#the answer to that question is that I’m stupid

[maskedbyghost]

You were facing the wall.

Arms tucked close to your chest, your back turned toward the door, and a blanket pulled up to your chin even though it wasn’t cold. Your eyes were wide open. You weren’t even trying to sleep. The light from the hallway bled under the crack in the door, and every time it shifted, your breath caught, half-hoping, half-dreading that it was him.

He’d left without another word. You’d told him to sleep on the couch, and he didn’t argue. Just looked at you for a moment, his lips pressed into that hard line he always got when he was trying not to say something he’d regret. And then he walked out.

That was almost an hour ago.

You blinked slowly, eyes stinging. You hated fighting with him. Hated the way it left your chest tight and your mind buzzing. You hated the silence afterward even more. And this time… you weren’t even sure who was more in the wrong.

The fight started with something stupid. It usually did. You’d asked him why he hadn’t texted back when you messaged him earlier in the day—just a casual check-in, nothing serious. He said he’d been busy. You said you understood, but something about your tone made it obvious you didn’t. And then he said, “It’s not always about you,” and you froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them, like you’d been a burden instead of someone he missed. Like he didn’t have space for you in his head that day, and you were wrong for noticing it.

You’d snapped and told him if he didn’t want to talk to you, he could’ve just said that. Told him you weren’t going to beg him for attention. He looked at you like he wanted to speak but didn’t, and you’d finally said it.... go sleep on the couch, Simon, because you didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t hurt more.

And he left.

Now you were here, pretending the pillow was more comfortable than his chest, replaying the words in your head until they lost all their meaning. You hadn’t even told him goodnight. And he hadn’t told you he loved you, not like he always did before bed.

Your throat tightened. You blinked at the wall again, trying to will yourself not to cry, not now when you’d already said your piece, already told him to leave. You didn’t want to be the one to break first. But still, your chest ached in that way that only came when something between you felt wrong.

A floorboard creaked somewhere outside the bedroom. Then silence came, a pause just long enough to make you question if you’d even heard anything at all.

And then—

The door creaked open slowly.

You stayed still. You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to seem too eager, didn’t want him to think you’d just forget everything because he came back. But your heart betrayed you, picking up speed the moment you heard his quiet footsteps on the carpet. Then the bed dipped behind you, before his arm wrapped around your waist, fast like he was afraid you’d push him away if he didn’t do it quick.

You didn’t.

“I know you’re awake,” he said quietly, his breath brushing against the back of your neck.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

“I thought about what you said.” His voice was low and soft. “And I thought about what I said. And I didn’t come back to fight. I just... I needed you to hear this.”

He paused, exhaling slowly.

“I fucked up,” he admitted. “I was tired and distracted, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were just lookin’ for me and I made you feel like you were too much.”

Your eyes burned. Still, you didn’t speak.

“I never want you to feel that way,” he murmured. “Not ever. Not when you text me, not when you talk to me, not when you just exist near me. You’re not a burden. You’re… you’re the best part of my day, and I treated you like you weren’t. I’m sorry, love.”

You felt his hand squeeze your side gently, like he was grounding himself just as much as he was trying to comfort you.

“I meant what I said before I left,” he added, “but I meant it wrong. It’s not always about you, but it should be. You’re my person. I should’ve answered you. I should’ve checked in. You have every right to need me.”

You blinked hard, finally managing to whisper, “I wasn’t trying to fight.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “I know, love. You were just tryin’ to connect. And I shut down on you. I let shit get in my head and I pushed you out. I won’t do that again.”

You turned slowly, finally facing him. His eyes met yours in the dim light, and god, he looked wrecked.

“I just missed you,” you whispered. “That’s all.”

He reached up and cupped your face gently. “I missed you too. More than I can say. And I don’t want to end a single fuckin’ day with you wonderin’ if I care. I do. So much.”

You leaned in, tucking your face against his neck. His arms wrapped around you fully now, pulling you in close, holding you tight like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, before his lips pressed against your hair.

“I’m not goin’ back to the couch,” he said softly. “Even if you ask again. I’ll sleep on the floor next to you before I ever leave you like that again.”

That made you laugh, just a little.

“Sorry I got mean,” you mumbled.

He smiled into your hair. “You weren’t mean. You were hurt. And I made you feel that way. I deserved it.”

You looked up at him, eyes searching his face. “You’re really good at this. Talking about it. Most guys just shut down.”

“I used to,” he admitted. “Didn’t fix a damn thing. I’d rather talk and hold you than be right.”

You snorted. “You were wrong though.”

He grinned. “I know. Fully aware of it.”

You finally let your body relax fully against him, tension leaving piece by piece as he kissed your forehead and whispered, “Still love you, even when we fight. Especially then.”

“I love you too,” you murmured.

And you meant it. Even when it was hard. Even when things got messy. Because he came back. Because he chose to come back and say the things that mattered. Not everyone did.

But Simon did. And that was enough.

----------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373

[p1astr81]

pretty please could you write about Ollie and virgin reader, but he doesn't know she's a virgin and gets confused and frustrated when even months in they haven't had sex. Maybe he goes to some of the other drivers (like Lando or something) for advice cuz he doesn't know what to do or why she won't sleep with him. I absolutely love your writing, keep up the incredible work 👏🏻🫶🏻♥️

Things were getting heated in his flat. He’d pulled you into his lap mid makeout as he was trying to devour your lips with his. His hands were all over you. In your hair, on your hips, under your shirt and roaming over your back.

But he wanted more than another heated make-out session. He rolled his hips into yours, creating friction.

You gasped, which he thought was a good thing.

Until you jumped off his lap and practically bolted to the kitchen. “I’m kind of hungry. Should we order or cook?” You covered quickly, opening the fridge like you were actually searching for a meal.

Ollie sighed at how you’d ran from him again. In truth, he was getting skeptical of your constant avoidance to move past kissing.

You’d never allowed him to kiss you below your collarbones, always pushed him away when he tried. Whenever his hand snuck up your thigh, you’d shift or move it. And that one time he’d squeezed your ass as a joke, and you blushed like crazy, got really quiet and avoidant.

He asked you if you were okay on multiple occasions. You always had some excuse. He was only willing to let it slide for so long.

The following week, as he was sat with Charles at lunch, he asked him about it.

“Does Alex ever… like… reject you?” He knew it was a highly personal question, but being constantly rejected was eating away at him. He had to know what was up.

Charles raised a brow, smirking a bit. A dimple carved into his cheek. “How do you mean?” He knew exactly how he meant it. He just wanted to hear him say it.

Ollie scoffed. “Like…” he scoffed again, frustrated. “Whenever I try to initiate anything, y/n just- she runs away.” He confessed, a quiet voice.

It was getting harder for Charles to not laugh. “Runs away?”

“Not actually but,” he sighed. “yeah.”

“Well, did you ask her about it?”

Ollie paused. “Not directly.”

This time, Charles did laugh. Not loudly or making a scene out of it. Just a quiet chuckle. “So you don’t know if she’s waiting for marriage?”

Another pause from the younger. Then quietly, slightly embarrassed, “I didn’t even consider that.”

Charles only laughed and shook his head at the younger driver.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that he worked up the courage to actually ask you.

Sat on the couch, watching a movie. Your head rested on his shoulder, arms hugging one of his. His hand placed on your mid-thigh.

You were dozing off, so relaxed curled into his side. He thought there was no better time.

“Hey baby?” He called and squeezed your thigh. You hummed, a very sleepy sound. Still, your tired eyes looked up at him through your lashes. “Are you waiting til marriage?” He found it difficult to look into your eyes as he spoke.

Brows tilted, you tip your head back to see him easier. “You mean like… to have sex?”

Ollie swallowed. “Yeah.” He breathed. “And- and I know it’s kind of invasive I guess but I just want to know because, well, because I keep trying to- uh- you know. And-“

“I figured you’d ask about it eventually.” You sat up, letting go of his arm. He missed your touch instantly. “I’m not exactly… saving. I mean, yes I’m still a virgin but that’s not why.” You reached for the remote and paused the movie in the middle of an action scene. You kept the remote in your hands, thumbing the buttons. “It’s stupid.” You muttered.

Ollie bumped your knee with his. “It’s not stupid. If it’s about you, I want to know.”

Too conflicted to answer, you left him with a pause. Your thumbs paused on the remote buttons. “I guess I’m just scared.”

The smile came before the laugh. You looked to him, face twisted in hurt. “Sorry, I’m not laughing at you.” He clarified and your expression softened. “I just- I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” He laughed again, a small chuckle.

“So, you’re not upset?”

“Upset? No, why would I be? That’s normal, and we can get there whenever you’re comfortable. I just didn’t know.”

A weight was lifted off the both of your shoulders. Lighter now, you leaned into him again. Curled into his side.

“I love you.” You whispered, a hand on his chest, over his heart.

Ollie smiled, feeling all soft inside. “I love you, too.” He kissed the top of your head. “Even if you’re lacking a little in the communication department.” He joked.

You shoved his chest, earning a laugh. “Not like you tried to either.”

“I just did!”

“Yeah, after how many weeks?”

You had him there. He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, I guess we are both guilty.”

[pinkslipxox]

hi!! can you make a fic about paige x reader where reader is jealous because of rumor circulating online so paige gives her an assurance and hard launched their relationship. thank youu

hey, mami! Yes of course! Hope you like it 🥰🫶

——————————————————————————

You’re curled up on the couch, phone face-down on the coffee table, pretending like it didn’t just show you something that’s been sitting in your chest like a rock all day.

A rumor. Online. Some random photo of Paige with someone else—blown out of proportion, of course. You know better. But still, your heart won’t stop sinking.

You don’t even hear the front door open until you feel it: the soft thump of her sneakers hitting the floor, the rustle of her sweatshirt as she shrugs it off, and then the warmth of her presence just there, behind you.

“Baby,” Paige says softly, already crouching down so she’s eye-level with you. Her hand reaches for yours gently. “You’ve been quiet. Talk to me.”

You hesitate, and she sees it instantly. Those blue eyes of hers soften even more—like the world outside of this moment doesn’t exist. “Is it that stupid rumor?” she asks, already knowing the answer. She sighs, brushing your cheek with her thumb. “God, I hate that this got to you.”

“I just… saw it everywhere,” you whisper. “And people keep tagging me, asking questions. I know it’s probably nothing, but…”

“But it hurts. I know.” She moves in closer, slipping onto the couch and wrapping her toned arms around you, pulling you into her like you’re the most precious thing in the world—and to her, you are. “Come here, sweetie. Let me hold you.”

She cradles you against her, strong arms curled protectively around your body, her lips brushing the top of your head. Her voice is low and soft, just for you. “You’re my girl. Only you. No one else even comes close, baby.”

You feel the rumble of her voice in her chest as she holds you tighter. “I should’ve said something sooner,” she murmurs, as if she’s thinking out loud. “I didn’t wanna go public yet, but I’m not letting anyone make you feel like this ever again.”

You pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Her eyes are fierce with love now. “I want everyone to know who I’m in love with. Who I come home to. Who I call ‘sweetie’ a thousand times a day because you’re so damn cute I can’t stop.” She smiles, and it’s that soft, adoring Paige smile—the one she only ever gives you.

Later that evening, she posts a picture. It’s the two of you, curled up just like this. Your face tucked into her shoulder, her arms around you, her cheek resting against your hair. No captions. Just a heart. And then the flood of comments comes, both negative and positive, but none of it matters. Because Paige is nuzzling into you, pressing gentle kisses to your temple, whispering,

“You’re mine, sweetie. Always. I’ve got you.”

And in her arms, you finally believe it.

[cameronsbabydoll]

MY SMART GIRL

tutor!kook!pope x bambi!reader

WARNINGS: light academic dumbification, teasing, tension, praise, pope being smug, slightly possessive vibes, makeout at the end

AUTHORS NOTE: credits to kook!pope: @princessbrunette and @starfxkrinc !! also divider is made by me! also i know the math in this fic is for middle school but yeah!

he’s explained the formula three times.

you’re trying. god, you are. but your pencil is starting to slip between your fingers, your eyes blurry, your knees tucked under the desk like they’re holding you upright.

pope’s voice is calm. steady. kind of too calm for someone watching you struggle over the same algebraic expression for twenty minutes.

“baby.”

your head snaps up. “i’m listening,” you say quickly. too quickly. like you’re expecting him to scold you.

he doesn’t.

instead, he smiles. soft, amused. the kind of smile that makes your stomach flip.

“i know,” he says, voice warm. “but you’re listening with your cute little puppy face. not your brain.”

you blink at him. scandalized. “what does that mean?”

“it means,” he hums, tapping your notebook, “you’re staring at the page like it’s gonna sprout legs and walk you through the equation.”

your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

he leans in, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. “not a bad thing,” he murmurs. “makes me feel important.”

your voice is quieter now. almost shy. “so… if the exponent is negative—”

“it goes in the denominator,” he says, already circling the number. “it’s like… when something’s not ready to be on top, it goes underneath. it submits.”

you stare.

“that’s your academic example?” you ask, heat rising in your cheeks.

he shrugs, not even bothering to look sorry. “it’s memorable, isn’t it?”

you squint at him. “you’re insane.”

“but you’ll remember it now,” he says, smug. “you don’t have to get it my way. you just have to let me teach you.”

you let out a breath. one that sounds a little too much like i want to kiss you.

then, softly: “it’s hard when you’re so smart.”

he smiles again. different this time. quieter. a little dangerous. “not smart,” he says. “just really obsessed with your confused face.”

you stop breathing for a second.

he tilts his head, watching you like he’s memorizing your reaction. “look,” he adds. “let’s try from the bed. maybe the desk is too stiff.”

and maybe you’re too dazed to argue. or maybe you like the way his hand lingers at the small of your back as you sit down.

but you nod. and then it gets worse.

because now he’s behind you, thighs bracketing yours, his textbook on your lap like it’s innocent, like his breath on your neck isn’t making your thoughts evaporate.

you’re trying. again.

you get halfway through the question.

“pope…”

his hand rests low on your stomach, thumb brushing under the hem of your shirt. “yeah?”

“i can’t.”

he hums against your shoulder. kisses it, just barely. “you can. you’re my smart girl, right?”

you nod. slow. dizzy.

“say it.”

“i’m your smart girl,” you whisper.

and he grins. so proud. so smug.

he kisses your cheek. your neck. your jaw.

but you shake your head, still fixated on the textbook.

“i’m gonna get one,” you mumble. “watch.”

he leans back, hands raised like he’s letting you drive. “go ahead.”

you reread the question. your lips move, murmuring something under your breath, and then—finally—you circle the right answer.

you turn to look at him, triumphant.

he’s already looking at you like he wants to ruin your life.

“look at you,” he breathes. “that brain does work after all.”

“shut up,” you whisper, grinning.

“make me.”

you don’t get the chance—because his hand finds your chin and tilts your mouth up to his before you can think twice.

he kisses you like he’s been waiting all night. like you’re the answer to something he didn’t know how to ask. like he needs you soft and sweet and pressed up against him in his stupid boat shoes and pressed polo and smirking mouth.

and when you finally break away for air, a little breathless and dazed, he tucks your hair behind your ear and murmurs, “still think you’re bad at math?”

you shove the textbook off the bed.

“i think i’m bad at focusing when your with me.”

[bombiikki]

𝖈ross 𝖙he 𝖑ine ⸝⸝ 𓂃₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡ — non idol!minji x fem!reader

♯ 𝖘ynopsis : you and minji were always just friends—the kind who held hands without thinking, who shared beds without question. but when feelings begin to stir beneath the surface, you’re forced to face the one line you swore you’d never cross.

𝖈ontains : friends to lovers, theyre both oblivious, and also lwk in denial, just a whole lotta fluff with like the smallest smidge of angst (but its only cuz theyre—again—in denial), hanni is in the middle of everything

𝖜ord 𝖈ount : 5.0k

𝖆uthor's 𝖓ote : requested by anon here! when anon requested a minji fic to “feelings” by lauv i fear they cooked with the idea… i tried my best bringing this idea to life and i kinda tweaked like a few things… 😓the ending is also lwk a LILL rushed

. ♬ ݁˖ 𝖓ow 𝖕laying — feelings by lauv

the day started like all the others did, with sunlight spilling lazily through the blinds and minji’s voice in your ear. she was talking about something—maybe breakfast, maybe the dream she had about being chased by a giant toast—but you weren't really listening. not because you didn’t care, but because you knew this version of peace only came with her. it was in the way her laughter curled into the air like steam off morning coffee. it was in the way she reached out, absentmindedly fixing your sleeve like she always did.

you’d been friends for years now, and in that time, you’d become something like a rhythm—so in sync, people hardly bothered asking if you’d show up together anymore. where minji was, you were. it wasn’t planned or forced. it just happened, like gravity.

your friends joked about it constantly. hanni, especially, would nudge minji with a grin and say, “you’re basically married, you know that?” and minji would laugh, the kind that always made your chest feel warm. 

“nah,” she’d reply, ruffling your hair. “we’re just close.”

close.

you’d memorised that word by now. tucked it into your heart and let it sit there, heavy and quiet.

some days it was enough. most days, it wasn’t.

like when she called you late at night, her voice soft from sleep, asking if you could come over because her room felt too quiet. and you did, of course you did, every time. and she’d curl up next to you like she belonged there, like your shoulder was made just for her to rest her head on.

or when she texted you just to say she missed you—even if you’d seen her that morning. your heart would skip, flutter, fall. but then she’d send another message right after: “also can u bring snacks i’m starving.” and you’d laugh and tell yourself to get a grip.

because she didn’t mean it like that. she couldn’t.

still, there were moments—tiny, trembling things—that made you wonder.

like the time she fell asleep with her hand in yours on the train, and even after she woke, she didn’t let go. or how she always waited for your reactions first, before anyone else’s, like your opinion meant more. like it mattered most.

and it did, didn’t it?

minji meant everything to you. in the quietest way possible, she’d become the center of your world. and you… you were just doing your best not to drown in the ache of it all.

“hey,” her voice pulled you back. you blinked, looking up at her. she had that look again—gentle, concerned. “where’d you go just now?”

you smiled, shaking your head. “nowhere. just thinking.”

she leaned closer, propping her chin on your shoulder. “thinking about what?”

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. instead, you reached for your drink, pretending not to notice how close her lips were to your cheek.

“you’re weird,” she said, teasing.

“takes one to know one,” you shot back.

she grinned, and your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again. you wished it would stop or at least stop hurting so much.

later that evening, as the sky turned the color of old peach skins, you sat side by side on her bedroom floor, folding laundry while music played low in the background. she hummed along to the melody, not quite in tune but beautiful all the same.

“can i ask you something?” she said suddenly.

“sure.”

“do you think i’m… clingy?”

you looked at her, startled. “what? no. why would you think that?”

“just wondering. hanni said we’re always together. made it sound like i’m too attached.”

you laughed, though something stung beneath it. “we are always together.”

she shrugged. “yeah, but… it doesn’t bother you, right?”

you paused. your hands stilled over a pair of her socks. you looked at her—really looked—and saw that tiny furrow in her brow, the one she got when she was unsure.

“min,” you said softly, “i like being with you. it doesn’t bother me.”

her smile then was slow, sweet. “me too.”

and maybe it didn’t mean anything. maybe it was just a simple exchange between best friends. maybe she’d forget it by tomorrow.

but you wouldn’t. you never did. because every time she said “me too,” it felt like a promise. 

and every time, you wished she meant it in the way you did.

the sky outside was painted in soft watercolors—clouds trailing lazy streaks of white over a pale blue canvas. minji sat by the window of your favorite coffee shop, the same one with the peeling brick walls and mismatched mugs, her fingers wrapped around the warmth of her cup.

hanni sat across from her, scrolling through her phone, legs crossed, eyes occasionally flicking up with something suspiciously close to amusement.

“you’re fidgeting,” hanni said eventually, not looking up.

“am not.”

“you are,” she said again, sing-song. “like a nervous wreck waiting for their crush.”

minji rolled her eyes. “you’re being ridiculous.”

“and right.” hanni leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “so… what’s the deal with you and y/n?”

minji blinked. “what?”

“don’t play dumb.” hanni gave her a look. “you’re always together. like, always. people joke about it. you're basically conjoined. you do everything together, talk in code, wear each other's clothes—min, come on. if i didn’t know you, i’d think you were dating.”

minji laughed, but there was something off about it—too quick, too sharp. “we’re just close. that’s it. i don’t like her like that.”

hanni’s brow lifted. “you don’t?”

“not in a romantic sense.”

“mhm.”

“and she doesn’t like me like that either,” minji added, as if to make it clearer. “we’re just… we’re good friends. we just get each other.”

hanni tilted her head, unconvinced. “right. so you’re telling me you share your fries, your hoodie, your bed, and your deepest thoughts—but there’s nothing going on?”

minji fidgeted with the sleeve of her sweater. “yes.”

hanni sighed. “minji.”

“what?”

hanni sighed, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. “i love you, but you’re in denial.”

minji scoffed. “you’re reaching.”

“you’re repressing.”

minji scoffed. “i am not.”

“you are,” hanni said gently. “and that’s okay. it’s scary. love always is. but you don’t get to tell me you don’t feel something when it’s all over your face every time y/n’s name comes up.”

minji looked away, lips pressed into a thin line. her coffee had gone cold.

“even if i did,” she murmured, “what’s the point? she doesn’t feel the same. and i’d rather have her in my life like this than lose her completely because i was dumb enough to say something.”

hanni’s expression softened. “have you ever actually asked her?”

minji didn’t answer.

before hanni could push further, the bell above the door chimed, and minji’s head turned instinctively.

you walked in, hair a little wind-blown, hoodie sleeves too long, eyes scanning the café until they landed on her.

“hey,” you said, making your way over. “sorry i’m late. i had to chase down a bus, then realised it wasn’t even the right one.”

minji grinned. “sounds like you.”

“i’m lucky i didn’t get kidnapped,” you added, sliding into the seat beside her.

“you’d probably befriend the kidnapper,” minji teased.

“and ask for snacks,” hanni chimed in, laughing.

you rolled your eyes and leaned on the table, your arm brushing minji’s. she didn’t move away. she never did.

a few minutes passed as they settled into the warmth of each other’s presence.

then a barista approached with their drinks—a new girl, unfamiliar, with a practiced smile. she placed each order down carefully, but when she set minji’s down, she lingered.

“hope you like it,” she said, gaze fixed on minji. “it’s my favorite.”

“oh?” minji blinked, smiling politely. “thanks!”

the girl smiled wider. “you’ve got great taste.”

with one last glance, she turned and walked away.

hanni raised a brow. “well that wasn’t subtle.”

“what?” minji blinked. “she was just being nice.”

“min,” hanni deadpanned.

you snorted into your cup. “she was basically batting her lashes at you.”

“she was just being nice,” minji said, entirely genuine.

hanni shook her head. “min, you’re hopeless.”

“tell me about it…” you mumbled under your breath, eyes fixed on the foam in your drink.

minji didn’t hear it. but hanni did.

her eyes darted between the two of you. her lips curved into something knowing, something quiet.

the conversation shifted then—something light, something forgettable—but the weight of those earlier words lingered, tucked between sips of coffee and the spaces your fingers nearly touched.

and minji, who didn’t think you looked at her like that—never once noticed the way your eyes refused to look anywhere else.

the sky outside was still bright, though the air had cooled into something gentler. you and hanni stood just outside the coffee shop, the door shutting behind you with a soft chime as minji slipped back inside to grab a pastry for the road.

you hadn’t said anything yet. not really. just shared a long look, the kind that passed between people who both knew what wasn't being said.

hanni was the one who broke the silence first.

“so,” she said, sipping her drink, “how long have you been in love with her?”

you choked on your straw. “hanni.”

“what?” she shrugged, lips twitching. “someone had to say it.”

you looked away, your fingers tightening around the cold plastic of your cup. the words came out without much thought, raw and slow and aching.

“she gives me whiplash,” you said, voice low. “she’ll hold my hand like it’s nothing. she’ll fall asleep on me like i’m the safest place in the world. and then she flirts with someone else like it’s just air.”

hanni didn’t look surprised. she just leaned back against the wall and stared at you like she was finally seeing what had been obvious all along.

“she’s clearly into you,” she said.

you scoffed, but it sounded more bitter than amused. “if she is, she’s got a funny way of showing it.”

“you don’t see it, but she’s always looking at you,” hanni said, matter-of-fact. “like she wants something but doesn’t think she deserves it.”

you blinked. your chest felt too tight. “she told me she doesn’t believe in love. that it always ends in a mess.”

“what if she’s scared?”

“then why does she keep holding me like she’s not?”

hanni didn’t answer. instead, she reached into her bag, pulled out a pen, and started doodling on a napkin she’d saved. something small, a flower maybe. a heart cracked down the middle.

then she asked, voice soft and sure:

“do you love her?”

you froze.

you hadn’t said that word yet. not even to yourself.

“i don’t know,” you whispered. “maybe. probably. it feels like—like it’s in my bones already. like it’s been there for a while and i’m only just now realising it.”

hanni didn’t tease. didn’t grin or poke fun. she just nodded, slow and understanding. it was like she knew the feeling too well.

“you should tell her.”

you shook your head. “she’ll run. she’ll say we’re better off as friends. and then i’ll lose her.”

“but aren’t you already kind of losing her, every time she looks at someone else?”

your eyes dropped to your cup, where condensation had pooled like tiny rivers. you hated how true it felt.

the thing was, you could’ve lived with the friendship. you really could’ve.

but only if the lines were clearer. if she didn’t brush your hair back like she was memorising your face. if she didn’t text you goodnight with little hearts when she was tipsy. if she didn’t make you feel like maybe—just maybe—there was something unsaid between every touch, every lingering glance.

you didn’t mind loving her quietly. you just didn’t know how long you could survive the confusion.

“you think she really feels the same?” you asked, almost a whisper.

“i think she’s trying really hard not to,” hanni said. “but feelings are like fog. you can’t run from them forever.”

you sighed. the ache in your chest felt old and familiar by now.

“you think she’ll ever see it?”

“she already does,” hanni said. “she’s just scared to say it out loud.”

you stood in silence after that. not a heavy one, but soft and slow. a silence that wrapped around the both of you like a blanket.

then the door creaked open, and minji stepped out with a grin and a paper bag in hand. the top was folded neatly, and on it, scrawled in thick black marker, was a phone number.

hanni squinted. “is that a number?”

minji looked down, and her smile widened, sheepish and amused. “yeah. the barista. she, uh… she gave it to me.”

you blinked, words catching in your throat.

“so she was flirting,” hanni said, elbowing her. “what happened to ‘she’s just being nice’?”

“okay, okay,” minji laughed, lifting the bag in defense. “i didn’t know at the time! i’m just—i don’t know. i’m oblivious, apparently.”

hanni arched a brow, clearly holding something back. her eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to minji.

minji met her gaze, then shot her a look—playful but pointed. like she was saying see? i don’t like y/n without having to say it out loud.

“you’re hopeless,” hanni muttered under her breath.

minji slung an arm over your shoulder casually, like she always did, like it was second nature.

“come on,” she said. “let’s go eat this before it gets cold.”

you forced a smile and nudged her side. “wow, getting phone numbers and pastries. who even are you?”

“minji the irresistible,” she said, with a grin that made your heart twist.

and as the three of you walked down the street together, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could pretend the ache inside you was just part of being friends.

minji arrived at your door like she always did—without warning, without needing to ask.

“i bring gifts,” she announced, holding up a plastic bag full of snacks like some wandering hero returning from battle. 

“behold. ramen, choco pies, your favorite seaweed chips, and,” she paused for dramatic effect, “one overpriced convenience store cheesecake.”

you leaned against the doorframe and raised an eyebrow. “you trying to win my heart or rot my teeth?”

“both,” she said easily, brushing past you with a smug grin. “multitasking.”

you closed the door behind her and watched her kick her shoes off like she lived there, like this was just her other home. she knew where everything was—where you kept the extra pillows, the charger cable tangled behind the couch, the specific mug you used when drinking tea.

and it never stopped being strange, how something so ordinary could feel so intimate.

“pick a movie,” you said as she dropped onto the couch, legs sprawled out like a cat basking in the last bit of daylight. “but no crying tonight, please. my heart’s too tired to carry your emotional baggage through another sad indie flick.”

minji gasped dramatically. “i’ll have you know my taste is refined. cultured, even.”

“traumatic,” you muttered, grabbing the remote and handing it to her anyway.

she stuck her tongue out at you, then began scrolling. “fine. something light. maybe that dumb rom-com with the guy who keeps falling over everything?”

you smirked. “so, you mean the story of your life? got it.”

she swatted your arm, giggling. “rude.”

you made popcorn in the kitchen while she set up the film, the scent buttery and warm and almost enough to distract you from the way your heart clenched every time she laughed like that—freely, without walls.

when you returned, she was already nestled into your couch, blanket pulled over her lap and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“your spot’s waiting,” she said, patting the cushion beside her.

you sat down, close enough that your knees touched.

“you know,” she said, not looking at you, “if people saw us like this, they’d probably think we were together.”

your heart did a somersault. but you didn’t let it show.

“yeah,” you said softly. “they’d be wrong though… right?”

minji turned to you, eyes unreadable in the dim light. “yeah,” she echoed. “very wrong.”

but she didn’t move away.

and when the movie started, her head found your shoulder, slow and gentle, like maybe it was exactly where it wanted to be.

“you comfy?” you asked.

she hummed. “too comfy. might fall asleep and drool on your hoodie.”

“it’s your hoodie,” you said.

“borrowed. indefinitely.”

you didn’t reply. your hand moved on its own, fingers brushing through her hair like a habit you’d picked up from another life.

and minji didn’t stop you.

halfway through the film, you looked down at her, her cheek pressed against your arm, her lips parted slightly, eyes fluttering with sleep.

she looked so small in that moment. so breakable.

you wondered if she ever looked at you the way you looked at her—like she was some kind of miracle.

your chest ached with the weight of everything you couldn’t say.

“you okay?” she murmured, half-asleep.

you forced a smile. “yeah.”

she blinked slowly. “you’re quiet.”

“just thinking.”

“dangerous.”

you chuckled softly. “probably.”

the movie played on, but you couldn’t focus. not with the warmth of her pressed beside you, not with the way she sighed in her sleep like she belonged here, in this exact moment, with you.

and when it ended, you stayed there, neither of you moving, the silence stretching between you like a secret.

eventually, she stood and stretched, yawning. “sleepover?”

you nodded. “duh.”

“you say that like it’s not a privilege.”

“it’s not. you’ve basically moved in.”

“you love it.”

you didn’t deny it.

minji changed into one of your old t-shirts and a pair of shorts she left in your drawer weeks ago. you brushed your teeth side by side, bumping shoulders, laughing when you accidentally spit toothpaste on your own shirt.

and then, just like always, you ended up in bed—her on one side, you on the other, back to back but close enough that your feet touched beneath the blanket.

“goodnight,” she whispered.

“night, min.”

but neither of you slept. not right away.

you could feel her breathing. you could feel the warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her heart.

and somewhere in the silence, her fingers reached for yours under the blanket—just a brush, a moment, a whisper.

you didn’t pull away. you never did.

you closed your eyes and let yourself pretend, just for tonight, that she was yours.

and she let you.

the morning light slipped in soft and golden, brushing across the bed like a quiet apology for interrupting the peace.

you woke before her.

you always did when she stayed over.

minji was still curled beneath the blankets, one arm flung across your pillow, her hair messy and tangled like the petals of a dream left half-bloomed. her face was calm, softer than she ever let the world see. her lips parted slightly, breaths falling slow and even.

you propped yourself up on one elbow and watched her, heart caught somewhere between awe and ache.

how was it possible that someone could look like this—so warm, so close—and not know what they did to you?

her presence filled the room like music with no lyrics. and you? you listened.

you thought about how easy it was, this rhythm you shared. the laughter, the sleepovers, the way her clothes hung in your closet like they belonged. the way she stole your hoodies and your blankets and, without meaning to, your heart.

she shifted in her sleep, brow furrowing slightly as if something troubled her even in dreams. instinctively, you reached forward and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, fingers light, careful.

your chest tightened. 

god, you wanted her to wake up and see you. really see you.

you slipped out of bed gently, as quietly as you could, but the moment your feet touched the floor—

“don’t go,” she mumbled.

you froze.

minji’s voice was thick with sleep, eyes still closed as she reached out blindly and caught your wrist.

“stay,” she said, tugging you back toward the bed.

you turned, heart stuttering. “minji, i was just gonna—”

“five more minutes,” she whispered.

you hesitated. “we’ll waste the whole day.”

“then let’s waste it together.”

you didn’t argue after that.

you let her pull you back beneath the covers, her arms loosely wrapping around your waist as if this was the most natural thing in the world. her head found your chest, and your hands found her back.

the world outside the window didn’t exist. just this bed, just this moment, just her.

you stayed like that for longer than five minutes. who knows how long.

eventually, the hunger crept in.

you both stretched and stumbled your way out of bed like a pair of old souls in a new morning, brushing teeth in sync, bumping shoulders, sharing sleepy smiles.

minji pulled your sweatshirt over her head. “i’m stealing this again.”

“not stealing if i let you,” you said.

“so you admit you like it.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“but you meant it.”

you rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a smile.

the kitchen smelled of warmth and the weekend as you flipped pancakes in your old pan, minji perched on the counter like a queen in her kingdom, watching you.

“you know,” she said slowly, swinging her legs, “i agreed to go on a date next week.”

the spatula paused in your hand.

you turned, heart dropping like a stone.

“what?”

“mm.” she nodded. “you remember the barista? she asked me out yesterday and i figured… why not?”

you tried to keep your face still, tried not to let the hurt show in your eyes.

“but,” you said quietly, “weren’t you the one who said love always ended in a mess?”

she shrugged, looking away. “maybe i just said that to sound smart. maybe i was scared.”

you forced a laugh, but it came out flat. “so what changed?”

minji smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“i guess i thought it was time to try. open myself up a little. and i needed to prove hanni wrong”

the pancakes were starting to burn. you didn’t care.

“prove her wrong on what?” you questioned.

minji shrugged as she muttered a “nevermind” and picked up her phone from the edge of the counter.

you turned back to the stove, trying to hide the way your hands trembled.

you wanted to ask her—why not me? why not us? but you didn’t. you just flipped the pancake and said nothing at all.

behind you, minji swung her legs and stared at the floor.  her voice was quiet when she said, “you’re not mad, right?”

 “mad at you?” you smiled softly like your heart wasn’t shattering.

“never.”

you got there just after noon, letting yourself in with the spare key minji gave you months ago. her place was warm with the scent of citrus shampoo and fabric softener, a quiet kind of chaos unfolding in every corner—clothes thrown across the bed, curling iron plugged in, a half-bitten apple forgotten on the counter. it looked like her. it felt like her.

and in the middle of it all stood minji, hair half-dried and shirtless save for the sports bra she always wore when she was trying on outfits. she turned to you like you were her last hope.

“thank god,” she said. “i was two seconds away from cancelling just out of wardrobe-related stress.”

you laughed, not quite because it was funny, but because it was her. “you’re the one who wanted to give dating a shot.”

“yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, rifling through a pile of neatly folded shirts and then promptly unfolding them. “remind me again why i thought that was a good idea?”

you stepped in and gently swatted her hand away from the shirts, holding up a few options yourself. “because you said it was time to be open. and that you wanted to ‘prove hanni wrong’ or whatever. ”

she groaned. “ugh. me and my big ideas.”

but she took the shirt you held out—a dark navy button-up that brought out the depth of her eyes—and disappeared into her closet to change.

you stood in the center of her room, surrounded by the familiar. her polaroids pinned to the wall. a hair tie left on her nightstand. the book she was halfway through with your bookmark inside it.

“okay,” she said, stepping out, “how’s this?”

you turned—and felt your heart skip.

she looked beautiful. not done-up or overly fancy. just her, in that natural, easy way that always knocked the air out of your lungs.

“you look good,” you said.

“just good?”

you smiled. “you always look good.”

she smiled back, that soft, pleased kind of smile, the one that made her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. you wished it meant more than it did.

she sat down on the edge of the bed, tugging on socks, and you knelt beside her to tie her laces. she didn’t ask you to—you just always did. it was one of those little things. one of a hundred tiny acts that built a life together without either of you saying so.

“you’re too good to me,” she said, watching you double-knot the shoes.

you didn’t answer. just looked up at her and gave a lopsided smile. “i know.”

she laughed and nudged your shoulder. “cocky.”

you stood up, brushing your hands on your jeans. “you nervous?”

“terrified,” she admitted. “but… kind of excited too. she seemed nice at the coffee shop. funny.”

“that’s good,” you said, voice steady though your stomach twisted.

you didn’t know why this moment felt like a countdown. like something irreversible was about to happen.

she walked over to the mirror and started fussing with her hair. “do you think she’ll like me?”

you shrugged, fingers playing with the edge of her pillowcase. “what’s not to like?”

and you meant it. but it hurt, saying those words like you weren’t the one holding every soft piece of her in your hands.

you wanted to be the one she was getting ready for.

you watched her in the mirror. the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. the way she adjusted her necklace and tilted her head to the side to check her angles.

and something in your chest clicked. or cracked. or maybe it had been cracked for a while now, and you were just now noticing the pieces.

you didn’t want her to go.

you wanted to be the one she dressed up for. the one she texted when she got home safe. the one who’d sit beside her on the subway ride back, legs pressed close and hands brushing just barely in the dark.

you wanted to tell her.

she turned around with a grin. “okay. i’m almost ready.”

you nodded slowly. 

and maybe it was time for you to be ready too. ready to cross that line you both danced around. 

minji stood before the mirror, fingers lightly tugging at the collar of her navy shirt, smoothing down wrinkles she wasn’t sure were even there. through the glass, her eyes caught yours—eyes that didn’t look quite like themselves tonight. they were distant, caught in a quiet storm you hadn’t seen before.

you sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded loosely in your lap, the weight of something unspoken pulling your gaze away from her reflection. when minji turned, her smile was quick and easy, but there was an undercurrent of concern hidden beneath.

“hey,” she said softly, ruffling your hair with that familiar, teasing touch, “are you missing me already? what’s up with the look?”

you tried for a smile, one that might reach the corners of your eyes, but it faltered, a fragile flicker in the dim light. “me? miss you? in your dreams.”

minji didn’t brush it off. she tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully but with a seriousness you couldn’t ignore.

“you okay?” she pressed gently.

“i’m okay,” you whispered, voice steady but quiet, like you were afraid to break the fragile moment.

minji shrugged, a small, uncertain movement. “if you say so.”

she stepped back toward the door, ready to leave for her date. the air hung thick with all the words you didn’t say.

but then you moved. slipping from the bed, your hand found her wrist, holding it softly but firmly—an unspoken question, an invitation. your grip was gentle, offering freedom and restraint all at once.

minji didn’t pull away.

she turned back to you, a nervous grin curling her lips. “hey, what’s this? you know, if you want food from my fridge while i’m gone, you don’t have to ask. just take care of my place.”

her joke floated between you, but it landed nowhere.

you met her eyes, vulnerability laid bare in your own. “minji... stay.”

the words were soft, fragile, like a whispered prayer.

“stay,” you repeated, voice breaking just a little, “don’t go on that date.”

minji’s brow furrowed, confusion and something deeper flickering in her gaze. “why?”

you took a breath, heart pounding loud enough to fill the silent room. 

“because i can’t keep pretending this isn’t love. because i’m tired of waiting for maybe’s and almosts. because i want to be the one you look at like you’re home. and if that scares you, i’ll wait. but i don’t want to lose you tonight.”

her eyes softened, and the walls she built around herself started to crumble like morning mist.

“then,” she said quietly, “maybe we don’t have to go anywhere.”

you exhaled a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding.

and with a small, shy smile, she stepped closer—closing the space between almost and forever.

there, in the quiet flicker of her bedroom light, love was no longer a question or a fear. it was simply everything.

[2-dsimp]

Question is... Does Harumu have a fat ass? 👀

Yandere shapeshifter! Who’d ask you on a daily basis if his booty looked big in them denim jeans he slipped on. Being the drama queen he is if you’re not paying his derrière proper attention. He’d quite literally bend over present it in your face while you sat on the couch. Acting like he was busy fastening on his plat-former heels.

“Oh pardon me darling I didn’t see you there, anyways I’ve got a pressing question that I’m dying to know the answer to~” He’d purr, basically swaying his hips from side to side throwing a saucy look over his shoulder. And before he could say the million dollar question. You smacked his ass, while he’d jolt gasping like a fish out of water. Acting as if he’s offended and didn’t want you to smack it in the first place.

“Yes that ass is phat my love those squats you do everyday are paying off real good.” He’d merely huff, flipping his hair strutting away obviously flustered with pursed lips as he mumbled under his breath. “Damn right, they better have! Those stupid squats be making me sweat my mascara off too much.”

Right after he’s out of your eyesight he was preening like a peacock. Happy that he received the addictive words of affirmation. He’d always crave from his darling, feeling more confident that they think his ass looks plump and better yet slappable.

[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

Buy me a coffee!☕️

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[sunshine-lux]

ok ok but established relationship joaquin x stark!reader who’s got a sassy little attitude and whenever she’s in a mood (which is often) joaquin always messes with her in a cute and flirty way and sam is always scared like “she’s gonna kill you man”

imagine the little “stooopppp quino”

grumpy x sunshine core i love them

Birds Of A Feather

summary: just a glimpse into the very lovey and chaotic relationship of y/n and joaquin!

pairings: Stark!reader x joaquin torres

warnings: mentions of death sprinkled here and there but nothing serious! y/n constantly threatening joaquin LOL, f!reader, i think that's it!

word count: 3.1k

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Joaquin Torres loves his girlfriend. He’d do anything for her—no hesitation, no questions asked, no matter how dramatic or unreasonable. He’s obsessed. Helpless. Completely whipped.

But with that love comes the deep, primal urge to annoy her to the ends of the world and back.

And lucky for him?

 Y/N Stark makes it so, so easy.

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Y/N slid into the passenger seat of Joaquin’s truck with a huff, slamming the door shut and buckling her seatbelt without so much as a glance in his direction.

Joaquin paused, glancing over at her with an amused lift of his brow. “Hello to you too, sunshine.”

He reached over and poked her arm gently, trying to coax even the tiniest smile out of her.

Y/N didn’t move. Just side eyed him and mumbled, “Whatever. Hi.”

Joaquin bit back a grin. Yep. She was in a mood. He’d seen that look before—usually when someone at work had pissed her off, or her tech wasn’t cooperating, or someone had the audacity to ask her a stupid question in the elevator.

Tonight, apparently, he was the one in the line of fire. Unlucky him. Or lucky, depending on how much he wanted to test her.

“You had one of those days, huh?” he asked lightly, starting the engine.

She didn’t answer. Just crossed her arms and turned to face the window with a sigh.

Joaquin glanced over, still smiling. “Aww, come on. Give me some sugar, sugar.”

He leaned over to kiss her, one arm snaking toward her shoulder to pull her in.

Y/N jerked away instantly, twisting her body toward the door like she was about to open it and jump out mid drive. “I’m so overstimulated right now, get away from me, Joaquin Torres.”

He blinked, hand still suspended mid air. “Damn. Full name and everything.”

“Do not touch me. I mean it. If one more person tries to breathe in my direction, I’m gonna explode.”

He bit his lip to hide a laugh. “Okay, okay. Hands to myself. Got it.” He settled back into his seat, throwing her a sideways glance. “But just for the record, you’re still really hot when you’re grumpy.”

She sighed again, dramatic and sharp. “I know. It’s exhausting.”

Joaquin chuckled, putting the car into gear and pulling out of the driveway. “Want me to cancel the dinner res and just drive around until you’re slightly less homicidal?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering it. “Maybe. Only if you promise to shut up for five minutes.”

“Deal. But I reserve the right to poke you again when I feel like it.”

“Try it and I’ll bite your finger off.”

He grinned wide. “You flirt so weird.”

Y/N turned slowly to look at him, unimpressed. “You are so lucky you’re cute, Quino.”

He beamed. “You say that like it’s not my entire strategy.”

They’d been driving for ten minutes now, music low, windows cracked just enough to let the evening breeze in. Y/N hadn’t said much, but the tension in her shoulders was slowly easing. Her head leaned against the window, eyes closed, fingers tapping gently against her thigh to the beat of whatever lo-fi playlist Joaquin had put on as a peace offering.

Joaquin glanced over at her at the next red light, content to let her decompress.

Which is exactly when she spoke.

“Wow,” she muttered, voice thick with fake betrayal. “You’re not even gonna hold my hand?”

He blinked. “What?”

She turned to him slowly, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Did you stop loving me or something?”

Joaquin snorted. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch you, you cannibalist.”

“That was ten minutes ago,” she said, wiggling her fingers toward him like bait. “Things have changed. Keep up, Torres.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“And yet, you’re obsessed with me.”

He rolled his eyes but reached across the console anyway, threading their fingers together. She immediately curled into it, squeezing his hand like it was the only thing tethering her to the planet.

He gave her a sideways glance. “So dramatic.”

“Mm. You like it.”

He kissed the back of her hand at the next red light, then refused to let go for the rest of the drive.

They got back to Joaquin’s place a little later, and by then Y/N’s bad mood had mostly fizzled out, leaving her comfortably tired and… just a little clingy. She kicked off her shoes by the front door and flopped face down onto the couch like she was done existing.

Joaquin laughed as he locked the door behind them. “You okay?”

“No,” came the muffled reply from the cushions. “I want chocolate and a heating pad and maybe to be held like a small, misunderstood Victorian orphan.”

He grinned. “So… a regular night in.”

She lifted one hand and flipped him off without lifting her head.

He crouched down and gently brushed her hair from her face. “You’re gonna knock out here like this?”

“Maybe,” she mumbled. “Couch has less betrayal than the world.”

He smiled, leaned in, and without another word, slid one arm under her legs and the other around her back — lifting her in one smooth, practiced motion.

Y/N blinked, startled. “What are you—?”

“Carrying you to bed, princess-style,” he said matter of factly, already heading down the hall. “Can’t let my misunderstood Victorian orphan sleep in the drawing room.”

She buried her face in his neck with a dramatic sigh. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead, “here you are. In my arms. As foretold.”

“You’re lucky I’m weak.”

“You’re lucky I’m strong.”

She smiled against his skin. “Shut up and tuck me in.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He returned a few minutes later with a heating pad, and a bar of chocolate he had absolutely bought just in case. He laid everything out beside her, then sat next to her and gently coaxed her to roll onto him.

She crawled into his lap like a sleepy cat, settling against his chest with a little sigh as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

“See?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All bark, no bite.”

“I bit you last week,” she mumbled.

“And it was hot.”

She snorted against his chest, letting him stroke her hair as she started to melt into the warmth and quiet.

“…Thanks, Quino,” she said softly after a beat.

He smiled against her forehead. “Always, mi amor.”

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It started innocently. It always started innocently.

They were supposed to be cleaning the kitchen. Keyword: supposed to. Y/N was wiping down the counter. Joaquin was in charge of dishes. Everything was fine. Peaceful, even.

Until he started singing.

Off-key.

Loudly.

And with zero knowledge of the actual lyrics.

“You. Belong. With me—YEAH! You BELONG with meeeeeee,” he howled, doing a little spin with a dirty plate in hand like it was a Grammy.

Y/N froze, rag in hand. “Quino.”

“What?” he asked innocently.

“That’s not even the right melody.”

He grinned. “I’m doing the remix.”

“Please don’t.”

But it was already too late. He launched into the next line, doubling the volume and somehow managing to harmonize with nothing.

“She wears short skirts I WEAR T-SHIRTS—”

“STOPPP,” Y/N shrieked, ducking her head into her hoodie, laughing so hard her stomach hurt. “Quinooo, I swear to god—”

He was cackling, absolutely thriving off her chaos, flicking soap bubbles at her now for extra effect.

“Say you like it,” he teased, chasing her around the island with a sponge. “Say I’m talented. Say I’m the people’s pop star.”

“YOU’RE A MENACE.”

She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, voice cracking as she tried to fight him off with a kitchen towel.

“Stop it,” she gasped, half laughing, half crying now, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m gonna pee. I’m gonna pee my pants. I mean it.”

“Better now than in the truck,” Joaquin said cheerfully, dancing around her like he was in a concert crowd. “This is the exclusive living room performance, babe. Be grateful.”

She collapsed onto the floor, breathless and curled in on herself, still giggling uncontrollably. “I’m going to call Sam and tell him what you’re doing to me.”

“Go ahead. He’ll side with me. He likes my performances.”

“HE DOESN’T.”

He knelt down beside her, smug and glowing with victory. “Admit it. You love me more when I’m annoying.”

“I don’t even like you right now.”

“You’re literally crying from laughter.”

“I’m crying because you’re deranged.”

He beamed. “Same thing.”

She flopped dramatically into his lap. “You’re exhausting. My brain is soup. I am soup now.”

He kissed her forehead like he hadn’t just caused a small emotional breakdown.

“I love you, my little soup.”

“Shut up.”

“Say it back.”

“Not until you promise to never sing Taylor Swift again.”

“...what if I said I have a whole playlist queued?”

“I will commit a crime.”

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Sam stepped into the apartment cautiously, already suspicious.

The music was loud. Like, walls shaking, windows rattling loud. And it wasn’t Joaquin’s usual feel good playlist—it was full on metal.  The kind of music that made Sam instinctively squint.

He followed the sound into the living room and found Y/N sitting cross legged on the floor, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized AC/DC shirt, hair wild, eyeliner smudged like she’d either had a long night or a very powerful catnap. She was tinkering with some little device in her lap that looked like an arc reactor, because of course.

Joaquin was in the kitchen, squinting dramatically at the Bluetooth speaker like it had personally offended him.

“She’s been playing this for an hour,” he called out when he noticed Sam.

Y/N didn’t look up. “You can leave. Door’s right there.”

Sam held up his hands. “Hey, I’m just here to borrow the air fryer. Don’t involve me in whatever this is.”

“It’s Iron Maiden,” Y/N said proudly. “It’s culture.”

“It’s a cry for help,” Joaquin muttered, scrolling through his phone. “We could be listening to Bad Bunny right now. We could be thriving.”

Y/N shot him a look over her shoulder. “Touch that speaker and I’ll throw this at you.”

Joaquin grinned. Touched the speaker anyway.

Instantly, the music cut off. Replaced by reggaetón.

Y/N froze. Slowly turned around like a horror movie villain.

“Joaquin.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“What did I just say?”

“That threats of violence are foreplay?”

Before Sam could even process that, Joaquin darted out of the kitchen, sprinting across the room as Y/N launched a pillow at his head. She stood up in one fluid motion, chasing after him.

“I told you not to!”

He laughed, circling the couch. “I’m enhancing the vibe!”

She chased him halfway around the living room before he doubled back, caught her mid-lunge, and threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Joaquin!” she screeched, fists pounding against his back. “PUT ME DOWN.”

“I will,” he said cheerfully, “once you admit my music taste is superior.”

“Never! I don’t even understand what they’re saying!”

Sam stood there frozen, holding the air fryer under one arm like a shield. “She’s gonna kill you, man. Actually kill you. Like, she’s got the Stark sass in her bloodline. You are so dead.”

Joaquin just danced around with her still on his shoulder, shaking his hips to the beat, grinning big.

“This is a normal Tuesday, relax,” he said, spinning with her as she screamed bloody murder and maybe—just maybe—was starting to laugh a little.

“I hate you,” Y/N gasped between giggles.

He smacked a kiss to her thigh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Sam backed slowly toward the door, still holding the air fryer like it might explode. “I’m leaving. Y’all are unwell.”

Joaquin winked at him. “Tell the world our love is powerful.”

Y/N elbowed him in the back. “Tell the world he’s getting buried in the backyard if he plays 'Moscow Mule' again.”

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Y/N got in a mood when Joaquin didn’t answer her text right away.

So when he finally walked through the door with groceries like a normal person, Y/N was already curled up on the couch in his hoodie looking emotionally unstable.

“You forgot about me,” she said flatly, not even looking up from the blanket she was swaddled in.

Joaquin blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t respond for forty-three minutes,” she said, holding up her phone like it was evidence in a trial. “I timed it.”

“I was driving. For you. To get your snacks.”

She sniffed. “I thought you were dead. Or worse. Ignoring me.”

He set the bags down and walked toward her slowly. “You good?”

“No. I’m feeling very unloved and neglected and fragile.”

“You FaceTimed me from the bathroom while I was still at the store.”

“I was vulnerable.”

He grinned. Oh. Oh. So that’s the game they were playing.

“Mi vida,” he said, kneeling in front of her like she was on her deathbed. “Are you saying I emotionally wounded you by leaving you here for an hour?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You’re right. I’ve been so cruel.” He took her hand and pressed it to his chest. “But if I leave you again… take me out. I won’t survive the guilt.”

Y/N stared at him. “Don’t. Don’t do the soft voice thing. I’m being dramatic. Let me be dramatic.”

“You want me to be distant to fuel the bit? Okay.” He stood up abruptly. “You’re right. Maybe I have been pulling away.”

Her eyes widened. “What.”

“I just think we’ve gotten too close, you know? Too fast. Maybe we need space.”

“JOAQUIN.”

“I’m worried we’re codependent.”

“STOP. TAKE IT BACK.”

He smirked, circling the couch now, fully committing. “Do you think we lost ourselves in each other?”

She launched a throw pillow at his head. “I will cry on purpose.”

“Good. I like it when you cry. Makes me feel needed.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m yours.”

She screamed into the pillow. “This is NOT how ragebait is supposed to go!”

“You tried to ragebait the ragebait champion. Know your place, princess.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

He flopped down beside her and tugged her into his lap, arms looping around her.

“You’re obsessed with me,” he whispered.

“I am,” she hissed back. “And I hate that for me.”

“Bet you still want forehead kisses.”

“…Shut up and do it already.”

He kissed her forehead three times in a row, obnoxiously loud.

She groaned. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

“And I’m only getting hotter.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Y/N had exactly one thing planned for the evening: an uninterrupted candlelit bath. She’d earned it—long day, annoying people. The lights were low, her bath bomb had fizzed and the water was just hot enough to sting a little.

She’d sunk in with a dramatic sigh, bubbles up to her collarbones, a glass of wine perched dangerously close to her phone.

Then, like clockwork, the bathroom door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, not even opening her eyes. “Joaquin—”

“Heyyy,” he said cheerfully, already strolling in. “Just checking on my girl. You know. Make sure you’re alive and not drowning in your own princess foam.”

She cracked one eye open to glare at him. “I locked that door.”

He sat down fully on the closed toilet seat, grinning. “I picked it. Don’t be mad. I missed you.”

“You saw me ten minutes ago.”

“And yet—here I am. Suffering without you.”

Y/N groaned and sank lower into the water. “You’re such a pest.”

He leaned forward dramatically, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Tell me about your day, babe.”

“No.”

“I’m your boyfriend.”

“I didn’t ask for therapy. I asked for silence.”

He dipped a hand into the water and flicked it gently at her arm.

She didn’t even flinch. “Do it again and I’ll drown you.”

He flicked again. “I like my odds.”

She turned her head, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you seriously just gonna sit there the whole time?”

“I can sit in there, if you want,” he offered innocently.

“You are the worst.”

Another splash.

“I swear—Joaquin, I am so close to—”

She paused mid threat and sighed.

“…Are you gonna get in or what?”

Joaquin lit up. “God, I love you.”

He stood and peeled off his clothes in record time, stepping into the tub behind her like he’d been waiting for that moment all day. He slid into place, wrapping his arms around her waist as she shifted forward to make room.

Now she was sitting between his legs, back against his chest, his stupid heartbeat steady and warm against her spine.

For a long moment, they were both quiet. Then:

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” she muttered. “Annoy me until I invited you in just to shut you up?”

He beamed against the side of her face. “You're so easy to break, princess. I was barely getting started.”

She snorted. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace.”

She turned just enough to flick a bubble at his face.

He gasped. “Betrayal. In my bathtub?”

She grabbed the shampoo bottle and shoved it into his hands. “If you’re gonna invade, you’re doing labor. Wash my hair.”

He took it like it was a sacred task. “Gladly. You have the best hair in the world, by the way. It’s so soft and smells so good.”

“Stop talking.”

“But it’s true.”

“Quino.”

“Yes, mi amor?”

“…Scrub.”

He lathered up her hair, fingers surprisingly gentle. Y/N sighed, melting back into him despite herself. He hummed a dumb little tune while massaging her scalp.

Eventually, she opened one eye. “You do know I’m gonna finish this bath alone after this, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, kissing the back of her shoulder. “Just wanted to be annoying enough to get a cuddle in. Mission accomplished.”

She smiled, tiny and smug. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

There was a pause. A long, quiet one.

Then, softly: “You’re so annoying.”

He grinned against her shoulder. “I’m aware.”

“No, like, you drive me insane.”

“Only the best for my princess.”

She groaned, but it was hopeless. Her head tilted slightly, letting it rest against his. “…And I love you so much all the same.”

His arms tightened just a little, his smile stretching even wider. “I know you do.”

“Quino.”

He laughed, kissed the side of her head, then whispered against her temple, voice lower now. “I love you too, cariño. So much.”

She closed her eyes again, finally at peace—surrounded by bubbles, steam, and the most annoyingly perfect human she’d ever known.

And for once, she let him stay in the bath the whole time.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆

author's note: my first joaquin imagine ahhhh!! this is so freaking cute i was giggling and kicking my feet writing it. he's so cute i loveee him.

also ugh, when y/n says she doesn't like bad bunny cause she doesn't understand what he's saying hurt my soul cause i'm latina LMAO

i need to write more for him, and lucky for me, i have another quino request that i'll be starting this week!!

[darlingdaisyfarm]

TUTORING WITH BENEFITS

Ford science can be sexy Pines

tags: smut, nsfw blurb, Ford x reader, power dynamics??, praise kink, professor Ford, edging, teasing, p in v, private tutoring

inspired by this

the whole afternoon wasted.

knees curled to your chest, arms crossed over untouched notes, that insufferable pout doing all the work. mumbling nonsense about how stupid you were, how the exam would ruin everything. and not once had those pretty hands of yours so much as flipped a page. pure avoidance, obvious even to an idiot. and Stanford Pines, who watched this pathetic loop repeat again and again from behind his journal, had finally run out of patience. the constant whimpering, the muttered “i’m so dumb, i’m never gonna pass” oh he’d had enough.

“if you’ve got enough energy to complain, you’ve got enough energy to try, sweetheart.”

so he guided it out of you, shoving the textbook aside with the back of his hand, pushing both knees apart until you were spread wide open for him.

“question one.” his six fingered hand cradled your jaw. “define thermodynamic equilibrium.”

and the answer, somehow, buried under breath and arousal, came out correct. surprising. a soft smile tugged at his lips. what a smart thing you are. “that brain works just fine,” Ford murmured, and then pushed inside. thick, hot, the stretch deliciously obscene as his cock filled your clenching pussy, pressing right into the soft walls as it belonged nowhere else. your gasp reached his ears and Ford groaned in response, pushing deeper, six fingers grabbed at the coarse hem of his sweater, tugging it up, exposing that line of silver hair trailing down to his hips. oh how you loved it when Ford did that.

he started moving, hips rocking into you. “you feel that? that’s what happens when you focus.”

the next question you got wrong.

immediately, Ford slipped out, slowly but cruel enough to make you whimper in disappoinment. the flushed head dragged right across your throbbing clit, once, twice, sending sharp jolts of unfair pleasure through your whole body. your hips bucked involuntarily, desperate for friction, but his palm pinned your pelvis flat with infuriating ease.

“no, no, not like that.” calmly, he adjusted his glasses with one hand, cock still steady in the other. “don’t worry. we’ll repeat the question until you get it right, sweetheart.”

fortunately, the following attempts earned rewards, sharp answers spilling out of your lips as he fed your desperate pussy back inch by inch, pushing deeper every time, forcing your cunt to make space for him where there was none.

“good, that’s good,” Ford praised, fingers rubbing lazy circles into your trembling thigh while keeping his damn sweater bunched in his fist, half-dressed, fucking you like some private tutor with very. . .questionable methods.

you liked that kind of roleplay though. the idea was hot. Ford thought the same. study hard, fuck harder.

then came another question. you tried, but your mind had already started melting, too busy drowning in how good it felt to be stretched, stuffed and filled to the brim. slick gushed out, your empty pussy squeezing around nothing as he pulled out once more.

punishment was immediate and you gasped. “mmf—Ford, wait—i think—“

“you think?” Ford’s voice rasped, tip poised right against your aching clit. “then answer.”

“it’s. . . mhmm, entropy, ah! it measures disorder. i swear—“

his cock notched back against your soaked entrance. “that’s my brilliant one.” you could swear your eyes had little hearts sparkling behind them when he sank back in, filling you full again, and your pussy greedily welcomeed him tight as you cried out.

and indeed, the only flashcards you needed were the ones he drilled into you, answer by answer, pounding your soaked needy cunt until your walls clenched tighter with every correct response, until your brain was too full of him to hold anything else. just get it right, sweetheart and Ford would fuck you so thoroughly your brain would light up like tesla’s damn tower.

“good, darling, s-so good. you’re almost ready for that test. tomorrow you’ll ace everything,” he groaned, voice slipping too from how tightly and warmly your pussy enveloped him, thrusts snapping hard now, hips slamming flush with wet slaps filling the room.

“p-please, i need the next question, Ford. . .“

and holy multiverse, how Ford smiled at that. he had every intention of ruining your poor pussy before the page even turned.

[alittlegiraffe]

em smut plss😭🙏🏻

Title: Say It Again

You weren’t stupid. At least, you didn’t used to be.

But all it took was one late night call from your mother and every fear you'd spent years silencing began whispering again—no, screaming. The kind of screaming only she could provoke.

“Men like him always cheat. Especially when they’ve had a taste of power that long. Wake up, sweetheart. You really think he’s working late every night? Open your eyes before you look even dumber than I raised you.”

You didn’t say anything then. Just stared at the phone screen as it blinked out. As if that one call cracked something loose in your ribs.

He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t. You’d told yourself that all night while he was gone, told yourself that again when he came home and dropped a kiss to the crown of your head like nothing was wrong.

Because nothing was wrong. Until you made it that way.

You were cold. Short. Quiet. The kind of quiet he didn’t mistake for tiredness—no, Marshall clocked it fast. It was one of his dangerous skills, that man could read your moods like sheet music.

And he didn’t appreciate the shift.

"You mad at me or something?"

His voice was low, gravelly from his shower, hair still wet as he leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom.

You sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded, eyes fixed on the floor.

“I don’t know,” you murmured.

His brow twitched. “You don’t know?”

Your silence throbbed in the air between you.

Marshall stepped closer. “Nah. You do. You know. You just don’t wanna say it.”

You flinched when his shadow fell over you. Not fear—just shame. Because he hadn’t done anything. Had he?

“Are you cheating on me?”

He didn’t even answer at first. Just stood there. The stillness around him was scarier than if he’d exploded.

"...What?"

You finally looked up at him, tears already prickling. “I said—are you—”

“I heard what you said.”

He exhaled slow. Turned. Walked away. You blinked after him, expecting a slammed door, a snapped word.

Instead, he came back seconds later with his phone, his face unreadable.

“You want my phone?” He held it out to you. “Go ahead. Look. Check my messages. My emails. GPS. Whatever you need.”

You hesitated. “Marshall—”

“Nah.” His voice cut through the air. “You think I’d ever step out on you? You think I’d risk this? You think I’d give up us for what—some random bitch with no clue how to look at me like you do?”

He got down on his knees in front of you, fingers gripping your thighs.

“I fuckin’ worship you,” he growled, voice trembling with emotion. “You walk in a room and I forget every other name I ever knew. You think I could even get it up for someone else? You’re the only person who knows what I need.”

He rested his forehead on your legs, exhaling hard like he couldn’t breathe until he touched you.

“I come home to you, baby. Every time. Always. You’re my peace. You’re my punishment. You’re my fuckin’ everything.”

You crumbled then.

“...She called,” you whispered. “My mom. Said men like you—”

His head snapped up. “Your mom?” His mouth curled like the word tasted like poison. “That woman’s been trying to ruin your happiness since I met you.”

“I know. I know, I just—she got in my head.”

He cupped your face. “Then let me in louder.”

He kissed you hard then, desperate and rough, like he needed to erase her voice from your body.

Between kisses, he murmured against your lips:

“Say it again. Ask me again. I dare you.”

You broke. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said, pulling you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you so tight it hurt. “Don’t be sorry. Just remember. You don’t have to question me when you can just come to me. I’ll remind you every damn time.”

You nodded, burying your face in his neck, and his voice dropped to that low, obsessive tone he saved only for you.

“You’re my fuckin’ girl. Mine. I don’t want anyone else. I’d burn the world before I let anyone else near what’s mine.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was lifting you.

One arm under your thighs, the other behind your back, Marshall stood with you cradled in his arms like you weighed nothing. His jaw was tight. That look in his eyes—wild, territorial—sent a flash of heat between your legs before your mind could catch up.

He didn’t speak as he carried you across the room and tossed you gently but firmly onto the bed. You gasped as the mattress bounced, but before you could move, he was crawling over you, caging you in with his body.

His mouth was at your ear, breath hot.

"You wanna know how obsessed I am with you?"

You swallowed hard.

“I’m gonna put it in your body, baby. So deep you’ll never question again.”

You whimpered under him, your hands finding his chest, but he pinned them above your head with one hand, pressing his weight into you like gravity had doubled just for him.

"You don't get to doubt me and walk away clean," he murmured, licking down your throat, pausing where your pulse raced. “You’re gonna take this reminder. All of it.”

He kissed you—hard, claiming, punishing in the way you loved. Teeth dragging across your bottom lip, tongue leaving no part of you untouched. The hand not holding your wrists trailed down your body, under your shirt, nails scraping over your stomach.

"Every fuckin’ inch of you belongs to me," he growled. “Say it.”

You gasped. “Y-Yours.”

He bit the inside of your thigh, then kissed it like an apology. “Louder.”

“Yours, Marshall.”

He released your hands, only to yank off your clothes like they offended him. His were next, shed without ceremony, until there was nothing between you.

Then he was there. Hot. Hard. Heavy against your thigh.

"You feel that?" he whispered, grinding against you slowly, teasing. “That’s you, baby. That’s every time you looked at me and didn’t believe it. That’s every lie she put in your head."

You nodded, breathless, already trembling before he’d even entered you.

And when he finally did—it wasn’t gentle. It was claiming. He pushed in to the hilt in one deep thrust, and you cried out, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back.

"Who do you belong to?"

“You—you, Marshall—”

He set a relentless pace, one hand gripping your hip so tight you’d feel him tomorrow. Every thrust shoved you deeper into the mattress. Every growl in your ear tightened the coil inside you.

“You think I’d ever want someone else when I have this?” he snarled, fucking you harder, eyes locked on yours. “This tight little cunt that squeezes like it knows who it’s made for.”

You couldn’t answer—your voice broke into a sob, pleasure flooding your veins like lightning.

“That’s right,” he whispered, kissing away the tears. “Only me. No one else gets this. No one else even fuckin’ looks.”

Your orgasm ripped through you fast and violent, your whole body shaking beneath him. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you time to come down. Just chased his own high with the same possessive hunger, grunting your name like a prayer.

When he came, he held you so close it felt like he wanted to crawl into your skin. His arms wrapped around you from behind as you both caught your breath, your back to his chest, his voice low and firm at your ear.

“Next time you doubt it, you come to me, you hear me?”

You nodded, boneless, spent, and totally his.

He kissed your shoulder. “I’ll prove it every damn time.”

[feyhunter78]

Got Your Back

Description: Luffy has the crew running through tunnels and your weapons run on sunlight, good thing Sanji has your back.

Not necessary to read beforehand but -> Sanji masterlist

“Y/N want to maybe lay down some cover for us here?” Zoro calls, ducking behind a large stalagmite, bullets pinging off the rock where he’d just been.

You hold up your twin pistols helplessly the golden glow faded to a dull bronze. “Yeah, if you want to find me some sunlight I’ll get right on it.”

“They don’t shoot regular bullets too?” He asks, making his way back to where the rest of the crew was hiding.

“No, they’re magic, you can’t combine them.”

“Zoro’s sword is magic, isn’t it? But it still cuts like a nonmagic sword.” Luffy says.

“Okay well, this type of magic you can’t combine with non magic stuff.” You explain with huff fiddling with the now useless triggers.

“I thought you said they could store up sunlight?” Nami says, glancing over the top of the outcropping, counting the number of pirates left under her breath.

“It can but we’ve been in this stupid cave system for like a week, it’s not infinite!” You snap, shoving your pistols back into their holsters.

Nami gives you a kind but stern wanting look.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just a little stressed. I don’t like being pinned down by gunfire in tunnels, and I really don’t like not being able to use the weapons I’m most comfortable with.”

“The weapons thing bothers you more than the pinned down by gunfire thing?” Zoro drawls, his arms folded over his chest.

“It’s really too bad your glorious guns can’t draw power from your smile y/n, I often think it in itself is a beam of sunlight.” Sanji says.

Zoro groans in response and you bury your face in your hands, trying not to panic. “Thank you, Sanji, but now is not really the time.”

“Y/N if I got you a regular gun could you use it?” Luffy asks, eyeing something off in the distance.

“Probably, I mean I haven’t used a regular gun in ages but it’s better than nothing.”

He nods and jumps over the outcropping of rocks.

“Luffy!” Nami calls, throwing her hands up in frustration.

“Do you really not have any other way to defend yourself when your guns are down?” Sanji asks, and normally you’d almost find the question insulting but it’s Sanji, he’s only asking because he’s concerned.

“I’ve got a knife in my boot.” You tell him, patting the place where it’s stashed.

“Well, that’s good then, you had me worried for a second. Can’t lose my best girl to a few days of shadows.”

“You wouldn’t protect me?” You ask, teasing him a bit because fuck it why not, there’s not much else you can do until Luffy comes back.

“Of course, I would.” The answer is so immediate, so earnest that it makes you feel bad for trying to tease him.

You reach out and squeeze Sanji’s hand. “Thanks Sanji, it’s comforting to know you’ve got my back.”

“Hey, I mean I’ve got your back too, we’re the gunslinging duo.” Usopp pipes up. “We’ve gotta get our shared wanted poster, to match my singular one, and that can’t happen if you’re dead.”

You lean over to Usopp and rest your head on your shoulder with a fond smile, used to his antics by now. “Thank you, Usopp.”

“Anytime.” He says, jumping a bit when Luffy throws himself back over the barricade, landing right in front of you two.

“Two guns, non magic and full of bullets.” Luffy says proudly.

You take the pistols, they’re dirty, and cold in your hands unlike your guns, there’s no hum of magic energy, or arcane connection that makes your fingers fit perfectly around the grip of the guns. It’s weird and honestly a little upsetting like you’re doing something wrong somehow.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, darling? You alright?”

You shake off the bad feeling, you’re just being melodramatic, and way too attached to your weapons. And Sanji thought Zoro was obsessed with his swords, if only he knew what was running through your head.

Checking the chambers of each pistol you nod. “Yeah, just getting a feel for it.”

Sanji smiles. “I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Can we cut the pep talk short? They’re coming.” Zoro calls, drawing his sword.

You shift into place, aim and start firing, then Usopp flings one of his smoke pellets into the crowd of pirates as Zoro darts out, followed by Luffy then Sanji, Nami staying back to protect you and Usopp from anyone who got too close.

It’s working, you’re winning! The rival crew goes down one by one, and Nami jumps over the barricade, you and Usopp following behind.

Then as can unfortunately be expected, all hell breaks loose. The crew begins to split, some chase after pirates running further down the tunnel, some stay put, Usopp sets off another smoke pellet, too quick for you to notice, too quick for you to catch who went where, and you’re surrounded by colorful smoke, the sounds of battle weaving around you as you try to lock on to a target to take out.

There’s a sound, boots against stone on your left side and you fire. The man who’d been preparing to charge falling flat on his back from the force of the shot.

You blow the smoke from the barrel of the pistol glad to see you’ve still got it with normal guns, a smile on your face. You turn to locate your next target and come face to face with a sword.

“Nice shooting, but I paid good money to hire him. Guess I’ll take your life as way to recoup my losses.” The man sneers. “Drop your weapons.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll just gonna set them on the ground.” You say, trying to lower yourself slowly to the ground.

“No need, we’ll take them off your corpse.” He says, swordpoint biting into your throat.

“If I drop them, they could go off by accident.” You protest weakly, a droplet of warm blood creeping down your throat.

“You must think I’m stupid, girlie.”

You try to glance behind him to find your crew. “No, they’re finicky. I thought you didn’t want to lose any other men?”

He shrugs. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

If you can just get to the knife in your boot. “I mean I don’t want you to lose out on more money.”

“Shut up.” He snaps, dragging the swordpoint down to your chest.

Panic fills your veins, and you bite your lip trying to keep from making a sound.

Before you can blink, there’s a blur of black and white, then he’s slammed into the tunnel wall, and crumbles to the floor.

Sanji stands there; eyes narrowed at the man. “No one touches y/n.”

You catch a flicker of movement behind Sanji, and shoot, bullet flying past his shoulder, stopping what you hope is one of the few remaining pirates in his tracks.

The man thumps to the ground, prompting both you and Sanji to action.

Sanji rushes forward ghosting his hands over your arms and sides. “Y/N, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, thanks for that.” You tilt your head towards the pirate.

His lips quirked up. “Said I’d protect you, didn’t I?”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “That you did, my hero.”

Sanji beams. “I’m just a mere mortal graciously given the chance to assist his gun-wielding goddess.”

“Flatter, I bet you say that to every girl you save.” You smile, delighted by the way he blushes.

Sanji dusts the dirt from his jacket, then offers you his arm. “Just you, love, just you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” You tease, taking his arm.

Sanji frowns. “Your lack of faith in me, your most fervent worshipper wounds me.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “I will take that into consideration.”

Sanji smiles again. “That’s all I ask darling; now shall we go assist our crew?”

You can hear Luffy calling out his attacks from further down the tunnel, and double check the chambers of your guns, you’ve got enough bullets left, probably. “We shall.”

OPLA TL: @elrondswifey

[greasermoon]

Worth Keeping

dallas!fem reader

fightingxcursingxmakingupxcigusagexalcohmentionxmildsuggestivecont

ꨄ

“Dammit, Dallas, would you just stand still for once?”

Your voice ricochets off the cracked brick walls of the vacant lot. It’s past midnight, the summer heat giving way to a restless, humid dark, and Tulsa feels like it’s holding its breath. Even the cicadas have gone quiet. Across from you, Dallas Winston paces like a caged wolf, a half-smoked cig dangling between two bruised knuckles. The red tip flares, dies, flares again.

He doesn’t look at you. “Gotta keep movin’, doll. Ground’s hot.”

“Bullshit.”

That finally makes him glance over. His blue eyes—storm clouds waiting to break—fix on yours, and you swear the air tightens between you. This started hours ago: a stupid rumor that Sylvia had been hanging on his arm down at Buck’s, the way Two-Bit’s teasing grin cracked something raw inside you, the look on Dally’s face when you asked, “Was she really there?” One too many questions, one too many evasions, and now you’re both here, hearts hissing like water on a skillet.

“Thought you trusted me, y/n,” he says, voice low, dangerous. “Ain’t that what you’re always preachin’? ‘I trust you, Dal, I know you’d never—’”

“Don’t you dare put this on me.” You step closer, fists clenched. “All I asked was whether she showed up. You couldn’t even say yes or no.”

He snorts. “Like a straight answer ever fixed anything in my life.”

“Maybe try it for once!”

The shout rips out of you before you can leash it. Dallas’s jaw ticks. Somewhere behind the Curtis house a dog barks, then silences. The streetlight above flickers, paints him in harsh amber for one breath, then goes dim again, like even the electricity knows better than to stick around.

“You wanna know where I was?” he snarls, flicking the cigarette away. It sparks against gravel, dies. “I was at Buck’s, yeah. Sylvia came creepin’ up, actin’ sweet so she could dip a hand in my goddamn back pocket. I told her to fuck off. That answer your question, detective?”

The words hit, but the venom behind them stings worse. “Then why lie earlier?”

“Because,”—he spreads his arms—“every time her name pops up you get that look. Like I’m gonna run right back and marry her in Vegas the second you blink.”

“You keep dodging, Dallas! It’s not just Sylvia. It’s the jobs nobody knows about, the black-and-blue knuckles, the nights I wake up alone because you slipped out the window like a ghost. I’m sick of guessing which alley they’ll drag your body out of!”

For a second he just stares, chest rising, falling. Moonlight catches the thin white scar on his cheek. “That’s rich,” he says softly, deadly calm. “Comin’ from the girl who knew exactly what she was signin’ up for.”

“I signed up for you, not the funeral.”

Silence crashes down. The words echo, raw, awful. Dallas blinks once, and it’s like the mask slips; you see the kid under the swagger, the boy who learned too young that caring is a liability. But it’s gone in a heartbeat, replaced by frost.

“Maybe you oughta find somebody safer, then,” he whispers. “Some nice Soc with clean hands and a shiny future—”

“Stop it.”

“—leave the hood trash to rot where we belong—”

“Dallas!”

But he’s on a roll now, voice rising, brittle with something that sounds like heartbreak disguised as rage. “Face it, y/n, I ain’t changed and I never will. I steal, I fight, I drink too goddamn much, and every cop in this city’s got my mug memorized. I’m poison—“

You cross the distance, shove him hard in the chest. “You’re not poison, you stubborn, beautiful idiot. You’re scared.”

The word freezes him. He opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again. “I ain’t—”

“Yes, you are,” you say, voice cracking. Tears blur your vision, but you keep going. “You’re scared I’ll leave, so you push first. You’re scared you’re not worth saving, so you keep proving yourself right.”

He exhales like he’s taken a gut-shot. “y/n…”

“I don’t need perfect,” you whisper. “I need honest. I need alive. And I need you to stop acting like love is a goddamn crime.”

A car rumbles past on the main road, bass thumping, then fades. Somewhere a neon sign buzzes. Dallas’s shoulders slump. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You really wanna know why I slipped out tonight?”

You nod.

“I… I went to meet Tim Shepard,” he says. “He was settin’ up a deal—boosted radios. He wanted me in for muscle. Good money, easy grab.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I told him no.”

The confession hangs between you, fragile as glass. “Why?”

He laughs once, broken. “Because you got in my head, that’s why. You and your damn future talk. Your ‘maybe tomorrow we won’t have to run’ dreams.” He looks at his hands like he hates them. “But then that scared me worse, so I came home and picked a fight instead.”

Your breath hitches. “Jesus, Dal.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely a rasp. “Nobody teaches a guy like me how to—to be worth somethin’. I know how to swing a blade, how to rob a store, how to use a girl till she hates me. But you—” He swallows. “You make me wanna be better, and that’s—fuck, it’s terrifying.”

You step closer, place a hand over his still-bruised knuckles. “Being terrified’s allowed,” you say, softer now. “Running from it isn’t.”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re shining. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. The words sound foreign on his tongue, like a new language.

You squeeze his fingers. “I’m sorry too.”

For a heartbeat you just stand there, city sounds pulsing in the periphery. Then Dallas pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight—as if letting go would be surrender. You feel his heartbeat under your ear, wild and unsteady.

“I didn’t touch Sylvia,” he murmurs into your hair. “Swear on my life.”

“I believe you.”

“I ain’t gonna promise I’ll never mess up, y/n. But I’ll try to… y’know… not die.” He huffs a laugh.

You smile against his shirt. “Reasonable goal.”

He tips your chin up, eyes flicking to your lips. “Can I—?”

“You better.”

The kiss is rough, desperate, all teeth and salt until it gentles, turns slow. The taste of nicotine and mint. The smell of leather and sweat and something that’s just Dallas. When he breaks away, breathless, he presses his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he says, voice shaky. “Been scared shitless to say it, but there it is.”

Your heart stutters. “I love you too, criminal reputation and all.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll retire. Open a bakery. Sell cupcakes shaped like switchblades.”

You laugh, really laugh, the sound ricocheting into the night. “You’d burn the place down in a week.”

“Worth a shot.” His thumb brushes a drying tear from your cheek. “Come on, doll. Let’s blow this dump before the cops swing by.”

You lace your fingers with his. “Where to?”

“Anywhere the sunrise won’t find us,” he says, and for once there’s hope in the mischief. “But first—” He digs in his jacket, produces his packet of cigarettes, flicks it open. Instead of lighting one, he crushes the whole pack, tosses it in a nearby trash barrel.

Your brows lift. “Since when do you waste smokes?”

He shrugs, almost shy. “Figured if I’m tryin’ not to die, maybe start with the easy stuff.”

Warmth blooms in your chest. You squeeze his hand, and together you head for the sidewalk, leaving the lot—and the ghosts that haunt it—behind. The sky over Tulsa is turning silver now, first hint of dawn. Dallas nudges you with his shoulder.

“Hey, y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“If I fuck up again—”

“You will,” you say, smile soft.

He huffs. “When I fuck up again… just remind me of this, alright? Remind me I got somethin’ worth keeping.”

You stop, tug him back, and press a kiss over a faint scar on his cheek. “Deal.”

Far off, a siren wails. Dallas squeezes your hand once, then pulls you into a jog, the two of you laughing like fugitives who stole back their own hearts. And maybe the world is still rough, and the future still uncertain, but for the first time, Dallas Winston isn’t running from love—he’s running with it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

. 　　　★ 　° :. ★　 * •

.　 * 　.　 　　　　　.

° 　. ● . ★ ° . *　　　°　.　°☆

　. * ● ¸ . 　　　★ 　° :●. 　 *

• ○ ° ★　 .　 * 　.

Hope y’all like this one.

[shosweet]

ichigo kurosaki has… a habit.

after everything’s settled down after a battle, he looks at you longer than usual. you feel him burn holes through the back of your head, your spine tingling as you’re constantly on edge.

as you take your seat, everyone crowds around you to gawk and question.

“what’s with all the bandaging?”

“did you get hurt?”

“is everything okay?”

you give them the standard, minimal answers with a smile. but, ichigo knows all too well.

while everyone walks out of the classroom, it’s just you and ichigo as you pack up your things. he makes his way to you, footsteps heavy with burden.

“you okay, ichi?”

he stands in front of you, eyes wandering as he studies you. he takes your hand in his, bringing it closer to him to have a better look. he notices the repeated wrap of the bandaging, rubbing his thumb over its texture.

“i feel bad,” he mutters, pressing his lips to your wrapped fingers. the pain and ache from your hand seemed to melt away just by that mere kiss.

“you got hurt… i wasn’t protecting you.” he winces at his own words, head leaning forward to seemingly rest on your shoulder. instead, his lips meet it, warm and soft against your uniform. despite it being covered, he knew exactly where your other injury was and placed a kiss there as a genuine apology. you felt weak in the knees, heart pounding in your chest.

“i’m okay, ichi,” you console him, wrapping your arms around his neck and tracing patterns on his back. you sigh, heart fluttering at his bad habit, at how stupid he is. he’s probably more hurt than you are, but he’s here sulking at your own injuries. “still here, aren’t i?”

he looks up at you, amber eyes shaking as he searches your own. he straightens his posture before wrapping his arms around you. one hand holds the back of your head, breathing you in after holding his breath for so long. you hold him closer, tighter, doing everything you can to reassure him. after a bit, he pulls away, smiling at you as you return it.

“such a crybaby. i can protect myself, y’know. don’t need to call me weak,” you joke, playfully pressing a soft fist to his jaw and pushing his head back. he chuckles, adam’s apple bobbing.

“never called you weak. you’re one strong-ass woman,” he replies, lips pressed against your shoulder again. you mischievously flash your pearly whites with a plan in mind.

“can’t say the same for you, though.”

he slowly raises your head at you, eyebrow cocked with a “what’d you just say?” expression on his face.

“letting your girlfriend get hurt in battle? you’re so weak, ichi—” you’re cut off as your feet are suddenly off the floor and your torso is slung over ichigo’s shoulder. you hit his back, screaming at him to put you down as he has the last laugh.

“weak, huh?”

[mai505]

Now playing|| Friday I’m in love by The Cure

Favourite Fruit

or: Simon finding comfort through a sweet nurse

The dying cigarette hung from his nimble fingers. Breath cold as he puffed out the acid smoke his lung stinging from the after burn. His eyes flickered as the glass door cracked open with a screech yet he did not bother easing his head at the intruder of his peaceful silence.

“Oh pardon”

The soft voice displayed genuine apologies. This made him turn blocking in her direction he took in the character of his new companion.

Rosy cheeks even rosier lips a black jacket covering the out of place scrubs adoring her body. “ No worries” he coughed out. “ I don’t own this place do I”

His eyes connected once again with trees before him the grey concrete hospital behind it detouring the purity of the nature. Rustling from his left side turned him out as he lifted his head to her. She held a paper cup in her hands he assumed coffee. Caffeine the apparent solution for two hours of sleep between 12 hour shifts.

“Are you a patient” she asked breaking the oh so distant silence he craved right now. Her gaze suspiciously eyed the cigarette hanging between his lips. “ No” he uttered. “Oh you’re visiting?” She questioned cocking her head to the side. He puffed out the smoke filling his lungs as he took his time answering. “Friend got hurt I’m just here to check on him” he explained hoping this would ease her desire for interrogation. “Oh are they fine?” Her eyes seemed to widen ever so slightly. He furrowed his brows only chuckling darkly” he’s a big boy he can handle himself” the childish nickname laced in sarcasm.

She licked her lips only taking a daring sip of the brewing brought before once again placing it next to her, her tongue officially burned now. “ You’d be surprised how many “big boys” make a fuss over a simple injection.”

Her light laugh was enough for him to turn his attention to her. Her laugh was enthralling almost mesmerising. She was pretty. He knew that just like how any red blooded man would objectively judged her appearance. “ Well you must handle them quite well” he grunted out. Interested in the conversation yet not exactly making an effort to show said interest. “ Oh yeah” she huffed” tall strong men just like you coming in yet as soon as they see one syringe they start begging for a different option.” He grinned slightly “ hate to break it to you love but one small needle is not enough to scare me”

She gave him a look. Yet he wasn’t too sure ,if the slight sultry tint in her dark eyes was only his wishing imagination for attention from a beautiful woman or actually just her eyes. “That’s what they all say” she said barely under breath. “So what happend to your friend” she asked. Back to the questions he thought. He liked her more when she was insulting the male ego. “ got shot” he replied bluntly. While he was fully aware she was a civilian yet judging by the pale blue scrubs she clearly was a nurse so dealing with every day horrors were a Tuesday afternoon for her. Just like he suspected she barely showed any reaction” So just men being stupid men” she phrased sarcastically. “ Do you find pleasure in making men seem idiotic” he said this time the one asking the dubious questions. “You do it yourself I just hold up the mirror” she shrugged taking a sip out of the paper cup.

“ He got shot in the line of duty” he added. Finally she reacted yet not the way he hoped. “ what are you police or something” her eyes flickered to his. “ You sure have a lot of questions” he budged. “I’m a curious person what can I say and who knows maybe I’m just trying to socialise” He scoffed at the irony nothing this woman had said in the nimble minded conversation was serious. He knew she wouldn’t let him go the question still playing like fire in her eyes. “Military” he told her. “That’s interesting” she said clearly unaware of the topic of military.

Sure she had seen them on TV some stupid parades yet she wasn’t actually familiar with the military. If you asked her on the spot about it she would probably rant about the Second World War ,eventually dwelling into conspiracy theories of secret CIA missions she had found on one of her late night obsession shows searches.

Her absence of an answer irked him. He barely knew her five minutes yet in the talk entirely she had always answers in more than necessary detail. The silence ate her up as she let her mind wander to how the handsome stranger looked in uniform. “So when do you need to go back to ..” she cleared her throat silently racking her brain for answers” the place?” . That let him let out a small laugh” I don’t need to get back to base until Mactavish is better” Deciding against commenting on the name reveal she nodded understandingly. “ so are you like a general or something” she was painfully unaware. “I’m a lieutenant love” he smiled slightly at her curious gaze. “ is that good?” She asked “ good enough” he answered. Silence one again engulfed them.

“ What’s your favourite fruit” she asked. His brows furrowed at the question pondering whether she was serious or not. “ I don’t know” he muttered “Apple?” “ Oh so you’re painfully boring” she declared. “What that supposed to mean” his eye snapped to hers “ Well isn’t Apple a bit… basic” she questioned. “ Didn’t know a fruit could be considered basic” he took another drag of the cigarette. “ oh no but there’s a psychology behind it” she set the cup aside. “Do tell dear” he smiled irony dripping from his tongue.

“ Apple is something everyone had tried had or at least tasted. We will exclude allergies for this hypothesis.” She explains” but if someone tells you their favourite fruit is something you can’t imagine something you never heard of and have never tried or even something you have never had the pleasure of trying that could only mean they are absolutely exiting as a person right ?” She gazes hopefully at him. With every word he had gotten increasingly concerned not only for her but also his sanity. Had his life really fallen that deep that he now sat here listening to a nurse talk about the psychology of favourite fruits. Well sure his toster was broken and yes he hadn’t visited his apartment in the last six months as his will for life was slowly fading along with the growing winters in Moscow where his latest mission had been. But surely he was still so sane. After realising that the woman was still looking at him as if he would grade her “hypothesis” he shook himself out do the thoughts of his dead toaster.

“ Are you sure you studied nursing?” He broke the tension. Her smile fell.” You’re incredibly rude for someone whose favourite fruit is apple” he stuck out the cigarette next to him slipping the butt into the grass. “ Alright missy then what your favourite fruit?” He got incredibly closer. “Mango” she answers not missing a beat. “And I assume that isn’t considered “basic” he cocked a brow. “Oh no try getting mangos during November I wanna see how far you get without the black market” she countered. “ So unavailability makes it superior” he asked. “ well unavailability always makes something better” his eyes swam” I don’t think I follow”

She once again picked up the cup it seeming more of a disliked toy than actual drink” so you know the saying “you always want what you can’t have”

He nodded is head slightly. “ Well I feel like this is one of those saying where you just always say they are rules of life. “ So people always crave what they can’t have ?” He asked automatically. “Well yes I mean no one is actually always completely happy or not ?” She blinked at him” one always craves more it’s the reason for overconsumption and overspending but I mean that a completely different thing” she chuckled lightly. “And what does the unavailability of mango have to do to with being an exiting person” he asked. His brain screaming at him to stop invoking himself into this conversation. It was an absolute lost case maybe this said a lot about his sanity. Yet he knew right then she was probably someone who spent their time reading philosophy books only to end up overthink their every life existence. She shrugged “ easy, an exiting person someone who searches for let’s say adventure. They look for new experiences something that is theoretically not available or even possible in their current situation so they crave the unavailable.”

At the end she smiled innocently as if she hadn’t turned his afternoon into a complicated talk and a drowning headache. Her phone buzzed loudly interrupting her previous grinning time.” Well that my cue” she reached to turn it off “ it was nice meeting you..?” “Simon” he hesitated”My names Simon” “ Mai, nice meeting you” she got up dusting off her clothes slightly before smiling one again him noticing the dimple in her cheek for the first time” wish your friend good health” she said before she turned on her heel leaving Simon with a though filed head and an empty cardboard cup her slight lipstick stain aesthetically echoing against the white lid. He blocked slightly grabbing his packet from beside him leaving aswell.

[kiokos]

🪼⋆.ೃ࿔* Harvey, nobody knows what I see!

⋆𐙚₊˚ | featuring: charles chevalier

⋆𐙚₊˚ | setting: you just joined the french soccer club, PXG - where you met the person who would change your life forever.

⋆𐙚₊˚ | genre: moon x sun, sunshine x moonlight, stoic x confident

⋆𐙚₊˚ | A/N: guys I swear I didn’t mean to not post……………. Maybe…. btw reader is around the same age as Charles for obvious reasons.. also tell me if yall want this to become a series lol, but ts is js a short fic for now

⋆𐙚₊˚ | tags: @ihe4rtme

You took a deep breath as you entered the group bus. It had been a long day, and at this point, you just wanted to go home and sleep. You had done nothing but train all day - and it was especially embarrassing because you didn’t talk to anyone and nobody really talked to you, despite you being the new recruit. It made you a little sad, but you refused to let a couple of questionable humans from the male species ruin your day.

You made sure to ignore your teammates and chose to sit in the back of the bus, away from everyone else. It’s not like you were TRYING to be mean - you just didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. Maybe it’s just because you’re naturally introverted? You didn’t know.

With a small sigh, you plopped yourself down on one of the seats and waited for your stop. You grabbed your phone and then headphones, turned on your headphones and connected them to your phone. You took a small pause to think about what song to listen to and daydream with, and you ended up picking ‘Harvey’ by hers.

One or two minutes passed, maybe more - you couldn’t really tell, when suddenly, you felt a presence right next to you. You paused, clicking your tongue in clear annoyance before turning to whatever teammate decided to ruin your day today.

“Hey! Hi! You can’t speak french, right? Don’t mind my accent! What’s your name??” You paused. That voice sounded familiar. Too familiar. Well no shit it sounds familiar, you spent the whole day with your teammates - but there was ONE specific teammate you dreaded to speak with. Charles fucking chevalier.

He was the number one example for ‘annoying’. A little brat who couldn’t mind his own business. Sure you were younger than him by a few months, but point still stands. He’s insufferable.

“…my name is [name]. Didn’t you listen during introductions?” You snarled back. He simply smirked and giggled out a, “nuh-uh! That’s boring!” You groaned at his reply - of course he’d find it boring. “You’re boring.” You let out, mumbling it under your breath like you’re saying a ritual. “Hah?” He propped up, feigning confusion despite hearing your every word.

“I said nothing.” You lied, rolling your eyes again before looking out the window after a while, hoping he’d get the hint and leave. Which apparently wasn’t the case because he was a fucking idiot.

“Hey, hey! What are you listening to!?” He shot you a smile, or a grin? What’s the difference again…? Never mind. You turned your head to glare at him before answering his question, “… well I WAS listening to harvey by hers but now I’m listening to daylight by taylor swift.” You didn’t know why you answered him, really. It was none of his business, much less your responsibility to respond to his questions - or rather - his demands.

“Really? My favorite song is En nuit by videoclub!” He beamed back at you. You paused, not knowing why he told you that despite you having no use for this information. “..why would I need to know that?” You commented about what he had said, before he replied to your comment with a cheeky, “well, isn’t it obvious? It’s to get to know each other, silly!” He smirked, his sharp tooth poking out. You stopped, perplexed. “..if you want to know more about me, just read my info or something. I don’t get why you have to ask me directly.”

He paused, looking at you as if you were crazy. Why would he do that if he can just ask you directly? It was stupid! “Hm.. well i’m a contrarian, so no!” He beamed, and you groaned in response. Your eyes flickered from his face to the next stop, which, THANKFULLY, was yours. You stood up, eyeing him before saying, “this is my stop.” You said simply. Like a fact. And you paused when you saw Charles’s face.

He was surprised.

You looked at him for a second, before he said, “hah, really!? It’s mine too! Let’s go, let’s go!”

.

.

.

You wanted to die. Was he being sarcastic? Surely he was, right? I mean, it couldn’t be possible.. RIGHT? SURELY?? YOU NEVER SAW HIM AROUND YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD! HOW IS THAT EVEN POSSIBLE?

You paused, eyes wide, before going, “..are you serious? Please tell me you aren’t serious.” You said, feeling your life draining away at the sentence charles had just uttered. “Nope! Come on, come on!”

You don’t think you’ll survive this.

[ray935sworld]

I wish I could believe you

Part 1: I swear I was trying

Marcmarc; marcnaia

CW: This story includes the thought about a partner cheating and the accusation of cheating

Marco didn’t know exactly when it started.

But he knew exactly how he found out. The moment was carved into his brain. He knew how he had felt. The feeling never left his chest, haunting him whenever he thought about it.

It was always the same.

Empty. Betrayed. Dirty.

It had started with some harmless teasing, jokes and laughter between their friend group. The usual, like they had done so many times before.

He remembered sitting on top of a table, some empty food container next to him. They had been at Pecco’s motorhome, late at night, celebrating Pecco’s first win of the season.

There was a conversation flowing. Teasing. He heard how Migno made joke about their world champion. They all knew it were just words, no heat and no harm intended.

Looking back he couldn’t remember who made the joke to start it all. Probably Andrea.

“Congrats to Pecco! First time this year Marquez is not fucking him.” Pecco had chuckled, shaking his head.

“Yeah trust me. Not the first time I’m fucking him” he had said.

There was a silence. All of them staring at him, trying to understand what had just been said. They patched the words together, knowing grins forming.

Luca and Franky exchanged a glance. Cele blinking in confusion.

“Francesco Bagnaia, are you fucking Marc Marquez?” Franky asked, his voice playful. A grin dancing around Luca’s face as well. They were clearly enjoying the chaos of that statement.

The thought that their mentors golden boy – the one that bought two championships back to Italy – was screwing Marc fucking Marquez, his own teammate, was drama gold to them.

Bez on the other hand, felt like he was witnessing a car crash.

He felt like he had been carved into, his inside taken out, thrown away, replacing with a deep emptiness.

“How do they say?” Pecco asked, a confident smile, accompanied by a suggestive wink “A gentleman enjoys in silent” “Oh you little fucker!” Cele laughed.  

Bez felt like he was hit over the head and kicked in the stomach. He stood there. Frozen. Unable to react. Unable to say anything. He just stared at Pecco.

He wanted to call him names. Call him a whore. An asshole. A stupid cunt. He wanted to yell and curse, throw something in his face.

He swallowed hard, trying to stay calm. He was trying to make up an excuse, process what he had just heard. He was telling himself it was just a stupid lie. A joke. He would reveal it any second now…

But he didn’t.

And with every second, more doubts kept creeping in Bez’s heart. and Marc had been dating for almost a year. He had thought they were good. Stable. But apparently, he had misinterpreted things.

From then on, the comments started. They all started with the academy, their usual teasing and jokes. Some questions. The Aprilia rider just watched over weeks, trying to find the prove that Pecco was lying.

He knew he should have talked to Marc immediately. But he was scared of the answer. He didn’t want to be seen as insecure or clingy. Or have it confirmed as the truth.

Instead, he watched Pecco shrugging when asked if he’d tell Vale. The gesture to easy to be fake. It all seem to come too natural.

“No. It’s just sex. It’s not like I plan to bring him to the ranch” “Good. Cause I don’t want to explain some doctor why someone’s dick was cut off” Luca said deadpan.

“Do you think Vale would cut off Pecco’s or Marquez’s?” Cele continued. “Both. Probably”

It was a weird feeling. Bez watched it all, listened, never fully joining in. He listened to all the jokes and he felt a weird sense of jealousy. Weren’t those jokes supposed to be about him? Him and Marc? Not Pecco.

Slowly he pulled back, claiming it was just because he was overthinking. When asked he would just shrug and reply with “work” which had become their code for confidential bike information.

In reality, he sometimes just couldn’t stand looking at his best friend and he knew the academy would figure it out soon if he was avoiding him, so he needed to work it out for himself first.

He had tried to ignore it. It didn’t work.

He had tried to believe it was all fake, just a lie but he couldn’t. Not when Pecco mentioned the mole Marc had on his ass. There was no way he could have seen it when Marc was wearing pants, which meant…

Pecco was telling the truth.

Marco even tried to be ok with it. He tried to accept it. He tried to think about it like an open relationship. It worked for others, so why not for him?

He tried to see it as a win that Marc was at least still coming back to him. He was still choosing him. He hadn’t lost him. Yet.

He knew he shouldn't think like that of course, but he couldn’t help it.

He knew that he was being cheated on. He knew he should confront Marc, telling him that he knew. He wanted to work it out. Somehow. But his heart told him that it would be impossible. He couldn’t stand the thought.

And then with Pecco of all people.

Pecco didn't even know about the relationship.

After all, he had never told anybody about dating the Spaniard. He had been too afraid of what his friends might say. They were his family after all. And he couldn't stand the thought of losing them.

He hadn’t ready to be made to choose. He was afraid of who he would end up choosing.

So he had never said anything. He thought Marc had understood. He had said he did.

But now, it felt like Mark was using that insecurity and use it against him. As if he was trying to prove that other people in Bezs circle didn't seem to think about him the way Marco feared they would think about him.

The more he thought about it, the more he was hurt.

He loved his boyfriend. Maybe a little bit too much. Because a part of him wanted to accept and move on.

A part of him wanted to pretend that he didn't know, as if he had never overheard all those countless comments that kept pressing into his chest like small daggers.

He feared that once he did confront Marc, he would lose him. That Marc would have to choose between Pecco and Bez, and the younger Italian knew that he wouldn't be the one to be chosen.

He was never the one to be chosen.

After all, he was just some weird curly headed over childish and overactive guy. He had barely won a handful of races. He had never won the championship. Pecco had. More than one.

He was calmer. More polite. More the son-in-law any parents would wish for their child. More perfect in any way. So why would anybody choose him?

The thought broke his heart.

But it also kept him from facing reality. The longer he could put away their conversation, the longer he could pretend that he didn't know. The longer he could keep Mark.

And Marc was his everything. He had everything of Bez.

Marc hold his hand. Marc hold his heart, his soul. Marc hold his body. His whole being felt like it was owned by Marc and Marc alone.

Yet he had given it to him willingly and he had no way to get it back.

A part of him didn't want it back either. He still wanted to belong to the older man without any conditions. Even without the condition of being treated with respect and being loyal and being loved.

So he laid in his bed, his eyes closed, trying not to cry as Rubik did his best to offer silent comfort. He was just trying to get through the night.

He knew that Marc was currently in Florence, ahead of the Italian GP.

He and Pecco were doing some promo, some pr stuff. They would spend the day and night in Florence. It was a haunting thought.

“Little bit of team bonding” Marc had said with a smile. He had spend the days prior at Bezs place. He had winked at him. “Gotta get along with your best friend, right?”

Marco had just nodded, wondering if he actually meant that they would have sex.

He looked at the clock, letting it get later and later. He get a few texts from Marc. A bunch of picture showing off the beautiful art displayed. And Marc.

Normally Bez eyes would probably fall out his skull at the sight of his half naked boyfriend. But now he just felt empty. In his head he saw Pecco touching all that and he started to feel sick.

He knew that Marc would sleep in the same hotel as Peeco. And the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to cry.

He knew that they would end up sleeping on the same floor. Maybe in the same room. In the same bed.

He tortured his own mind with the thought that they were currently laying next to each other. Possibly naked. Hands running over each other’s body. The same way he and Marc had done that same morning.

Possibly doing things that he didn't want to imagine.

A sadistic part wanted to hurt himself a little more. He heard his thoughts questioning if Marc was just as soft with Pecco as he was with him. Or rougher? Would Marc enjoy that more? Or was he softer?

Would he put his hand on Pecco’s cheek as they laid there, facing each other. Would he smile. Compliment him, like he did with Bez?

The Italian put his hands over his eyes. He wanted to stop thinking but instead his mind ran ahead. He thought about all the stupid jokes the academy might make once those picture were released.

Marc and Pecco in suits. Walking together through some of the finest art of human history. As if they were actual lovers heading for their wedding.

Would they – Marc and Pecco – joke about it themselves? Would Pecco pull on Marc’s eyes, stare at him with hungry eyes. Marc would enjoy that, wouldn’t he?

Would there be a hint of domestic? Would  Marc fix Pecco’s tie afterwards while Pecco apologized for destroying his hair? Kiss?

He knew that it was only a question of time when someone would make a stupid joke, a comment and Pecco would confirm Marcos fear. He would confirm that they had sex and the carousel in his head would start all over again.

There was no way out.

And a part of him was a peace with that knowledge. Because soon Marc would be back at his own side, making him forget the previous days.

And then he would share the bed with Marco. Not Pecco. The younger Italian would feel like he had won. They would have sex.

But it was no longer any consolation. He swallowed hard as he realized that the jealousy had gotten stronger.  

Bez was trying not to imagine that the naked, sweaty body above his boyfriend who was probably currently fucking into him was who he had considered to be his best friend. He shook his head, refusing to think of what the man was probably doing to him right now.

Instead he tried to focus on the future, once Marc was back at his side. But he couldn’t. He started to feel sick. To think that his boyfriend was getting fucked by someone else and would return to fuck him like nothing happened.

He hated the thought. He wanted to take a shower, a hot one. Hot enough to make his skin turn red. He wanted to burn the imprints of Marc’s hand off his body. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel so dirty again.

Slowly he realized what it all meant. He started to see the line.

He had tried to push all those thoughts back. But the more he kept pushing them down, the more dominant they became in his head.

At first he had tried to believe it had all been just a stupid joke. He had been more clingy to Marc. But every time he asked “I'm the only one, right?” Even if it wasn't a playful voice and he would get insecure.

And then he had started to pull back. He refused to give a real answer. After all, he felt like he still hadn't made-up his mind what he would do during or after the conversation.

He knew he would not blame Pecco. He hadn't told Pecco about their relationship. So he had no way of knowing.

He closed his eyes but all he felt was tears as he realized he couldn’t go on like that. He couldn’t keep going. He would have to confront him, one way or another. He hold onto Rubik, silently crying into his fur.

He decided to wait for after the race. He needed to focus on Mugello first.

He hadn’t expected that things could get even worst. They were at Franky’s motorhome when Pecco got a message and had to leave early.

He had winked saying he needed to take care of something at Ducati. “Something or someone?” Franky had teased. “Eeeh… I mean… He did win. Maybe a reward is appropriate”

Marco didn’t even want to know what that meant. He rolled his eyes and decided to try one last time. He pulled out his phone. He send a quick message.

“Hey, can I come over? Now? wanna celebrate with you”

“Sorry” he got a reply. “Gotta deal with something :( how about later tonight?”

Something. Marco turned his phone over in his hand. That something was Pecco. He knew it now. He bit his lip, realizing that he had reached the end of the line. The small amount of doubt had left him. His hope was gone.

“Sure” he replied. “I’ll be there”

And he knew what would happen.

He felt strangely calm. He knew he was about to confront, get his confirmation and break up with his boyfriend.

He felt tears rise to his eyes. Everything in him screamed to not do it, but he had to. He couldn’t continue like that. For once he had to do something for his own sake.

Everything seemed to lead them to this moment a few hours later.

Marc was sitting on the couch, when Bez entered the motorhome. He could smell sweat. His mind added that it might be from sex. But the Italian refused to think more about it. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Hey my love!” Marc yelled and was already up when Bez entered. The Italian looked up, his empty eyes making the older pause. He was about to ask about it, when he opened his mouth to say the words that took Marc’s breath away.

“I know that you’re sleeping with Pecco” He said it quickly. Like a bandage to ripp off. And then it was there. Out in the open.

Marc eyes had shot up. His eyes widening in shock, staring at the younger. The “NO!” already leaving his mouth. But the way his boyfriend looked at him, it felt like it wasn’t even a question.

Marco couldn’t help but chuckle softly. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to somehow dodge his eyes. “It- It’s okay. I’ve – I’ve known since… Austin.”

He didn’t want to lie anymore. No more pretending. No more protecting.

“I – And I wanted to be okay with it. I really did try. I thought – like – I thought if we had an open relationship –“ he felt like his own words were choaking him. “- it might not be so bad. It works for others. They are happy. But I can’t. I tried. Okay?”

He felt like he was so desperately trying to cling on something already gone. He didn’t want to go down this road, break up but he had to. He tried to justify it to himself, prove himself that he had tried everything.

“I tried really really hard because I didn’t want to lose you. I love you so god damn much that I thought… I thought I could suck it up for you.. but I can’t – I can’t fucking can’t continue like this. I… I- I’m sorry”

“Marco, corazon.” Marc said softly. The younger watched how he raised his hand, knowing he was trying to touch his cheeks. Immediately he step back to avoid any type of physical contact. He couldn’t stand the thought.

Not when he knew that those hands had just an hour before caressed Pecco with probably the same amount of love and care.

The care and love he just showed him hurt like a twisted knife. He wanted to accept it, lean in, enjoy it. But it would just end up hurting even more.

Still, he felt guilty watching the other’s face fall. Marc knew that physical touch meant everything to the other. It calmed him. So he realized how bad this situation really was.

“I love you. I did not sleep with Pecco. I never slept with Pecco and I will never sleep with Pecco” he said, his voice having an edge of panic. “I didn’t cheat on you. I swear! You can go through my phone! You know my code! You can-“

Marco just shook his head. He didn’t want to go through his phone. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to see whatever he might or might not find.

“I don’t need to go through your phone and… Please just stop lying. Okay? I – I know about you and Pecco so hell, stop embarrassing yourself by denying it.” He insisted.

He had expected that Marc would just admit it. He hadn’t expected this. Somehow this hurt even more.

The lies continued and he felt even more like he was being played with. As if he could just lie to his face and he’d believe him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Marco, I am not cheating on you. Please! Please, please, please, I am begging you – I am honest to god begging you to think about what you’re saying about me. Because I didn’t!”

Marco shook his head. His boyfriends words were so loud. He was thinking them over. He wanted to apologize, believe him. But he couldn’t. Pecco’s voice was still in his head. He still felt the pain the thought created.

He still felt empty, betrayed and dirty.

“Tell me where you got this from so I can get it out your head again.” Marc requested, his voice too soft for Marco.

“I… I want to believe you. I really do” he whispered. His voice breaking. “You can, baby, you can, I am telling the truth. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because you’ve lied before and… Pecco said…” “Pecco said what?” Marc asked. He felt so lost and helpless, he didn’t know what to do but he knew he couldn’t give up now.

“That you two have been hooking up. And I… I want to believe you so bad but… Pecco knows about the mole on your ass so-“ “He could have seen me change” he interrupted, his brain trying to come up with a possible moment.

But the sadness in the Italians eyes was evident that he didn’t believe him. “Please just stop lying. And tell me the truth” Marc wanted to scream. “I do! Why – Why won’t you just believe me?”

“I’ve known Pecco since we were kids. He’s not someone who would lie about hook ups. He never did so… I really don’t know who to believe” he tried to explain.

Marc blinked in confusion. The younger watched his face change. He suddenly looked unsure and hurt himself. “You believe him over me?”

He sounded hurt, more than Bez had ever heard it. His voice was filled with disbelief, confusion. Slowly he shrugged. “I wish I wouldn’t but… I trust him.” He confirmed.

“You trust him more than me” he repeated, sounding accusing. Something about this shift rubbed the rider the wrong way. “You would trust Alex more too if he told you he had hook up with me”

Now it was on Marc to scoff. “That’s different.” “How?” “Alex is my brother.” “And?” “Pecco isn’t your brother.”

”And?!” he shot back, his voice suddenly angry. “The academy is my family. We may not have the same blood but I’ve known him since I was an awkward teenager or kid even and we’ve stuck together ever since. I trust them with my life!”

“Maybe that’s a mistake” “The fuck did you just say?!”

Marc didn’t dare to repeat it. He was angry and sad. Frustrated. But that didn’t mean he was entitled to talk like that.

“I am just saying… Bagnaia lied to you. I don’t know why but he did. I didn’t cheat on you. I swear. Tell me how I can prove it to you… Please. Please” Marco wanted to take the out. He wanted to reach for Marc and make it all end.

But he couldn’t. He knew he’d be anxious every time Marc wasn’t with him, during every Ducati PR or testing duty. Every time. He couldn’t deal with that. He refused to. It wasn’t fair for him or Marc.

“How are you supposed to do that?” “I don’t know but I can’t lose you. Please, I love you too much. Please… I love you, Marco. I will do anything for you” he tried to make a step towards him. He needed to somehow bridge the gap between them.

But his boyfriend backed away. “I wish I could believe you” he said and it broke his heart. “You can” “I can’t. Pecco said-“

“You said you wouldn’t get your opinion about me influenced by the academy anymore” he whispered, tears threatening to fall. “You said – you said – no more lies to be believed. I believed you.”

Bez just laughed out loud. It sounded empty and hurt.

It felt like a bad joke that his words from the start of their relationship was now thrown back at him like that.

“And you promised you’d love me” “I do.” “And then you go out there and fuck my best friend?” “I didn’t!” he said firmly, anger and fear creating an indescribable tone.

“I don’t believe you”

“Please…! Please do it anyway! Let me – Let me show you.”