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misshoneyimhome · 1 month

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can you write first time with jack hughes pls?? (fluff + smut) i love ur writing!!

Thank you, babe! And of course, I'm happy to give it a try 😉

I do sense that I'm gradually improving with these soft, smut stories, although I still have room to grow in this area 😅🤍

Moreover, I'm aware that I've done this kind of theme before, even featuring JH, but I hope it's still enjoyable to read 🌺

Tropes & warnings; friends to lovers, reader's first-time, virginity; 18+ smut, fingering, protected penetrative sex;

Word count; 4.5K

・✶ ｡ﾟ

The First Time | Jack Hughes 🖋️⚡️🌺

"How's it goooing? 😏" "JACK! Stop texting! I'm in the middle of a date here..."

"I know, just wondering how it's going 😈" "Seriously, don't you have anything else to do! 🙄" "Nah, just chilling at home 😉 Why are you even replying? Shouldn't you be talking to him?" "Ugh, you’re so annoying right now... but no, he's on the phone with someone 🙄" "Isn't that like the third call tonight 🤔" "Just the fact that you've noticed says something about how this date's going... 😒" "Sorry that sucks y/n... thought things were going well between you two 😕 you seemed pretty into him" "Yeah, well, turns out it's a one-way street 🙃"

Tonight, marked your fourth date with Ben; a young professional from New York who'd taken a keen interest in you since bumping into you at the library, where he’d confidently asked you out, and you’d happily agreed.

It had been a simple encounter. Just two young adults navigating life in the big city. Yet, your connections across the water also often had you traveling back and forth between your home and Newark, especially because of one person.

Jack Hughes had probably become your closest friend, since he unexpectedly came into your life when you were dating one of his friends. However, when that relationship fizzled out, you surprisingly ended up forming a bond with Jack instead of being left out in the cold.

You never quite understood what went down between your ex and Jack, as it seemed like they had a falling out or something. But frankly, you didn't care – you felt like you came out of the break-up on top with your friendship with Jack.

Despite his own hectic lifestyle, he was always there for you, even on the most personal levels. Already right from the start, when you first met in your friend group, and later as you spent more time together before your relationship with your ex started to crumble, you felt a certain connection.

Jack tried to support both of you through the breakup, but when push came to shove, he ended up siding with you, which turned out to be the best possible outcome for you. As the social and caring person he was, Jack became your pillar of support, your rock whenever you felt low or unsure of yourself.

And in return, you stood by him through thick and thin in his hockey career. As his dear friend, you were always there at his games, ready to cheer him up after a tough loss.

"Maybe Ben's just nervous 😉 and he's getting advice from his friend on how to talk to you" "Do guys actually do that? 😅" "Some of them do 😂"

At this point, you'd lost track of how long Ben had been out on the balcony, deep in conversation on the phone. You felt your heart starting to race as nerves as suspicions crept in about the date. Despite the initial connection you shared, something felt off. And when things felt off, they usually were.

Deep down, you had a gut feeling about why he was acting this way. It was the same reason your ex had given for breaking up with you, and why other guys you'd dated had lost interest, though it was never explicitly stated. Just mentioning it seemed to make them pull away.

"Alright I think he's heading back now 🤞🏼" "Fingers crossed, babe!" "Jack... you can’t pull off ‘babe’ 😂" "What do you mean by that 😅"

And unfortunately, the date ended just as you'd feared, as Ben returned from his balcony call and gently explained that he wasn't interested in continuing to date.

For a moment, you felt a pang of hurt, thinking he actually liked you. But as you'd mentally prepared for this outcome, the disappointment faded quickly, and you simply gave him a sweet smile before he left your studio apartment.

"I'm giving up, Jack... I don't think there's anyone out there for me!! 😫🥺" "What? He ended things?? Whyyy?" "You know why..." "HE SAID THAT?? I'm gonna beat his fucking ass..." "Well, he didn't say it outright... but let's face it, Jackie... no one wants to date a 22-year-old virgin..."

There it was. The truth you didn't want to admit, but somehow it kept getting confirmed: You were still a virgin.

Despite being in a few relationships, you'd never quite reached that point. And now you were convinced it was the main reason for your breakups. With your ex - Jack's friend - you just didn't feel ready, and though he never explicitly said it, you sensed his impatience. Then every time you dated someone new, when they hinted at wanting sex, you had to explain your situation. And then they all seemed to lose interest.

It was the same story every time.

"Want me to come over?" "You don't have to... it's late and you have training tomorrow 💓" "That doesn't matter! You do, and I want to make sure you're okay, so I'm on my way over" "Then why even ask? 🙃"

It didn't take long before Jack arrived at your place, and soon enough, the two of you were comfortably lounging on the sofa, each at opposite ends, facing each other under a blanket.

"What a jerk," Jack chuckled softly as he tried to console you after yet another dating disappointment.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, fidgeting with your fingers. "I know... it's just..." You let out a deep sigh and glanced up at him. "I hate that it has to be such a big deal... I don't want it to be."

Jack seemed to grasp your frustrations. It wasn't that you lacked interest in men sexually; you just hadn't found the right person or the right moment to explore that aspect, and Jack understood that.

"They're all idiots, y/n/n... you deserve so much better! Don't let it get to you - you're amazing, and they're the ones missing out!"

His words were comforting, and you knew he wouldn't say them if he didn't mean it. But changing your mindset was easier said than done.

"I know, Jackie... I just - sometimes, I just want to get it over with, you know... so I wouldn't have to worry about it every time..."

"What? No, your first time shouldn't be something you just 'get over with,' y/n!" He responded quickly, prompting you to look directly at him.

"But why not?" you exclaimed, feeling defeated. "It's just sex - everyone's doing it all the time! With random people, whenever, wherever..." You tried to articulate your thoughts, but Jack was already quick with a response.

"Yes, but this is your first time... It's supposed to be a good experience and doing it with someone random just to get it over with probably won't be the best thing," Jack reasoned.

It was an odd discussion to be having with him. Were you really debating how, why, and with whom you should lose your virginity?

Letting out another sigh, you gave him a firm look. "Well, it's my body and my choice..." you spoke softly, earning an eye roll from the hockey player.

"Come on, y/n, don't be naive... It should be with someone who at least cares about you... Just, don't do anything stupid, alright."

"Oh, so now I'm stupid!" You retorted with a huff, crossing your arms defensively. "I think I can decide what I want for myself. Besides, it's not like you want to do it with me..."

As soon as the words slipped out, a rush of embarrassment washed over you. Though you knew it was just a joke, a small part of you felt a flutter at the thought. Yet you quickly brushed it off as ridiculous. That until Jack caught you off guard.

"Says who?"

"What?"

You were taken aback. Did he really just say that?

"I said, who says I don't want to sleep with you?" He chuckled, sounding a bit mysterious, as if it were the most absurd question in the world.

"You - you want to - with me?" You almost stuttered, trying to process his words.

And Jack couldn't help but grin. "Of course, I mean, you're really hot and... I'm a bit more experienced... so."

The suggestion hung in the air as you contemplated it. Was this some kind of joke or bet?

"Jack... wouldn't that be weird? I mean, we're friends..."

"So?" Once again, he chuckled. "It's just an idea. Maybe it would be good for you to be with someone you know and who knows you. Someone you trust, who can make you feel comfortable."

And truth be told, it didn't sound half bad.

"Actually, I think it could be an interesting idea..." you admitted softly.

Jack didn't want to rush anything, as it was crucial to him that you felt comfortable with the pace.

However, as soon as you agreed to the idea, a surge of desire coursed through him. And when your lips met in a tender kiss, he felt a stirring sensation he hadn't anticipated.

Sure, he knew he liked you. But he hadn’t expected to be genuinely drawn to you like this. Yet perhaps, considering what was about to happen, it was a good thing that he felt the magnetism between you.

You weren't just a casual hook-up. You were his close friend. And he was about to share an intimate moment with you for the first time, which he wanted it to be as close to perfect as possible.

Initially, he hesitated to proceed that evening, given the recent breakup and your likely vulnerability. However, as you talked it through, you expressed feeling in the mood, especially since you had hoped Ben might have been understanding and potentially your first time.

So, Jack agreed to it. Let's face it, he wasn't one to turn down sex, even if it was with you, his friend, and your first time. To him, it felt almost like a privilege, as he would be the one to make you feel amazing and ensure you had a good experience.

And as the two of you then slowly settled onto your bed, he made sure you always felt at ease.

He took his time kissing you deeply, allowing your mouths to explore each other as your hands tangled in his brown curly locks, feeling his naked chest against yours. He was almost painfully slow as he undressed you to your underwear, wanting to ensure it didn't feel rushed in any way. But as you grew closer and more engrossed in the moment, you found yourself becoming more intrigued and eager to discover how it truly felt.

And so far, it felt rather good.

Furthermore, you could tell that Jack was equally invested in the heat of the moment, his hand exploring your body as his lips remained locked with yours. Half lying next to you and half over you, clad only in his boxers, he was fully devoted and engaged. And while you, too, were half on your side, letting your leg wrap around his, both of you eager to pull each other closer.

It was in that very moment, you suddenly felt something you'd never experienced before; his hardness pressing against you.

You couldn't help but gasp as you felt how hard he was, realising that you were the cause of it. "Jack... you're... wow..."

And he couldn't suppress the grin at your slightly stunned remark. "Yeah, well, that's just what you do to me."

The moment was both tender and intense as Jack quickly resumed kissing you, but before long, he took the initiative to undress both of you completely. This was the first time you truly felt nervous in the moment. Despite feeling completely safe with Jack, you also felt exposed as your most intimate parts were suddenly bare to him.

"Try to relax..." he softly encouraged you, hovering over your body and engaging in yet another kiss. "Breathe slowly, and let me know if anything hurts..."

His voice was gentle and soothing, and you nodded gently to indicate your consent to proceed. But before fully engaging with you, Jack wanted to ensure your comfort and readiness for pleasure.

So, upon taking two of his long fingers into his mouth to moisten them slightly, he then slowly trailed them down between your bodies to find your core. He took his time, studying your face for any reaction, as you gasped lightly while his fingers met your sensitive flesh, tracing them up your moist folds. His eyes remained locked onto your face, and when he sensed you were comfortable with his touch, he carefully pressed a finger inside you.

"Oh..." you breathed softly, your eyes meeting his as you surrendered to his gentle touch.

"Does it feel good?" Jack asked with a soft smile, feeling your warmth and wetness as he slowly moved his finger in and out, delicately stimulating your walls.

"Mmm," you nodded, smiling as you felt the pleasure slowly building in your lower abdomen. And as Jack then gently pressed his second finger to join, you couldn't help but let out another gasp, feeling a slight stretch. "Oh, it's good," you moaned softly.

Jack felt a sense of pride as he watched the signs of pleasure play across your face. He had only taken a girl's virginity once before, and that was when he himself was inexperienced. But this time, he knew what he was doing, and he was determined to make it a memorable experience for you.

And as you moved your hands to his shoulders, your fingers lightly digging into his skin, he could tell he was eliciting a strong response from you. And he was right.

The way he moved his fingers in and out caused your walls to gently clench, the wetness making a sound with every gentle pump, as your mind spun with pleasure, your toes curling involuntarily and your breath growing erratic.

This must be what a pending orgasm felt like, you thought. You'd heard about it from your girlfriends, some more than others, but you'd never truly known what to expect. Yet here you were, squirming and panting as Jack pumped his fingers in and out of you, curling and scissoring, pushing you closer and closer to climax.

"Oh, Jack..." you murmured softly, urging him to increase his speed.

"Mmm... Do I make you feel good, baby?" he hummed seductively, growing more eager to push you to your peak, wanting to make you feel the incredible sensation of a high.

"Yes... yes..." you moaned louder and louder.

The feeling was intensifying, your vision blurring and your mind spinning. And as you dug your heels into the mattress, you finally let yourself surrender to the incredible sensation that was about to consume you.

"Jack... I think... I think I'm..." you cried out, not really sure how to express yourself.

It was like a wave of pleasure coursing through your body, your eyes rolling back as you let go of all tension. Your nails marked his shoulders as you let out a loud moan, tightening your walls around his fingers as you were introduced to the new level of ecstasy.

"Oh, fuck..." you breathed out loudly as you slowly came down from the euphoric state, opening your eyes to meet Jack's satisfied grin.

"That felt good?" Jack asked, though he knew the answer already. Your moans spoke volumes, and the way your walls pulsed around his fingers confirmed it. So, as you then offered him a shy smile, he carefully withdrew his fingers from your core.

It had already been a wonderful experience, but you knew there was more to come. And Jack's hardness showed just as much anticipation.

"Y/n," he suddenly spoke, his voice low and tender. "Are you still sure about this?"

His concern was endearing, and it only made you smile and nod in confirmation. So, with that, Jack undressed himself completely, revealing his fully erect and proud manhood.

You gasped lightly at the sight, marvelling at how proud and eager he was, while a part of you wondered if it would fit. Yet you trusted Jack completely. He knew what he was doing, and you were more than comfortable letting him guide you.

And much to your comfort, he returned to the bed, hovering over you to share another deep kiss, melting away all the nervousness. Again, he took his time, letting your tongues dance as your fingers explored his hair, before breaking apart to let you catch your breath.

"The drawer," you softly spoke between deep breaths. "Condoms... are in the drawer."

You could almost feel the slight embarrassment as you admitted you'd been prepared for the potential outcome of the night - only the guy involved turned out to be different. But Jack only flashed a cheeky smile as he retrieved the small foil package and wrapped himself up, before returning to you in missionary position. Your hands settled on the back of his shoulders again, your legs spread wide and your heels digging into the mattress as you found a comfortable position.

"Just relax," he encouraged softly once more, before placing another kiss on your lips.

You then felt the tip of his member gently aligning with your entrance, and when Jack sensed you had your breath under control, he slowly and carefully pressed himself into you.

"Oooh..." you moaned as his cock stretched you further than his fingers had been able to. "Ffff, Jack."

Your voice cracked as he eased himself inside your warmth, stimulating your sensitive walls, while moans were cut off as you lost yourself in the sensation. It felt so fucking good.

"You're okay?" Jack inquired with a sly smile, though he didn’t need a verbal answer. Instead, you offered him another nod and a smile gracing your lips, and then he slowly pulled out his length before gently pushing back in, carefully finding a gentle rhythm for both of you to enjoy.

It was incredible. The feeling of Jack's cock massaging your insides felt nothing short of amazing. And as he rocked his hips in patient yet devoted motions, you couldn't find the words to describe the feeling.

Your breaths were incoherent, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he thrust slowly and passionately into you. While Jack, too, felt a surge of pleasure as your tight walls hugged his length.

"Oh shit, babe, you're so tight... Mmm, it feels so good around my dick," he muttered under his breath as your unintentional clenching brought you both closer to climax.

Jack wasn't usually one to finish quickly, but with his busy hockey schedule and lack of frequent releases, your tightness effortlessly made him see stars, causing the pleasurable rush to arrive sooner than anticipated.

His panting mirrored yours as he slowly picked up the pace, assuming your comfort and pleasure by your moans. Your heat was beyond wet, and it was growing increasingly difficult for him to hold back, while his fingers clenched into the sheets beneath you, his mind spinning as your moans harmonised.

"Oh Jack... Mmm..." you cried under your breath as his movements intensified, another orgasm slowly forming within your body. You had long given up on controlling your breathing, and as you curled your toes again, your cunt dripping with juices, you knew you were about to experience another rush of pleasure.

The room was incredibly hot, filled with the sounds of your moans mixing with Jack's steady thrusts and the faint squeaking of the mattress. But at this point, you didn't care if anyone else could hear you. All that mattered was how close you both were to reaching your peaks.

Jack tried his best to maintain a slow and romantic pace, occasionally returning to kiss you passionately, keeping his motions steady and deliberate. However, as the intensity increased with every moan and every thrust, and you both felt the incredible connection between your bodies, it was difficult to hold back. And soon, he found himself lost in the moment, thrusting with more fervour than intended while you became a heated mess beneath him.

"Oh my... I- I- I'm coming... Ja- Mmm..." It was almost too much for you to handle as Jack pushed you closer and closer to the edge again. And this time, it felt more intense than before. This time, you were sure you were about to experience the feeling so many women raved about.

With every thrust, your legs trembled, your mind spun, and your toes curled. Your nails left creative marks as Jack increased his speed once again, pounding harder and more intensely than before.

And not only did those actions push you closer to your peak, but Jack too felt his own climax approaching, causing him to squint his eyes and bite his lip.

"Oh yes... baby, mmmm come for me..." he urged in a deep grunt, his hips slamming harder against yours, his cock hitting you deep with every motion. "Fuck, come with me..."

And it didn't take anything else for him to push you over the edge, into the ecstatic high as the orgasm coursed through you, sending you into overdrive. Meanwhile, your tightness around his length had him following suit, letting out a deep groan as he released himself into the condom and panted deeply into the crook of your neck.

There was a long moment of silence, only the sounds of your heavy gasps as you both calmed from the intense pleasure. Jack remained in position for a little while longer, relishing the wonderful feeling you'd created in the heated moment. Meanwhile, you slowly opened your eyes only to be greeted with Jack's signature smile.

Everything felt like a dream. How amazing your body felt right now, how high your mind was after this, was so far from anything you'd been able to imagine. And as the two of you met in a tender gaze, you couldn't contain your light, satisfied chuckles.

"So..." Jack spoke huskily. "Did it feel alright?"

You could barely even reply, yet your body spoke loud enough on its own, while you flashed him an almost worn-out smile, and nodded again. "Definitely... Jack, it was amazing."

And that was only putting it mildly.

As you both rode out the orgasms, Jack slowly and carefully withdrew his member from your core, leaving you with a slight void sensation as he made his way to the bathroom to discard the condom. However, it didn’t take long before he returned, snuggling under the covers with you.

It was an amazing feeling to have Jack close to you, despite the heat you’d both generated from the sexual activity. Yet, it made you feel at ease and comfortable in his arms as he pulled you closer. And as the soft noise of the street sounded in the background, the two of you simply enjoyed the aftermath of your very first time having sex.

"Thank you," you softly spoke, your voice barely above a whisper as you couldn’t suppress a smile.

"You don’t have to thank me, y/n..." Jack chuckled, propping his head onto his elbow as he admired your face.

"Of course, I do, Jack. Seriously, you’ve made me feel so good! And now, I feel so much more comfortable about having sex... I mean, I can date without having to worry that guys won’t want to be with me because I’m a virgin," you spoke with confidence as you turned to your side and offered him a smile.

However, unbeknownst to you, your words pricked a little at Jack's emotions. "Wait, what?" he questioned, caught off guard by the unexpected revelation.

“Well, now that I’m not a virgin anymore, hopefully it won’t scare the next guy away…” you remarked casually, unaware of the impact your statement had on Jack.

His stomach twisted slightly at your words. “Oh, yeah, right…” he replied, attempting to downplay his reaction as he shifted to lie on his back.

You then lifted yourself up, and a puzzled expression crossed your face. “Jack, what’s wrong?” you inquired, sensing his unease.

Releasing a deep sigh, Jack stared into space, before turning to look at you. “Come on, y/n, you know I’ve always had feelings for you…”

You were taken aback. “Again, what?”

“What do you mean what? That’s why y/ex/n and I don’t talk anymore - didn’t you know that?” Jack explained, hints of light frustration evident.

“Honestly, Jack... I had no idea what you’re talking about - did you really... argue over me?” you asked, incredulous at the revelation.

"Of course! When he told me he was going to break up with you because you said you weren’t ready to have sex and he didn’t want to wait, I told him I thought he was being by a complete dick head, I mean, you’re so amazing and if you want to wait, he shouldn’t pressure you into anything…”

Your silence spoke volumes as Jack recounted the details, assuming you were aware of the situation. Yet your perplexed expression mirrored your inner turmoil.

“Wait, you really didn’t know that?” Jack's own bewilderment surfaced, prompting a gentle shake of your head in response.

“N-no… I mean… I can’t believe you did that…” Your voice wavered as the weight of his confession settled between you.

In that moment, Jack realised he’d admitted something unexpected, something he never anticipated revealing to you.

But it was all true. Your ex's betrayal, Jack's futile attempts to reason with him, and the ultimatum that ensued. And in the end, Jack chose to stand by you, drawn to your kindness and genuine nature.

“Yeah well…” Jack attempted to mask his vulnerability with a casual laugh, though his true feelings were already exposed. “I guess I just… like you, y/n/n,” he admitted, offering you a shy smile.

It took a few moments for the revelation to sink in. So, this wasn’t solely about sex? There was more depth to this connection, you realised. And as the true nature of the encounter dawned on you, your own emotions stirred within.

With a radiant smile gracing your lips, you closed the distance between you and Jack, sharing a tender, romantic kiss with the remarkable boy lying beside you.

“I like you too, Jack,” you confessed softly, your eyes brimming with joy as they locked with his in another sweet moment.

“Really?” he asked, a hint of surprise colouring his tone at the unexpected mutual admission.

“Mmm,” you nodded gently. “I guess I just didn’t realise it... maybe I didn’t want to admit it, thinking you wouldn’t be interested in me,” you confessed, baring your own deeper thoughts.

And as the two of you then shared your innermost desires, a new energy filled the room; one of genuine emotion and romantic connection.

Drawing himself up, Jack pressed his forehead against yours, a smile spreading across his face as he too savoured the sweetness of the moment.

“Well, then I hope that maybe I can also be your second time…”

Your stomach fluttered at his words.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you grinned. “On one condition though…”

“Anything?” Jack replied eagerly.

“Admit that the ‘babe’ thing still doesn’t work for you,” you teased, a playful chuckle escaping your lips.

"We'll see about that," Jack replied with a playful smirk, the hint of a challenge in his tone.

#my asks #18+#jack hughes smut #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes imagine #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl smut #new jersey devils imagine

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goodnightoilcountry · 1 month

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jo's nhl fic rec list !

hi - welcome to my attempt at being a fic writer again. i have a wip list in the works but first things first: my fic rec list of all the works i've found and adored.

if you don't know yet, you will know soon that i am such a sucker for angst. i hope you find something new to love from the list below !

how to navigate

i update this list weekly (try to) and place all the new fic recs at the top under NEW.

when searching for a specific player, they will always be listed under their current team.

* updated friday 24 may 2024 *

weekly note: howdy, howdy - your weekly fic recs are here ! not too many on the board this week i'm afraid (i've been slammed at work and with being sick). but, i'm keen to broaden my list of players featured on this list so hit me up if you have anyone in mind ! also making headway with this quinn hughes fic and i'm gonna spend my weekend recovering and writing in bed. check out the sneak peak here ! till next week 🤍

like my selection of fic recs? have a player who's not been featured? let me know and i'll go on a deep dive for you!

NEW

nothing happened in the way i wanted pt1 + pt2 (matthew tkachuk) by @youunravelme summary: a year has passed and you are no closer to understanding why matt ended things and you have every plan of avoiding that thought until he comes back in town for the offseason, then suddenly he's everywhere. word count: 30.3k total

eye on you (andrei svechnikov) by @behoright summary: andrei is oh so drunk, and he needs you to pick him up from the bar. word count: 4.5k

foreign language (arturs silovs) by @silovsmenot summary: a first meeting with a certain Latvian goalie, a surprise that leaves him thinking of you … and an unexpected reunion thanks to injury. word count: 2.1k

mission impossible (jack hughes) by @misshoneyimhome summary: maybe you are friends with one of the other guys and you all are hanging and one thing leads to another and… next thing you know you wake up in bed together and have to try and sneak out without the boys finding you to save yourself from relentless teasing. word count: 4.2k

jacket (seth jarvis) by @prettytoxicrevolver summary: jarvy sees you in the wags playoff jacket for the first time word count: 1.6k

the night we met (nico hischier) by @cellythefloshie summary: you come face to face with your ex, Nico, for the first time since your breakup. word count: 1k

FIC REC MASTERLIST

total number of fics: 90

anaheim ducks fic rec list players: trevor zegras

carolina canes fic rec list players: andrei svechnikov - brady skjei - pyotr kotchekov - sebastian aho - seth jarvis

colorado avs fic rec list players: cale makar - nathan mackinnon

detroit red wings fic rec list players: jt compher

florida panthers fic rec list players: matthew tkachuk

new jersey devils fic rec list players: jack hughes - luke hughes - nico hischier

new york islanders fic rec list players: mat barzal

philadelphia flyers fic rec list players: erik johnson

pittsburgh penguins fic rec list players: michael bunting

toronto maple leafs fic rec list players: auston matthews

vancouver canucks fic rec list players: brock boeser - quinn hughes - arturs silovs

ALL OUR WONDERFUL WRITERS

thank you to all the incredible fic writers on this godforsaken app ! i am always so in awe of how creative people are and am constantly inspired by your minds ! i can't wait to find more of you on here 🤍

@43-hugs @adoristsposts @austonwithan-o @babydollmarauders @bagopucks @bedsyandco @behoright @bitchinbarzal @bqstqnbruin @cellythefloshie @chewingcyanide @comphersjost @comphy-and-cozy @doc-pickles @eyesthatroll @fallinallincurls @happer08 @hischierdevils @hischierhoney @hockeywhy @hockey-fics @hockey-hoe-24-7 @holy-pucks @hookingminor @huggybug @hugshughes @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 @islesnucks @itsjusthockey @ladylooch @letsgetrowdy43 @marnerparty @matthewtkachuk @mattyanonwrites @matwith1t @mendeshoney @misshoneyimhome @mrsensitive @ohmyeyesmyeyes @prettytoxicrevolver @pucksnsticksnhockeyboys @silovsmenot @starry-hughes @senditcolton @silverstonesainz-archive @stormsplurge @sunkissed-zegras @sunnyskiesscareme @sydnikov @thatintrovertedwriter @theemporium @thewintersoldierdisaster @unluckyhoneybee @withwritersblock @yelenasdog @youunravelme

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bachiras-toaster · 2 months

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arcade date with chigiri?! pls i love him so much HSJSJ maybe the rest of the bllk boys even catch him at the arcade and tease him ????

arcade games and cat plushies : ̗̀➛

HYOUMA CHIGIRI x reader

wc. 3.1k

content. literally just tooth rotting fluff :3

Because of Blue Lock, you and your boyfriend weren’t able to hang out as often as you could before. Which is why on the days that he was actually allowed a to leave, he would always visit you and take you on dates. Today was the same, and this time, he brought you to an arcade.

You and Chigiri had been circling the arcade for perhaps an hour or two now, yet it didn’t seem that either of your energies were beginning to quell. In fact, it seemed that the longer that the two of you remained in each other’s presence, the richer your hearts became; this fact grew more obvious when you even began repeating machines and games, returning to certain areas maybe two or three times.

The both of your pockets were overflowing with tickets, to the point where you had even began to drape the large streams of winnings you had across your shoulders like a scarf. As for Chigiri, he would scrunch the papers up and just carry them around like a ball, only dropping them to his feet when he needed to use his hands in a game. The two of you had stayed in the arcade much longer than anyone else had, so it was no wonder why the both of you had accumulated the most successes.

Soon, the both of you reached the air-hockey board once more, and he dashed around to slot another coin into the game.

“Ready for another rematch?” Chigiri grinned widely, reaching for one of the mallets.

“Oh, you’re on.” A wide smile of determination crew on your face as you watched him drop his tickets to the floor and even begin gathering his hair to tie it back. “We’re getting serious now, are we?” You giggled as he pulled a hair tie from his wrist to wrap it around a clump of his hair.

Chigiri smirked, before he then took hold of the mallet once more. “You know I always get serious,” he said, not even missing a beat as he was already smacking the puck at the other end of the board, his eyes intently following his move throughout the entire duration. “Don’t be surprised if you lose again.” He said with a confident snicker.

“You better put a cap on that confidence, because I’m making my comeback!” You cackled, whacking the puck back to his side of the table. “I hope the king’s been practising his kneeling, because I’ve got this one set.”

“Oh is that so…” Chigiri responded with nothing of his usual snicker, instead taking a more calm approach to this match, as if his confidence was at stake from the threat your words were currently attempting to impose upon his. He then began to make several quick passes back and forth, as his eyes remained trained upon the puck the entire time. “I’m looking forward to witnessing your ego crumble, you know.” He responded with a smile.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, but this game is mine!” You announced proudly, sending back the puck that he hit towards you with all of your strength, watching as the flat cylinder was making a line straight to his goal. Your eyes widened with anticipation as it neared the entrance, your irises gleaming with premature excitement.

You were sure you would have screamed your own victory if it hadn’t been for Chigiri intercepting your connection with winning and returning the puck to you. You had been so keen on your brush with the trophy that you hadn’t even considered him hitting it back. So when it was back in your court, you were caught completely off-guard when it ricocheted off the wall and landed in your goal.

“Damn it!” You yelled out

He snickered, his grin widening as he then brought the mallet back with a firm grip on the handle as he returned the puck back to your side of the board.

“Oh, so cocky,” Chigiri spoke, seeming to have thoroughly enjoyed the exchange. However, despite the teasing remark, his tone stayed calm, not even having a hint of hostility or teasing in it. “Seems like your efforts are futile.” he asked, as though expecting a challenge, or some new comeback from you.

“It was a lucky shot.” You told him sourly as you picked the puck back up and threw it against the table to prepare for a second round. “Watch now, I’m locking in and you’re not gonna score any more goals! Your football tactics won’t work here!”

And well, they didn’t, but he won nevertheless, and you watched with shattered disappointment as more tickets began spewing from the slots of the machine, indicating his landslide victory.

“You know, every game has its own little rule set,” Chigiri said, his tone holding a slight sense of satisfaction, although it wasn’t exactly gloating- more so just a friendly jab. As the tickets began to slowly pour out from the machine, Chigiri took notice- his eyes widening as he stared at the steady stream in shock once more. “Wow.” he muttered.

Your eyes remained on him with a wide smile as he began to gather up all of the tickets that he had accumulated into his arms once more. It was irritating that he seemed to be so good at every game in the arcade that the two of you went on, but it didn’t particularly matter at the end of the day as all you knew was that you were having fun. Chigiri saw in your eyes how simply content you were to be in his presence, despite him dominating every single machine, but the fact was that every single one of his tickets was going to be spent on you anyway.

“You ready to exchange our tickets now?” You grinned as he finally picked up the paper hall.

“Of course.” Chigiri responded, although with another smirk on his face as he stared at you, seemingly to have caught on to the fact that the entire time, the way that your eyes had remained trained on him was to no doubt simply that you were satisfied.

When the two of you had put all of your tickets into the exchange machine and were left with the card that displayed your shared winning counter, Chigiri handed the card solely for you to take as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder to pull you into a cute hug while you walked to the desk. You stared down at rhe slip of paper rhat held both of your victories with a wide smile, your thumb tracing over the text lightly.

“What do you plan on spending the tickets on?” He asked.

“I don’t know… We could get anything here!” You told him as you peered at the selection of prizes, the open range of what was available to the two of you being a reminder of how long the two of you hand spent in the arcade.

“Well…” he thought for a moment, staring at the vast array of items as well, before his mind instantly went to the only things that mattered to him in this moment. “How about we get plushies?” He suggested, pointing towards the arsenal of stuffed toys on the shelf. He figured that if anything, you’d find the idea adorable.

“Oh my god, yes!” Your eyes lit up with excitement as you desperately clutched his arm to gesture towards a particular pair that had caught your eye.

“Let’s get those two! The two cat ones!” You squealed, drawing your attentions directly to two plushies that were leaning against each other on the display. Your mind couldn’t help but buzz about how those plushies reminded you of the two of you, and your heart fluttered with the idea of actually getting your hands on the fuzzy cuties.

Chigiri had no qualms with the suggestions, instead following your excited gestures towards the two plushies. “The cats, right?” he turned back for reassurance before approaching the desk, and when you nodded, he made his request to the person by the register.

Once the stuffed animals were taken off display, Chigiri used up the rest of his remaining points to spend it on candy that the two of you could share. He loaded his pockets with lollipops and liquorish before reaching for the plushies, carrying them in his arms back to you as though they were real cats.

Your arms were already out to joyfully take the one cat that you knew was going to be yours, and you squeezed it with all of your might once he handed it to you. Your cheek pressed against the warm fluff of the fuzzy toy, and you cradled the cat like it was your firstborn child.

“So cute.” He whispered when he saw the glow of your smile; he couldn't help but grin as well.

“I love them! They’re so adorable!” You quipped, holding your cat up beside his so you could lay your gazes on the commemoration of this memory.

“Right?” Chigiri agreed, leaning in towards you with his own cat in hand and then moving both toys closer together so that their faces would be side-by-side, their little arms reaching so that they almost looked as if they were trying to touch the other.

He seemed to enjoy the look of having both plushies side-by-side so that they looked like they were cuddling. The two toy cats were left standing beside one another, their tails interlocked as though they were performing the act of holding hands themselves. Chigiri’s eyes remained locked with yours while a smile spread across his face, although he wasn’t sure if it was from finding the cats adorable or from simply staring into your eyes.

“What are you gonna name yours?” He then asked, the corners of his mouth curving up slightly as he leaned against you once more.

“Hm… Akane is very fitting. So whenever I see it, I think of you.” You grinned, holding the cat up to his face.

Although the cat wasn’t actually a deep red like the name suggested, you wanted a title that reflected the nickname given to your boyfriend on the field. The world knew him as ‘the red panther’, so your plushie would mirror just that. It brought him joy thinking about how the plushie had actually been given a name that matched his football title, although he wondered if that would ever cause the toy to be mistaken for him by passer-bys.

"Akane. That's a cute name," Chigiri smiled, looking down at the plushie as you held it up as if it was in fact a cat and not a lifeless toy. “So, what's my cat's name then?" He asked, his voice holding a playful hint as he wondered what name you had chosen to give his plushie.

“It’s yours, you have to choose a name!” You told him sternly, lowering your plushie again to hug it.

“Uh…” Chigiri pondered for a moment, glancing down at the cat toy as he tried to find a suitable enough name. He really did want the name to match his presence or resemble it in some way, as he felt as though this little gesture would be something that he would truly enjoy. “Hm…” Chigiri thought about it, taking a quick glance down at the cat as he shifted his position so that he could wrap his free arm around your shoulders.

“What if I called mine (Y/n) … Would you be offended?” He asked with a smirk.

Your entire face heated up with blush when his arm slinked around your shoulders to hug you, pressing your plushies together with a grin.

“Only if you don’t replace me with that cat.” You commented teasingly.

Chigiri smirked, the side of his head pressing against your own. "No promises." he joked.

The two toy cats remained pressed against one another, the pair of them as if they were a set that had been purchased together.

"I suppose I'll have to take the real version of you over a plushie," he muttered after staring at the prize long enough, his words seeming to carry more than just the playful teasing of earlier, “you’re a lot cuter." He added, his words bringing about a teasing tone once more, but his grip around you was still strong and his cheek still pressed against you.

“So cheesy…” You giggled.

"I may be cheesy, but at least I know I’m a lot more tastier than the alternatives." Chigiri playfully responded, still keeping the joking tone in his voice before adding on another cheeky remark. "Plus, I’m pretty sure plushies don’t cuddle back."

“Well, when you take this plushie back to Blue Lock, you can hug it when you sleep as if I’m there.” You teased.

"Yeah? Will the plushie also complain to me about its back pain? Will it also take up the majority of the bed during nights and leave little space for me?" Chigiri asked, jokingly listing off some of the things you would do when you slept, things that he was already quite used to anyways. "And will the plushie make me have to go to sleep early as well?" He asked just before cracking a grin.

Your jaw dropped before you let out a giggle. “Well, maybe your plushie is just concerned about you getting a full night’s rest before a game!”

"Or, maybe the plushie is just trying to deprive me from the joys of life by trying to force me to take more than six hours of sleep before every match, hmm?" Chigiri suggested, seeming to enjoy this back-and-forth of teasing, although he knew that it was his way of flirting with you.

“Well maybe you could do with a little extra hours of sleep!”

Chigiri rolled his eyes in jest of the comment, making a face as if he was offended as he then leaned his head against yours once more. “And what do you know about sleep?” He asked, the playful, teasing tone clearly prominent in his voice.

“Well, I’ve slept with you a couple of times, so I would say I’m pretty skilled.” You grinned at the suggestive comment. He couldn’t help but snicker as you had made that response, although it took him a few seconds to compose himself as he seemed to be taken aback by the flirty nature of your words. Even though you had slept together several times already, he still was never able to get used to hearing you make such remarks that were clearly intended to embarrass him.

"Well, you do have a point," Chigiri responded after letting out a final breath from his laughs, returning the suggestive comment with one of his own. "Are you implying I keep you awake too often?"

“Not enough.” You shrugged with a smirk.

Chigiri's grin widened as he then leaned in closer to you as though to whisper in your ear, "Is that a challenge then?" he asked, the teasing tone still prevalent in his voice as he tried to match the same nature of the moment, as though he was trying to see just what would happen if it was taken further. “(Y/n)?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking to me or the plushie?” You replied, shattering the dark and flirtatious turn that the conversation had taken to return to the friendly teasing, a choice which was received with a chuckle.

"I think I'm speaking to the real (Y/n) and not the toy," he then responded with his own joking comment, his tone remaining playful, but with just the slightest amount of flirtatiousness in it. "Unless... Are you saying you're no different than the plushie?"

“I’m totally different! That plushie can’t give you forehead kisses.”

"That's true, only the real you can do that," Chigiri responded confidently, reaching up to brush back your hair away from your face before tilting his lips closer to your head. "May I?" he asked, leaning only an inch or so away from your forehead.

“You may.” You smiled brightly at your boyfriend, your heart fluttering with compassion.

With your permission, Chigiri planted a soft peck onto your forehead before looking down at you again with so much love in his eyes you could swear he was looking at his world. The distance between the two of you had closed so much that your plushies were pressed between your stomachs as you continued to smile at one another, the atmosphere of each other’s presence filling you with so much desire.

However, right before your boyfriend was able to lean down to kiss your lips instead after staring at you for so long, you two were suddenly interrupted by the sound of excited buzzing as you were approached by a duo that you did not personally recognise.

“Chigiri?!” A voice called out, and your attention was diverted towards a man with black hair and large blue eyes that led the crowd of friends.

“Is this the titular girlfriend you speak so much about?” Another man of the same height appeared behind the one who had previously spoken, this time having a bob cut with a bleached underside.

You watched as the pair approached your boyfriend with wide smiles, eager to find their best friend with what seemed to be his partner.

“What are you guys doing here—?” Chigiri’s eyes widened, holding your hand with one palm as he cradled his plushie with the other, involuntarily shifting you to hide behind him— as if the other two hadn’t already seen you.

“We were also let out of Blue Lock, you know! You think we wouldn’t wonder where you were?” Isagi exclaimed. “We wanted to hang out!”

“Why haven’t you ever introduced us to your girlfriend before?” Bachira swiftly found himself peeping behind Chigiri’s hip to stare at you, giving you a wide and cheese smile— Which you awkwardly reciprocated. “She’s very pretty!”

“You guys…” Chigiri’s entire face had been painted with blush, still keeping you behind him.

You couldn’t help but smile sweetly at the gesture, watching as your boyfriend’s flushed face attempted to hide his flustered embarrassment. So he had been too nervous to tell his teammates about you, huh?

“Don’t just stand there nervously, Hyouma!” You giggled, shifting from behind him to present yourself in a more friendly manner to both Bachira and Isagi. “Introduce me to your friends!”

#blue lock x y/n #blue lock x you #blue lock x reader #blue lock #bllk x y/n #bllk fluff #bllk imagines #bllk x you #bllk x reader #bllk #bllk chigiri #chigiri hyoma #chigiri x reader #blue lock chigiri #chigiri fluff #hyouma chigiri

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megu-meow · 1 month

Text

take my breath - sukuna

Part 4 of my Hockey Player Sukuna Series - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Lmk if you want to be added to the tag list! :D

This part is shit, I'm sorry. After TTPD I found myself unable to write fluff, but I've kept people waiting, so I had to force myself to write this.

When Sukuna says soon, he means the next Thursday. He calls you on Wednesday after practice to ask you formally whether you could keep your schedule open for the next evening and you agree, because you have been waiting for your date for a few days now. However, you find yourself frustratedly trying on every piece of clothing you own, being indecisive about what to wear. You want to look good for him, because as you shyly admitted to your brother, you really like Sukuna. He's rough around the edges, but he seems like a good guy, unlike all the other people you've dated before. You contemplate calling one of the girls, but Senna and Akane love to gossip, and for the time being, you'd like to keep this little date with Sukuna a secret. So you call the only person you can trust in this situation.

Sophia arrives ten minutes after calling her saying you need help getting dressed for a date. She's the only one of the girls who knows that you have something going on with Sukuna, it makes total sense to reach out to her in your current circumstance. You already made her swear on your brother's life that she's not going to say anything about it to the girls, so you're safe in that regard. Plus, she has a keen sense of style, which comes in handy considering you want to impress the pink-haired centerman with your looks. You noticed already how many pretty girls were wearing his jersey to games, you know that he could have any of them at his disposal in a second. It still seems sketchy that he became so fond of you in such a short period of time, but you're not complaining.

"He was so nervous when I left, Kento thought he was going to explode." Sophia says as you try to put socks on, balancing on one foot.

"Who was?" you look at her and you nearly kiss the ground, regaining your balance at the last second.

"Sukuna, of course. He's been pacing around the apartment like a maniac all day."

"Really?" you ask timidly.

"Yeah. Kento said he had never seen him so stressed." for some reason hearing this makes you smile and your heart warm. Sukuna doesn't strike you as someone who would be nervous about dates, but you already learned not to assume anything about him, because he always surprises you with the way he acts.

"I'm kinda nervous too. I want this to go well." you explain and you try to put your earrings in. As you look at yourself in the mirror, wearing the outfit your sister-in-law put together, you're content with your reflection. You look amazing and you feel confident in the pieces you're wearing. Your makeup and hair are done in your usual way, you don't want to look like a completely different person. Apparently, Sukuna agrees that you look good. Because the moment you open your door for him, he freezes in place, with his eyes wide and glimmering. For a second you think something is wrong, but those thoughts are quickly dismissed as he speaks.

"You look beautiful, y/n." he states, his voice softer than you've ever heard. He is wearing a burgundy suit, one that complements his skin tone. His hair is sleeked back, but it still looks effortless in a way. You can smell his usual cologne, the musky scent that lingers. It suits him.

"Says you, handsome." you compliment him back and you swear a blush appears on his cheek. Suddenly, he remembers something, and he gives you the flowers he was hiding behind his back all this time. "Thank you! What happened to all flowers are stupid?" you ask as you smell the peonies in your hand.

"Well I got you some sunflowers, but your brother told me I was insane, so he dragged me to a florist to get 'ones that girls actually like'." he explains.

"He's right, you know? You made me wait four days for this date, the least you can do is give me some girly flowers." you joke and he rolls his eyes. Nonetheless, he reaches out for your hand. You slip it in his palm, which is calloused from holding a hockey stick most hours of a day, but very warm.

"Listen, woman, I made you wait because I wanted to take you to a 3 Michelin Star restaurant that specializes in your favorite food." he explains as he opens the door of his car for you to hop in.

"What?" you ask in shock before he closes the door after you. He leans down, looking into your eyes with a smirk across his face.

"You heard me, y/n. Now, don't be so shocked, I told you I would go all out for our date."

"You didn't have to though. You could have taken me to a hole-in-the-wall ramen place and I would have liked it." you say, slightly feeling bad "How did you manage to get a table anyway? These places are booked months ahead."

"The owner is a huge Wizards fan and apparently I'm his kid's favorite player. I had the team sign a jersey and got them season tickets, so they were glad to do me a small favor in return." he explains like it is nothing, but it means the world to you. No one has ever done something so grand for a date with you. It makes your heartbeat go nuts and you can't help but stare at him as he drives. You observe his tattooed hand that is on the armrest, shaking slightly. You smile and instinctively take it in yours, laying your intertwined hands in your lap. He turns his head towards you in shock, but he quickly looks back to the road. The blush from before returns, even his neck turns pink, and you smile, adoring his reactions.

The dinner goes by fast, despite lasting for hours. The food is exquisite, as expected. Most importantly, there's not one dull moment. You and Sukuna talk like you've known each other your whole lives. He asks about your interests, what you like to do in your free time, where you went to school, and about your friends. He seems interested in everything you talk about, he listens with an intensity you find rare. He drinks up every single word that leaves your mouth, he asks questions, and he's genuinely curious about how you perceive the world. You ask him plenty of questions yourself and he answers them gladly. He seems very fond of his brothers, he shows you pictures of them and you observe how Yuji has the same color hair as him and Choso has a very similar line tattooed on his nose as Sukuna's.

"They're coming to town soon, by the way." he comments and your eyes light up.

"How come?"

"It's Yuji's draft year and it's held here in Tokyo. Choso just tags along because he clings to that brat like a leech."

"That's so rude!" you exclaim, but you're smiling. You're aware that Sukuna probably shows his love towards his brothers a little bit peculiarly.

"Well, it's true."

"Do you see a chance of Yuji being drafted by the wizards?" you ask.

"Not really. He is prospected to be in the top three of the draft and we are clinching the playoffs this next game as number one in the league. We probably won't have a pick in the top ten."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It would have been cool for him to have you on the team he's drafted to."

"I don't think so. If I'm being honest, I'm glad there is little to no chance for that to happen as of now."

"Why is that?"

"He won't have a target on his back. Otherwise, people would be mean to him and would rough him up with the sole purpose of pissing me off. This way he can become a professional player without being concussed every game."

"You're very protective of your brothers, huh?" you ask and he smiles.

"You could say that." he smirks "I'm protective of everything I own, you know." he adds looking into your eyes deeply. You know there is a deeper meaning behind his words. He's implying that he would be just as safeguarding about you if you were his girlfriend. You find it hard to believe that a guy like him exists. He is so charming but respectful. He is attentive, you mentioned one time what your favorite food was and he remembered, moreover, he went out of his way to get you the best version available of it.

"Where were you my whole life?" you ask, not realizing that you blurted out your thoughts just like that. You feel embarrassed as your hands fly to your runny mouth, covering it. However, Sukuna just laughs. He rarely laughs like this. It comes deep from within, the type that shakes your whole body and you're sure you're red like a lobster as you observe him.

"Sweetheart, I've been asking that question about you since December." he answers, his charming smile never fading.

"December?" you question.

"Oh, I thought your brother told you about that too." he seems shocked, but he continues "I've spotted you in the crowd at the Family Game in Kyoto. I was mesmerized, I even ran into one of my teammates on accident, I was too preoccupied with looking at the angel in the Wizards jersey."

"Oh, I remember that. I was laughing about that with Akane." you recall and Sukuna frowns "So you've had your eyes sat on me since then?"

"Well, I didn't know I was going to meet you on my first day in Tokyo while I was shirtless, but destiny has its way, I guess."

"You believe we were destined to meet?"

"I told you before, sweetheart, I am superstitious. Take that as you want, but I do think we are here having dinner for a reason." he explains.

Your date ends when the restaurant staff asks you nicely to leave because they've been closed for two hours already. You didn't even realize that all the other customers had left and the staff was ready to close. Sukuna pays for the bill and he sends you a death glare when you offer to pay for your part. "Woman, you won't have to pay for anything while you are out with me." he states, irritation evident in his tone. He also drives you home and walks you to your door. You're wearing his suit jacket, because you were a bit cold, although he turned the heater on in the car.

"Thank you for tonight! I had a lot of fun." you smile up at him, as you're trying to say goodbye on your doorstep.

"There is nothing to be thankful for, you got what you deserve, princess." he says and he seems a little bit disappointed, but you're not able to determine why. Maybe the date didn't go as well in his perspective as you thought.

"Is something wrong? Did I say something to offend you?" you ask in panic and he quickly shakes his head, dismissing it. Suddenly the redness returns to hiss tattooed cheeks and he suddenly seems nervous.

"I just thought I deserved a kiss after that." he whispers shyly, his face down, gaze locked on the tip of his shoes.

It's your turn to laugh at his awkwardness, but you still cup his cheeks in your hands and pull him in for a kiss. You don't quite understand where all this fearlessness came into you from, but you're glad it did because the kiss is magical. It's soft but eager and you can feel him smiling into it as his large hands find their destined spot in your hips. You're the one to break the kiss, but Sukuna pulls you in closer, resting his forehead on yours, and looking deeply into your eyes. His smile reaches his ears and he whispers to you softly:

"I hate to break it to you princess, but I don't think I can go on with my life without doing that every day."

You smile, and respond with a smile just as wide as his "Good, because I don't think I can either."

The next day is game day and you arrive at your brother's apartment beforehand. You usually drive with them to the arena. Sukuna emerges from his room in his game-day suit, his eyes glowing up the moment he sees you there.

"We're gonna be down at the car, Bambi." Sophia says as she and Kento leave in a hurry.

Sukuna steps closer to you, embracing you, his muscular arms around your shoulders.

"Hello, princess! How are you?"

"I'm great, Sukuna. Thank you for asking! How are you?"

"Better now that I know you're coming to the game to cheer me on." you smile, stepping away from the embrace, and you look into his eyes. "Are you gonna give me a good luck kiss or what?"

You're surprised by his boldness, but you leave a peck on his lips nonetheless.

"If I do good today, you're gonna have to do that before every game." he states.

"Alright. You've got yourself a deal." you smile and you urge him out the door, before your brother and his wife could start thinking that you're doing something inappropriate in their home.

Good does not describe the way Sukuna plays that night. He has one of the best games of his life and after the first goal, as his celebration, he looks towards where you're standing and points at you with a wide smile on his face. This is your sign that from now on, you're gonna have to keep your promise of giving him a good luck kiss before every game.

🩵 Tag list: @ichorstainedskin @ureuphoriasworld @new-weather47 @deepchromatose @cvr2mya @janrcrosssing @bakuhoes-bxtch @deluluforcarlos55 @stainednailpolishremover @thejujvtsupost @bleachisfood @dorck26 @chilichopsticks @when-worlds-end 🩵

#ryomen sukuna #sukuna fluff #sukuna ryomen #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #sukuna #sukuna imagine #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x you #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagines #Ren Writes - Sukuna ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

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rabbitblackx · 11 months

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Okay but like imagine Jason and Brahms baking cookies with reader or even like trying to surprise reader by baking cookies for them is just so AJSHFJFJAJS AHHHHHHHH❤️❤️❤️

Baking cookies with Jason and Brahms

Jason Voorhees💖

Jason was just watching you bake cookies from afar one day. As you hummed a little tune and rolled the dough, you offered a kind smile

“Wanna join me, Jacey?”

Jason stood in your kitchen stiff as a board. After a few silent moments, he slowly made his way over. He looked down at the cookie dough and cutters you had strewn across the counter, then back at you

“See, it’s fun. All you gotta do is this.” You said as you grabbed a gingerbread man cutter and pushed it into the dough

Jason tilted his head attentively as you talked him through every little thing you did. He really liked your voice. You gently held up the gingerbread man shaped cookie in your palm with a smile

Jason decided to help you cut out as many cookies you both could with your dough. Some were little men, some were hearts, and some were stars. He enjoyed these simpler activities with you

He left for awhile after that, only trickling back into the kitchen as you were taking the cookies out of the oven. You set the tray on the stove, smiling down at you and Jason’s little creations

“Now we can put frosting on them. Ooh! I wanna make one look like you!” You gasped excitedly. You carefully took one of the gingerbread shaped cookies from the tray. “It’ll be so cute!” You giggled

You and Jason ended up side by side over the counter again. You drew a little hockey mask and green shirt onto your cookie using a piping bag

“Look, look!” You squealed, keen for him to see

Just as you showed Jason the cookie, you noticed the one he was decorating was a person too. It had the same hair colour as you, along with a messy little smile. You placed a hand on your chest, smiling tearfully at the big killer

“Oh, Jason. How cute are you?” You cooed, bringing him in for a hug

He loved yours too

Brahms Heelshire💖

Brahms emerged from the walls to find you making cookie dough in the kitchen. He shyly crept into the room, watching from behind with his hands against his back. As you turned to grab something, you jumped a little in surprise to find him standing there

“Oh! Brahmsy,” you greeted with a breathy laugh. “Hello! I haven’t seen you all day. Whatcha been up to?” You asked

Brahms looked to the floor shyly with a tiny shrug. You smiled at that, snapping your gaze back to your cookie dough for a second

“Well, I’ve been making cookies! Wanna help cut them out?”

Brahms looked up, cautiously stepping over to the counter where you worked. He offered a small nod, before watching you intently. You held up a round cookie cutter, and then pressed it down into the dough. You assumed he had never done this before, so you talked through every step

“You wanna try?” You offered

You held out the round cookie before setting it down into a tray. Brahms nodded again, slowly becoming more comfortable with you. He did just as you, pressing the cutter into the dough. When he didn’t remove the excess, you gently placed your hands on top of his and helped

Brahms’ heart skipped a beat at your warm touch. His skin was practically singing under your palms. He stifled a chill that ran down his spine. Your softness and encouraging words drove him a little bit wild

Brahms soon got the hang of it, and you both cut out fun shapes together. As time went on, he slowly began to talk to you in a hushed, deep voice from behind his mask

After putting the cookies into the oven, you sat in the living room with Brahms. He sat almost too close next to you on the couch, taking in your pretty features. You talked about nothing for a little bit, before he finally took off his mask

As you shared a small yet sweet kiss, the oven timer dinged in the background

#slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slashers #jason voorhees #jason voorhees x reader #friday the 13th #brahms heelshire #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms x reader #rab.reads

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mellowsadistic · 11 months

Text

Changing Her Hobbies

Your girlfriend may well have some hobbies and interests that you don't approve of. Perhaps you're worried being into football is making her hang out with the wrong crowd, or maybe you think chess is just too grown-up for a silly little thing like her. Whatever the case, the solution is simple. Just tell her she doesn't like those things anymore, and give her a new list of things she likes to do in their place.

Be firm, as she's likely to get very fussy over this. She might complain that she's the only real authority on herself, or insist that it's impossible for her to start liking something just because you've ordered her to. If that happens, just spank her bare bottom over your knee and remind her that you're her Daddy and you know best. Enforce her new hobbies with a strict discipline program and she'll soon learn to engage in them with a smile.

I promise you the results are worth it. I know a man who used this strategy to radically alter his girlfriend’s personality. He loved her very much, but he was sick and tired of her bad attitude and refusal to accept her place as his inferior. He put it down to the kind of activities she liked to take part in, so with a firm hand and a bit of patience, he changed them to better reflect her immature nature. Here’s a before and after of her hobbies:

Things she used to like:

Playing guitar

Reading classic literature

Trying on stylish clothes

Going clubbing with her friends

Having debates about politics

Playing hockey

Going out for romantic dinners

Things she likes now:

Playing with dolls

Watching Disney channel

Running around naked

Doing the housework

Wetting herself for attention

Practicing ballet

Sucking cock under the table

It was a difficult transition for her. She’d always been a bit of a tomboy, so it wasn’t easy for her to adjust to playing with Barbies and prancing about in a tutu. It wasn’t easy to get used to stripping off all her fashionable clothes and going streaking around the house in the nude periodically either, like a toddler with no concept of modesty. Nor was she keen to spend her time watching TV aimed at tweens when she wasn’t scrubbing the floors, making dinner, or doing the laundry. It was especially hard for her to learn that she liked to give frequent blowjobs (she insisted she hated them for the longest time), and she was in complete denial about her desire to regularly pee her pants for attention. However, with enough corrective punishment, she eventually learned to accept her true self.

These days she pouts at the suggestion of going out partying, but bounces up and down with excitement at the thought of mopping the floor. She has no desire to play guitar, and reading anything more advanced than a picture book would bore her to tears, but she can happily spend the whole afternoon glued to her favourite cartoons or prattling away at her baby doll, rocking it in her arms and changing its nappy (and hoping Daddy doesn’t follow through on his threat to put her in nappies because of all the ‘accidents’ she’s been having). She never talks about politics anymore, partly because she has no idea what’s going on in the world since her Daddy banned her from reading the news, and getting involved in rough and tumble sports like hockey would just be silly for a sweet little pirouetting princess like her. It’s much more fun to put on ballet performances for Daddy and her dollies. Modelling the latest trends is a thing of the past for her too; in fact, it’s a struggle to keep any kind of clothes on her since she’s always wanting to be Daddy’s little nudist - why wear a cute pair of jeans when she could just go bare-bottomed instead? And why would she want to go out to a fancy restaurant for a romantic meal when she could just serve Daddy his dinner herself before crawling under the table to suck his dick while he eats?

Sometimes she slips up. She looks bored while playing with her dolls, or casts a longing look at a guitar in the window display of a music store. She might go too long without wetting herself or forget to smile while she's doing the polishing. When that happens, her boyfriend is always quick to reacquaint her bottom with his hand, or even the paddle. A 'fake it till you make it' policy is important to enforce here. Make your girlfriend pretend to enjoy her new hobbies, and eventually, over time, she'll learn to like them for real. And if not, don't worry, because you won't know the difference!

#mellowsadistic

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dmercer91 · 11 months

Text

breaking the cycle, nh13

in which your inner child never truly healed.

me 🤝 finishing sad pieces with incredibly unserious dialogue (2.5k)

silence was unbearably loud in your car, your son sat next to you with a ball of kleenex shoved up each nostril, both red with blood.

you understood that he probably didn’t want to talk about whatever could have possibly given him the bright idea to start a fight with one of the most infamous assholes he went to school with, but it needed to happen

“felix..” his eyes moved over to you, your own focused on the road ahead of you, but they moved back out the passenger seat window in an instant.

“no,” you rolled your eyes, the definitive tone in felix’s voice giving you all the more reason to get the true story out of him

“you punched a boy in the face, felix, you can’t say no to this!”

“dad does it all the time!”

you almost slammed on the breaks, exasperated

“when you’re making millions of dollars to sock people in the jaw, you can have at her. until then, d’you think you can refrain?” you hate to admit that you’d raised your voice with the question, quickly bringing it down and taking a deep breath

it was dead silence for the rest of the drive, your grip on the steering wheel tight and your son’s eyes trained solely out the window

as you pulled into your driveway, nico’s car already in it’s spot, you sighed again.

“fe,” he glared over at you, already having set his boundary and being angry with the fact that you were so keen on crossing it

you talked a lot with him about boundaries - how it was good for him to have them in place and it was good for him to defend them.

how even if he didn’t understand other’s boundaries, didn’t get the full story, wanted to keep prying, he needed to respect what others asked of him just as he expected them to do for him.

this was different, though, because about a million boundaries were crossed before he had even stepped foot in the car. before he had told you no

felix tried to unlock the car door and step out, but you locked it and gave him a look before he could succeed

“you can either go inside and have your dad lecture the ever loving shit out of you, fe, or you can just tell me what happened. i can give you a minute if you need,” he slouched back into the passenger seat, crossing his arms and sniffling to adjust the tissue in his nose

it was a few minutes of silence before he looked over at you, clenching his phone in his hand out of nerves

“i was just sick of everyone comparing me to dad,” he looked you up and down, gauging for a reaction that he didn’t really get, before looking back down at his lap

you thought about it for a minute, opening your mouth to speak but being cut off but a teary eyed felix, ready to further explain

“i don’t- i don’t wanna play hockey, anymore, mom. the guys on my team are mean and it’s like they see dad drop me off and they’re expecting nico junior to walk into the rink and crush it, but i’m not good cause i’m not happy”

he hiccuped, pushing down his sobs so he could keep talking

“i can’t be good at something i hate, even if my dad is in the nhl, even if i’ve been on skates since i was a baby… n’ i know i told you i wanted to go back when the sign ups came out, s’ cause i know he likes to skate with me, and he likes to ask how practice was, and it’s, like, the only thing we have in common and i don’t want to lose that, i can’t-”

and then he broke, sobs wracking his body as he smooshed his face into your shoulder from over the centre console, your hand instinctively running through his hair and cupping his head to comfort him,

your heart ached in your chest thinking of how long he’d been hiding how he felt.

you thought of him asking to talk to jack so he could try and get better, you thought of him wanting to watch devils practices, you thought of him asking for jerseys and pucks and a subscription to watch prospects at michigan

you thought of how he always said he wanted to go to michigan

you thought of his room, decked out in memorabilia from players he claimed to look up to and the picture of him as a little kid wearing a massive team switzerland jersey surrounded by his dads teammates from home

you thought of the fact that all day every day, he wanted to be with nico, he wanted to learn and bond about what you thought was their sport, not just nico’s

you thought of the huge bookshelf he told you would look good in the guest room, all of the the books along with it

you thought of the few months where all of your art supplies would go missing, and when he looked down and shook his head when you asked if he wanted you to get him his own

you thought of the beginning of the school year, when you had to sign off his class schedule and the elective he chose, which had gym and art scratched and rewritten over and over until the box was full and the counsellor had to write ‘gym’ with an arrow

you thought about when he came home with an arm full of drawings and claimed his friend had done it in class

you thought about how his equipment seemed like it was weighing him down more and more every time you saw him walk to put it in your trunk

you thought of how you should have noticed, but you didn’t.

“your dad is gonna want to spend time with you no matter what, fe. he’s gonna love you, n’ be proud of you, and he’s gonna support whatever you want to do, okay? and if you want, i can tell him for you.. explain, how you’ve been feeling,” you moved his head back, having him look up at you

he looked conflicted, like he wasn’t sure he wanted nico to know at all

“i’ll hardly see him,”

you shook your head, tears brimming your eyes “if you asked him to sit with you and look at a rock, felix, he’d do that,” you chuckled, wiping the tears from his cheeks and kissing his forehead

“he wants to spend time with you no matter what you’re doing, hm?” he hummed in silent agreement, leaning back onto your shoulder, this time facing the windshield.

“can you still tell him for me?” you ruffled his hair, strikingly similar to nico’s in the way it fell in front of his face

“yeah, of course.” you squeezed him into a hug and he smiled sadly.

“and hey, since you got yourself suspended, why don’t you come to work with me tomorrow n’ pick new colours for your room” he furrowed his eyebrows, pulling back to look at you

“i can redo my room?” you grinned, wiping your nose from the tears that had fallen under it.

“yeah, we’re gonna make it more you. plus, it’ll give me something to do while im on maternity leave” his eyes widened in shock, legs suddenly making their way over the centre console so he could hug you properly

even though he was older now, you loved hugs like this. he’d almost been taller than you, but it felt just like old times when he decided he was so happy he was just gonna koala cling to you and squeeze as tight as he could.

“does dad know?” you shook your head, earning an extra squeeze from your son

“now go inside, i’m gonna talk to him, okay?” felix nodded and slowly moved from your arms, going out the car door and sprinting to the house, presumably up to his room to brainstorm it’s new layout.

you gave yourself a minute before going inside and greeting a confused nico.

before he could question why his son, who had apparently punched someone, was smiling and excited, you hugged tight onto him and buried your face into his neck

instinctively, he forgot any questions he had about felix and squeezed you back, supporting the back of your head and worry taking over his face

his eyebrows went from quirked upward to furrowed downward and he knew then that whatever his son had done had good reason

you broke down in his arms, body shaking from sobs and cries muffled into his neck for the sake of felix, who you didn’t want hearing the affect his confession had on you

you had felt like you failed your son, like as a mother you should have paid better attention to what he was feeling

you felt like you had done something to make him feel like he couldn’t talk to you - something you vowed you wouldn’t repeat from your childhood when you decided to have kids with nico

“what’s wrong, sunneschii?” nico mumbled, almost feeling dumb with the question he’d asked you

what was wrong should’ve been that your child hurt someone, but deep down he knew that wasn’t it, that you honestly couldn’t be bothered by the suspension

“i’m a horrible mom, ni,” you croaked, gripping his shirt in your fists to ground yourself while he shook his head

“kids get into fights, love, that’s not on you. but felix, he’s excited, i don’t-“ he stopped himself there, reminding himself that felix’s giddy attitude and your sombre one were probably not a result of the fight

“he’s being picked on, at school. n’ at practice, too. he told- he told me..” you paused, trying to catch your breath and clear the tears from your sight and your throat

“he hates hockey, ni. n’ he’s been sticking it out so he would be able to spend time with you,” you looked up at your husband after the confession, face beet red and soaked in tears

“.. oh, that’s-“ you cut him off with a shake of your head

“why wouldn’t he tell me, nico? i thought i was doing everything right, he has privacy and room to grow and when he says he wants to figure it out on his own i let him and we talk about everything cause i thought he was comfortable coming to me. i want him to be comfortable coming to me n’ he’s not, i don’t know what i did wrong”

nicos stomach dropped, finally understanding why you’d been so upset

you explained to him at the beginning of your relationship you hadn’t wanted kids, that your grandmother treated your mother a certain way, and that she claimed to have broken the cycle when she hadn’t

you felt judged in everything you did, and it was like you could never make her happy. you felt like it was illegal for you to grow up

you never told your mother about anything because she always assumed the worst of you and the best of everyone else

she’d even made it a point to tell you she thought you were using nico for his salary

she always told you she had it worse as a kid, though. that her mother was judgemental and strict, and that she’d been proud of herself for being better than that

you didn’t want kids because you didn’t want to be blind like she was. you didn’t want to treat a child that had done nothing wrong like they were garbage while under the impression that you were an amazing mother

you had to break the cycle.

and then you and nico got serious, and you decided that you wanted a family with him, that you would see a therapist and try for a baby when you were ready

felix keeping something so big from you had made you feel like you hadn’t broken the cycle after all.

the worst part was that you were pregnant.

nico rubbed your back soothingly, peppering kisses onto the top of your head while he thought, finding the right words to say what he felt

“you are the best momma, y/n. fe would tell you that himself. we raised the kindest, sweetest kid i’ve ever met. he’s thirteen and he’s open with you about so many things, and that’s rare,

for this, though, i think he was trying to protect you. it’s not that he didn’t trust you, or that he thought you’d be mad, it’s that he wanted you to feel that you’d done him right, cause you have.

he wanted to protect me, too. cause for so long hockey’s been our thing and he didn’t want to disappoint me. didn’t want to lose our time together

that’s how i know we raised him good, cause he was being unselfish.”

you sniffled, shaking your head into nicos chest

“it shouldn’t be his responsibility to protect our feelings, ni” you explained, slightly more calm after nicos words

“i know. but everyone does it, sunneschii. for the people they love,” you smiled sadly, rocking back and forth with nico until you could breathe through your nose again

your fingers were combing along his stubble, his own tracing shapes on your back

he placed a long kiss on your temple before pulling away, looking down at you

“now, can i ask why he’s glowing like a kid in a candy shop an hour after getting suspended?” you giggled to his question, pressing a kiss to his lips

“i think he might wanna tell you” you grinned, nodding to the stairs and following him up to felix’s door, kept wide open as he typed away on his laptop

when he saw nico he gave a guilty smile, and moved over so nico could sit.

“no more hockey, hm?” he ruffled his sons hair, smiling fondly as felix blushed and nodded

“sor-“ nico shook his head, bringing fe to a halt

“don’t apologize, fe. never apologize for not wanting to do something for someone else” felix nodded and moved his laptop from his legs, cracking his knuckles awkwardly

“you’re mapping your room?” nico asked, tapping the screen where a blueprint of felix’s room was, a lot of the furniture moved, the bookshelf returning.

your son grinned slightly, realizing you were going to let him announce to nico the pregnancy

“mom’s helping me redo it, coming to work with her tomorrow” nicos eyebrow quirked, and he looked over you

“when’s she gonna have time for that?” he redirected his attention to felix, earning a big smile

“while she’s on maternity leave” you watched as nico buffered, eyes widening then blinking shut a few times

“while she’s on who?” you giggled and nico looked back over at you, springing up to bring you back into a tight hug and attacking you with quick, sweet kisses.

you cupped his face and gave him one last smile before making room for felix to get in between the two of you, the three of you in a tight hug for what felt like hours

once you pulled away, you wiped more tears from your face, these ones of joy, and ruffled the hair on both of their heads

“i love you, my boys... oh, and fe? you’re still grounded, by the way”

#e’s fics #nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #new jersey devils

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dangerousblizzarki · 5 months

Text

🌏Total Drama World Tour🌏

Episode 3: "Super Happy Crazy Fun Time Japan"

-----

A very fun episode that showed the dynamic of each team really well.

Emma & Priya couldn't talk things out with Julia and who knows what Lauren is up to, so Wayne had to intervene which may or may not come as a surprise since he is a team captain for a hockey team afterall.

Team Raj was easily the most cooperative and functional team of this episode. Bowie did great during the pinball game, and everyone had a say in the production of the commercial, well everyone not named Ripper.

Unforrtunately, Millie and the rest of her team put their trust on Zee way too much for being a movie critic. They really should've listened to Nichelle instead. Let's just say Chef and Chris weren't too keen of their commercial .

-----

References:

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peachhcs · 2 months

Note

because will surprised sam i think sam should tell will that her parents said she couldn’t go to Sweden but she actually is going with like ruts girlfriend and surprises him

a surprise in sweden

hughes!sister x will smith au (samy + will)

samy surprises will in sweden for the world juniors!

1.4k words

warnings: like the smallest tiniest illusion to sex, two kisses, mostly fluff though

this was so cutie to write. woo i'm posting again to make up for my lack of posts. i know kayleigh didn't actually go to world juniors, but let's pretend she did for this haha. pls keep requesting i enjoy writing these :)

au masterlist

“did you hear? did you hear?” will's excitement made samy smile from her end of the phone. the girl giggled while nodding her head even though her boyfriend couldn’t see.

“i did hear. i’m so excited for you. sweden sounds awesome,” the u.s. team picks for world juniors came out only minutes ago and in two seconds, the blonde eagerly called his girlfriend to tell her the happy news.

“god, i can’t believe i get to play for my country for what might be the last time. leno, perreault, fort, minnetian, and cut are all coming along to,” will was most definitely rambling, but samy didn’t care. she loved hearing him so excited about something to the point where he couldn’t stop talking about it.

“you guys are gonna dominate. rut, sean, gav, and nazar got picked too. i'm excited for you guys to play on the same team together,” the brunette chuckled a little. It was almost ironic how her two worlds of hockey were colliding on the same team in a few weeks.

“oh god, mcgroarty’s gonna pick me apart isn’t he?” will groaned, but samy giggled again.

“he won’t, trust me. i’ll make sure they lay off you and won’t ask embarrassing questions.”

the umich guys knew all about will and were definitely eager to meet the guy that stole their little sister’s heart. they only had ethan and mark’s words to go off and you could guess the things they said only playfully poked fun at the blonde, so will was determined to prove himself so the other guys could properly get to know him.

“i’m sorry i won’t be in the states for break. i know how excited we were to finally see each other for more than two days,” will changed the subject, his tone laced with a hint of disappointment.

samy smiled, “it’s okay. this is a big deal for you and i’m so proud of you. i’ll just watch you from the comfort of my living room.”

her words had a grin spreading across the boy’s lips along with a small chuckle. “you’re sure you can’t convince your parents to let you come with me?” it was worth a shot to ask even though will knew how much samy loved spending the holidays with her family. he didn’t even wanna ask if she could come along knowing how much the holidays meant to her.

“i doubt it. i know they trust me, but an entire like three weeks in a different country with my boyfriend..i don’t know if they’d be so keen on that idea,” the girl laughed, a slight blush coating her cheeks.

a similar pink color spread across will’s face as well, “okay, just thought i’d ask. i’ll miss you. i’ll send your gift in the mail so you’ll hopefully have it.”

“i’ll see if i can get yours to boston before you leave. i’m still waiting on something in the mail.”

“i hope you didn’t go overboard. we said not to,” will said despite the smile on his lips.

“even if i did, it’s the first christmas that we’re together and not getting each other gag gifts,” samy stated.

“when have i ever gotten you a gag gift? i think my gifts have been very thoughtful no matter what our relationship is,” the boy quickly defended himself.

“well whatever. i think you’ll really like my gift,” samy chuckled.

“i think you’ll like mine too,” will eyed the unwrapped gifts sitting on his desk and he couldn’t help but smile thinking about samy opening them in a few weeks.

the two stayed on the phone for the rest of the night just mindlessly talking and getting to hear one another’s voices. there was one thing will didn’t know though and that was samy texting with kayleigh as they bought plane tickets for sweden—their trip already thoroughly planned out because the two predicted very early on that their boyfriends would make the US team, they just needed the confirmation before they bought their tickets. they couldn’t be more excited to fly out and surprise everyone with the hope that ryan and gabe knew how to keep their mouths shut.

—

will sat in his hotel room making an attempt to get some of his school work done, but the tv playing as background noise was taking more of his attention than he thought it would. his eyes were glued to the show, computer open because if it was open, then at least it seemed like he was being productive.

samy followed gabe and ryan to the 5th floor, unbeknownst to will. her and kayleigh landed about an hour ago and the girl was trying to shush the boys before the surprise was ruined. Her and ryan shoved themselves against the wall while gabe knocked on his friend’s room—their surprise plan setting into action.

will lifted his head when he heard the knock. he walked towards the door, eyes still flicking back to the tv as he pulled the wooden frame open. “what?” the boy asked gabe on the other side.

“can you come to my room real quick? I think i broke something,” the dark-haired boy muttered.

will raised his eyebrow, “what do you mean you think you broke something?”

“like, i was trying to open up the cabinet under the tv and the handle like snapped off in my hand.”

ryan and samy struggled keeping their laughter from slipping out as they stood a few feet away from will’s door. the blonde crinkled his nose, “dude, i’m not getting involved if you broke something. you’re gonna have to pay for that shit.”

“can you just please come look? i don’t know if it’s actually broken,” gabe tried.

“how do you not know if something is broken? it’s either broken or not broken,” will argued a bit, not knowing gabe was only trying to get him into the hallway where he’d see samy.

“please just come look? for like two seconds.”

a sigh escaped the blonde’s lips along with a shake of his head thinking how stupid his friend was. he shuffled into the hallway ready to head down to gabe’s room when samy suddenly popped out from behind ryan, “surprise!!”

will jumped back, a small screech falling from his mouth. it took him all of ten seconds to take in his girlfriend standing two feet away from him, ryan with his camera out, and gabe snickering to himself to realize what was happening. when it did finally click samy was swept into the boy’s arms.

“what are you doing here? i-i thought you weren’t coming?” will could hardly form any coherent thoughts. it felt like he was dreaming or something.

“i was coming all along. i said i wasn’t because i wanted to surprise you,” samy explained, giggling into the blonde’s shoulder.

“what about your parents? Your brothers..”

“they were cool with it. kayleigh and i have been planning this for like weeks,” the brunette pulled back so she could properly see his face. she brushed his little curls away, a blush spreading across his cheeks at her gentleness.

his eyes slid towards gabe and ryan who nodded. “we knew all along,” gabe snickered.

"i’m surprised you two could keep a secret as big as this,” will teased them knowing how bad they both were at keeping things from other people.

“oh shut up. we got your girl here so now you can stop moping around,” ryan rolled his eyes which earned the middle finger from will.

another giggle escaped samy’s lips as she squeezed her boyfriend’s waist, putting his attention back on her. “It’s good to see you,” she hummed.

“you too. I’m glad we get to spend a few weeks together,” not caring that ryan and gabe were still watching, the hockey player connected their lips into a sweet kiss.

“yooo, save that for the room. Iim out of here. don’t be too loud,” gabe mumbled before retreating back into his own room.

samy and will shared a laugh. ryan quickly escaped as well, promising he’d send the surprise video. that left the couple standing in the hallway together, loving smiles on each of their lips.

“you’re sure you’re okay with not spending the holidays with your family?” will wondered because he didn’t want to be pulling her away.

the girl cupped his face, “i’m sure. mom and dad were cool with it and my brothers are hardly home anymore anyways. plus, how could i miss something like this?”

her words convinced the boy for now. he planted one last kiss on her lips before pulling her inside his hotel room—a very long night ahead of them.

#hughes!sister x will smith au #will smith hockey #samy x will #boston college #boston college hockey #samy hughes #umich hockey #will smith imagine #will smith x oc #uofmichigan #will smith fluff #will smith hockey fluff #bc hockey #ryan leonard #gabe perreault

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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year

Text

one of these nights - Dean Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3. masterlist.

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Reader (vaguely post-s3) with some Sam Winchester & Reader.

Tags/Warnings: friends-to-lovers, Fluff then Angst then Smut, Sex on/in the Impala, implied/technical cheating, drinking, Reader is a Hunter.

Words: 20k.

Notes: a lovely little commission for the lovely lacilou on tumblr. this was my first shot at writing a dean-insert (as a hardcore samgirl), which was an absolute blast!! hope u enjoy!!

Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

All your life, you’d never been keen on cliques. But there’s a certain magic in rolling up to a small-town Massachusett dive with yours.

It’s a little funny, calling Sam and Dean your clique. You know that, yet it’s true. You breeze inside the bar like the most popular kids in school, slow-mo strutting down the hall in the movies. Even with them behind you, you can picture it in your head on film: Dean’s jacket swinging with his saunter, Sam’s hair falling in his face, your jewelry swishing at your neckline. Tonight is already a movie. The thud of your boots together makes this pleasant rhythm, parting the Friday night crowd around the three of you, and you lead the boys to the counter with a sense that today has been perfect. The hunt you’d just spent three weeks on had been tied up with the prettiest, cleanest bow. No casualties. No scrapes that couldn’t be fixed with some whiskey and a bandage. Dean is snickering at his joke, and you and Sam are pretending it’s not as funny as it actually is. Things are perfect-perfect.

Even with your two gigantoids as buffers, the bar you’d picked to commemorate a hunt well done is packed to the brim. You gather around the only empty stool at the bar to get the bartender’s attention, and as you wait, you manage to worm your wallet free from your pockets with only a little elbowing. After so long the boys have zero mind for personal space. It’s kind of cute.

“I’ll cover the tab tonight, boys. Call it an early Halloween present,” you beam, and over your shoulder Dean whistles.

“Damn,” he says, “you really are in a good mood.”

You turn your grin on Dean, wiggling your wallet at him so the coins inside rattle like a tambourine. “We’re celebrating! And you wanna know how I know?”

Another group of people squeezes through the crowd behind you, bumping Dean even further into your personal bubble. He tries to be subtle about it, gliding in like an air-hockey puck, but you can tell that he lets the momentum carry him a little further than it needs to. If you brought it up he’d just explain it away as a product of how damn loud it is in here, _____, you can’t fault a guy for having shit hearing! But you know it’s on purpose. Tonight is good for so many reasons, but the first is Dean being relaxed enough to do that. To walk that line with you.

“How do you know?” He asks below the roaring bar chatter. Dean does have shit hearing, since he’s spent so many years behind a pistol, so he tips his face toward your cheek to make out your voice. A wave of gasoline and aftershave floods your senses.

You share a conspiratory look with him, side-eyeing Sam and hiding your smirk behind your hand. “‘Kid told me he plans to have two beers instead of one.”

Dean lights up, because while teasing Sam is fun, it’s ten times funnier when you both gang up on him. “Two? Break out the balloons,” he snickers, and drops a hand on your back to lean past you. There, he drawls at his brother, “You sure you can handle partying with the big kids, Sam? Me and _____ are kind of professional post-hunt drinkers…”

You pump your fist in solidarity because, hell yeah, what a healthy coping mechanism. Over a decade of training has made you a master of the Winchester sense of humor, so just this kills Sam a little—he’s in a ridiculously good mood too, and you can tell because he’s being even more of a tight-ass than usual.

“Cut that ‘kid’ shit out and maybe I’ll throw in some jäger,” Sam grumbles. Or, he tries to, but he’s still smiling to himself.

Again, you share a look with Dean that goes over Sam’s head (metaphorically, of course). Two beers and some jäger in him could end in only one way: you and Dean dragging over two hundred pounds of giggly man-boy the three blocks to your motel. Dean makes a face like that’s the last way he wants to end tonight, but you know from experience that being carried home piss-drunk is way more fun than it sounds. For you, at least.

Last time, you’d been laughing too hard for either brother to keep you on your feet. It was great. Whenever you complained about something, one of your best friends in the whole world appeared to magic the problem away. You were laughing too hard to walk? Dean scooped you up and carried you all the way to the Impala. Your heels were murdering your ankles? Sam wiggled them off you, trailing behind you and Dean with them slung over his shoulder. You fell asleep to the soft jostle of Dean’s walk and the low timbre of his voice humming Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes you still caught yourself singing it when you got ready for bed.

“Hold on—that table’s opening up. I’m gonna steal it for us,” Sam notices. He slaps Dean on the shoulder as he goes, “Order for me.” Realizing the troublemaker he’d just handed that responsibility to, Sam wheels back, and asks you instead. “Actually, _____, can you—?”

You raise a hand before he can finish. “The cheapest pale ale they have, I know. Now, go, before we’re forced to sit on the pavement outside all night.”

Sam gives you this trusting nod that’s just golden, because the second he’s gone you twist to Dean, your partner in crime, and squint in thought. “...So. You think he’ll hate the peach daiquiris or the malibu cocktails more?”

The smile that hasn’t left Dean’s face once since you walked in only grows. You feel the hand on your back loop around to your waist, squeezing you against his warm side in appraisal. “God,” he sighs, wistful, “you’re my brand of evil genius, you know that?”

You sputter out a laugh instead of something clever, because, well. When Sam is in a good mood, he digs his heels in and sasses back to everything you say. When Dean is in a good mood, he squeezes the bare skin where your jeans meet your shirt, carries you home, and gazes at you with big glittery eyes and rumbles, I hear the train a-comin', it's rolling 'round the bend…

Apparently, you do about the same thing on your good days too. Gliding into him with that same air-hockey puck subtlety, you squeeze him around the back, asking in your sweetest voice, “Can you go see how many songs are in the jukebox’s play queue for me? I wanna dance to—”

“I know what song you want to dance to,” Dean smugly finishes your thought, so certain of your preferences that your heart does a little jig. “You know what d—?”

“—yeah, I know what drink you want,” you finish for him, just like he had for you.

Dean’s face glitters with open fondness for just an instant, then disappears into the constant flux of people, leaving you to suck down the gasoline-aftershave-leather fog that follows him. You can still feel the friendly pinch he’d given your waist by the time your drinks arrive, the ache of it fading into your skin. The leftover adrenaline from your accomplished hunt was still pounding through your system, so the haze of Dean's affection layered on top has you skipping back to your table.

You can taste it mingling with the cigar smoke in the air—something’s different with Dean tonight. Him and you. Sam had noticed, too, because after he accepts his peach daiquiri with an unphased huff, he waits to speak until he’s safely hidden behind his laptop’s screen.

“That was a lot of touching up there,” he says, as if he’s talking about the weather.

You take the same tone, shrugging like he’s pointed out it’s gonna rain later. “S’ been a good week, Sammy.”

Any attempt to come across as tame is useless. You’re an open book. A part of you wishes you were less obvious, but Dean’s pinch still tingles in your side and the left side of your body is alive with phantom leather jacket sensations. Shit.

“Your hands are shaking.” His brows bounce once at you over the article he’s reading.

You have nothing smart to say at this, and instead choose to scoop up your own daiquiri and clink it against his. Distraction tactic. Sam cheerses with you, but doesn’t drink from his glass, clunking it down next to him and simmering with you in your crush-pumped silence. He gets this particular look on his face when it comes to you and Dean. It’s squinty, knowing, and not an inch different from when he was a little kid. You remember the cool girlfriend that your own older brother had had in high school, and what your relationship with her had looked like. She was awesome, and every day you prayed she never left. Sam has always had that same quiet hope in his eyes—please stick around forever and take care of my dumbass brother. I’ll pay you.

Many, many times, too many times to count, the swirling threads of your feelings and Dean’s had crossed, but not once had they ever knotted together permanently. He would swing into your life and then swing out. You would live in his for a little while, threads looping and weaving, but nothing ever came of it. Putting it into terms more complicated than that usually made your chest ache like a rail spike had been driven through it. Tonight is one of those nights where the ache feels good, where loving Dean is a special secret you can whisper behind your hand to anyone you want.

Words swim in your head. There is no easy way to explain to Dean’s kid brother that Dean is the best man in this room and this world, that he bleeds goodness like other men bleed mud, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to you. Sam would probably roll his eyes. You are rolling your eyes at yourself. But on the up-and-down rollercoaster of your relationship, these last few months have been the strongest climb to the top yet. Maybe that means you’re going to hit a big drop. You’re a hopeful person, though, so you can’t help but read Dean’s eyes in the rearview mirror differently. This is it. He’s not looking at the lonely girls by the bar or the pretty ones on the dancefloor. His eyes are on you.

Blinking yourself out of your head, you putter out the lamest version of your buzzing thoughts.

“I get the feeling tonight’s different,” you say, talking into your glass and avoiding Sam’s laser-focused gaze. On instinct, you stare at the vague clump in the crowd where Dean should be. “All these months of…” you gesture broadly, “I think… something could happen.”

Sam pulls a face. “Ew.”

You kick him under the table. “Shut up,” you laugh, “I’m being serious, dude. Dean—”

…appears right beside you. In your mind’s eye, he emerges from the crowd bleeding with easy cheer, glistening gold at the edges in the bar light. “You rang?” he says. “Got your song going for you. Should be the next one.”

Dean slinks out of his jacket like a tomcat, all casual slyness, and hip-checks you when he slides into your half of the booth. It’s practical—he would have to squeeze, sitting by Sam. With you, Dean has all the room in the world to manspread his thigh against yours and toss his arm over the back of the seat behind you. The flesh of his arm never actually makes contact with the back of your neck, but it could. He survived off those little almosts.

Just as the three of you get settled into conversation, the last song dies out, swaying into the first bluesy chords of One of These Nights by the Eagles. The second that first brassy note plucks off the lead guitar, a match sparks in your chest. Dean spins to catch your eye, gleaming with excitement. The old urge to get up and conquer the dancefloor becomes irresistible. You can still feel your last case in your weary bones a bit, but there’s a certain grime to hunting that can only be scrubbed off by a good time. Dean knows this, too, so you’re led by the wrist out of the booth before the lyrics even start. He steals a sip of peach daiquiri and then you’re off for the open space between the tables. You’re laughing so hard your cheeks ache.

You’re chased by Sam’s playful shout. “Don’t have too much fun out there!”

The race to the lyrics is literal. You know there’s only a few seconds of interlude before they start, and Dean, after decades of being your one and only dance partner, knows precisely when they kick in. One of you decides that you must be in the middle of the sparse crowd the second Don Henley starts singing, and the other accepts this without question. You end up laughing, scrambling, and shoving a couple of people to get there, but god—the supporting piano lands and the bass struts and the lead guitar just stings. Like always. You break through into a clearing at the heart of the bar’s dancefloor, and for a second all you can see is Dean. He skids to a stop in his boots and laughs his ass off the whole time, stumbling inwards and making a mad dash to get your hands in his. His grin shines and his eyes crinkle with glee. The fire and anguish from your earlier hunt is gone. Now it’s just him, as you’ve always remembered him.

“One of these nights…” you laugh to each other. With your hands scooped in his, Dean starts funnily salsaing you back and forth with him to the beat, which instantly splits your sides. You’re laughing too hard to sing with him, “One of these crazy old nights…”

Through giggles, you dryly comment, “Excellent starting move.”

“Why thank you,” Dean replies.

You shift his salsa dancing around in a circle, then follow the spin all the way out, wing-span wide and only one hand tethered to Dean’s. With the ease of practice, he whirls you back in. Each move is unrehearsed and mostly random, but you and Dean have listened to this song in particular at least a hundred times, and danced to it just as much. Some beats of it you can’t help repeating from other nights spent dancing in bars. For example:

You’re wrapped in one of his arms, hand still held, while Dean’s other seamlessly lands on your waist on time with the next line. “We’re gonna find out, pretty mama,” he drawls with purpose, leaning in close enough to make your neck tickle, “what turns onnn your lights…”

He does this every time. Every time, it makes your chest tight with this shivery warmth you just can’t shake.

Dean used to be pretty shit at dancing, but after a hundred bars with a hundred names you’ve forgotten, it’s the one piece of him that you’ve pried loose from John’s influence. Sam isn’t looking and nobody knows who the two of you are. For once, Dean lets loose. He slides his hands down your arms and hooks your fingers in his, calloused and thick, rocking you back and forth with the rhythm. You think to yourself that Dean would make a great musician. He keeps time with ease, falling into a relaxed four-step (you’re pretty sure that’s what it’s called) and losing himself in the words. The swinging openness of it makes him look just gorgeous. Dean’s cheeks are rosy with exertion, the hollow of his throat shines with sweat, and he never looks away from you even once.

Every other day of hunting season, Dean… compartmentalizes. He takes the fever the two of you feel now and packs it down where nobody can find it. You see those feelings shake loose from their reigns every once in a while, but there’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over them out in the open: here, cupping your lower back and crooning lyrics.

“...been searchin’ for the daughter of the devil himself,” he murmurs, throwing you a playful eye-roll at the symbolism you’re both tired of living. “I’ve been searchin’ for an angel in white…”

You drop a wrist over Dean’s shoulder and he rocks in close, tilting back and forth on his feet. Together, you mumble along with Don Henley and sway in a cozy circle. You take the rare opportunity to relish how he feels pressed against you. Saying anything will spoil the magic, so you just let it wash over you, purposefully coasting away from the few rational thoughts your brain is producing.

It’s unfair that he feels the way he does—and you know Dean does, he’s told you and you’ve told him and it’s all been laid out before—and still strings you along like this. You know. You should be pissed at him every time you think about it. But it’s Dean, and having a piece of him you don’t see is better than having none of him at all.

“...One of these nightssss…”

The Eagles eventually seep into another band’s song, which you assume is your signal to quit. Your vision loses its luster and the glittering lights of the world dim back to normal. Dean will have his one lucky dance with you, then, since you’re a bunch of old people, you’ll retire to your table and shoot the breeze until someone calls it a night. That’s how this always goes.

You pull your cheek from where you’d laid it against his shirt. It takes you a bit to put your thoughts into words, so you’re slow to assume, “Wanna get back to our drinks?”

When you meet eyes, Dean’s are soft, and he smiles with this quiet pleasure roving all over his face. Dimly, you register that Burnin’ For You by Blue Oyster Cult is chiming through the bar now, but. He runs his hands down your arms—sort of planting you in place, like he wants to keep you here with him. Your whole body zings with millions of little electric pulses that pump into your head like a fog too thick to see through. More than anything, you want to stay too.

Around you, the dancefloor is alive with people. But Dean has a habit of making you feel cinematic, so you can almost see how the extras fizz into the background as the camera settles on you and him alone. The bar lights hang overhead, hazy and warm. Your soundtrack is lively and familiar. The moment hangs… neither of you wants to give it up.

“Yeah. Why don’t we, uh,” he clears his throat, “grab a few sips and then head back here, huh?”

Suspended in place by the pound of your own heart, you slide your palms off his chest and put on your slyest grin. “Dancing is way more fun when you’re tipsy.”

Dean slips on a smile of his own, then turns to lead the way out of the crowd. For just an instant you feel like you can’t get your feet off the floor, and you watch him go, head spinning. Deep down, you worried that you might’ve been pushing your enthusiasm to its limit thinking tonight was the night. For the last decade of your life, you’d been waiting on Dean. But something really is different now, because, true to his word, Dean snags a few sips of his drink with you and then you’re back out on the dance floor.

The next few songs fly by. Everything is Dean. The heavy thump of boots on the worn-smooth floor, the growing buzz of alcohol in your system. You’re at the center of his stage, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. If anybody but you came up and waved a hand in his face, you doubted Dean would even notice. You talk about your favorite albums and he laughs at every joke you make, giving you that big-eyed, pirate-smile Dean Winchester look that melts your insides. His eyes are on you.

You swim your way through Double Vision by Foreigner, you on lead air-guitar and Dean supporting with some seriously impressive air-drums. Neither of you consider yourselves professional singers or anything, but there’s a moment in the chorus underneath all the noise where you swear you and Dean harmonize. All the rowdy guitar and drum-playing smooths into The Police’s Roxanne. Your face is immediately sizzling hot the second you hear the starting chords, since every time, without fail, Dean pulls out all the stops to dramatically croon the song to you. The last time it’d come on the radio, he’d chased you all over Bobby’s house, serenading you with a beer bottle microphone. He does it this time too. When you laugh and squirm away, he finds your wrists and guides you back into him, palms everywhere, making kissy faces and everything.

You suppress the urge to seek revenge and huff, “You don’t even know what this song is about, do you?”

Dean snorts, but his eye contact with you is purposeful. “Course’ I do. S’ about a guy who’s so into his girl that he doesn’t want to share her with anybody else.”

Instead of having an apt response for that, you internally shrivel up into a ball and lose any fire left in you. Dean, satisfied he’s shut you up, noses your ear and sings, “...Wouldn’t talk down to ya… I have t’ tell ya just how I feel, I won’t share you with another boy…”

The mushy impression he’s doing of Sting fails pretty quickly, so Dean softens into his own voice. For the millionth time tonight, you’ve found yourself with your arms around his neck and his face hovering around yours. If you mention it, Dean will drop everything and run. You know that. So you don’t sing that particular song with him. Allowing him to sing it to you is much sweeter, anyway, and the slower the music gets the closer you’re allowed to be.

And boy, every guy in the room must be aiming to get a slow dance with his girl, because soon the steady flow of rock n’ roll on the jukebox drizzles into Elvis and The Temptations. You joke about this to Dean, giving him a small out. Just in case.

“You hate mushy music,” you tell him, even if you both know that’s not exactly true.

Dean’s warm palms coast over your waist and you draw your nails across the flannel on his back, soaking each other up. A memory pierces your train of thought in a hot flash. You’d seen Dean dance with other girls like this, hands all over, seeking. But tonight they rest on your hips or hook through your belt loops without intention. Dean’s just here, and he wants you here too. For now, you’re his first choice for who he’s spending his time with tonight.

He doesn’t take the out you gave him.

“S’ not all bad,” Dean shrugs under your hands. “...I like this song.”

It’s Elvis’s Love Me, which effectively scrubs the dancefloor of any non-couples. Besides you and Dean, that is. This fact hangs in the air, supercharged, but neither of you mentions it. Dean draws you into him and you slide eagerly into his hold, your head under his chin. A few other pairs skip out onto the floor and take up space beside you. Soon, the molecule of space left between you and Dean disappears. You’re pretty sure if a few atoms went missing from the universe something crazy would happen, like a nuclear explosion, and that’s exactly what occurs in your belly. Dean sways with you like he’s in love with you, like it’s a secret everyone can see. If anyone in the bar glanced over at the two of you now, you know exactly what they’d think.

The best part of this was that Dean doesn’t end it after two dances, three dances, or four. You go all night like that, shittily waltzing to love songs and grooving along to faster ones. He had an opportunity to escape every time you took a trip to throw back your drinks. But if it crosses Dean’s mind at all, he never, ever takes it. One of you starts talking then neither of you can stop. Almost three hours later, you’re halfway through Just What I Needed and a street racing story that never fails to blow Dean’s mind, when your hundredth round of drinks runs dry. Since you’re both past tipsy now, it’s unanimously decided that there’s more work to be done.

“S’ a good night,” Dean tells you, beaming, “we can do another round, right?”

“Hell yeah,” you shrug, and raise your empty glass, “Here’s to alcohol poisoning, baby.”

“Yeah,” Dean echoes, almost slurring. “Baby.”

You take his empty glass, too, and Dean tips back toward your table to bother his brother. Both times you glance back Dean is following you with his eyes. It’s like hearing scratching in your attic and walking through cold spots for months, then suddenly seeing a full apparition right in your living room. Bobby claimed Dean had perfected the art of admiring you from afar, but you’d always figured he was exaggerating. Instead of chasing the ghost of one of his big-eyed stares, you actually see it first-hand—the big-eyed stare. Dean blinks prettily at you over his shoulder, then sways back toward Sam, unembarrassed and flushed a happy drinker’s red. In the flesh. Wow.

You’re so distracted you almost skip into two patrons, so you start watching where you’re going and add a few more drinks to your tab. While you’re waiting on them, you rock on your heels, brimming with buzzing energy. Years and years of buildup and something might finally happen. The prospect is so sweet that you giddily dance in place, bobbing to your own content music. The bartender gives you a funny, amused look and so do the people you squeeze past to reach him, but you ignore them all, scooping up your drinks and floating back to the table. Your grin is so bright that it makes your cheeks ache.

“Alright, gentlemen, I crossed two deserts to get these drinks, so you better—”

It’s just Sam at your table, looking sheepish.

You squint at him. Sheepish. Why is he sheepish? You set down your glass and Sam’s, then awkwardly release Dean’s beer from where it’d been trapped between your elbow and your ribs. The corner where Sam has shoved all your empty drinks has since expanded—there are at least five more new drinks there, completely outside the realm of anything you know Sam or Dean would order.

You stand. “Damn. Who ordered these?”

Sam stiffly brushed the hair from his face. “Um… a table in the corner sent em’ over. As a gift.”

“Free drinks? Really? That rocks,” you brighten.

Sam was avoiding the eyes of someone at said table, so you turn to intercept the stares and instantly feel the cloud nine you’re floating on drop out from under you.

“...Dean’s over there thanking them,” he clarified.

It’s a big group of women. Your reasonable-self could follow the logic: Dean and Sam were pretty, the women had noticed they were pretty, and then bought them drinks for being pretty. Your reasonable self would pull up a chair and toast to those women. The Winchester spell made everyone want to give them stuff for just being gorgeous and alive, and though you weren’t a Winchester, you reaped the rewards just as often. Sam’s puppy look paid the rent, and more than once Dean’s dazzling smile had won your way into concerts and r-rated movies. You should’ve been stoked.

If you were completely sober you’d probably put together that it was a bachelorette party, but all you see is your Dean, center stage among them and putting on a show. Even drunk he does a convincing performance of a “modeling agent” passing out his card. Cards. To all of them. The booth of girls giggle and lean closer, all swaying in the direction of Dean’s sly grin like snakes to a snake-charmer. A swath of mothy bitterness starts to eat holes into your stomach.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mourns. He says it with so much genuine remorse that you realize how crushed you must look—and wow, isn’t that an embarrassing cherry to top this sundae off. They’re just girls. It’s just talking. Still, Sam tells you, “I tried to stop him.”

“So have I,” you answer, bitterly.

The hours of dancing suddenly burn in your legs. You steady a hand on the table to slide into your seat, but there are so many glasses that it feels too full to occupy, and Sam noisily scuffling them out of your way doesn’t help your raw ears. Resigned, you shove into your side of the booth and tell yourself that you’re overreacting. Thanking people (a group of women) for sending over free drinks (because Dean’s too pretty for his own good) is perfectly normal (to non-jealous people, at least). Because you’re not at all a resentful person, you slide over the closest glass and choke it down.

Sam raises both brows. “Maybe you should slow down a bit. Unless you want one of us to carry you home—?”

You pull your glare away from the other side of the bar and focus it on the table, answering Sam’s question for him.

“Right,” he realizes, “I can go and—”

You’re already shaking your head. “Don’t. Let’s see how long it takes ‘im.”

As it turns out, drunk Dean is an incredibly social butterfly. For the first ten minutes he’s engrossed in his conversation, you aimlessly stir your drink and dodge Sam’s glances. Fifteen and you’re glued to your seat. Twenty and Dean still isn’t back, a handful of songs you know he’d kill to dance to coming and going. Past that you’re spaced out too far to care, and have failed to not let your mood be killed. The neon electricity that’d been pumping through your system all night is cold and lifeless. On top of that, you’re furious with yourself for staking all your hopes and feelings on a premise so stupid, for trusting Dean. Again. You know you’re drunker than you want to admit, but this nasty swirling bitterness burning in your stomach isn’t alcohol. You sigh into your half-finished drink. This was exactly what happened last time.

Since you’re already feeling sorry for yourself, you punish your naivety by stealing glances at Dean’s table. In the half an hour he’s been gone, he’s taken a seat at their booth, cozied up to the woman closest to him, and captivated each of them with a story. You can tell which one from across the bar. With five sets of happy eyes feasting on him, he puts on his best smolder and gestures suavely with his hands—recounting the time he heroically pulled some civilians from a burning building last year. You know he doesn’t tell them it was for a hunt. You wonder if he mentions you being there at all, or leaves out the part about you hauling him from the fire in the end.

Against your better judgment, you lift your eyes from the hole you’d bored into the table and stare at Dean’s profile until your vision blurs. Please, please just look at me again, you pray with all the faith you have left.

…It looks like you’ve misplaced it. Dean stays at their table for another insufferable ten minutes. After all, pushing you away has always come easier to him than dancing.

Ready for Love by Bad Company plays next. Your mind apparently has a bone to pick with you too, because just hearing the song drops you back into the motel room you and Dean had shared in Tulsa years ago. Jim—your father—had passed that summer, speared by the same thing you’d been hunting. Sam was at school. It’d just been Dean and whatever feeble parts of you that’d survived losing your dad. For weeks, you tortured yourself chasing his killer and tortured Dean as stress relief. You were truly rotten to him then. He should’ve left you in Tulsa, but he’d kept you standing and fed til’ the hunt was long over. He endured every fight you picked and every apathetic apology. Nothing could kill his instinct to nurture, not even your grief, and you came out of the ordeal with Dean’s warm hand brushing your hair from your face. You loved Sam, but you missed the days when he was at school sometimes. Only then could Dean open his stitches and let his inner sweetness bleed out. The night you killed the thing that’d taken your dad from you, Dean had carried you home, washed the blood from your hair, and sang that song until you were safe and half-asleep in his arms.

You’re strong, he’d told you. Stronger than me. Stronger than your dad. You’ll get through this, easy.

Paul Rodgers starts to sing. The woman closest to Dean snuggles in to ask him a question, brushing her nails down the back of his neck. He tilts his head toward hers to listen, and whatever she says makes him turn the blatant flirtiness in his grin to 100%. Her shiny dark hair rolls down her back in perfect spirals, and the swish of it around her neck as she stands from her chair, blushing giddily, brands behind your eyes. Dean stands too.

Your stomach drops. She wiggles her fingers for him to take, and Dean, the lottery winner, follows her onto the dancefloor.

That’s about when you should force yourself to stop watching. But you’ve never had the keenest sense of self-preservation, so you keep stealing glances until your stomach is in knots—until this very lucky girl wraps her arms around Dean’s neck and summons enough liquid courage to kiss him.

Dean kisses back.

You sit there until your throat burns with stifled tears. It doesn’t take long for you to notice Sam looking at you, and when you do your whole body instantly flares with dark embarrassment that writhes up your legs like snakes. You barely have to guess what he’ll do next. He stews on the pitiful sight of you alone on the other side of the bench for another beat, then shoves himself to his feet and slams his laptop shut—and it’s nice, having somebody go through all these motions of defending you, but you don’t need it from Sam. You don’t need it from anybody.

“Don’t,” you warn him. “Don’t. ‘Only make it worse.”

“I know what he’s doing,” Sam starts, lip curled in disbelief. He’s disappointed in his brother. “Dean’s—testing you. Seeing if you’ll stick around. But you’ve more than proved you will, even when he pulls this shit, so I don’t see why you’ve gotta—”

“He’s drunk and stupid,” you cut him off. “We both are. I’m gonna let it go, n’ so are you.”

Sam stills, one unsatisfied hand on the tabletop. “...If I just talk to him—”

“Fucking don’t,” you tell him, and wow, you’re a mean drunk all of a sudden, huh? Pressing your fingertips against your eyelids does nothing to make the world stop tilting. Wilting, you pull your hands from your face and try not to burst into tears. “Sorry. Sorry. M’ not upset with you. M’ not upset with anybody.” Pathetically, you beg, “C’n we just go home?”

Sam gives you an uneasy nod. “Sure thing. I’ll grab Dean and pay our tab.”

Well, shit. Miserable as you are, you did promise to pay for drinks. A night of fun celebratory drinks, to be exact, which had gone completely sideways instead. Great. Sam hastily packs up his bag like he can escape before you remember, but you send him off with a wad of your own bills so he doesn’t go broke feeling bad for you.

Since waiting for him and Dean out on the curb sounds stupid, you choke out, “Bathroom,” and go hide there to dust off your pride.

God, does a thin, shitty motel mattress sound gorgeous right now. On shaking fawn legs, you bruise your way out of the booth and through the crowd, silently hoping that a loose elbow from a rowdy passerby knocks you out cold. Unfortunately, you barrel into the women’s restroom still conscious. It’s mostly empty too, so you’re free to meet your reflection without courage.

When Dean had given his yes for your second dance, you’d imagined this moment. After dancing the night away, you’d complain about your aching heels and Dean would scoop you up, all gentleman-like. He’d joke and hum all the way home—and what a funny word that was, since the only thing in your life permanent enough to call home was him. You’d kiss him goodnight and Dean’s gaze would follow you all the way to the bathroom. And there, once the door was shut and you were alone, the magic of the night would glow in your reflection. You’d sink into your happy, exhausted feet. The heat of his fingertips would be all over your waist and neck and chin. Best of all, when you’d slink into bed and pull the covers up to your face, Dean’s stomach would slot against your back and he’d spill it all to you in a whisper. I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight, he’d say. I never could, sweetheart. Didn’t want to.

But the truth was that Dean could take his eyes off you so damn easily. These days it felt like you lost his attention the second you got it. Again and again you gave him these chances, and every time he wasted them. Tonight you had sworn something was going to be different, felt it ringing in your soul like a promise, and the second your back is turned he’s found a better dance partner. Was this a sign? Now, you glared at the mirror you’d chosen, feeling the familiar needles of self-loathing start to creep between your ribs. When was it going to happen? When were things going to change? Every time you’d hit this point in the past, Dean had cut those threads before they could tie. I’m not good for you, he’d say. He’d remind you of what had happened to Jess, which had always scared you straight—but that fear came with a finish line. Hunting wasn’t the end of the road for you. With you and Dean, there’d always been a vague idea of something “after,” something over the horizon too far away to see.

You’d held fast to that “after” for so long. Even on the third, fourth, or fiftieth round of Dean’s eyes landing on someone else, you took in a breath and reassured yourself of that “after.” After everything was over and there were no worlds left to save, Dean would look at you and never stop looking.

But this was the hundredth time you’d saved the world. The road to that horizon was endless, and you’d waited so, so fucking long.

Staring at your puffy eyes and spinning reflection in the low flickering light, a dull realization started to connect inside you. You couldn’t care anymore. You were so tired of waiting. One of these days, Dean was going to glance away and never look back. Maybe…

Maybe it would be better for you to pull away first.

The bathroom door banged inwards, startling you into a moment of sobriety. You were whirling around and palming the pistol handle in your waistband before you could think, only to relax. It was just Dean. In the women’s restroom. Fucking hell.

“Dean! What the hell are you—?”

“M’ savin’ our party,” Dean clarifies, and woah, he cannot hold his liquor like he used to. Without a hint of shyness, he saunters into your bubble and dares—fucking dares—to power on his doe-eyes. “Why’d’ya wanna go?” He pouts. Sam must’ve told him. “S’ not even midnight yet.”

“Jesus, you’re lucky s’ just me in here. Could’ve scared the pants off some poor girl,” you curse.

Everything after that is a tightrope act to keep hold of your restraint. Taking his elbow, you pluck the beer out of his hand and toss it into the nearest bin. Dean, of course, squawks in protest, but doesn’t fight when you push him into the narrow hall outside.

“Why on earth did you just stroll in? Just wait for me next time!”

“Maybe you were the girl whose pants I scared off,” Dean chuckles, sounding dizzy. He’s not steady enough to stand in place for too long.

Any other night you’d happily let him lean on you, but just seeing him makes your chest feel split open. The second he’s propped against one wall of the little hall, you’re on the other side, twisting around him and making a beeline for the exit. But Dean is still the guy you were on the dancefloor with an hour ago, so you’re not a step away before two big arms catch you around the middle. Giggling, Dean lassos you back in, and all at once he’s draped across your back with his cheek smushed into yours from behind. The happy little snickers seeping out of him rumble warmly through your back. You’re cozily squeezed around the middle with all the love in the world, and the worst part is that you revel in it. Dean sways a bit with you in his arms, big warm hands folding across your belly, and every stupid cell in your body melts into the contact. He’s only ever like this when he’s drunk.

“If you even get scared,” he hums into your ear, amused. “You’re s’ tough I dunno if you even can. And y’know what? I think…” he turns his lips into your cheek, his stubble rubbing the skin there just right, “I think you’re tough enough to get back out there with me n’ show em’ how it’s done.”

You should resist. You honestly should. But you’re drunk and hollowed out and lonely, so you compromise with yourself and stand dead still. You don’t touch him or lean into it. Yet you don’t squirm away, either.

At your silence, Dean wuffs out a breath down your neck and pouts into your shoulder. “C’monnn,” he urges, “dance with me more. Party! We’re celebratin’. N’ you’re such a great dancer, I wanna take you out there n’ brag ‘bout you. Everybody was lookin’ at us before. You and me. Didja notice that?”

“I did,” you swallow. “But I think m’ all partied out. I just wanna go home, kay? Sam’s out there waiting for us…”

Dean hears this and shifts his face into your neck, pretending to search for a comfortable place to rest his cheek when really he’s just nuzzling. “Boring. What? Pretty princess too tuckered out?” Dean teases. “I’ll tell the kid t’ walk back without us, he’ll be fine. C’mon. I’ll even say please.”

You remain silent. Anxious, Dean fills it. “Just a lil’ while longer, _____. Y’know I can only flirt with you when m’ like this.”

The ache in your chest hits a searing point, and the breath you’re holding breaks. He always, always has to hide.

You squirm out of Dean’s bubble. He makes a gentle attempt at fishing you back in, whining in the back of his throat, but you rip your hand free and peel around the corner before he can react. The mental picture of Dean left hurt and confused in your wake is satisfying, but you know it’s not a faithful image. Instead, he and his words chase you all the way to the curb outside. C’mon! Don’t be lame, ______! The yelling is embarrassing, but what really stings is how he does this in front of everyone. Sam. The bachelorette party, who make your skin crawl with mixed stares of jealousy and sympathy. The woman he kissed. And worst of all, everyone else in the bar, who only recognize you from the hours of slow-dancing you’d done with Dean.

You burst out into the chilly amber night, scrambling for any sense of backbone. A hot flash of unwelcome tears locks your throat shut. Like the unshakable hunter you’re supposed to be, you grit your teeth despite them and ignore Dean’s shouts.

“Sweetheart, c’mon,” he calls. The hurt in his voice surprises you. Dean’s voice is thready with genuine, mounting panic, flooding your brainpan with oily pleasure. Good. “Didn’t want this t’ go this way. We wer’ havin’ fun, weren’t we? M’ sorry. Come back inside. Whatever I did—”

You feel your resolve snap next, splitting apart like a guitar string under scissors.

Then you’re whirling toward him at collision speed, a mangled mess of snarling teeth and tear-caked cheeks. Yelling feels fucking great. You bare your fists, flying at him in a rage.

“Come on come on come on—you know what you did! You know! You have to know!”

Dean skids to a stop. By the street lamp light, he’s still golden as ever, looking soft and beaten. His expression crumples. His visible pain feels good for one glorious breath, then it all shatters as you realize what taboo you’ve brushed up against—and why. Over a few girls. Over a little talking. Some dancing. A silly tipsy kiss. You know everything gets heavier when you’re drunk, but god, this burden weighs more than the fucking sky sometimes. You’re so tired of carrying it. You want an out.

He drags a calloused hand down his face. “...I was just messing around, talking to them… dancing with her. Needlin’ you.”

“Well,” your breath rattles unprettily between words. “I’m needled. Are you fucking happy? Are you? Does it—does it—” you have to talk through harsh, sudden sobs, “—do you like playing with my feelings? Hanging that bone over my head, over and over and over again, just to rip it away?”

You don’t get to see how your desperation lands on Dean, since it’s then that Sam comes between you. “It’s okay,” he soothes, “you’re okay—just—” and lays your jacket over your back.

Then, Sam gets his hands on your arms to steer you the opposite way. You thrash away from him and his brother, furious. But you’re coherent enough to know that this is a bad time to wield the contempt you’ve kept stored. Roiling with fresh horror, you stifle your sobs into your sleeve and dart fast out of the parking lot, toward your motel.

“That didn’t involve you, Sam,” Dean barks over your shoulder, but it comes out more feeble than he intends. Your words were so much so suddenly that it sounds like he’s been shocked sober. Hoarsely, Dean pleads, “_____, wait. Hold on a second. Think about this—!”

…And you’re thrown back in. Supercharged with all the ferocity of a whirlwind, you twist around again. Sam’s already intercepting you, hands up and calm, but after years and years of second chances, you’re sick of waiting for something that’s never going to happen. You love Dean. It aches in your chest and bleeds out your ears, chewing away at your survival instincts.

You’d been right. Something was going to change tonight.

“You have no fucking idea how much I’ve thought about it,” you snarl. “Every day I think about it! Every night! So, no, I’m done thinking and—an’ watching and—”

The tank of crazed energy you’re running on immediately saps. Your voice cuts off with it, so you’re forced to gasp for breath and broil in your bone-deep exhaustion. Though this isn’t the first time the boys have seen you this hurt, they stand frozen on coltish legs, wide-eyed. Your effect on them lands hard: Sam’s mouth is drawn into a firm guilty line, and Dean, who usually fills whole continents with his authority, shrinks miserably into his jacket until his hands are lost in the sleeves. Finally, he takes me seriously.

You give Sam a look. Shell-shocked and unsure, Sam shuffles aside to face his back to you both.

With no one between you, it’s clear in Dean’s eyes that there’s another element to this for him. He’d known this was coming. Having his brother as a barrier was just one more way Dean had softened the blow. Between the awful, sinking guilt seeping out of him at the seams, there was resignation too. On one of those slow nights in your motel in Tulsa, he’d told you himself.

Everyone leaves, Dean had shrugged. Sam. My dad. Some day, you’ll leave too. And I won’t even blame you.

Back then, you’d laid your cheek against Dean’s sweat-tacky arm, the two of you trying to stay cool on a boiling Oklahoma night. You’d wondered to yourself how anyone could do that to the man you loved. Dean’s instinct was to give, to point both fans in that boiling room at you instead of him. How could anyone look at all the things he’d sacrificed and not give the same in return?

Well, you’d smiled at him, I’m not moving an inch, cowboy. You’re stuck with me.

Now, after years and years of sacrificing to no end, you knew that Dean’s prediction had come true. He had been waiting for the other boot to drop for so long that he’d already decided what it would sound like. A part of you wanted to cling to him and the promise you’d made him until your nails bled. But that dead limb was the one that’d been killing you, and tonight was the final proof you needed to amputate it.

You had to leave.

“I love you so much, Dean,” you hiccuped. “But I can’t wait for you anymore.”

You knew you were breaking a promise, no matter how good your intentions were. For that, you weren’t going to allow yourself an easy exit. Instead of whipping around and running for it like you wanted to, you let the slow, ugly acceptance in Dean’s silhouette brand your memory.

Statue-still, all Dean could manage was a tight nod.

He just stared and stared at you, gutted and appalled. You waited for him to say something, to fight this even a little, to make any of this easier on you both. Hating him wouldn’t be so impossible if he screamed you off the street or started throwing your stuff in the gutter. Instead Dean just hung there, frozen in that heart-stopping moment where the blade sinks in to the hilt.

Wielding that knife, you turned on your heel and left.

By the time you’ve frozen your ass off getting to your motel room, you’ve lost much of your steam. All the anger has washed out of you in one surging flush of misery. You get to the door almost gagging on your own tears, and pathetically slump down on the curb when you realize Sam has your room key.

Sam, who’s two blocks back helping Dean get home.

The cement stings your legs through your jeans. Betrayal throbs through your whole body, and unable to go anywhere, its barbs turn inward. You try to scrape up any backbone leftover from your tantrum, which is about as easy as splitting atoms. Since that didn’t work, you try to fold in on yourself for some warmth instead, and shiver stupidly on the sidewalk. A pair of late-night road-trippers give you sad stares as they pass. The soft heat of their room as they shuffle inside gushes out onto the stoop, calling your name.

Suddenly, the seething need to be as far from here as possible disappears. You want Sam to get back with Dean. You wish this night could’ve gone any other way, so the three of you could fumble into your room and straight into warm, cozy beds, too lazy to change into pajamas or to kiss goodnight like usual. Sam would check the salt lines and Dean would shuck off his jacket. With the last of your strength, you’d stretch a hand out from under your comforter and Sam would do the same to squeeze yours over the beds’ gap. Goodnight, Sam. G’night. Dean, close enough to kiss in your bed, would tilt you toward him by a gentle hand on your shoulder. He’d smush a kiss into your temple. Night, he’d hum. Together you’d snuggle down into your blankets and crash, content. If this was any other night. Maybe it still could be. Maybe you’d been overthinking this.

You’d had so much to drink. It was you who’d created these imaginary stakes for Dean to follow, and you who wigged out, blew up on him, snarling in his face and breaking a promise in the same breath. No matter how much you wanted it, you had no claim on him. If Dean wanted to dance with more than one person on a night meant to be fun for him… If he… wanted to kiss someone else…

Two tall shadows appear at the end of the parking lot. It’s too late to stand up and look put together, so you pull your knees to your chest and make an attempt at silencing your sobs. You press your lips together, watching Sam help a sniffling Dean across the lot and toward your room. Dean doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t tell you he’s sorry, he doesn’t pick you up off the pavement, and he doesn’t tell you that he loves you even though you both know it. It makes all of your lashing anger bubble up to the surface again, and you sit with it until long after the boys are inside.

These feelings feel petulant at first, then simmer into righteous ones. The hunt had robbed you of so much—your parents, your normalcy, your childhood, and more than once, the love of your life. There was no reason it had to take Dean from you this way, too. Those sticky-sweet nights in boiling Tulsa could be every night for you and him.

You could still taste him, and the syrup of old blues songs on his lip. You’d told him back then, you’re stuck with me, cowboy, and Dean had believed you, really believed you, because he’d rolled sideways in your bed and touched his fingers to your chin. Just the rough tips of them, burning hot. There’d been this irresistible magic in his eyes, like he was learning it was possible to break his own rules as long as he kept them later. His breath was sweet with ice cream when he kissed you. Just one kiss had him shakily sighing through his nose, and with his same trembling hand, he’d cupped your face—in the weird sort of way Dean did affection, the slope of his palm around your jaw and his thumb turning up your chin. It’d felt so special, like a promise to hold out. You’d savored each one with your nails tickling the nape of his neck, your dose of love potion refilled. The two of you had passed out curled nose to nose, Dean’s grin hidden in your pillow.

You could be living every night like you’d lived that one. But there was one barrier in the middle of that road: Dean. I’m not good for you, he’d say, even if you’d never had enough of him to tell.

After years and years of holding out and dosing on your love potion, it occurred to you, pathetically curled up outside a random motel room, that Dean would never be with you. Even if the monsters had been hunted and the world had been saved, he just didn’t have it in him to believe in something so good. Deep down, you’d known this. You were a naive optimist hoping for a different future, but the truth was that Dean hated himself too much to see that future too.

Slowly, you unfurled your hands on your knees, staring at them without taking anything in. All you could feel was the uncomfortable, surging ache in your chest, which choked your throat shut and burned stinging tears around the curves of your nose. The last few hours felt weirdly layered in your memory, like film cells from different strips laid over each other. This had been going on for so long that it’d officially crossed into deja vu. Years and years of moments just like these pressed upon you in the ringing silence of the parking lot. But you could only hold up the sky for so long, and tonight your grip had finally slipped. You were sure of it: if these circular, pathetic dives for an answer were the only thing in your future, it’d kill you. It had been killing you.

What else could you do but leave?

The question itself felt rash, but you were struggling to breathe past your tears and you wanted out—away from the constant want, away from Dean. He could bang whatever girls he stumbled upon, so why couldn’t you do whatever the hell you wanted, too? What the fuck was stopping you? Freedom—from years and years and years of that ugly stirring weight you’d once loved—was only a bus ride and one boosted car away. It’d be easy.

The door creaked open behind you. You held your breath at the sound of footsteps, praying it wasn’t who you wanted to see.

“Come on inside. Don’t like you being out here by yourself,” Sam called.

The breath you let go of didn’t make you any more relieved. It hadn’t felt good to yell at him, either. You opened your mouth to respond, but a thought slammed on top of you with all the malice of a blow to the head. The next words out of your mouth could be some of the last you ever speak to him for a long time. Instead, you scuffed your running tears on your sleeve one last time, then hauled yourself onto your feet.

The plan was to dart past him fast enough to avoid the look you were sure Sam was giving you, but it fell on the whole lot bright as stadium lights. You made the stupid mistake of catching eyes with him, and the intensity there was enough to root you to the spot. You froze. Sam’s face was solemn, but when he finally got a good look at you it shifted into calm, haunted understanding, since you weren’t the only one who’d cried on a curb like this. He knew exactly what leaving looked like.

After a pregnant pause, Sam stole a glance into the safe darkness of your motel room. Whatever he saw inside bolstered his nerve, and before you could argue he’d swiped his coat and stepped out into the cold with you. Here we go, you braced yourself.

“...I need to punch something,” you confessed, just to have something to say.

Sam stopped awkwardly hovering around the sidewalk to spread his arms wide, and how he had the energy to smile, you had no clue. “I’m open,” he offered, only half-joking.

You sputtered out a laugh. It trailed off where you couldn’t follow it, and unfortunately, neither could he, leaving you both shivering side-by-side in silence. You started to stutter out something intelligent, but the open sympathy in his eyes took all the nuance out of you. Renewed tears squeezed down your face. Instantly, he was there, a big warm hand coming down to rub your shivering back.

“I know you already know this, but it’s worth saying,” Sam murmured. “Everybody leaves him. It’s all he’s used to.” (...I know, you breathed between sobs). “Dean doesn’t… hang these other girls in front of you because he’s, y’know. Trying to play with your feelings. He’s scared. It’s wrong, but it’s his messed-up way of testing if you’ll stick around.”

You want to listen. Sam’s tone makes this all sound reasonable and easy, but that bitter crawling thing eating away at your conscience reminds you, Of course it’s his brother out here trying to fix this. Of course he can’t pick up his own mess.

“It sucks. Trust me, I’ve taken a good chunk of it myself,” Sam chuckled, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “I dunno what it is that makes em’ think he deserves it, but… he’s so used to everyone leaving that he rushes to push em’ away first.”

Swallowing around the bitter taste in your mouth, you tell him, “Well. I think it worked.”

That weighs on Sam for longer than you expect, strangling the lot with a heavy silence. Compelled to fill it, you wrap your arms around yourself and spit out your confession.

“I-I think I,” you managed. “I think I gotta go, Sammy.”

As soon as you say it, the reality of your decision hits you. This isn’t a light move to make. Leaving wouldn’t just shred things between you and Dean, but your friendship with Sam, too—it would mean turning all of your memories with them into kindling. In all your time on the Winchester family road trip, you’d seen all sorts of people take up the space in the back of the Impala. Psychics. Some angels and some demons. Good, good friends. Alive or dead, they all got off at their own stop eventually. You’d been riding in the backseat for so long, not once had you thought there’d be a stop for you, too. But here it was; Dean had hit the breaks himself, and Sam was readying himself to open the door for you.

You thought of the girl you’d been when you’d first met them. She’d still had room in her for friendship bracelets and brown sugar, for mystery novels that never ended, always chasing the next adventure. At the end of all this, that’s what Dean was: your next grand adventure.

Being hunter-born had put you in the strange middle-ground between sheltered and grotesquely exposed; you’d seen how purple and putrid a corpse could get before you were fifteen, but were more than acquaintances with a sum total of five people at the same age. Dean was your worldly opposite. He’d find the towns you landed in like you were his homing beacon, fresh out of the thick of it with a fantastical story to match. He’d hang half-out of your bedroom window, fierce-eyed, and singing, and you’d roll right out of the monotony of your life and into the magic of his. You’d mention him to friends in high school like a made-up boyfriend—Dean lives out of town, but he swears he’s gonna visit next month—because even you weren’t sure he was real. He was this untethered cowboy you’d somehow lassoed in, swinging into your life with all the colors and life of the wild west. Not so much a knight in shining armor, but. Dean, your Dean.

You would miss that. You would always miss him.

Sam tamped down his panic. “Are—are you sure?” He turned you by your shoulder to look at him, and Jesus, those kicked-puppy eyes should be considered a weapon of war. “You don’t wanna talk to Dean about this…?”

You were already shaking your head. “For the hundredth time?”

Sam pressed his lips together. You knew he thought this was a cowardly, drunken decision, but in the middle of it all, you felt like you’d earned the right to be cowardly and stupid. The last decade of your life had been wasted being reasonable. When Dean kicked you out of your motel room to share it with a stranger, you found another place to crash without complaint. When he’d told you he loved you, you gave him the space he asked for, neither of you sure how to handle something so big so young. You waited. When you sat him down and spilled your guts about the future you wanted him in, you’d respected his answer. I’m not good for you had translated to I’m not ready yet. You waited. When Dean was ready for other girls, though, Julie, Ava, Cassie—you started to press back. Since then, your feelings had become the ugly “it” that lingered in every room you shared with Dean. Every argument you’d ever had orbited around it somehow, along with every relationship. Spats turned into arguments, and arguments became second chances and third chances. It really had been the hundredth time Dean had played with you like this.

And even if he’d had nothing to do with it, it was killing you anyway. Being around him, good or bad, had sapped your adventurer’s spirit.

Sam goes still, conflicted. “This is your life. You know that I of all people understand that. But… but just… please. Please just give it one more shot. A month. Or a few weeks, if you need it. Please.”

“You think I’m overreacting,” you assumed, swallowing against the drying film of alcohol on your teeth.

“No, no, I think you’re drunk,” Sam answered, instead, and as blunt as it was it still came out soft. “And tired. But you’re not overreacting, ______. Dean’s done this and worse a dozen times before,” he sighed. Realizing that wasn’t exactly convincing, Sam scrambled for a foothold. “...He really does love you. Just needs to see reason.”

Reason, he says, like that had anything to do with this. Sam starts to clam up, desperate to glue the situation back together.

You feel the need to explain, “...Me leavin’ would have nothing to do with you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Sam said, thickly. “But I’m pretty sure it’d break my heart if you did, so I can’t imagine what it’d do to him.”

At that, you couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the door to your motel room. It waited over your shoulder with all the gravity of a neutron star, dragging you to face it and wonder at the man on the other side. Knowing Dean, he might’ve managed to kick off his shoes before crashing into bed. Knowing the love of your life, he’d probably roll onto his back and sink like a rock, the hard lines of his face softened by sleep. His was probably puffy from crying. After long nights out, there’d be times when he’d accidentally wake you up by slipping under the covers. Dean would curse and hush apologies, clumsily pawing in next to you, but the intrusion was always welcome. You remembered him always having to pat around for your face in the dark, just so he knew where to place his goodnight kiss. Sometimes he’d miss on purpose and playfully pinch your cheek or lay a gross, sloppy kiss on your eye, which never failed to make you squirm away giggling. Good night, pretty girl. What would it do to him, to watch you go?

Your chest flared with ugly guilt. You weren’t sure. But you knew what would happen if you stayed, and Dean, in the long run, would be proud of you for looking out for yourself for once. He’d always said you put yourself last too often.

You imagined him asleep on the other side of that door, muffling his tears into his pillow, and the last of your hope and optimism just shatters. Swallowing your own cowardice, you steel yourself. “I’m sorry,” you tell Sam.

Sam laid a hand on your back. “Look at me a minute.”

Somehow, you did. Seeing Sam’s devastation hurts even more than you thought it would, but nothing compares to knowing that you’ll be leaving him behind. “C’mon,” he steps off the curb and toward the street, trying and failing to smile. “Let’s walk to the gas station or somethin’.”

You shook your head, heaving for breath, and confessed: “I really gotta go, Sammy. At least for a little while.”

Sam set his jaw. He teetered back toward you, thinking fast, and padded down his pockets for his wallet. “Okay. Okay. I know. But, but make a deal with me—let’s take a walk, get you sober. Then when you have some food in your system, you’ll tell me if—i-if this is still what you want. Kay?”

“Sam,” you grimaced.

“Please,” he begged, full-voiced, then snapped his mouth shut. When Sam was sure he could keep his feelings in check, he held up his wallet. “My treat. C’mon.”

Without hesitating, Sam started walking backward to the nearest corner store. Just the thought of eating made you nauseous, but not only did Sam have the keys to your room, but he’d also taken his stubbornness with him on this walk too. Thawing yourself off the stoop, you took one last look at your door and started after Sam. You knew that he was going to use this time to rally, to convince you, and that it would definitely work—so you steeled yourself. Sam couldn’t win. You had to leave.

It was just one dance. One kiss. You knew that. But you were stupid, drunk, in love, and weighed down by years of Dean’s reminder: I’m not good for you.

You hate that he’d been right.

Dean woke up sometime after dawn, but his body was so thoroughly glued to the mattress that he didn’t physically move for at least another hour. Even his routine where am I panic set in later than usual, and Dean was sluggish to answer it:

He was in a motel. That rarely changed. This time it was in… Springfield? Right? Yeah—they’d had fun little town postcards at the front desk, Dean remembered. _____ had studied them while Sam had got them the room, making that funny little hum sound she did when she thought something was quaint. It’d taken Sam only a minute to get their key, and Dean managed to fill that whole minute with nothing but spiraling. She loves kitschy crap like that. Maybe I should swipe one for her. Start a collection or something, make all this back-and-forth driving fun for her. She’s been so patient with us lately, deserves somethin’ to perk her up. Would she like it? Or was that too weird?

Dean groaned at himself—not only was he dealing with a hangover for the record books, but a heavy dose of embarrassment too. God. That woman. Nobody twisted him up like she could.

He kicked at the blankets, wiggling backward onto her side of the bed where the sheets were nice and cold. Usually the two of them cooked under the covers together, but she must’ve been hanging off the other end of the bed to leave so much cool space between them. He reached around with a foot. Nothing.

Huh. He hoped the gut rush of shittiness seeing her side empty was from whatever he’d been drinking last night, not something serious he was forgetting. Since getting up was so, so much uglier than being smushed comfortably in bed, Dean closed his eyes and thought. Counted back. The three of you had just wrapped up for a hunt… gone out for drinks to celebrate… and past that things start to fuzz. There might’a been a screaming match. Dean really wants to lean toward no, but he distinctly remembers being inside while Sam comforted you outside and sort of hating that. It was definitely Dean’s fault. But still, he remembered bitterly stuffing his face in his pillow hearing the soft lilt of your voice through the door—he should’ve been the one to fix things.

He would. Today. Dean laid in bed for a little while longer, but the guilt clawing around in his gut was making it impossible to do anything but overthink. How’d he fuck things over this time, huh? As sucky as it was, his best shot was to get the story from Sam, then figure out where to go from there. With how patient you’d been with him when he’d snapped his collarbone in Illinois, Dean was willing to grovel for forgiveness. This wasn’t the first time he’d hurt your feelings being coarse, but… c’mon. This was you. The only person who knew Dean better was Sam, and his forgiveness was the price of family. Yours was untethered, free, and lovingly given, so Dean tried to cool his mounting panic. You’d talk it out. You’d forgive him, because Dean was stupid lucky to have such a fucking saint in his life.

You loved him, Dean reminded himself, and forced himself to sit up.

The second he’s up and looking at everything, he’s pinched by this sense of wrongness. His duffle’s where he left it at the foot of the bed, the salt lines are clean and uninterrupted, but it’s like everything’s been moved an inch to the left. The pinch turns into a pang. Dean trudges out of bed, suspended in the limbo between his bedside and the open bathroom door. Something is wrong.

Some of your things have been moved, Dean rationalizes. You must be out grabbing breakfast. On stiff legs, Dean moves into the bathroom because, obviously, that’s where your shit would be if he’s not seeing it. Ignoring the bile that rises in him the second he’s moving, Dean purposefully avoids the mirror and hangs in the doorway. All three of you occupied the motels you lived in like you were ready to bolt any second, so there isn’t exactly any toiletries to take note of or clothes to notice… Until Dean circles back to his duffle at the foot of the bed. There’s a set of clothes thrown on top that he hasn’t seen since high school—some ratty sweats, holey winter socks, and two or three tees and shirts lost to time. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they used to belong to him, and just as long to connect them back to you.

These, Dean realized, were your most prized war trophies. Over the years you’d borrowed so many clothes from them that you’d probably modeled the entire Winchester closet. At first just the sleep shirts, but that graduated into tees for casual days and layers to add in wintertime.

By junior year, the half you’d pilfered from Sam was all too big to wear practically. That left Dean’s half, which you essentially lived in. A few of his shirts in particular had become main stays, so Dean had neglected to ask for them back and you’d comfortably forgotten to return them. You had a thing about wearing them around his flings, too, which Dean figured was your cute girl-way of reminding them who’d still be there when they were gone. True to form, they’d always left and you’d always stayed. Dean liked things that way, too.

A real pang of panic rang in his chest. Were you so pissed at him that you’d returned everything you’d borrowed? Or was this something worse?

His panic finds its legs. Not only had your pilfered clothes been returned, but Dean couldn’t find your travel bag. If his duffle is thrown at the end of the bed, and Sam’s is zipped up on the table, then yours had to be in the Impala. It had to be. He picks through the backseat and then graduates to tearing apart the trunk, both of which are void of your things. Your phone isn’t plugged into the wall. Your shoes aren’t by the door. Even the pistol you’d duck-taped under the coffee table was gone, along with the knife behind the headboard. Dean still can’t find your bag. Maybe it’s out in the open and I missed it, he tells himself, but the bathroom and the dressers and under the beds and the front lobby carry no sign of your stuff. Of you ever being there.

His last resort is that you have to be with Sam, who usually goes for a run this early—Sam, who walks in alone, twenty minutes into Dean’s full-body meltdown.

He should assume that you left. Logically, that is what missing keys, phones, toothbrushes and wallets mean, but this is Dean Winchester.

Instead, he assumes: “______’s been taken.”

Right away, Sam deflates. Which is impressive, since he walked in looking pretty wilted already. There are dark smears of purple under his eyes, which are puffy from crying. But that’s not exactly the reaction you want from your brother when you share this kind of thing with him, so the lack of response just spurs Dean into tearing their room apart even more, stone-faced.

“...Dean,” Sam manages.

Dean starts ripping the drawers out of the dresser, like finding one of your socks will be proof that you’re still here.

“She was fucking taken, Sam,” his throat feels tight. “I woke up and all of her shit was packed up and gone—somebody good had to do this, s’mbody who knows what the hell they’re doing, cause’ they knew to make it look like she’d left on her own. May—maybe she went out by herself after we went to sleep? N’ that’s how they took er’?”

His hands are shaking, fighting to get the next drawer off its track. Looking at Sam will just make him fucking implode, so he ignores him, shredding through the room inch by inch. The wheel on the dresser’s track snaps so hard that Sam flinches where Dean can’t see. Somehow, the urge to find expands into something an inch more logical, and he rolls seamlessly into escape mode, tossing his duffle on his bed and shoving the returned clothes inside. In a never-slowing storm, Dean flies around the room and hunts down what isn’t already ready to go in their bags. The adrenaline was starting to cut into his nausea, and the two mixed uncomfortably inside him, each knowing in their own way that something was terribly wrong.

After a long silence, Sam collapses onto the end of his bed and confesses in a small voice, “She left a couple’a hours ago, Dean. On her own.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Dean snorted.

Something patted Dean’s shoulder, and it was a miracle that anything in his bubble didn’t immediately dissolve into molten lava; reining himself in, he turned. Sam was holding a letter.

He shrugged, swallowing thickly. “She said she, uh, needed some time. Not forever, just… time. Wrote you this.”

Dean hung in place. Too quickly, he recovered, and managed the gentleness to take the letter from Sam instead of yanking it away. There was no envelope. Just your tri-fold notebook paper and the bubbly curve of your handwriting on both sides. In the clean white space at the top of the page, you’d written Dean’s name. If he flipped it over and opened it, there would be more bubbly letters strung together in words. Words Dean didn’t have the strength for, right now.

It was easier, much easier, to succumb to the sudden slosh of sickness in him and follow his hangover into the bathroom.

After he empties his stomach and Sam gets some water into him, the crazed packing continues. Your letter goes straight into Dean’s duffle, unread, because Sam asks him what he’s doing, and Dean curtly interrupts him, “What else? We’re gonna go find her.”

Sam avoids his eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Reasonably, Dean knew that Sam had helped you. He’d felt it, seeing him walk in late, seeing him pass off the letter. But it only starts to press on him now, with the alcohol sickness becoming a different kind of sickness within him, the full weight of what exactly Sam has done.

“You fucking didn’t,” Dean snarls. “Tell me you didn’t.”

There’s a flicker of rebellion on Sam’s face, but he subdues it for Dean’s sake. He shrugs, “...She wanted to leave.”

The nearest lamp on the bedside table shatters against the wall with a fierce pop. Dean’s close to tears, he’s so upset, sucking down anguished breaths. This is his worst nightmare. It roars off him all at once, and Sam, the nearest target, takes the brunt of it.

“How could you do this to me? How could you do that to her? She—she can’t survive on her own—!” he lies to himself, “—she needs us—and-and I need her! Why would you just let her walk away? What the fuck, Sam?”

“What was I supposed to do? Handcuff her to the radiator?!” Sam snaps, spreading his arms wide, “It’s her life!”

“With us!” Dean roars. His throat grates with acid and tears.

“With whoever the hell she wants! You should’ve—” Sam argues. He realizes how fruitless all the yelling is, especially with tears smeared in the creases of Dean’s face. “...I can’t speak for her. Read the damn letter.”

“No,” Dean grates. He gets his duffle over his shoulder, his whole body coiling with betrayal. “Get your shit and get in the fucking car. We’re finding her. Where’d you drop her off?”

Of course, Sam refuses to answer. He gives Dean this quiet, desperate look neither of them is good at processing. Dean’s not exactly in the mood to process much of anything, nevermind this, nevermind the mountain of shit he’s messed up between last night and today.

He snarls. “Where, Sam?”

Sam still doesn’t answer. His stubbornness forces an old ugliness out of Dean that he’ll regret later, but, what’s one more thing for the pile, right?

“What?” Dean whips on his brother. “You give that little of a shit about her? You pick up brunch and a smoothie after you left her to fuckin’ rot?” Baring his teeth, he spits, “She’s not running off to Stanford, kid. This is different and you know it.”

The blow lands so hard that Sam bristles, but if you left a couple of hours ago, then he’s had plenty of time to brace himself for the grave Dean had planned to dig himself. After a long, treacherous silence, Sam finds an answer:

“Train station,” Sam’s lip curls. “But she made sure I drove off before I could see if she even walked in. She’s just like you n’ me, so she’s probably two states over by now—”

Dean slams the front door before he can finish.

It takes Dean four miserable hours to chase the specific bus you’d taken over the border to Connecticut, two days to pinpoint the lousy 83’ Mercury Capri you’d bought, in cash, from a dentist in New Hartford, and another to find it trunk-first in the Connecticut river, stripped entirely of your things. Sam fights him all the way to Brooklyn, which turns out to be a last-ditch distraction tactic. Dean had figured you’d head somewhere busy to shake them, but instead, you’d turned West, to Tulsa.

At the end of the week he finds you waitressing in a little dive just outside town. It’s a long chase, by their standards. As anguished as Dean felt, he couldn’t help nursing a warped sense of pride: his girl was good. Lesser hunters would’ve never caught up with you.

The Impala coasted along the buckling sidewalk framing the lot and stilled, idling on anxious wheels. Dean left sometime after Sam fell asleep. A whole week of non-stop pursuit had almost burned the spirit out of him. Sam’s moral needling never stopped, not until the silence burning up between them was as light as a slab of concrete. Twice now Dean was tempted to cut and leave without him, but the dark swimming part of Dean’s mind knew he deserved the constant backlash. She doesn’t want to see you, Sam had spit once, she needs time.

But the thing was that you’d never needed time before. The only time you’d needed in the past was the minutes it took for you to say, you’ve hurt my feelings, Dean, and the time it took for him to drop into your lap and bemoan his apologies until you were in stitches. He’d clutch your pantleg in his fists and fake-sob, Oh, baby, I’ll never forgive myself fer hurtin’ you! There was a familiar dance to it. At first, you’d stifle your smile and shove at him, all tough n’ girly-like. Dean would hunt down your nearest ticklish spot until your anger was a funny thing you’d both forgotten about, then sink into an apology he really meant. It worked every time and you knew it worked every time, but. Dean would drop his head into your lap and the first thing he’d feel was your hand on his back, keeping him there.

You’d never needed time before. You’d never needed space, because Dean was your space, with no room for anyone else to squirm in between.

It’s been days, man, Sam had said, endlessly. Just read her letter. Just read it.

He’d tried. More than once, he’d steeled himself enough to find it at the bottom of his bag and open it up, but beyond those steps was a whole new hell. He gets three words in and is immediately split open like a deer carcass in the sun. I’m sorry, Dean. Just that is enough to make him carefully re-fold the letter back on its seams.

There, in the parking lot of your bar in Tulsa, Dean finally finds the endurance to shovel past that first line. Originally, his plan isn’t really a plan at all—he’ll swing inside, convince you to come home, get some dinner in you and give “making things right” his best shot. But those are just ideas with no ground to stand on beyond what Sam has told him. And what Sam has told him sounds like, l-like horseshit, something Dean would hunt one of your shitty ex-boyfriends down for. To him, it sounds like something irreparable. That feeling is starting to find its roots.

By the flaxen street light, he spreads the thin notebook paper out on his thigh, careful not to smudge the hurried pen with his fingers. He reads it once and only once, unable to stomach any more.

The Impala pulls out of the lot and slinks back to their motel.

The next day, Dean loads his brother into the Impala, picks a direction, and drives.

His instincts settle back onto their monotonous track, and within a week he and Sam are cutting down vamps in Montana. Only once does Sam ask about what happened, and Dean only shuts him down once for the two of them to return to the Winchester default: not talking about it. Sam clearly wants to, squirming with unspoken questions when they find your spare boots kicked under Baby’s front seat or dodge hunters who’d ask around for you. Dean feels like ripping out his own entrails every time Sam itches to bring you up, but draws blood from his lip instead. When Sam’s out of resolve and Dean’s alone, he presses his face into the shirts you’d borrowed, soaked all the way through with your perfume, choking down tears that don’t do nothin’ for nobody. Especially Dean, who hasn’t cried in front of anyone but you since he was nine.

It’s like he’s lost a limb, left only with the phantom grasping feel of it. Dean definitely copes like a man who’s lost a leg. Sam leaves the issue alone, for the most part, trying to trick himself into being content with you being where you want to be. Meanwhile, Dean’s flask graduates from his duffle to his jacket. Hunting stops being a distraction and gradually opens up into a dangerous sinkhole.

The following weeks reek with deja vu. Silences stretched, gaps in their routine yawned wider, every inch of their never-ending road trip scrubbed raw with impressions of you. Dean must’ve checked the rear-view a thousand times, running on that same old instinct to steal looks at you in the backseat. The whole universe had been kicked off its axis by the aftermath, causing a run of bad luck worthy of a horror movie. Dean’s gun started jamming inexplicably; they’re caught by cops in Indiana and have to circle back two weeks later for the car, which is stripped of everything they’ve got; he almost loses Sam getting their arsenal back from an evidence lockup in Fort Wayne. Scrubbing his brother’s caked blood out of the steering wheel one afternoon, Dean knows that it’s more than luck he’s lost.

When you were stressed or feeling stuck, you’d lay out all their weapons on the bedspread—reminding Dean not to plop his ass down without looking first—and clean them each meticulously. The way you did it sort of reminded him of sewing. You’d count under your breath, so versed in the steps you’d created that you didn’t even have to watch your hands. Sometimes this ritual collided with the nights you polished up your poker skills together, and if Dean listened between hands, there was your counting. Four. Take off the slide. Five. Scrub the frame. If Dean’s pistol landed in the pile, you’d forget you were winning altogether and sink into deeper focus, pretty brows furrowed and your lips in a soft line. Dean’s gun never jammed if you’d been the one to clean it.

You were stealthier, more unassuming, with the kind of easy smile that policemen looking for fugitives glossed over. The cops in Indiana would’ve glossed over you, too. You were the third support beam that kept them sturdy—with you at Dean’s six, he and Sam would’ve smuggled back the arsenal with no problem. And even if there’d been trouble… well. This was you. Lose-a-car-in-the-river-on-purpose you, who Dean could always rely on to back his play.

When Sam has to drive him home from the bar one night, Dean slurs, Everythin’. Everythin’ goes to shit without ‘er.

Those thoughts crept up on him again and again, preying on him in low moments. He buried them under everything close enough to grab, keep the salt lines clean, call Jody, fix the car, but everything thrown on top of his memories of you swayed and shuddered, demanding to be dug up. Dean knew that he’d betrayed you. Already that was unforgivable, but by hurting you he’d broken a blood oath as old as your friendship. At fifteen Dean had sworn to protect you, only to turn around now and wound you so viciously that you couldn’t even bring yourself to say goodbye to him. Not in person. Not in the letter.

It was the one detail his heart couldn’t stop fixating on, no matter how deep Dean buried you. He knew you better than anyone, and you never said goodbye unless things were truly over.

He’d heard you sob it into Sam’s shoulder before he left for school. When the hellhounds came for him in New Harmony, you’d resisted, clutching Dean’s jacket in both hands and weeping instead, “I’ll see you.”

You’d never said goodbye to him.

This turns into a notion, then a stupid idea, then a plan that Dean rolls around in the bottom of his glass, considering. He could get that goodbye from you. He could knock on your window like he’d done when you were kids, say his piece, and then let the grass eat his boots as he waits for you to truly finish this.

He could get that goodbye from you. It’d kill him, but Dean wasn’t sure he could go on without it.

Five minutes into his drive to DeLancey’s Pub and Bar, the slimy dive you waitressed in around the dicier ends of Tulsa, Dean realizes that he’s not even sure if you’re working tonight.

The drive was long—long enough to swerve Dean’s confidence in every single direction possible, until the revving toughness he’d gathered had swan-dived into gut-clenching fear. Two hours ago he’d been combing through articles for a case. Something had compelled him into the car, something bone-deep and inescapable, and if Dean was being truthful with himself it had everything to do with the strange adrenaline he got just being in the same state as you. Twice, he swore he’d seen your face among the officers at the station and blending into the diner crowd at breakfast. He knew that you were a whole town away and intent on not seeing him, but. Dean could sense the divide between you like the childhood home he’d never known. It was a distance he could close and map in his sleep, and after another night jolting out of a nightmare and into a bed empty of you, Dean was exhausted. He missed you so much he was sick, choking back mouthfuls of guilt just thinking of you. He missed you so much that the drive to you could’ve been measured in inches, and the walk to the Impala was even smaller, calling to him.

Waking up, he’d sensed it. Tonight was gonna be different.

Things had started off strong. The second Dean had turned the key and pointed the Impala toward Tulsa, his hands on the wheel were sure as all hell. I’m gonna tell her all my cruddy fuckin’ feelings and get all this cruddy fuckin’ honesty out of the way, then either we make up or she gives me the boot. Simple as that. Nothin’ to it. That was as far as his planning went, since that’s as far as Dean could handle thinking into your future. By the time Dean was off the highway his plan had started eating itself, circling constantly back to your letter to him. But he was already halfway there, then over halfway, and giving up became an increasingly spineless option.

Along the way, I’m gonna give it to her straight, slowly, bloodily evolved into, I’m bringing her the fuck home.

Dean’s propelled himself forward so hard just to get here, so the Impala’s still rolling into park when he clambers out and onto the gravel. His heart is pounding like thunder in his ears but it’s nothing compares to the screaming silence that stands between where the Impala’s sitting and where you must be. DeLancey’s is the only kind of place Dean could picture you working; somewhere low and unglamorous, like any other bar you and Dean had skulked around in your twenties. You lived for skeevy places like this, the shabbier the better, and privately Dean had always thought you were too pretty to exist in places like those. But he’d seen you under neon beer lights so often that you’d sort of claimed it for yourself, this strange brand of cigar-smoke beauty that made Dean’s ears warm.

He thinks of that image and can’t help but need himself to be there, to be with you like he always has, and that’s what gets him across the gravel and through the door.

Either this is a hunter’s bar or the place is packed full of demons, because the second Dean bangs inside, making a few heads jerk up with the noise of it, those heads immediately swivel to whisper to each other. What’s that Winchester boy doing here? Anyone who knows you knows there’s only one answer. The bartender looks up from the drink he was making. The host awkwardly shrinks behind her podium, freezing like everyone else in the room. For just an instant he has the whole saloon itching toward their pistols, and Dean lives off the warped satisfaction he gets from that until the kitchen door swings open for a huge tray of drinks.

Hefting it over one shoulder, you slip easily out from behind the bar and pass the drinks over to a table of hunters. There’s a resonating shock that sizzles through Dean’s system, seeing you. It’s the strange pleasure of confirmation, of knowing that you’re real, that you’re someone he can lay eyes on instead of a slow-fading memory. In your element, you’re… Dean swallows. You’re still you. One of the hunters says something to you, and you snap back in a way that has them all roaring with laughter. All doubt left Dean’s body, and standing there, he’s winded by the single-minded purpose that got him there in the first place. He’s getting you home.

At full tilt, Dean bee-lines for you.

The harsh sound of boot steps makes you glance up, and with it the chatter of the hunters dies away. Your expression doesn’t shift from your usual calm, arrow-eyed look, empty of anger or loneliness or happiness. Just calm, like you knew he’d find you, you’re just surprised it took him this long. You take a cool step away from the table to stand at your full height, and an old shivery warmth flutters down his spine. Yeah. There was his girl, tough as a fuckin’ tank.

“Dean,” you murmured, a greeting.

He wants to murmur your name with the same sweetness. He wants to scoop his arm around your waist like he used to and shove his face in your neck like he used to, spilling his guts in ways he’d only spilled to you. He wants to do this the easy way, but that’s not exactly his default.

Dean swings in, snapping, “Get outside. I’m telling you something whether you like it or not, n’ don’t think I won’t drag you if I have to.”

Your brows fly up your forehead. “Wow.”

Right along with you, the hunters with the front-row seats to the scene Dean’s making bristle in tandem. Some of the guys at the bar twist around on their stools to throw Dean barbed looks, and really, he shouldn’t have underestimated your ability to assemble so many minions like this, since he and Sam had been your minions from day one. The guy closest to Dean makes a big show of scraping his chair back and growling, which Dean pities him for. Get in line, pal.

“That’s my friend you’re talkin’ to, chisel chest. If you know what’s good for you, I’d get the fuck outta’ here,” says Asshole #1 of 4, and the threat hasn’t even landed before you’re neatly cutting through him, “—mind your damn business, Tommy, he has just as much a right to be here as anyone else.”

At your request the other hunters simmer down, and, ignoring Dean, you scoop up your empty tray and deliver it to the bar. All the energy he’d rationed in the car starts to seep out of him, since. Well. Still, after all this time, you didn’t hesitate to bare your teeth for him. With the wind successfully taken out of Dean’s sails, he tries not to twitch in place as you round’ the bar, brush past him and gesture for him to follow you out a side exit.

Your silence terrifies the hell out of him, so adding the hanging quiet of the parking lot to the equation makes Dean’s nerves crawl. He hadn’t realized how loud it’d been in there until you were isolated outside, the rowdy Friday night chatter softened behind the door. Swaying next to you on legs he’s forgotten how to use, a dart of something mean and cold hits Dean in the chest. On the other side of the door, where the lights are dim but warm and the air sings with the tang of alcohol, Don Henley floats into the first lyrics of One of These Nights.

Even now, your magic sways over him. Across from him on the gravel, you stuff your hands under your arms and huff a strand of hair out of your face, glowing gold by the creamy moonlight. If this was any other night of the year that the two of you had fallen out of a bar together, Dean would ask you to dance with him right here by the dumpsters. You’d say yes. He knew you would’ve said yes, then.

“You worried me sick,” is the first thing Dean manages to say. “Wakin’ up, finding you gone—I thought someone had fuckin’ took you, y’know that?”

This is apparently the wrong thing to say, because the coolness in your expression coasts straight into bitterness. Regardless, Dean rolls right past it and right into nervous, emotional ranting.

“I know what I did. I know I don’t deserve shit for it,” he chokes out, “but you could’ve at least said goodbye t’ me! I deserved to know you’d be safe! If you couldn’t… If I was hurtin’ you too much, and if I wasn’t listenin’, you had every right to get the fuck out of there and make your own life somewhere else. But after—after bein’ with me for so, so damn long, so long I don’t even remember how we met, you couldn’t even say goodbye? Nothing? I just have to live with the fact that I don’t even ‘member the last time we fuckin’ talked to each other? Don’t even get to see my best fuckin’ friend one last time?”

“No,” you scowled. “No, you fuckin’ don’t. Because we’ve never been just friends, Dean, and even if you knew that you still played with my feelings. Why the hell would I even want to look at you again? Why do you deserve that?”

Dean flinched. He sputtered on his answer, of course, because he’d never been able to keep his head straight around you. Not now, not ever. “...I guess I don’t. But, um… I know this doesn’t mean much anymore, but…” He closed his hand into a fist, like it was possible to draw in raw courage from the air. “You’re right. We’ve never really been… just plain friends, and—”

“We’ve said I love you,” you scoffed, “We’ve kissed! We’ve spent four whole years on the road together, with nobody but each other, and even years after that you still can’t even admit it to my face! Can’t even say it!”

Dean’s hands are shaking, and in a rush he says, “Yeah? And you wanna know why? Cause’ the second I do, the second it’s out of my mouth, you’re dead. You hear me? A target drops on your back so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

Honest to God, you start laughing, the scary hunter’s laugh that only bled out of you in the thick of a chase. “I’m already dead!” You budge him with your fists, almost pushing him back a foot, “We’re both already dead! None of that bullshit matters! Wouldn’t you rather we use the fucking time we’ve got instead of sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? Dean, come on!”

“Of course I do!” He roars. You’re close enough to grab, so he does, ripping you toward him by the wrists, “That’s all I’ve wanted!” He sucks down the cool night air and the little breaths puffing out of you, panting, “You’re all I’ve fucking wanted. Since the last time we were here. Since way before then. But the minute—the second they know that, Hell or—o-or whoever’s after us now, they’re gonna take advantage of that.”

The look on your face is frozen still with mute shock. Choking down another dose of guilt, Dean drops your wrists and suppresses the urge to pull you back in, to squeeze you against him, to kiss you stupid like he’d done years ago.

“Don’t think for one second that I don’t want you,” Dean rasped. “But I’d rather have you livin’ than be with you dead, you get me?”

You closed your eyes. Tears squeezed down your face, rolling around the curve of your cheeks. You grit, “I’m sick of having this argument, Dean.”

Then, the pull to reach out for you grew too great, and Dean couldn’t help but cup one side of your neck. He swallowed, thickly. “I know, baby girl.”

Starved for contact, you dug your nails into the material of his sleeve and did your best to speak. “If I go back with you,” you rattled out. “If I go back w’ you, sittin’ with this is gonna kill me. Can’t wait anymore. Can’t sit in the damn car while you run off with other people. I have t’ go. I love you, but I gotta go.”

Dean was sick of having this argument too. After years and years of it weighing on the two of you like a black hole, of this same old story returning every so often to throw a fresh gap between you both, Dean had hit his limit. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do to keep you living and happy. But this pressure on his heart was heavier than the damn sky, and now more than ever he wanted to let it go. Find another way. Choose you.

He overspills.

“I love you too,” Dean gushed, and from there, poured the rest of his heart out onto the wet asphalt. “Love you so much it makes me damn sick. Makes me all stupid and mushy on the inside, which is probably half the reason I’ve made it this far. Having you gone has just made it worse—the road’s too quiet and the backseat’s always cold, like everything else’s sick too. S’ made me realize that I—I-I can’t do this without you. Everythin’. Livin’ like this. I tried for your sake, I honestly did, but god, baby, I need you home. I need you to come home.”

“Dean—”

“Let me finish!” Dean barked, and the sloping misery on your face paused. “I know why you left. Shit, I’d leave too if the one person I… if that one person kept treating me the way I was treatin’ you. Fuck, _____, if this was some other guy? Doing this to you? I’d kill him. Acid bath, hit him with my car, something. I’d kill him. And I’d—”

Dean stops himself, realizing the spiral he’s throwing himself down. “You’re everything t’ me,” he gasped. “So get in the damn car and just come home.”

In the thousand-foot-drop-silence that follows, the only sound capable of puncturing the space between the two of you is, as always, One of These Nights. Inside DeLancey’s, there are a few couples swinging along to the beat, but all of the real fever is out here, thundering in Dean’s chest. There’s only one time he ever relinquishes his control over his feelings out in the open: here, as the Eagles sing your signature song. Dean’s eyes are only on you.

“C’mon, _____,” he pleads, one last time. Again, he’s compelled by something beyond himself, and with nothing left to lose he starts to sing, smiling without feeling. “Oooh,” Dean croons, “loneliness will blind you, in between th’ wrong and th’ right…”

Here it is. You drag in a breath with all the weight of the world on it, and Dean knows what will follow. The goodbye.

Despite yourself, an amused little smile presses through the seams of your composure. You sober yourself. “... Things are gonna have to change, Dean.”

He’s not sure what that means. But it sounds good, and there’s still an optimist swirling around in him somewhere. “Yeah. Of-of course, anything. We can talk about it more, but… I’m willing to put you before anything. I should’ve put you before anything, before.”

You nod. “...Okay. Lemme go tell the other girls on shift.”

That’s good. That’s good, Dean realizes, and without meaning to he beams, blinking hard. You’re coming back with him. That’s what that means, right? Relief rushes through him so fast that he almost faints. Not so prepared to trust it, Dean’s eyes roam across your face for hesitation or displeasure or anger—and some of it’s there. There are still things to fix, still changes to be made, but. On top of all that is beautiful, sweet-tasting relief that Dean feels like collapsing under. You’re coming home.

“Just like that?” Dean asks, and he really shouldn’t be grinning, not until he’s sure and you’ve said it, but he can’t help it.

The tears still beading in your eyes slip into the pressed line of your lips, where a guarded smile is growing. You start nodding and then you don’t stop nodding, sobbing in earnest, and since it hasn’t screwed him over yet Dean follows his instinct to scoop you into a deep hug. You’re a little chilly and you smell a bit like pub food, making Dean’s heart squeeze with nostalgia. God, he fucking missed his girl. You grope around his back for something to cling to and fist both hands in his jacket til’ your fingers ache, and Dean explodes with gratefulness so pure he sways in place with you, squeezing you tight around the shoulders. You’re here and you’re alive and you don’t fucking hate him. Dean would take that and this stilted happiness over anything.

“This is all I wanted, D,” you hiccup. “You never say it, n’ I-I just need to hear it, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did this to us.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ to apologize for,” Dean soothes, but you interrupt him.

“I was too much of an idiot to say goodbye,” you shook your head, smooshing your face into his jacket. “Too scared,” you confessed, and your voice was even scratchy from crying. “I didn’t want it to be over for real. Didn’t wanna close that door forever.”

Dean sloped his palm down your hair, your back, your arm, soaking you in every way he could. “M’ glad you didn’t. I’m sorry I pushed you to any of this, darlin’. I’m sorry too.”

You peel yourself off him just far enough to flash him a wolfish, tear-streaked grin. “Oh, I know you are. Are you ready to be makin’ it up to me for the rest of your life, Winchester?”

Dean makes the mistake of indulging your taunts with a chuckle, which puts this light in your eyes that he never wants to let go of. You swish in real close to his face, threatening with a big, 1000-watt smile, “Pucker up, cowboy, because you’ve got a lot of ass-kissing to do.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, wetting his lips. His belly warmed at the nickname. “So come here, ass.”

It’s not often that Dean has the pleasure of making you so flustered your face steams. He never gets to see it this close, either, so he leans further in to put it all to memory, which just makes your cheeks hotter. Your eyes dart across his face, wild and nervous. Dean’s smile sinks into a nasty smirk because, there you are, tough as nails and melting into your shoes at the thought of kissing him. It’s a lucky thing you’re so distracted. Maybe if you weren’t you’d notice how Dean’s hands are trembling, how his mouth’s watering. His whole nervous system flips when you reign him in by a fist in his collar, and he’s pretty sure his soul levitates out of his body when you kiss him.

One kiss turns into two, then three. Your lips are smooth with vanilla chapstick, and it only takes a minute for it to be all over Dean’s face—his mouth most of all, but the corners of his lips and his chin, too. You’ve always been the sweet one, but something about finally being subject to it melts the iron ball of anxiety in his gut. He kisses back like it’s his damn job, pouring his confession, his apologies into you, cupping your face, dimpling your cheeks with his thumbs. You’re softer than he remembers, and the fact that he could be forgetting anything at all about the last night you spent in Tulsa together makes him starved to remember this.

By some twist of fate, Bad Company’s Ready For Love plays next on the cue inside. With you cozy in his arms, his body works on muscle memory, and soon you’re swaying back and forth as you kiss, dipping in close for sweet pecks of each other.

“I love you,” he thinks he hears you say.

Playfully, Dean budges your nose with his and sing-songs, “Can’t hear you!”

“I said,” you took in a big breath, “I LOVE YOU TOO, asshole.”

Dean dissolves into chuckles, which are happily interrupted by more insistent kisses. You’re almost ten whole feet from where you started, and scooping up your hand, Dean starts the trek backward to where the Impala is parked. It’s your home as much as it’s his, so you barely need him to take the lead to find it among the other cars.

“Hm,” you say, “Maybe the girls will just figure out for themselves why I’m gone, yeah?”

“They’ll survive without you,” Dean shrugs. “You got other people who need you.”

“Need me,” you say, just rolling the unfamiliar words around in your mouth. Dean feels another pang of guilt; he could’ve sworn he’d told you that more, could’ve sworn he showed his love to you every day. Another thing to change.

“Yeah, need you,” Dean mutters, and he doesn’t mean to expose the desire rolling around in his belly, but there it is. He wants to take it back as soon as it leaves his mouth, but the second you get a taste of it, you’re hooked. A beat later he’s being pushed up against the driver’s door of the car and kissed stupid, warm and wet and so much of what he remembers. Fantasizes about.

In the next kiss a gentle hand grabs at the clasp to his belt buckle. Instantly, Dean pulls back to speak.

“Sweet pea,” he manages, trying so hard to be reasonable and good and everything that you deserve. You laugh at the nickname, which eases his mind a bit. “...You sure you don’t wanna wait? I think I got other things to prove t’ you, first.”

You draw him into a deep, lingering siren’s kiss that leaves his knees threatening to lock and his common sense threatening to bend.

“Can’t wait any longer,” your eyes burn like cigarettes, all heat. Quietly, you ask him, “Prove to me I’m your favorite. That m’ the only girl you’re looking at.”

There’s the underlying desperation to your voice that goes beyond just wanting to have sex with him. This is confirmation of something to you, something you need to hear, to feel. So Dean guides you into the backseat and proves it to you.

This is not at all where he expected this night to go, and he’s grateful that he’d lost the opportunity to overthink himself into his grave. There’s no room for Dean to worry if he was really good enough for you, if he deserved this, because these things are proven to him too. You slot so perfectly into his lap that he knows the moment you’re out of it he’ll be battered with homesickness. For long breaths there’s no kissing at all, just Dean nuzzling his face into your neck and committing each second to memory. When you do kiss him it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before, this grand, surging happiness that ripples through him head-to-toe. Each kiss has a new kind of gentleness, and before either one of you starts to strip Dean knows that you want more than what he’s about to give you—you want him, and that feeling is an old comfort.

Knowing your famous attitude, Dean would’ve bet money on you taking control, but for whatever reason you step back and let him make the first move. Again, it tells him that this is his chance to tell you something, to make it clear that he wants you and he’s going to show it. So he does. Your fingers in his hair are all the invitation he needs.

Dean scrapes his palms up your back as you kiss, soaking up every naked inch of skin he’s allowed. You’re making all these soft little noises that make the pressure in his jeans unbearable, so with the next drag of his hands he’s intent on seeing what you’ll feel like naked in his lap. When your uniform is nothing but a memory and your throat’s slick with hickeys, you try out a new way of teasing him, murmuring in that caramel voice how long you’ve wanted to feel him inside you. After that he doesn’t even care about being fully naked—but you clearly do. He puts your roaming hands on his belt. I want you to do this part, I want it to be you who opens me up. You kiss him so intensely that Dean doesn’t even remember when or how his belt comes off. Or his shirt, or his jeans, or his boots, gulping down your love potion by the gallon.

All he knows is pretty girl, his pretty girl, and swaths of hot sweat-tacky skin on top of him. You hesitate to close that final gap between you once the condom’s on, so Dean whispers whiskey-warm assurances in your ear as he cups the curve of your ass and slides you onto him. The moan that presses out of you pours right into your next kiss, then the next, and the next. It takes everything in him to start slow; Dean gives you two deep, fulfilling grinds across his lap. The rippling squeeze of you around him is too good to be real. You press your lips into his, then his nosebridge, his forehead, urging him on, and that’s all Dean needs to let go. He cups the dip of your back, shoves his face in your neck and just loses it.

Dean rocks you across his lap at a vicious, pounding tempo, giving you his all. The whole time his head bumps against the height of the seat, craning to watch the perfect little shifts in your expression. You’ve got your eyes squeezed shut and your lips parted. His lap is slick with you, making the grind, the chase, the rush to the finish come faster and faster. He could’ve gotten off on the sounds you were making alone. They turn into full-on squeals when Dean slides his fingers between your legs, and a flush of I love you I love you I love you bursts out of him when the hot silk wrapped around him clamps even tighter. You cum almost sobbing his name, and Dean coos you through it, his thighs cramping with effort. But it’s all worth it—you’ve always been worth it.

He finishes with your hands combing through his sweat-damp hair, echoing back to him the three words he’d been chanting the entire time.

It’s a few hours before dawn when you land in Sam and Dean’s motel a town over. Dean had wanted to get back earlier, intent on having you back as soon as possible, but it’d taken a bit to pack your stuff into the Impala and drive home. You’d commented on being hungry on the way back too, which ended with Dean pouring an entire gas station’s worth of snacks into your lap at three in the morning.

By then it’d gotten too cold out to be comfortable, so it was tempting to succumb to sleep in front of the Impala’s heaters. But robbing yourself of any time with Dean wasn’t an option, so you pushed through, feet aching after an eight-hour shift and body glowing with Dean’s affection. You nibbled on twinkies in the passenger’s seat, happy that he was happy. He kept the radio off to hear you, but hummed when the conversation peacefully faded. I can hear the train a’ comin’, it’s rollin’ round the bend…

Sam was waiting for you on the stoop outside the room when you pulled up, and did an impressively poor job at containing himself. He’d gotten his arms around you before your door was fully shut, and when you were back on your feet his brother took up your other side. Together, you herded each other into the cozy darkness of the motel. Someone said something about unpacking your things; but all three of you were tired, so that thought was saved for tomorrow.

Dean tossed his jacket on the back of a chair. Sam rearranged the salt lines on the window sills with a careful hand. You fumbled into the first pajamas you could find (aka, the hoodies in Dean’s duffle that rightfully belonged to you), and crash straight into bed, too lazy to kiss goodnight like usual. When the lights were off and the boys were down too, you stretched a hand out from under your comforter and reached across the bed’s gap.

“Goodnight, Sam,” you told him, wiggling your fingers.

His whole hand engulfed yours in a warm, I missed you squeeze, and then he was rolling onto his stomach and sinking like a rock into sleep.

When you twisted onto your other side, Dean was already there, propped up on an elbow. His broad hand on your shoulder smoothed across your belly to pull you into him. Once you were close enough to kiss, he disregarded your cheek and your forehead entirely, dipping in for a real kiss that tingled all the way down to your toes.

“G’night,” Dean whispered.

Welling with too much emotion to put into words, you willed it all into a simple and loving, “Goodnight, cowboy.”

Together, you snuggled down into your blankets and crashed, content.

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss

#dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #user uncouth #uncouthspn #supernatural #spn #Spotify

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cobrakaisb · 1 year

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guys i hit 1.3k followers this morning. thank you all so much for following my blog and reading the stuff i put out! 💗

i’d love to do a small blurb weekend to celebrate, so send in whatever!!

thanks again!! love you all 💗💗

#1.3k is crazy #love you guys #speaking from the heart #cobrakaisb blurb celly #umich hockey #robby keene #kent johnson #matt boldy #owen power #thomas bordeleau #brendan brisson #luke hughes #ethan edwards

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misshoneyimhome · 3 days

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「5️⃣0️⃣0️⃣ FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION」

“So you think my legs are just going to magically spread open for you?" I Andrei Svechnikov 🌺 5️⃣0️⃣0️⃣

Summary; Andrei is keen on asking you out, but considering the typical traits of famous hockey players, you've made a mental note never to be swept off your feet by any of them.

Tropes & warnings; No warnings; reader's working for the Carolina Hurricanes; sort of friends-to-lovers; just fluff really

Other notes; Alrighty babes, so next up for the 500 followers celebration we've got none other than #37 Andrei S. 💓 Truth be told, I wanted to do something like an enemies-to-lovers thing, but I just couldn't with this sweetheart 😉 Still, I hope you like it

Word count; 1.9K

Taglist; @couldawouldashoulda50 @findapenny@justwanderingbutneverlost @cixrosie

・✶ ｡ﾟ

Another night. Another home game. Another round of work.

You had been working with the Carolina Hurricanes for a few years, and even though you were just an assistant helping with game preparations and clean-up, you felt like nothing less than a part of the hockey family. The players were always friendly, treating you like one of their own, and you simply enjoyed the camaraderie, the playful teasing, and the way they appreciated your hard work.

Some players had even grown closer to you than others, and one in particular stood out: Andrei Svechnikov. It wasn't just his skills on the ice but also how he seemed genuinely interested in you.

From the moment Andrei had seen your sweet smile, he’d been captivated. He admired how you handled your tasks with efficiency and grace, always ready with a kind word or a quick joke. And over time, his crush only grew stronger, yet he didn’t know how to make a move. So he just watched you from the corner of his eye, noticing all the little things: the way you bit your lip when you were focused, the way you laughed with your whole body, and the way your eyes sparkled when you were amused. All these small details only intensified his feelings.

And while not entirely knowing how to handle his own feelings, he, like many young guys on the team, resorted to occasional flirting, trying to get your attention without coming on too strong. He’d make sure to catch your eye during practice, offering a wink or a smile, and he’d find excuses to talk to you, asking for your help with something trivial just to hear your voice. Sometimes, he’d even leave small gifts in your work area – a protein bar, a coffee, a note with a silly drawing – always signed with a simple "A."

You, however, weren’t easily impressed. You knew the reputation hockey players had and had no intention of becoming another story in their dating history. You’d heard the tales of their exploits and the endless parade of girls vying for their attention, and you simply didn’t need to be another notch on anyone’s bedpost, least of all a professional athlete’s. Besides, you liked your job and didn’t want to complicate things with a messy romance.

Yet, despite your resolve, there was something about Andrei that intrigued you. Maybe it was the way he seemed genuinely kind and respectful, never pushing boundaries. Or perhaps it was how he listened when you talked, giving you his full attention as if you were the only person in the room. There were even moments when you caught yourself watching him, appreciating the way he moved, the determination in his eyes, the easy grace with which he handled himself both on and off the ice.

But sill, you kept your guard up, distancing yourself with playful banter and cheeky remarks. Whenever he tried to flirt, you’d respond with a teasing comment, deflecting his advances with a laugh, as it was just easier that way, safer. You didn’t want to risk getting hurt, and you certainly didn’t want to become just another girl on his life.

Andrei, on the other hand, was determined to show you he wasn’t like the rest. He was so much more, and his feelings for you meant something to him. He respected your boundaries, never pushing too hard, and always making sure you were comfortable. His patience was unwavering, and his interest in you was steadfast, so he wanted to prove that he was different and that he cared for you in a way that went beyond superficial attraction.

And the challenge only made him more determined, as he found himself thinking about you more and more. How could he show you that he was serious, that he was genuinely interested in who you were, not just what you looked like? It was a question that kept him up at night, but one he was determined to answer. So, he continued his quiet pursuit, hoping that one day, you’d see him for who he truly was.

However, your defence mechanism didn’t make it easier for him. Your playful banter and cheeky remarks were a strategy that allowed you to maintain a comfortable distance. So when Andrei commented your work, it only made it more difficult for him to get past your walls. Every time he approached you with a compliment, you’d respond with a teasing, “Careful, Svechnikov, flattery may help with ladies out there, but in here, it will get you nowhere.” Even if he simply asked about your day, you’d throw in a cheeky, “Why, planning to steal my job?”

It wasn’t easy for Andrei to make a proper move on you, but as time went on, he kept his hopes high. He even practised a few English phrases that might help when the day finally came for him to ask you out.

And fortunately, that day wasn’t too far away.

One evening, as you were packing up equipment after a game, Andrei lingered nearby, as he’d often done before. The locker room was mostly empty, with the other players having already left or showered, and that’s when he gathered the courage to approach you, his usual confidence mingling with a hint of nervousness.

"Hey, need any help with that?" he offered, his accent colouring his words charmingly.

You looked up, slightly surprised that he hadn’t left like everyone else. "Oh, Andrei, you don’t have to do that. I’m almost done anyway." You flashed him a soft smile.

He couldn’t help but smile in return, leaning against the doorway. "I don’t mind. Besides, I wanted to talk to you."

And that made you raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued. "Oh? What about?"

Andrei hesitated for a moment before gently stepping closer to you, leaving only about a metre and a half between you. "I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime. Just us. Maybe dinner?"

You chuckled, shaking your head slightly. "Why?"

It wasn’t an immediate no, he thought to himself, though he felt a slight disappointment when you questioned his intentions.

"So we could spend some time alone together," he emphasised, trying to flash a confident smirk, hiding any hints of nervousness.

However, that only made you think one thing.

"What... is this a bet or something? You ask me out on a date, and you think my legs are just going to magically spread open for you?" You grinned slightly, convinced that the other boys had set him up to it or something.

Andrei's face immediately turned bright red, clearly taken aback by your bluntness. "No, no! That’s not what I meant at all. I just... I really like you y/n, and I want to get to know you better. I’m not like what people say about hockey players. I promise."

You studied his face for a moment, trying to see any hints of falseness or sincerity in his eyes. And so, for a moment, you let your guard down, sensing he might actually be different. "Hmm… Alright, Andrei. One dinner. But if you try anything, you’ll be back to carrying your own gear. Got it?"

He couldn’t help but smile, a sense of relief washing over him. "Got it. I’ll be on my best behaviour."

And as you finished packing up, Andrei helped, and the two of you exchanged playful banter. Maybe, just maybe, he was worth giving a chance.

---

The next day, you found yourself thinking about the upcoming dinner more than you’d like to admit. You replayed the conversation in your mind: the way his eyes lit up when you agreed, the genuine relief in his smile. And it was enough to make you wonder if perhaps you had been too quick to judge him.

And when the evening finally arrived, Andrei gallantly picked you up, looking more nervous than you had ever seen him.

“Wow, you look… krasivaya…” he muttered under his breath as his English failed him.

“Thanks,” you smiled softly, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as you felt your cheeks blush slightly at his compliment. “You look quite good yourself.”

Standing there in the outfit you’d chosen for the night, it seemed that everything was suddenly changing, feeling more soft and romantic compared to the friendly banter you’d been playing at for months, if not years. Similarly, Andrei had chosen to dress up, trading his usual team gear for a smart, casual outfit that suited him well.

And aware of your fondness for casual dinners, the restaurant he had chosen was a cosy Italian place, far from the glitzy spots the players usually frequented. It was intimate, with soft lighting and a warm atmosphere that quickly put you both at ease.

Throughout the evening, you found yourself enjoying his company more than you expected. The conversation flowed easily, and you discovered sides of Andrei you hadn’t seen before. And as the night went on, you realised that maybe, just maybe, you had been too quick to judge. Andrei was different from the image you had of a typical hockey player, and you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope that this could actually be the start of something special.

Throughout dinner, he was nothing but attentive, asking questions and genuinely listening to your answers. He shared stories from his childhood in Russia, his journey to the NHL, and the challenges he faced along the way. In turn, you found yourself opening up more than you expected, sharing your own dreams and fears.

So when the evening slowly drew to a close, Andrei naturally walked you back to your place. And as often happens in situations like this, there was a moment of hesitation at your door, both of you lingering, not quite ready to say goodbye.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the honesty in your voice. Your eyes were locked on his, a new form of intimacy connecting you both as you’d enjoyed the evening more than you’d expected, just the two of you and away from hockey.

“So did I,” Andrei replied, his eyes softening as he looked at you. He couldn’t help but feel the intensity of the pull he felt towards you, yet he also reminded himself to be patient and, as he’d promised, be on his best behaviour. So, he restrained himself, settling to only imagine what it’d feel like having your lips against his. Instead, he took a deep breath before continuing, “I meant what I said, you know. I like you and want to get to know you better. I’m not like what people say about hockey players—at least, I try not to be.”

You couldn’t suppress a timid smile, feeling a warmth spread through you. “I’m starting to believe that.”

It was the truth. The evening with Andrei had been nothing short of amazing, and the more you got to know him, the more you started to trust his intentions. And just like that, as if drawn by a magnetic pull, you slowly and very gently leaned in towards him, closing the small gap between you as you let your lips delicately touch his.

It was brief, almost innocent, as you shared this sweet, intimate moment. And as you then slowly pulled back, you couldn’t help but bite your lip, mentally hoping that next time, he wouldn’t be on his best behaviour.

#5️⃣0️⃣0️⃣ celebration #andrei svechnikov imagine #andrei svechnikov x reader #carolina hurricanes imagine #nhl hockey imagine #nhl fanfiction

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eth-edwards-73 · 11 months

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Drunk

Luca Fantilli x reader warnings: none i think, age isn't really mentioned so maybe underage drinking

You loved parties but were never really keen on the thought of drinking so much alcohol that people had to help you get home, being tipsy was fine but nothing more than that, which is probably why you ended up being to one that brought other people home. You and Rutger had known each other since kindergarten so it only came naturally that the two of you gravitated towards each other in a place full of new people. That is how you became friends with the other guys on the hockey team, in particular Luca.

“Y/N, can you please come to the front of the house, Luca is wasted, he won’t move and keeps calling for you.” Rutger tells you from the other side of the phone and you sigh, knowing you’re going to be on babysitter post tonight but you agree. You part ways with your friends and the second you walk onto the porch Luca scrambles up towards you, latching himself onto you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, face nuzzled into your neck.

You sigh again before bidding the boys goodbye and urging Luca to follow you to his room, he whines about it for a moment but quickly stops once he sees the stern look on your face. He follows you quietly, his hands still having a death grip on you almost like if he lets you go you’ll disappear completely. “Luca, you need to let go so you can change.” You tell the boy gently, it isn’t the first time you needed to take care of the boy and if your voice isn’t gentle or happy he’d start crying because he would be afraid he did something wrong and you really didn’t feel like dealing with a crying Luca today. He nods and lets go, hesitating a little bit before turning around and trying to find a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Somehow he manages to get changed on his own while you try to find his toothbrush and paste so he can brush his teeth. You helped him brush his teeth and tucked him into bed but when you’re about to leave he stops you, his bottom lip quivering slightly.

“Can you stay here with me?” He asks with the most adorable look on his face so you nod and sigh again walking to his closet grabbing a hoodie and a pair of shorts, walking into the bathroom and changing into them before returning to Luce who makes grabby hands at you. You get into bed and he immediately rolls on top of you, covering you completely, shivers running down your spine because of his warm breath against the nape of your neck.

“Scratches.” He mutters into your neck and you rake your hand through his hair, scratching his head. He lets out a content sigh and relaxes into you before drifting off to sleep, soft snores confirming it. It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep right after he does, being very comfortable under the boy who acts as a human heater.

#umich boys #umich wolverines #umich hockey #luca fantilli #luca fantilli x reader

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petermorwood · 2 months

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This Reply by @neil-gaiman reminded me of two things:

(1) How much I despised doing, and avoiding, compulsory Games / Sports / Gym / PE / PT / Whatever.

(2) That I never, ever have to do, or avoid, compulsory Whatever again in my life.

*****

I spent my whole school career avoiding them, and forged sick notes which helped that avoidance were the first really successful fiction-writing of my life.

I also learned that when acting the part of someone with a sprained ankle, a tiny stone in the appropriate shoe was a good reminder of which ankle to limp on, while an air of suffering bravely borne was always more convincing if that air was scented with a faint hint of the embrocation rubbed into one sock.

*****

Neil didn't mention the effects of time of year or weather, but both were frequent entries in My List Of Unpleasing Things About Games.

Leaving out PT / Gym / PE or whatever, which was indoors and - thanks to the solidity of the equipment - a weekly source of sprains, strains, bruises, mild concussion and deep loathing, my old school used to observe Ye Olde Academic terms and their associated sporting pleasures.

This says something about which I'm not quite sure, and I see it's replaced them with plain old Autumn-Spring-Summer Term, which says something else about which I'm even less sure.

*****

So there was Michaelmas Term (August to Christmas), and rugby.

A soggy school rugby pitch in Northern Ireland in November, halfway through the game with the pitch well churned up, the daylight fading, the rain turning to sleet and every other member of both teams still (a) Too Large and (b) Too Keen, was a reluctant 12-year-old's equivalent of Flanders Fields on the Western Front ca. 1916.

(No artillery or machine-guns, but (a) and (b) were quite enough.)

I was also a skinny reluctant 12-year-old - those who know me now can believe that or not as you please - and the icy breezes which whistled unimpeded up, across and down the legs of my too-baggy-now-but-he'll-grow-into-them shorts were at least one cause of a lifelong fondness for saunas, hot tubs and steam baths.

*****

Then there was Hilary Term (January to Easter) and field hockey.

That was when the School Armoury issued hockey sticks and sent us forth onto the Artificial Pitch, which wasn't as muddy as the grass-covered rugby one but could produce amazing scabby knees and elbows after a tumble at speed, either after the ball or more often away from the opposition's bloody-minded front row.

Being artificial, rainwater didn't soak in but just sat there in puddles, and sometimes in early term they froze hard enough that field hockey could become ice hockey in the space of a couple of strides, cue another tumble and more scabs. Oh yes, and my shorts were still too baggy, so icy breezes in unwanted places continued to be an ongoing delight.

*****

And then there was Trinity Term (post-Easter to July) and field athletics then cricket, AKA liveliness meets somnolence.

That was when the sky became increasingly blue, the birdies sang tweet-tweet, the sun shone more often, the air became noticeably warmer and anyone with sense enjoyed as much of the soon-to-be-summer days as worries about impending End-Of-Term exams allowed.

It was also a time for field athletics until Half-Term, featuring long-jumps, high-jumps and runs of various speed and duration.

We re-learned every year that it was possible to get a nasty sunburn even in a Northern Ireland May, that unless the groundskeeper raked the sand in the long-jump pit properly there would be at least one souvenir from a local cat, that sweat could break out with the least exertion because sunny and humid were frequently simultaneous, and that horseflies were always ready to sample new blood and the way they got that blood was a painful process.

It still is.

Bastards.

*****

After Half-Term it was cricket, which combined disinterested boredom and pointless intermittent activity at a nearly Zen level with me being very, very bad at it.

I was no good as a bowler, I could throw straight or I could throw hard, but throwing hard and straight at the same time was something I never seemed to master.

Oh dear.

I was no good as a batsman, I tended to step out and slosh so the ball went in all directions, including on a couple of occasions straight up and straight down again, though not high enough or for long enough to get any runs.

What a shame.

I was no good as a wicketkeeper because I was more butterfingered than a clumsy dairymaid, and what I didn't drop I would handle wrongly, like that time I made what would have been a perfect catch except I fumbled it and knocked the stumps down before, not after.

Oops.

My incompetence at everything up close was Really Quite Remarkable, so I was invariably sent out to one of the deep field positions where, unless something Silly happened, I could be safely ignored and - if the grass was long enough - I would be ignored whatever happened.

I read a lot of good books that way.

Not a single one was about sport.

#school sports #the delights of organised games #mud blood and Form II-B #rugby up the wrong way #he's dead gym #cricket done right is mostly chirping

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blackcherryvelvet0909 · 7 months

Text

Snowcone Comfort (Neige x GN!Reader)

Content Warning: Mild angst, hurt/comfort, mild stalking, predatory behavior from unnamed minor character, harassment, celebrities being taken advantage of, mentions of past abuse and victim blaming (if I missed any let me know)

Note: This is over 5k words, I don't know what possessed me. I guess it was my feelings on the behavior of certain fans of celebrities that got me going. I also just really, really like what I did with Neige's banner. I hope you do as well!

You leisurely strolled past the various stores and eateries, briefly peeking into each window. Every other second someone passed you by, whether it be a single person or an entire family, on their own merry way to somewhere you didn’t know. A few entered one of the many buildings lining the sidewalk, while others disappeared around corners of the little township. Little, yes, but no less expensive and elaborate. Most of the objects and treats that were advertised in every shop window cost way more than you could afford. Honestly, you’d be lucky to find something in your budget. Purchasing something wasn’t your reason for coming here, however.

Earlier that morning, you and Ace made a bet: If you beat him at air hockey, he would watch Grim for the rest of the day so you could relax. If he won, you’d have to do his homework for a whole week when you returned to the college. Guess who won out? Ace was shocked, to say the least, as was your audience, Deuce and Grim. Lucky for you, Ace was the type to get real cocky when he thought he was going to win. That attitude had been prominent since you began your game; it was fairly easy to use it to your advantage. So now here you were, taking a much needed break from babysitting your monster cat.

You saw this little township on the bus ride into the resort when you and your fellow classmates arrived at the beach. Again, you had little money in your pocket, but it was just nice to get out and look around. See what could be seen in the quaint little tourist trap. You briefly wondered if Azul had struck up any business during the trip; if a certain fox and cat duo you’d met a little while ago had swindled a rich tourist or two when he’d possibly made port here. Your smile twitched up a little more as you saw the familiar face of Vil on a poster advertising a certain fragrance in a shop window. That must be where Vil stopped in to pick up that cologne for Rook and Epel. While the latter hadn’t been too keen on the (forced) gift, both men now smelled rather nice - nicer than usual, anyway.

Just as you were about to turn a corner, in a direction where you remembered Malleus mentioning there being a really nice ice cream shoppe, you were nearly sent backward. Someone smacked into you, which made you both stumble and gasp out. Your hand reached out and held onto the closet windowsill to stabilize yourself. When you looked up, you recognized the face of the person who ran into you: Neige LeBlanche. The man Vil hated (a bit of a strong word, but what other term was there for the man’s feelings towards the celebrity?) with all of his being. The last time you saw the young man - at least in person - was during the VDC, smiling away as he congratulated your friends for their performance. Now, though, his expression was troubled, almost frightened.

It wavered for a brief moment as he stared at you. “You…you’re [Name], right? One of Vil’s friends?”

Well, you weren’t sure if you were friends, per say, but… “Y-Yeah,” you replied.

Neige glanced behind him, that look of paranoia fresh in his eyes again. He turned back to you and grasped your hand, words hushed and urgent. “Please, help me hide! There’s a man after me and he - he’s not very nice.”

You couldn’t see behind Neige, his body blocking your view. Even so, you could feel the atmosphere change around you as you heard someone call out for the celebrity. It was friendly, but wrong at the same time. Without a word, you gently, yet firmly held Neige’s hand as you turned around and bolted down the sidewalk. You led Neige back the way you’d come; your head turned this way and that as you tried to find a place to hide him. You hadn’t entered any of the businesses yet - you weren’t sure if they were good places to hide. The shrubbery and other plant life around weren’t very good options, either.

“Hey!” You and Neige quickly glanced back to see a man hurriedly walk after you both. He was dressed sharply, in the fashion that was common for the locals here. You got the sense he wasn’t a local, however - maybe just a guy trying to fit in. The vibe from him wasn’t good, either. The smile he wore…it sent a chill down your spine. Neige shivered so strongly you could feel it trail down to his hand.

“Where’re you going, Mr. LeBlanche?” He held out his arms as though he wanted a hug. “I just wanted an autograph.”

Neige didn’t have to ask you to hurry - you tugged him forward again, this time in a sprint. You frantically searched for a place to hide, just until the guy was out of sight. As you turned another corner, exiting the town, you found yourself at the edge of the beach. Golden sand spread out before you, the blue waves crashing onto shore a mile away. Suddenly, you had an idea. Your gaze landed on the small snack stand Sam had set up for the trip. “C’mon!” you whispered yelled to Neige behind you as you pulled him towards the little building.

The pale boy followed you without question, scared eyes peering behind him every other second to see if the man had found you both. As you reached the snack stand, you quickly threw up the little door that separated the counter from the store space. You rushed Neige inside before you shut it behind you both. You then directed Neige to sit below the counter, just out of sight. You followed close behind him, legs crossed and back flushed against the wall. Neige was in a similar position, the only difference being his knees were tucked up under his chin.

“Unless you two are looking for a summer job, I’m going to ask you to leave.” The two of you looked up at Sam, who now stood in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was stern, yet the quirk of his brow showed his confusion about your sudden appearance. “As I know your status, Mr. LeBlanche, I know you are not strapped for cash. As for you, little imp-”

“We’re hiding from this creep,” you interrupted. “He won’t leave Neige alone.” You glimpsed Neige nodding his head in agreement, too afraid to speak. It seemed what you’d garnered from the situation was correct.

Sam’s gaze fleeted upwards and over the counter. Without breaking his gaze from the outside world, he asked, “Who? The one with the brown hair and last year’s bootlegged designer sandals?”

Sam could tell what designs were forgeries? Of course he could. Why did you even think otherwise? “Yes.”

The shopkeep was silent for a few seconds as he examined the man. He must be approaching the snack stand - Neige let out the faintest whimper. You reached how to hold his hand again and gave it a squeeze to try and comfort him. To your surprise and relief, the boy returned it. Finally, Sam spoke in a hush whisper of his own. “Stay as long as you like. I’ll take care of this.”

Before either of you could express your thanks, you heard someone approach the counter. You didn’t think Neige’s complexion could get any paler…poor guy. He scarcely breathed as Sam addressed the man - neither did you. “Hello there! Welcome to my little snack shop. What can I get for you?”

Your assailant didn’t respond at first. His shadow stretched over the counter and onto the floor in front of you; you thanked whatever god there was that you and Neige’s shadows were obscured by the counter. “Have you seen two kids running around?” the man asked, completely ignoring Sam’s question. “You know Neige LeBlanche, right?”

“Who doesn’t?” Sam answered rhetorically.

“I was supposed to get a picture with him, but he disappeared before I could get my phone out. You wouldn’t have happened to see him come by?”

“Hm…can’t say I have.” Sam’s lie was flawless, amplified by the little shrug of his shoulders. “Last time I saw him, he was on TV. He’s here at the resort? Huh, news to me.” Sam leaned forward. “How much does he charge for pictures, anyhow? I figure it must cost a pretty good few madol.”

The man’s snicker made your stomach churn. “I’ve got a few ways around that. I rarely get a no with my face, y’know?~” Gross.

“Well, I’m sorry to say I haven’t seen him.” You barely glimpsed Sam gesture with his thumb towards the small town where you and Neige had come from. “Though…I did see someone kinda like him get into a cab just now. It looked like it was turning towards the city.”

The creep hummed in thought, satisfied by his answer. “Thanks for the tip,” he said. He then placed something down onto the counter. “For your trouble.”

“Much appreciated~” Sam gave the man his signature salesman wink and smile. “Come by next time you’re craving something cool and sweet. I’ve got everything you need.” The man said something in return, but the two of you couldn’t make it out. For several long minutes, not another word was spoken - the only sounds to be heard were the wirring or the large freezers, fridges, and other kitchen contraptions situated about the floor. Finally, Sam took a step back and peeked down at you two. “Alright, the coast is clear now. Guy won’t be back for a while.”

Neige breathed out a long sigh of relief. He brought his hand up to slip the black sun hat he’d been wearing off his head, the red ribbon adding a pop of color to the accessory. Aside from the hat, he was almost dressed like a sailor boy. “I like your outfit,” you commented, trying to lighten the mood. “It looks really good on you.”

Neige, despite still looking a tad shaken, gave you a smile. “Th-Thank you. I bought it shortly before myself and the rest of my classmates came here to the beach. I thought it’d be better suited for the hot weather.”

“Well, no sense in getting it dirty then.” You crawled out from under the counter and stood up before offering a hand out to Neige. Your smile was encouraging, despite the previous situation. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. Where were you heading before, uh…he came?”

Neige followed your lead and got out from under the counter. Even after he stood up, however, he didn’t let go of your hand. Perhaps it provided comfort for him. “I was heading back to the resort - the one beside on the other side of town, I mean, not the one you’re staying in. I promised Che’nya I would meet up with him to go swimming. I just stopped in town to pick up a bottle of the perfume that Vil was talking about on his Magicam.”

“Really? Were you interested in the scent?”

“That’s part of the reason, yes, but I really just wanted to support Vil. He seemed so happy about the sponsor.”

‘That’s fucking adorable’, you thought.

“I’ll have to get some later.” He timidly glanced out towards town, where the guy had surely disappeared off to. “I…I don’t want to go back in there right now.”

“Just so you know, he took a cab out to the city.” Sam shot you two a grin as he sorted through a large freezer under the left counter of the store. “Pretty good lie, huh?”

“It’s not good to lie,” Neige gifted the shopkeeper a tiny, shy smile, “but I do appreciate you doing that for us. Thank you, Mr…?”

“Sam’s fine,” Sam chuckled.

Neige nodded. “Thank you, Sam. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

Sam seemed to think the prospect over for a minute as he shuffled around a few white paper cones. His answer was not what you expected. “Nah, it’s alright. No favors needed - I was just doing what’s right.” He scooped some shaved ice into two paper cones he held in his other hand. “Though, if you’d like, I can get you that perfume.”

“Really?” Neige’s pupils were as big as saucers. “You can do that?”

“Mhm.” Sam placed the cones into two circular plastic holders in front of several colorful pumps. He then reached behind his back - when he brought his gloved hand back out, he was holding a small, luxurious pink paper bag. “Anything to please a customer~”

Now Neige’s eyes were almost bugged out of his head. “That’s-! How did you-?”

“I have my ways.” Sam offered Neige the bag - the celebrity delicately took it. He looked into the bag in wonderment. You couldn’t help but sneak a peek yourself; sure enough, there was the bottled fragrance you’d seen in that advertisement earlier. It was really pretty, its body a crystal dark purple bottle with a small black, glass cork. Very much a product Vil would be associated with. “For the trouble you went through today, I’ll even give you a discount,” Sam offered.

‘Damn, why can’t he be this generous all the time?’ you wondered.

“Thank you so much!” Neige beamed. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight…man, no special effects needed for this man. “How much do I owe you?”

“With the discount, it’ll be 30,000 madol.”

You almost choked on your own spit. Holy shit that was a lot of money! And he gave Neige a discount? How much was it full price?! Did you even want to know? Without a second thought, Neige reached into his pocket and retrieved a cute wallet, its dark blue leather decorated with embroidered blue birds. Man, Neige’s aesthetic was pretty consistent, huh?

In the next instant, the exact amount was in Sam’s outstretched hand - and there was still a good bit left in Neige’s wallet. Seven, you wondered if you’d have half that much if Crowley actually paid you for all the things you did for him. As Neige zipped the little pouch back up, Sam briefly counted the bills before folding them and putting them in his pocket. “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. LeBlanche~” He then swiftly turned around back to the cones filled with shaved ice. “What flavors do you two prefer?”

“Um…strawberries and cream are always a delight for me, but I also like any other kind of fruit.” Neige replied.

“[Favorite flavor(s)]” you answered.

Without a flourish of fast hands, Sam pumped colorful flavored syrups onto the small domes of shaved ice. In no time, there were two snowcones in his hands, one held out for each of you to take. “On the house,” he said. “For many, sweets are just the thing to cheer someone up after something so scary.”

While you eyed the frozen treat was suspicion, Neige took it without complaint. “Thank you so much, Mr. Sam! You’re too kind!”

“...what are you getting out of this from me?” you asked. How many times have you accepted something for “free” and it backfired on you later?

“No tricks or schemes here, little imp,” Sam promised. His smile wasn’t deceiving, nor did his eyes hold any devious plan. The shopkeep looked genuine - proud, even. “Take it as a reward for such a selfless act, saving Mr. LeBlanche the way you did.”

You hesitated for a moment longer, then finally took the snowcone. As you expected, it was your favorite flavor, just as you’d said. For once, a good deed of yours had led to a prize - with no strings attached.

“Now, you two run along.” Sam strode past you two and opened the little door you’d entered a little while before. “No doubt you two have other things to do. That, and I’ve got my shop to run.” He shot you two another playful wink as he added, “Don’t eat those two fast, now.”

“We won’t,” Neige giggled. He held up his hand and waved as he and you began to walk away from the snack stand. “Thank you again, Mr. Sam. Have a good rest of your day!”

“You as well, little imps.”

Before you both could wander too far though, Sam’s voice suddenly echoed in your head. “Get your friend home safe, little imp. Don’t worry about the guy; remember, I’m taking care of it.” You could only imagine what that meant. Despite the ominous implications, you did agree with the shopkeeper: You needed to make sure Neige got home safe.

“Let me walk you back,” you offered. “I don’t want something else like that to happen.”

Neige’s expression was timid again, guilty even. “You really don’t mind?”

You shook your head and smiled. “Not at all! I’d want someone to do the same for me if I’d been in that situation.”

“I’m sure your friends would jump at the chance to do that for you.”

‘Yeah, I hope so too,’ you thought.

As the two of you walked back to the resort, munching your snowcones along the way, you couldn’t help but ask the question that’d been on your mind. “Who was that guy, anyway? Do you know him?”

You almost regretted the inquiry the moment it passed your lips. Neige’s face fell, head tilted downwards as he stared down at his feet. “I…don’t know. I never got his name, actually. He said he was a fan and asked for a picture - I was happy to oblige! I don’t mind whenever someone asks for a picture of me. But,” he stalled for a moment to take a deep breath - when he exhaled, he continued, “But I could tell he wanted more than a picture.

“He kept asking where I was staying, if I was doing anything that night, if I came to the resort alone…and he wouldn’t stop touching me.” Neige mildly gestured to his waist and chest, though was careful to not jostle the small bag clasped between his fingers too much. “I-In intimate ways, I mean.”

You hadn’t noticed how much you’d been neglecting your snowcone until you felt the cold, syrupy water drip down your fingers. You hastily lapped up the tiny streams before you spoke, eye contact solely focused on Neige’s big brown doe eyes - which, you noticed, were now slightly darkened by that fear you’d seen earlier. “He had no right to touch you like that.”

“I know!” Neige seemed almost relieved to be validated. “I’ve always been told that by Headmaster Ambrose, and my other teachers…and yet there are others who disagree. That man isn’t the first to handle me in such a manner. Thankfully he wasn’t the most forceful; there have been others who have told me I owe them such attention because of how much they support me. Pay to see my movies, buy products I endorse - things like that.” Neige looked like he was about to cry, and you felt like you were about to join him with what he said next.

“Even some people I’ve worked with - past managers, photographers, etc - have even said I’m selfish for denying my fans what they want.”

“And they’re all wrong.” Your words were so matter-of-fact that the boy almost appeared surprised. You stopped in your tracks, feet away from the entry gates of the resort where you knew Neige and other RSA students were residing for their trip. As if in tune with your steps, Neige stalled in turn. “Just because they support you and do all that stuff doesn’t mean they have the right to do that. They don’t own you. You’re not their property.”

You briefly threw your hands in the air. “I don’t know where people get that kind of audacity, entitlement, but they’ve gotta be batshit cra-!” You gasped as the flavored snow to atop your paper cone went crashing to the concrete path below. A hushed ‘aww man!’ breathed past your lips as you glared down at the colored frozen heap quickly melted from the heat of the asphalt. When your gaze flicked back to Neige, you saw he was equally as shocked and disappointed. You must look like two kids who just dropped their ice cream…that’s exactly what it was, really. You wouldn’t call yourself or Neige kids, however.

“Anyways,” you said, under a sigh of frustration at your blunder. So much for your only free treat of the trip. “Never, ever feel like you have to sit there and take what horrible things someone dishes out. You can walk away at any time - if someone faults you for that, fuck ‘em!” You watched as Neige’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, dainty bag crinkling in his hold. Oh yeah, Neige didn’t really curse, did he? Not that you knew of, at least.

“Sorry, sorry! I shouldn’t have cursed like that. Guess I’ve been around the guys too long.”

“N-No, it’s alright.” What you didn’t expect to hear was the smallest, most adorable giggle erupt from the young man’s throat. “You would be surprised how many of my classmates curse. Che’nya nearly outdoes them all! He just keeps it down around our professors.” Well, you seemed to cheer him up from his previous depression; that was good. “That isn’t what I’m laughing about, though.”

“What’re you laughing about, then?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Well…you reminded me of Vil when you said all those things. We don’t talk very much (though I wish we would talk more often), but I have heard him give such a speech to others in the past. Beginning actors, mostly, but sometimes stage hands, assistants - many people he comes into contact with. He’s such a strong, inspiring person - one I wish to be one day.” Neige’s smile was so kind, so pure, you suddenly understood why Rook held such a fondness for the actor. The fact it was directed at you, not a fan or camera or something, gave you butterflies. “And now, I wish to be as strong and brave as you, [Name].”

You quickly grew flustered under the man’s adoring gaze. A blush crept its way up to your cheeks as you fumbled with your empty snowcone. “I mean, I’m not that brave.”

“Untrue!” Neige’s protest was so cute you couldn’t help but smile a little. “Che’nya told me that Trey told him how you helped Riddle come out of his overblot. That takes a lot of courage! I could never dream of facing such a thing!”

“It is pretty scary,” you admitted. “There were points in time I thought I was going to die, or at least get hurt. Sometimes I did get hurt…but I had friends to help me get out of those troubles.” While that blush stubbornly remained on your face, you met Neige eye-to-eye once more. “And that’s why you should tell a friend whenever that happens. Never be afraid to call out for help. Whether a celebrity or just a student, everyone needs it at some point.”

Your smile quirked up into a smirk. “If someone thinks otherwise,” you balled your free hand up into a fist and held it in front of you, “fuck ‘em.”

“Yeah!” Neige cheered, more enthusiastically than you thought he might. “Fuck ‘em!” The moment the naughty phrase left his lips, Neige let out a squeak and covered it again. His eyes darted in every direction, looking to see if anyone heard him. For once, to your luck, no one was about. As relief washed over the RSA second year, he went into another fit of giggles.

“Sorry!” he laughed. “I got too carried away.”

You shrugged away his apology. “Fine by me.” You shot him a wink as you pressed a finger to your lips. “I’ll never tell a soul~”

Neige tittered so sweetly you almost thought you heard it wrong. “I very much appreciate it.” The pretty boy glanced down at the wet patch of concrete where your icy treat once lay. “I’m sorry about your snowcone…”

You were also sorry, very disappointed, but you didn’t want to add another worry to the poor guy’s mind. So, you shrugged again and said, “Eh, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s just a snowcone - not like I can’t get another.” Partly a lie, as you didn’t know whether or not you could afford one with your extra tight budget. Maybe you could manage to convince a friend or professor to get you one in the future…

A little flinch jolted your body as a snowcone was thrust into your face. “Here,” Neige’s eyes practically glittered with determination, “take mine.”

You shook your head and put your hands out in front of you, one still partially clasping your now crumpled paper cone. “N-No, you don’t have to-”

“I want to.” Neige’s frowny pout morphed into yet another angelic smile. “Like you said, there will be more opportunities to get a snowcone. Che’nya talked about us and some of our friends getting some later - so, I want you to have mine.” Something popped into the boy’s mind, which caused him to falter in his resolve, but just a tad. “I-I hope you like strawberries and cream. That’s the flavor. It’s artificially flavored-”

“How can you tell it’s artificially flavored?” you asked, actually curious.

“My tastebuds are a little sensitive. Artificial strawberry tastes a bit different than actual strawberries do.”

Huh, cool talent. Whether or not you enjoyed the taste of either the fruit or the cream didn’t matter at the moment; Neige’s gesture was too sweet to pass up. That, and how many times would you receive such a selfless act? At Night Raven College, likely as slim a chance as you not encountering another overblot in the next month or so. You took the snowcone from the boy’s fingers - which were very soft to the touch, you now noticed - as your smile widened in gratitude. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Neige’s nod was so endearing you were starting to feel how Rook might have felt when he came face to face with his idol months ago. You were also beginning to see why Vil envied the man so much. He was irresistible! Neige folded his hands in front of his naval, fingers fidgeting with the handles of the pink bag as he spoke again. “Well, I best be going. Che’nya will grow worried if I don’t show up to the pool at the time we set.”

“You’re the punctual type?”

“Yes, very much. I wouldn’t want to be rude.”

“I don’t know,” you mused. “I think a little rebellion would look cute on you.” Well where in Wonderland did that come from? Since when were you a smooth operator? You watched as Neige’s pale face took on a pink tinge around his cheeks and nose, and a little at the tips of his ears. Did he…like that? For the way his voice came out a little shy, he must have.

“W-Well, I might have to take lessons from you on how to be rebellious later. I’ve never really thought about it…”

“Che’nya hasn’t dragged you into trouble yet? It seems to be a habit of his at Heartslabyul.”

“It is, yes. I could ask him, but I wouldn’t want to get into trouble at school, nor would I want to make Glynda angry-”

“Who’s Glynda?”

“My current manager.”

Ah.

“Although…” Neige peeked up at you again, an equally timid smile across his face. “I don’t have much scheduled for June. School will not be in session then; maybe, when we’re out for the summer, you could teach me a bit then?”

Wait…was he…? Nah, couldn’t be. THE Neige LeBlanche would not ask you on a date. With a cheery lint under your tone, you replied, “Yeah, sure! Just send me a te-” You thought about your dinosaur age, crap phone Crowley had graciously given you over winter break. You decided against your previous suggestion.

“Actually, just send me a letter or something. My phone’s…broken.”

“I’ll be sure to do so the moment the time comes.” Neige took a few steps back, about to take his leave. He lifted his hand and gave a little wave. “Well, goodbye, [Name]. Thank you for helping me. I hope we can spend more time together soon.”

“Yeah, I hope so too.”

In minutes, the man was gone, disappearing through the glass doors and into the hotel lobby. You stared after him for a few seconds more before you turned toward the front gates, making your way back to your own resort. It’d be quite the walk - you couldn’t afford a cab or bus, or whatever transport they had in the area. By the time you’d get back to your hotel, it’d be close to dinner time. No need to have someone send a search party out for you. So, you took a bit of a speedy pace as you walked out the open gates and down the road.

All the way back, you thought about the promise you made to Neige. You two hadn’t really talked before then; now, it seemed, you two were forming a friendship. To think your first hang out would be you teaching the good boy how to rebel! Just what would you teach him, you wondered. Maybe you could get Ruggie to teach you how to pick a lock…that would be a good start, right? And it’d be useful in sticky situations the young man might run into one day. The beauty couldn’t always rely on someone to come and save them!

Beauty…yeah, yeah Neige was really pretty. Your heart fluttered as you recalled how those big brown orbs beheld you as though you were the most wonderful thing in existence. Your own pupils trailed down to the snowcone in your hand. The icy crystals, bright red mixed with pale cream, twinkled in the sunlight. Little bites had been taken out of the treat by Neige earlier; to eat the shaved ice that’d graced the celebrity’s lips would almost be like giving him an indirect… With a heavy heart and a pang of guilt, you tossed the snowcone into the nearest garbage can. You just couldn’t do it - it felt too intimate for a boy you barely knew.

For now, at least.

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