I thought you said simulator time.” 

“For them, yeah.” You nod toward the squad. “But if a decorated captain, such as yourself, wanted to take her for a spin... well, who am I to stand in the way?” 

He laughs again, looking past you at the aircraft you’d just landed. 

“She quick?” he asks. 

“Today? About six hundred knots. But that was a low-level test profile.” You pause, eyes glinting. “Push her right, she’ll break Mach 1 easy. Mach 2 if you’re feeling brave. And willing to eat the paperwork.” 

“Tempting,” he says with a sigh. “But I think I’ve racked up enough disciplinary notes for one career.” 

You smile. “Then fly her like a gentleman.” 

Maverick’s gaze flicks back to the squad as Hondo shouts for twenty more burpees. Then he narrows his eyes at you. “Who put you up to this?” 

You blink. “Sorry?” 

“Phoenix asked me just last week if they’d ever fly anything other than Hornets. Yesterday, Hangman starts asking about Lockheed sim protocols. And now you show up, conveniently volunteering?” 

You press your lips together, wondering how long you might be able to stall—but really, what’s the point? It’s Maverick. He’ll figure it out sooner or later. 

“Okay, fine,” you admit. “They’ve been on my ass about it for weeks. I knew I could get Cyclone on board—and yeah, they said the only way you’d bite was if I offered you stick time.” You smile, just a little. “But to be fair, the F-35’s part of the Navy inventory now. Could be relevant training. And... I wouldn’t mind a few weeks of hanging out with my friends at work. Or their legendary captain, for that matter.” 

Maverick exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “It’s like raising teenagers.” 

“So,” you say, lifting a brow, “that’s a yes?” 

He rolls his eyes, but there’s still a playful spark behind them. “Yeah, fine.” 

You grin. “Excellent. We’ll start Monday. Can’t wait to teach alongside you, Captain.” 

“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters. 

“Oh, please,” you say. “I know you’re at least a little excited about flying my jet.” 

His gaze flicks back to the F-35 on the flight line, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I better go break the news to the squad.” 

You laugh. “Good luck with that. Fanboy said he’d kiss you if you said yes.” 

Maverick pauses, grimacing. “Fantastic.” 

Then he flashes you that signature smirk, gives a quick nod, and walks off across the tarmac. You watch for a few minutes as he approaches his squad, stepping up beside Hondo first and—quietly—telling the CWO what he just agreed to. Hondo nods before calling the squad in with a bark, and you stay put, watching with amusement as Maverick delivers the news. 

The reaction is immediate—grins, high-fives, celebratory shouting. You see Natasha step forward to ask a question, and when Maverick gestures in your direction, Mickey turns and yells, “I fucking love you, Lucky!” 

You laugh softly, giving them a lazy salute before turning toward your own building. You’re looking forward to it too—not just the flying, or the teaching, or the excuse to hang out with your friends. But the chance to spend a few weeks working a little closer to Bob. 

And maybe—just maybe—you can figure out what the hell you’re going to do about him. 

- 

“I still can’t believe you got Cyclone and Mav to sign off on the training,” Reuben says, shaking his head despite the smile tugging at his lips. 

You lift your beer, shrugging as you sip. “They don’t call me Lucky for nothing.” 

Mickey squints, tilting his head. “Wait, do you have a history of charming your superiors?” 

Natasha snorts into her drink. “No. That’s not how she got her callsign.” 

Your eyes snap to her, brows raised. “Wait—Bob told you?” 

She presses her lips together, rocking her head side to side. “Not exactly. I saw your contact name in his phone and kind of... figured it out.” 

Your cheeks flush instantly. “Oh my God.” 

“Hold on,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “Bob gave you your callsign?” 

You nod. “Yeah. And I gave him his.” 

That’s all it takes for the three of them to dissolve into laughter. 

“Oh, so you’re the creative genius behind Bob,” Mickey teases, leaning back. “Do tell. How long did that brainstorming session take?” 

You roll your eyes and jab an elbow into his ribs. “You’re such an ass.” 

“No, but seriously,” Reuben says, still grinning. “Why is it just... Bob?” 

You shrug, rolling your beer bottle between your palms. “Because he didn’t like any of the others. There were a bunch of nicknames being thrown around—some dumb, some mean. He told me one day he wished people would just call him Bob. So I made sure they did.” 

“Oh,” Mickey mutters. “That’s kind of boring.” 

Natasha shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s sweet.” 

Reuben gestures toward you. “Okay, fine. Then how’d he come up with Lucky?” 

You hesitate, trying not to squirm under the weight of their attention. “Because I’m his lucky charm.” 

Reuben blinks. “Seriously? It’s that personal?” 

You nod. “Yeah. Back at the FRS, every time we were paired up—sims, training hops, even written exams—he’d ace it. Said he never did that well without me.” You shrug a little, smiling. “Eventually he started joking that I was his lucky charm. Then it got shortened to Lucky, and everyone assumed it was about good fortune or gambling or whatever. But it was always just… him.” 

Natasha huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s fucking adorable.” 

Mickey leans forward, brows drawing together. “Wait… have you guys ever—” 

“Evening, misfits,” Jake drawls, cutting in with impeccable timing. “Lucky, did I hear you landed yourself a job bossing us around?” 

Bradley, Javy, and Bob fall in behind him, all wearing the same mildly pained expression—no doubt from enduring a ten-minute car ride with Weekend Jake. That’s what the squad have started—affectionately—calling him when he’s at his worst, all smug smiles, cocky one-liners, and shameless flirting. Which, of course, tends to happen every weekend. 

“Just part-time,” you say, matching his smirk. “Try to contain your excitement.” 

Jake’s gaze drops, then climbs back up—slow and deliberate. “Oh, I’m containin’ a lot right now. But you in a flight suit, telling me what to do? That might push me over the edge.” 

Mickey and Reuben chuckle while Natasha groans. 

“I need a drink,” Bradley mutters, turning toward the bar. 

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. “Keep talking, Seresin, and I’ll have you running laps around the tarmac.” 

Jake slides into the booth across from you, still grinning. “And I bet you’d love the view.” 

You roll your eyes and glance at Bob, still standing beside Javy. His eyes are locked on Jake—not quite angry, but definitely not amused. 

“Hey, Floyd,” you say, “wanna sit?” 

Bob’s lips twitch as he slides into the booth beside you, dark blue eyes catching yours. “Think you’re ready to be an instructor?” 

“Oh yeah,” you say, ignoring the flutter in your chest as his thigh brushes yours. “I was born for this.” 

He chuckles under his breath. “Born bossy, maybe.” 

“Hey,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his. “Don't be rude.” 

He turns to face you—really looking at you—and for a moment, the noise of the bar fades just a little. 

“You already telling me what to do?” he asks, voice low, playful. 

You narrow your eyes. “What if I am, Lieutenant? You going to listen?” 

Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—teasing, but quiet. “If I don’t?” 

“Jesus Christ, you two,” Jake cuts in, loud and obnoxious. “Save it for the bedroom.” 

Bob startles slightly, the colour in his cheeks deepening as he tears his eyes away from yours. 

“Fuck off, Seresin,” you mutter, shooting him a glare. “You’re just jealous.” 

Jake leans back, smug. “Jealous of what, sweetheart?” 

“That I don’t flirt with you the way I flirt with—” You stop short, the rest of the sentence stuck in your throat, but it doesn’t matter—the implication is obvious enough. 

Jake’s eyes sparkle like he’s just won the goddamn lottery, and everyone else around the table fights to contain their laughter. 

“Go on,” Jake says, far too pleased with himself. “What were you saying?” 

You shoot him a deadly look. “Fuck you is what I was saying.” 

He tips his head back and chuckles, hand over his chest, and that’s all it takes for the rest of the squad to join in. All but Bob, who’s now focused on picking at the corner of a cardboard coaster, cheeks pink and lips curved into the softest smile. 

It isn’t long before Bradley returns with two beers in one hand and a beer and a coke in the other. He sets the drinks down—coke for Bob—and nods at you to scoot over. You shuffle further into the booth, closer to Mickey, and Bob does the same—closer to you. His arm slides closer, brushing yours, and his knee presses deliberately into your leg, inch by inch stealing your space. The scent of him—sharp, familiar, intoxicating—floods your senses, and your pulse spikes before you can stop it. 

God. You think you’d be used to it after all these years. 

“So,” Bradley says, leaning forward, oblivious to the earlier conversation, “we start Monday?” 

You nod. “Yep. Think you’ll be able to handle a big boy jet?” 

Bradley scoffs. “Please. I’m one of the best pilots in the world.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“God, I can’t wait,” Mickey says from your other side. 

“Why are you excited?” Natasha asks, brow furrowed. “There’s no backseat in the F-35, and you’re definitely not flying it.” 

“Well, not the actual jet, but I still get sim time,” Mickey says, turning his big brown eyes on you. “Right?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to Mav.” 

He groans, dropping his head on the table with a thunk. “Being a WSO sucks.” 

“Your career choice, dude,” Reuben chuckles. 

You spend the next hour or so talking about work—because it’s hard not to when you all work together—but eventually Javy wanders off to chat with a woman who hit on him at the bar, and Natasha challenges Bradley to pool. Jake jumps up too, announcing that he’ll play the winner, leaving you and Bob behind with Mickey and Reuben, who are deep in an argument about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher this morning. 

You turn to Bob, brows raised. “Think I’m going to need another drink.” 

He nods, laughing softly as he slides out of the booth. You follow and start heading toward the bar, glancing over your shoulder only when he mumbles something about going to the bathroom. You just nod, then turn back and step up to the bar, flashing Penny a wide grin. 

“The usual?” she asks. 

You nod. “I’ll get a round for the whole squad.” 

She nods once and moves to grab the drinks while you fish in your back pocket for the cash you shoved there before leaving your apartment. You’re just about to drop it on the bar when someone slides up beside you and slaps down a credit card instead. 

“It’s on me,” the man says, his smile too confident to be genuine, “if you’ll tell me your name.” 

You blink, brow furrowing as you wonder where the hell men like this get their audacity. 

“And if I don’t?” you ask, sliding his card back toward him. “You still covering eight drinks?” 

His eyes widen just slightly, his fingers hovering over the card. “Eight? Damn. You must be thirsty.” 

You think about saying something snarky, or telling him simply to piss off—but you don’t. You bite your tongue, turning back to Penny with a quiet thanks as she sets the drinks on a tray and you hand her the cash. 

“You Navy?” the guy asks, undeterred. 

“Does it matter?” 

He shrugs. “Just lets me know what I’m in for.” 

You take a deep breath, choosing not to respond as you reach for the tray of drinks. 

“I got it,” Bob says, appearing beside you, his hands brushing yours as he takes the tray from the bar. 

You turn to him with a cheesy grin—not hard to fake when you’re looking at someone like Bob. “Thanks, babe.” 

He pauses, eyes flicking between you and the stranger. 

“I was starting to worry,” you say, sliding an arm around his waist. “You were gone so long.” 

Thankfully, Bob’s not an idiot—and this isn’t your first time pulling this move. 

“Sorry,” he says, falling into it with ease. “There was a line.” He glances at the guy. “Hey, I’m—uh—her boyfriend. Bob.” His cheeks flush lightly. “And you are?” 

The guy hesitates, his eyes darting between the two of you. Then he steps back. “Got it. No worries. Have a good night.” 

As soon as he’s gone, you drop your arm and step away, breath catching—not from the strange guy, but from the heat still lingering between you and Bob. The weight of his body beside yours. The feel of your fingers pressed into his waist. The clean scent of him, warm skin and sharp cologne. It’s dizzying. And familiar. And still somehow too much. 

“Thanks,” you murmur as you fall into step beside him, following him toward the others crowded around the pool table. 

“No worries,” he mutters, eyes focused on the drinks. 

Once you reach the group, everyone takes their drinks and gets back to their conversations—which mostly consists of trash-talking between Bradley and Jake. You and Bob find two stools nearby to occupy while watching the game play out. 

“Why do you do that?” he asks suddenly, turning to you with a slight frown. 

You glance at him. “Do what?” 

“Shut guys down all the time,” he says. “Tell them I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Oh.” You lean back a little, trying—and failing—to read his expression. “I guess I’m just not interested. And it’s easier to say I’ve got a boyfriend than deal with rejecting them outright. Safer, too. You never know what someone might say or do if they feel slighted. Especially after a few drinks. So... I use you. Does it bother you?” 

He shakes his head. “No. Just curious.” 

You nod, then glance back toward the pool table. “Okay.” 

There’s a short pause before he adds, “But why don’t you give any of them a shot?” 

You frown. “What, like... why don’t I date?” 

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I know you’ve dated before, but I don’t think I’ve seen you go on a single date since I got to North Island.” 

Wow. Shocking insight. Maybe he’s not as observant as you thought. 

You snort softly. “Are you saying I should date more?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he says, eyes dropping to the floor. “You get hit on all the time.” 

You roll your eyes. “I do not get hit on all the—” 

“Yes,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze again. “You do. All the time. You should hear what half these idiots say about you when you’re not around.” 

A smirk tugs at your lips. “All flattering, I hope?” 

He groans and rubs the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sit. “You really don’t want to know.” 

You laugh into your drink, taking a long swig before glancing over at him. “Alright, Floyd. Since you’re so concerned—who should I date, then?” 

You know he won’t say it. But you want him to. You want him to say me. Right here in the middle of The Hard Deck, with Natasha eavesdropping and Mickey still ranting about how his flight suit is too tight around the biceps. It wouldn’t be romantic, or particularly special—but you don’t care. You’ve waited long enough. You just want to hear him say he’s tired of guys hitting on you. Tired of Jake’s locker room bullshit. That he wants you to date him. That he wants you. 

��I don’t know,” he mutters, cheeks flushing as he looks back toward the pool table. “Rooster, maybe. He seems like your type.” 

Your heart drops, frustration crawling up under your skin. “My type?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Tall, pretty, a little cocky.” 

You narrow your eyes, watching the side of his face. “You think I go for cocky?” 

He doesn’t answer—just shrugs, eyes locked on the game. 

“You’ve known me this long, and that’s what you think?” 

He cuts you a sidelong glance, brows raised just slightly. “You dated a bunch of assholes at the FRS.” 

You stare at him. “A bunch? What, like... two?” 

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Maybe it just felt like more. Every second day someone was asking me for your number.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, right.” 

“No, really,” he says, deadpan. “It was ridiculous.” 

You narrow your eyes, fighting a smile. “I don’t believe you, but whatever.” 

Your gaze drifts back to the pool game, watching as Jake leans in for a shot, easily sinking two balls and earning a hard eye-roll from Bradley. 

“Anyway,” you say, glancing back at Bob. “I haven’t exactly seen you dating since you got here.” 

Not that you really want to see him dating. Not unless it’s you. 

He shrugs again. “Wasn’t talking about me. Was talking about you.” 

You roll your eyes. “Okay, fine. You want me to date? I’ll find someone to date.” 

Then you tip back your beer, draining the rest of it in two burning gulps. Bob blinks, the colour in his cheeks deepening as you smack the empty bottle down on a nearby table. You give him a tight smile before turning toward the pool table, stepping up beside Jake and curling your hand around his bicep. 

“Mind if I play next?” 

Jake’s green eyes sparkle as he looks down at you, his gaze devouring every inch of your face now so close to his. 

“Keep touchin’ me like that, darlin’, and I’ll say yes to anything.” 

The rest of the weekend passes in typical fashion. You spend half of it cleaning your apartment and stocking up on groceries for the week, and the other half watching movies with Bob and Natasha. 

Bob doesn’t bring up the whole dating thing again—you’re starting to think he never wanted to bring it up in the first place—and he definitely doesn’t mention how you flirted with Jake for most of Friday night. He does, however, roll his eyes when you laugh at something dumb Jake sends to the group chat. 

By Monday morning, you’re more than ready—and honestly, kind of excited—to start training the squad on F-35s. You even get up extra early, take a little more time with your hair, and spritz on a few extra sprays of perfume. Not for anyone in particular. Definitely not for Bob. 

You’re the first to arrive in the briefing room—of course you are, you’re nearly an hour early—so you start setting up, keeping your hands busy in an attempt to burn off nervous energy. 

Eventually, Maverick and Hondo stroll in, both looking smug with obnoxiously oversized travel mugs full of coffee. 

“Mornin’, Lucky,” Hondo says, dropping into a seat in the front row. 

“Hondo,” you say with a smile. “Mav.” 

“Ready to wrangle a room full of overconfident aviators?” Maverick asks, settling into the chair beside him. 

You take a deep breath and face the room, hands on your hips. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Got any tips?” 

He grins. “Try not to sweat—they can smell fear. Don’t be afraid to pull rank, either. You are technically their superior—Lieutenant Commander.” He pauses, waiting for your reluctant nod, because you do tend to forget that you outrank them. “And don’t look Floyd in the eye, or you’ll get flustered.” 

Your mouth drops open. 

Hondo chuckles. “And that’s not a general rule. That one’s just for you.” 

Your eyes flick to him, heat creeping into your cheeks. 

Maverick laughs. “Uh oh. Maybe we shouldn’t have flustered her right before the children arrive.” 

“Who are you calling children?” Bradley asks, stepping through the doorway with a suspicious frown. 

Maverick and Hondo giggle like schoolkids, clearly thrilled to spend the next few weeks not running the show. 

“Why’s Lucky all red?” Mickey asks, trailing in behind Bradley. 

Reuben’s next, followed by Javy and Jake a few seconds later. 

You shake your head and clear your throat, pretending to shuffle through papers like it’ll somehow erase the mortification of Captain Pete fucking Mitchell knowing about your very inconvenient crush on one of his lieutenants. 

It isn’t long before Natasha and Bob walk through the door, sliding into two front-row seats and making your heartrate ratchet up. But it’s fine. It’s cool. You can easily look past the front row. Just focus on Jake’s stupidly smug face in the second. 

“Alright,” you say as the digital display flickers to life, revealing a clean model of the F-35. “Welcome to your crash course in fifth-gens.” 

Mickey whoops quietly while the others grin and settle in with wide, eager eyes. 

“The F-35s are in the Navy’s rotation now,” you say, gesturing to the display. “And as an elite unit, you never know when you’ll be called to fly one.” You tap your tablet, watching the display zoom into a detailed cockpit layout. “One seat, all teeth, glass cockpit, full stealth. No one’s holding your hand up here—not even your WSO.” 

“Good,” Reuben grins. “Mine’s bossy.” 

Mickey gasps, spinning toward him in mock betrayal. 

“Yours is unemployed,” you reply, laughing under your breath. “These are single-seat jets.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, pouting like a three-year-old who just got told no. 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Bob—to the other WSO in the room who might have cause to be annoyed—but he’s not. He looks... entranced. Calm and focused. Brows pinched slightly, lips parted, eyes locked. Like he’s hanging on your every word. 

You clear your throat and turn back to the screen. “You already know how to fly. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fly this like you fly your Rhinos. The rules are different. The feel is different. And the margin for error is a hell of a lot thinner.” 

You swipe on your tablet and the diagram shifts to a wireframe helmet interface. 

“Helmet display system, full 360º situational awareness. You don’t need to flip switches anymore—you think, and it’s there. Feels like a video game... until it doesn’t. You screw up in here, and the jet doesn’t just let you know—it makes sure you remember.” 

You glance up—and have to fight the smile rising at how focused they all are. Every one of them watching you like you’re briefing them for an op. 

“We’ll run through some ground school and system orientation,” you say, “then you’ll hit the sim. I’ll be in the control room, and Mav will be breathing down my neck.” 

Maverick chuckles. “Only if you mess up.” 

“So I’ll be fine,” you reply smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. 

Laughter bubbles from the squad—oohs and chuckles layered over each other. But it’s Bob’s expression that makes your breath hitch. Wide-eyed. Pink-cheeked. Watching you like he’s trying to commit every second—every last detail—to memory. 

You blink, heat flaring in your neck, and glance toward the back of the room. “Questions? Comments? Unsolicited opinions?” 

“Yeah,” Jake pipes up. “You free after this?” 

Hondo snorts. “Sure. Right after she drops her standards by about ten thousand feet.” 

The room breaks into laughter as Jake rolls his eyes and flips Hondo the bird, sinking back in his seat. 

“Alright,” you say, laughter still lacing your voice as you reset the display. “Let’s start with a systems brief.” 

The squad moves in a slow wave, rising from their seats and shoulder-bumping their way to the tablets at the front of the room. But Bob hesitates, his gaze lingering on you a beat too long—warm, steady, and unblinking. It settles on your skin like a gentle pressure, like a whispered touch. You feel your cheeks flush and the hairs on the back of your neck rise. 

All from a look. 

God. Maybe you should listen to Maverick’s advice a little better. 

By the end of the day, your voice is hoarse and your cheeks are aching from smiling so hard. You shouldn’t be surprised, but they were easier to teach than you expected. Of course they were—they’re not idiots. They’re highly trained, elite naval aviators. And just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’d dare give you a hard time. At least, not in front of their CO. 

After Maverick asks a few questions—mostly about your training plan—he claps you on the back and dismisses the room. The squad filters out, calling their thanks as they go and muttering to each other about everything you just showed them. 

Bob stays behind, still planted in his seat, brows furrowed as he scrolls through something on his phone. It’s not unusual—he used to wait for you after class almost every day at the academy and during the FRS—but still, your heart kicks up just a little. 

“How’d I do?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder as you collect your papers. 

He looks up, a soft smile on his lips. “Amazing, actually.” 

You turn toward him, tilting your head. “You sound surprised.” 

“I am,” he admits. “You made all that tech-speak sound so... easy. No one would ever guess you used to stutter on t’s and p’s giving presentations back at the academy.” 

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you let out a soft gasp—half scandalised, half amused. “Robert Floyd. How dare you bring that up.” 

He chuckles quietly, ducking his head. “Sorry. It was too easy.” Then he glances up again, dark blue eyes wide and sincere. “But really, you did great. I’m really p-p-proud of you.” 

“Dude!” you exclaim, staring at him in disbelief as he laughs a little harder. 

You can’t help the grin that spreads across your face—especially not with the way Bob is laughing, shoulders curled, cheeks pink, and his smile lighting up his whole face with something stupidly charming. 

“I can’t believe you,” you say, hugging your notebook to your chest. “You’re going to blow my cover as a super cool, incredibly sexy fighter pilot.” 

He shrugs. “You can still be super cool and incredibly sexy with a stutter.” 

Your cheeks burn even hotter, and you quickly turn back to the desk looking for an excuse not to look at him—picking up a pen you’re pretty sure isn't yours. 

“Want to grab dinner?” he asks. 

When you turn back around, he’s standing—tall and adorable in the most infuriatingly delicious way. The kind of way that shouldn’t make your chest ache and your thighs clench... and yet, here you are. 

“Sounds good,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “What’re you thinking?” 

“Pizza?” 

You nod and move toward the door, stepping into the corridor ahead of him and starting down the hall. A brief stretch of quiet follows, broken only by the soft clunk of your boots against the vinyl floor—not awkward, just a little... tense. Or maybe that’s just you. Because for some reason, Bob smells especially good today. He looks especially good too—hair slightly tousled, cheeks pink, and brows drawn as he clearly gets caught up in whatever’s on his mind. 

Then he glances at you. “The other night—Friday night—at the bar...” 

You raise an eyebrow. “What about it?” 

“Did—” He pauses, breath hitching as he looks away. “Did you go home with him?” 

You stop walking. “With who?” 

He hesitates, stopping one step ahead before turning back to face you. “Hangman.” 

Your eyes go wide. “What the fuck? No.” 

“Oh,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just... Phoenix said—” 

“Phoenix is messing with you,” you cut in, brow furrowed. “Why the hell would I go home with Hangman?” 

He shrugs. “You two looked pretty friendly. I thought maybe—” 

“Okay, give me some credit,” you say flatly. “I do still value my dignity. And for the record—cocky isn’t really my type.” 

He glances at you, eyes curious beneath a gentle frown. “Then... what is your type?” 

You open your mouth, but hesitate. You know what you want to say—that it’s him. It’s always been him. But you can’t. Because you’re too damn chickenshit, even after all these years. Even with him looking at you like that.  

“I—I don’t know,” you mutter, starting to walk again. “But whatever it is, it isn’t Hangman.” 

There’s a short pause—only brief—before he mumbles, “Okay... good.” 

Good? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? 

The word bounces around in your head all evening. When you’re not talking to Bob about pizza toppings, tomorrow’s lesson plan, or whatever bizarre National Geographic doc he’s just watched, you’re thinking about that damn word. 

Good. 

It’s so maddeningly vague it practically echoes off your apartment walls the second you slam the door shut behind you. 

Good? 

Who does he think he is, trying to validate your taste in men? You don’t need his opinion. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need Bob Floyd acting like he gets a say in who you do or don’t go home with. 

Good. 

Seriously? The fucking audacity. Every time you think maybe—just maybe—Bob isn’t like other men, he says something infuriating like that. 

“Ugh,” you groan, throwing yourself face-first onto your bed. “Fucking good.” 

A minute later, your phone pings. You grope blindly across the duvet until your fingers close around it, then roll your head to the side, squinting at two notifications from Bob. 

BOB FLOYD 

📎 [Image attachment] 

‘Look what I found at the bottom of my drawer… those ridiculous Canada moose boxers.’ 

And there he fucking is. 

Standing in front of his bedroom mirror. Shirtless. Hair still damp from the shower. Wearing nothing but a sweet smile and those goddamn novelty boxers you bought him as a joke two Christmases ago—bright red, with tiny maple leaves and cartoon moose that say eh? across the waistband. 

Holy fuck. 

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain short-circuits. You can’t do anything but stare. Not even breathe. 

His body is glorious—which is something you’ve known, but never been intimate with. And holy shit, if you’re not about to get intimate with this fucking photo. 

He looks like some Greek god carved from alabaster. All smooth muscle and obvious strength, like he moonlights as a Michelangelo sculpture. 

It’s obscene. This photo is ridiculous. He has to know what he’s doing. Surely he’s not that naïve. 

And what the fuck are you supposed to reply with? 

You scramble upright, breathing hard, holding your phone so close to your face the screen fogs up and— 

Oh my God. You’ve got your fucking read receipts on. 

You need to do something. Say something—anything—before he realises what a complete creep you’re being just sitting here, staring at this photo. 

With trembling hands, you type the first thing that comes to mind: ‘Aw! Cute!’ 

“…Cute?” you repeat out loud, staring at your phone. 

A little notification pops up beneath your message. 

Read. Immediately. 

“Cute?!” you say again, more outraged now. “What’s fucking cute about that, you idiot?” 

You scroll up and tap the photo again—the one that is anything but cute. 

Your face is burning. Your brain is mush. You need help. Professional help. 

But first… 

You need an hour alone with your vibrator, eyes squeezed shut, and that image burned into the backs of your eyelids. 

- 

Bob doesn’t send you another photo of his moose boxers. 

The next morning, he just texts to ask if you want him to pick you up a coffee on his way into work—and you say yes. You don’t talk about the photo. Or the boxers. At all. 

But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

You can’t even look at him without picturing those ridiculous boxers and that even more ridiculous bulge—which only gets more obvious the more times you go back to check the photo. You’re honestly thinking about just saving it to your camera roll. Because what if you accidentally double-tap and react to it? You should’ve just done that at the start—but no. No, you said ‘Aw! Cute!’ like some proud mother seeing her son in his soccer jersey for the first time. 

And of course, you and Bob talk every day, so the thread just keeps moving on—but you’re not. You have to scroll all the way back up every time. Then he sends something else and it jumps to the bottom, which means you have to start all over again. 

Honestly, it’s getting a bit ridiculous. You were staring at it the other day in the middle of the goddamn mess hall, like some depraved freak. 

Or maybe you’re just deprived. Maybe you just need to get laid so you can stop ogling your best friend like he’s the finest cut of perfectly cooked steak and you haven’t eaten in a week. 

“Lucky?” Hondo says, interrupting your spiralling thoughts with a quirked brow. “You good?” 

You shake your head, blinking until the data feeds in front of you snap back into focus. 

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, clearing your throat. 

You hit a few buttons and flip the comms switch. 

“Rooster,” you say, eyes on the external visuals of Bradley’s current sim mission. “Radar contacts at three and seven o’clock. Engage with BVR missiles on my mark. Weapons hot?” 

“Weapons hot, Lucky,” he responds. “AIM-120 locked on three o’clock target.” 

Your gaze flicks to the instrument panel and HUD feed—seeing what he’s seeing. 

“And try not to light up the whole sky this time,” Mav cuts in dryly—his professionalism fading as the day drags on. “Last sim, you nearly cooked Hondo’s coffee with that missile launch.” 

Hondo chuckles. “That was a precision strike. Coffee was inferior.” 

“Copy that, Mav,” Rooster replies, grin audible. “Engaging now. Fox-three.” 

Your eyes bounce between the radar, sensor data, and pilot input feedback, tracking his procedure. Then the simulated missile launch sound fills your headset. 

“Target’s going down,” you say. “Good shot, Rooster. Keep it tight—bandits are manoeuvring fast. Radar lock at five o’clock. High-G turn recommended.” 

“Got it. Pulling seven Gs. Lining up for a guns pass.” 

“Hope you’re smoother than your last attempt,” Mav says. “Remember, trigger discipline.” 

Bradley chuckles. “Roger that. I’m a professional… mostly.” 

Maverick laughs too, lounging back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying not being the one in charge. You roll your eyes and refocus on the data feeds, watching as Bradley successfully finishes the sim. 

“All targets neutralised. Nice run, Rooster.” 

“What was my time?” he asks eagerly. 

“You’ll find out in Monday’s debrief,” you reply. 

“Did I beat Hangman?” 

You roll your eyes. “Sim complete. Control out.” 

You cut the comms and turn to Maverick. “Want to call it a day?” 

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It is Friday. We could give them a choice.” 

You arch a brow, silently asking him to elaborate. 

“Go home or let the back-seaters have a go in the hot seat.” 

Your lips curl into a smirk. “Oh, I think I know what the answer is going to be.” 

Ten minutes later, after Hondo retrieves the rest of the squad from the debrief room, Mickey is seated in the pilot’s seat and the others are crammed into the control booth behind you. The excitement is palpable—everyone watching the data feeds with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. 

“Alright, Fanboy,” you say through the control mic, flipping a few switches on your console. “You’re up.” 

“What’s the scenario?” he asks, adjusting the straps like they might protect him from what’s coming. 

“Nothing fancy,” you reply. “Just a soft sim. Basic intercept, two bogeys, no weapons fire. You’re just flying the pattern.” 

“So… a baby sim?” 

“Basically. You’ll be fine.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Which one is go?” he asks, pointing vaguely at the throttle quadrant. 

You slap your forehead. “You’re joking, right?” 

“I’m not a pilot,” he says, almost offended. “My job is to press the red button and whisper sweet nothings to the radar.” 

“That explains so much,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s the throttle. Left side. The big one.” 

“Oh. Sure. Of course. Totally knew that.” 

He moves it gingerly, like it might explode—and the sim lurches forward, making him let out a sound that’s way too close to a yelp. 

From behind you, Reuben cackles. “Dude’s gonna crash before he clears the runway.” 

“Shut up!” Fanboy shouts from inside the cockpit. “I am a majestic flying machine.” 

You snort. “You are a danger to national security.” 

“Luckyyy,” he whines, tipping his head back against the seat. “Help me. I’m in a metal coffin and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

You sigh—loudly—and get up, grabbing your headset as you move out of the control booth. 

“I’m coming in,” you mutter. 

You swing the cockpit open and climb inside like you’ve done a thousand times before, stepping up beside him. 

“Okay,” you say, leaning forward. “Feet off the pedals. Hands off everything. Just look at what I’m doing.” 

“Yes, sir,” he says with a little salute. “Watching and learning.” 

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “You’re lucky I like you.” 

“I know,” he says, grinning now. 

You flip the right switches, get him levelled, and the sim steadies out. 

He exhales. “Okay. Okay. I’m flying. Right?” 

“You’re flying,” you say. “Barely. But still.” 

He glances up at you. “Am I your worst student ever?” 

“Top three,” you say sweetly. “But I have faith. Now throttle up. We’ve got some baby bogeys to chase.” 

Mickey grips the controls for dear life, knuckles turning white. The sim jerks forward awkwardly as he pushes the throttle, and you can practically hear the panic rising in his voice. “Uh… okay. I think I’m moving? Maybe?” 

You step closer, trying not to crack a smile. “Just keep it steady. You’re flying a jet, not trying to take off in a rocket.” 

He leans forward, squinting at the instruments. “Which one’s the afterburner? The big red button?” 

“Don’t touch the big red button,” you snap, slapping his hand away. “Just keep the nose up. Remember your basic turns—left, right, not a nosedive.” 

The sim bucks suddenly. 

“Oh no! No, no, no!” he exclaims, eyes wide and face pale. 

You bite back a grin, keeping your voice steady. “Relax. You’re doing fine. Just… don’t crash.” 

But it’s too late. 

The simulated alarms start blaring and the screen flashes red: Warning! Critical altitude! 

“Fuck! Uh, do I pull up? Or…” 

“You eject,” you say dryly. 

“Eject?!” Mickey’s voice cracks as he looks frantically across the controls. “How do I do that?” 

You point at the eject handle. “That thing right there. Pull it now before you break the simulator.” 

With a loud mechanical whoosh, the sim jolts violently as Mickey’s ‘ejection’ sequence initiates. 

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Well, that was impressive. The quickest crash I’ve ever seen. But hey—points for dramatic exit.” 

Mickey groans, covering his face with his hands. “Can we try again? But with less dying?” 

You pat his shoulder. “Maybe next week. I think you need a little more ground school.” 

He sighs and stands up, hanging his head as he exits the cockpit. You can only imagine the scene waiting for him in the control booth, a small part of you actually feeling a little sorry for him. Because if these pilots are anything, it’s cocky—and the last thing they need is someone, especially a squadmate, proving that what they do is kind of legendary. 

“Alright, Floyd,” you say into your headset, feeling heat curl behind your ribs. “You’re up.” 

A few minutes later, Bob climbs into the cockpit, adjusting his headset as he awkwardly manoeuvres into the pilot’s seat.  

“Do you want me in or out?” you ask, trying not to sound like you want to stay in the cramped space with him. 

His eyes are wide as they scan the control panel. “Uh, in. Please. If that’s okay.” 

You nod, biting your bottom lip to hide a stupid grin. “Of course.” 

He settles in, straps up, and lets his hands hover hesitantly over the controls. 

“Mav,” you say, “is the sim reset?” 

“Confirming sim reset. You���re good to go,” he replies. 

“Okay, Bobby.” You lean in beside him, ignoring how his warmth wraps around you—his scent filling your nose and making your head spin. “You ready?” 

He nods, jaw tight, eyes locked on the instruments in front of him. 

“Alright, relax. You’ve got this,” you mutter, shifting just a little bit closer. “Feet on the pedals. Throttle up slowly.” 

He moves cautiously, brows drawn, and the sim lurches forward—but not violently—before steadying under his grip. 

“See,” you say with a soft smile. “Already doing better than Fanboy.” 

He chuckles quietly, almost breathless. 

“Now keep her steady.” 

“Trying,” he mutters, eyes flicking between the HUD and display screens like he’s done this a hundred times—except for the white-knuckled grip giving him away. “This is a lot harder in practice.” 

You laugh softly. “This is the fun part.” 

He exhales hard through his nose, adjusting his grip. “Are they supposed to be this sensitive?” 

“They’re not sensitive. You’re just heavy-handed,” you say, nudging his wrist lightly. “Small movements. Gentle.” 

He hums like he’s not sure he believes you, but follows the instruction anyway. 

You lean a little closer, pointing to a flashing radar contact. “You’ve got one on your left—easy turn, then line up a missile lock.” 

Bob squints at the data, then at you. “Define easy.” 

“You know, not what Fanboy did.” 

He huffs another quiet laugh, fingers moving more confidently now as he banks slightly left and steadies his line. 

“There we go,” you say. “See? Not so bad.” 

His eyes flick toward you, only for a second. “Only ‘cause you’re here.” 

You glance at him—but his focus is already back on the screens, tongue caught between his lips in concentration. Your heart thuds a little harder, breath catching as the cockpit suddenly feels a whole lot smaller. 

You’re crouched beside him—arm pressed against his, knee nudging his thigh—and all you can think about is that goddamn image of him in those stupid little boxers and everything it did to your insides. 

If it weren’t for the cameras, live feeds, and multi-million-dollar equipment in here, you might be seriously considering jumping his bones right now. 

“Uh, Lucky,” Bob says, clearing his throat. “Noise.” 

You shake your head, refocusing. “Alright, you’ve got tone. Fire.” 

“Fox three,” he says, flicking the switch—and the target explodes a beat later. 

You grin. “Nice shot.” 

He looks over at you again, eyes wide and shining, cheeks pink, and chest rising a little too quickly. “What’s next?” 

“Bring her around. Evasive manoeuvre. You’ve got a bogey on your six.” 

He shifts quickly, throttle pulling back. 

“Flaps down. Come into a right bank,” you instruct, watching him move a little smoother this time. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says under his breath, completely focused. 

It shouldn’t make your pulse spike. Or have you shifting your weight, pressing your thighs together, suddenly too aware of your own skin. It shouldn’t mean a damn thing. 

Yet those few words, coming out of his mouth, tighten that knot behind your hipbones until it aches. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter. 

“What?” he snaps, panic lacing his tone. 

“No—Nothing. Just pull up five degrees, you’re drifting.” 

He does so without hesitation. 

Your eyes flick across the data feeds, checking everything like it’s second nature—because for you, it is. It’s as easy as breathing. 

“I’m impressed, Floyd,” you say, offering a small smile. “With a little more practice, you could probably swap seats with Phoenix.” 

Natasha’s voice crackles in your headset a second later: “No way he’d be flying this well without his lucky charm. So unless you’re planning to ride on his lap, I think I’ll stay on the stick.” 

Bob’s eyes go wide, and the sim shudders as he struggles to maintain control. An alarm blares, but you’re already moving, one hand wrapping around his to keep the sim steady—and avoid another Mickey-style disaster. 

“You told them?” he asks, not angry—just flustered. 

You glance sideways at him, still holding steady, a sheepish smile pulling at your lips. “Phoenix saw my name in your phone. She guessed.” 

He shuts his eyes with a sigh, cheeks flushing. 

“Hey!” you nudge him with your knee. “Pilots don’t get to fly with their eyes closed. Focus.” 

He huffs a breath, straightening in his seat, brow furrowed again. “Right. Sorry. I got it.” 

“You sure?” 

He nods, firm, and you slowly let go, easing back into position beside him. 

The sim levels out, alarms silenced, radar clear—and Bob exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. 

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s bring her in. Easy descent. Keep your nose up just a touch—perfect. Throttle back.” 

He moves with steady hands now, more confident than when he started, guiding the simulated jet toward the landing zone with practiced care. The wheels touch down on virtual tarmac, and the whole simulator gives a soft jolt before going still. 

The screen flashes: MISSION COMPLETE. 

You blink, a little stunned. “Holy shit.” 

Bob whips off the headset, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. “Did I actually—?” 

“That was amazing,” you say, grinning at him. “You nailed that.” 

He scrambles out of the seat, turning toward you, half-tripping over a strap—and— 

He falls forward. 

You try to dodge, but it’s no use. He crashes down on top of you, sending you flat onto your back on the simulator floor, your head knocking against something on the way down. 

“I—sorry—oh, God—” he stammers, eyes wide. 

He braces a hand on either side of your head, face hovering just inches above yours. 

“Are you okay? Your head—” 

Your giggles cut him off, laughter spilling out as you lay beneath him, one hand rubbing your head and the other caught somewhere on his waist. 

“I—I’m okay,” you manage, breathless and blushing, if slightly concussed. “Guess I’m a good luck charm and a crash mat.” 

He lets out a quiet, unsteady laugh, chest pressed flush to yours, breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“Phoenix is right, you know?” he says, voice soft. “I couldn’t have done it without you here.” 

Your laughter fades, breath catching. 

There’s a beat—just one long, tight heartbeat where he leans in, eyes darting between yours and your lips like he might actually do it. Like he’s about to close that distance. 

And then— 

The sim door yanks open with a loud clang. 

“BOBBY!” Mickey exclaims, his grin upside down from where you’re lying. “Oh, shit, are you two making out?” 

Bob scrambles to his feet, very awkwardly given the severe lack of space. “No! I wasn’t—I didn’t—” 

“Technically, he tackled me,” you say, sitting up and holding out a hand for Bob to help you. 

Once you’re both upright, you climb out of the sim and into the chaos of the squad, all cheering and clapping like he just landed an actual carrier op. 

“Hell yeah, Floyd!” Javy says, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. 

Reuben chuckles. “I thought you were gonna puke, but that was clean as hell!” 

Natasha smirks, arms folded as she steps up. “Guess that lucky charm really works.” 

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool—but your skin is still humming, your heart still racing. And Bob? 

Bob won’t stop glancing your way. Because the mission might be over, but whatever just happened between you two is still very much mid-flight. 

After everything calms down, Maverick congratulates Bob on not crashing—giving Mickey a very pointed look—and dismisses the squad. They gather their things from the briefing room and file out slowly, leaving you to finish filing the post-sim report. 

“We’ll meet you outside?” Natasha asks, hesitating at the door. 

You nod. “Yep. Won’t be long.” 

“Good. We’re going to the bar to celebrate Bob’s success and Mickey’s disaster.” 

You snort softly, eyes dropping back to the tablet in your hand. “Sounds good.” 

Her footsteps fade down the hall, and you type through the report with quick, practiced fingers. 

Your heart still feels like it’s in your throat, beating too fast and too hard. Your cheeks are hot, your lungs are tight, and you swear you can still feel every inch of where Bob’s body had been pressed against yours. And God—it was a lot. 

If you’re honest, you don’t really want to go to the bar. Not just because you’re there too often already—but because you’d rather go home and get off to that stupid picture of Bob in his moose boxers while thinking about his body on top of yours. 

You shake your head, exhale hard, and tap ‘submit’ on the report. Then you tuck the tablet into your bag, throw it over your shoulder, and flick the lights off on your way out. 

The corridor is dim, lit only by the glow of late-evening sun spilling through the high windows, washing the vinyl floor in hazy orange. You can hear chatter up ahead—probably the squad, waiting—and you pick up your pace. 

But then you hear your name. Not your callsign—your name. 

“As in Lucky?” a voice says, incredulous. “She flies F-35s now?” 

“Yeah,” Bob replies, his voice unmistakable. “She’s really good. A great teacher, too. She—” 

“She’s fucking hot,” the other guy interrupts. 

You frown, slowing your steps as you edge closer to the wall. The voice is familiar—but you just can’t place it. 

“I was always jealous of you, man,” the guy says. “Back in flight school you and her were close. And at the FRS. Don’t tell me nothing ever happened.” 

“No,” Bob says quickly. “We’re just friends.” 

“Shame. Still hot though, right?” 

“Um... I guess.” Bob’s voice tightens—strained and uncomfortable. 

“C’mon, man, relax. She’s a smoke show.” 

There’s a brief pause. Then Bob clears his throat. 

“I don’t really like talking about people that way. Especially not her.” 

“What, you’re not into her?” 

“She’s my friend,” Bob says, like that answers everything. 

“Not what I asked,” the guy chuckles. “You into her or not? Because I’m not stepping on your toes, but if she’s fair game—” 

Your heart thuds, heavy and fast, caught high in your throat. 

“No,” Bob says. “I’m not into her. She’s a friend. I wouldn’t go there.” 

That stings—but what comes next carves the breath right out of your lungs. 

“She’s too intense,” he says, a sharp edge to his voice. “She’s reckless, and she can be selfish. She—She's not worth the trouble. There’s too much baggage.” 

Your stomach drops. Hard. 

Each word hits you square in the chest, knocking you breathless. Your head swims. Your vision blurs—not just from tears, but from that unmoored, disoriented rush that hits when the floor drops out from under you. 

“Who cares about baggage?” the guy asks with a low laugh. “As long as she’s not selfish in bed—” 

You turn fast, bracing a hand against the wall to steady yourself. You can’t listen anymore. 

Tears fall freely now, and you don’t even care. You walk—back the other way, toward the far door, away from the voices. Away from him. You’ll take the long way around base if you have to. It doesn’t matter. You just need to get home. 

Your ears ring. Your skin prickles. The sting in your eyes sharpens into something meaner, hotter—like your tears are trying to scald their way out. 

His voice replays in your head, cold and clinical, like you’re a job hazard or some inconvenient mess he has to manage. Not worth the trouble? Too intense? Baggage? 

Fuck. That. 

Your hands are fists before you even realise it, nails biting your palms, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. He doesn’t get to talk about you like that. Not after everything. Not like you’re just some reckless, selfish… thing. 

Not when he knows you. Not when he was just hovering over you, whispering soft words, looking at you like maybe you meant something. 

The heat builds behind your ribs, under your skin, in the back of your throat. You want to yell. To throw something. To go back and make him say it to your face. But you don’t. 

You wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, set your shoulders, and walk faster—like you’re chasing down a storm, or maybe just trying to outrun it. 

- 

That night, your phone doesn’t stop. Messages pour in from the squad—asking where you are, if you’re okay, when you’re coming to the bar. Bob even calls. Four times. But you don’t answer. Instead, you send a single text to the group chat saying you felt sick and had to go home. Technically, not a lie. 

You barely sleep. You toss and turn for hours, drafting messages you’ll never send and crying into your pillow until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore. By four a.m., you give up. You pull on your gym clothes, lace up your sneakers, and run to the beach like you’re trying to outrun years of friendship. 

You spend the whole weekend in self-imposed exile, licking your wounds like a cornered animal. No music. No TV. No calls. You just want to sit in it—the heartbreak, the fury, the raw, awful ache of it all—because for once, you don’t want to get over it. 

Because it was Bob. 

Bob Floyd, who’s been sweet and steady and quietly wonderful since the day you first met him—always looking at you like you’re the only thing that really matters. He knows you, sometimes even better than you know yourself. 

Or at least, you thought he did. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. 

Because you’ve loved him, in one way or another, for a long time. And now he’s the one who broke your heart. 

Sweet, considerate, doe-eyed Bob Floyd. 

Fuck that guy. 

By Monday morning, you’re feeling a lot less dramatic and a lot more focused on work. You just want to get this little program done, get the squad up to date with fifth-gens, and then you can go about avoiding Bob Floyd until one of you inevitably gets restationed. But until then, you have to at least be civil. You don’t have a choice. 

The squad is already half-settled when you walk into the briefing room, just a couple of minutes late—intentionally. If you arrived any earlier, someone might’ve tried to talk to you. Joke around. Ask where you’ve been. And you’re not really in the mood for chit-chat. 

So you walk in with a neutral expression, eyes trained forward, coffee in one hand and tablet in the other. 

From the corner of your eye, you can see Bob sitting in his usual spot at the front, hands folded tight in his lap. He glances up the second the door opens—and breathes. It’s so visible it’s almost a shudder, like he’s been holding it in all weekend. 

“Oh, she’s alive,” Jake says, elbowing Javy beside him. 

You don’t answer. You just keep walking until you reach the desk, setting your coffee down before turning to face the room. 

“Let’s talk about Friday,” you say, tapping your tablet to wake it up. “Three out of five of you got tagged within the first five minutes of simulated contact. That’s a problem.” 

There’s a long beat of silence. A few glances are exchanged, but no one calls attention to the fact that you’re clearly skipping over the usual ‘good morning’ or any of the soft lead-ins you normally give. No one dares. 

Bob’s eyes stay locked on you, his brow drawn in quiet worry. He doesn’t look away all morning. Not once. 

And you don’t look at him at all. 

After going through BVR refresh and radar discipline, you give Maverick a nod and he calls lunch. You keep your head down, eyes on your tablet, fussing with it as the soft shuffle of feet out the door fills the room. 

Maverick walks up to you, says something about a meeting he’s being forced to attend this afternoon, and you give him a nod. Then he walks out and the room goes quiet. Until— 

“Hey,” Bob mutters, still sitting in his seat. 

You turn your back on him, placing your tablet on the desk and picking up your phone. “Hi.” 

“That thing work?” he asks. 

“What thing?” 

“Your phone.” 

“Oh,” you say flatly. “Funny.” 

Silence stretches between you—thick and heavy—full of words left unsaid, and a few that never should’ve been heard. 

“So,” he finally says, pushing to stand, “you feeling okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mutter, opening your email like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. “Just an upset stomach. I’m fine now.” 

“Really?” he presses, stepping closer. 

You sigh heavily and look up—not at him, just at the back of the room. “Really, Bob. I’m fine. Sorry I didn’t answer your calls, I felt like shit. Just wanted to sleep and watch movies.” 

“What’d you watch?” 

“Back to the Future,” you say—too quickly, without thinking. 

And shit. Why would you admit to spending the whole weekend watching one of his favourite movies? 

“Without me?” he asks, full of mock-offense. 

Your lips twitch, and you hate that they do. So you take a deep, steadying breath and turn to face him—eyes locking with his, your expression dangerously neutral. 

“Do you need something?” 

He frowns. “What do you—” 

“Like do you have a question about what we just debriefed or...?” 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Um, no.” 

You nod. “Okay, good. Then you should go to lunch.” 

He stares at you for a moment, eyes darting across your face, trying to decode what you’re very carefully hiding. But he can’t, because you’ve been perfecting this cool, practiced nonchalance for the past forty-eight hours and you know you have it down pat. 

“Okay,” he mutters. “Lunch. Are—Are you coming too?” 

You shake your head and turn back to the desk. “No, sorry. I’m going to be selfish and spend my break reviewing the sim footage I didn’t get to over the weekend.” 

“That’s not—” he hesitates, clearly confused. “That’s not selfish.” 

You whip back around, brows raised. “Isn’t it?” 

There’s another beat—just a brief pause where he looks at you like you’re suddenly some complete stranger. 

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice soft. 

You nod once. “Yep.” 

Then you turn around, step behind the desk, and drop into the chair, opening your tablet. He stands there for a moment longer, watching you with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowed. But you don’t look at him. You just start pulling up the footage and flipping open your notebook. 

Eventually, he leaves, but not without casting one last glance over his shoulder—looking like a damn kicked puppy. 

You sit in the briefing room trying to focus on sim footage until ten minutes before the end of lunch. Then you sigh, stretch out your limbs, and start packing up your things for the afternoon’s training. You’re halfway to the sim building when your phone buzzes with a text from Maverick: 

‘Hondo got pulled into this meeting. Use the WSOs in the booth.’ 

Great. More time with Bob. And this time, the room’s even smaller. 

With another heavy sigh, you continue making your way toward the building—dragging your feet through hallways and up the stairs until you reach the tech staff for the usual system readiness checks. Once everything’s good to go, you sign on as controller and head into the prep room where the squad is waiting. 

“No time to waste,” you say, skipping any kind of greeting. “Hangman, you’re up first. Bob, Fanboy—you’re in the booth with me. Let’s move. 

Then you turn and walk out, the only sign they’re following you the quiet shuffle of boots behind you. 

You get Jake set up in the sim, then slip into the control booth, taking the farthest seat and pulling your headset on without a word. Mickey settles hesitantly beside you, and Bob takes the last seat—now one person too far away to read whatever expression is on your face. 

“I’ll handle comms,” you say without looking up. “Monitor the readouts, call out any anomalies. Stay focused, watch what I do, and you can run one of the later sessions.” 

“Copy,” Mickey replies. 

“Copy,” Bob mutters. 

You can feel his eyes on you, boring into the side of your face. He’s leaning forward—very unsubtly—watching you with a creased brow as Mickey pretends not to notice the suffocating tension in the booth. 

“Hangman, you ready?” 

“When you are, boss.” 

You tap the screen, starting the sequence. “Simulation beginning. Weapons hot in thirty seconds.” 

Your eyes stay locked on the data feeds, one hand adjusting the sim’s tracking overlay, the other scribbling notes into your tablet. Everything is running clean—Jake’s flying sharp, you’re locked in, and for a moment, it almost feels easy. Peaceful. 

But still, you feel Bob’s gaze. Heavy. Relentless. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s watching—trying to read between your words, between your silences, between the way you didn’t so much as glance in his direction when you walked in. 

“Hangman, confirm radar lock,” you say, fingers flying over the controls with practiced ease. 

“Confirmed. Two-band lock at forty-five miles. Tracking steady.” 

“Maintain altitude for another thirty seconds, then begin a slow descent to angels eighteen. Push to intercept on bandit two.” 

“Copy that. Repositioning.” 

A beat later, Mickey pipes up, “Hey, I’m seeing a drift on the right bank—check pitch trim, two percent off.” 

“Good catch,” you say, glancing at the readout to confirm. “Hangman, adjust pitch trim two percent to port. You’re drifting wide.” 

“On it. Thanks, Fanboy.” 

You glance over at Mickey, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Nice eyes.” 

He throws you a cheeky wink before turning back to the screen. You try not to look at Bob—but you can’t help it. His cheeks are redder now, his eyes wider, and he looks… indignant. 

After Jake, Javy jumps in the sim, then Bradley, then Reuben—and for him, you have Mickey run the comms. They work well together, and you only have to jump in once or twice to adjust an instruction. 

Then finally, it’s Natasha’s turn. 

“Bob, comms are yours,” you say. “Mickey, stay on readouts.” 

Bob hesitates just a fraction too long before replying, “Copy.” 

Once Natasha is strapped in and the system’s reloaded, you settle back in your chair beside Mickey. Bob shifts awkwardly two seats down, headset on, posture a little too tight to be comfortable. 

“Pilot ready?” you ask. 

He glances at his monitor. “Ready.” 

You nod. “Run it.” 

The sim lights up again, and Natasha’s voice crackles through the speakers—calm and clipped as she begins her sequence. 

You fold your arms across your chest, eyes on the screen—eyes on Bob. He’s steady at first, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue caught between his lips as he tries to remember the training. But you can feel it—the edge in him. Every call he makes lands a half-second late. Every glance your way lingers too long. 

He’s nervous. And you almost feel bad. Almost. 

But then those words ring through your head—and if he’s going to call you intense like it’s a bad thing, then fine. You’ll stare at him—intensely—until he either screws up or helps Natasha fly this sim clean. 

Your gaze flicks to a warning light, brow furrowing as you sit up straighter. 

“She’s pulling too hard,” Bob says. “She should dump speed before—” 

“That’s not going to cut it in the F-35,” you cut in. “You’ve got to lead the roll differently. Weight’s distributed rearward—she floats differently.” Then you glance at him, eyes narrowed. “You know… all that baggage.” 

There’s a beat of silence. Bob shifts. His eyes flick between you and the screen, nerves creeping higher. 

“We’ll adjust the parameters,” you say, turning back to the screen. 

Your hands move across the controls as you focus on Natasha, reassuring her that she’s flying fine. Bob tries to refocus too—to keep his eyes on the feed and talk her through the next manoeuvre. 

But he can’t. His gaze keeps drifting—toward you, confusion drawn tight across his brow. 

You can see the frustration rising. He doesn’t get it. 

But he knows something’s wrong. 

- Bob - 

After Natasha’s successful sim, you give the squad a quick debrief before mumbling something about catching Maverick before he heads home. Bob wants to stop you—to say something, anything, just to get you to talk to him—but you don’t give him the chance. You slip out while he’s stuck in conversation with Reuben and Mickey, too polite to cut them off. 

Eventually, everyone leaves the debrief room and starts walking across base—to their cars, the barracks, or in Javy’s case, the pharmacy, because he’s now convinced he got mono from the girl he hooked up with over the weekend. 

“Coyote, if you go to medical one more time this month, they’re going to assign you your own parking spot,” Natasha says, watching him split away from the group. 

“My lymph nodes are, like, throbbing, dude,” Javy replies. “It’s definitely mono.” 

Jake snorts. “Or maybe it’s rabies and you’re on the countdown clock. We’ve got—what—forty-eight hours till you start foaming at the mouth?” 

“My bet’s on mono,” Reuben says. “That girl was way too hot to have rabies.” 

“Exactly!” Javy calls, now walking backwards. “And I’m exhausted. It’s definitely mono.” 

“You’re always exhausted,” Mickey says, rolling his eyes. 

“That’s ‘cause his standards are low and his stamina’s even lower,” Natasha mutters with a smirk. 

“What was that, Phoenix?” Javy asks, already halfway down the path. 

“Nothing!” she calls back. “Good luck! Maybe you’ll finally get that cute receptionist’s number!” 

The group laughs, because everyone knows Javy has been trying—and failing—for months to get her number. 

“Doubt it,” Jake says, veering off toward the parking lot. “Dude’s got no game.” 

One by one, they all drop off—until it’s just Bob and Natasha. The two of them walk in silence for a few minutes. An easy, companionable kind of quiet while Bob loses himself in his own gnawing thoughts. 

“Okay,” Natasha says, stopping suddenly. “What’s wrong? You look like someone just cancelled Christmas.” 

Bob glances up. “Hm?” 

“Don’t hm me,” she says, propping a hand on her hip. “You’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?” 

“I don’t know, I just—” 

“Is this about Lucky?” 

His stomach drops, nausea creeping up his throat until he’s pretty sure he can taste what he ate for lunch. He hesitates, meeting Natasha’s stare—keen eyes narrowed, brows raised. She’s not letting up anytime soon, so he might as well spill. 

He sighs. “Yeah. Don’t you think she’s acting… off?” 

Nat shrugs. “Maybe. A little. But everyone’s allowed to have a bad day. What makes you think it’s personal?” 

“She ignored me all weekend, and she hasn’t smiled at me once today.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes. “So? She doesn’t owe you a smile every day, Floyd. And she said she was sick. Maybe something happened that you don’t know about.” 

“But she tells me everything,” he mutters. 

“Oh my God,” Natasha groans. “You sound so entitled right now. Just because you’ve been friends forever doesn’t mean she owes you constant access. If she’s having a hard time, maybe stop thinking about yourself and just give her some space.” 

Bob knows she’s right—at least partly. But he also knows you, and whatever this is, it isn’t just a bad day. 

“Fine,” he mumbles. “Space. Got it.” 

“Good.” She nods. “And then when things go back to normal, you two can go back to pretending you’re not stupidly in love with each other.” 

Bob’s breath hitches. His heart kicks in his chest, stuttering into an uneven rhythm as he looks at her, eyes wide. 

She meets his gaze, unflinching—smug and all too knowing. 

“Please,” she says with a laugh. “It’s so obvious. Don’t even try to deny it.” 

He doesn’t. He can’t. His thoughts are spiralling too fast to land anywhere solid. 

He’s not stupid—he knows he’s in love with you. But the idea of you being in love with him? That feels impossible. 

You’re so passionate, so driven—maybe a little intense, but that’s what makes people follow you. It’s why he trusts you with his life. And, sure, you’re reckless sometimes, but never thoughtless. You lead with your whole heart, and Bob wouldn’t be who he is today without you. 

He knows you—your stories, your scars. He’s kept your secrets, walked with you through fire. Everything you carry—all the history, the experience, the baggage—you’ve never carried it alone. 

He’s been carrying it too. Willingly. 

Because you’ve always been the brightest thing in his life. And that’s exactly why he can’t imagine a world where someone like you could ever love someone like him. 

“Have you stopped breathing?” Natasha asks, brows drawn. 

Bob clears his throat, blinking until his vision refocuses. “Yeah—um, no. I’m okay.” 

She narrows her eyes. “You sure? You look pale.” 

“I am pale,” he says dryly, eyes dropping to his boots. 

She snorts softly as they keep walking, heading in the general direction of the base’s front offices. 

“You coming this weekend?” she asks after a beat. 

Bob frowns. “Where?” 

“Hangman’s birthday.” 

Right. Jake’s birthday party. At a club. Not exactly Bob’s scene. 

“I don’t know, it—” 

“You can’t bail just because you hate clubbing,” she cuts in. “It’s not just another weekend—it’s his birthday. You don’t have to drink, just show up for a couple hours.” 

Bob sighs, still watching his boots move with each step. He knows he’s going. He hates it, but he’ll go. He’s too polite, too well-raised—and Jake is his friend. 

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll come for a bit.” 

“Great,” Nat grins. “Then at least I’ll have you, if Lucky’s still in her mood.” She pauses, tipping her head thoughtfully. “That’s if she even comes.” 

After swinging by base office to pick up the squad mail—since Maverick was too busy today—Natasha drives Bob home. The car ride is quieter than usual, and Nat knows Bob is still trapped in his own head, but she doesn’t press. 

Once home, Bob goes through the usual motions. He strips off his uniform, showers, changes into sweats, and starts making himself dinner. The only step missing is the one where he usually gets off with your name on his lips. 

God, he knows it’s depraved, but he can’t help it. Especially now that you’re stationed on the same damn base. 

Well, except today. Today he can help it, because the guilt weighs heavier than usual. He knows something’s wrong—and he has a sinking feeling it’s something he did. He just can’t figure out what. 

His first thought was that stupid photo he sent—the one with him in moose boxers. He wishes he could say he had no clue what he was thinking, but God, he did. He was thinking that maybe you wouldn’t realise he was sending a damn thirst trap if it carried some other meaning. Some nostalgic, almost innocent meaning. Maybe you’d see it as a joke but still catch the way he was tensing—so fucking hard—in the mirror. Maybe there’d be a moment where he wasn’t just your best friend, but someone you could want for something more. 

“Fuck,” Bob mutters, pressing his forehead against the cold fridge door. “What is wrong with me?” 

Embarrassed doesn’t even begin to cover it. That photo was a lapse in judgment—a desperate Hangman move to get you to look at him differently. And God, did it backfire. 

Cute? You called him cute. 

He shakes his head. Sure, the boxers weren’t exactly sexy, but cute?! 

He wishes he could rewind and stop himself before he became that much of an idiot. But that’s just what you do to him. You make him stupid. That’s been the story since the day he first met you. 

Back at the academy, he was smitten—instantly, though shy at first, a little guarded. Until you wore him down. It didn’t take long before he was snorting at your stupid jokes, grinning like an idiot every time you caught his eye, and spending countless nights in the study hall with you and your secret snacks, sharing headphones. 

Then came flight school. Different tracks—him training as an NFO, you training to be a pilot—meant less time together. But still, you stayed close. You found ways to sneak off, to steal moments, naïvely planning futures that felt just within reach. 

Almost everyone assumed you were a thing, but whenever Bob corrected them, it turned into a whole different game. 

He got so sick of being asked for your number that he started making up ridiculous excuses. 

‘Sorry, she doesn’t have a phone.’ 

‘I would, but it’s encrypted.’ 

‘She only uses Morse code.’ 

‘Do you have any carrier pigeons?’ 

When you both deployed after the FRS, he felt almost relieved. Almost. Until he realised that with him halfway across the world, there was nothing but the relentless demands of military life standing between you and finding a boyfriend—or worse, a husband. 

But as fate would have it—or perhaps dumb luck—you both ended up stationed on North Island together. Single. Very single, as you’d told Jake before shutting him down completely. 

And God, Bob wants nothing more than to make you very un-single, very fucking attached to him. But he just can’t find the guts to do it—not when it might blow up in his face and ruin years of friendship, a bond so precious he’d do anything to protect it. 

If there’s even a bond left to protect. Because right now, Bob Floyd is pretty damn sure you hate him. For something he can’t even remember doing. 

The chime of the oven timer startles him out of his thoughts. He spins around, turns off the heat, grabs a dish towel, and carefully pulls the tray of lasagna out. He lets it cool while cueing up the next Nat Geo doc he’s been wanting to watch, making a little nest of pillows on the couch before settling in with the lasagna in his lap. 

He eats quickly, eyes flicking between the screen, his dinner, and his phone buzzing incessantly on the coffee table. He can tell it’s the group chat, but the messages are popping up too fast to follow. From what he can gather, you’re all talking about Jake’s birthday party. 

When he’s finished eating, he takes his plate to the kitchen, rinses it half-heartedly, and returns to the lounge. He grabs his phone off the table and flops forward onto the cushions, sprawled across the couch, propped up on his elbows as he scrolls through the chat. 

It’s mostly Jake and Javy arguing about their big birthday plans, broken up by Mickey and Reuben’s commentary, Natasha’s sharp little quips, and Bradley just reacting to every second message like he’s not even reading. 

And then... there’s you. 

It started when Nat made some snarky remark about Jake wearing a sparkly suit so no one forgets it’s his birthday. You replied with an innocent comment about not knowing what to wear, and Natasha—naturally—told you to send options. 

So you did. 

The first photo is a mirror selfie in a deep red satin slip dress that barely hits mid-thigh. The fabric clings to your hips and gapes at the chest—like it was designed to slip off a shoulder. One hand holds your phone, the other casually throwing up a peace sign, as if you’re not standing there wrapped in something that could pass for a napkin. 

Bob’s mouth goes dry. His eyes go wide. And he stares for just a little too long. 

The second photo isn’t a selfie—it’s been taken by someone else. Probably on the night you last wore the glittery silver dress. The flash is on and the image is a little blurry, catching you from behind, turning with a smile thrown over your shoulder. There’s a glimpse of thigh, the bare slope of your back, and a glint in your eye that knocks the air out of him. 

He exhales so hard it turns into a groan. With a slight wince, he shifts and adjusts his sweatpants, already regretting every choice that’s led him to this moment. 

The next one is back in the mirror. You’re leaning against your dresser—just out of frame, but Bob knows exactly what your room looks like. The dress is little, black, and absolutely criminal. It fits like sin and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

If Bob were standing, he’d need to sit down. But he’s already on the couch, lying down with his now painfully hard dick pressed into the cushions. How the hell do you do this to him with just a few photos? 

The last one is a close-up selfie in your bathroom mirror. The flash is on and you’re standing close, angling the camera low to catch the way the fabric dips between your breasts and hugs your waist like a secret. There’s hardly any of your face in frame—just the hint of a smirk. 

“God,” Bob growls, dropping his head—and his phone—as his hips begin to grind into the cushions. 

This is insane. You are dangerous. Surely you know what you’re doing. You can’t be that naïve. 

He almost hates that the whole squad is watching too—seeing you like this, picturing you in the ways Bob has been picturing you for years. 

With another low groan, he shifts onto his back and stares at the ceiling. After a moment, he shuts his eyes—and instead of pushing them away, he lets every perverted thought he’s ever had of you wash over him. 

Your body draped in that silky red dress. Your lips curled into that sinful little smirk. Your legs, on full display in those ridiculously short skirts. 

He pictures you as he slips his hand beneath his sweats, fingers wrapping around his painfully hard, leaking length—stroking once, then twice. His breath stutters. His free hand grips the cushion beside him, trying to ground himself as his hips lift ever so slightly, chasing more friction. 

He imagines you climbing into his lap, all warm skin and wicked intent, whispering some teasing little comment that sends blood rushing so hard through his body he thinks he might actually lose it. 

His cheeks burn and his heart races, desire and need building in his chest until it’s almost too hard to breathe. 

His breath catches when he pictures you arching into him—skin slick with sweat, hands tangled in his hair, whispering his name like a prayer. 

He ruts up into his hand again, faster this time, lips parted and eyes still shut tight. 

His movements grow faster. Rougher. Desperate. 

God, he knows he shouldn’t—he knows even now—but he can’t stop. 

He pictures your body beneath his—soft gasps filling the air, lips parted, eyes fluttering closed. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass—anywhere he can reach. Everywhere. Branding you like you’re his to keep. And— 

His body seizes, muscles going tight as pleasure crashes over him in hot, dizzying waves. He spills into his sweats, hips still moving, rutting up and down, chasing the fading heat until all that’s left is a breathless ache. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, collapsing onto the cushions, skin flushed, heart hammering. 

He lies there for a few minutes—sticky and spent—as guilt creeps in... but so does a sharp, undeniable hunger for more. 

Eventually, the insistent buzzing of his phone cuts through the post-orgasm haze, and he reaches for it with his free hand, grabbing it from where it fell beside him on the couch. 

The group chat is still alive with a flood of inappropriate comments and ridiculous emojis from Mickey—all thanks to your photos. Everyone’s got an opinion on which dress you should wear, most leaning toward the last one with the low neckline. 

Then, at the bottom of the thread, Natasha’s name pops up again: ‘Bob, your opinion?’ 

Bob huffs a small, humourless laugh. 

Yeah. His opinion is painted on the inside of his fucking sweatpants. 

- You - 

You only agreed to go to Jake’s birthday because you were pretty sure Bob wouldn’t. 

Okay, that’s not the only reason—Jake’s your friend, and you’re not about to bail on his birthday just because you’re emotionally fragile. But knowing Bob probably wouldn’t show? Yeah, that made it a lot easier to say yes. 

Bob’s never enjoyed clubbing—not that you can blame him—but on top of that, it’s been a weird week. You’ve softened a little, but not much. You stopped shooting him scathing looks or cutting him off mid-sentence, but you’ve still been avoiding him 

You remembered how to laugh with the others—how to joke around—because the squad didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t deserve to suffer just because Bob said the wrong thing and you’re too hurt to deal with it. 

But Bob? You refuse to be left alone with him. You don’t speak to him unless you absolutely have to. You don’t ask him questions. You don’t meet his gaze—no matter how many times he tries to catch yours. 

Not that he’s trying all that hard anymore. If anything, he seems… quiet. Sad. Distant in a way that twists something sharp in your chest. Like he’s pulling back. Giving you space. Like he’s trying not to upset you. 

And maybe that should make you feel better. Or worse. You’re not sure. 

Either way, you know it’s childish. The guilt’s been gnawing at you all week. But every time you start to feel too bad, you remember what he said. How he really sees you. The way he talked about you like you were a problem. Like you were too much. And then the guilt dies out. 

Because why should you feel bad when he’s the one who decided you were too intense? Too reckless? Just… baggage? 

He doesn’t care about you—not the way you care about him. He doesn’t even like you. Not really. 

You’re not even sure why he’s sulking so much. If he never really liked you, why does it matter? 

“Holy shit, Lucky,” Jake drawls the second you step out of the cab. “All this for me?” 

The dress you settled on isn’t tight, but it moves like liquid when you walk—clinging here, skimming there, draping in all the right places. It’s black, sleek, and cut low at the front, dipping between your breasts just enough to make anyone looking forget what they were saying. 

The fabric is soft and slinky, catching the light in subtle waves as it shifts around your body. The hem flirts with the tops of your thighs—high enough to turn heads, low enough to play innocent if you really wanted to. There’s a slit up one side, just enough to show off a teasing flash of leg when you walk—or more, if you’re not careful. Paired with your favourite boots and a gold choker around your neck, the whole look whispers danger and dares someone to ask what you’re doing later. 

“Not just for you, Seresin,” you smirk. “But since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you look all you want.” 

You step up and give him a hug, mumbling ‘Happy Birthday’ against his chest as his hand drops just a little lower than it should. 

“You look fucking hot,” Nat says when you turn to her. 

“All for you, baby.” 

She grins. “I knew you’d be mine tonight. Wanna get out of here?” 

“Show me the way.” 

You both start giggling, linking hands as you make your way down the little footpath toward the club’s front entrance. 

“Wait, nobody move,” Mickey calls from behind. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.” 

There’s a soft thump, followed by a little whine—probably Reuben or Bradley smacking him over the head. 

“We couldn’t all fit in the cab,” Nat says. “So Bob’s picking up Coyote. Might be a little late, though.” 

Your heart stutters. “Bob—Bob’s coming?” 

She nods, brow furrowing. “Of course. It’s Hangman's birthday.” 

“Oh.” You swallow hard, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin—which is a lot—on display. “Cool. Cool. That’s cool.” 

“Is it?” she asks, laughter creeping into her voice. 

You give her a tight smile and nod a little too quickly—not at all panicked. 

“Oh, boy,” she sighs, slowing to a stop in front of the club doors. “This is going to be a fun night.” 

The club is busy, but not overcrowded. There are two bars and two dancefloors, one on either side of an open-roof courtyard scattered with tall bar tables and several large booths along the back wall. Out here, the music isn’t too loud—which must be the point. 

Javy has managed to reserve one of the booths for the squad, while the rest of Jake’s friends—who make up most of the bar crowd—hover around the high tables, some already drifting onto the dancefloors. It’s not early, but it’s not quite late either. The DJs—one for each floor—haven’t started dropping bangers yet, but from the vibe so far, it’s clear this place gets wild. 

“My first birthday request,” Jake says as you all settle into the booth, “is a round of shots. No pussies.” 

There’s a round of laughter, a groan from Natasha, and a cheer from Mickey. You, meanwhile, are more than happy to get some liquid courage into your system as soon as possible. Ideally, you’ll be halfway to shit-faced by the time Bob shows up—just enough to shut your goddamn nerves up. 

A few minutes later, Jake returns with a tray of tiny glasses, each filled with that golden liquid you know is going to burn. Jake Seresin and his fucking Fireball. 

“To Bagman,” Natasha says, raising her shot. 

Everyone follows. “To Bagman!” 

You wince as the cinnamon heat scorches down your throat, hitting your empty stomach like a lick of flame. Jake slams his glass down with a grin, Mickey gags, Reuben grimaces, and Bradley and Natasha sink their liquor with concerningly straight faces. 

Bradley disappears then to get the first round of proper drinks while Jake launches into a story about his wild thirtieth—offering more detail than anyone asked for, and definitely more than anyone needed. 

You laugh along with the others, chiming in here and there, but your eyes keep drifting to the door. Every time it swings open, your heart gives a stupid little jolt—only to sink again when it’s not him. 

You try not to let it show. Try stay present, sipping your drink and throwing in the occasional sarcastic comment, but your thoughts keep circling. 

Is he still coming? Did he change his mind because of you? What’s he going to think of this ridiculous little dress? 

You shake off the spiralling questions, turning your attention back to the table just as Mickey launches into a story about his own latest birthday—which involved more tequila, less pants, and at least one stolen golf cart. 

After finishing your first drink, you excuse yourself to the bathroom—partly because you sculled a litre of water before coming, and partly because you want to check yourself before Bob arrives. It’s dumb, but you don’t care. You might be mad at him, but you still want to make his jaw drop. 

And if this dress does anything right, it’s making jaws hit the floor. 

You walk down the short hall, passing one of the dancefloors. There are two large doors marked as accessible toilets, then the men’s, and finally the women’s. You slip inside, duck into a stall, pee quickly, and wash your hands. 

The mirrors in the women’s room, though, are annoyingly small and set far too high. You can barely see below your collarbones—even when you jump, which is definitely not recommended in this dress. With a frustrated huff, you step back out and slip into one of the accessible toilets—surely that’ll have a mirror a little lower? 

The accessible bathroom is spacious and way nicer than the regular stalls. There’s a black marble vanity bathed in soft, glowing light, plenty of grab rails lining the walls, and—best of all—a full-length mirror stretching from floor to ceiling, perfect for a proper once-over. 

You check your dress, adjusting how it sits on your shoulders and hips, then give a little twirl. You push your boobs up just a touch, swipe beneath your eye for any smudged mascara, and slip back out into the club. 

You weave your way through the crowd, the bass humming beneath your feet. There are more people now—hovering near the bars, drifting between dancefloors. You try to ignore the looks you’re getting, but a little shiver still rattles down your spine. You feel seen. Too seen. 

Maybe this dress wasn’t the best idea. 

You step into the courtyard and glance up, spotting the booth where your friends are and— 

Bob. 

He’s standing just in front of it, half-turned away, arms folded as he talks to someone inside the booth. And thank God for the distraction, because holy shit—you can’t stop staring. 

He looks... different. You’ve seen him in civilian clothes plenty of times before, but tonight? Tonight, those dark blue jeans cling just right to his long legs and criminally good ass. And that black long-sleeve button-up—jet black, just like your dress—looks like it’s seconds from bursting at the seams across his shoulders and arms. It’s sharp, clean, and a devastating contrast to the flight suit you’re so used to seeing him in. 

And then there are those dorky cowboy boots. Always the boots. Somehow they just make it worse. Make him more him. And that makes your thighs clench. 

Then, slowly, he turns. It’s casual at first… until he sees you. 

His jaw drops. Literally. His eyes go wide. 

He looks like a deer in headlights. No—worse. He looks like someone just hit him in the chest with a defibrillator. You’re not even sure he’s breathing. 

It takes everything in you to keep your pace steady, your expression neutral—to walk across the courtyard like your knees aren’t about to give out. 

Not that he’s looking at your face. Not until you’re standing right in front of him. 

“Bob,” you say, voice tight, before turning sharply toward Javy. “Coyote!” 

Javy’s eyes go wide as he takes you in—then flick toward poor, frozen, shell-shocked Bob—before his mouth splits into a hesitant grin. 

“Lucky,” he says, wrapping an arm around you. “You look—I mean, that dress—” 

“Save it, big fella,” you laugh. “I’m sure Hangman will make up for it with a dozen inappropriate comments once he’s had a few more drinks.” 

Javy chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m sure he will.” 

You slip into the booth and settle beside Natasha, taking a sip from the straw of the drink she slides your way. 

Bob is still standing there. He hasn’t said a word. You’re still not sure he’s breathing. He’s just staring—eyes wide, dark, and so full of something you can practically feel them dragging over your skin. 

Okay—maybe this dress was a good idea. 

After another round of drinks—and another of shots—everyone’s feeling a lot looser. Except Bob. 

He’s nursing his coke with a tight jaw, his eyes flicking between you and whoever’s currently taking their turn staring at your boobs. It’s usually Jake. 

And as much as you’d love to enjoy making him suffer, you’re not entirely sure what’s going on with him. You can’t tell if he’s pissed that you’ve been cold all week or feeling—undeservingly—protective because you’re wearing more birthday suit than dress. Either way, the way he’s looking at you is… unnerving. Almost feral. 

His attention makes your skin prickle, your pulse jump. Because behind his eyes is something dark. Something dangerous. Something you’re not used to seeing in Bob. 

So, like any emotionally well-adjusted person, you do the obvious thing and suggest another round of shots. 

You’ve just swallowed your third nip of Fireball when you hear a frighteningly familiar voice rise over the thrum of music. 

“Hangman!” he exclaims. “Happy birthday, bro!” 

Your stomach drops. It’s him. The guy Bob was talking to that night. 

Your eyes snap up, wide, landing on a familiar face you’ve known since flight school. 

Bob’s eyes are wide too—but not with surprise. No, his are flat, dark, brimming with something else entirely. Something heavy. Tense. Possessive. 

Something that doesn’t look like Bob at all. 

“Harvard!” Jake grins, standing and leaning across the table to shake the guy’s hand. 

They greet each other with loud enthusiasm before Brigham turns to the rest of the group—saying hello, smiling, working his way around. 

He saves you for last. And you’re not nearly naïve enough to pretend you don’t know why. 

“Lucky,” he says, drawing out the last syllable as his gaze drops straight to your chest. “Lookin’ good, darlin’.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, plastering on your sweetest smile. “Wanna sit?” 

Brigham has the choice of sitting beside either you or Bob, and with the way Bob’s trying to telepathically murder him—and the way your tits are sitting—it’s no surprise he chooses you. 

“You know,” he says as he settles in, “I was just talking to Bobby about you the other day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your expression steady. 

“Really?” you ask, voice thick with faux shock. “Bobby didn’t tell me that.” 

Brigham chuckles. “Yeah, I bet. I think Bob’s been tryin’ to keep you all to himself.” 

Bob’s scowl falters, a flicker of something—maybe worry—flashing across his face. Your heart stutters again. But then those words echo in your head, and with a sly smile, you shift a little closer to Brigham. 

Okay, sure, you’re not attracted to the man—like, at all. In fact, you’re not attracted to anyone whose name doesn’t start with Robert, end in Floyd, and come with a pair of wide, dark blue eyes in the middle. But if it’s going to get under Bob’s skin? A little flirting can’t hurt. 

After all, he’s the one who called you reckless. 

“Well, Harvard,” you say, leaning in. “Fortunately for you, I don’t belong to anyone. And if you’re feelin’ lucky… maybe later I’ll let you feel real lucky.” 

Javy, sitting across from you, chokes on his drink—coughing and spluttering into his hand as everyone turns toward him with confused eyes. 

Except Bob. Bob’s stare doesn’t move from where your hand rests on Brigham’s arm. 

You spend the next hour pressed against Brigham, nodding along as he talks about his latest deployment. Apparently, he’s just returned to North Island. After the special detachment—the one with the Dagger Squad—he was sent back to his original squadron, then reassigned here and there before finally landing back in San Diego. 

You couldn’t repeat a single detail if your life depended on it. Because all you’ve been able to focus on is Bob. 

The way he keeps glancing over, the way his posture shifts every time Brigham leans closer, the sharp tick in his jaw. His knuckles are white around a lukewarm bottle of coke, and he hasn’t said more than a few words since Brigham sat down. 

The more you drink, the bolder you feel. You start meeting Bob’s gaze when you catch it—at least, when it’s not locked on Brigham—and every time you do, your pulse jumps. And with each slow, alcohol-fuelled beat, the urge to confront him grows. To finally ask what the hell he meant that night. To find out if your friendship actually means anything to him—if it ever meant anything at all. 

But just as you part your lips to speak, Jake jumps up and declares it’s time to hit the dancefloor. 

You cling to that interruption like a lifeline. 

Because as you slide out of the booth and watch Bob disappear into the crowd—heading toward the bathrooms, not the dancefloor—you realise confronting him now, like this, is only going to end badly. 

The music shifts as you step onto the dancefloor—heavier bass, deeper tempo, something slow enough to roll your hips to and fast enough to forget why you’re here. Lights flicker overhead, casting streaks of colour as you melt into the crowd. Brigham finds you in the haze, hands landing low on your hips like it’s second nature, and you don’t bother correcting him. Even if it feels… wrong. 

You sway with the rhythm, arms draped loosely around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the hair at his nape. You laugh at something he says—not that you heard it—but the sound slips easily enough from your lips. 

For a moment, it’s easy to pretend—until you see him. 

Bob. 

He’s leaning against the far wall just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, half-turned toward Bradley like he’s part of the conversation—but he’s not. His posture’s easy, arms folded, one boot crossed over the other. But even from across the room, he doesn’t quite fit. 

Sweet, awkward Bob. All long limbs and stormy eyes in a neon-drenched club that makes no sense around him. His body’s turned toward his friend, but his eyes? 

They’re on you. Locked. Unmoving. 

There’s something electric in his stare. Not soft, not sweet—hungry. It holds you there, stills your breath, makes the air around you feel thicker. He’s not blinking. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching, like you’re the only thing in the room. 

And you feel it. 

The heat rising up your neck. The low, tight pull in your belly. That wild, reckless urge that’s been coiled in your chest since he walked in. 

So you play it up. You let your head tip back, let your body roll with the bass, just a little slower, a little deeper. You lean closer to Brigham, letting your fingers trail down the front of his chest like you’re having fun—like you’re not thinking about Bob at all. 

But you can still feel that stare. Like it’s touching you. Burning through you. 

When your eyes find his again, he still hasn’t moved. 

The beat throbs under your heels. Brigham’s hands stay loose on your hips. The lights flash, the alcohol hums in your blood—but none of it matters. One song blends into the next. Bob never looks away. 

You try not to keep looking. But you do. Because the longer you stay on that dancefloor with a man you don’t care about, the longer Bob stares. 

Still against the wall. Still pretending to talk. Still watching you. 

So—after three boring songs—you smile, tilt your head, and let your hand trail down Brigham’s chest again, moving slower, closer. 

You catch a flicker of movement in your periphery. And when you glance over again, Bob is gone. Your heart skips, but before you can even fully turn, fingers wrap around your wrist—warm, firm, unrelenting. 

Then he’s there. Beside you. 

He moves quickly, taking you with him as he strides across the dancefloor with dark eyes and a clenched jaw, weaving through the crowd like it isn’t there. He looks out of place—so out of place—but he doesn’t care. Not now. Not with purpose in every step and his hand on you like he’s never letting go. 

He doesn’t say a word. Just pulls. 

Past dancing strangers, through the heavy heat of the club, and into the dim hallway outside the bathrooms—where the music dulls just enough, the air shifts, and suddenly there’s only the two of you. 

He lets go of your wrist like it burns him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You blink. “Excuse me?” 

Bob’s chest rises and falls, his eyes wild. “What—What are you doing?” 

“What’s your problem?” you bite back. 

“My—? My problem?!” His voice pitches up as he drags a hand through his hair. He laughs once—dry and disbelieving. “I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But you’ve iced me out all week, and now you’re doing this?” 

“Doing what?” you demand. 

“This! This isn’t you! This is—it’s—I don’t know, it’s—” 

“Reckless?” you cut in. “Intense? Oh—sorry. Is my baggage showing?” 

He flinches. You see it—clear as day. Like the words punched him in the gut. 

You’ve never seen Bob like this—so worked up, so flustered, like he’s been holding something back for too long and it’s finally starting to slip. His jaw is tight, his cheeks are flushed, and there’s a fire in his eyes that doesn’t quite fit the Bob you know. 

He looks tense. Frustrated. On edge. Not at all like someone who doesn’t care. 

And that’s the most confusing part.  

“Why would you say that?” he asks, voice dropping, shoulders sagging. 

“I didn’t,” you reply. “You did. Last week.” 

He takes a deep breath and tips his head back, realisation settling heavy and hard. “God. Lucky,” he sighs. “I didn’t—” 

“Save it, Floyd,” you cut in, voice rising over the music. “I don’t want excuses. Or lies. If that’s how you really felt about me, you should have just said so. I wouldn’t have burdened you with my friendship all these years.” 

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not how I really feel. I—I didn’t mean those things, I just—” 

“Then why would you say it?” 

He hesitates, brow furrowing. “Why didn’t you tell me you overheard?” 

You huff, disbelieving, throwing your hands up. “Seriously? What would you have done if you heard me talking shit about you?” 

“I—” His breath catches, his eyes dropping to your chest, just for a second, before snapping back to your face. “I don’t know. But you should have said something. God. Lucky, you don’t understand.” 

You fold your arms—very aware of what that does to your breasts. “Understand what?” 

“That I’m in love with you,” he blurts out, each word sharp and undeniable. “I’ve been in love with you for years. Since the first day I met you. And I said those things because—because that’s what I do. I keep you to myself. I tell guys you don’t have a phone. Or that you’re gay. Or—or that you only communicate with fucking carrier pigeons.” 

Your breath catches sharp in your throat. Emotion rises in your chest, wild and fierce. The world feels unsteady, like you’re caught in a dream—sounds blur, lights twist and shimmer at the edges of your vision—and Bob fucking Floyd just told you he loves you.  

“I’m sorry I said those things,” he says, stepping forward, voice lower now. “But I’m also sorry I’ve lied to you for years. Because I love you more than you know. And—and I’ve cockblocked you more times than you know too.” 

His lips twitch into a nervous, watery smile—half proud, half terrified. His eyes are still wide, still a little dark, but now so full of hesitation it makes your heart ache. 

He’s never told you because he doesn’t think you love him back. Even now, he’s bracing for the blow. Waiting for the laugh, or the ‘let’s just be friends’ speech. 

God. He looks so sweet. So nervous. So heartbreakingly Bob Floyd—even in the middle of this stupid club with its stupid lights and its stupid music. 

Without a word, you grab his wrist and shove open the door to one of the accessible bathrooms. You step inside, drag him in after you, and let the door fall shut—sliding the lock into place with a sharp click that echoes like a gunshot. 

“What are you doing?” Bob asks, voice low, unsteady. 

He’s backed up near the vanity, caught in the soft overhead light. It sharpens the lines of his jaw, glints off his glasses, and makes his eyes look lighter—more exposed. He looks completely out of place here. Nervous. Overwhelmed. Already unravelling. 

“Making sure you can hear me,” you say, your voice softer now as you take a slow step forward. 

The room doesn’t feel nearly as spacious as it did earlier. The air is thick—charged and humming with everything unspoken, everything the two of you have been holding in. 

Bob nods. Barely. His hands twitch at his sides, his eyes glued to the floor���like he’s bracing for impact, waiting for the moment you let him down gently, tell him he’s just your friend and nothing more. 

You close the distance, lift a hand to his jaw, and tilt his face up—until he has no choice but to look at you. 

“I want you to hear me when I tell you that I’m in love with you too, Bob Floyd.” 

His eyes go wide. A breath escapes him in a soft, stunned gasp, his cheeks flushing even deeper. “You what?” 

“I love you,” you say, steadier now, lips curving into a soft, slow smile. “I always have. I don’t know how we both got so stupid, but God… I was wrecked when I heard you say those things. I love you so much I was ready to ask for reassignment just to get away. I love you so much I haven’t even thought about loving anyone else since the day I met you.” 

He blinks hard. His chest rises and falls like he’s forgotten how to breathe. 

“You love me?” 

“Yes, you idiot,” you say, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt. “Now fucking kiss me.” 

You pull him down—and he doesn’t hesitate. 

One hand grabs your waist, the other tangles in your hair as he crashes into you, mouth on yours like he’s been holding back for years. It’s not gentle. Not careful. It’s messy and breathless and full of all the things he never said. His lips are hot, desperate, a little clumsy at first—but God, he learns fast. 

You gasp against him, and he takes it like a reward, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your tailbone bumps the edge of the vanity. Then he’s lifting you—strong hands beneath your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—until you’re perched on the counter, legs parting to pull him in. 

The marble is cold beneath your bare skin, but his body is warm between your thighs. 

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s starved. Like he’s been on fire from the moment he saw you in that dress and now he’s finally letting himself burn. His hands are everywhere—your hips, your waist, your jaw. His mouth barely leaves yours, just enough to breathe before he’s right there again, hungrier this time. 

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull, and he groans—deep and low, like the sound was dragged straight from his chest. His glasses slip crookedly down his nose, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. You catch the way his eyes darken even further behind the askew lenses, wild and hungry. 

“This stupid dress,” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. 

His hands roam possessively beneath the fabric, fingers digging into your waist as he grinds his cock against you with a needy roll of his hips. You feel the thick, hard press of him right where you need it, and the heat between you sharpens—filthy, hungry, and impossible to ignore. 

“God, Lucky...” he rasps, voice rough as gravel, lips nipping at your neck. 

Your fingers find the collar of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons as his wet mouth trails along your collarbone. When he finally looks up, his glasses catch the light—glinting at a wild, crooked angle. 

“You look ridiculous,” you tease with a smirk. 

He flushes, just the slightest hint of insecurity flickering through his fierce gaze. 

“Ridiculously fucking sexy,” you whisper, leaning in, lips brushing his jaw. 

His hands explore with increasing urgency, and you arch into him, breathless and burning. 

“Lucky...” he growls, voice low and ragged. “I need you.” 

You pull him closer, heart pounding. “Then take me.” 

That’s all it takes. His hands are moving instantly, pushing your dress down over your shoulders in one fluid motion. Your bra follows—tugged down and discarded with zero ceremony—because he’s not wasting a second. 

Then he’s on you. Everywhere. 

His mouth is hot and open against your skin, dragging across your chest in feverish, reverent kisses. He palms your breasts like he’s dreamt about this—like he’s memorised them in his sleep—and he’s not shy about it either. His thumbs roll over your nipples, teasing until they’re tight and aching, and when you gasp, he hums like he’s pleased with himself. 

He nips your collarbone, teeth just shy of cruel, then licks away the sting as he trails lower—lips, tongue, breath—until he closes his mouth over your left nipple. 

Your hips jerk. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it. Desperation coils hot and deep in your core, tightening with every flick of his tongue. 

His hand finds your other breast again, rougher now, pinching lightly at your nipple as he sucks, and you can feel his smirk even as his mouth stays latched to your skin 

“Bob—fuck,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “Your mouth—” 

He pulls back just enough to blow cool air over your wet nipple, and your back arches, involuntary, like he’s got a string tied to your spine. 

“What was that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You wanna fuck my mouth?” 

You groan again—louder, needier—as he shifts to your right breast and sucks hard, deep, slow, like he’s trying to ruin you one perfect kiss at a time. Your thighs clamp tight around his hips, grounding yourself against the pressure of his body, the friction of his jeans against your bare legs, the delicious hardness pressing between them. 

He moans into your skin, and the sound vibrates straight through you. 

“Bob—” you gasp, voice thin, shaky. “N-Need you. Now.” 

He finishes with a soft bite to your nipple that makes you jolt, then drags his mouth back up to yours—kissing you hard, deep, claiming. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, rougher than you mean to. He groans again, like he likes the sting. 

Then he grinds against you. 

His hips roll forward, dragging the full, thick length of him right against your soaked core, and you gasp into his mouth. There’s too much friction, too much heat, not nearly enough relief. Your thighs twitch around him, clenching on instinct. 

“Bob,” you say again—this time low, warning, wrecked. 

“‘S okay,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I got you.” 

His hands slide down your body, slow and possessive, until they find your hips. He squeezes, hard—fingers digging in like he’s trying to anchor himself—and then pushes your dress up, bunching the soft fabric around your waist. And now there’s almost nothing between you. 

His breath catches. He pulls back just enough to look—and groans, deep and guttural. 

“You’re perfect,” he says, reverent and hungry all at once. Then his mouth is back on yours, more desperate this time, like he’s seconds from losing control. 

Your hands fumble at his shirt, yanking buttons through holes until you reach his belt. Your fingers work quickly, sliding the leather free, popping the button, lowering the zip. His hips buck forward when your hand brushes against him, thick and hot beneath his boxers. 

“Are you sure?” he rasps, voice barely holding together. 

You nod, breathless. “I’m sure.” 

His lips crash back to yours, and then his hands leave you for just a second—long enough to shove his jeans and briefs down past his hips—before they’re back, gripping your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the vanity. 

His thumbs dig into your skin, like he needs to feel you everywhere. And God, the bruises are going to kill you tomorrow—but you want every single one. 

You reach between your bodies, sliding your hand into the space between his low-slung jeans and your bare thighs. He jerks at the first touch—his breath catching, hips stuttering forward. 

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice ragged. His forehead drops to yours, like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. 

You wrap your fingers around him—hard, hot, thick—and stroke once, slow and firm. 

He groans, deep and broken. “Jesus, Lucky—don’t… don’t tease.” 

You bite back a grin, stroking again just to feel him twitch in your hand. “Then hurry up and fuck me.” 

That shatters whatever was left of his restraint. His hand finds the thin scrap of fabric between your legs and pushes it aside, fingers grazing through the wetness there. His breath hitches again. 

“You’re already—” He swallows hard. “God, you’re so wet.” 

He grips your hip, braces his other hand behind you on the counter, and meets your eyes—searching, asking—before he thrusts forward. 

Slow at first. Deliberate. Like he wants to feel every second of you stretching around him. 

You gasp, spine arching, mouth falling open. He’s thick, the stretch almost too much, but your body gives way like it’s been waiting for this. For him. 

“Holy shit,” he groans, jaw slack as he sinks into you. “You feel—fuck. So good. So good.” 

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in, and he starts to move—deep, rolling thrusts that drag moans from your throat before you can stop them. His glasses are still askew, fogging with heat, and you’re obsessed with how he looks like this—wrecked, gorgeous, utterly undone. 

His hands find your waist again, yanking you flush as he grinds into you with a frantic, desperate rhythm that makes your knees tremble. One hand drags up your side, fingertips blazing a slow path over your ribs before curling over the swell of your breast. 

He palms it—rough, reverent—thumb circling your nipple, making your back arch and pulling a gasp from your throat that turns into a whimper. 

“I love you,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, like the words are being dragged out of him. “So fucking much.” 

Your chest clenches, aching with it, echoing the coil twisting tighter and tighter low in your belly. 

“I love you,” you breathe, broken and shaky. 

He groans deep in his chest and starts moving faster, hips snapping into yours with relentless force. Each thrust drags a ragged moan from your lips, each one pulling you closer to the edge. The air is thick with sweat and sex and everything you’ve both kept buried for years. 

His glasses slip lower down his nose, his hair damp with sweat, his face flushed and wild—completely wrecked. He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s never going to let you go. 

You tilt your head back and moan—loud, shameless—the sound echoing through the bathroom with the obscene slap of skin on skin. Then your eyes lock again, and it’s too much—too hot, too filthy, too intimate. You're cock-drunk and completely gone for him, mouth parted, breath hitching as you fall apart in real time. 

He crashes his mouth to yours again, slower now—deeper—like he wants to kiss you into the fucking walls. One hand still works your breast, kneading, tugging, pinching, while the other dips low, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, messy circles that have you shuddering. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, choking on the word. “Bob—I’m gonna—” 

“Yeah?” he pants, voice ragged. “You—you gonna cum? I’ve got you.” 

His thrusts grow harder, deeper, rougher—like he’s pounding the words into you, like he wants you to feel them everywhere. You’re soaked and stretched and it’s so good you almost sob. 

The noises are filthy—wet and desperate, breathless moans and frantic grunts—and neither of you care. Not here. Not now. Not when this is everything you’ve both been craving for years. 

“Oh God,” he groans, breath hot against your throat. “You feel so fucking good. You’re gonna ruin me.” 

You’re both panting, chasing the edge, clinging to each other like you’ll fall apart without it. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and that look—wrecked, awe-struck, completely fucking gone—undoes you. 

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through your spine, your vision going white, your legs locking around him as your whole body shakes. 

Bob’s right behind you—one, two more thrusts—and then he’s groaning low, spilling inside you as he buries his face in your neck, thrusting through it, riding the high with you. You're both shaking, bodies slick, hearts pounding, still grinding, still desperate, still needing to be closer. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just breathe—ragged, uneven, hot against each other’s skin. 

His arms are locked around you, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go. You’re wrapped around him just as tight, hands curled into the back of his shirt, legs still trembling around his waist. The air is thick with sweat and heat and the fading pulse of music beyond the walls. 

He lifts his head just enough to press his forehead to yours, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed. You brush damp hair from his face and lean in to kiss him—slow this time, warm and open and sweet. He kisses you back like it’s all he’s ever known. 

“I love you,” you whisper again, holding him like you mean it. Because you do. God, you do. 

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw. Slower now. Softer. Like he’s memorising you. 

Eventually, you both start to move—reluctantly, lazily—helping each other straighten up, clean up. His hands are gentle as he eases your dress back down over your hips, as he finds your bra and helps you put it back on. You button his shirt for him, laughing quietly at the wrinkled fabric and the way his belt is still half-undone. 

It’s domestic. Intimate. Something about it makes your chest ache. 

You smooth your palms over his chest. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. And even though you’re dressed again, neither of you can stop touching—little brushes, lingering hands, kisses that start slow and deepen fast. 

You’re trying to leave when his back hits the bathroom door with a soft thud, and you lean into him, mouth pressed to his. It’s messy again—smiling, hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless sounds you wouldn’t dare make for anyone else. 

He laughs into your mouth. “If we don’t leave now,” he murmurs, “we’re never leaving.” 

You kiss the corner of his smile. “Fine by me.” 

But then—he stills. Just slightly. And he looks at you like he’s falling all over again. 

His chest rises against yours, breathless still, and then— 

“Marry me,” he says. Low. Unfiltered. Like he couldn’t hold it in if he tried. 

Your heart stumbles. Your breath catches. 

You pull back just far enough to look at him—really look at him. He doesn’t look nervous this time. Just… open. Sure. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to ask. 

“Bob…” 

“I’m serious,” he says, cupping your jaw. “Marry me.” 

You blink, the world slowly tilting off-axis. 

“I want you—no, fuck that,” he leans closer, voice rough with feeling, “I need you. Forever. And if we can’t have forever, then just give me this lifetime. I want to marry you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.” 

He’s so honest, so sure, that for a second you forget how to breathe. You’ve never felt this much love in your life. You didn’t even know this much love existed. And the craziest part is... it doesn’t even feel that crazy. You’ve known Bob for so long that the only missing piece of the puzzle was this. Now you’re whole. You’re perfect—together. It's always been Bob, and it always will be. 

So what’s the point in waiting? What’s the point in dragging it out? You already know him. You need him. You… want to marry him too. 

You step in closer, holding his face between your hands. “I am yours, Bob Floyd. In this lifetime and every lifetime.” 

He swallows, hard. “Is—is that—?” 

“That’s a yes,” you say, grinning, before pushing up onto your toes and crashing your mouth against his. 

He kisses you back with wild, joyful fervour, his arms locking around your waist as he lifts you clean off the ground, making you yelp into his mouth. If this is a dream, you don’t want to wake up. Not ever. Because in this moment, you have everything—everything—you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ll ever need. 

When he finally sets you down, you pull back just enough to catch your breath—both of you panting, grinning like idiots, completely wrecked and radiant. 

“Can’t believe you just proposed to me in a club bathroom,” you say, smirking. 

Bob rolls his eyes, bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Can’t believe you just said yes.” 

You’re just about to kiss him again when— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

“Bob!” Jake’s voice cuts through the door. “Lucky! Are you two in there?” 

Bob freezes. His smile drops. His cheeks flush a deep, immediate red. “Oh no.” 

“We heard… noises,” Javy adds, barely holding back a laugh. “Are you okay?” 

Your eyes go wide, mortified and gleeful all at once, your hand already moving to the lock. 

“What are you doing?” Bob hisses, catching your wrist. 

You glance at him, lips twitching. “What are we supposed to do? Live in here now?” 

“Yes?” he says, eyes wide. “Or wait at least twenty more minutes?” 

You snort, then gently pry his hand from yours and lace your fingers through his. “Relax, Bob,” you murmur. “At least now they’ll know what a woman sounds like when she’s getting properly fucked.” 

Bob makes a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a gasp, his face flushing bright crimson. And with that, you unlock the door and swing it open to reveal the entire squad loitering just outside, trying very badly to look casual and not like they’ve been eavesdropping at all. 

Jake’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes sparkling. “Well, damn. Guess that answers that.” 

Bradley whistles low, laughter threading through it. Phoenix raises a single eyebrow. Javy coughs awkwardly into his hand. Mickey and Reuben just stare, jaws practically on the floor. 

Bob inches behind you, as if hiding could protect him from the coming torrent of teasing. 

You just smile sweetly and squeeze his fingers. “Hey, pervs. Get a good show?” 

Jake chuckles. “Only caught the second act, unfortunately. But damn, Bobby, didn’t know you had it in you to make a woman moan like that.” 

Bob closes his eyes, breathing deep as his free hand squeezes your waist. 

“What was all that murmuring before you opened the door?” Javy asks, brow furrowed. “We couldn’t make it out.” 

You lift a brow. “Oh, you didn’t have a cup pressed to the door?” 

Mickey chuckles sheepishly, holding up an empty glass. 

“God,” you gasp, laughing softly. “Do any of you know the meaning of boundaries?” 

“Lucky, you just fucked Floyd in a club bathroom,” Reuben says, smirking. “And you’re going to lecture us about boundaries?” 

Your cheeks flush, heart pounding hard against your throat. “Actually, I just got engaged to Floyd in a club bathroom. And it was very romantic. Including the sex. So, if you’ll excuse us, I’d like to go home and let this man properly ruin me until I can’t remember how to fly a goddamn jet.” 

You hear Bob choke behind you—on nothing but air—and you don’t even have to look to know his whole face is flaming red. 

But it works. The squad goes quiet, all of them staring—wide-eyed, slack-jawed, somewhere between stunned and delighted. 

You give them one last cheeky grin before pulling Bob away. 

“But it’s my birthday!” Jake calls after you, smirk audible in his voice. “I was supposed to get fucked in the bathroom!” 

[starpeachjelly]

Kindred Spirits ₊˚⊹⋆

Prologue part 1

prologue part 2

summary: Love and deepspace, a game that you played in your past life. As for your current life? You're living in none other than Linkon city, a city from the aforementioned game.

warnings: Brief mentions of death.

word count: 1.2k

author's note: Officially making this a full fledged fanfic! I'm still super nervous about sharing my writing, but hopefully i'll get less anxious as time goes on. Not beta read sorry for any spelling mistakes. <3

You're eleven when the chronorift catastrophe happens. On that same day you get the memories of your old life back. It's an emotional roller coaster. The grief of your own death. The excitement and thrill of being in the game you had loved so much. The dread of realizing you'll have to experience being a teenager all over again.

It takes a while for you to calm down, but when you do, you decide on an important decision. You are going to live a normal life. You do *not* want to get in the way of what fate has planned for the characters of this world. Of course you would have loved to meet them, but you love being alive more.

Your normal life falls apart less than a week later.

She looks just like how you created her, only younger. Caleb and Josephine are standing right beside her. You stare in silence, too stunned to speak. You don't know what to do, your mind and heart are racing. You think about excusing yourself, but before you can speak your mother tells you to go play with the new neighbours. She's already ushering you out the door, not even giving you the chance to object.

The way she looks at you leaves you feeling uneasy. It's as if she knows your thoughts. You half expect her to tell you that you don't belong. Instead she greets you with a wide grin as she tells you her name.

Caleb introduces himself next. You know how much he's suffered, yet you wouldn't be able to tell based on the warmth his smile radiates.

You introduce yourself next, silently hoping you don't look as nervous as you feel. But the second you say your name, she grabs your hand and drags you to go play with Caleb following close behind.

After that day you try to avoid them both as best you can, still determined to keep your distance as to not affect the story this world has planned for her. But no matter how hard you try she always seems to find her way back to you.

You nearly jump out of your skin when you hear her call your name from across the street. You watch as her hand slips out of Caleb's to reach for yours instead, asking if you want to walk to school together. You instinctively glance at Caleb who's wearing the same warm smile from your first meeting. However, you're not oblivious to the subtle annoyance in his eyes.

You're about to politely decline her offer, looking back at her with her wide hopeful eyes and bright smile… You end up walking to school together.

Lunch rolls around and she's quick to sit next to you even though you're sitting with your friends. You're all older than her by a few years, yet she doesn't seem out of place. Her confidence is admirable, endearing even. But you're still worried about how she seems to be growing so fond of you so quickly. At least this time Caleb is busy with his own friends, which means you don't have to be subjected to any more jealous staring.

When school ends a small body wraps its arms around one of yours the moment you step foot outside the building. You look down to see her once again staring up at you with her big ol' eyes. The same eyes you remember spending an embarrassing amount of time customizing. She's asking you to come back home with her to help her on her homework.

Before you can answer a sudden chill runs down your spine. You don't even need to turn your gaze to know who's staring at you. You try to tell her that Caleb should help her instead. After all he is her best friend, and you two still don't know each other very well. (She doesn't know you well. But you know everything about her thanks to your love of a 3D dating sim.) Your suggestion falls on deaf ears. There's nothing you can do as she drags you home with surprising strength for an eight year old.

The next day you try leaving for school early. She manages to catch up to you before you're even a block away from your home.

You make sure to sit between two friends during lunch. Your butt barely has time to hit your seat before one of them gets invited to sit with her crush, leaving an empty seat behind. The spot immediately gets filled by a tinier body.

School ends, you hide in the bathroom until you're sure the majority of the students have left. You creek open the door and peer into the hallway, all you see are few teachers and a couple students. There's no sign of her. Slowly, hesitantly, you make your way to your locker. For once you've successfully managed to avoid her. A wave of relief washes over you as you put in your locker combination and swing open the door.

You grab your gym clothes, lunch bag, homework… One good thing about gaining your memory back is that elementary schoolwork is a breeze. Your heart drops to your ass when you close the door to reveal her waving at you from down the hall.

The possibility of her stalking you crosses your mind after the third week of her showing up wherever you are. Unfortunately the probabilities of an eight year old stalking you is incredibly low. It's also hard to believe she would do something so sinister when seems so innocent and harmless.

Every time you look at her your heart aches. Partly in fear of not knowing what's going to happen if she keeps clinging to you like this. But also because you keep thinking of everything she's gone through, and all the hardships she still has yet to face.

Eventually, when weeks turn into months, you come to accept the fact that no matter how hard you try you won't be able to avoid her. Worry and paranoia still cling to you. It's hard not to feel anxious when you don't know how your unexpected presence will impact the story.

Despite your apprehension you find yourself enjoying the time you spend with her. It's as if you're kindred spirits. When she laughs you can't help be laugh as well. When she cries you feel your heart ache. Everything she feels, you feel too.

On one random night you find yourself mourning your previous life. Sure your past life hadn't been perfect, but that doesn't stop you from missing those you were close with. You wonder how they're doing, if they miss you as much as you miss them. Yes, you love your new family and friends. Even so, there's a sense of loneliness that has weighed heavy on your heart ever since you regained your memories.

The next day you're caught off guard when she pulls you into an unexpected hug on your walk to school. When you look at her you see the glint of unshed tears in her eyes. She doesn't say anything. Unspoken words hang between the two of you. It slowly dawns on you. As she holds you tight, you realize now that she also feels what you feel.

tag list: @chocochip-gaia , @plzdonutpercieveme

[inhuman-obey-me]

do you remember the ask you did for the brothers about mc catching them doing something demonic?? could you do that but with the side characters?

Hi hello this is WAY overdue and I am so sorry it's taken this long to get around to it if you're even still around!! But yes, definitely wanted to do a version with the side characters for this. These...got much longer than the previous ones, so please take that as an apology for taking years to get to this.

Previous post referenced can be found here!

[Mod Cosmos]

MC accidentally catching the Side Characters being Demonic or Violent

content warning: blood, gore, implied body horror

Note: As before, this is from the perspective of an MC that might just not want to necessarily see all this

DIAVOLO

You were staying the night at the Demon Lord's Castle, exhausted after a long day running around with Diavolo. Despite your exhaustion, you find yourself waking up in the middle of the night — and notice that the Demon Prince is no longer resting beside you. Wondering where he's gone and figuring he must have had something to do, you try and fall back asleep, but to no avail. After some tossing and turning, you decide to get up and take a walk to the garden, hoping that its usual tranquility will help bring back the slumber that now escapes you.

On your way, you hear a distant crash, like glass shattering against stone. Remembering the many stories of how haunted the castle was, a chill creeps down your spine. You know its better to leave it be (just go to the garden, you tell yourself) but your curiosity gets the better of you, as it always does. With careful steps, you make your way down the hall from where you heard the crash, the portraits on the wall watching your every move with morbid glee. Every cell in your body is screaming for you to turn back, and you almost do — until you hear a hysterical laugh swiftly cut off by an agonized yell. A muffled voice soon follows, and you recognize it well.

"Your mistake, like all your predecessors, is mistaking my tolerance for weakness." Diavolo's voice becomes clear as you creep towards an archway, and your heart leaps into your throat at the scene before you. Blood stains the walls, a demon you don't recognize made further unrecognizable by the disfigurement of his flesh, as if it was melting from his bones. "A pity it had to come to this, Guthor. I'll send my regards to your little association." The mockery in the prince's voice is rare to hear, and in a flash the other demon is reduced to nothing but cinders.

"—MC?" Your startled at the sound of your name, and before you can blink you find yourself staring into worried golden eyes. "What are you doing here?! You should be asleep." His four wings fully unfurl, as if to block your view of the gruesome remains. "I…I apologize that you witnessed that." He cups your chin, taking in your unsettled expression. "I'll answer any questions you have, but let's first return to my room, shall we? I'll get you whatever you need."

BARBATOS

Your whole body vibrates as bass, drums, and discordant guitar riffs pour out the speakers at Tartarus Hall, a metal show well underway. It's not the usual environment one would find Barbatos, but you jumped at the chance to accompany him to the show when he cautiously offered. It delighted you to see him outside of the stiffness of his day-to-day duties, and although he still doesn't seem to break too much from his usual statuesque nature, you can certainly tell he's more relaxed.

Eventually deciding to take a break from the rowdy crowd, the two of you make your way to the bar for some much needed refreshments. As Barbatos hands you a drink, you notice something grabs his attention — and an ominous shadow falls over his features. Positioning you safely in a corner by the bar, Barbatos gives you a small smile.

"I'm going to use the restroom, so please stay here until I get back."

You nod and wait patiently, enjoying the music from a distance while sipping your drink, wondering what it was that really captured his attention. After a while, you find yourself with an empty glass and still no Barbatos in sight, so you decide you'll make a quick trip to the restroom yourself. After asking the bartender to let your demon companion know of your whereabouts if he gets back before you do, you make your way through the crowd and down a narrow hall lit with neon signs — and that's when you start to hear it. Screams.

At first, you wonder if its just from the vocalist on stage, but it sounds far closer to you than from the speakers. With a gulp, you cautiously turn a corner and can soon make out a familiar voice, muffled behind a door that isn't quite closed all the way. Peering in, you see Barbatos towering over another, a sharp object in his hand glistening with blood. You stomach twists. "I wish I could have more time with you, but I must return to someone far more important." He sighs, ignoring the other's pleas for mercy. "All you traitors sing the same."

In an instant, the other demon is dead on the floor. Before you can even move to take a step back, you find yourself face-to-face with Barbatos, a gasp leaving your lips as his tail captures your waist and pulls you away from the scene and back to the neon corridor.

"You can't help yourself, can you, dear?" Barbatos scolds, though his gaze softens as he checks you over. "I apologize for leaving you for so long, and for having to witness that. Let's go enjoy the rest of the show for now, shall we?"

SIMEON

It had been some time since your last visit to the human world, so Simeon had decided to gift you with a surprise trip — just the two of you, enjoying all that this coastal city had to offer. There was also a local festival in full swing, which meant dragging Simeon stall to stall to try a variety of food and play some games. You both eventually take a break away from all the festivities to enjoy the sunset, the last rays of the daylight disappearing into the horizon as waves crash on rocks below. You turn to smile at Simeon, but notice that something feels…off. In fact, you had sensed a feeling of tension from him since an encounter earlier that day with a less-than-friendly stranger.

"Simeon? Are you okay? You're not still thinking about that guy, are you?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm sorry." Whatever darkness his eyes held a moment ago disappears, his gaze gentle as he looks to you. "Just a little tired, not to worry. Why don't you go look at some souvenirs," he motions to a cute store a few steps away, "…to bring back for the others, and I'll go fetch us some coffee?"

You agree, though can't quite shake off your concern. Watching from the corner of your eye, you see Simeon wander off before turning into an alley. Leaving the souvenir shopping behind, you decide to follow the angel to see what he's really up to. It's quieter in this part of town, and even quieter in the alley with no cafe in sight. You hear a dull thud and quickly follow the noise, peeking around a corner down another alley — only to freeze at what you saw.

It's a dead-end, and a man is backed up against the brick wall, holding a knife out towards Simeon as if in self-defense. You recognize the man as the one who had harassed you earlier, nearly bruising your arm when he tried to drag you off somewhere. You had managed to shake him off and thought that was the end of it, but Simeon clearly had other ideas.

An ethereal glow emanates from the angel, your eyes beginning to sting as your vision becomes slightly warped. The man opens his mouth as if to scream, but no sound comes out, and he drops his knife to the floor. "You are lucky I am only giving you a warning," Simeon's voice seems to echo, his hand now splayed out across the other's chest. "Reflect on your actions and repent, or next time you won't be so lucky."

A flash of light momentarily blinds you, causing you to stumble back. As you regain a sense of your surroundings, you find your face cupped by gentle hands and your gaze met with bewildered celestial eyes.

"MC! I…I'm sorry. That man continued to follow us throughout the day and was intent on hurting you." His voice is full of worry, his fingers flitting across your body to ensure that you were okay. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"Is he—?" You begin to ask.

"He'll be fine, just…terrified for quite some time." Simeon clears his throat, his features showing relief once he's confirmed you're not harmed. "Let's go get something to eat, okay? Whatever you want."

SOLOMON

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind, filled with various events and obligations that had kept you away from your sorcerer studies with Solomon. Far overdue for a lesson, you were finally getting together tonight to practice a few new complicated spells. You decide to stop by the market to pick up a few snacks, texting Solomon to ask if there's anything he wants. A few minutes pass and he fails to respond, so you give him a quick call, assuming he's probably not paying attention to his DDD.

No answer. You sigh and decide to just get what you know he likes before making your way to Purgatory Hall. Taking the more scenic route, you leisurely walk through one of your favorite parks, going over some of the spells in your head — but your mind begins to wander as you notice that Solomon still hasn't returned your texts or call, even though he should be expecting you later. He was usually quick to respond, especially when it came to his "favorite apprentice", as he so often said. He's probably just deep in one of his books or experiments, you assure yourself, but the slight sense of unease forming in your stomach won't go away.

Then, you sense it. A faint warmth on your hand coming from the sorcerer's ring that Solomon had gifted you. He had recently imbued a spell on both your ring and his to let you know when the other was close, but you still were no where near Purgatory Hall. Rather, the ring was pulling you towards another path that went into the forest.

"Stop, stop! I'm sorry, okay?!" You eventually hear a coarse voice, so you quietly hide behind a tree and peer around to see what's going on, eyes widening at what you find. A demon seems to be brutally bound to the floor, blood seeping from his eyes and mouth as he looks up and pleads to the sorcerer who put him in such a position.

"Coming to your senses after you tried to take away mine?" Solomon answers in a mocking and cold tone. "You should have known better than to try your tricks on me, Pinen." He takes a few steps towards the demon, squatting down to get more to his level. "And," his voice is dangerously low and furious, "…you should have thought twice before trying to threaten my apprentice. Have fun getting out of this one."

The demon opens his mouth to scream, but you blink and he's gone. You blink again and find Solomon before you, his hands gently gripping your shoulders and worry in his eyes, a shadow of guilt on his features. Of course, he must have sensed you were nearby.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to get caught up in this." He glances down and scoops up the bag that you must have dropped at some point. "I'll explain what happened and what I did once we're out of here, okay?"

[screaminglygay]

It´s nothing

pairing: yelena belova x fem!reader

summary: yelena is dragged into the medbay with a bullet wound in her hand and a bad mood to match. you’re the avenger´s medic. what starts as a simple check-up turns into something more as you slowly find your way into her heart.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: emotional vulnerability, minor injury, mentions of medical care and treatment, slight swearing

an: there are NOT ENOUGH YELENA FICS. why is it that I go to the tag and see every character but her?? this fic is my contribution to fix that injustice. also shoutout to the medics out there, i tried to do some research, but not sure if it´s correct:D

part one | part two

The doors to the med wing burst open. You glance up from your desk, pen pausing mid-note. It’s never good when someone enters like that.

"(Y/N)!" Kate Bishop’s voice rings out before you even spot her. She’s grinning, breathless, and flanked by Natasha Romanoff on one side and between them, a very scowly blonde with a bleeding hand.

"Please," the blonde mutters, "I can walk. I am not a potato sack."

"Could’ve fooled me," Natasha deadpans, barely breaking stride as she drags her by the arm, "you’re leaking all over the hallway."

"I’m fine."

Kate gestures toward the nearest exam table. "She’s not fine."

You raise an eyebrow and stand, already pulling on gloves, "what can I help you with?"

Before Romanoff can answer, the blonde, who you now recognize as Yelena, her sister, new Avenger and walking embodiment of resistance to medical care, answers flatly.

"Nothing. Thank you."

You blink once. Then glance at her arm, soaked glove, torn fabric, blood trailing down to her wrist. Then back at her unimpressed stare.

"…Right."

"Sit down," Natasha orders, giving Yelena a little shove toward the exam table.

"I said I’m-"

"Injured," you finish for her, calmly setting out antiseptic and bandages, "which is sort of my whole thing."

"I do not need your-"

"Sit," Natasha says again, this time with the terrifying big sister voice. Even you straighten a little.

Yelena reluctantly hops onto the table, muttering something in Russian under her breath. You’re ninety percent sure it translates to some swear words.

Kate leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed. "Mission in Riga went sideways. Some idiot with a rooftop sniper popped off early. We got the civilians out, but someone," she tilts her head toward Yelena, "decided catching a bullet was a solid tactic."

"I was covering your blind spot," Yelena snaps.

"And we love you for it," Kate sings sweetly, patting her knee.

You try not to laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as you clean around the wound. Yelena stiffens like you’re threatening to amputate. "I’m just cleaning it," you assure her.

"You’re poking at it."

"That’s how cleaning works," you say dryly.

She scowls harder.

You glance at the entry wound and sigh. "Few inches to the left and we’d be having a very different conversation, miss Belova."

That earns you an annoyed look. But she quiets. Not from pain, you sense, but from guilt. Silence spreads around, everyone just looking at Yelena´s arm and you stitching her up. But there is some tension you can´t really shake away. You can tell, especially from Yelena herself since her muscles are very tight.

"I ruined the mission," she mumbles.

"Yelena," Natasha says, exasperated. "You saved a kid from getting shot. The only thing you ruined was your suit."

Kate leans closer to you, whispering behind her hand. "She’s been dramatic about this for like twenty minutes. It’s kinda cute."

You smile, just a little, "like a dog before the vet?"

"Exactly!" Kate says, that makes you smile once again.

"I can hear you," Yelena grumbles.

You pat her wrist gently, "you were lucky. But let’s not make it a habit."

She doesn’t respond, but her eyes linger on your face a beat longer than necessary. You feel your heart flicker. Uh-oh. What- no.

You secure the last piece of bandage over Yelena’s palm with practiced ease. "There," you say softly, smoothing the edge with your thumb. "No nerve damage, just a clean graze. It’ll need a check-up in two days to make sure there’s no infection."

Yelena rolls her eyes, "I’ll live."

"That’s the idea," you reply with a faint smile. "Two days, miss Belova. Don’t make me hunt you down."

"She will," Kate chimes in, arms crossed again like she's giving a ted talk in the corner of your medbay. "I’ve been hunted."

You glance at her, amused, "you tripped on your own bowstring and fell from a second floor."

"It was one time!"

"Twice," you and Natasha say at the same time.

Kate scowls. "Betrayal. Anyway-" she turns back to Yelena, "You heard the medic. Been there, done that. If you don’t show up, Fury’s gonna kick your ass and make you file incident paperwork for the next six weeks."

Yelena frowns, "I do not do paperwork."

"Then let (Y/N) help you. She's very good at lying for us in the report," Kate grins. "Right, doc?"

You shrug, mock-innocent, "I don’t recall anything unusual. Miss Belova bravely sustained a minor injury in the course of protecting civilians."

Yelena’s eyes flick toward you again, slightly less stormy now. "You’re good at this."

You glance up, "patching people up?"

She holds your gaze, "making it not feel so horrible."

…Oh. You weren’t expecting that.

Kate, apparently catching the subtle shift in tone, chooses that moment to stretch. "Well! My work here is done. Nat, you owe me ten bucks, she didn’t bite anyone."

"I never agreed to that bet," Natasha says as she heads for the door.

Kate waves a hand, "details."

You follow them to the door, letting Yelena slide off the exam table behind you. She still holds her hand a little awkwardly, like it feels unfamiliar now.

"Two days," you remind her gently, "same time."

Yelena stops beside you, "okay."

...

You glance at the clock. She’s fifty minutes late. Not that you’re watching the clock or anything. Not that you’ve already replayed the conversation in your head once. Or twice. Maybe three times.

You’re starting to wonder if she bailed when the door finally swings open, just a little too hard, like it lost an argument on the way in.

Yelena steps inside, hoodie half-zipped, blonde hair slightly slicked back. Not dramatically injured. Just… tired.

You look up from your desk, "I was afraid you wouldn’t show up," you say lightly. "I almost started hunting you down."

She shrugs, gaze flicking to the floor and back again, "had to deal with something."

You nod, not pushing. But even if she hadn’t said it, you’d know. Something's off. Her whole posture is different, less sharp-edged and more… slouched in on itself.

"Come on," you say gently, and motion to the same exam table.

She sits without protest this time, but she doesn’t meet your eyes.

You unwrap the bandage and examine the healing wound. It’s clean, no signs of infection, the scab smooth and pink.

"Looks good," you murmur, carefully rotating her hand. "Healing fast. No swelling. I’ll rewrap it, but you should let it breathe a little at night."

Yelena nods, but doesn’t say anything.

You glance up again. Still that silence. Still that weight in her shoulders, like she’s wearing something too heavy for one person.

You clear your throat softly. "There’s some scar cream I can recommend. Stuff Nat probably never used, but it helps. I’ll print out a sheet with tips for minimizing scarring, heat, pressure, massage, all that."

Another nod.

You start to wrap her hand again, slower this time. More deliberate. Then you stop. "One more thing," you say gently, looking up at her. "Are you okay?"

That finally gets her attention. She lifts her eyes to meet yours. And something in them flickers, confusion, hesitation, like she’s not sure how to lie to you and not sure how to tell the truth, either.

Yelena exhales, sharp and shallow.

"The mission was stupid," she mutters. "And now I have pain in my ass from the people upstairs asking why I didn’t save three buildings while juggling a bunch of agents on my own. So. Just a total failure. Very exciting. Five stars."

You smile, but it’s a sad one, "sounds exhausting."

"They sit on their asses and yell about tactics from ten floors above ground," she mutters. "Like.... like it is chess. But it is not chess. It is people bleeding. People panicking. And I’m out there trying not to get everyone killed."

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her hand in yours again and finish wrapping the bandage, not rushed, not clinical. Careful. Gentle. Like someone seeing the person beneath the bruises.

"I’m sorry," you say quietly. "You don’t deserve that."

Yelena stares at you. Just for a second. Like no one’s ever said that to her before. Or like no one’s ever meant it. Yelena’s voice is quiet, barely more than breath, "thank you."

You glance up from her hand, surprised by the softness in her tone. But her eyes aren’t on the bandage. They’re on you. You nod once. A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, "anytime."

...

You’re sorting inventory when the door to the medbay opens. You don’t even turn around at first. "You’re early for your check-up," you call over your shoulder. "It’s not for another-"

You pause as you turn and see her. Her stance is stiff, and there’s something off in the way she’s holding her shoulder, slightly hunched, as if she's trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt while also not being able to stop it from hurting.

Your tone softens, "oh."

She doesn’t say anything. Just steps inside, closes the door quietly behind her, and stands there like she’s not sure if this was a good idea.

"What happened?" you ask gently, already reaching for gloves.

She shakes her head once, "It´s nothing bad."

You raise an eyebrow, "right. Paper cut is nothing bad,” you motion to the table. "Suit off. Let me see."

Yelena hesitates for just a second, then wordlessly begins peeling back the upper half of her tactical suit. You do your best not to watch too closely as the fabric shifts down her arm, revealing the bruising already blooming over her shoulder and upper bicep, deep, violet-pink, painful just to look at.

No gash this time. No blood. Just impact. Bone-deep and messy. You step closer and gently brush your fingers just above the bruise, testing the reaction without pressing.

"Not dislocated. That’s something. It’ll be sore for a few days. I’ll tape it for compression." Yelena nods, staying quiet.

You glance up at her as you begin preparing the wrap, raising a brow. "Are you getting hurt just to see me?"

That makes her head snap toward you.

Caught.

There’s a flash of something in her eyes... surprise, maybe. Embarrassment? It's hard to tell. But her cheeks color just slightly, like she wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

You give her a playful smirk, still wrapping her shoulder. "Because I doubt hero like you is this clumsy."

She stares at you for a beat, then mutters under her breath, "I’m not a hero."

You glance up again, meeting her eyes with calm certainty. "You’re jumping in front of civilians. Protecting your team. Saving the world. That sounds like the definition of a hero to me."

She scoffs softly, "well… says the medic."

You chuckle under your breath as you finish taping the wrap, "guess we’re both doing what we can."

There’s a quiet moment between you then. Not uncomfortable. Just… full of something unspoken.

You smile at her gently, "you can come by, you know. Even when you’re not bleeding."

Yelena tilts her head. "And do what? Let you lecture me about scar cream?"

You grin, "if that’s what it takes."

She huffs a laugh. And even though she doesn’t say anything more, she doesn’t leave right away either.

...

Once again Yelena slides into the medbay five minutes late for her check-up, hoodie pulled over her usual black tank top, hands stuffed in her pockets.

You glance up from your tablet and smile, "look who decided to show up."

She shrugs with her good shoulder, "told you I’d come."

You set the tablet down and gesture to the exam table, "hop up, Belova. Let’s see how that shoulder’s doing."

She climbs up without complaint, though she winces slightly as she rolls the hoodie off her injured side. The bruise has changed color, less angry, more faded, but still deep enough to make your brow furrow.

"How’s the pain?" you ask, fingers gentle as you palpate the joint.

She shrugs again, "it’s fine. Just a little sore."

"Mhm," you hum. Then you press just below the clavicle and watch her flinch. "Still sore?"

"It’s nothing. I’ve been resting."

You pause. Look her in the eye, "have you?"

"Yeah, yeah," she waves you off, looking away a little too quickly. "Totally."

You narrow your eyes, "Yelena." Her eyes flick back to yours. Innocent. Too innocent.

You sigh, stepping back, arms crossing, "you’ve been training, haven’t you?"

"... no"

You raise one eyebrow slowly.

" … lightly."

"Yelena, your shoulder still has inflammation around the supraspinatus. If you keep pushing it, you’re risking a rotator cuff tear."

She blinks, "that sounds bad."

"It is bad. And painful. And you’ll be benched for months, which, knowing you, would drive you completely insane."

"I don’t do benches."

"Exactly. So let it heal properly."

She grumbles something in Russian under her breath, and you hand her a gel pack.

"Use this tonight. No push-ups. No sparring. No throwing knives with that arm."

"Only with the other one," she mutters with a faint smirk.

You sigh, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your lips too. She hops off the table, wincing slightly again.

"You’re free to go," you say, trying to sound casual. "As long as you rest."

Just as she reaches the door, the calm voice of F.R.I.D.A.Y. fills the room.

"Miss Belova, you are required at the quinjet bay in fifteen minutes. New mission briefing in progress."

You freeze, "wait, what?"

Yelena pauses, like she hoped you didn’t hear that.

Your eyes widen, "oh, absolutely not."

Yelena turns slowly, "it’s just-"

"You’re injured."

"I’m fine."

You walk toward her, voice firm now. "You’ve got limited rotation in your dominant shoulder, you’re still bruising internally, and you just said it hurts. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s ignoring medical advice."

You snatch your tablet from the counter, fingers flying over the screen. A few swipes and taps later, you enter a temporary hold on Yelena’s deployment clearance, medical evaluation pending. You barely finish typing the last line when your comms device buzzes.

You glance at the caller ID and sigh. Of course.

"Medbay, (Y/L/N) speaking," you answer, putting the call on speaker out of pure principle.

"Miss (Y/L/N)," comes the clipped voice of someone two floors up and far too high on the food chain to care about bruised shoulders, "I see you’ve just submitted an availability block on agent Belova?"

"She just finished her check-up with me five minutes ago," you reply, calmly but with steel under it. "Her shoulder is still compromised. She’s not ready for a mission... any type."

A pause on the other end. "That information should’ve been input prior to deployment call. You’ve now created a discrepancy in the field team manifest."

"I’m sorry," you say flatly, unapologetically. "But my priority is my patient’s well-being, not your paperwork."

Another pause. Slightly longer. Then, with clipped resignation, "fine. We’ll pull another name. But we will talk."

"Looking forward to it," you say sweetly, and hang up.

The moment the comm cuts, you realize how quiet it’s gotten. Yelena leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, impressed.

"Wow…" she says after a beat, voice half amusement, half awe. "Didn’t know you could order them around like that."

You glance over, shrugging with forced nonchalance. "I usually don’t have to. But I also usually don’t have Avengers trying to sneak into the field with half-functioning shoulders."

Yelena gives a low chuckle, then winces, "okay. Maybe quarter-functioning."

You tilt your head at her, not smiling, not scolding. Just looking.

"Why do you do that?" you ask softly. "Always willing to tear yourself apart for them?"

She shrugs, "that’s the job."

"No. That’s you." You soften. "But just for today, maybe let someone else carry the weight?"

Yelena studies you for a moment, "you always talk to your patients like this?"

You grin, "only the stubborn ones."

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to you. You roll your eyes, but the smile lingers, "go rest, Belova. That’s a medical order."

She salutes playfully, smirk reappearing, "yes, doctor."

Thank you for reading:)

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 5 - backcourt violation]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Azzi keeping things professional is proving harder than expected. She keeps pulling back, but Paige’s persistence is relentless—showing up with takeout, stealing glances, and testing every boundary.

It’s a quiet tug-of-war, and Azzi’s defense is starting to crack. Word count: 4,430

A luxurious rooftop bar, Manhattan. April 2025. 

“You own the team?!” 

Azzi looked at her, lips parted slightly like she might say something. But she didn’t. She just gave a single nod, smooth and unbothered.    Paige scrubbed a hand down her face, eyes narrowed like she was betrayed. 

“You my boss lady?” 

Azzi didn’t flinch. She adjusted her glass on the ledge, back to the city lights. 

Paige dropped her voice, mock-serious. “Do you, like… sign checks? Make cuts? Have secret rich-people meetings?” 

Azzi gave the faintest smile. “Yes.” 

Paige stepped closer, her disbelief loud. “You let me say all that stuff back at the suite. You let me flirt with you. While being my future boss.” 

“You didn’t seem like someone who needed permission.” 

“Oh I didn’t,” Paige said, hand on her chest like she was scandalized. “But damn, I was out here throwing my best lines. I asked if you wanted nuggets and affection. You just sat there looking like money.” 

Azzi shifted her gaze to her, unreadable. “Is that your usual pitch?” 

“It’s undefeated,” Paige said. “Except apparently when the girl is secretly the owner of a WNBA team and I find out during the afterparty like some clueless walk-on.” 

"Your intentions were loud, even without words." Azzi said, tone even. 

“I had no idea I was seducing upper management,” Paige said. “You looked like you stepped out of a Forbes cover story just to ruin someone’s life.” 

“And you looked like you wanted yours ruined.” 

Heat spiked up Paige’s neck. She coughed once, failed at hiding her grin. 

“So what now?” she asked. “Is this where you say I’m being inappropriate and escort me back to the buffet table?” 

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She lifted her gaze back to the skyline, face unreadable. 

“This is where I remind you,” she said, “that the draft is over. You're under contract. And I expect professionalism.” 

Paige leaned against the railing beside her, shoulder brushing close. 

“Professionalism. Got it,” she said. “But if I ever happen to flirt again—hypothetically—it’s because I respect my boss deeply.”    "You’re insufferable.”    “No, I’m just realizing I shot my shot at the one person who can cut my career short before it even starts.” 

“I’d never do that,” Azzi said, voice low and measured. “I’d let you suffer slowly.” 

“Comforting.” 

Azzi turned back to the skyline. “Are you going to keep spiraling, or are you going to enjoy your party?” 

Paige stepped closer. “That depends. You gonna keep looking like that?” 

- 

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. April 2025.   

The soundstage echoed with flashes and instructions. Rookies moved in and out of frame, holding poses with branded balls, showing off their new gear. Purple backdrops. Gold lighting.  

A camera operator gestured for a little more chin tilt. Someone from PR handed over a sweat towel between takes. 

Azzi stood off to the side, poised near the monitors. She’d been invited by the media director to observe. Just a short check-in. No remarks. Her role, technically, didn’t require her presence. But her name carried enough weight that everyone straightened when they noticed her watching. 

She kept her expression still. 

Across the set, Paige Bueckers stepped in front of the lens. 

She wore the fresh Valkyries kit like it belonged on her. Jersey tucked. The lighting flattered her angles in ways that weren’t exactly accidental. 

Paige caught her watching. That grin showed up instantly. 

Azzi’s jaw flexed once. 

The photographer signaled for Paige to turn. She did—with a wink aimed directly across the room. 

Azzi exhaled through her nose, subtle and sharp. She didn’t react. Her arms folded tighter. Her heels shifted half a step, just enough to re-center her stance. 

The assistant next to her leaned in. “She’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Paige. 

Azzi didn’t answer. 

Because she already knew that. 

-    Azzi’s office in the Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. April 2025. 

The only light in the room came from her screen. 

Azzi sat in her high-backed chair, one hand resting lightly on her mouse, eyes fixed on a folder full of media day selects. Hundreds of images lined the display—rookies posing with basketballs, arms crossed under bright lighting, gear freshly unboxed and pressed for show. 

She clicked through them with practiced indifference. A few she flagged for approval, others she passed without a second glance. 

Then she paused. 

One frame held her attention longer than she meant to let it. 

Paige, mid-laugh, half-turned toward the camera. Jersey sharp, hair pulled back, the kind of confidence that couldn’t be coached. Something about her grin felt uncontained, a little unruly. 

Azzi didn’t notice she’d clicked back until it happened twice. She closed the folder abruptly. 

Her head throbbed faintly. Too much screen time. Too many decisions. 

The knock on the door came before she could stand. 

She turned, expecting Ines or maybe someone from security. 

Instead, the door opened to Paige Bueckers holding a brown paper bag and two bottles of water. 

“Hope you’re not the type to pull a fire alarm over Chinese takeout,” Paige said, stepping in. 

Azzi didn’t speak, but the surprise look on her face was subtle. 

“I figured you haven’t eaten. You’ve got that CEO glow. You know, the kind that screams underfed and overscheduled.” 

Paige crossed the room without waiting for permission, dropping the bag on Azzi’s coffee table. She didn’t touch anything else. 

Azzi kept her expression still. “This isn’t a locker room.” 

“Yeah, and you don’t look like someone who’s ever been in one. Still, I figured saving your life with spring rolls might earn me ten minutes of your time.” 

Azzi stood, slowly, smoothing the front of her blazer. Her heels made a sharp sound against the floor. 

Paige smiled. “You’re welcome, by the way.” 

“You’re assuming I accept.” 

“You didn’t kick me out yet.” Paige pulled out a takeout container, already unwrapping it. “I’ll take that as a win.” 

The smell curled through the air—ginger, garlic, roasted heat. Azzi’s stomach twisted, caught between protest and surrender. 

Azzi looked down at the takeout, lips pressed in a thin line. She wasn’t sure when she’d last eaten. Maybe a salad between meetings, maybe not even that.  

The scent rising from the bag was warm and grounding, annoyingly tempting. 

Her gaze flicked to Paige, still standing there like she belonged in her office, too casual, too confident. 

Azzi exhaled. 

“Sit,” she said, gesturing toward the couch. “You brought it. You might as well eat.” 

Paige didn’t hesitate. “You sure? I don’t want HR on my ass eating with my boss.” 

Azzi gave her a look. “You’re not charming enough to cause a scandal.” 

“I’m working on it,” Paige grinned, dropping onto the couch and unboxing the food like it was a date. “But I’ll warn you, if you fall in love over chow mein, I take zero responsibility.” 

Azzi sat beside her, a careful distance away. “I don’t fall in love.” 

Paige didn’t miss a beat. She smirked, dragging her eyes down and up again with unbothered confidence. “Then I guess I’ve got work to do.” 

The joke landed with ease, but Azzi didn’t laugh. 

It was supposed to be harmless. A flirt. But it slipped past the armor. She could feel the tension curling behind her ribs, thick and uninvited.  

Paige made everything look easy. Like Azzi wasn’t the one with something to lose. 

She reached for her chopsticks, needing something to do with her hands. 

“Eat your food, Rookie.” 

- 

Fudd Children’s Hospital, San Francisco. May 2025. 

The children’s hospital lobby gleamed under soft lighting, rebranded banners hung beside old family crests. The Fudd name was stitched into the walls, into the hospital wings named after her late grandparents, into the polished marble floor that stretched beneath Azzi’s heels.  

She stood near the welcome desk, navy suit tailored so precisely it looked like it had been sewn onto her frame that morning.  

Cameras clicked in slow rhythm around her, the press orbiting politely but closely, waiting for her to smile. She hadn’t yet. 

A rustle of laughter echoed from the end of the hall. 

Paige stood near the arts table, crouched beside a boy holding up a finger-painted Valkyries logo. The hem of her untucked white button-up brushed the waistband of her pants. The sleeves were rolled like she'd helped clean up glue moments ago, and she had paint on her wrist. 

She looked up, grinning. 

“Hello there Ms. Fudd,” Paige greeted, her voice warm and low. 

Azzi’s eyes flicked to the cameras, then back to her. “You’re early.” 

“I’m punctual for anything that involves finger paints and royalty,” Paige said, straightening. 

Azzi lifted one brow. “Try not to stain the walls.” 

Paige took a few steps forward, eyes skimming the curve of Azzi’s collar. “Can’t promise anything. I get distracted when boss ladies wear navy like it’s a weapon.” 

The photographer waved them together for a photo. Paige didn’t wait for approval. She stepped beside her, shoulder brushing lightly, too casual for strangers. 

“Smile like you like me,” Paige whispered. 

Azzi’s gaze stayed ahead, lips curving just enough for the cameras. “I’m tolerating you. There’s a difference.” 

Click. 

Paige leaned a little closer, whispering under her breath. “You’re so hot when you lie.” 

Azzi inhaled once, sharp and shallow, then stepped away just as the camera lowered. Her expression didn’t change, but Paige caught the way her fingers flexed. 

A nurse gestured toward the playroom.  

They were meant to make an appearance, wave at families, let the city see the Valkyries care. 

Paige followed her in. She didn’t have to. No one was giving orders. She simply kept step like she had always belonged at her side. 

Azzi spared her a glance. “Your shirt is uneven.” 

Paige tugged it lower. “Didn’t think you’d be checking.” 

“You are in public,” Azzi said. 

Paige smirked. “You keep telling yourself that’s the only reason.” 

Azzi turned toward the doorway, jaw set.    This was madness disguised as Paige Bueckers. 

-    Paige’s apartment, Oakland. April 2025.  

By morning, the photo had already made the rounds. 

It wasn’t just in the press release from Fudd Children’s Hospital or the feature write-ups from local outlets. It had flooded social media—reshared by fans, picked up by sports accounts, and quietly passed around in group chats.  

A cropped version had even gone viral: Paige Bueckers mid-laugh, a kid’s drawing in one hand, Azzi Fudd beside her in navy silk, profile half-turned, expression unreadable. They weren’t even looking at each other. But somehow, the space between them did all the work. 

The top comment under one repost: 

“Whatever they’re cooking, I’m ordering seconds.” 

Another: 

“This energy is insane. WHO is writing this script?” 

Screenshots scattered across platforms.  

Someone dubbed them PR soulmates. 

Another edited hearts in the background.  

A few fan edits turned up on TikTok, complete with slow zooms and love songs that felt entirely too on the nose. 

Paige watched the storm unfold from her hotel bed, barefoot and still in yesterday’s sweats.  

One photo in particular had her attention.  

It was taken just as she leaned in to whisper something to Azzi during a painting demo. Her smile was cocky. Azzi’s jaw was sharp. Their elbows brushed. 

Paige cropped it and opened Instagram. 

She hovered for a moment, then dropped it in Azzi’s DMs. 

Tell me this doesn’t look like a power couple soft-launch. 

She hit send. 

Then, just below it: 

We might need a joint statement... or dinner. 

Seen. 

- 

Embassy Suites, South Bend. May 2025. 

The hotel room lights were dimmed low, just the soft glow of the city pushing through the window. Paige sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, sneakers already laced. Her jersey hung over the back of the chair. She hadn’t touched it yet. 

On the nightstand, her phone buzzed. 

She answered without looking. “Yo.” 

KK’s voice came through, smooth and familiar. “You ready?” 

Paige leaned back against the headboard, exhaling. “I think so.” 

“You sound like you’re about to walk into a deposition.” 

“I’m excited,” Paige said, then paused. “But I’m also nervous. Like, weirdly nervous.” 

“Weirdly? Girl, it’s preseason. You’ve played in front of ten thousand before.” 

“Yeah, but this is different.” Paige rolled her head toward the window. “First pro game. Whole new league. I don’t want to mess it up.” 

“You won’t,” KK said. “You’ve been ready. You’re overthinking again.” 

“Of course I’m overthinking. My name’s on the damn posters.” 

“You’re nervous because you care,” KK added. “That’s good. But you’re not out there to prove anything. You’re there to do what you always do.” 

Paige closed her eyes for a moment, letting the words settle. Her fingers stilled.  

“Okay, but if I airball the first shot, I’m blaming you personally.” 

KK smirked. “Fair. But only if you give me credit when you drop 30.” 

Paige laughed, the nerves loosening just enough.  

She tilted the phone slightly and looked at herself in the reflection. Her hair still needed fixing.  

Then KK’s voice dropped a little, playful. “How’s Dallas treating you off court?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Y'know exactly what it means. New city. New fans. New girls.” 

Paige smirked. “You think I’ve got time to be out here running game?” 

“I think you can’t help yourself.” 

Paige sighed into the speaker, one arm flung over her face. Her thoughts weren’t exactly empty on that subject.  

They kept circling back to someone. Someone with a navy pantsuit, a careful smile, and a way of standing still like the room moved around her. 

“Been busy,” Paige said finally. 

KK narrowed her eyes. “Busy, huh. Like, weight room busy or someone’s-bed busy?” 

“I’ve been behaving.” 

KK blinked. “Okay. Who is she?” 

“What?” 

“You’re dodging. You never dodge unless someone’s got you in your feelings. Spill.” 

Paige sat up, ran both hands through her hair, and stared out at the window. 

“I don’t know yet,” she muttered. 

KK’s voice softened. “So it’s real?” 

The corner of Paige’s mouth curved like she wasn’t ready to talk about it. Like she wanted to hold it a little longer before letting the world in.    -    Joyce Center, Notre Dame. May 2025.    The media room pulsed with camera clicks and artificial light. Paige sat at the table in front of the Valkyries backdrop, arms folded loose, hair slicked back, warmup jacket unzipped just enough to make her look like she belonged here without trying.   

Her first preseason game was hours away, but the press was already circling, eager.  

A reporter leaned in. “New city, new start. What’s keeping you balanced outside basketball?”  

Paige let out a breath through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Early morning lifts. Film. The usual chaos. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I flirt with the idea of sleep.”  

Laughter rumbled across the room.  

Another voice cut in. “Anyone special helping you adjust to San Francisco?”  

The grin hit her face before she could stop it.  

“Define special,” she said, chin tilted.  

Flashes popped.   

Lisa Leslie shifted behind the cameras, her posture like a warning shot.  

Paige leaned closer to the mic. “There’s been generous hospitality,” she added, dragging the word just long enough to draw raised brows.  

“You mean the management?” someone clarified.  

She held their gaze, eyes flashing like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Let’s just say I’ve had a very warm welcome.”  

Beside her, Kiki nudged her under the table.  

“Next question,” the moderator called, barely hiding the urgency.  

Paige sat back, smile lingering. In the back of her mind, something electric buzzed. 

- 

Valkyries HQ, San Francisco. May 2025.       The Valkyries’ scrimmage ran long. The echo of sneakers and the thud of the ball filled the private gym like heartbeat and breath, fast and relentless.  

Coaches shouted from the sidelines, staff scribbled on tablets, but none of it reached the upper level where Azzi stood—hidden behind the tinted glass of the executive viewing box. She hadn’t announced her arrival. She rarely did. 

She watched. 

The team moved with precision and chaos in equal parts. Paige was in the middle of it all, white jersey clinging to her shoulder blades, hair damp with sweat, jaw set like she was hunting something just out of reach.  

Azzi’s gaze lingered there longer than she intended. The staff beside her said nothing. They knew better than to ask why she came. 

When practice ended, Paige disappeared into the lockers with the rest of the team. Azzi turned and left without a word. 

Downstairs, the hallway outside the locker room was cooler, washed in soft overhead lights.  

Paige stepped out still in her compression shirt and shorts, towel slung around her neck. Her face lifted when she saw Azzi leaning against the far wall, a bottle of water already waiting in one hand like she had been standing there for hours. 

“Well, damn,” Paige said with a grin. “Did I just hallucinate the boss lady in the wild?” 

Azzi offered the bottle without comment. Paige took it, brushing her fingers lightly against Azzi’s. 

“I knew I felt judged mid-practice,” Paige added, twisting the cap. “You were up there watching, weren’t you?” 

Azzi ignored her question. 

“When was the last time you actually slept?” 

The question knocked the air out of Paige’s rhythm. She paused mid-sip, water hanging between her lips and a half-formed thought. Her eyes flicked toward Azzi, searching her face for any sign of humor. 

She didn’t find any. 

“I mean… I sleep,” Paige said finally, voice caught somewhere between honesty and deflection. “Just maybe not the doctor-recommended kind.” 

Azzi said nothing. Her gaze didn’t waver.  

Paige scratched at the back of her neck. 

“That your way of asking if I’m okay?” she added, trying for a smirk. “Coz that’s kinda hot.” 

“What happened to being professional?”    Paige scoffed, crumpling the empty water bottle in her hand. “Oh, come on! You’re the one who showed up like a ghost and waited outside with hydration. That’s at least a little unprofessional.” 

Azzi’s brow lifted. Paige leaned in slightly, grin blooming. 

“You ambushed me with emotional support,” she said. “Feels kinda against team policy.” 

“This is just payback,” she explained, eyes on Paige. “You brought me takeout. I brought you water. We’re even.” 

Paige leaned against the wall, smirk already forming. “If we’re evening the score, I’d prefer my payback come in the form of dinner.” 

Something flickered behind Azzi's expression, too quick to read.     “That’s definitely not the meaning of staying professional.” 

She didn’t wait for Paige’s comeback. The look she gave was unreadable, somewhere between restraint and calculation, before she turned and walked away without another word. 

Paige stayed where she was, lips parted, the smirk tugging slower this time. 

- 

Pan Pacific, London. May 2025.    The rain traced slow patterns down the tall windows of her hotel suite, London cast in a dim silver light beneath her.   

Azzi stood with a hand braced on the glass, her reflection barely visible against the skyline. She had been reviewing acquisition notes for Fudd Holdings all afternoon for a British client, her inbox stacked with flagged threads and negotiations waiting on her word.  

The television droned in the background, still on from when she'd asked for local news.  

A sports segment rolled in unexpectedly, the Valkyries logo blinking to life across the screen. 

Azzi didn’t turn around right away.  

It was Paige’s voice that made her look.  

Interview lighting flattered her poorly. Paige sat on the press bench in her team gear, eyes rimmed in fatigue, answering questions about the upcoming pre-season matchup against the Atlanta Dream.   

She made a joke about guarding Brittney Griner that earned a few laughs, but it came too late to hide the way her shoulders drooped. Her voice cracked halfway through a sentence. 

Azzi narrowed her eyes.  

There was something dull beneath her usual brightness. The spark remained, but it flickered. That kind of wear didn’t happen in one night.  

She turned from the window and walked to the armchair, remote slipping from her hand to the cushion beside her.  

She opened her phone and navigated to Instagram on muscle memory.  

The screen loaded her DMs.  

They were all still there.  

Paige had sent a handful over the last week. One had just been a picture of her new team shoes, captioned with a “look who’s finally sponsored.”   

Another was a short clip of Azzi at the hospital event, caught in the background of a reel Paige reposted with a fire emoji.  

Azzi had left every message unread.  

Until now.  

She tapped into the last one, then switched to the interview clip. A beat passed.  

Then she typed.  

Your interview hijacked my news feed. You look like you’ve been fighting sleep for a week. Do yourself a favor and sleep.  

She stared at it, thumb hovering. Then hit send.  

It delivered instantly.  

Three seconds later, a red heart appeared.  

Then a reply.  

Yes ma’am. 🫡 Can I get a Good Night tho?   

Azzi though about it. 

Why not? She thought Paige deserved it. If it makes her sleep better. 

Good night, Rookie. 

- 

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. May 2025.    Paige lay sprawled on her couch, limbs heavy from the beating her body took the night before. Her muscles throbbed in slow pulses, each one a reminder that preseason didn’t mean easy.  

The Dallas Wings had played like they wanted her out by the first quarter. Double teams from tip-off, arms in her face before she could call a screen.  

The bruises were already blooming along her ribs, but the worst of it was the exhaustion crawling under her skin. 

Still, a win was a win. 

The best part? No flights.  

They’d played at Chase. Home court. All she had to do was limp to her car and drive fifteen minutes to her apartment and collapse. 

She hadn’t bothered changing. Her hoodie still smelled like Gatorade and sweat, and the ice pack on her ankle had long since turned lukewarm.  

She kept flipping the same channel, brain too fried to care what was on. Restless. Bored. 

Her phone buzzed once on the coffee table. 

Then again. 

She grabbed it, thumb sliding over the screen without much thought. 

Arike. 

Buckets! We hitting the club tonight. Last night in the bay. Come on, rook. 

Sorry bout the block btw. Welcome to the W, I guess. 

Paige blinked down at the message. The attached photo was a screen grab of her getting stuffed at the rim, face twisted midair.  

She groaned and let her head fall back against the cushion. 

Her body wanted bed. 

But her ego? 

Might’ve needed tequila. 

Ur buying the first round. U owe me emotional damages. 

Sent. 

-  The Grand Night Club, San Francisco. May 2025.

The bass throbbed through Paige’s chest as she sank further into the velvet booth, the air humid with sweat, perfume, and late-night tension.  

Her body still ached from the game. Muscles sore beneath her oversized white button-down. She hadn’t meant to stay long, but now she wasn’t sure she’d leave at all. 

That was before she saw her. 

She stood across the room, framed in low red lighting like a challenge waiting to be accepted. Her hair was pulled back, sleek and deliberate. Her skin glowed where the shadows kissed it, like something sculpted and soft.  

She didn’t need to dance. Her stillness did more damage than movement ever could. A drink swirled in her hand, untouched. Her expression said she could resurrect someone to life for the sport of it. 

Paige was already moving. 

She leaned on the bar beside her, just close enough that their arms brushed. 

“You keep looking like that and someone’s gonna get ideas.” 

She turned toward Paige with a slow drag of her gaze, the kind of look that felt like fingers pressed beneath fabric. Her lipstick clung to the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable, but her body didn’t shift away.  

She stayed exactly where she was—poised, languid, dangerous. 

“Is that your opener?” 

Paige’s grin sharpened. “Just me being polite. I could’ve started with what I’m actually thinking.” 

Their proximity hummed. A throb under the music. The air between them buzzed with something more than curiosity. 

“Mm,” the girl said, tone velvet and teeth. She sipped again, throat bare in the dim club light. “I’m guessing it’s less polite.” 

“Downright indecent,” Paige said, her voice dropping as she leaned in. Her fingers brushed the girl’s glass. “But only if you ask nicely.” 

The girl’s eyes just traced Paige’s mouth, slow and careful, as if she’d already imagined it somewhere else. 

“I don’t beg,” she said. 

Paige bit back a groan and smiled like a dare. “Good. I’m more into mutual destruction anyway.” 

A pause. A shift. The girl’s lip caught between her teeth, then released. 

Turning just enough to let her shoulder graze Paige’s chest. “Do you think you'll survive the night?” 

Paige’s hand circled the girl’s wrist, her grip easy but certain, pulling her through the pulse of the bar. The crowd parted just enough to let them disappear into the darker corner near the back. Music thudded low around them, bass heavy, the kind of rhythm meant to blur lines and judgment. 

She backed the girl against the wall with a slow step in. Their bodies barely touched, breath caught in the narrowing space. Paige’s mouth hovered by her ear, warm and deliberate. 

“Relax,” she murmured. ���It’s only a warm-up.” 

The girl let out a quiet sound—half laugh, half dare—and then moved.  

She pushed Paige back with a steady hand, flipping the script with practiced ease. Her palm settled against Paige’s chest, pinning her. Confident, unhurried. She leaned in, pressing a kiss below Paige’s jaw, then another along the line of her neck. 

Paige groaned softly, one hand gripping the girl’s waist, the other curling around her wrist. 

The kiss deepened—messy, greedy. She let her body surrender to the rhythm of it, to the alcohol, to the thrill of teeth scraping lips and breath shared through parted mouths. 

Then the girl dipped lower, lips finding the angle beneath her jaw. Heat bloomed there as her tongue traced along the vein. Paige exhaled, head tipping back against the wall, eyelids fluttering half shut. 

And when they opened— 

Everything stalled. 

Straight through the chaos, through the crowd and the girl, cold eyes locked with hers. 

It felt like being snapped into focus. Paige’s chest tightened. The hands on her waist suddenly felt wrong. The lips at her neck too distant. 

Across the room, untouched by the haze and heat, Azzi stood.  

Watching.

[sydwritess]

Group Chats With Y/n

F1 grid x fem!reader

Summary: texts in the F1 group chat with y/n

Notes: requests are open!

01 02

Y/n Y/l/n has made a group chat

Oscar Piastri changed to Pastry 🥐

Max Verstappen changed to Maxine✨️

Lando Norris changed to Lanlikesfish

George Russell changed to Georgie

Kimi Antonelli changed to Pasta boi

Charles Leclerc changed to Charlie

Lewis Hamilton changed to Roscoe's dad

Yuki Tsunoda changed to Red bull #1

Carlos Sainz changed to Carlos 🌶

Ollie bearman changed to Bear minimum

Alex Albon changed to Alexandria

Daniel Ricciardo changed to Riccardio

------------------------------------------------------

Lanlikesfish

Alright, who made this?

Y/n

The one and only ✨️✨️

Maxine✨️

Well I can see you have favorites.

Y/n

It's okay. If your nice to me I'll change your name 😊

Max

I will change it myself. 😒

Y/n

And I set the setting so you can't. Hehe

Bear minimum

Am I a favorite?

Y/n

Of course, cause your nice 😊😊

Y/n changed 'Bear minimum' to Bearman #1

Bearman #1

Awe thx

Y/n

Ofcc

Pasta boi

I like this name. It's suits me well.

Lanlikesfish

Ugh I hate fish!

Y/n

Haters gonna hate.

Pasta boi

For realll

Georgie

Hater's gonna hate hate hate hate and the players gonna play play play play

Y/n

HAHA WHAT THE FUCK YOU SWIFTIE 😭

Georgie

What can I say?

Pastry🥐

I am no pastry

Y/n

Yes you are. white as a ghost dude

Red bull #1

I like being a favorite. Honeslty guys it's not hard being nice to her. She's nice to 🙂

Y/n

Awe thnx yuki. That's why your my fav. Unlike... others

Lanlikesfish

HOW CAN I BE FAVORITE TIPS AND TRICKS

Roscoe's dad

you guys... i can't believe i ran over a ground hog.... 😪

Charlie

he lived a good life mate

Carlos 🌶

oooo I like my name!! Chile pepper just means i'm spicyy

Y/n

How the fuck did y'all get into F1 y'all are so unserious lmfao

Maxine✨️

I take my job very serious.

Y/n

Oh yeah, because crashing into George on purpose is very very ethical.

Maxine✨️

Yeah because.. I had reasons.

Y/n

Boy can't even think of a straight answer.

Alexandria

Alexandria? Really?

Y/n

Yes. it fits. A vibe

Pasta boi

Might go get some pasta after this premier

Georgie

Funny kimi kardashian

Y/n

OMG THAT IS A BETTER NAME!

Y/n changed Pasta boi to Kimi Kardashian

Kimi Kardashian

Ugh. Not cool

Georgie

I'm quite excited for it actually

Y/n

of course you are.

Georgie

Are you not going?

Y/n. I can't be in the same room as brad.

Maxine✨️

why?

Y/n

He just ruins the movie.. entirely. For me at least

Lanlikesfish

*cough* I agree *cough*

Y/n

FINALLY someone agrees.

Georgie

Really Lando?

Lanlikesfish

look all I'm saying is I don't like that I was only in there for like what, 30 seconds? That's a of a stab to the heart mate.

Roscoe's dad

Yes but the main character is also Brad Pitt for a reason

Landlikesfish

It should have been me. I'm way better looking

Y/n

Okay you narcissist

Landlikesfish

It's all about personality and confidence

Hey loves! Different from what I normally write but I thought it was a unique idea! Comment to be added to the tag list! Requests are open!

[clairewritesfanfics]

Omg I love how you write Mark and his variants!

Okay I may or may not have dived into a deep hole of neglected batfam reader so is it okay if I request for reader to happen to just find an escape through a Angstrom portal that appeared randomly in her bedroom, so just peace out and was transported into the Invincible universe where she met Mark (and his variants), fall in love and told him about how horrible her family is.

Only for him to find a way to open up a portal to her world (this is mostly goes for the variants instead main mark), and caused havoc on the DC world and reader has to stop him, confront her family and leave to her new home with him

Author's Note: My last request! (technically, it's not) YAHOO. And my first Batfam fanfic.

Your Character Settings: AFAB, daughter of Bruce Wayne and an unknown woman

“Would like seconds, miss?” Alfred asked after you finished your meal. 

Tonight's dinner was a hefty serving of tomato and basil spaghetti. Before you moved in with the Waynes, your meals were usually jam and bread or a cup of instant noodles. The old you would have eaten as much as you were allowed. The old you would have gotten angry at you for not asking for another serving. But you weren't living paycheck to paycheck on a cashier's salary anymore. 

“I'm fine,” you answered the butler. You glanced around the long table. Alfred said it was improper for servants to dine with the masters of the home, so you ate alone again. You didn't know why you felt upset. Even after months of the same routine, your disappointment continued to fill half your stomach. 

“Very well. Tonight's dessert is a chocolate ganache cake served with black tea. I take it that you will be having your slice in your room?”

You smiled.

“I’ll have it upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope this time you actually answer the door. I don’t mind leaving the food outside but tea should be appreciated hot.”

“I’m sorry, you know how it is when I get in the zone.”

“How many words did you write today?”

You beamed. “Exactly two thousand just this morning. I’m hoping to get another thousand before midnight.”

“I hope you do, maybe you can finally start waking up before noon.”

You laughed, standing up from your seat.

Alfred was the only one in this entire mansion to actually hold full conversations with you. 

Dear old dad was always away on business trips. Your younger half-brother Damian never uttered a word to you, only regarded you with disdain and walked away before introductions were over. Tim was polite enough to nod in greeting–when he was lucid, which was seldom the case every time you saw him. Dick was nice, he smiled and made small talk when he was around, but you can count on one hand the number of times he was at the manor, or in Gotham in general.

You had another brother. His photos were rare, finding one was like finding an Easter egg. On the outside, he was no different from the others with his black hair and blue eyes, and from what you’ve seen of him, he could be blood-related to Dick. But Alfred said that Jason was an orphan, too. 

Little Jason, always smiling brightly in every image you found. He died years before you arrived here. You liked to pretend that he would be exactly what you wished for when Mister Wayne invited you to live with the family: a kind, present and supportive older brother.

You doubt it was healthy to project such feelings on not just a ghost but a stranger’s ghost, but pretending to have someone care beyond the bare minimum helped you adjust to your life as a Wayne kid. 

Alfred let you borrow books from Jason’s room and you made a point to treat every novel with care and refused to fold the pages or write on them. Jason really loved romance books and happily ever afters, and reading his collection inspired to take up writing. Hobbies were a luxury you couldn’t afford while juggling two part-time jobs, but now you had all the time in the world.

You stared at your monitor. Did you jinx yourself earlier?

You’ve hit a wall for today’s chapter.

The insertion point blinked mockingly at you. 

You only needed a thousand more words. That’s child’s play, but whatever you typed did not meet your standards, even for a first draft. 

You checked the time.

You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Usually, you’ll be typing like crazy the moment your butt was on the chair.

You plopped your elbows on your desk and squeezed your cheeks, an exasperated sigh leaving your mouth.

Ten minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to start something important.

Maybe a sugar boost will help.

Just as you thought of this, you overheard movement outside. 

Smiling, you rushed to open the door. 

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me–” 

Your lips twitched as you were greeted by the sight of Damian and Tim, holding a comically large mug of coffee. They were quarreling when your sudden appearance caught them off guard. 

“Hi.”

Damian’s lips pursed and he grumbled something under his breath.

“It’s rare to see you guys here,” you said plainly.

Tim laughed awkwardly. “I guess so.”

“Did you eat dinner already?”

“I–”

Damian pushed his back. “Let’s go, Drake, we’re busy.”

“Right, um, sorry–” Tim threw you an apologetic smile “–see you around.”

You smiled back as politely as you could. “See you.” There was no point in getting offended, you were the oldest one in this hallway and you were too exhausted to feel angry.

You watched Damian nudge Tim even farther away until they disappeared from view. 

Shaking your head softly, you stepped back inside your room and shut the door. You weren’t a warm person, but you didn’t have a family before. It was always just you bouncing between foster homes and sleeping in dumpsters when you had no other choice. You had no one to fall back on, and you were prepared to live the rest of your life like that, because what other choice was there? 

But then Mister Wayne arrived in the 24-hour mart while you worked the graveyard shift. Dingy apartments with creepy neighbors were replaced with a Gilded Age mansion. Hours spent on your feet catering to all sorts of customers became days of ennui (you learned that word from one of Jason’s books). Sodium-loaded canned and instant foods were now sodium-loaded fancy meals. You were grateful, and while it hurt not to have the family you’ve always dreamed of, you can deal with the wall between you as long as you never had to go back to being actually alone. 

You returned to your desk. The blinking line on the word document continued mocking you.

You reached for the latest novel you borrowed from Jason’s personal collection, A Little Princess, and flipped back to where you stopped yesterday, at Chapter Four: Lottie. 

“Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just HAPPENED that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know"—looking quite serious—"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”

You paused. You haven’t read A Little Princess before, but you’ve seen the film multiple times because one of your foster mothers adored it.

Family? Love? They were nice, but you didn’t need them. 

It was true that you were Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate kid and he took you in out of a sense of responsibility. You weren’t a child anymore, far from it, most people your age are in college while you just finished your GED. You haven’t spoken with Mister Wayne about university and frankly, you were too scared; what would he or the others think? Would they think you were getting too greedy?

Pride and dreams were reserved for people who can afford them. You may share Bruce’s blood but it was clear that he loved his sons more, regardless of their origin. 

Food, shelter–money, that’s what you needed, and the Waynes gave it to you. You had no right to complain or wish for more. You didn’t want to reach for the sun only to end up getting burned. 

You were about to continue reading when a green light illuminated your eyes. You looked away from the page and saw a green hole forming on the floor, right in front of the door. A faint shearing sound accompanied its undulating outline as it grew bigger. 

You set down the book and walked closer. You can see a different place inside the emerald ring. This wasn’t some hole, it was a portal. 

Honestly, not the weirdest thing for a Gothamite. 

Still though…

Against all common sense, you knelt down and glanced inside. You were usually smarter than this, not to toot your own horn, but your intelligence is what kept you alive in Gotham for all these years; however, something about this portal called out to you. You dipped one hand inside. 

The air was warmer than it was in your room. 

You were going to pull back when–

knock, knock 

“Miss?”

You yelped, caught off guard and lost your balance–you fell straight into the portal.

Main Mark

He was doing his usual routine, flying around, helping people and preventing city-destroying disasters when he heard your screaming and caught you just in time.

You thanked him and asked if you could please take you back to Gotham.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What’s Gotham?”

“Crap.”

You both figured out that you were on a parallel Earth and he offered to let you stay with him until you found a way back.

Debbie was a sweetheart. She was super understanding and kind and you imprinted on her instantly. You didn’t want to be a burden so you helped maintain the house and cooked for them. 

Mark fell in love with you, because of course, he did. He found himself getting more and more excited to finish his missions early just so he can come home to your smile. You liked him, too, you didn’t know if it was love, but when he found the courage to ask you out you agreed, hoping that maybe you’ll learn.

It was a relatively simple love story, world-hopping aside. You and Mark were friends first who soon became soulmates. You didn’t mind that he missed dates and you kept yourself busy helping Debbie as a real estate agent. 

You supported Mark throughout his struggles, listened to his problems and comforted him when he was in pain. In turn, he taught you how to love, and maybe more importantly, how to be loved. He surprised you with gifts–nothing big but always extraordinary–like daisies he found while flying over the countryside or a bracelet that reminded him of you. He always asked if you were hungry or thirsty before going to get his own snack, and even when you said no he’d return with your own food and drink. He looked at you that made you unable to look at him, he made you shy in the best way possible. He was everything you didn’t know you wanted. 

***

When a portal appeared again, it wasn’t green, it was gold–and the men on the other side didn’t hesitate when they jumped into Mark’s universe. 

They weren’t violent, but they were not nice. Invincible got into a fight with the tiny one in red and green. The “hero” who called himself Nightwing was friendly, but Mark could tell he was on edge like the rest of them.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Nightwing said, flashing a holographic album full of your photos. Neither you nor Mark knew anything about your family’s nightly activities so your boyfriend became more suspicious of these masked heroes. 

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Mark could tell that everyone knew that he knew who you were, but Nightwing remained calm. “We’re not going to hurt her. It’s hard to believe since we’re basically aliens, but we just want to bring her home. Her family misses her.”

That made Mark scoff. You told him about your family. You didn’t hate them, but Mark certainly did. You were… too used to loneliness. And that pissed him off. You were amazing, you deserved nothing but warmth and your so-called family ignored you. 

He wanted nothing more than to flip these guys off with a message, “Tell her family that she’s happier here and that she doesn’t need them holding her back,” but that wasn’t his decision to make. 

“I know her,” Invincible said. “I’ll tell her about you guys, but if she says she doesn’t want to come back, you leave her alone. Got that?”

“That–”

“No,” Batman said firmly. “She’s coming back. She needs her family.”

Mark’s eye twitched, but he kept his cool. “We’ll see.”

“I can’t believe it,” you muttered, gripping tightly on your copy of Pride and Prejudice like it was a stress ball.

Mark had been late for date night, no biggie, so you spent the evening reading a novel on your TBR list. When he came back from patrol, his whole body was tense, his face solemn when he pulled off his mask. He then joined you at the table and explained what happened.

“Talk to me, baby. What’re you thinking about?” He asked, placing a grounding hand over your cold fingers.

You let go of the book and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure. After a year, I was sure that I’d be here forever–and I would’ve been okay–happy with that, but now…”

“I know.” He thumbed your knuckles. “What’re you going to do? Are you..”

Were you planning to go back?

“I don’t know.” You looked into his eyes. “What should I do, Mark?”

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to open your eyes. You were miserable back in Gotham. You were better off here, with him. 

But instead, he cradled both of your hands between his and he smiled. “I can’t tell you what to do, only that I’ll support you no matter what.”

Main Mark is the only one who will step aside if you decide to return and fix your relationship with your family. It will hurt. And he will crack when it’s time to say goodbye; he’ll pull you into his arms and beg you to stay with him, but if you have made up your mind, he won’t force you otherwise. 

His variants aren’t so selfless. Omni, Head Cap, Maskless, No Goggles and Full Mask won’t even bother telling you about the portal appearing, intent on keeping you by their side. 

Flaxan, Target and Viltrumite Mark would have already whisked you away from Earth and it would take a while before the Bats found you. 

Mohawk, Prisoner, Shiesty and Sinister will tell you about the portal and the foreign superheroes that have come for you and plead with you not to leave–and this is after they’ve decided to pick a fight with Batman and crew.

a/n:

Hi anon, I’m sorry this took so long but I knew that if I opened this door to DC I'll end up fawning over Jason and get distracted (and I was right). You’re my last request (technically no but I'm still not prepared to share Shiesty's origin story), but YAYYYY 

Also, I know that anon specified that the Bats were horrible to Y/N, and I did try to write them like that initially, but it was hard for that scenario to fully form in my head. The Bat family is dysfunctional as heck, but I usually write about a normal, civilian YN and I can't see them being purposefully abusive to someone like that. Despite DC's many fumbles, the Bats are supposed to be good people at their core so the words just wouldn't flow. 

DON'T GET ME WRONG, considering my love for revenge stories, I do want to write about the Bats being neglectful and unintentionally awful to YN and then her waking up and realizing that she doesn't care anymore, and then she stops chasing after them, which in turn, makes them chase after her, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, I hope you still liked it!! (I'm going to cry about Red Hood and Huntress now.)

(ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire.

Gotham City, lifted from: https://heroism.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_City

Invincible flying, lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

PS can you guess which Batboy is my favorite? LOL

[monster-effer]

Baldur’s Gate 3 Player x LaDS headcanons 🎮

Summary: My headcanons on how the LaDS men act in a BG3 campaign with the you, the reader. Content: Xavier x reader, Zayne x reader, Sylus x reader, Rafayel x reader, Caleb x reader (separate), very silly, Caleb and Rafayel being chaotic, gn!reader, no reader pronouns mentioned, multiple and major Baldur’s Gate 3 spoilers throughout (1.1k wc) A/N: A brainworm or mind flayer parasite entered my head at 4 pm on Saturday and has not left since. This is for my fellow DnD, BG3 and LaDS lovers!

Xavier – you never made it out of Act 3 because he couldn’t help but fall asleep to the OST and white noise once you reached Baldur’s Gate

Set-up: console, couch co-op Difficulty: Balanced, he wanted a little challenge but was ultimately here to chill with you Race: Half-elf Class: Paladin or Cleric of Light Time in Character Creator: 1 hour, he liked reading through all the origin character descriptions but decided to build a custom character instead. Then read over all the different race and subrace options.

He really enjoyed looking around the Nautiloid ship in the opening act.

He tried to read every book and note he came across in the game for the lore.

Xavier served as your guard dog throughout the campaign, especially if you played as a magic user.

He got jealous at the flirty lines the companions threw your way.

“Xav, these are not real people they are pixels.”

“…so, do you like me or Halsin more? You haven't answered me yet.”

And he almost had a heart attack when Harleep offered themself to you in the House of Hope.

He really enjoyed Wyll’s company and made sure to reserve a space for him in your party.

Regularly got lost despite the in game mini map.

When Jeremiah asked to join your campaign, Xavier told him “No.”

Zayne – you made it to the end of Act 3, but it took months and months due to your busy and conflicting work schedules

Set-up: console, couch co-op Difficulty: Balanced Race: Human Class: Wizard who favored frost damage Time in Character Creator: 30 minutes, he made the most basic custom character and spent the majority of his time choosing a class

Zayne was mainly interested in completing the main quests in the beginning. But he changed his mind after completing the quest to save Mayrina from Auntie Ethel.

He was in a passionate bromance with Gale and developed a personal vendetta against Mystra because of it.

He desperately wanted to befriend Gale’s cat, Tara.

“Tara is lovely, please tell me I can have her as a companion.”

“I’m afraid you cannot, unless you’re playing as Gale.”

His anguish was loud in the silence after.

He also became a big Shar hater after progressing through Shadowheart’s personal quests.

He was NOT a fan of Astarion. But, after learning about his past then destroying Cazador together he begrudgingly tolerated him in the party.

Zayne was flabbergasted – to say the least –  when he met Malus Thorm in the House of Healing. After you walked in on this “doctor” mutilating an innocent patient in his care, the frost wizard showed no mercy.

He silently judged Volo for his “scientific research,” especially after you agreed to his offered eye surgery.

Zayne usually does not care much about fashion over utility when it comes to armor, but you noticed he did not take off the Wavemother robe once you obtained it as a quest reward.

Sylus – you made it to the end of Act 3

Set-up: PC, usually online multiplayer but couch co-op when you visit his base Difficulty: Tactician (specifically for enhanced enemy tactics and increased long rest supply threshold because Sylus is a loot hoarder) Race: Dragonborn OR the hottest Seldarine Drow you’ve ever seen Class: Barbarian fighter multiclass who can attack 4 times a turn Time in Character Creator: 45 minutes

Your playthrough started out with just you and Sylus. But you created a separate save for when Luke and Kieran wanted to play as a full customized character crew.

Sylus REFUSED to cheese fights with you, instead he preferred to strategize heavily like y’all were going to war.

“We are clever enough to win without the help of bugs sweetie.”

Sylus initially liked Raphael because they both enjoyed making a good deal.

But he changed his mind when he witnessed the chess game scene in Last Light Inn.

You two somehow breezed through saving all the prisoners, Duke Ravengard and Omeluum from the Iron Throne.

He had a soft spot for Karlach but who didn’t?

If Sylus chose to play as the Dark Urge, he immersed himself in a redemption arc because he was all too familiar with resisting strong urges.

He wanted to adopt Mol and her band of misfits so bad.

Rafayel – you’re currently in Act 3

Set-up: PC, online multiplayer Difficulty: Explorer – you’re both here to have a good time, not struggle 🤷🏾‍♀️ Race: The prettiest elf/half elf OR tiefling you have ever seen Class: Rogue assassin that dual wields daggers OR Bard that uses Vicious Mockery often Time in Character Creator: 1 hour, he chose race based on aesthetics but got trapped by the customization options

His character has a crazy amount of charisma points and could persuade their way through any encounter.

He gleefully chooses the sassy/deep cutting dialogue options.

Consequently, you two end up in plenty of unnecessary fights but it is chaotic and fun.

Rafayel was downright frightening on the battlefield once he tried out multiclassing. IMO he would love the Gloomstalker Ranger + Assassin Rogue build.

He was fond of the Underdark section in Act 1. So much so that he produced a few paintings depicting the sussur tree and members of the Myconid colony.

He got the both of you obliterated by Vlaakith when he questioned the legitimacy of their alleged godhood in the githyanki creche.

As you both sat in silence staring at the “game over” screen he chuckled then whispered, “No regrets cutie.”

He was enamored by Orin’s outfit. So, you immediately stopped playing to find an armor mod to download.

Caleb – you’ve completed 3 campaigns together

Set-up: PC, switch between couch co-op and online multiplayer Difficulty: Honor Mode (rip) Race: Half-orc or Dragonborn because he thinks they look sick™ Class: modded gunslinger class that dual wields firearms🔫 Time in Character Creator: 20 minutes, you’re both veterans at this

He is the most chaotic force in the game outside of the netherbrain and Orin’s shenanigans.

Caleb ALWAYS saves Scratch and the owl bear cub just to watch their camp interactions. He also summons Scratch to come along with y’all on your quests throughout Faerûn.

Without fail he roasts Gortash every time he is introduced.

“Are we sure that he is the ‘handsome’ younger man everyone has been describing because…”

Caleb unironically loves Lae’zel and relishes exposing her to the truth about Vlaakith.

He volunteered to turn into an illithid this playthrough.

Caleb has memorized various strategies to get through the Gauntlet of Shar while you’re still fighting for your life during the Faith Step Trial.

Gideon along with the legion of Caleb’s friends have begged for an invite, but he always finds a way to keep it as an activity for just you two ♥︎

A/N: Also feel free to leave your takes on which race/class/mods each LI would choose in BG3 or any RPG!!! I want to nerd out in my comments/DMs ♡

[kokokoula]

sypnosis & tag: you see tsukishima's childhood room for the first time. established relationship. it's fluff this time.

a/n: i really wanted to go back to my roots because i refuse to show that i've been overtaken by horniness. i blame it on the depression. i had this fic rotting in the drafts since last year, and i'm so happy to finally be done with it and share it with you guys.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

you step into the small world that was kei's encompassed by four walls, gaping at everything around you.

"it's just my room, don't make it such a big deal." tsukishima remarks, his ears red.

"hush, let me admire in peace."

the first thing you notice is the number of dinosaur figures neatly displayed on the shelf on the wall. you know a few facts about each type now, thanks to tsukishima's rants. like how the stegosaurus actually had a tiny brain, and that the parasaurolophus used its crest to help with communication.

although you never did have an interest in the extinct reptiles, you can listen to him go on about them for hours. how could you not, with that glint in his eyes and the slight upward curve of his mouth? you giggle, thinking of how the cool and 'indifferent' tsukishima kei is secretly a nerd at heart. a nerd who you ultimately fall for.

you shifted your attention to his organised desk, with books propped up on the table supported by a book stand holder. you run your fingers through the spines. natsume soseki, osamu dazai, murasaki shikibu...

"you really liked the classics, huh?"

there are a few books on paleontology and dinosaurs, too. expected.

"they were alright. some of them were for literature class in school." tsukishima answers, resting his weight on the table. you take one of the books out from the stand and flip through its yellowing pages. words are highlighted and underlined, and notes written in what you recognise as his ever-so-neat handwriting on sticky notes pasted onto the pages. you're about to close the book until something catches your eye.

"did you just call the character a loser?" you laugh, bringing the book closer to your eyes to properly examine it. tsukishima tips the book down to see it for himself.

"oh, right. and i still stand by my case."

you shake your head before putting the book back to where it was.

his older pictures are framed on the wall, like the many others hung around the house. the oldest photograph in the room, you assume, shows akiteru teaching a much smaller kei volleyball. he has that same focused and determined eyes during a match now, just that with childlike wonder. the photo instantly becomes one of your favourites of him. you immediately unlock your phone to access the camera.

"i didn't say pictures were allowed." your boyfriend plucks the device out of your hands. you groan.

"please? just one? i already missed out on the small and innocent version of you."

"it's a no." tsukishima pockets your phone in his jeans pocket. "if it's with you, it's bound to be exposed to the public."

"whatever, i can ask akiteru to send a picture to me." you huff.

"i'll kill him if he does so."

you eventually reach to the last framed photograph, with tsukishima in his karasuno jersey, gathering around with his teammates for the shot. first year tsukishima is lankier with thicker framed glasses, and without the bangs. he still has that resting bitch face though, another thing that has never seemed to change. tsukishima gave you a death look when you pointed that out to him.

your imagination starts to run, picturing a younger kei with his shorter haircut, how he's studying at his desk, or reading one of those books you saw. you think of your counterpart, maybe pouring over homework beside him, or more likely, pestering him as he does so. you smile to yourself at the thought of it.

"do you think we would still end up together if we met in high school?" you wonder aloud.

"who knows?" tsukishima shrugs as he sits on his old bed. he takes your hand and pulls you into him, away from the photos. "it doesn't matter anyways."

you meet his soft gaze, the kind he only gives to you. you hope that among all the things about him that stays the same, the way he looks at you will be one of them. he really is yours, you think, all of him. the boy who is fascinated by dinosaurs, the boy who disses on people (both real and fictional), the boy who will never stop loving volleyball... he glances at your lips, subconsciously licking his own, and you don't hesitate to close the gap between you two.

kei is right. it doesn't matter if you'd ended up together earlier, because you get to have him for yourself in the end.

----

the both of you continue lounging on his bed until his mother calls.

"lunch is ready! come eat while it's still hot!"

"coming, ma'am!" you answer. you instantly got up and tug on his arm to follow suit.

"what, are you that hungry?" he says but complies.

"no, i just don't want to keep your parents waiting." he can tell by the look on your face that you're still nervous about having them like you. it's kinda nice, that you genuinely want to be close to his family. he sighs and flicks your forehead.

"you'll be fine." in any case, his parents were excited to meet you before you came, constantly on his back about bringing you over. they'll no doubt accept you with open arms.

tsukishima shuts the door to his old room as you pull him along out to join his family; he steps out of the past, and follows his future.

[ellsbigshoes]

My Most Faithful Lover - 2. Hands that never forgot

pairing: Knight!ellie & Princess!reader

synopse: A harpist begins to dream of a life not her own — a white dress stained in red, a knight who watches her like someone who’s already lost her once. In waking life, a fencer’s touch feels too familiar. In dreams, silence speaks louder than memory. Between two timelines, something ancient stirs… and it remembers her.

content: MDNI 18+, eventual smut, fluff, angst, violence, war, use of “y/n”, reader is referred to as princess (sometimes), Ellie referred to as Elouise (sometimes), use of swords, daggers etc. gore(ish), blood, homophobia.

8.775 characters.

"loving me is going to haunt you for a lifetime." - ?

The pain came like a spear between the ribs, cold, sharp, and then warm like blood dripping in silence. You felt broken, like porcelain dropped from an ancient altar - piece by piece, without haste, without mercy. Your long white dress wrapped in pearls, glitter and lace was now stained with blood, as much as your hands, perhaps that was your blood, perhaps that explained your great pain. Faster than a clap of thunder, you wake up shaking as your alarm clock calls you to yet another rehearsal in preparation for the end-of-year performance. It was strange, after meeting Ellie, the fencer who admired you in silence, your dreams were more real, more lived. So real that you could feel their caressing touch as if they were satin threads.

It was the start of a new week, and everything seemed to be running out of sync - hurried footsteps, overlapping voices, duties running over each other. Inside the room, time flowed differently: there, every note was a wait, every silence a judgment. At first, it was hard to keep up. Their colleagues played like someone repeating a forgotten prayer - their fingers were precise, yes, even impeccable, but their souls were blind. They lacked love, or perhaps remembrance.

You, on the other hand, were born with the sound of the harp inside you. It wasn't an instrument, it was an extension - strings that vibrate like part of your own breath. From an early age, you felt that your fingers knew the way before you even thought. But now, surrounded by cold eyes and rigid postures, their connection seemed... out of place. While they strummed away like automatons, you felt each note as if your soul were being called by name. And that, paradoxically, made you seem strange.

Sometimes looking at yourself was like seeing the twenty-second major arcana - The Madman. - The madman, the fool, the joker. A card that calls you to take risks and follow your own path. This card teaches us to embrace uncertainty and have faith in our abilities. And you? oh dear... despite being so disturbed by those who play like robots, you play like The Fool; with confidence in your abilities, you become someone else, it's as if something inside you calls to you in the shuddering of the strings, with each resounding chord it's like sinking quietly, letting the water consume your lungs.

One of your greatest prides is that you can play the Moonlight Sonata 3rd movement. No one imagines that you keep such cunning at your fingertips, and that's not even the best part about you. okay, I admit, it's not that easy to be that confident every day, but you know how hard you work, and you know that you're a natural.

As you rehearsed again, this time with the room full, you found yourself remembering the girl you met that afternoon with the heartwarming rays of sunshine. Could she really be the girl you've been dreaming of since childhood? nothing seems to make sense anymore... does she know? why did she ask if you already knew each other? so little time to talk and so many questions at the same time.

Even so, you answered at that moment: oh... I don't think so. – You said it and smiled a little, awkwardly.

Ellie then giggled a little. – I'm sorry, it must have sounded strange, right? you just have something familiar about you, but I don't think I've met you anywhere. I'd remember you.

You didn't know how to describe this feeling, nothing but confusion, and at this moment it would be best to just forget, even if it hurts, because something in your heart is calling out, wanting to push you towards her.

The sun was barely touching the stones of the inner courtyard when the iron gates opened. The morning was cold and still, as if time were breathing more slowly within the walls. A faint scent of dried lavender came from the gardens still wet with dew - and in the center of the silent dawn, she arrived.

She was riding a horse as black as burnt wine, the reins tight, the posture too straight for someone so unaccustomed to resting from overexertion. You wore the mantle of the queen's guards, but something about your presence seemed out of place - like a page sewn out of order in an old book. You were sitting among the blooming castle roses. Large buds of a striking blood-red color, although you had always loved white, the tragic and intense red had always attracted you. The queen's voice broke the silence, clear, firm as ever:

– This is Elouise. Your new guardian.

You, the princess, slowly raised your gaze, meeting that of the knight. Ellie dismounted with almost ritual precision, bowing her head in greeting.

– Your Highness.

Her voice was low, husky like a forgotten ember - and it hid something. Something the princess couldn't immediately decipher, but which remained there, in the air between them, like golden dust suspended in light.

The queen continued, already walking away:

– She was trained in the Cern Hills, under the order of the White Shields. She's discreet, efficient. And she will be shadow and blade by your side, until you need one.

Elouise didn't raise her eyes until the queen had disappeared behind the columns. Only then did she look at the princess fully. It wasn't the look of a servant. Nor that of an equal. It was the look of someone who knows the end of a story even before the first chapter.

You, still sitting among the roses, noticed that the dew had embroidered your dress with tiny sparkles. You tried to ignore the weight of Elouise's gaze on you - it wasn't the kind of gaze you offered. It was the kind you kept. And that, somehow, was even more dangerous.

– “The Cern Hills,” you repeated, without emotion. I imagine that silence is part of the training.

Elouise didn't respond immediately. Instead, she watched a red petal fall to the ground, as if the flower itself had surrendered to the weight of what hung in the air.

– Silence is sometimes more useful than a sword.

The answer came calmly, but there was a thread of... something. Old resentment? Tiredness? Guilt? You couldn't tell.

– What do you prefer? – you asked, looking straight at her. – The sword, or silence?

Ellie hesitated. And in that brief instant, you noticed a crack. Almost nothing. But real.

– I prefer what doesn't require me to choose.

You arched an eyebrow.

– A convenient answer.

– An honest answer.

The wind blew again, and the red roses fluttered. One fell near Elouise's foot. Without thinking, she crouched down and picked it up. She held it out to you with a short gesture, as if returning a piece of scenery was her obligation.

– It looks more like your kingdom than mine.

You took the flower slowly, your fingers brushing against hers for a second - just a second, but enough to feel something strange. Like a shiver coming from inside.

– Red has always been an ungrateful color," you said, staring at the rose. – Blood or passion. You never know for sure.

Ellie didn't answer. But she didn't look away from you.

You thought about asking her what she saw there - in your skin, your face, your eyes - that made her look so... cautious. But you didn't. Not yet.

The sun was already falling behind the mountains when you took refuge in the old hall, the one no one had used since your aunt's bereavement. Inside, the walls still smelled of wax and aged wood. The harp stood quietly in the corner. Like a secret waiting to be awakened.

You sat in front of it as you had done since you were a child, your fingers already knowing the ways, even if your mind was elsewhere. You played without thinking. And perhaps that's why you played better. The notes floated through the air like a veil, light, sad, almost transparent.

Then, without you noticing, someone stopped at the door.

Elouise.

She stood there, leaning against the dark wood, arms crossed, no armor. Just shadows wearing shadows.

You didn't stop ringing. But you spoke, without looking:

– Are you going to escort me even when there's no danger?

The answer took a while, but it came.

– That sounds more dangerous than most battles.

You laughed, softly. Still without turning.

– Harps don't kill.

– No. But they remind you.

Now you've turned. Her eyes were fixed on your fingers, as if each note that came out of the harp opened a door that she herself had locked from the inside. A distant glow inhabited her gaze. Of someone who recognizes something - but doesn't know why.

– Do you know this song? – you asked suddenly.

Elouise hesitated. For a moment, she seemed to swallow her memory.

– Yes, Your Highness. I used to listen to it when I was little, I remember my mother dancing and celebrating happily... – She said looking down with a small smile and sighed. - Anyway, it doesn't matter.

She said and resumed her serious face. – I think it's about time to go to sleep, isn't it?

ㅤ𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 | 𝔫𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔭𝔞𝔤𝔢..

man i'm really sad that today i couldn't add color to the fonts, for some reason the site started crashing and i don't know how to solve it sorry guys

tags;; @sewithinsouls @valeisaslut @zzelysian @liztreez @oneinameliann @idioticconfusedteen @smaugayra @500daysofpoppy @elliescoquettegirl

(comment if you want to be in the taglist <3)

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Can I get the first gen kings with a daughter that acts just like him? I wanna giggle because I know some will realize how they act when they see it happen with their own kid. Also, I asked for the silly headcanons and enjoyed them! Keep up the good work!

I'm glad that you liked them :) Hope you'll enjoy this too 😊

NOTE : Reader is mom, and the daughter is around 4-5.

Characters : James Lee , Kitae Kim , Jaegyeon Na, Jinrang , Taesoo Ma , Seongji Yuk.

JAMES LEE/DIEGO KANG

Your daughter had developed a strange little habit, plucking the eyes out of all her soft toys and proudly handing them to her dad, a bloody red lollipop dangling from her mouth. You hadn't noticed at first, and James didn’t think much of it.

But one night, you saw it happen. The way your little princess beamed with pride, offering him a pile of detached eyes and mangled limbs while sucking on that ominous lollipop, it made your soul leave your body.

"What the actual hell?" was all you could think.

You immediately told her to stop eating the lollipop and tucked her into bed. Afterward, you sat James down for a serious talk. You asked him if he even realized what was going on. He just waved it off with a casual, "She’s just a kid being a kid."

But you reminded him, this is exactly how he was when he was taking down the first gen.

That hit him.

And then he burst out laughing, like, full-body, can’t-breathe kind of laughter. “She’s already preparing to wipe out her generation,” he said between laughs.

You smacked his arm, horrified, but he caught your hand mid-air and gently caressed your face, grinning. “It’s in her blood,” he said.

You just glared at him while he kept laughing like it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

KITAE KIM

Any minor disagreement? Plastic knife, thrown.

Any slight inconvenience? Plastic knife—launched.

Didn’t like the food? Yep, you guessed it, knife airborne.

It was a funny (if slightly concerning) little habit until one day, she threw one right at her dad.

Kitae stood frozen, utterly aghast. Had his little flower just thrown something at him?

He knelt down, trying to stay calm, and asked her, “Why did you do that?”

She looked up with innocent eyes and said, “Because you do it too. And it helps you to move quickly. That’s why I’m doing it, too.”

The words sank like a stone.

He knew exactly what she meant by “move quickly.” And for the first time in his life, Kitae Kim felt true horror.

It wasn’t despair.

It wasn’t abandonment.

It was the creeping realization that if he didn’t watch himself, his own daughter might kill him one day, and worse, she'd be efficient about it.

JAEGYEON NA

Hot Wheels, Barbie edition. Not just a toy, but a prized, luxury grade collector’s item.

And Jaegyeon’s daughter knew it was worth like a CEO knew company shares.

So when complaints came pouring in, parents saying his sweet, gentle daughter destroyed other kids’ toys because they messed with her Hot Wheels collection—Jaegyeon didn’t flinch.

No shame. No apology.

Pride, in fact, spread across his face like sunlight.

Instead of reprimanding her, he scooped her into his arms, twirled her around, and said, “You did the right thing, baby.”

Then he turned to the other parents with that trademark smirk and said, “Maybe teach your kids not to mess with someone else’s things.”

Shock and mortification would be an understatement.

You stood there, completely bewildered, wondering what on earth you were supposed to do with these two.

JINRANG

You only found out when a relative came over one afternoon, and the first thing out of your daughter's mouth?

"Are you James Lee's dog?"

Apparently, it had become her favourite question.

You and Jinrang just laughed awkwardly, brushing it off with a quick, "Haha, she learned it from some cartoon..."

But your daughter wouldn’t drop it. She stood at the doorway, blocking the entrance until the poor relative answered the question.

"Are. You. James. Lee's. Dog. Or. Not?"

You shot Jinrang a dirty glare, silently telling him to stop acting so damn innocent.

Wasn't this your favourite line too, once upon a time?

Yeah. That's what you thought.

TAESOO MA

Even though DG had long since retired, James Lee was still out there, alive and chaotically well.

So, Taesoo made it a point to warn his daughter:

“Never trust guys with pink or red hair.”

That was the rule.

So when annual day came around and a boy with a pink wig approached her... she didn’t hesitate.

She punched him. Hard.

Declared with all her might,

“I’ve defeated James Lee! I fulfilled my father’s dream!”

(So sorry, Taesoo, but you’re never defeating James😭)

You were both called to the school. As the teacher recounted the event, you were mortified, offering sincere apologies.

Taesoo, on the other hand? A mix of pride and embarrassment.

Because... well, the boy really did look a little too much like James Lee.

Control yourself Taesoo💀

SEONGJI YUK

Your daughter was a shy little thing, sweet, soft-spoken, and struggling to make friends.

She told you about it, looking up with those worried eyes. So, you gave her the usual advice: “Be kind, be your best self, and maybe try talking to someone first.”

You also asked her class teacher to help her ease in.

Then one day, you noticed something odd.

The tanghulu in your house started vanishing.

And just as that mystery deepened, her teacher reached out saying how well your daughter was doing now, making friends, bonding with classmates.

It all clicked.

Food is also a language of love.

And she most certainly learned that from her dad.

Later that night, as Seongji read her bedtime story, you told him the whole thing. His cheeks turned a soft shade of pink.

You leaned against the doorframe, smiling.

“She learned from the best.”

Seongji’s heart? Instant combustion 🥹

[lixiesfreckless]

Drive | l. m.

an epilogue to Punch It, a fic from the PICU

➸ synopsis: "I forgot why I stuck with the sport in the first place.”

His hand reached over the gear shift, sliding his palm into your free one before intertwining your fingers.

“Racing with you though...I think I’m finally starting to remember.”

➸ starring: lee minho x reader

➸ word count: 4k

➸ general content: street racer!minho, established relationship, very slight Cars reference, playing twister in a car

➸ warnings: explicit sexual content(MINORS DNI), car sex, piv(wrap it before you tap it), switch!minho(rare sighting indeed), praise

➸ rating: TV-MA

➸ author’s note: this is at least 3 years old, but it's just a DLC for anyone who loves these characters as much as I do <3(also my writing style has changed so much since then, in a good way)

“Ah, a cliff,” Minho chuckled, peering over the edge before turning to you with a knowing look on his face. “I think I can see where this is going-”

“Relax. If I wanted you dead I would have killed you months ago.”

You stepped up next to Minho, pointing somewhere over the cloud of dust that the car brought to the view. Through the brown haze, he could make out a path, or rather, a track, one that hadn’t been used in years. The turns were overgrown with brambles and weeds of every kind, attempting to reclaim the terrain in between the tires wearing them down every so often.

“Behold,” you yelled rather dramatically, throwing your arms out in front of Minho, “the place where I learned to race!”

“You learned on a dirt track?” He scoffed, looking at you in shock. You however, nodded proudly, reminiscing all the times you had run off the road while attempting to drift.

“My dad taught me to drift here,” you laughed, looking over the field, “he knew I couldn’t really destroy anything out here, and boy was I a reckless driver…”

“Do you visit here often?”

“Not anymore...in fact the last time I came here was…” you paused, furrowing your brows as you searched your brain for an answer. “Actually, the last time I came here was right before we started dating.”

“What? Why?” He laughed, crossing his arms. “I can’t imagine you came out here to practice…”

“No no, I just came out here to talk to my dad.”

“Does he come here often?”

It was at this point that you realized you had backed yourself into a corner, because the topic of your father wasn’t necessarily a light one, and truthfully the reason you went to talk to him was for advice concerning the driver you were currently dating. But Minho didn’t know that, nor did he need to know.

“My dad…” you stared wistfully over the racetrack. Memories of summer days spent in cars, with the radio blasting and the windows down came surging towards the front of your memory, but before they could do any damage, you swallowed them all and put on a blank face.

“My dad died in a car accident when I was eighteen.”

Minho’s head fell, instantly regretting that he pushed the topic further.

“Y/n...I-”

“It’s okay, really,” you whispered, giving him a weak smile. “You didn’t know.”

“I come here sometimes to talk to him, because it’s where I feel closest to him…” you explained, heat rising to your cheeks. “That sounds really corny-”

“No no—it's endearing,” he reassured you, before his face changed to one of concern.

He pondered for a moment, running his hands through his hair.

"How did you get behind the wheel after the accident?"

“I didn’t.”

Shocked, Minho slowly nodded his head in silent understanding, waiting for you to continue.

“I didn’t drive for almost a year, actually,” you chuckled bitterly, kicking a rock off the cliff face. “I resented cars, biked to work, barely hung out with friends…that was probably the worst year of my life.”

“Well hey, at least your carbon footprint went down-”

You shot him a glare, and he nervously chuckled an apology before asking you a question.

“So if you hated driving so much...how did you get to be a street racer?”

“I didn’t hate driving,” you whispered. “I was scared of it.”

For someone like you to be scared of driving, Minho almost couldn’t believe it. You were the most fearless driver he met; or at least, that was what he deduced after that fateful duel from months ago. Aside from that, you didn’t seem to be scared of anything, especially not Minho.

“But my dad, he loved cars, almost as much as he loved me probably,” you laughed, walking back towards Minho’s car. “To stop driving was to stop surrounding myself with the one thing that constantly reminded me of him.”

“So what you just...stopped being afraid of cars?”

“Not exactly,” you said, leaning against the hood. “It was really slow trying to get back into it, but then I met Changbin and the rest of the gang, and seeing them drive…” you looked up to the sky, and Minho could see the tears that you were holding back as you smiled, “it made me feel like he never left.”

Minho wasn’t entirely sure of how to comfort you, but he threw caution to the wind and embraced you in a hug, toned arms and cologne enveloping you almost immediately. And for a moment, you were glad that he couldn’t see how easily the tears fell from your eyes once he did that. It almost made you fall for him more, seeing how caring he was when he wanted to be. He didn’t even let you go until you gently pressed on his sweater vest.

“Your dad would be thrilled to know how good of a driver you are now,” he whispered as he pulled away, smiling. “I heard you're the best in the city.”

“Stop it,” you laughed, punching his arm. That sparkle that returned to your eyes made him feel at ease again, thankful that he could bring any sort of ease to you before the air grew quiet again.

“I know a lot of drivers,” you began, leaning off of the hood, “a lot of them drive just to get to places, some drive for the adrenaline rush, or money, or fame, or to ‘be the best’,” you glanced at him playfully, to which he feigned offense.

“For me...I drive to keep the memory of my dad alive.”

For Minho, it was moments like these that made it hard to pinpoint when exactly you had started backing your way into his heart. The ridiculously cocky girl that he met months ago he had come to realize was only a facade, for underneath all of the snarky remarks and banter was a girl that cared deeply for the people she loved. From staying up late with Yeji so she wasn’t alone when she worked on her car, to giving him lessons on drifting, Minho found that to him, you were more than just a rival.

And he was lucky that you even felt the same way.

He could feel his heart beat faster as you made your way inside his car, and he knew it wasn’t from the rush that driving gave him.

“Hey I don’t think I’ve ever asked,” you spoke up, watching Minho land in the driver's seat, “why did you start street racing?”

“Well,” he began, slumping against the leather seat, “I mean I was a professional racer for a minute but, to tell you the truth, I started because I lost a bet.”

Your mouth fell open, not viewing Minho as the type to gamble, but you let him continue.

“I won’t bore you with the details, but I owed someone money, and I knew of some people that did street racing for cash prizes...one thing led to another and I was able to pay the guy back, but not before I was hooked on the sport.”

He looked to you, who had a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at the absurdity of his backstory, but he only gave you an eye roll before continuing.

“At first I loved it, but I started to get obsessed with numbers and time trials and being the best, and I forgot why I stuck with the sport in the first place.”

His hand reached over the gear shift, sliding his palm into your free one before intertwining your fingers.

“Racing with you though...I think I’m finally starting to remember.”

The car fell silent for a moment, Minho staring deep into your eyes, and you tried your best to keep a straight face, but it was useless. You burst out laughing, ruining the atmosphere, and Minho sighed loudly, pretending to be annoyed.

“Too cheesy?”

“Absolutely,” you snorted, folding yourself in half from the laughter.

“But y/n,” he cooed, leaning over the center console to pull you over to him, “you make my heart race-”

“Gross, get away from me!”

Any bystanders would have thought that two little kids were occupying the front seats of an expensive car with the way you two were now wrestling, limbs flying about and squeals leaving your mouth every other second. Finally, you pushed his arms back far enough over the middle aisle to ensure that he couldn’t tickle you, giggling madly at his little frustrated pout.

However your giggling was abruptly cut short by Minho’s lips on yours, and while being silenced wasn’t your favorite pastime, you had to admit that this was probably your favorite way of being shut up.

Not that you’d allowed anyone else to do that other than him.

His fingers reached over the center console to cradle your jaw, and a dizzying jolt of excitement seemed to shock you where they met your skin. Rather than melting you, that set your skin ablaze, and suddenly you were pressing onto his mouth with equal force, earning a satisfied sigh from him as he tilted your head slightly. The space between you two was diminishing, but not as quickly as your impatient self would have liked, and as he pulled away you had to stop yourself from chasing after his lips.

He held a fiery gaze at bay with a look of mild amusement, a little surprised at how quickly you were unraveling for him, but before he could say something snarky, you took matters into your own hands.

Clambering over the seat, you braced yourself on various parts of the car interior before situating yourself on Minho’s lap, trying not to laugh at Minho’s failed attempt at an unaffected look towards your suggestive actions.

You made a quick mental note that he liked being straddled, but before you could waste any more time, his electrifying fingers held your chin, pulling your lips back into a gentle kiss.

Your hands landed on his chest, and you took this opportunity to slide them up to his neck, slowly feeling every ridge of him through his sweater vest. He couldn’t conceal the smirk that appeared once he picked up on what you were doing, and in return he bit your lip playfully, as if to tell you to behave.

Your growing impatience had no intentions of doing that, however.

Needless, to say, his lip biting only spurred you on, and you returned the favor with a few open-mouthed kisses along his jawline, watching how his eyes fluttered closed in silent delight as he sighed. At last, he quit being shy and let his hands wander downwards, resting on your waist as you leaned farther into him.

When his lips found yours again, the kiss that resumed was more intense than the previous ones, and you were sure that your heartbeat was matching his rapid pulse under your fingertips. Hushed gasps replaced the chaste giggles from moments before, and you wanted to push him a bit further; sliding your hands along his bare shoulders in an attempt to free him of the crisp white button down that was loosely hanging off of his frame.

He pulled away momentarily, shrugging the sleeves off of his arms and breaking the kiss to get his wrists past the cuffs, then swiftly tossing the shirt against the passenger side window before turning back to you.

Something about the way you hovered over him, face flushed and lips swollen, made him lose all resolve and snap beneath you, pulling you flush into his chest with one arm around your back while the other slid into your hair, gently tugging at the strands as his tongue slid inside your mouth. Your body turned to mush, making you grateful that Minho’s sweater vest was still between the two of you for you to ball up in your fists, clutching onto him like you were clutching onto your sanity.

You shifted in his lap, liking the closeness but not entirely comfortable with your positioning and in doing so, Minho inhaled a sharp breath, breaking the kiss. Panicking for a moment, you thought you might have hurt him, but it was quite the opposite, and upon realizing this you glanced down to see that his pants weren’t looking too comfortable either.

“Sorry,” he winced, not meeting your eyes in fear of the knowing look you would have on your face. “We should probably-”

You cut him off, leaning in to capture his lips in a slow, passionate kiss, laced with a small but noticeable hint of desire, and when you pulled away you were met with a flushed Minho, clearly trying to ignore the way you were sitting on top of him.

“...move to the backseat?” you answered, waiting for him to get the memo.

“Wait...here? You want to do this here?” he whispered, eyebrows furrowing in shock.

“You don’t?”

“I do! I just thought that I would be moving too fast for you and-” you brought a finger to his lips, tilting your head in amusement.

“Moving too fast? For me?”

You watched as his face turned from one of concern to one of annoyance, and you giggled mischievously as he rolled his eyes, huffing slightly.

“I…I was trying to be considerate and here you are, making fun of me…”

“I do appreciate your concern,” you responded playfully, pulling at the strings at his neckline, “however…”

You shifted your hips once more, this time intentionally grinding yourself against him as he trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, and before he could grip you any tighter, he reached over to the door handle.

“Get in the backseat.”

Probably a little too excitedly, you hopped out of the car and into the backseat, kicking off your shoes as Minho put the key into the ignition and rolled up the windows, as well as turned on the air conditioning to combat the heated atmosphere inside the car. He followed after you, closing the driver’s door and jumping in next to you, just barely closing the door behind him as you threw your arms around his neck.

Neither of you could tell if he was pushing you down more or if you were pulling him; either way you two were level with the seat cushions in seconds, frenzied hands doing everything they could to feel the other’s skin under their fingertips. Minho’s sweater vest flew off first, him tugging it off quickly to stop you from stretching the knit to shreds in your desperation.

Your shirt was next to follow, Minho’s teasing finally coming to a halt for him to whisper “off” as he tugged at the hem of your shirt, and you both momentarily sat up for him to pull the shirt over your head and onto the floor. The break from contact was only for a moment though, Minho pushing you back down to litter hot kisses across your now exposed collarbones. You gasped involuntarily, squirming from the light suction as your hands fumbled with his belt, finding the metal buckle a bit too complicated for your lust clouded mind.

“In my...back pocket,” Minho whispered, resting on his elbows to lean against you, “grab my wallet.” His focus went back to moving his lips along your neck, occasionally letting his teeth nip against the skin as you whimpered, hands sliding down his back to the edge of his pants. His leather wallet poked out from the left side, and you took it, looking for a particular foil square. Needy as you were, you weren’t completely delusional.

As soon as you found it, he sat up against the seat, finally allowing you room to breathe as he quickly undid his belt, and your brain started working again, telling you to rid yourself of the shorts caging your arousal. The denim disappeared in seconds, and you looked up to see Minho pulling down his pants and boxers in one go, wincing slightly as his hard red length sprang up against his abdomen. The sight of it throbbing had your core clenching in anticipation, and you could do nothing but wish that Minho would put the condom on faster, or better yet; do it yourself.

Almost painfully slow, he slid the rubber on, but as soon as he looked to you to cage you between his arms again, you ditched your underwear and stretched a leg over his thighs, straddling him once again. An eyebrow raised in pleasant surprise, hands hovering over your hips cautiously, but a hurried nod was all it took for him to hold you tightly, waiting for you to begin your descent.

Just like the rest of him, his shoulders felt firm under your palms, and you buried your head at the junction of his neck and shoulder as your entrance pressed against his tip. A silent gasp was shared between the both of you as you slowly enveloped him in your tight heat, followed by a low rumble from his chest. Whimpering slightly, your fingers dug into his hot skin as you adjusted to his size.

“...Do you want any help?” He whispered, and you slowly pushed yourself away from his chest. The burning desire to move was blazing inside your core, so you shook your head, figuring your own desperation would fuel your stamina for now. His hands slipped upwards to rest on your waist as his head leaned back against the headrest, bracing himself for your movements.

With a small raise of your hips, it felt like flames of pleasure were licking your every corner, and a small moan threatened to escape your throat from the friction. Minho was holding back too, for whatever reason, but you didn’t miss the slight groan that vibrated in his chest, or the way his fingertips pressed into the flesh of your sides a bit harder.

Sinking back onto him made your mind fuzzy; the only thing you could think about was how much you needed to do that again, and again, and with nothing in the way of that, you created a pace that was somehow too much but also not enough, for either of you. Your chest burned with the need to vocalize every time you sank down, while Minho had resorted to leaving the space between you full of shallow breaths, thick with the desire to meet you halfway into every movement.

The way that he was filling you up was more than satisfactory, and to keep your mind somewhat grounded, you leaned down and connected your lips again, electric kisses distracting you from the delicious burning sensation below.

Minho was not having it however; he wanted to hear you, so he distracted you with his mouth in other ways.

Moving away from your mouth, he kissed up your jawline, over to your ear, which you would quickly realize was extremely sensitive to Minho’s hot breath against it. And definitely more sensitive to his voice, in this particular situation.

“Y/n,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just below your earlobe, “can you go faster for me?”

You must have clenched around him hard at that, because his breath hitched in his throat, stifling what would have been a moan as you picked up the pace.

“That’s it...that's my girl,” he almost moaned, tipping his head back as his hands slid up to hook around your shoulders. His hips started to jut up into you, and that combined with his arms pulling you down further every time your hips met was slowly turning you into a whining mess.

The sounds of your bodies meshing together was the dominant sound in the car, aside from Minho’s breathless pants and your endless whimpers, and the sun was far below the horizon now, long shadows finally disappearing and blending into the darkness inside the vehicle. The car was starting to rock back and forth in time with your movements, and the aching need for release was building just as fast as your stamina was diminishing; Minho noticed how you clung to his bare shoulders, signaling that you couldn’t keep up for much longer.

“I...can’t–” you sputtered out, your body close to giving out in the exhaustion and overstimulation of it all. Minho stilled your movements, pulling you off of him as both arms wrapped around your back.

“Slow down sweetheart, I’ve got you…” he whispered, laying you back onto the seat. He hovered over you, guiding himself back into your entrance before resuming a much slower pace, one that made you feel his every ridge, and in a sense this was slightly worse compared to riding him, because you could feel your orgasm approaching with the slowness of a bullet train.

For Minho, it was becoming increasingly difficult to not just drive himself inside you until you screamed his name, but he could save that for later, for now he thrusted inside you with a slow deliberation, and he relished in the way your nails clawed at his arms.

You felt like you could barely keep your eyes open, but when you could, it was a sight to behold. His honey skin was just barely caught in the remnants of the sunset, beads of sweat rolling down his neck and sticking to the various necklaces he was wearing, or dampening his beep brown hair. His face and neck were tinted with a slight glow of red, as well as his lips, which you were only to catch a glimpse of before he dipped down to taste the skin of your chest.

His hand slipped under you momentarily to unclasp your bra, and you just barely helped him slip it off your shoulders, dropping it on the floor beside you. His lips then went back to work, kissing along the sensitive swell of your breast as your core clenched tightly around him, spurring him on even further.

A hand came up to cup one of your breasts, thumb lightly running over your hardened nipple as your back involuntarily arched, and Minho could tell that you were close, with the pitch of your moans getting higher by the second.

“Almost there?” He asked, half curious for your sake and half for his; he wasn’t sure how much longer he could take you before he would start to unravel.

“Yes...close, so close,” you cried out, syntax becoming nearly impossible.

His lips latched onto your neck once more, sucking to leave a deep red mark there as his thumb and index finger rolled your sensitive bud, and that combined with a few more deep thrusts had you twisting in pleasure until finally, you reached your peak. You were sure there would be marks left as your nails dug into his back, your loud moan reverberating around the car interior as Minho slowed his thrusts, relishing in the way you tightened around him.

It was only a minute before Minho was gasping for air himself, on the tip of ecstasy as he sheathed himself inside you at a fast pace, not wanting to overstimulate you for longer than he needed to. Luckily, his resolve broke quickly, and you could feel his warm release filling the condom before he pulled out, chest heaving.

You both fell mostly silent in the afterglow, spent but definitely satisfied, both of you just enjoying being in each other’s embrace before having to get cleaned up. The faint sound of the nearest highway was now the loudest sound in the vehicle, and the sky was turning into a deep shade of cobalt blue, every remnant of the sun now buried under the horizon line.

After a minute you started giggling, a funny thought running through your mind.

“What?” breathed Minho, starry eyes gazing at you through long eyelashes.

“It’s just-” you paused to laugh again.

“When Changbin wanted us to make good use of his car, I don’t think this is what he had in mind…”

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧

[rika-mmendmethings]

Mirage l Caleb

Chapter 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 coming soon

Summary: In a world where power is survival's currency, you are a former top Colonel in the Farspace Fleet, now demoted to lieutenant colonel. You've lost your rank to Caleb, a newcomer who has taken your place. But when fate takes, it also gives. You discover that the man you despise is linked to the very organization you've been trying to expose for years. Yet, you find yourself being deterred from your mission as the line between loathing and love blurs.

Warning(s): Subject to change as we progress further into the story but main ones are: enemies to lovers, slowburn, major character death(s), extreme violence, yandere themes. For currently this chapter: reader is insane, mentions of brainwashing, malnutrition, and experimentation, fratricide, emotional manipulation, minor character death and guns, graphic violence, eye gore/ trauma, implied torture, revenge narrative, major foreshadowing, psychological trauma, morally grey protagonist.

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: This story is the Caleb girlies especially the ones who love Colonel Caleb. Farspace Fleet and EVER are not related, i.e., both are different organizations with distinct criminal histories. The timelines can be and will be going astray because this is a reader-insert. This feels like a filler chapter with hell lot of foreshadowing for future. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask me, and I'll try my best to give you a proper answer without revealing too much. Let me know if you wish to be added to the tag list for this. ♥

Tag list: @browneyedgirl22 @tatauane @his-ocean-emissary @rxelarailuj @junni-berry @glowinthedarkforests @motherspider @justpassingdontworry @nm4565natty @luwumii @chiikasevennn @lads-ficrecs @aiehtta

"Do you regret it?"

Your voice is flat — colorless, empty, like a slate scrubbed raw. It echoes in the sterile chamber, each syllable hollow and slow. Your face is shriveled from starvation, the skin stretched too tightly over your cheekbones, a frail frame draped in the papery folds of a hospital gown. Test after test had devoured your body, carved youth from your bones — but there’s still something young in your eyes, something that hasn’t quite died.

Across from you, your brother kneels. His colonel’s cap lies abandoned at his feet like a discarded crown. His head is bowed. His whole frame shakes with the weight of what he cannot take back.

“Every single minute of it,” he sobs, voice wet and broken. “I shouldn't have done that. I'm so sorry...”

He folds before you, hands clasped, face crumpled by grief, the proud soldier reduced to nothing but a penitent man. Behind you, a glass box is lit with sterile white light, lined with the silhouettes of higher-ups who watched not as people, but as mechanisms of control. Their pens moved in tandem, indifferent. 

You lower yourself to your knees. A mirror of his posture, hands drawn together in a gesture not of prayer, but of bitter imitation. A few tears roll down your cheeks, but your face remains blank. You mirrored his desperation with a detached precision like a puppeteer imitating his own puppet.

He stills, the horror dawns slowly in his eyes as he truly sees you — the pallor, the sunken cheeks, the trembling hands that no longer tremble from fear, only from what they’ve endured. He sees the aftermath of what he helped build.

“What’s so special about this position?” you murmur, voice distant. “Look, I’m kneeling too. Does that make me sorry enough?”

His breath catches, eyes wide, shame catching up to sorrow. He begs again, trying to reach out to his younger sister, hoping she’s still there, “Please…forgive me.”

You reach out, cupping his face with your hands. Your fingers brush beneath his eyes, catching his tears as he once caught yours when you were younger, when love hadn't yet been replaced by greed. 

“I do forgive you.”

You notice the exact second the hope flickered in his eyes, like a spark catching on kindling. That small, pathetic second. You watch his shoulders release, as if he could finally breathe again, hope blooming like a fool’s flower.

You continue without a rush, "Except my forgiveness is death."

Then, without warning, you plunge your nails into his eye.

His scream shatters the silence. A high, animal cry that rattles your skull, reverberates through the glass, crashes into the cold hearts of your observers like a warning. But no one moves. They simply write faster.

Your brother’s scream rips through the sterile air — hoarse, guttural, drenched in agony. It fills the room, bounces off the reinforced walls, and claws at your ears. But you remain silent.

His hands flail weakly toward his face, blood gushing from the ruined socket in thick, uneven pulses, painting his face in deep, wet reds. His body shakes as he crumples forward, knees buckling.

You don’t look away.

Instead, your hand moves to his hip, swift and deliberate. With a single pull, you draw the revolver from his holster — the one he always wore with pride, with the false weight of command. The cold steel rests in your palm like it was made for you.

You flip the cylinder open. It spins with a metallic whisper — the sound sharp, purposeful, final. Then you snap it shut with a flick of your wrist, the weight of loaded chambers locking into place. You raise the revolver and aim at his chest, right over his heart.

Six bullets. You fire without taking a single breath.

Each one hits just above the heart — a tight cluster. His body jerks, folds inward, then drops entirely. The life leaves him before the sixth casing clinks to the floor. He lies motionless in a spreading pool of blood. It pours from his chest in waves, soaking into the floor beneath him and radiating outward, thick and dark. The splash extends almost a full meter — reaching even his fallen colonel’s cap.

His face is frozen in the last moments of pain and disbelief. You look at him for a second longer. Then nothing. Wordlessly, you place the revolver beside you with detached care.

Your gaze shifts to the cap — the once-pristine symbol of rank now soaked in his blood, resting like a crown at the feet of a corpse. You pick it up slowly. Blood smears across your fingers. It drips down the sides as you lift it and press it onto your head with both hands.

It sits crooked. It doesn't matter.

Your brother’s blood trickles down your temple, streaks your cheek, drips along your jawline but you make no effort to wipe it away. You simply turn.

And from beyond the glass wall, the higher-ups stare back, impressed. One of them speaks in a measured voice, “The Farspace Fleet welcomes the new colonel.”

You cough as you frantically sit up on your bed, lungs convulsing like they’re rejecting the air. For a moment, you don’t know where you are — only the phantom of everything lingers, still echoing behind your eyes. You reach blindly for the glass on your bedside table, knocking it over in your desperation before finally finding the rim. The water goes down in gasps, not gulps, like you're trying to drown the memory still lodged in your throat.

Nightmares like these plagued you every night ever since that day six years ago.

The faint white glow of the clock flickers. Still ten minutes before the alarm. You could lie back down. Pretend you still have rest left to salvage. But you don’t. With a slow exhale, you push off the sheets and swing your legs over the edge of the bed to freshen up for the day.

You stand before the mirror, the sterile light of your quarters casting a cold sheen over the navy blue uniform hanging on the rack. It’s an alien thing, this fabric dyed with the insignia of Lieutenant Colonel — junior adjutants must have slipped it in, replacing the deep, commanding black of your Colonel’s attire like a thief in the night. Your breath catches, a bitter laugh barely contained in your throat. To wear it feels like donning shackles forged from threads of humiliation, each stitch whispering the quiet betrayal of your demotion. The cloth presses against your skin with a strange chill, as if your own flesh rejects the designation sewn into its seams.

Fingers steady, you brush your hair back, eyes locked on the new badges, aiguillette, insignia for the Lieutenant Colonel — these small, ornate emblems, representing your fall from the ranks. You slip into the uniform reluctantly, the stiff collar biting into your neck, the fabric stretching uncomfortably over shoulders that had once borne the weight of command with pride. 

Once dressed, your gaze returns to the mirror. Your eyes trace the faint, nearly imperceptible scar just a centimeter below your hairline — a fine, cruel incision, starting from your right side of the forehead and evenly straight till ending at the left side. The scar stirs a sour taste in your mouth, bile rising unbidden as the flood of recollections crashes through your mind. You turn away abruptly, unwilling to confront the ghost reflected back at you.

Your hand moves with practiced ease to the leather holster at your hip, the familiar cold weight of your revolver reassuring against your thigh. It is the only constant in this sea of upheaval, the single thread of power and control left within your grasp.

The corridors outside are slick with metal and light, the hum of cybernetic systems vibrating through the walls like the pulse of some great beast. Your destination: the cyber operations unit, a labyrinthine nexus of screens and servers where information is both weapon and shield.

You made your way to the far left end of the unit, boots dragging a little more than usual, and flopped into a vacant chair without ceremony. The hard metal frame groaned under your weight, but you didn’t care. You leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling for a second before settling on the figure in front of you.

Inez sat behind her monitor, fingers already tapping at the keys, though they slowed when she noticed you. Her station was a clutter of wires, screen glare, and half-drunk energy cans, but she moved through it all like it was second nature. Over the years, she’d become something between a contact and a comrade — always at the backend of your hunts, digging through firewalls when your suspicions flared. She wasn’t flashy, but she was efficient and reliable.

Without looking up, she asked, “Whose data do you want me to pull out?”

You heard the subtle acceleration in her typing as she preemptively started combing the secure archives. Probably backdoor access — she didn’t bother hiding that from you anymore.

“Caleb Xia.”

Her fingers paused and so did her breath.

When she looked at you, it wasn’t confusion — it was quiet scrutiny. You met her stare, no expression, no hesitation. After a beat, she exhaled hard through her nose and muttered, “The new colonel? You think he’s with that organization?”

You rested your chin in one hand, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm on the edge of her desk. “Involved is too soft a word. He’s probably splitting Friday takeout with the CEO.”

She didn’t laugh. Just gave you the kind of unimpressed look that said she was already regretting asking. But she turned back to her terminal and began pulling records anyway.

“How are you still so sure it’s EVER?” she asked, voice even.

You rolled your eyes and sat up straighter. “Come on, Inez. EVER’s been crawling up the Fleet’s spine for five years. We’ve all felt the shift — ghost promotions, redacted ops, officers disappearing into black-site contracts and never coming back. And now, out of nowhere, an adjutant becomes colonel? Please.”

You leaned back again, letting your shoulders drop. “With the kind of access he has now... If we don’t stop him, we’ll be two steps behind forever. And I don’t intend on being behind. Not this time. Not with him.”

She didn’t argue, just gave a slow, acknowledging nod and kept typing. You watched the flicker of windows open on her screen, one after another.

“Alright,” she murmured, scanning. “No parents and was adopted by a woman named Josephine. She also adopted another girl. Xia’s three years younger than you. Graduated top three from the Aerospace Academy. Did some classified work under DAA for three years before transferring into the Fleet.”

You nodded, distracted, eyes drifting toward the rubik’s cube on her desk. Your hands moved on instinct, twisting colors into place as the room filled with the soft clack of plastic.

Inez's face has gone still — too still. Her fingers hover above the keyboard, frozen in place like they’d hit something sharp in the code, something she hadn’t expected. The steady click of keys has died, replaced by a silence that buzzes louder than any alarm. Her lips press into a thin line, her brows inch together just slightly — enough to make your instincts prickle.

You straighten in the rolling chair, the worn leather creaking under your shifting weight. The rubik’s cube stills in your hand. “What?” you ask, voice low, measured. “What is it?”

Inez’s eyes narrowed, her fingers hovering above the mouse. The glow of her monitor cast thin shadows over her face as she read, lips pressing into a firmer line.

“He has a death certificate attached,” she said, voice clipped, almost skeptical. “Filed by Linkon City Hall. It’s been crossed out now, but the reason listed is an accidental fire at Josephine’s house in the Bloomshore District. His body wasn’t recovered, but he was still declared dead.”

You didn’t stop solving the cube, but your focus had sharpened. Each turn now deliberate.

She continued without prompting. “The certificate was erased from the system last year, after he joined the Fleet as an adjutant. They filed it under document irrelevance. And here’s what’s interesting — before that fire, he worked with DAA. Then he vanishes. After he’s declared alive again, suddenly he’s with Fleet. No in-between. No transit records, no job switches, not even a relocation stamp.”

You finished the cube with a firm twist, all the colors falling neatly into place. A breath left your chest, shallow and unreadable. You placed it back on her desk, standing up with a smooth motion and adjusting your hat like it were a mantle being shifted back into place.

“Thanks for the pull,” you said, tone light but eyes fixed, unreadable.

Inez raised a brow, mildly taken aback by your lack of commentary. “That’s it?” she asked. “What are you gonna do now?”

Your silence lingered for a beat too long, then a slow, cunning smile took your lips. One that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Oh, you know,” you said, brushing imaginary dust off your sleeves. “Prod. Put our dear colonel in a spot where the mask slips. See if he holds up when things get... personal.”

You tipped your hat once — a subtle motion to bid her farewell, more habit than flair — and she gave a lazy wave in return, already turning back to her screen as if she hadn’t just handed over the keys to someone’s buried past.

And with that, you turned, your boots thudding against the steel floor as you figured where to locate him.

Check out my other works if you liked this ♥

[pallisia]

if you were to go on a date with one of the soulsov characters, who would it be? how do you think it'd pan out?

instead of answering this question for myself, i'm going to make a case for all the characters to help you decide which route to pick. (note: there are no routes.)

loic is sweet, fun to talk to and genuinely engaged in what you have to say. he enjoys pampering people and would happily plan and pay for everything. all in all, he would take you on a first date so nice that it would in itself be a red flag, leaving you thinking "there's 100% something really wrong with this guy." but you would never find out what, because he's not interested in more than a casual relationship. if you don't mind that, he might make you happy.

ysme is also not interested in anything serious. she knows how to turn on the charm to get what she wants out of a first date, but you would not hear from her ever again afterwards. she wouldn't want to plan anything (though she definitely has demands) or pay for anything (though she definitely has the money) because she knows you would have the money, because you would be an easy mark. but she would look very pretty on your arm for a day, if that's what you want.

fel honestly has too much inner turmoil going on to be much fun on a date. she loves looking up cute places to go, but when it comes down to it, she can't decide what she likes or wants to do. she would bring up religion at dinner, but it would feel afterwards like she didn't even really want to mention it, and then the date would get very awkward and end early. bad end.

nino is full of energy, has a great sense of humor, and is a real romantic when given the chance to dote on someone. while she would pick a date spot that might end up being pretty disappointing in itself, she'd make some fun out of it regardless. similarly to fel, she tends to get too intense too quickly and would risk derailing the date over an awkward conversation, but she might bring it back with her natural charm.

langlais is langlais. he's self-absorbed and would ask you about yourself with an air of obligation. he would likely make a misogynistic joke if he got too comfortable at any point, though he would apologize if pressed. he would take you to a really nice restaurant and buy you anything you wanted with the quiet expectation that you would have sex at the end of the night. he wouldn't insist, but a second date would be contingent on it.

tutu...i mean, you could go on a play date with her. it would be fun. actually that might be the best option here.

[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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[jellysmosh]

A Gentleman's Agreement

Summary: When you and Spencer were scheduled to film a Trivial Pursuit: Try Not To Laugh video together, you never stood a chance. To win the video, that is.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x M!Reader

Tags: Fluff, sexual innuendos and references as is the standard for a gentlemen video

Word count: 1.9k

Note: Based on this request from anon for gentleman Spencer and male reader! Utilising this chance to say happy pride month to my fellow LGBTQ-ers, love y’all!

☆

Participating in a gentleman shoot was not for the faint of heart. You had to think quick, the back and forth between the cast was razor sharp and fast enough to cause whiplash. On top of all that, you had to layer on a thick, old-timey English accent, as posh as they come.

You took a deep breath and placed the fake cigarette between your lips. This video was going to be a bit different. The gentlemen videos had grown in size as of late, the number of top hats purchased by the company increasing. The Smosh Games team had decided to change it up a bit and, apparently pitched by Spencer, they had you sit across from him for a Trivial Pursuit: Try Not To Laugh style video, just the two of you. Spencer asking that you join him for this video didn’t do much to stop both your ego and your secret little crush on him from growing. You couldn't help but let a smile take over your whole face when you saw the call sheet that morning.

You couldn’t deny you were a bit nervous. Usually you were more excited for games videos but with the gentleman suit and hat on, Spencer sat right by you, and mind racing to get into character, the pressure was on.

Spencer finished off his discussion with Alex and turned to you, adjusting the top hat perched on his curly head of hair. “You ready?”

When his eyes caught yours, the contact held longer than necessary, you weren’t sure if you imagined the spark in the air between you. Probably just pre-shoot jitters. You barely had enough time to nod before the clapper sounded, and you were rolling.

“I say”, you took a fake puff of your prop cigarette, accent nice and crispy after your impromptu vocal warmups seconds before coming to set. “It appears Sir Scotty Pippin has joined me yet again for a late night rendezvous, although we are significantly more clothed this time, wouldn’t you say, Pippin?”

Spencer kept his lips sealed, hand holding his cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. You could just see the whisper of a smile threaten to push its way out. His eyes were trained on yours, as if to say ‘really?’

“Well, yes, of course, my good sir”, he replied in his rough gentleman accent, “though, I cannot guarantee it will remain this modest for long. I hear homosexuality is the new frontier.”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter at that. You already knew you were screwed from the moment you sat in the chair, hell, probably from the moment you were told this video was going to happen really. But that was probably a Trivial Pursuit TNTL record for fastest laugh.

You two fell into a rhythm relatively fast, you felt like it was a pretty even game. Every time he got you, you got him back soon after. Whenever you donned the gentleman costume, you loved to scandalise the other gentlemen in an effort to make them laugh so hard they were gasping.

“Pink me, Pippin”, you winked, tipping your hat at him by the brim.

Spencer dramatically raised his brows at you, grabbing the cigarette from his mouth, “perhaps when the cameras are done rolling, sir. I’m afraid my boner is a tad camera shy.”

You managed to push down the laugh that almost spilled out of you, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck from your chest. Eyeing him expectantly as he drew a question card, you prepared yourself to answer him quickly.

“Pete Best was the original drummer of which band?” He placed his cigarette back in his mouth as he flipped the card over to read the answer.

“Well, that would be this ass, sir”, you quipped, both hands gesturing down to your nether regions.

Spencer almost spat out his cigarette as he abruptly laughed, caught off guard. You could have sworn his cheeks were dusted with a hint of pink as well.

“Just… smacking away like a wildebeest”, you grinned smugly as he tried to compose himself. For a second, you saw Spencer as himself laughing before he got back into character as Scotty Pippin.

Both of you bantered back and forth, and you had to admit you felt a satisfied flip in your stomach every time you made Spencer lose his composure, the laughs from the rest of the room were just cherries on top.

“Blue me, my good sir”, Spencer used his cigarette to point at you before putting it back in his mouth.

“Indeed, I did”, you nodded, your own cigarette wobbling around as you grabbed a card. Spencer laughed again, and you swore he was not so easily broken in other TNTL videos. “And I do believe you left me a glowing review.”

“Well, of course”, he turned his attention to the crew members in the room, “I assure you all, his fellatio skills are unmatched!”

That got you, and you were holding your sides as you laughed along with the other people in the room. You tried to catch your breath as you retrieved your prop cigarette from where it had fallen on the table.

You took a breath and read out the blue question on the card, “which was built first: The Eiffel Tower or the Panama Canal?”

You braced yourself for whatever bullshit Spencer was about to spew.

“You and I participated in an Eiffel Tower, I do recall”, he immediately shot back, “yes, yes, with that lovely call girl, and we passionately made out with each other as well if my memory serves me… with tongue!” While you had expected him to say something wild, as was par for the course for Scotty Pippin, you were still left giggling like an idiot, face in hands to cover your reddened cheeks.

When you retracted your hands, you caught Spencer’s gaze lingering on you a bit too long. His smile was not as smug as it usually would be, much softer, more himself. You felt your smile falter, there was no chance the cameras weren’t picking up how red your face had become, and that combined with the way he was looking at you, it all made your heart beat ten times faster.

“Guys? Hello?” Alex’s confused voice rang out over the set, which you only just realised had gone oddly silent. “Why’d you stop?”

You and Spencer blinked at each other, seeming to snap out of it. Neither of you had realised that you were wordlessly staring at each other for way too long while the cameras were rolling.

“I say, we are simply just two gentlemen enjoying the warmth of each other’s company”, Spencer swooped in to save the day, back in character. Meanwhile, you did your best to look indignant as well.

“Yes!” You backed him up, puffing out your chest.

“And if something happens, then something happens!”

“Ye- what?” You looked at him, puzzled, as laughter erupted in the room again.

“So be it!”

“Now, wait a moment”, you held a hand up in playful bewilderment, holding in your laughter, but he wasn’t done.

“What’s a bit of loving between two men? I believe that’s the manliest thing one can do”, he winked at you and this time you couldn’t hold in your laughter. You've known him for quite a while now and he still surprised you with how easily he could make you laugh. Maybe he chose you for this video because he knew he would win.

The rest of the video continued without a break in banter. You believed this may be the video you had laughed the most in, and probably the video your heart was beating the fastest throughout. You had no idea how other cast members managed to do videos alone with him. He was so charming, so hilarious, so Spencer, even when he was playing a crude gentleman. It came as no surprise when it was announced that Spencer won.

Once filming was done, Alex was giving some very brief notes before dismissing you.

“You guys laugh a little too easily at each other’s jokes”, he narrowed his eyes at you for a second. You sheepishly took off your top hat to ruffle your hair to get back to normal, hoping it also covered the fact that you were blushing.

“I knew we would make a good pair”, Spencer leaned over to nudge your arm as Alex walked away. Your heart jumped into your throat as you glanced over, he was smiling mischievously, like you were kids sharing a secret.

“Yeah”, you almost whispered before clearing your throat and speaking up, “yeah, that was a lot of fun, man.”

You quickly left the set after that, mumbling something about preparing for the next video. Your heart hammered in your chest and you felt like you were going to be sick. Maybe this was more than a little crush.

☆

You left wardrobe in your normal clothes, sighing in relief to no longer have the stuffy collar of the white gentleman shirt choking you. You realised your T-shirt was not pulled down all the way properly and you heard someone clear their throat behind you as you yanked it down. You spun around to see Spencer, still in his Scotty Pippin costume, clearly heading into wardrobe as you were leaving.

“Y/N, hey!”, he grinned at you crookedly, tucking his top hat under his arm.

“Hello again”, you tried not to feel shy, he had such a weird effect on you no other person did.

“So, uh, did you enjoy the shoot?” Spencer looked around, seemingly avoiding eye contact, “as you know, I was the one that pitched it, so I would really appreciate your, like, feedback.”

“Yeah!” You replied a little too fast and a little too loud, you rubbed the back of your neck, embarrassed, “yeah, it was a lot of fun.”

He glanced back at you and there it was again, the little spark between you as you stood there, eyes locked without saying a word.

“I agree, by the way”, you had lowered your voice, not wanting anyone else to hear, wanting this moment to be just for you two, “that we make a good pair.”

He chuckled, his cheeks flushing a similar shade of pink as yours.

“We do”, he put one hand in his jeans pocket, hiding his restlessness, “that’s why I wanted to ask if you wanted to get dinner sometime, with me, with just me, I mean. Like, as a date, not as bros. Obviously. I don’t know why I said that.”

You chuckled as well when he stumbled over his words.

“I’m fucking this up”, he groaned, turning his body away from you as he tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. You could see his ears reddening quickly.

“No, you’re not”, you gently rested your hand on his shoulder to turn him back toward you. You felt your breath hitch a bit when you saw his expression, cheeks red and eyes vulnerable in a way that made you want to hug him tight. “I would love to.”

You leaned in and pressed an apprehensive kiss to his cheek. You heard him sigh, content, and his hand came out of his pocket to wrap an arm around you. That made you smile, heart thumping and chest warm. Your hand came up to hold his face as you kissed his cheek again for a half-beat longer. You pulled back to look at him, a big dumb grin on your face.

“Best video idea I ever pitched”, he murmured for only you to hear as he pulled you in again.

☆

Note: This was an attempt at a shorter fic, since I want to take more requests! I hope you guys still like it, please tell me what you think. <3

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