#sometimes they talk about stuff and I can’t even respond because I’m like. :) I love you so much you’re so smart please keep talking

[andromarche]

Hear me out, whenever one of the batlings does something good/bad, Bruce responds accordingly by changing his last will and testament. Most of them don’t even need or care about the money/company/manor, but they treat it in the same way young kids treat a sticker chart.

The batkids regularly break into Bruce’s lawyers office to check if they got any more stickers and forge the will so they get a bigger cut (more stickers). Bruce’s lawyer regularly returns to their office in the morning to papers and ink everywhere, and batarangs lodged in the side of the desk.

The lawyer thinks Bruce is just very fickle. Like this is BRUCIE WAYNE we’re talking about. He’s said on the record that he thinks the moon is made of cheese, he writes his signature with a cute little heart next to it. Very loveable. Not the brightest or most likely to think hard about the long term. They’re convinced the frequent and glaringly obvious Batman/Robin break ins is because Batman is one of Brucie Wayne’s kids and wants to keep checking he’s in the will.

•••

Tim: *mentions off-hand that he’s been awake for 48hours on 12 straight black coffees and sheer-will*

Bruce: *furiously calling his lawyer to cut Tim out of his will and leave the company to Jason*

•••

Lawyer: *holding the coffee pot to head back to their desk, to see Nightwing riffling through the drawers*

Lawyer:

Nightwing: *takes the entire coffee pot and pours it into his mouth, not breaking eye contact*

Lawyer: *sigh* Top drawer, right side. Had to move it because Robin spilled ink in the other drawer last night.

Nightwing: *devious grin, writing out “I leave my entire fortune, company and properties to Richard Grayson-Wayne. To my son, Damian Wayne, I leave one penny. To all of my other children, I leave a crisp $20 bill and this message ‘divide it amongst yourselves’.” And perfectly forging Brucie’s signature, complete with a heart next to the name.*

•••

Tim: B! B! What’s this I hear about you leaving us all a $20???

Steph: I DIDNT GET LEFT ANYTHING

Bruce, knows he explicitly mentioned Steph in his will: Oh well, since you didn’t want to be legally adopted-

Steph: IM EMOTIONALLY AND FINANCIALLY ADOPTED. I CLAIM SQUATTER’S RIGHTS.

Dick, knowing he changed it last night before Steph’s weekly snoop of the will: On… this family?

Steph: NO JUST THE WILL! ITS ABOUT THE PRINCIPLE.

•••

Lawyer, upon seeing Brucie Wayne for the third time this week to change his will: So, who did what this week? Was it Batman again?

Bruce: What?

Lawyer: Don’t worry, I’m not going to rat out that Batman is your kid.

Bruce: Right, thank you. I appreciate it.

Lawyer: *thinking more about Bruce’s high public profile and how judgemental Gotham’s high society can be than the vigilante stuff* I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to become a father so young. You must have still been in high school!

Bruce, confused and committed to the bit: Yeah, me and his mother still speak sometimes. He keeps getting annoyed by his brothers taking the car out for joyrides.

Lawyer: I hear ya, my eldest just started driving, she loves it though and keeps taking the car to Metropolis randomly.

#batman #batfamily #tim drake #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #red robin #dc universe #dcu #robin #red hood #nightwing #batfam #No it does not matter that Tim is already the CEO. #yes jason is legally dead here #yes jason does show up to next board meeting

[gardenschedule]

Beatles defending each other ❤️

In 1965 [the Byrds] toured England and Paul invited us to his club, the Scotch of St James’s [sic]. He sent a limo to pick us up. He said he had been listening to our music. We were blown away. He took us for a ride through London in his Aston Martin, at great speed. He was really hip, he and John were so tight it was like one person at times. Unlike the Byrds, [where] Crosby would just leave you out to dry, the Beatles all defended each other to the hilt. If you criticised, say, George then they would all respond.

Roger McGuinn, in Paul McCartney: Now & Then, Tony Barrow and Robin Bextor

“They’re four very different people who together form a unit that is virtually impregnable. If, for instance, someone should find fault with anything one of them has done, the others rush to his defence. They close their ranks. They’re very close indeed. A lot closer than people think.”

George Martin, Disc and Music Echo (1967)

And actually, we’ve got the image of him all these years about criticising Paul – yeah, he did, but it’s like [when] you criticise your wife. “I can criticise her, but you can’t.” I was there once when some guy was saying that he didn’t think ‘Let It Be’ was such a great record, and he thought John would agree, and he didn’t.

November 10th, 2009: Journalist Ray Connolly

Q: How did Paul react [to “How Do You Sleep”]?

John: I don’t know because I never saw him, but I think he made a comment last year which was pretty spot-on which was ‘whatever I’m saying about him is my problem, or vice versa.’ The only regret I have about it is that it should never have been about Paul because everybody’s so bothered with who’s it about that they missed the track. That’s what bugged me. I’m entitled to call him what I want to, and vice versa. It’s in our family, but if somebody else calls him names I won’t take it. It’s our own business. And anyway, it’s like Dylan said about his stuff when he looked back on it, it was all about him.

Patrick Synder-Scrumpy with Jack Breschard, “Sometime in L.A., Lennon Plays It as It Lays.” Crawdaddy [March 1974]

"When John did 'How Do You Sleep?' I didn't want to get into a slinging match. Part of it was cowardice. John was a great wit, and I didn't want to go fencing with the rapier champion of East Cheam-- But it meant that I had to take shit--It meant that I had to take lines like 'All you ever did was Yesterday.' I always find myself wanting to excuse John's behavior, just because I loved him. It's like a child, sure he was a naughty child, but don't you call my child naughty. Even if it's me he's shitting on, don't you call him naughty. That's how I felt about this and still do. I don't have a grudge whatsoever against John. I think he knew exactly what he was doing, and, because we had been so intimate, he knew what would hurt me and used it to great effect. I thought, 'Keep your head down and time will tell,' and it did because in the 'Imagine' film (Imagine John Lennon, documentary), he says it was really all about himself."

Barry Miles, Many Years From Now, 1997

“Well the deal was, he could say that, but if you said that, if anybody said anything bad about Paul, John’d take a swing at you. He’d say “you can’t talk about Paul like that”, Paul was his best buddy. If you were talking to Paul and you said something derogatory about John, he’d get up and leave. Paul was more of a peaceful guy, but John had that hot head, and he’d say “you wanna talk about Paul? Let’s go”. You weren’t allowed to say anything bad about John or Paul to each one of them because they would defend each other to the nth degree, which I liked, because you could tell they were attached at the hip.

Alice Cooper Live and Uncut on the Kim Mitchell Show

You know, John loved Paul. No doubt about it. I remember once he said to me, “I’m the only person who’s allowed to say things like that about Paul. I don’t like it when other people do.” He didn’t like if other people said nasty things about Paul. And he always referred to Paul as his estranged fiancé and things like that, like he did on that [live] record ‘I Saw Her Standing There’ with Elton in Madison Square Garden. And he knew that his relationship with Paul was very important to him. But you know, like all great friendships, they’d grown apart and married different people and had different lives. He knew what he didn’t like about Paul, but he also knew what he liked about Paul.

1990: Former Beatles publicist Tony King

George didn’t mind slagging Paul off. But he HATED other people doing it.

Tom Petty

#the beatles #john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #ringo starr #mclennon

[simp4wom3n]

A Broken Promise

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x fem!Reader

Requested: Yes/No ~ request

Summary: You had both promised to never take your emotions out on the other. What happens when Jenna has a particularly bad day and snaps. ~ Word Count: 2.112k ~ Warnings: swearing and quite angsty but there is fluff

A/N: Hi!! I’m writing these quite quickly cos I’m really trying to crank these out for you guys so hopefully they r still good. Also my first angst fic!! I hope you guys like it because I personally love some angst and it’s quite fun, and heartbreaking, to write. ANYWAYS I hope you guys enjoy <3

Filming for 8 months in a foreign country was bound to be stressful, but you had no idea how much it would effect your relationship. You and Jenna had been together for over 2 years and before you started dating, you made a promise to each other that you wouldn’t take out your emotions on the other, that you would work through them together and everything would be ok. That promise had lasted flawlessly for the entirety of your relationship. Your relationship was constantly praised by your friends, and the two of you hardly ever fought. It was all going smoothly. Until tonight.

The clock had just struck 10pm when you heard the familiar jingle of keys at the front door. Given that she left early this morning, you were instantly worried by how late it was. As a result, you stood up and walked to the doorway. Entering the apartment with small shuffling steps, her pure exhaustion was plastered across her face as she dropped all of her stuff into a heap on the ground. “Hey” you greeted softly with a soft smile to which you got no response. Instead she walked straight past you, ignoring your entire existence which caused your face to scrunch in confusion.

“Hey is everything ok?” you questioned swiftly following her as she made her way into the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Mhm” she hummed, still not even looking in your direction. “Jenna? Hey what’s wrong? Talk to me.” you pleaded following her around like a lost dog. “Not now” she responded coldly, causing your face to drop slightly. She had never before ignored you so plainly. Sure she had her moments, so did you, but she would normally search for you when she was in a sour mood. She used to crave your presence, now it seems she can’t stand it. As much as you wanted to fulfill her request of leaving her alone, you made a promise to never let her suffer alone.

You had followed her, pleading for an answer, all the way into the living room where she attempted to relax on the couch, her irritation evident as she harshly bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut in frustration whilst dropping her head. “Jenna. Please.” now kneeling down to match her eye level, you tried to maintain your own composure because at this point her mood was even getting on your nerves. “I said not now!!” she snaps suddenly, looking at you with something you could only describe as hatred. Your face immediately dropped. She had never talked to you like this. Her words burned wholes into your heart as she continued to yell at you. “What don’t you understand about leaving me the fuck alone! I obviously don’t want to talk to you right now so why the fuck are you so goddamn persistent! You are so fucking annoying sometimes. Just… leave me alone” she screams, her voice fading out into a whisper. At this point any hope of keeping your promise had flown out the window. Your heart ached as tears starting to cascade down your cheeks.

“Well if that’s how you feel.” you brokenly whisper, shakily wiping your tears as you get to your feet. You just look at her for a minute, hugging yourself as you hold onto one last piece of hope that she will apologise, or at least look at you with some kind of remorse, yet all she does is just look blankly at the floor, refusing to acknowledge you. “Ok” you breathe as you nod solemnly, tears still pouring down your cheeks, as you walk briskly towards your spare bedroom, closing the door softly behind you.

As she hears the door of the spare bedroom click shut, Jenna audibly sighs, running her fingers through her hair. She felt like utter shit. Not only was filming absolutely exhausting, and completely drained her of any common sense, but she just broke her promise to never take her emotions out on you. ‘What the fuck did I do’ she thought, internally cursing herself for using your own insecurities against you. She knew how conscious you were about being ‘too annoying’ when it came to being around other people, and she had always reassured you that you weren’t annoying in the slightest. And then she said shit like that. She didn’t even have the guts to look you in the eyes when she said it, she couldn’t bare to see the look on your face as she completely crushed you. She knew she had messed up, she just hoped it wasn’t too late to fix it.

As a single tear made its way down her cheek, she hastily wiped it away as she stood up determined to apologise. She scolded herself for crying, she had no right to cry. She was the one who insulted you and made you feel like nothing but a nuisance. As she approached the door to the spare bedroom, she could hear your quiet, muffled sobs, completely shattering her heart. She did this to you. As she reached for the handle, she gently attempted to open the door only to discover that you had locked it.

Taking this as a sign that you wanted nothing to do with her, she sucked in a breath and rested her forehead against the door. “I’m so sorry Y/n” she whispered, her voice breaking as she allows her tears to fall. “Please forgive me. I love you.” she cried quietly. She stayed there for a moment, letting what just happened truly sink in, before she leans back, slowly walking to your normally shared bedroom.

Still dressed in what she wore to set, she headed immediately for your shared walk-in closet. As she walked in she was flooded by your familiar scent, one which typically filled her with warmth, now filling her with dread. Despite this, Jenna immediately looked towards your half of the closet, digging through your clothes until she found her favourite shirt of yours. She brought it up to her face, inhaling your scent as her tears begin to resurface. She strips down to her underwear and throws the shirt on over the top, attempting to fill the void of your presence with your scent.

Once in bed, the hollowness of your side hangs heavy on her heart. Your warm presence that is always in some way touching her, whether its just a finger or its cuddling so tight all either of you feel is each other, is missing and has taken a piece of her heart with it. Despite her numerous attempts to sleep, she couldn’t take her mind off of you, hoping at the least you are also missing her presence as much as she is missing yours. Despite the rogue tears escaping her eyes, she eventually finds sleep.

You awoke as the sun shone through the windows, instantly reminded of the events of last night. The ache of your post-cry headache and lack of your girlfriends warmth was enough to make you want to bury yourself within the covers, never to resurface. You had heard her last night, her attempt to apologise to you. You could hear her crying on the other side of the door, and as much as you wanted to forgive her, no one has ever wounded you so deeply. The one person who normally reassured you that you weren’t too much, that your presence wasn’t a burden, just admitted that it was by screaming it in your face.

Eventually the pounding of your headache caught up to you and you were forced to leave the sanctuary that has become the spare bedroom. Chucking on an old hoodie from the closet, one which you had stored there due to the lack of space in your shared closet, you throw the hood over you head and slowly open the door. You take quiet and hesitant steps towards the kitchen, hoping that if Jenna was around she wouldn’t notice you.

As the kitchen came into view, you immediately noticed Jenna’s figure sat on top of the island, a cup of coffee in hand, wearing your favourite t shirt. ‘Well that’s unfortunate’ you murmur inwardly, your initial plan of completely avoiding her coming crashing down as her eyes glance in your direction. Her posture immediately straightens, her face brightening slightly, as you stride into the kitchen, determined to get what you came for and get the fuck out.

“Hey.” she croaks, her own crying evident in her voice. “Can we talk?”. The words you always prayed would never be spoken between you two, the telltale sign that something had gone wrong. You completely ignored her question as you walked straight past her, her eyes following your every move as you kept your head down and hood on. You swiftly grab a bottle of water from the fridge before moving to the cupboard to grab a snack so you can hopefully avoid coming back.

“Please” she pleaded, her voice breaking as she begged for you to just hear her out. You risk a glance towards her as you were about to return to your self-imprisonment. A glance you quickly regretted. She was hugging herself with an iron grip as her lips trembled and she cried quietly. You always hated seeing her cry, especially if you knew you had caused it. “Just here me out please” she begged in broken words. You sighed audibly before sending her a small nod as you leaned your back against the countertop.

You caught the small look of surprise in her eyes as you agreed to listen, obviously not expecting you to agree to talk to her. “I am so fucking sorry Y/N… I love you so fucking much and… and you deserve the world and I treated you like absolute shit.” She began, starting to sob as she apologised profusely. All you wanted to do was to comfort her but your pride got in the way as you watched her continue to breakdown. “I… I broke our promise and I know… I know how much that meant to you and trust me, it meant a lot to me too.” she paused taking a deep, uneven breath, “I don’t find you annoying you know that. I shouldn’t have said that, I never should have said that, I don’t know why I said that”. Her panicked ranting made your emotionless facade slip, as you felt your own tears threaten to fall. “I just… I just snapped I don’t know. I don’t know why I did that. You didn’t deserve that. But I promise Y/N… I promise you, I will never… never do that again. I love you so much I can’t even fathom hurting you… I hate that I hurt you… please can you forgive me.”

At first you said nothing. You just stood there, looking at her, admiring her, thinking about her. You would be stupid not to forgive her. She was the love of your life, you weren’t going to let her slip away over something so small she obviously regretted deeply. As your tears finally fell, you ducked your head, still remaining silent causing Jenna to panic slightly. “Say something please” she begged in a broken whisper. What you did next caught her off guard. Lifting up your head, tear stains evident on your cheeks, you give her a soft smirk as you push yourself off the counter, approaching her slowly before pulling her into a hug. She instantly melted into the embrace, squeezing her eyes closed as she buries her head into your chest. With one hand around her waist and one cradling her head, you place gentle kisses into her hair, whispering sweet nothings. “It’s ok.” you repeated over and over again, reassuring her that you had in fact forgiven her.

After bathing in each others touch for a few minutes, Jenna gently lifts her head from your chest, tilting her head up to meet you eyes. “I’m so sor…” her breath catches in her throat as she is overcome with emotions, another tear slipping down her cheek. “Hey hey it’s ok” you comfort, gently wiping the tear away. “I love you” she manages to sputter, bringing a small smile to your lips. You gently grasp her chin in your hand, guiding her face up towards you, tilting your head slightly and capturing her lips with yours. Her hands rest on your cheeks as she melts into the kiss, humming in satisfaction against your lips. As your lips slowly part, your hand softly stroking her cheek, you look deeply into your girlfriend’s eyes as you whisper, “I love you too”

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega request #jenna ortega imagine #jenna ortega x fem reader #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega angst #jenna ortega fluff #wednesday netflix #wednesday #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x fem reader #fanfic #simp4wom3n #wednesday addams #netflix wednesday

[whoistartaglia]

Stawwwwp your stuff is so cute!!💖💖💖

If requests are open, may I ask for playing with Wanderer, Tighnari, and Kaeya's hair?

Thank you! And I hope you have a great rest of your day/night ✨️

very thankful for this request💪 i’ve been thinking about this idea for a while now

playing with his hair

wanderer

wanderer usually likes it when it’s him playing with your hair, but tonight you wanted to switch it up a bit. when you’re cuddling together and your hands start to thread into his hair, wanderer point blank turns to you and asks in an almost offended tone, “what are you doing?”

“playing with your hair,” you respond, gently tugging on another lock. you pause and look into his eyes. “is that okay?”

when wanderer doesn’t respond, you let his hair slip through your fingers.

“i’ll stop,” you whisper.

“no, it’s…” wanderer searches for the right word.

you wait patiently in silence. wanderer thinks you look like a confused puppy with your head tilted to the side. your eyes certainly remind him of one, always filled with adoration. for him. sometimes, he still can’t believe it.

“nice,” he finishes at last, sounding like it’s the first time he’s ever said the word. wanderer settles back down so you don’t have to see his face—though, that doesn’t hide the redness in his ears. he clears his throat. “you can keep going.”

his voice is ridiculously soft, but when you let out a teasing, “are you sure?” it turns back to rought concrete.

“yes,” tight, unyielding. you can picture him rolling his eyes. “i’m sure.”

you laugh and once again start running your fingers through his hair. he eventually falls asleep, and if you manage fight through your own dropping eyelids, you’ll hear him murmur your name, said like a scared prayer to a benevolent god.

tighnari

oh, when you start playing with tighnari’s hair, the man turns to puddy in your hand. nevermind the teasing attitude or sarcastic indifference he gives you during the day. at night, when you’re massaging his head with small, light circles, tighnari’s edges smooth out. not that they were never too rigid to begin with—at least, not with you—but the tension in his face will evaporate and he’ll have this content, peaceful smile on his face that lingers even into sleep.

and if you start playing his ears? first, consider yourself lucky that you’re allowed such a privilege; second, he might literally melt like ice under the desert sun; third, should you call him out on such softness, he will absolutely deny it.

“blushing?” he muses. he blinks open his eyes, and you feel bad you woke him from sleep. your guilt vanishes when he states: “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“oh?” you bring the back of your hand to his cheek. “i don’t know. seems pretty warm to me…”

he brushes off your hand with a small protest in the back of his throat.

“it’s warm because it’s hot here. that’s all.”

“oh, yes. i’m freezing.”

“[name],” tighnari sighs.

“tighnari,” you respond. he looks up at you with a pout—a pout, for archon’s sake—and you can’t help but laugh. “okay, okay. i’ll let it go.”

tighnari relaxes back down. you start running a light finger over the back of his ears, and tighnari sighs again, content. quietly, you lean down and whisper, barely able to keep the amusement from your voice: “but you totally are blushing.”

kaeya

kaeya loves it when you braid his hair. he just thinks your fingers are so gentle when you’re tugging and pulling at his hair in forming the braid. honestly, he’ll let you do anything you want to his hair, aside from cutting it all off. (even then, he might at least consider it, though he’d never let you go through with it).

you’ll be braiding his hair one night, same routine as ever, when you realize something. you tug on a strand and it doesn’t come free; neither does the adjcent strand next to it.

your fingers still, and your heart drops to the bottom of the ocean. in trying a new type of braid, you’ve created a knot in kaeya’s hair.

“well?” kaeya asks some time after you stopped. “did you finish?”

he goes to run a hand over the braid and you stop him, quickly lacing it with yours. now kaeya does turn, an eyebrow raised, a pointed glance at your entwined hands.

“not that this isn’t lovely,” he starts, squeezing your hand lightly, “but i do feel like there’s another motive at play here.”

“not at all,” you say, averting your gaze.

kaeya makes to touch his hair with his other hand, to which you also grab and hold in your own.

“okay, [name], sweetling, now i’m a concerned. please tell me you didn’t rip off a chunk of my hair.”

“you would’ve felt it,” you grumble. but then you sigh and shyly tell him, “…but i might have made a knot.”

kaeya studies your face, and after a second, he surprises you by placing a peck on your lips.

“what was that for?” you ask, embarassed.

“because you look so worried,” kaeya responds with a sigh. he worries for you sometimes, he really does. “don’t worry. it can’t be that bad. though,” he glanced at your hands again, still entwined, “i’d find some comfort in finding out for myself.”

you reluctantly release one hand. kaeya touches the knot and reassures you once again it’s really nothing. you both work to get it out before you’re back to braiding it again. though, it’s kind of difficult now.

kaeya still won’t let your other hand go.

#genshin impact #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact fluff #genshin fluff #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #wanderer x reader #wanderer headcanons #the wanderer x reader #genshin impact scaramouche headcanons #scaramouche headcanons #scaramouche x reader #genshin impact wanderer #genshin impact tighnari #tighnari x you #tighnari x reader #kaeya x you #kaeya x reader #tighnari headcanons #kaeya headcanons

[seeingivy]

tolerate it

actor!eren x f!reader

**part of my method acting series

previous part linked here

song: (is obviously) tolerate it by taylor swift. minor you are in love by taylor swift mention.

--

--

You can’t help but stare at Jean and Mikasa the following morning. The honey sweet smiles, the fact that they share a cup of coffee instead of getting their own – just to end up drinking two cups anyways – and the warm kisses on each other's cheeks. 

They’re in love. 

The slip of paper sits heavy in your pocket, a metallic taste in your mouth from the blood you drew from biting down on your cheek. The ring on her finger glimmers in the light. 

Colt’s at your side, a soft hand on your shoulder, as he nearly breaks you out of your trance. 

“Hey. You good?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Why’d you ask?” you mumble.  

You drive your fork straight into the french toast as a distraction, but too hard that it squeaks against the ceramic of the plate and makes them all flinch in response. Jean and Mikasa turn their heads to you, and you shoot them all an apologetic smile before everyone turns back to their own conversations. And Jean distractedly tucks a stray hair behind Mikasa’s ear, before lacing his fingers with hers. 

“Y/N. You’re sure? You’re kind of….” 

“Kind of what?” 

Colt sighs, the corners of his mouth twitching before he speaks. 

“You just kind of had that blank stare in your eyes. Just wanted to know if you wanted to talk about anything.” 

You pause, putting your hand on his shoulder this time. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach – the never ending worry you’ve seemed to sow in both of your brothers was almost embarrassing. 

“It’s not that, Colt. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just…it’s just about Jean and Mikasa. But…but if I needed you, I would tell you. And-and I know that sometimes I kind of scared you but I-” 

Colt breaks a smile, bringing his hands up to squish your cheeks hard, before he starts aggressively rattling your head.

That’s the thing about him. He’d never let you feel bad about it. About him taking care of you – because according to him, it was always his job. You hate that you rely on it so much. 

“Only thing scary about you is your bedhead. Or your attitude. Or that god awful-” Colt states. 

“Okay, Jesus. You’re laying it on a little thick there.” you respond, trailing your voice. 

“I’m glad you’re okay. And that your…your…Eren stuff is mostly resolved?” 

You smile. Colt and Levi have one thing in common – that they’ll always be a little bit disapproving of your relationship with Eren (whatever that is) just on principle. 

“Kind of.” 

Colt squints. 

“Well, he actually showed me the documentary after you came back from Seattle. He kind of…told me all that stuff when I asked a while back and it didn’t necessarily make sense. But watching the video, I…kind of feel bad for the guy.” Colt murmurs. 

“Me too.” you respond. 

The two of you look over at him, at the quiet conversation that he and Armin are having, soft smiles on both of their faces. And then watch those turn into devious grins as Armin digs his fingers into his glass for an ice cube – and then consequently watch Eren slip the ice down Reiner’s shirt. 

“You still like him? He just shoved an ice cube down someone's shirt and thought it was funny.” Colt asks. 

You frown.

“It is funny. And I’m kind of…putting that on the back burner.” 

“Why?” 

“I feel like I need everything else to be finished, the book needs to be shut before we….do anything again. I want to say my piece – have the documentary out, do my stupid triple threat performance – before I can even consider anything with him. If…” 

Your throat is heavy. 

“If I want anything with him again, I’ll have to do it right. I-I have to move carefully with everything from here because…a lot is riding on this. And if I’m not a hundred percent sure yet, I don’t want to push. He deserves better than that.” 

Colt smiles, a rare kiss pressed to the top of your head before he stands up. You shoot him a grateful smile before turning back to Jean and Mikasa, watching her balance both of their plates before she leaves to put them in the sink. 

“Jean?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you filming today?” you ask. 

“Nope. What’s up?” 

You pull the piece of paper out and hold it out to him. He reads it over, quickly recognizing it’s his, before he closes it in his fist. The look he gives you is soft, a quiet glance to Mikasa before he looks back at you. 

“I’m all yours for today, princess.” he responds. 

--

When everyone leaves for set, you and Jean find yourselves lying flat on the carpet in your room, quietly staring at the popcorn ceiling. His hands are up, holding the little slip of paper above both of your faces, an empty page open at your side, and you’re both uncharacteristically quiet. 

It’s almost strange. Trying to broach something so…sensitive with Jean. 

Because it’s not that you aren’t friends, but you were never friends like this. It’s like you two knew where loyalties lied. That Jean was Eren’s best friend, that you were Mikasa’s – and if it came to it, you would side with your person. That you had expectations for each other, that you held each other to a higher standard because of it. 

To be careful with the person you trusted them with. That Jean could never hurt Mikasa. That you couldn’t do the same to Eren. 

You didn’t hold up to your end of the deal. 

“Mikasa’s going to ask you to be her maid of honor again soon.” Jean murmurs, voice so quiet you barely hear it. 

You give him a quiet nod. 

“We’ve got a whole scheme going. Trying to make Amy quit on her own accord so it isn't family drama. It’s fun to kind of mess with her. And the second she’s gone, Mikasa’s going to ask you to do it again.” 

You can’t muster a response. You can’t even think about being Mikasa’s maid of honor. 

Because why are Jean and Mikasa getting married if Mikasa doesn’t love him half as much as he loves her? If he thinks that she doesn’t?

“I do hope for my future wife’s sake that your silence means you’re going to say yes. Would hate to see you ruin our wedding.” Jean states, a joking tone in his voice. 

You crack. 

“I’ll say yes. I’m not crazy.” you state .

Jean smiles. 

“You could have fooled me.” 

You elbow him hard in the side, as you watch the fan spin around. 

“You’re a dick.” you state. 

“You’re going to have to get me a gift you know? I’d watch your mouth if I were you.” 

“Why would I buy you a gift at my best friend's wedding?” you ask. 

“Mika’s idea. We’re sharing our lives together. Including, sharing friends. So instead of you guys getting us gifts, Eren’s going to get something for Mikasa and you’re going to get something for me.”  Jean states. 

“We’ve always been friends. You guys were always there for me.” you state. 

“I know that. But, my friendship with you was exclusive to the fact that you were my my girlfriend's best friend. We aren’t really close and I think we both know that. And Eren and Mikasa are close now, have been for some time, and…and you and I can be too. We’ve got something that brings us together.”  

You sit up, leaning against the back of the bed, as you dig your feet into the carpet. It makes sense. Jean was always there at your side, and you always felt close with him, but it was almost like you knew that you could never go further than that. 

He was Eren’s friend. So in that type of way, he couldn’t be yours. 

“What’s that?” 

“Eren. No one we love more than him, right?” 

You smile. 

“You love Eren more than your future wife?” 

He rolls his eyes.

“Shut the fuck up. You know what I meant. And we love Mikasa that way too.” 

“Not sure I did…I fear I’ll have to tell her, just on a best friend principle type of thing.” 

Jean shoves you, elbow straight to the side that makes you laugh. 

“Weirdly enough, Eren and Mikasa started getting along when they talked about me. And they always talk about how nice it is, to talk about me with each other because they get it or whatever.” 

You scrunch your nose. 

“They’re so weird.” 

“Tell me about it. The first time they hung out without me I was almost offended. Like what the fuck did you even talk about? And they were like you, Jean. Like I was supposed to be flattered or something.” 

You laugh. 

“Oh, god.” 

“Thought it was dumb. Then…then Mikasa and I started having our problems. And them being friends…it did a lot for us. Eren talked to her when she didn’t have anyone to talk to about that type of thing, someone who understood what I was like…what it was like to be close with me…sometimes I think it saved our relationship.”  

You pause, taking the little slip from his fingers, before you read it again. 

you love someone with your entire being and all they do is tolerate it 

“Jean. What happened?” you whisper. 

Jean smiles, as you lean your head on his shoulder and loop your hand through his arm. He welcomes the touch, slouching back as you both swing your legs out in front of you. 

“You only fall in love with three people in your lifetime. I just happened to do it all with the same person.” Jean murmurs. 

You’ve heard this before. A dumb thing you’ve heard parroted around - the puppy love, the one that hurts you, and the one that’s just right. 

“The first one is the one that looks right. It’s…it’s idealistic. You’re fifteen – you’re on the set, confined into this little bubble, and you think that you’re the first person to figure love out and other people are stupid for not getting it right.. That no one has ever felt the way you have, that you’re the first people to ever love and you’ll be the last ones too. That’s how Mikasa and I were at the beginning. We liked how we made each other feel more than we really liked each other.” Jean states. 

“Isn’t that what love…kind of is? Someone who brings out the best in you? Pushes you to do things that make you nervous, support you behind your back?” 

Like sending a demo of your first song to the Institute so that you could perform it. Like climbing onto the stage and playing the piano when your original pianist couldn’t. Like writing to the Institute behind your back just to make sure your dream would come true – being so firmly resolute in the fact that you were brilliant that he’d write hopeless letters just to convince them. 

Eren. 

“I liked Mikasa, from the start. I wanted her so badly that…that when we started dating, I was more happy by the fact that I was dating her. That I got to say that. Not that we were…actually together. And Mikasa, she liked the fact that I would fawn over her. That I basically worshiped the ground she walked on. And I’m not…putting words in her mouth. She’d tell you the same thing.” 

“Okay. Keep going.” you nudge. 

“The second love is the hard one. That teaches you a lesson about what love really is. And it all boiled down to a simple fact. That Mikasa and I loved each other in different ways.” 

“You don’t love her more than she loves you, Jean. She-she adores you.” you murmur. 

Jean smiles, glassy tears wavering in your eyes. 

“Don’t cry. We are still getting married, you know? And we’re pretty over the fucking moon about it.” 

“Then why would you give me that?” 

“It was Mikasa’s idea. She wanted you to write that song with me. This is what we did with Eren when we were writing songs with him. Gave him things to think about. Maybe thinking about other people will give you more insight on yourself. Help you piece things together, because you rarely have experiences that are unique to you. And it's a nice bonus to have friends who basically write the soundtrack to your life.” 

You sniffle, glaring at him through your watery eyes. 

“Of course you made this about Eren.” 

“Do you blame me? He wrote a really good song about us. Figured you could do the same.” he asks. 

You sigh, barely pushing the air through that heavy block in your chest. 

“What did he call it?” 

“You Are In Love.” he states. 

You hum in response as Jean gives you a smile, before leaning his head against yours.  

“Mikasa and I loved each other in different ways. She could be trying her absolute hardest, doing everything she could, and it would never work for me.” Jean states. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The problems from before bled in. We were too comfortable in what we had, that we wouldn’t leave each other, that it became too easy. That she could pull away and I’d still be there. And part of the problem is me – that Mikasa did no wrong in my mind. I was…enamored by her. Almost like I was lucky to even be dating her, that..that she’d leave if I did something wrong.” 

You frown. 

“I’d walk into the room and we wouldn’t have seen each other in weeks. She couldn’t even be bothered to look at me. I…I never got to see her because of work so I’d fly out to her. Just for her to be dead asleep. And it would make me happy, that I sacrificed my entire sleep schedule just to watch her breathe with her eyes closed. That it was enough for me.” 

You can’t help but think of Eren’s birthday – that you were tired from touring and that you had slept through the entire thing. That he wouldn’t even wake you up, that he’d never break what you wanted for what he needed. 

“Jean.” 

“I’d go all out for her birthday. Throw her a surprise party, have Vanity Fair film the entire process. And the small things she’d give me – calling me a pet name once in a while, giving me a kiss on the cheek. It’s almost like I was working based on a reward system. That if I was good, if I worked hard enough, she would love me.” 

You can feel the tears falling down your eyes, choking back that sound in the back of your throat from coming out. 

“I’d buy all this…fancy shit for her. Nice dinner sets, the most…expensive couches and stuff. And sometimes when I did, it…it was almost like she’d find it annoying. I would be doing interviewers gushing about her, just for her to come home and say that it was too much. It’s like I was a nuisance. Like all I did was create problems with her.” 

Jean pulls out his wallet, before handing you a picture. It’s a polaroid of the two of them smiling. 

“That was the day we got engaged. The second time.” 

“What?” 

“I broke up with her.” 

You pinch your lips into a flat line.

“I was sitting there. Watching her, like I always did. And she still wouldn’t even fucking look at me. And I was thinking so hard…why was she my whole world? My literal fucking sky? She doesn’t even give a fuck about me. So I left.” 

“For how long?” 

“We didn’t get back together until four months after. But…but it wasn’t a break. Didn’t even last a day actually without seeing each other.” Jean states. 

You smile. 

“Didn’t last very long there, Jean.” 

He rolls his eyes. 

“She came back to me, dipshit.” 

Jean takes the picture back, a fond smile on his face. 

“The third love is the one that you never see coming. It keeps knocking on your door until you're ready to answer. And if you’re Mikasa, you wait three whole months for me to come around. Ready to prove it that you’ll work to do it right. And never let me forget it either.” Jean murmurs. 

“Really?” 

“That’s right. The time apart gave us time to think. I needed that – but she didn’t. She was at my door almost everyday. Sometimes she would sit out there and just talk – and I’d listen. She was being earnest – that she wanted to love me, that she knows she did wrong. And when I let her in, the conversation we had, it was like I was seeing Mikasa, the person, for the first time. That was the person I loved. I wasn’t looking at her as some like…dream girl and I didn’t think she was some goddess doing me a favor either. She was just Mikasa. I proposed right there and it was better than the first time. Not in the idealistic, fifteen year old way. Not in the nineteen year old, all consuming way.  Loving her this time around was weightless. And I knew that it was right.” 

You smile. 

“It’s not as romantic. That we’ve loved each other since fifteen and we’ve never wavered. But…I’d argue that it’s better. Mikasa and I aren’t childhood sweethearts because we’re soulmates. We’re childhood sweethearts because we fought for each other. There’s no fate, there’s no luck, in fact the quite opposite – the love lies in the fact that we won’t let each other go.”  

He takes your hands, tears nearly collecting in his waterline. 

“Y/N. Mikasa loves me. I love her. There’s not a day that she doesn’t prove it to me now. There’s not a day that I can’t even spend without her because she’s the love of my life.” 

You smile, cupping his cheek with your hand. And you get it - that he’s right. That it’s not romantic, but it almost is. Jean and Mikasa fight hellish odds just to end up together. That fate could try its best and never get to them. 

That you and Eren being friends, that being together, is a testament to your love. That he fought his way back to you and you were intent on fighting your way back to him. 

“That’s nothing short of what you deserve.” you whisper. 

It’s enough to make him cry. 

“Thank you.” 

Jean smiles. It’s the first time that you notice that Jean’s attractive. That Jean’s someone that you really love. That he’s going to be Mikasa’s husband, that he’s going to be Eren’s best friend, that he’s going to be around forever. That he’s earnest, that he loves hard, that you’re going to stand at his side when he gets married. 

And that you’re going to give him his dream wedding if it’s the last thing you do. 

“Are you getting the drift of why Mika and I wanted you to write this song?” Jean asks. 

“I’m not a fucking idiot, Jean.” 

“Do you believe it?” 

You swallow hard. 

“If Eren and I can get back to that, when-when I’ve put everything else to rest, then yes. Yeah, we…we’d be the same. That we fought odds to be together.” 

“I’m glad your mind isn’t closed to it. That you’re open to the idea of you and him again. S’always something I’ve appreciated about you.” 

You smile. 

“We aren’t there yet, Jean.” 

“I know. But when it comes to it, I can tell you will be. He’s been my person since I was a kid, but you’re my friend too. I’ve got a personal stake in your relationship now.” 

You can’t help but beam at him. And in your newfound friendship, Jean divulges everything that Eren’s hiding from you. And you both agonize over the fact that Eren’s so painfully stupid – that he always hides his great gestures of love, moves in silence behind your backs to love you. 

--

You gather everyone around later that day, with Jean seated at the piano at your side. You shoot him a thumbs up as they all sit criss crossed around the piano, excited smiles on their faces. Falco and Gabi doing their secret handshake, Hange and Levi sharing a chair - it makes you smile. 

“Are we ready?” you ask. 

They all give you a nod, as Eren and Mikasa sit next to each other, whispering in each other’s ears. Jean did as you promised – warned Mikasa beforehand that it was this song – and she all but gave a golden stamp of approval, contingent on the fact that Eren sat with her while the two of you performed it together. And you give the two of them a nod before you take the little slip in your hands.

“The request is you love someone with your entire being and all they do is tolerate it. And it’s from Jean.” you state. 

The group of them all give affirmative hums, before you take a seat next to Jean at the piano. 

Eren’s stupid songwriting exercise – it was something that he had planned for you, on purpose. That it meant more for you than for any of them – that all of the requests are intended to be of this nature, something personal for you to work with. 

Eren asked them to help you in whatever way they thought you needed. 

For Jean, and Mikasa by extension, it was that they thought you needed living proof; that you could weather the storm and still be together. That you could come out stronger because of it. 

And it’s also why Jean got mad at Connie in retrospect – and Reiner too apparently – who gave more tame requests. But in their humble defenses, Jean said that they gave those so that you wouldn’t get emotional whiplash.

They thought you needed someone to give you the ease amidst the storm. 

You love all of them. Painfully so. 

Jean starts with the tiny piano composition he prepared, before you sing the song. 

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid Use my best colors for your portrait Lay the table with the fancy shit And watch you tolerate it

If it's all in my head, tell me now Tell me I've got it wrong somehow I know my love should be celebrated But you tolerate it 

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life Drawing hearts in the byline Always taking up too much space or time You assume I'm fine, but what would you do if I Break free and leave us in ruins Took this dagger in me and removed it Gain the weight of you, then lose it

If it's all in my head, tell me now Tell me I've got it wrong somehow I know my love should be celebrated But you tolerate it

I sit and watch you

Mikasa and Eren are the first ones to crush you and Jean in a hug. And when you lock eyes with Mikasa, you can’t be more than happy to be attending their wedding – in whatever way they’ll have you. 

--

“On a scale of one to ten, how pissed will you be if Connie gets drunk before the reception?” Eren asks. 

He’s shuffling through the itinerary, per Jean’s request, and the mix of an open bar and a Connie tasked with literally nothing to do in the two hour waiting period is a mess waiting to happen. 

“You should give him something to do. Something stupid like getting flowers that he can’t mess up.” Eren adds, before stacking all the papers together. 

“Knowing Connie, those flowers wouldn’t even make it out of the parking lot.” 

Eren looks up to find Armin standing at his door, an awkward smile on his face, as he gives him a little wave. The camera that he gifted him – or left on his desk with a sticky note when he was filming without a word being spoken – is hanging around his neck as he pads into the room. 

“Fuck, my bad. I thought you were Jean.” 

“I figured as much. We both know that I’m smart enough to not overlook something like that.” 

Eren smiles. Armin takes a seat on the bed across from Eren, retreating his legs back into position as he fumbles with the camera in his hands. He can tell that Eren’s on edge – that Eren always feels around him that way – and all he can do is try to muster his best smile. 

“Remember the Met Gala where Jean and Mikasa got super drunk?” 

“God. Don’t remind me. I’m genuinely concerned that they’re both going to get alcohol poisoning at their bachelor and bachelorette parties.” 

“God. I wouldn’t even drink if I were you.” Armin states. 

“I’m like a thousand percent sure that Y/N and I will be on sober duty.” 

“Y/N?” 

“Yeah. Jean and Mikasa are so insufferable that they’re doing a combined bachelor and bachelorette. But it was my idea. They just get so clingy when they’re drunk that I just decided we should combine the party beforehand instead of trying to coordinate it when everyone’s already too drunk to function.” 

Armin smiles. 

“Taking your best man duties very seriously. It’s going to be great.” Armin affirms. 

“The anxiety helps. I’m already stuck thinking about like every worst case scenario, but now I can create contingency plans for anything bad that happens. Like if Mikasa somehow ends up in Mexico, I know that Southwest will get here the fastest on the day of the wedding.” Eren murmurs. 

There’s an awkward silence. Eren said too much. And his chronic case of foot in mouth syndrome, especially when it came to fucking Armin, has him reeling. Eren’s positive that he’ll spend six hours ruminating about it tonight. Eren can see Armin fidgeting with the camera, running his fingers on the notches at the top. 

“If the camera’s broken, Y/N was the one who bought it.” Eren states. 

Armin laughs, the smile lines appearing around his eyes, and Eren relishes in it. 

“It’s not broken.” Armin states. 

“Okay, then it was me. She didn’t do anything.” Eren states. 

“Noted. It’s a…it’s a nice camera. The old one, the film got stuck sometimes. Strap got kind of worn out after all of these years so it was..it is nice to have a new one. Thank you, Eren.” 

Eren smiles, scratching the nape of his neck, as he feels his throat bob. 

“Nothing to thank me for. It’s the least I could do.” 

It’s quiet. Eren doesn’t know what to talk about. Should he ask about Annie? Or how filming has been? Or maybe he should just shut up before he embarrasses himself for a second time?

“How’s Y/N?” Armin asks. 

Eren deflates. Thank god he bit the bullet first. 

“Good. We’re good.” 

“Are you guys…?” 

Eren smiles. 

“Everyone seems to be asking that.” 

“In the overbearing way?” 

“No, not really. You’d think that, but…it seems like a natural question for you guys to ask. She doesn’t seem to mind it either. But, I don’t know. We’re good. I’m glad she’s back. And…and Colt thinks she’s doing good too, so.” Eren states, leaning back against the headboard. 

Armin seems to follow suit, the two of them awkwardly eyeing almost everything else in the room but each other. The books on the shelf, the pictures on the wall – literally anything except for that giant elephant in the room that neither of them want to touch. 

“Are you going to try and date her again?” Armin asks. 

“Not unless she asks me first.” 

“Makes sense. Ball is kind of in her court with the documentary and all that.” 

Eren’s throat feels dry. 

“Oh. Did you watch it?” 

Eren had offered it to him the second it was done. Because some people were more easily swayed, more quick to turn to his side when he was finally ready to ask for help – Levi, Hange, and Jean. But other’s needed to be convinced, needed to see it as it was to actually understand it – Mikasa, Historia (before she was in it), and Colt. 

Eren knew that Armin would be in the latter. But when he had offered, Armin opted to break the disk in half instead. 

Eren figures it was what he deserved. 

“Yeah. Y/N. She gave it to me when she got back. Told me that she would never talk to me again if I didn’t watch it.” 

Eren laughs. 

“She would talk to you. She’s just being dramatic.” 

“Well, she spent an entire two years ignoring all of us. So I wouldn’t exactly put it past her.” Armin states. 

“That’s very true. But really, I feel like she was kind of using that to her advantage. She wouldn’t do it again.” 

“To your advantage. Though I suppose for you two, your wants have always been the same.” Armin adds. 

Eren eyes the picture on the wall – of Lana, Connie, Sukuna, him, and Teddy all swamped around Connie’s little cake – as he looks back at Armin. 

“I’m sorry for breaking the CD when you gave it to me. I should have watched it the second you offered.” Armin states. 

“That’s okay, Armin. I probably would have done the same thing in your position.” Eren states. 

“No, you wouldn’t have. You…you were always better than me, than all of us, in that sense. Always really quick to forgive. I know it’s…it’s because you expected little from people after what happened with Zeke, but…we should have given it to you. Should have done more.”  

Eren fights the urge to scoff. The premise of the statement is ridiculous to him. Those type of rules don't apply to him. And as perceptive as Armin is, he knows that’s exactly what Eren is thinking. 

“We’re serious. There’s…there’s a lot of people you didn't have to forgive. And…and some of us didn’t even ask and you did it anyway.” 

“I know your intentions. I broke your fucking camera, you had every right to do-” 

Armin’s almost exasperated. 

“You know how you were quick to forgive Y/N, for not talking to any of us when all of that stuff happened with her music and all that?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why’d you do that?” Armin asks. 

“Well, she had a lot going on. I’m just thankful that she came back to us eventually. And…and it’s already hard to hold anything against her, she…she always does the right thing. But that specifically. I can’t hold it against her if other things are going on.” Eren states. 

Armin nods. 

“That’s what I mean. You’ve always thought about everything like that. Given grace where it deserved. I’ve never had a shred of that in me. You…you did what you did and I didn’t even think twice about what it had meant. I mean hell, even Y/N had a little bit of an inkling that something else had to have happened. I just fully believed it. And even when you tried to tell me, I still didn’t consider that you could have been going through something else. Not until she came to me and advocated on your behalf.” 

Eren smiles, putting a hand on Armin’s shoulder. He makes a mental note to thank you later. You prove time and time again that you’re far too good for him. 

“That’s not your fault for believing it. I’m just a really good actor.” Eren teases. 

Armin rolls his eyes, shoving him lightly to the side. 

“Oh, fuck off. I’m fighting the urge to strangle you right now. And how’d you even come up with that bullshit anyways.?” Armin asks, referring to what Eren had said to you back in Seattle. 

Eren grins.

“You have to promise you won’t tell Y/N.” 

“What? You haven’t told her?” 

“No, no. She knows everything but I refuse to tell her this part because she’s going to gouge my eyes out.” 

Armin tilts his head to the side, confused. 

“Do you remember when we were at the birthday dinner and Vinh kept asking her if she was dating Sukuna? Going on about how you can’t fake chemistry like that?” Eren asks. 

Armin’s perceptive. 

“Holy shit. You got the idea from her.” 

Eren nods. 

“That’s right. Her whole ‘I’m an actor, this is part of my job’ defense was like the first thing that came to mind when I knew I had to send her away. And that’s just what came out of me at that moment.” 

“Good move on your part. I wouldn’t tell her that either.” 

Eren rolls his eyes. 

“It’ll be short lived. I’m sure Sukuna will tell her the first chance he gets.” Eren adds. 

The two of them marinate in the silence, the weight of the conversation sitting with them. It seems pretty lackluster to an outsider – that if you were there you would have forced them to hug it out – but they were hardly the type to communicate with their words in the first place, the meaning was all the same.

They had made up. 

“You have to give credit to Y/N. Your girl is trying to ride as hard for you as you did for her.” 

Eren frowns. 

“What do you mean? Because she got you to watch it?” 

“Yeah. That. but also the award show thing? I’d be scared shitless if I was Scott Clarkson. Whenever she talks about it, it kind of freaks me the fuck out how much she doesn’t seem to care about what people think. Though in hindsight, that was always kind of her thing.” 

“What awards show thing?” Eren asks. 

Armin pales. 

“She didn’t tell you?” Armin asks. 

“No.” 

Armin shakes his head. 

“All in good time.” 

Armin pushes off the bed, giving him a quick look over the shoulder, before consequently flashing the light of the camera in his face. Eren sees the polaroid front and center – his eyes pinched shut in shock – on the wall the following morning. And the caption makes him smile. 

eren jaeger redemption arc. circa 2024. 

--

“Have something for you two.” Levi states, slamming a manila envelope right in between you and Eren – startling you both from what you were doing. 

Eren was playing a very aggressive game of Cup Pong with Lana on iMessage, claiming that the two of them have been playing for the past three years, nonstop. And you were busy finishing up Gabi’s request that you had pulled out of the little bowl this morning, so excited to play it for them tonight. 

write about the bestest of friendships!!!! like so good that you can’t even stay away from each other bc of how fun it is to be together. 

Recruiting Falco to sing one of the verses with you later – because you were almost positive that this request was about him – felt like cheating, but your humble gamemaster Eren approved it. 

“Jesus, Levi. What the fuck do you have against the postman? He make a comment about how short you are or something?” you ask, flipping over the little envelope in your hands. 

“Look at the sender.” Levi seethes. 

You look over at Eren, as the two of you catch sight of the little name of the corner, almost positive that your eye was twitching now. 

Scott Clarkson, Stone Studios, 15th Street, New York City 

It’s addressed to both you and Eren. 

“What the fuck?” you seethe. 

Eren takes the envelope from your hands, nimble fingers sliding open the little seal, and a magazine falls out. Eren takes it into his hands, nearly groaning, before picking up his phone and shooting a quick text. 

It’s a picture of Scott Clarkson – sitting on a literal throne with a crown on his head – with Lana and Eren leaning on the little handles at the side. 

Scott Clarkson: King of an Industry – How This Businessman Jump Started the Careers of the Institute’s Frontrunners 

You look at Eren at your side, quickly clocking that it’s Lana and Sukuna that he’s texting. 

“You’re kidding.” you state. 

“It was stupid. We refused to let him run it at the time. I’m guessing he got wind of what’s happening this weekend and wanted to get ahead of the curve.” 

It was simple. Eren’s documentary was going to come out on Friday. Hyla just happened to have a song featuring Ricky James releasing on Saturday. And almost too perfect, the sixth episode of Attack on Titan – your first of the season – was going to release on Sunday. 

And with Levi’s approval, you and Eren were going to attend the Institute Awards pre-show and the event itself next week to put an end to them for good. 

“How could he have known?” you ask. 

“He has eyes and ears everywhere. They’re preparing to distribute the film – I’m sure he must have seen it shuffled around in the paperwork somewhere.” Eren states, shrugging. 

You turn to Levi, staring into his steely gray eyes. You eye the magazine, now lying flat on the table, before looking back up at him – knowing for a fact he understands. That he has the same thought as you. 

“Do you think that we could do it in time?” you ask. 

Levi looks at the picture, corners of his mouth twitching, before he turns back to you. 

“I’m positive he knows a guy. We’ll make it work.” Levi states. 

You give Levi a smile, looking back at the magazine. It’s a comforting press to the shoulder, accompanied by Levi slamming the keys on the table at your side. 

“Take Eren with you. It might rain.” 

“You got it, Levi. Thank you.” 

Levi cups the bottom of your chin with his hands, a warm smile on his face, before he shakes his head and walks away. You turn to Eren, giving him a lopsided smile, before you jingle the keys in front of his face. 

“Wanna go for a drive?” 

“I’m pretty sure Levi just demanded that I go with you.” 

“I was trying to be cute and you just ruined it.” 

“Can it even be considered trying if it’s already something you’re so effortless at?” Eren jeers, snatching the keys from your hand as he pulls you up. 

“You don’t have to be so patronizing, Eren.” 

“Leave it to you to confuse my affections with ill will.” 

Eren swings the door open, and at the first burst of chilly air, aggressively wraps the extra scarf left on the hook around your neck before shutting the door. 

“Where are we going?” he asks. 

“The airport.” 

Eren features curl in confusion as he opens the door for you, tucking you into the seat before taking his at your side. 

“The airport? Who’s coming?” 

You bite your cheek. Becuase Eren does that thing – that thing that guys do when they reverse out of a parking spot. His arm is spread out on the back of your seat, his face close to yours as he looks out in concentration, and you take the chance to fully ogle him. Only you start searing with embarrassment when his eyes flicker over to you – giving you a wink in recognition. That he knows you were fully checking him out.  

“Some friends of mine. I..I kind of owe them a favor. And contingent on that, they refused to ride in the bus with everyone else.” 

Eren squints his eyes, the stoplight's red glow reflecting on his features. And when he looks over, his eyes are so pensive that you feel bad for keeping it from him for so long. 

“It started out simple, I guess. When…when we came back from Seattle, I felt like there was so much…floating around in my head. So much I was finding out, so much I was realizing, that I could barely come to terms with all of it at once.” 

Eren’s gaze shifts, focused back on the street, as the little drops hit the glass. 

“I wrote it all down. Everything I learned, what I can’t forget. That I can’t live my life when I’m untouchable. That the wound is where the light enters. That you can’t learn your lessons for people, that sometimes you just have to be there to catch them. You can have grace for yourself but keep yourself accountable too – those things don’t have to be mutually exclusive. That hardship can be good – that sometimes it can even make the good times feel even better.” 

You look over at Eren, the red reflecting on his skin. 

Eren’s smiling at you – like he’s proud of you. That he knows that you’re repeating the words – his words, Michael’s, Levi’s – everyone who has been pushing you forward. 

That you’re taking them to heart. 

“That I’m going to make them pay for what they did to you. And to me. I don’t know what’ll happen, but I refuse to be silent about it. I’m done doing that.” you whisper. 

You reach for his hand, leaning closer. And he follows your suit, your noses nearly brushing against each other, stilling your blinking – just so you don't have to tear yourself from his green eyes. 

“Are you with me, Eren?” 

“Think it’s impossible for me to be anywhere else.” he whispers. 

The warmth in your throat is suffocating. 

“Eren?” you whisper. 

“Yeah.” 

You pinch your eyes shut at the horrible timing. 

“The light is green.” you murmur. 

Eren’s eyes falter, a curt nod, before he releases your hand and continues to drive forward. 

And takes you all the way down to the airport, the quiet silence enveloping your space. 

You open up the car door, a light sprinkle and the earthy smell in the air, as you lean against the hood, hands tucked into your pockets. Eren follows suit, taking the spot next to you, as you watch your breath visualize in the cold, crisp air. 

“Back in the day, Satoru Gojo did me a favor. He had the chance to do an ensemble showcase, and he lent that time to me, so I could make a point.” you state. 

Eren turns his head towards you, and immediately looks at the group of people piling out of the airport – the distinct white, green, and pink hair catching him off guard. 

“It’s time for me to make a point again. I figured I could use all the help I could get.” you state.

Eren fights the urge to bite his cheek, the glimmering smirk you give him before pushing off the hood of the car making his heart pound. He watches as you excitedly run up to Satoru Gojo – and Suguru Getou by extension – wrapping your arms around the two of them and pinching their cheeks. 

And it only gets worse when his favorite kid comes running out shortly after – followed by Lana and Sukuna berating him – and clings straight onto his legs. Eren’s exasperated, bringing his hand down to Teddy’s curly hair just to make sure. 

That they really were here. 

“Eren! Eren, pick me up! Pick me up!” 

“You could say please, Teddy. He drove all the way here just for you.” Lana states, giving Eren a warm smile as she places her hands on her hips. 

“Please, Eren!” 

Eren smiles wide, the warmth in his chest reverberating, as he reaches for Teddy’s sides and gets a wet kiss to the cheek from him return. There’s a deep yearning stinging in Eren’s chest as you walk up, looping your arm under Sukuna’s as you press your cheek to his bicep. 

Eren can barely contain it. He’d strangle you if he could. 

And Satoru Gojo’s quick to follow, aggressively leaning his weight on both you and Sukuna, as he gives Eren a bright smile. 

“Eren Jaeger. Just the guy I wanted to see.” Satoru sings. 

“Is that right?” Eren asks. 

“We’re all going to battle for you, kid. How do you feel? Your vicious guard dog plans to leave no corner unturned.” he responds, ruffling the top of your hair as Eren watches you shove him off. 

Eren frowns. 

“You don’t have to…do something for me. I’m not exactly sure what it is you’re doing, but you don’t have to.” 

You smile. It was almost aggravating how cute he could be sometimes. 

“Don’t worry kid. I love to stir shit up. I have a feeling this one’s going to be in your favor.” Satoru states, giving him a lingering smile before getting called up to one of the cars lingering in front. 

Eren turns to his side – Teddy wiggling in his arms – as he watches you excitedly smile at Lana and Sukuna. And when you turn to him, the pale fluorescent light making you glow, you stand out more than anyone else standing there. 

Eren swears Satoru’s chanting “fuck a bitch named Scott Clarkson” in the car ahead of him and realizes that Levi’s probably in for the biggest headache of his life. 

“Ready to go?” you ask. 

Eren gives you a quiet nod, as you reach forward with your grabby hands for Teddy and buckle him into his seat at the back. Lana and Sukuna are at his sides, Eren watching them smile at each other through the rearview. 

Eren tries to stamp it out the best he can. That glimmering flare of hope that’s burning in his chest. 

And for the first time in years, he fails to do so. 

You were keeping his candle alight. 

--

You know for a fact that things will work in your favor, this time around. 

Hyla Clarkson, in her extreme annoyingness, moves the release date of her song up to that night – ruining the perfect plan that you had written out. Satoru’s more upset about it, that she ruined the perfectly cinematic moment that would have been.

Her new debut song smushed in bewteen Eren’s documentary and your comeback. 

But then you listen to the song and relish in the fact that karma is real. That all of the bad is canceled out by good – and that when it came to them, sweet justice was going to be served. 

There’s no such thing as bad PR. And from your standpoint – people talking about you, you being the center of attention, was the one thing that you needed leading up to the awards show. 

It’s almost too perfect. 

You had every intent to milk the fact that Hyla Clarkson just released an entire song about how big of a bitch you were. 

And make her regret it. 

Starting by releasing a song the following morning, your first in three years, to ensure hers won’t occupy the top spot. 

--

--

next part linked here

an: ARE YOU READY FOR IT (revenge era for someone who actually deserves it)

(hyla clarkson you will develop a cough in three days for naming your album pop princess pretending like you don't know the entire aot cast calls y/n princess BC she's a pop princess...)

(I plan to write at least a chapter a week so we can wrap this sweet baby up!)

taglist: @k0z3me @kayleegomez @yihona-san06  @bsenpai @sweetenertea @mykyoon @violetmatcha @rebeccawinters @cutiejg @bokutosthings @bookwrmm @mblrrr @wheredidmycrowngo @somethinginyoureyes7 @chilichopsticks @okaystopwhore @you-always-made-me-blush @itzmeme @firelordazulaaa @whoami-72 @g-ghostly @intimacywithceline @erensmoodygf @cocomellxn @princess-ackerman @jaegerfiles @cacapeepee @rui-0836 @moonmalice @invisible-mori @sofiasber @bbybeeb @timetobegone @tee4str @ttokki @leave-rae-alone @ec3lipsy @officialsimpp @gojojang @yookayyo @lordbugs @multiplefandomthings @iobeyfandoms @camilo-uwu @justanotherkpopstanlol @mel-star636 @fvckingeetar @ttalgi @najaemism @ilovekimchi123 @youraggedybitch @xoyumiqls @leafguitar @dreamy-carat @spiidergirlsworld @luvs4kim @levin4nami @florichun @hoonmyluv @cowgirlikets @dreamxiing @mamamammarga @tangerine-neonlight @th0tformikasa

pls comment on this post or any of the chapters if you want to be added to the taglist <3

#seeingivywrites! #eren #eren x reader #eren x you #eren x y/n #eren jaeger x you #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger x y/n #eren fluff #eren angst #eren yeager x you #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager x y/n #eren yeager #eren yeager fluff #eren yeager angst #attack on titan #aot #aot x you #aot x reader #aot x y/n #aot fluff #aot angst #snk #snk x you #snk x reader #snk x y/n #snk fluff #snk angst #shingeki no kyojin

[whatsk-poppinhomies]

Pairing : Idol!Yang Jeongin x F!Reader TW : Jeongin is mean ; reader insecurities ; breakup ; fluffy at the end though ; Word Count : 2.2k Request : @moon0fthenight : Can we do an aNNNNGGGSSTTTYYYY innie fic where reader is depressed but my man has been coming from home after a bad day and just takes hun it put on her, (like way bad) and everything comes down like her insecurities and stuff and she breaks up with hom but he begs her to stay A/N : Working on as many requests as I can!!! My request completion attempt will take a brief pause on the first week of July though so I can start working on Season 2 of Before You Fall!! But for now... ENJOY!! I feel like I kind of veered off the track of the actual ask, but it's still close and I hope you still like it!!

“I think work has just been really stressful for him lately.” Your phone was held between your shoulder and your ear as you worked on dinner, quickly cutting up the carrots as you listened to your mom. 

“Maybe you should try to do something special with him? Try to keep his mind off work for a bit.” She offered up, and you hummed in agreement, turning your phone on speaker as you set it on the counter. “A small date, just getting him out of the house. It worked wonders with your father and I, that’s how we’re still together after all this time. Sometimes stress just piles up, you know.” 

“Yeah… You’re right, I’ll try that.” You mumbled, setting down the knife and sighing heavily. “I’ll talk to you later, mom.” You said, quickly hanging up the phone and taking a deep breath. Jeongin was your first serious relationship, he was the first person that you could really see yourself with. You loved him, but sometimes he just… doesn’t show the same kind of empathy that you do. If Jeongin has a bad day at work, the rest of the evening would be just as stressful for you trying to please him. If you had a bad day at work, it was nothing, easily blown over. 

For some reason, Jeongin just assumed that since he made more money, his job was more important than yours. His stress was worse than yours. His emotions were more important. Everything he did, everything he felt took priority over you. At first you let it slide, you just loved him so much and you wanted him to be happy, you wanted him to know that you cared, but you felt like it was time for him to care about you. 

It’s not like your life was any easier just because you weren’t an idol, if anything, it was just as hard. You had to follow his schedules, making sure that dinner was done in time for when he got home even though you were never 100% sure when he’d be home. All of the guys knew about you, and when he was having relationship troubles, he could go to them for advice. You on the other hand had to keep it all a secret. No one could ever know that you were dating him, he wouldn’t be able to handle the scandals or the rumors. Your life was hard, and you were tired of pushing that all down for him, to make sure his life was simpler. 

“I’m home.” Jeongin sighed from the front door, kicking his shoes off, the rubber soles marking up the wall where they hit. Not that he cared, he’d just have you clean the walls or repaint them if he finally came to realize it. “Hyunjin kept coming at me about the dances, I can’t get it right.” He slumped down into his chair, running his hands over his face. 

“Well you just started learning the choreo two days ago… It’s not like you’re going to be a master at it immediately.” You responded, hoping that it would somehow make him feel better. “I got all the stuff to make your favorite dinner when I got off work. Do you want some?” You thought that maybe bringing up your own work would make him ask about it, pique his curiosity about how your day went. 

“That’s great, babe. Get me a big bowl, I’m starving.” He sat up a little in his chair, and you nodded slowly, biting your lip as you walked over to the stove. Of course he didn’t care, he wasn’t even slightly interested in your life. It was all about him, always about him. Did you even exist in the relationship for anything other than cooking his breakfasts and dinners and washing his clothes? He didn’t even touch you anymore, not unless he was super bored and had nothing else to do. 

You placed his bowl down and then grabbed your own, sitting across from him at the table. “Work was awful today… the customers were rude and my manager was short tempered and shitty because I wasn’t working fast enough…” Sure, he hadn’t specifically asked for the details, but maybe he’d show some sort of concern or maybe even compassion after hearing about your day. 

His eyes rolled as he groaned. “It’s just retail, babe. Don’t be such a cry baby about it.” He said and you once again bit your lip, dropping your gaze into your bowl. “I have managers to listen to, Bangchan, I’ve got reporters up my ass all the time. I’d love to have it as easy as you do.” He took another bite of the soup, humming softly to himself. “Finish your dinner so we can watch our show.” He motioned towards your bowl that you had left untouched.

“I was thinking that… maybe we can go out… on a date or something?” You mentioned, picking up your spoon once more and taking a small bite of the soup. “Just to take your mind off of work… and to give me a small break from my job.” Your feet were tapping nervously under the table, your hand shaking as you held the spoon. “Even if it’s just the park… to walk around or something… I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long and…” 

You trailed off, your eyes moving lower to look at your lap when you heard Jeongins sigh. “I literally just said I constantly have reporters following after me… and you suggest going out together?” His bowl was lifted to his lips as he took a long sip of the broth before placing the bowl down again, and even though you weren’t looking at him, you could feel him looking at you. “I’m sorry that I’m busy and I can’t just work 6 hours and come home and relax. Some of us don’t have it that easy.” 

Everything you did was easy in his eyes. He didn’t know how you felt, he didn’t know what it was like. “It’s not… easy…” You muttered, your teeth pressing harder into your bottom lip as you tried to keep it from trembling. “I just wanted to spend time with you…” 

“I’m not stopping you from spending time with me, but for Christ’s sake, I don’t want to hear about how awful your work is when my job is way harder than yours.” There it was again. Why was it a competition of who’s job was the worst? Why did it matter? Why couldn’t you just be there for each other? “My day was awful enough as it is, and then I want to just enjoy dinner and a movie with you and I have to hear about how rough it is to ring up a couple customers. It’s kind of annoying.” 

Annoying… you were annoying…? “Just because I’m not dancing and singing… it doesn’t mean my job isn’t hard. You don’t even know what it’s like…” You mumbled under your breath, but his eyes slightly widened as he leaned forward across the table to hear you better. 

“Say that again… Speak up, I hate it when you mumble.” He groaned, reaching over to tilt your chin up. “And look at me when you’re talking so that I can at least try to read your lips if I can’t understand you.” Did he not even notice that you were trying not to cry right now? 

“I said that… You don’t know what it’s like…” You said just a little louder now, and you could tell that he heard you, his finger falling from beneath your chin as he leaned back in his chair. “My boss is an asshole, I have to deal with customers that bitch and complain at me all day long, I barely even get a long enough break to breathe before I have to go back in and deal with it all over again. I come back home and I can’t talk to you about it because apparently my job and everything I do is shit to you. I’m so alone here and even if I had someone to talk to about how I feel, I couldn’t because no one can know about you and I being together… Even though it doesn’t even feel like we are.” You were breathing heavily as you looked at him, at least you hadn’t looked away yet. “Why are we together? I… I don’t even know… I… I want to break up.” 

Now those words hadn’t actually been planned, and they most definitely hadn’t been thoroughly thought over before they had left your mouth, but now they were out, hanging in the air above the table like a chandelier. “You… Want to break up?” He questioned, as if giving you another chance to take back those words, god, he wanted you to take them back, but he didn’t want to say anything yet… He needed to know if you actually meant them. 

So you thought it over, and you thought for what felt like a good bit before ultimately nodding your head. “There’s nothing here… for either of us… I don’t even know what we’re holding onto.” You sniffled softly before clearing your throat, and for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel so nervous talking to him, everything was finally out on the table. “I’m tired of competing… I’m tired of feeling like I’m not good enough. You don’t even ask me how my days have been… it’s always all about you. I’m tired of giving my all and… not even getting 25% in return. I want to break up, Jeongin.” 

There were many things in this world that your heart couldn’t handle seeing, and one of those things were tears in Jeongins eyes. His fox-like eyes completely glossed over as twinkling tears trickled down his cheeks had your heart aching. “Please… Don’t leave me…” He shakily whispered, his hands folded on the table as his thumbs rolled over each other. “You’re… You’re my first girlfriend and… I’m still learning how to do this right.” He took a deep breath, coughing immediately afterward as the lump in his throat got larger. “I’m trying, and I’m always scared that I’m not doing enough… and I was right… I’m not doing enough. I’m doing everything wrong.” 

“Jeongin…” 

“But you are good enough!” He cut you off with the choked out declaration, his head finally lifting to reveal his puffy red eyes as his tears continued to fall. “A-Ask Chan hyung…. I never shut up about you. I annoy the hell out of everyone there because you’re all I talk about. You’re the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me in my life, and I’m so lucky I have you and I don’t want to lose you just because I’m an idiot.” 

“Jeongin… I…” 

“And work has just been really stressful lately.” He continued, and you knew that it would be pointless to try to get a word in while he was ranting, so you sat back in your chair, watching as he continued to sob, his lips trembling as he spoke, giving his words a sort of vibrato. “I don’t know why I try to compete… I know that your job sucks too… You can quit it… I want you to quit it… I don’t want to think of people treating you like that. I’ll support you, I’ll support us… And I know that you’re tired of hiding… And I’m tired of it too… I’m gonna talk to management. I want to post pictures with you, I want to show everyone our matching outfits, I want to show everyone how beautiful you are, how lucky I am…” His words broke at the end as his face fell back into his hands, his breaths becoming heavy and quick as his sobs grew silent and his voice became hoarse. “Don’t… Don’t break up with me, please… Just one more chance… I’ll be better… I promise.” 

You pushed away from the table and got up, watching his eyes widen with fear as he watched you, but you walked over to him, lowering down onto his lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. “I didn’t know you cared that much…” You whispered, kissing his cheeks that were salty with the tears that he had spilled. “I love you, Innie…” 

His arms snaked around you, holding you on him, making sure that you won’t even try to get up. “I love you too… I love when you call me that…” The sigh of relief was audible even after his face was hidden against your shoulder, his voice muffled against the sleeve of your hoodie. “I don’t think I’ve panicked that much since right before we debuted.” He chuckled nervously, his eyes wide as he looked up at you. “Were you… Really going to break up with me though…?” Your own eyes wavered before you hesitantly nodded yes and then his eyes somehow widened even more. “Yeah well… You can’t do that. I won’t allow it. Next time you think about breaking up with me, talk to me first, and if I’m being an asshole, hit me… And if I’m still being an ass, then you can threaten me with leaving.” He took a deep breath before letting it out in one heavy huff. “Ugh, my eyes feel like they’re gonna fall out. Come… Come, it’s cuddle time, and we’re watching our movie and you’re not allowed to move unless it’s for a bathroom break or a snack trip.” He planted kisses all along your cheeks, pulling you closer every time you tried to move away. “No! Receive my love! All 100% percent of it! I’m never letting you go! You’re mine!” 

#stray kids #skz #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #skz x you #skz x reader #stray kids headcanons #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids drabbles #stray kids fic #skz headcanons #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz drabbles #skz fic #stray kids angst #skz angst #yang jeongin #jeongin #jeongin x reader #jeongin x you #jeongin headcanons #jeongin imagines #jeongin scenarios #jeongin drabbles #jeongin fic #jeongin angst

[mmingooo]

touchy-feely || lee minho ⋆ ₊ ﾟ ☽ * ₊

❥𓂃𓏧 warnings: none.

❥𓂃𓏧 genre: fluff.

❥𓂃𓏧 pairing: lee minho x gn!reader

❥𓂃𓏧 word count: 0,5k words.

❥𓂃𓏧 notes: i ALWAYS write stuff like this but i just can’t help it, i’m a sucker for cuddly minho 😭😭, but anyway, i hope you enjoy! <3 (also, i got inspired by this video of chan and minho)

masterlist.

please make sure to reblog and if you want to, drop a comment!

minho had never been the touchy-feely-cuddly type of guy, always preferring to showcase his love for others silently.

whenever chan was around, minho knew it was matter of time before chan was all over him, hugging and cooing at him, so minho developed a few techniques to get him to stop without actually telling him to, one of those techniques being yelling so loud chan would eventually give up and leave him be.

you respected his preference to not be physically affectionate, you really did, but sometimes it was hard to keep your hands and coos to yourself, sometimes your boyfriend just looked too cute you felt like you wanted to give him enough smooches to last him a lifetime, but you always restrained yourself so as to not make minho uncomfortable.

but today, you just couldn’t do it anymore, you two had just woken up a few minutes ago, and were making small talking, figuring out what you’ll have for breakfast and if you’ll do anything at all aside from laying on the couch all day while watching movies and k-dramas.

he looked exceptionally adorable, his hair was a mess, his eyes and lips were swollen and his cheeks were softly blushed.

and when he moved away from you, laid on his back and stretched his entire body while letting out a loud yawn, you knew it was game over for you.

without even realizing it, you were on top of him, cupping his face with your hands and cooing at him, telling him how absolutely adorable he looked right now, you peppered him with kisses all over his face and squished his cheeks, making his lips pucker out.

once you were done, you hoped off him and laid on your side, staring at him expectingly, waiting for him to tell you off, to mock you for being so noticeably whipped for him, but he didn’t say anything, he didn’t even look at you, it’s almost as if he was in shock about what just happened.

he was processing his emotions, did he like that? oh yeah, absolutely, should he feel embarrassed that he liked that?, oh no, definitely not, that was kinda nice actually, since when do i find that nice?, well it is y/n so maybe that contributes to me liking it?, those were the questions running through his head, and when he was finally able to respond to each of them, he spoke.

“why haven't you done that before?”, he finally asked after what seemed like hours.

“oh, um, i guess because i didn't want to make you uncomfortable?”

“why would you think you could ever make me feel uncomfortable?”, he was still not looking at you, deciding that looking at the ceiling was a way better option since it would make it harder for him to blush.

“well, i guess because you don’t really like physical affection”

“i don’t mind it when its you”, he finally turned his head and made eye contact with you.

“are you sure?”, you asked, wanting to make sure he wasn't just saying this to not make this situation awkward.

“yeah, positive”

“alright then, be prepared because i can strike at any moment”

“yeah, yeah”, he smiled before crashing his lips into yours.

#ꕥ stray kids #ꕥ lee know #stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids lee know #stray kids lee minho #lee know x reader #lee know x you #lee know x gn!reader #lee know fluff #lee know #stray kids imagines

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐒𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐧𝐱𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐲 | Part 23

You're just so frustrating.

Tags/Warnings: Game Designer!Jungkook, Non Idol AU, established relationship, fluff

Length: 1k Words

There is no taglist for this fic.

Callob with @euphoricfilter !

-> Masterlist

♥━━━━━━━━━━•.♡.•━━━━━━━━━━━━♥

Fuck this.

Jungkook refuses to believe that that was how he proposed to you- he won’t aknowledge it, eating his breakfast cereal with a pout on his face.

„Jungkook, come on.“ You laugh, sitting across from him. „I told you it was perfect-„ you say, though he shakes his head, beginning to talk before he can properly swallow- which makes him choke, and you laugh as he coughs up the stray bits of food that entered the wrong tube.

„I don’t care, it sucked.“ He denies, tears on the edges of his eyes as he drinks some water.

„I mean I did suck you-„ you start, causing him to send a glare your way, but you just sigh. „Jungkook come on. It doesn’t matter to me how you asked me- the fact that you did makes me happy already!“ you tell him, before you tap his bowl. „Now eat your cereal or it’ll get soggy.“

He does- but that still doesn’t lift his mood at all.

He doesn’t really have time to figure out another masterplan like last time, since he’ll have to get back to work soon to not make anybody mad enough to slap some god awful project onto his table to be done before the new year- but maybe he can still come up with something memorable. There’s still some money in the bank, and he’s soon to get his december bonus for the holidays, so maybe a fancy date? Now that he thinks about it, you never went to one together. He doesn’t even really own a suit.

He should get one. And you a pretty dress. But not one that’s too expensive, because he’ll surely break it later back home.

Searching online for a fitting suit and dress for you both during his break, he doesn’t even notice you entering the room- quietly, thinking he might still be working, to put a plate of warm food down for his late lunch, and only now does he notice he’s been working for hours on end again without a proper break. And before he can even thank you properly, you’ve exited his office room again, door clicking into the hinge, as he looks on his plate.

Dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets, and ketchup squirted down in the shape of a heart.

That's it. That's the last straw.

He exits his office with his plate in hand, setting it down on the coffee table next to yours as you were just about to turn on the TV, looking at him all surprised. “Everything ok-“

“You’re doing it again!” He complains, standing there like some upset Sims character, pouting and brows all frowned.

“I’m.. what?” You ask, confused. “..but you love dinosaurs when you’re upset-“

“I do!” He whines out, and you’re halfway expecting him to stomp his leg like a rabbit any second now, as he stands there with his hands clenched to fists. “I really do, and I also love it when you put my ketchup in a little heart there.” He says.

“…okay?” You chuckle, unsure. What’s he getting at?

He sits down next to you, and begins to eat, quietly. You’re not sure what’s wrong with him, but he’s sometimes like this, sometimes he doesn’t make a lot of sense. Or maybe he does, and he just can’t properly explain it well.

“You do-“ he starts, taking a sip of some water to wash down his food, as he shakes his head at his plate. “-You always do so many things for me.” He rants, almost angrily. “like now. You always know how to pick me up when I’m down, or you just-“ he picks one of the dinosaurs up to dip its tail into the ketchup, “-or you just do stuff like this randomly, and it’s the sweetest shit ever!” He exclaims, glaring at his food. “ridiculous.!” He shakes his head again, biting the tail off.

“Yeah cause, I love you?” You giggle, not quite sure what he’s getting at, still.

“Bu’ I ‘ove u ‘oo!” He responds agitated with a whine, before he almost chokes on his unswallowed bite, making you push the glass of water closer that he eagerly takes to help push down his food so he can talk properly. “I love you too, but you’re so good at it, it’s unfair!” He complains, making you laugh.

“How can someone be good at loving someone else?” You snort, pushing his shoulder when he looks at you with his brows wiggling suggestively.

“No but, in all honesty.” He says, sighing as he stares at the last dinosaur waiting to be eaten. “You’re so good at like.. Doing stuff for me. Everything you do is always so special.” He mumbles.

“...so you feel bad now because your proposal wasn’t special enough?” You wonder, and he shrugs, defeated, and nods. “Jungkook, you do know that the way you proposed is literally.. The most uniquely Jungkook-thing you could’ve done? Everyone goes on fancy vacations to propose!” You tell him, and he only hesitantly moves his face to look at you, back arched as he sits with no tension in his body. “Jungkookie, baby, it really doesn’t matter to me.” You press, hand on his thigh-

And it’s then that he notices, and jumps up to run into the bedroom, roaming in one of the drawers for something. “What is it now?” You laugh, as he stubbornly tugs at your hand before he stops.

“Wait which hand goes the ring on again?” He wonders to himself. “And which finger..?” He says, making you giggle, before you tell him where it goes. And the moment it’s on, he stares at it for a good while, just.. Letting it happen.

He’s really doing this. He’s going to marry you.

“We’re gonna have to kind of.. Talk about how we wanna marry.” You say, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Can’t we marry here at home? With bowser?” He wonders, and you laugh at him, pulling him closer to hold his cheeks as you kiss him.

“Like I said.” You giggle, lovestruck. “It really doesn’t matter to me, as long as I’m marrying you.”

#bts imagine #bts fanfic #bts fic #jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagine #bts jungkook imagine #bts jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagines #jungkook imagines #bts jeon jungkook imagine

[joesanrio]

His favorite | R.R

Summary: Joe can’t help it, you’re his favorite thing in the whole word.

Pairings: Roman Reigns {Joe Anoa’i} x black!reader || established relationship

Warnings: pet names, mentions stealing, bratty!reader, criminal!Joe, oral (fem. rec), p-in-v (unprotected), dirty talk, Dom!Joe, Sub!reader, not edited

Word count: 613

Ratings: Fluff, Smut | 18+

A/N: I’ve been so busy, so I’m sorry for the wait 🙏🏾 also, look how fluffy his hair is- I CANT

———————————————————

His favorite girl. His only girl.

“Oh, Baby look! Please, it’s so cute! I want it.” Your plump lips pout as you hold up the bunny, Joe can’t help but smile while watching you coo at the small animal. Eyes big with care as you hold the bunny near your body to keep it warm, “It’s cute, but I don’t think you can take care of it.” He tries to reason as your face contorts into sadness at his disapproval.

A small huff leaving his lips as you walk away from him in frustration. “Princess. You can’t have a bunny. So cut it out.” He follows behind you closely causing your heart rate to spike up, you don’t like being chased. “Please! She can entertain me when you’re gone.” A soft whine leaving your lips as you stop by the bunny’s enclosure, Joe loving the way you beg.

“How about this, if you can be good for a whole week… I’ll get you a bunny. Yeah?” He negotiates as you keep looking away from him because you’re too focused on the delicate animal in front of you.

“Look at me.” Joe getting aggravated at the lost attention, your soft eyes immediately meeting his. “Really? That’s easy because I’m always good.” Joe eyebrows pique in amusement, your head nodding eagerly.

Good is an overstatement coming from you, you’re the brattiest girl he’s ever met. But Joe loves it; the way your juicy lips pout, perfect eyebrows contort in frustration, nose sometimes scrunching in disapproval.

How your words are laced with sass whenever you speak as you can’t help it. He loves every bit of it, because he can always fuck that brattiness right out of you.

“Okay, let’s start now then. Put the bunny down and lets go.” Joe’s voice is stern as you kiss the bunny’s head before placing it back in the pen. “You promise.” Holding up your manicured pinky to his huge one, pinkies locking making you squeal in excitement.

His hand going to hold your soft hand as he guides you out the store, “I want to go home.” A quick yawn escaping your mouth as you enter the parking lot.

Joe nodding while you follow him to the car, your lips curve themselves into a smile as your eyes scan over the beautiful man in front of you.

[House; 7:26pm]

“When did you buy that?” Voice delicate as he pulls stuff out of the bags and sorts them into a pile. “Baby… I didn’t.” He chuckles as your eyes widen in horror, “What! I thought you said you’ll stop doing that.” Complaining at the man who’s amused by you.

Rolling his eyes, his finger goes to shush you as a loud huff leaves your mouth. “Please stop doing that. I don’t like it- what if you get caught?” Concern written all over your beautiful face, it makes Joe feel guilty to see you like that.

“I won’t. Trust me doll.” His pet names for you rolling off his tongue effortlessly. A little hum is all you respond with, Joe continuing his task of sorting out your new clothes. “Do we have ice cream?” You randomly blurt as you hop off the bed, ass round as you make your way to the kitchen.

Your body is never unnoticed by Joe, he sees everything. Touches everything. Kisses everything. If he could touch and please you all day long, he would without a second thought. The only thing stopping him is work and how you cry after about the 5th round because it’s too much for you to handle.

“Joseph! Can you come here!” Your voice booms through the house, immediately dropping what he’s doing to come to you. Heading down the stairs he hears a groan of impatience, “Hush. I didn’t even take that long.” Joe’s eyes peering into yours as he enters the kitchen.

A small whimper leaving your lips as his body is now pressed against yours. Huge hands resting on your waist, head peering over your shoulder, dick hard and twitching against your ass. “Want to share?” His voice whispering into your ear deliciously, nodding without hesitation before taking the spoon to scoop him some.

His large hand moving to grab your hand gently, before guiding the scoop to your mouth instead. He tries to hold in the smile he gets from seeing your pretty face pout in confusion, not refusing the ice cream though. “Good girl.” Joe’s voice deep in your ear before he lifts your chin to the side to pull you in for a kiss.

A small chuckle leaves from his throat as your so eager to kiss him back. A quiet moan coming from you as his hands tighten on your waist, Joe smiling at the taste of the ice cream. The spoon that was once in your hand, now falling onto the counter. Turning around to face him, lips never separating.

“So pretty. Up.” Joe instructs as he lifts you onto the counter, hands wrapped around his huge shoulders to pull him closer. “We can’t fuck in the kitchen.” Your now swollen lips complain as Joe rolls his eyes, before carrying you back to the room.

Squealing as he drops you down onto the bed, before crawling onto top of you. Taking a second to absorb your beauty before going down to kiss your thighs.

“You think you’ll make it?” Joe whispers against the golden skin, not expecting an answer as your head tilts back onto the pillow behind you.

Skin soft against his large hands, Joe’s pink lips kissing delicately against the inside of your legs. Trying to hold it together as his finger hooks at the hem of your shirt to pull it up enough to see the dainty panties your wearing. A forming a wet spot right in the middle.

“I know you had the hots for me but damn.” Joe chuckles as you whine at his tease, “Shut up- oh.” Your insult cut short as his long finger rubs your folds through the panties.

The material giving just enough barrier that you won’t cum right away, peeking down to see what he’s doing before his tongue licks against the wet patch. “I can taste you right through these little flimsy panties.” His breath hot against your pussy.

His fingers pulling your panties to the side, your folds glistening in the dim light of the room. Soft moans falling from your lips as his wet tongue lick and suck onto your clit, “More. Please- Shit.” You beg as he enter his finger into your tight hole. A small smirk plays onto his lips as his finger reaches your g-spot with ease, back arching off the bed.

“So good! So- yes.” Your mouth sputters out as his lips goes back to your clit, hands going to grab at his hair. Pulling softly as Joe lets a groan out against the lips of your pussy, eyes shutting roughly as he adds another finger before pumping in and out.

Room filled with the sounds of your pussy squelching around his thick fingers and your soft moans, stomach tightening as your heels dig into his lower back. “Cum for me baby. I know you want too.” Joe eggs you on as your body lets go almost immediately onto his hand.

“You taste so sweet, fuck.” Joe mumbles as he continues to devour your pussy through your orgasm. You can barely think as you try to regulate your breathing, hands trying push his head away from overstimulation. “Don’t fight, just take it baby.” He voice vibrating against your folds.

Joe finally pulling away from you, positioning his body over yours. Hands going to grab your face to pull you into a kiss, your cum still glistening against his lips. The taste sweet as he rolls his hips into your wet pussy, his pants now having a damp spot on the front.

“I want it, Joe.” You whisper against his lips, a smile forming on his lips as he pulls away. “Want what?” He teases before pulling out his thick cock, tip dripping with precum. “Your dick.” A wave of insecurity washing over you as your words are so blunt. “Straightforward, aren’t we?” His tip rubbing between your soaked folds.

“I trained you so well.” He coos before grabbing your face roughly, squeezing your face together until your lips are puckered out. His lips pecking yours to distract you from the stretch of his cock as he enters, a loud moan erupting from your throat.

Your pussy practically sucking him in, body’s fitting like puzzle pieces as he begins to thrust softly. “S’big- fuck Joe.” You moan loudly as your body goes into overdrive and you grab onto his biceps.

His groans heavenly in your ear as he pounds down into you, “Sorry baby. Your pussy is just suckin me in.” He moans as the slapping sound of his cock into you is now echoing off the walls. Joe kissing your neck, sucking small hickies behind your ear.

His breath fans against your soft spot before he licks on it gently, pampering it with kisses as he drills into you. “I’m gonna cum- I want to cum!” You squeal as your pussy clenches around Joe’s throbbing cock, “Cum onto me doll- shit! I’m about to fill you up.” His head snaps up as he holds eye contact with you.

Joe’s cum filling you to the brim, Pussy fluttering around him as he continues to fuck his load into you. “Oh- I love you.” Your plumped lips say tiredly before pulling him into a kiss, his lips tugging up into a smile.

#roman reigns #joe anoa'i #wwe superstars #roman reigns smut #joe anoa’i smut #wwe smut #roman reigns fluff #joe anoa’i fluff #roman reigns x reader #joe anoa'i oneshot #roman reigns oneshot #joesanrio

[hvenart]

I absolutely love the new season of young royals. I also love how it furthered my disdain for out of touch rich people. They finally took full advantage of the setting of the show and showed how ignorant people with wealth can be.

You have Felice’s friend group who I and I’m gonna be completely honest CANNOT STAND. Like I like madison but frederika and Stella are so infuriating. Frederika has a knack for saying the most tone-deaf stuff that really gets under my skin and Stella is so blunt and just not in a good way. The way they almost got angry with Felice for calling out the toxic traditions and the bad school environment. It never affected them so it cannot POSSIBLY have been that bad. I love how they acknowledged Felice being one of the only black girls at the school and the friends just not getting it. Not understanding what the issue is exactly and just responding with ‘you’re beautiful.’ Felice knows she’s beautiful. She isn’t insecure she’s just calling out the biases of the teachers but she realises she’s not gonna be able to have a fruitful conversation with them so she just moves on to not make things awkward.This is so relatable for a black girl with an all white friend group. Sometimes the discussion is not worth your energy.

But they are NOTHING compared to Vincent and some of the other guys. The comments they made were sometimes so infuriating I had to pause to compose myself. They are a slightly different case since they actually full on faced the toxicity but especially Vincent refuses to cope with it and continues to traumatise students further(sure not as bad as he faced but initiations will always be disgusting)

The times he calls Simon a communist for simply speaking out about problems ( I don’t think my man payed attention in politics) yet will do a protest for a thing he’s not happy with cus hey how hard can it be poor people do it not realising how draining it can be (he should be happy they gave in so quickly cus he was not prepared)

And Wilhelm….

I’m probably gonna do a second post about him because I wanna get all my thoughts out before the final ep.

I love him but I love how Simon called him out about how he didn’t realise how privileged he was. Don’t get me wrong he faces a lot of problems because of it but he doesn’t understand some of the struggles. He saw the camping trip as just a bad night but Simon saw it for what it was. Two types of people with an incredible difference of wealth not being able to understand each other because one doesnt know how the world works. How much struggle the ordinary person has while they just see things as a given.

The lack of understanding between the two was always gonna cause conflict and honestly you can’t even blame them

(Though I will slightly blame rich people for being so out of touch with world issues but hey guess that’s just poor me talking who’s jealous of them)(Wilhelm tried his best and so did Simon)

#young royals #young royals season 3 #young royals season three spoilers #yr s3 spoilers #yr3 #simon eriksson #prince wilhelm #does willhelm just not have a last name???

[sturniolosugar]

DAMAGED PT. 3

pairing y/n and chris sturniolo

summary: Y/N is in a toxic relationship with her boyfriend Gio. Y/n meets someone named Chris and ends up in a fucked up situation.

warnings: mentions of smoking, mental health talk

didn’t proof read tbh

pt1 pt2 pt4 pt5 pt6 pt7

Its been about 2 weeks since I’ve last seen Chris. We’ve texted every now and then but not as much as I would like. Maybe he doesn’t wanna be around me..? Maybe I’m just overthinking or maybe I’m right. I haven’t really stopped thinking about him since the last time we were together. I can’t stop thinking about how he kissed my wrist where the red marks that Gio had left were. Do friends do that type of stuff? Was he just being friendly? I don’t even know at this point. My fucking brain hurts. It’s not like I have feelings for Chris or anything. I just miss him. As a friend of course. I’ve been pretty lonely since me and Gio officially broke up. Just because I honestly don’t have friends, I would always be around Gio’s friends. But I never really had any of my own since I graduated. I’ve been in my head so much I think I’m actually going a little crazy. Chris texts me at random times & then doesn’t respond for hours. I thought we could be friends but maybe he decided that he doesn’t wanna be friends with a person like me. I felt a connection. We bonded. Maybe I’m just tripping. I don’t even know anymore. Universe please give me fucking answers.

-

5 pm same day

I’m just getting out of the shower when I hear a ding on my phone and grab my phone. “Hey sorry I’ve been hella busy. Do you wanna hang?” The text from Chris reads. My heart beat speeds up. Yes I wanna fucking hang out, what the fuck kind of question is that? I’ve been dying to hangout with you for what felt like years. I need to calm down it’s literally been 2 weeks. “Sure” I respond to the text trying to seem nonchalant even though I’m very much the opposite of nonchalant. “Okok I’ll pick you up and we can chill at my place if you want.” He responds. I text him back and agree. Some time passes before I hear him pull in the driveway. I walk out of my front door and walk towards his car. I get into the vehicle and immediately look at Chris. He’s already looking at me smiling. “Hey stranger” he says. “Heyyy” I say smiling.

-

A couple hours go by with hanging out with Chris. We are sitting on his bed less than a foot apart and just talking about a variety of things like our past, and parents and how it was growing up, enjoying each other’s company while listening to music and smoking. I tell him about how my mom lives an hour away and I never get to see her anymore & about how my dad left me and my mom when I was 6 years old. He tells me about his parents and how they live in the same town as us they are just always working so he doesn’t get to see them often.

I explain to him that I am diagnosed with bpd, depression and anxiety and we talk a lot about our mental health. “It’s hard you know. I feel really deeply and have never known what it’s like to not feel deep” I say. “I get that for real. I’m diagnosed with bipolar disorder, sometimes I get really self destructive and isolate myself. The highs are high but the lows are very low” Chris responds and passes me the blunt that we have been smoking on. “I don’t ever talk about shit like this. Whenever I tried talking to Gio about it he would laugh and say that I’m dramatic” I say hitting the blunt and looking down at the ground. “Fuck him. He’s missing out on a raw, rare, beautiful soul” Chris says. I feel myself warm up on the inside. His words stick with me so much. I hand Chris the almost gone blunt.

“I hope I didn’t accidentally get you into smoking” Chris chuckles before putting the blunt out. I asked him if we could smoke because I loved the way it made me feel last time. “No I just like how it makes me feel” I respond laughing and shaking my head. “I never knew how to inhale until I smoked with you last time. If I would of known this is how it feels like I would of started smoking a long time ago” I laughed. “That’s how I felt when I first started smoking.” He says. “I just watched how you inhaled and exhaled. You basically taught me how to smoke without realizing it.” I say looking at him. His eyes are glossy and red. I don’t know if it’s possible but I think he looks even more attractive when he’s high. “I could teach you a lot of things If you would let me.” He says under his breath quickly. “What did you say?” I ask. He moves closer to me so that way our knees are touching. “Nothing.” He says and smiles innocently. My heart beat quickens and I get nervous as his knee touches my knee. He notices my energy change. I feel like I wouldn’t have a reaction if I was sober, but I’m high.

I lay back onto his bed trying to change positions that way there is space between us. He moves and lays back next to me. Fuck. I need space. When I’m high and around him I feel some type of way. He’s close to me again and Im trying to keep my composure. “Do I make you nervous?” He says pushing my hair behind my ear with his fingers. “What? No- I’m-” I stop in the middle of my sentence as I can’t come up with a lie fast enough. “Can I hold you?” He says catching me off guard. “Yeah, if you want.” I say hesitantly. He grabs my body and moves me closer to him. He puts his arms around my waist so that way he’s spooning me. He gently rubs his fingers across my skin. My body tenses and I unintentionally get goosebumps. “Your touch deprived” he whispers. “Im okay- I just-” I start to say but am cut off by Chris. “You don’t have to explain, I just know by the way your body reacts to my touch.” He says. He pulls me impossibly closer to him. We sit there listening to music for a couple minutes before he speaks. “I’m having a party on Saturday if you would like to come you can.” He says. “Yeah I can come.” I say knowing I have no other plans. “Bet” he says. I turn to face him and stare into his eyes. His eyes are so beautiful. He’s so beautiful. It almost bothers me. Because I know that if I think he’s attractive so does a ton of other girls and I could never compete even if I wanted to. I wonder what his type is? “Why are you staring at me?” He says smiling. “I don’t know” I say blushing. “Your beautiful” he says out of the blue. “Thank you” I say feeling my face get hot. We stare into each other eyes not saying a word but it felt like we were having a whole conversation only using our eyes.

I hear my phone ding and grab my phone to see who texted. It’s Gio. I open the message to see a picture of him holding another girls hand. He’s lame as fuck. That’s some middle school shit. I scoff and hold up my phone to Chris to show him the message. He shakes his head “what is he 5 years old? He’s butthurt as fuck & tryna be petty” he says. I put my hands over my face and shake my head. “I have an idea.” He says, his face lighting up. “What?” I ask curiously. “We can always send him a picture back, except a better picture that will make him lose his mind” he says with a blank facial expression. My heart sinks. What does he mean? “Okay. What do we do in the picture?” Chris grabs my phone out of my hand and presses the camera icon. The camera is now on us.

“Stick out your tongue” Chris says. I stick out my tongue and he sticks out his tongue making the tips of our tongues touch. My body freezes. He takes the picture and I force out a laugh trying to hide the fact that I want to feel more of his tongue. I want his tongue in my mouth, on my body, everywhere. But I hold my composure together and smile. There’s no way this motherfucker is gonna send that. “It’s to blurry redo it” he says. My heart drops but I quickly stick my tongue out and he sticks his tongue out making our tongues touch again. I try to hold back my smile. He takes multiple pictures and I start to laugh and pull myself back. He laughs and goes through the pictures we just took. I feel my body heating up as tons of emotions run through my entire body. I try to suppress the emotions so that way he can’t tell I’m freaking out on the inside. He stares at the pictures and I move closer so that way I can see them as well. We stare at the pictures not saying a word. He looks up at me making our eyes lock. His fucking gaze. He smiles and looks back down at the phone. He favorites some of the pictures and then goes to the messages with Gio and sends one of the pictures. I start to laugh and shake my head. “If he wants to be petty so can we” Chris says smiling and shrugging his shoulders. I laugh and shrug my shoulders. “Block him” Chris says with a non readable facial expression. I pause for a moment before grabbing my phone and blocking Gio.

-

Chris’s POV

I grab y/n’s phone and open her camera app and put the camera on us. I lean closer to her and tell her to stick out her tongue. She sticks out her tongue and I take the chance to stick out my tongue as well making the tips of our tongues touch not knowing how she would react. I take a couple pictures purposefully shaking the camera a little bit so that way they would turn out a little blurry so that way I had another excuse to feel her tongue against mine again. We stick out our tongues again making our tongues touch for the second time. I take multiple pictures and she pulls herself away from me and laughs. I swipe through the pictures and feel y/n move closer so she was able to see the pictures as well. We stare at the pictures, I wish I could feel more of her. I wish I could give her the relief she’s been craving since her and Gio broke up. I know she’s touch deprived and I know she’s probably feeling tons of emotions right now but so am I. I was testing the waters to see how she would react but the fact that she let our tongues touch for a second time tells me she didn’t mind it.

I look up from the picture and stare into her beautiful brown eyes. She’s such a beautiful, pure soul. She’s never deserved what she’s been through. I could never bring myself to say this out loud to her but I wish I could spend all of my time with her. I wish I could be around her 24/7. I wish I could heal her heart. I look back down at the pictures before favoriting some of them and sending some to Gio. “If he wants to be petty we can be too” I say laughing and shrugging my shoulders. “Block him” I tell her. She pauses for a moment and then proceeds to block him. It’s not that I wanna be controlling or anything I just didn’t want him to respond to the pictures we sent and call her more names and try to manipulate her anymore than he already has. I just wanted him to see that she’s with me. He doesn’t get to have her anymore. He doesn’t get to touch her, smell her, hear her laugh anymore. I do. And that’s better than any revenge.

-

Y/N’s POV:

Some time passes and me and Chris are now laying down. “I’m starting to get tired Chris.” I say yawning. “Do you wanna stay the night?” He asks. I think for a second before responding with “No”. He looks at me with a saddened expression on his face. I want to stay the night so bad but I don’t know if I’ll be able to control my emotions or thoughts. I want to stay with him forever but I can’t because I know it’ll be hard for me to keep my hands to myself. The more time I spend with him the more easy it will be to get attached and I can’t let that happen. I have to keep reminding myself not to catch feelings or get attached. I have issues. And I don’t wanna fall for him. I can’t be hurt again. And he probably just sees me as just a friend. Friends can touch tongues right? Shit. I don’t know. “Okay ma. I suppose I’ll take you home instead of tying you up in the basement and keeping you all to myself.” He says smiling before throwing a pillow at my face.

-

We arrive to my house and pull into my driveway. “Get some sleep mama. Text me tomorrow.” He says. Ugh something about him calling me mama makes me wanna change my mind and stay the night at his house. I smile “goodnight Christopher drive safe” I say before getting out of the car and walking into my house. I get inside my room and change into pajamas. I pick up my phone and go to my camera roll. I stare at the pictures me and Chris took.

#chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smutt #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #spotify #fanfic #matthew sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo smut

[just-another-author-i-guess]

Hey can I request something with judd birch I don't really have a prompt can you just make something fluffy and cute I need some soft love in my life lol

I literally had a dream about this last night, so here you go lol sorry it’s not like super soft, it’s just school hc’s

Tags: gn! Reader, kinda?, leaning towards fem, mentions of s e x 🫣, and alcohol, Judd’s driving, school should be an actual warning tbh

Summary: the one day a month when Judd show’s up to school.

Author’s note: I skipped my math class to write this,, 🤷🏻‍♀️ yk you gotta think like your characters when you write about them lmfao

Surviving a day in school with Judd

Word count; 1,1K

so, let’s say your boyfriend has one of those rare days where he decides to actually show up to school

He’s so, so tired in the morning

I’m talking slow blinking, yawning and constantly leaning his forehead on stuff to try and catch a quick nap in class or while standing up

He’s also constantly complaining, acts like it’s your fault he has to be there

He will be following you around the entire time too

No one will talk to you willingly the whole day because Judd is just always standing broodingly behind you

You’re getting something from your locker? Judd is standing there, scowling and leaning against the lockers besides yours so no one except you can get to their stuff

You’re talking to your friends? Judd will still just stand there a bit behind you, glaring at your friends or using his whole body weight to lean on you

Even if you’re talking to his friends, he’s not that talkative, he prefers just to let you lead the conversation

He does actually have those, friends I mean, like people he can hang out with if you’re not available, or people who host parties

You’re definitely getting initiated into his friend group as soon as you start dating, they’re all kinda like him anyways so you’d fit right in lol

But omg he’s so clingy at school

He just misses you between classes, yk? ),:

After the first classes, he’ll be more awake

You can’t tell if that’s good or bad tbh

It’s not like he actively goes out of his way to disturb classes or anything, but he’s definitely not an ideal student either

Like, he’s not one of those annoying kids who purposely talk really loudly or throw stuff or whatever

but he will sit with his feet up on his desk if he feels like it, doesn’t respond when he gets called on, will call the teacher a colourful variety of curse words and ends up getting kicked out and send to the office

Maybe just don’t call on him and he won’t insult you? 🤷🏻‍♀️

(He’s also literally the worst partner for assignments ever)

That’s in his own classes at least,, let’s say you share a PE class with him and it will very quickly turn into “hey let’s skip and go fuck in the bathroom”

The days were Judd shows up to school is definitely the days you get in trouble/ and/ or detention

Okay but that’s another thing, the other half of the day he will just show up outside of your classes

Either because he got kicked out of his or he has a break or something, he’ll just stand outside and wait for you to come out so he can drag you somewhere and yk,, get all the horny out of his system

Maury also straight up refuses to deal with Judd’s school, as soon as he enters he’s doing his best to convince Judd to find you and have sex or something instead

Omg,, the many, many, poor people you’ve traumatised in the school bathroom or parking lot

(He will also fuck you in his car in front of the school lmfao)

You usually eat lunch with Leah or your respective group of friends, but when Judd’s there you’ll eat with him

(You probably have to pay for his lunch🧍🏻)

Sometimes, though, he’ll drive you two out to get McDonald’s or something

Leah will sit with you at lunch too, so she can bully Judd for showing up or rant to him about something or whatever

Also if anyone’s bothering her, Judd is the best way for her to get out of talking to them

After lunch, you have a class with Leah so he’s once again left to his own devices

He reluctantly goes to his own class because he doesn’t have anything else to do lol

Unless it’s a teacher that’s really really nice, he gets kicked out again

The man literally spends the entire school day just roaming around because he keeps getting send to the office lmfao

He would probably try to get into the school’s vents as well? He’ll crawl over to where your class is and bother you by throwing paper or something through the vent

You’re just sitting in class, and suddenly a bunch of small paper scraps falls from the ceiling and lands in your hair

You look up, only to see your boyfriend grinning and gesturing with his head for you to leave the room

Leah sees it too and has to do her best not to burst out laughing 🫣

Surprisingly, he shows up to after school detention

Definitely not because you dragged him there and told him it was his fault for getting you roped into it as well—

You two sit in the back, and you try to do your homework while Judd naps

Sometimes you’ll share headphones or Judd will steal some of your notebook paper and draw on it

Judd is super distracting literally by just existing, he’s the loudest quiet person ever if that makes sense

When you’re finally out of school, Judd is by default expecting yet another rendezvous in the back of his van

It’s actually kinda fascinating how much the guy can go in just one day—

But anyways, he’ll drive you home or to his house or wherever you wanna go

Sometimes you come with him to pick up Nick from school

Okay so here’s one of Judd’s secrets

He can actually drive like a normal person 😮

I mean, sure he’s always a bit above the speed limit and a bit too close to hitting ppl walking close to the road, but he almost only drives like a race car driver when Nick’s in the car

Because he knows Nick hates it lol

You would have gotten used to it by now, because you know he isn’t actually gonna hit someone

But Nick doesn’t know that

Driving really, really fast is probably also a way for Judd to destress or wind down after a long, and boring, school day

He’ll pass the fuck out when he gets home from school

Well, he’ll knock back half a Jack daniels and raid the fridge and then pass out

You’re more than welcome to anything in the birches fridge yourself, so if you’re feeling particularly nice pls make him something sustainable

His idea of a proper meal is literally a bag of chips— I’m so stressed

Anyways, congrats. You made it through a whole school day with Judd lol

Don’t expect him to show up again tomorrow, though 🤷🏻‍♀️

I love doing Judd headcannons 🤭🤭

Tags: @dlfvrr , @bxbyyyjocelyn

#big mouth #judd birch #judd birch x reader #big mouth x reader #headcannons #judd birch smut

[bengiyo]

Why Do I Tag So Many Creators in My Posts? It’s About Respect

Earlier today I was talking with @sophsloveskpop in the notes of a post, and was asked about all of the interaction between blogs in the posts and essays about the shows. I’ve noticed an uptick in new names interacting with posts (and making great posts of their own!) and wanted to talk about why I do it and why I like fandom on Tumblr.

Fundamentally, I think it’s generally good courtesy to acknowledge when someone else has expressed a similar idea to your, or an idea that intrigues you. I think it’s best to tag that person and link to their post so that others can also experience it. It also opens you up to a dialogue with them and others.

People Like Getting Their Flowers

If someone posts an analysis or even a quirky idea that I felt the need to think about, I will mention them in my posts. None of the great content we get on here is necessarily quick to make. I absolutely love all of the gifmakers who fight against Photoshop, Tumblr, and God Himself to post snippets of shows on here for us. I wouldn’t be able to flesh out some of my posts, illustrates points, or otherwise breakup walls of text without @liyazaki, @wanderlust-in-my-soul, @pharawee, or @gabrielokun. Whenever I can’t find the gif I’m looking for through Tumblr’s terrible gif search, I reach out to one of them for permission to use their gifs directly.

Also, many of us just like being acknowledged that someone we wrote meant something to someone else. Every time I get tagged by someone in an essay I’m like:

It’s a Conversation

I don’t think fandom is about being the smartest person or the most correct person. My basic framework I’m writing from is Black Gay Nerd Who Watches a Lot of Stuff. It’s what I’m most familiar with personally, and I find that people have really responded to that.

I’ve been around for a very long time, and have been seeing folks like @so-much-yet-to-learn around the entire time, who often has more specific information about fandom life during the airing of shows. @absolutebl and @heretherebedork have watched more BL than I have, and I’ve seen at least 250 productions. ABL has some of the most comprehensive posts collecting some of the history.

I made so many friends after diving into @shortpplfedup DMs to talk about sustainable urbanism and bonding over our shared geography. Now we run @the-conversation-pod together. Through them I befriended so many others, like @elnotwoods and @kyr-kun-chan.

I’m not a color theory expert, and so I love reading posts from @respectthepetty and others (I think @sliceduplife writes about color too).

We wouldn't even have my favorite show without @isaksbestpillow.

I know what shows are coming because of @clairificusrex.

I don’t know much about music theory, but @iguessitsjustme write some great stuff about the music in these shows.

I don’t always read the body language of hands as closely as someone like @wen-kexing-apologist might.

I am not Asian, and so I like reading from @waitmyturtles, @telomeke-bbs, and @neuroticbookworm. I know that @recentadultburnout and @airenyah offer useful perspective on Thai language.

Sometimes folks are going to narrow down on specific shows and consistently write about them for years on side blogs like @miscellar.

Some people have studied so much and bring specific academic lenses to the genre that I find compelling, like @emotionallychargedtowel.

In many cases, I just vibe with them really hard, like @ginnymoonbeam.

I actually didn’t always post as much as I do, but I try to keep up my Stray Thoughts project so that people can keep track of what I’m watching. I used to write less meta, but then I befriended @waitmyturtles and @lurkingshan. Any time I say anything remotely thoughtful Shan is like:

Also, though, this is Tumblr! It’s easy to tag each other and link to each other’s posts! This is what makes us different from every

Isn’t It Just More Fun?

I don’t enjoy shows passively. I grew up in a family that watched things together. My mom, dad, sister, and I all have differing tastes from each other, but we watched a lot of different things together. My friends and I discussed the things we watched at school.

I’m a big fan of the water cooler approach to TV show distribution, which basically says you want your show to be the show people are talking about on their breaks at work. I always like Film Crit Hulk’s theory that movies (and our dramas) are the proverbial campfires around which we gather to share ourselves with each other.

This is all supposed to be fun, and I have more fun when we interact. I get tagged daily by @blmpff about updates from sets, or when we all need to rush to IG to make sure Fluke Pongsakorn doesn’t cut his hair. When @bl-bam-beyond makes a new set or post they let me know, and they recently rewatched Noah’s Arc! I made friends with @gillianthecat in the last year or so, and it’s been fun seeing her make her way through fandom. I always get excited with @troubled-mind pings me in a post because I know it’s going to give me something to chew on. I didn’t have a genuine appreciation for kink culture until I watched along with @lutawolf. If something funny is happening in fandom I know @benkaaoi is going to tag me. I still get excited when @heukheuk pops up in my mentions.

I know I’ve probably forgotten so many people alone the way here, and I’m sorry if I didn’t mention you.

Tag Because It’s the Right Thing to Do

So seriously, tag people and link to their posts. Try to use the giffmakers specific tags when you’re using the search feature. Fandom is better when we all interact respectfully and enthusiastically with each other. Tumblr is special because it lets us create goofy little essays like this and tag dozens of people just to get their attention.

If you have a cool thought about a show I’m watching, tag me. If you see something funny, tag me in the comments. If you wanna hash out an idea before posting it, DM me. This is Tumblr. Don’t be shy with your thoughts. It’s okay to be wrong on the internet. It’s actually fun to be wrong on the internet about show predictions!

Thank you as always for coming to my post.

#Ben writes #fandom life #tumblr life

[luci4theminorannoyance]

(Ugh I feel like I’m blowing up your inbox but my brain is overheating with all these ideassss)

what about 141 with a reader who’s a dancer? (Maybe ballet?) I just feel like price would be spoiling them with new ballet shoes and dance outfits and Flowers after every show!! (< this could also apply to other characters!)

— 🪐

a/n: sure!! I didn’t get this one done for a bit so sorry!

Price:

-has single handedly forced all of 141 to come to your recitals before and personally donates to your dance company and for your dance gear

-it still confuses him how you can do all those tricks, he’s strong of course; but not in that way

-brags about you all the time to the point people think your a celebrity crush instead of his partner

gaz:

-he took dance in middle school so sometimes he likes to tease you by doing moves (very basic ones of course but still)

-loves seeing you happy at any event so he of course has tickets for like everything your in or you like

-his poor instagram posts are like 90 precent you doing dance

soap:

-adores just watching you practice, wide eyed and zoned out just enjoying watching you do something you like

-just lets you use his credit card for dance stuff. It’s always worth it to see you, plus it’s not like he’d know what to get you

-when he’s gone on mission he’ll try to explain it to ghost or gaz by doing the moves but really badly

-golden retriever boyfriend to the max

roach:

-literally the best for ballet. He’s adored it since he was little since in ballet you don’t need to talk to tell a story. But he never took it because as a kid he had other things to do

-loves silently sitting and watching your performances, or sometimes signing little messages to you while your preforming, knowing you can’t respond but that you most likely saw it

ghost:

-whenever he’s off his missions or work in general he always gets the best seats to just sit down and watch you do your favorite hobby/job

-doesn’t brag as much as the rest of 141 would, but did learn an awful lot of ballet dad jokes to tell around you or around his team even if it’s just a simple one

-the only thing he hates about ballet or dance is how uncomfortable those tights look, always gives him the ek when he thinks about himself in them

#requests open #cod mw2 #cod fic #luci44_writing #cod headcanons #cod hcs #141 x reader #ghost headcanons #roach headcannons #gaz headcanons #price headcanons #soap headcanons #ghost x reader #ghost x gender neutral reader #ghost x you #ghost x gn reader #ghost call of duty #kyle gaz x reader #gaz x y/n #gaz x gn!reader #gaz call of duty #gary roach sanderson #roach x gn!reader #roach x y/n #john price x reader #price x reader #soap x y/n #soap x gn!reader #soap call of duty

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. phantom traveler, p.3

read it on ao3.

words: 14k notes: hello!!! on the wings of an absolute ARMY of betas, here is a fresh new chapter for you!! since the last one was a little short i took the time to really flesh this one out. I'm a shy idiot who is SO bad at responding, but i see your comments and they mean the world to me. i literally have a folder on my computer full of the sweet words this fic has been given, and i think i've re-read the comments in that folder at least a million times over by now. ty so much for reading, and i hope you enjoy!! bloody mary is next! a very special thank you to my beta readers, bear, M, venice, feeb, and daff, who easily made this my best chapter yet. thank you specifically for keeping me coherent and sane lol <3

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 4th.

You don’t have to be psychic to know precisely what your mother is going to say when she answers the phone. She’ll pick up on the fourth ring with an occupied, scathing drawl and say, Look who finally has cell service.

Alright. So you’re not the best, most communicative daughter in the world. You call when you can, you honestly do, but there’s not exactly loads of emotional bandwidth to spare on the road. Peeling off all the layers of case anxiety and Winchester grief takes a while, dammit!

Maybe you’d feel less guilty if you vented to Sam or Dean, but it’s kind of lousy to bitch about Mom-stuff to, uh. Yeah. The boys. You could use a simple, uncomplicated statement like, talking to my Mom reminds me of how much of a disappointment I must be to her, and Dean would hear matricide instead. Sam’s blank, uncomprehending look wouldn’t be much better. Looks like you’re alone on this one.

When there’s a natural break in the day’s long research-fest the three of you are riding, you slip away, pace beside the Impala for a while, then finally bite the bullet and call her. Cars whisk through the slurry of snow on the road. Your phone charms rattle in the icy breeze. One ring, two rings… She knew you were going to call, she could sense it, but of course she has to torture you… three rings, four.

“I didn’t know cell service was so hard to come by in Pittsburg,” Beth greets you, sounding preoccupied. Damn, do you know her well or what?

“Hey, Mom,” you sigh. The wind is loud, so you pull your phone further down your face and try to come up with an excuse that is even halfway reasonable. “Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been ages since I’ve been around the boys, and I guess I get a little caught up with them sometimes.”

This is objectively true. She used to have a rule about you getting your homework done before they came over, purely because you forgot about everything and anything else the second Sam and Dean entered the house.

“Forget those losers. You’re my baby, I love you most,” Beth gushes, and you understand that this is her way of saying that you’re forgiven. Both of you have fallen victim to the Winchester spell before, so she can’t exactly blame you.

You’re a little embarrassed by her mushiness, but a relieved, bubbly laugh jumps out of you. “Alright, consider them forgotten. Now… I know I don’t deserve it, but I’m gonna ask you a question, and I need you not to freak out or overthink it, kay?”

Beth snorts. “You mean my two jobs as a mother? Go ahead, shoot.”

This is not the kind of question that you just “shoot,” though. It takes you a moment to string together how you’re going to ask this, and of course, you’re nothing but graceful and delicate about it. “...What do you know about demons?”

Your mother doesn’t say anything for a long, yawning second. Still, you can sense her rising swarm of questions and outrage all the way from Pennsylvania, and you try to stop her onslaught before it starts. “Hey! No questions! Just answers. I promise I would tell you if this was outrageously dangerous.”

“Then you’ve already broken your promise,” Beth utters, slipping into her Sage Grandmaster Psychic voice. Just hearing it makes you deflate. She predicts, “...Let me guess. You’ve felt nauseous. Suffocated. Hungry, but everything you eat comes right back up again.”

You toe a chunk of ice on the asphalt with your boot, grumbling, “...Yeah.”

“Then you’re lucky,” she reveals, her words still ringing with the same crystal ball clarity from your childhood. “That means you haven’t come into direct contact with it yet. I’d hope you never would, but… you are your father’s daughter…”

You know your mom. You know that’s just her way of warning you about the kind of danger you’re in, here, but all the comment does is bolster your resolve. Damn right. You are his motherfuckin’ daughter.

“Tell me,” you push.

Beth sighs through her nose. There’s a squeak on the other line, and you can imagine her at home, dropping heavily into the massive, millennia-old armchair she always took her readings in.

“Demons… well, I won’t explain to you what you can already guess. They’re unlike most legends we know of, because everything that’s written about them is utterly true. Most spirits that walk the natural earth are here to feed—vampires, werewolves—or to take care of unfinished business. But demons… they come to earth to steal, kill, and destroy.”

Welp. Your mother is truly a pillar of optimism. You’d been hoping she’d say something along the lines of, don’t worry, sweetheart, they’re just really messed up ghosts. Instead of, y’know. The most evil creatures man encountered in the bible. Bible, capital B. An uncomfortable, existential shiver rolls down your spine. Now this was something you could bitch to Dean and Sam about.

You’d grown up surrounded by the idea of demons. Even before you’d fully understood that monsters were real, sometimes you’d slip into your mother’s reading parlor while she was gone and play a game with the strange, segmented star pattern on the giant worn-smooth carpet. Don’t hop on any of the lines! Only step in the points of the star! Or, jump from sigil to sigil!

The one time you’d gotten carried away and played for too long, your mother had appeared through the beaded curtain with a stiff frown on her face. Don’t play on the devil’s trap. It’s not a toy.

There was the fraying devil’s trap in your mother’s parlor room, which was one of the hundreds of sigils burned into your mind at a young age. You’d shaken hands with demon hunters before. Most of the rituals your family practiced were in Latin; and the list went on and on into oblivion. You’d always known demons existed, but as you pace the parking lot and take in what Beth is telling you, the ramifications start to stack. Demons. Actual, literal demons. The thing that took down flight 2485—the suffocating, unimaginable presence from your vision—was a real-life demon. When you’d stood in the skeletal remains of the plane and reached out with your Gift, you’d been sensing the lingering presence of a fucking creation of Lucifer. What the actual fuck.

In a strange, backward way, you’re kind of relieved. Anyone would be fainting all over the place in the presence of an actual, real-life demon. Especially somebody like you, with all their senses turned up to 100. It makes sense that you were having such intense reactions before.

What the fucking fuck. You’re suddenly grateful to be on the phone with your mom.

You wandered toward the Impala, (checked first that you weren’t wearing the kind of jeans with the little studs that would scrape the paint), then leaned against it. “...Um. Okay. That’s just… awesome… How do they get… up here, then?”

“I’m not sure,” your mother hums, thinking. “Your great-great-aunt Miriam wrote in her records that they find their way top-side on their own. Bugs through cracks, that sort of thing. Apparently, there used to be a whole lot more of em’—in Miriam’s day it was a Proctor’s job to shove them back where they belonged, but… I dunno.” Beth helpfully jokes, “Maybe we got most of them.”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s not the most sincere. “Maybe we did,” you cough. “But, um, do we have any Proctor family secrets that could help me out here? Did great-great-aunt Miriam have a trunk somewhere full of demon-killing grenades or something?”

Beth smirks. “Great-great-aunt Miriam turned the house into a brothel and carved terrifying sigils in all the ceilings. That’s all we got from her.”

Of course. How could you possibly forget? “Oh, huh. I was wondering why we have old chains and whips in the basement. That fills in a lot more for me, thank you.”

Your mom barks out a laugh at your joke, which gets you laughing too. The sound trails off. There’s that funny pause where you both remember what you just said, then start giggling all over again—and man, does it feel good to just have a moment with your mom. The boys both have an unforgiving radar for “bonding,” and the second they realize that you love them and they’re your friends, they creep right back into their shells. Neither of them were very good at absorbing that sort of thing.

Your mom is just as skilled at spoiling the moment.

“But, seriously…” She stresses. “Please be careful. Avoid contact with these things at all costs, especially with your Gift. It’s made to find the truth, and demons are made of lies. Not a good mix. They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to. This is a lot more hands-on than you should ever be with your Gift, ____.”

“...Right,” you say through your teeth.

This is the part where you start awkwardly shoving in a goodbye without coming across as an asshole. You open your mouth, about to say something stiff and unsure, when you sense a spike of alarm ripple out from where the boys are still researching in your motel room.

Phone call forgotten, you jolt off the Impala and whip towards the door. Not a second later, Dean’s slipping out onto the stoop and sweeping the parking lot with a calm, guarded stare. He doesn’t look at you—just gestures you inside, holding the door open. Even from the parking lot, you can make out the insane amount of notes and papers Sam has coated your motel room with.

“Jerry just called,” Dean utters. “The surviving pilot from 2485? Chuck Lambert? …He just went down in a plane crash.”

You snap your phone shut and follow him inside.

-

The three of you head to the site of the next crash as fast as you can. But first, you have the pleasure of watching the boys play Winchester Telepathy when you insist on coming along. They’re still worried. You would be too, in their position. (In fact, if the roles were reversed, you’d probably chain Sam to a radiator and call it a day.) But Chuck went down in a twin plane, not a massive, two-hundred-person graveyard, so your Gift should have the legs to handle it.

…And knowing what you’re dealing with has steeled your confidence. You weren’t slashing at the dark anymore, even if what was in the dark was, um. Proof that hell exists. After days of being totally screwed over by this thing, you finally had even the slightest leg up on what was going on. You were going to take that win and run with it.

Chuck’s twin plane was hardly a twin anymore; both the engines had been shredded, the white body of the cockpit twisted like a wrung-out washcloth. The plane had dove so hard into the farmland that the snow around it had melted. You still kind of felt like tossing your lunch, but more out of sympathy than psychic backlash. People had been in that plane. The thought made you taste bile.

Sam and Dean only hover a little bit (a lot) while you open your Gift to the wreckage. You take your glove off with your teeth and touch your right hand to the ashen, snow-soaked remains of the pilot’s chair… and there it was again, the leeching, seeping, violating presence from the vision that’d brought all of you to Pittsburg. A demon.

Your Gift wrings out another scraggly, disconnected vision for you. Chuck was beyond anxious to get back in the saddle after 2485. The co-pilot, Lou, had pep-talked him like any good friend would, reassuring him that the flight would go smoothly. After that, everything—gassing up the engine, takeoff, and the brutal, horrific crash—was blotted with poison ink. Every time you tried to steer towards Chuck with your senses, it was as if the strip of film playing your vision had been burned away. His face had been scratched out of every frame. He had become something else; something terribly familiar.

The research Sam had compiled began to link with what you’re seeing. You could feel, even through the leftover wisp of the demon’s presence on the plane, that it had done this many times before.

You jolted to your feet, scrubbing the palm with the eye tattoo off on your slacks. Dean and Sam reeled back, since they’d both been looming an inch behind you as you worked.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Dean said, bracing himself.

You turn from the wreckage and bee-line straight for the road, eager to avoid a repeat of last time. The boys follow your lead. They fall into step on either side of you, and for once you feel like the specialist Sam always said you were, complete with stern-faced bodyguards.

“Full-on Pazuzu, just like last time,” you confirm, cursing. You shove your glove back on and stomp through the snow. “I-I get it now. God, it feels so fucking obvious. It’s—it’s playing. It finds these disasters, or it makes them, and then it picks off all the survivors one by one. Chuck Lambert, George Phelps. It possessed them. Like some sort of twisted cosmic-order thing.”

Sam pulls a face. “Final Destination style?”

“Minus the hot girls and the tanning beds, apparently,” Dean pouts.

“It’s trying to finish them off, boys,” you say, swallowing hard. “That’s something we can work with. If it’s only using disasters to do the job, then…”

“...then we need to see if any of the survivors are flying soon,” Sam realizes, finishing your thought.

The second the Impala’s on the road again, Sam is fishing out the passenger manifests from the first flight and chasing down any phone numbers he can find. There is a part of every hunt where your run is forced to become a sprint, and this is that turn-over moment, tensions ramping high. What once was seven people is now five.

As Dean hauls ass back to Pittsburg, you and Sam get to calling. You thank the Mother Goddess above for shitty, awful customer service, because posing as some lousy Delta Airlines representative has Dennis Holloway sitting in seat 21A and Kathleen Willard (seat 25E) swearing off flying for good. Sam uses a similar tactic on Blaine Sanderson (seat 14D). The two of you take the safe bet that the parents of Ava Struder (seat 1C), an unaccompanied minor, aren’t fucking idiots dumping their kid on another flight the second she survives one. That leaves you with Amanda Walker. A flight attendant on 2485… because of course, this job can never be easy.

Sam tries her phone. While it rings, you cross your fingers and hope that she has quit her job and started a new life as a dedicated couch potato. Sam’s forced to leave a message. He snaps his flip phone shut with a curse and throws it into the footwell, where it clatters against his boots.

You curl a cold hand around Sam’s shoulder, soothing, “Gimme the list, baby. I’ll try her emergency contact, at least find out where she is.”

Sam sulkily passes it to you, never once shifting under your hand. You do get a small, grateful look from him over his shoulder, and the urgency and anxiety there makes your gut twist. It would be more than easy to comfort him, to stroke your fingers through his hair, to rub his collar and tell him everything’s going to be fine.

But you’re a shit liar, so you open up your phone and make the next call. Sam’s lingering gaze ducks back down into his lap.

-

Of course, your luck continues to flourish. Amanda doesn’t answer her phone. But her sister does, and she informs you that Amanda, being a flight attendant, is in fucking Indianapolis for a flight. Indianapolis. As in, a good five-hour drive from Philly—and in the complete opposite direction of where you were going. Dean barely waits until the road is wide enough to turn the Impala around. The u-ey he hits sends you, and all your stuff, careening from the right end of the bench all the way to the left.

The drive is not fast. Staring ahead and silently revving yourself up can only waste so much time, so you pull out the mini sewing kit from under the seat and do your best to patch a rip in Dean’s jeans, struggling to thread the needle even more than usual. You feel a bit like a bad hunter distracting yourself from what’s ahead, but just one of you stuffing the car with anxious brooding is enough. Sam passes back a sudoku booklet for you and then goes straight back to his thousand-yard stare.

He used to be excellent when things came down to the wire like this. After years spent in empty motel rooms, counting pennies and waiting for John and Dean to come home, Sam’s patience was unimaginable. But losing Jess… had tilted his axis. These last few hunts, you’ve noticed how crazed he gets on the last couple steps to the finish line—when none of you are sure if there’ll be anybody to save. It happens. But you’re scared of what another round of it could do to Sam, even with a stranger like Amanda; he cared so much…

Dean isn’t happy, either, but he at least has something to do. He alternates between playing brain-melting Metallica or forgetting to reload the tape, so the drive is a strange mix of music you can feel in your eardrums and silence that’s just as loud. The first piece of levity you get is thirty straight minutes of Dean over-explaining the album to you. And, thank god you ask, because Dean rattling on about the “bass and drums feeding off each other” and the “musical integrity of a locked-in rhythms section” bring Sam out of his trance. He pries his eyes away from the rolling fields of snow, scrunches up his face, and sighs, “Can we at least listen to ‘...And Justice for All?’”

You’re an excellent tactician, so you use this opening to nudge them both toward the most surefire argument starter in the Winchester handbook: What’s the best album of all time? It would’ve been harder to lure flies into honey. Dean argues more with himself than he argues with the two of you, dancing indecisively between Zeppelin II, Dark Side of the Moon, and at least twenty other albums that you are vaguely aware exist. Sam outlines that there is a difference between someone’s favorite album (Californication in Sam’s case) and the best album objectively by sales (Thriller).

All three of you play into the argument more than usual. Guess you’re not the only one desperate to think about something other than the two hundred other people who might die tonight. By the time there’s enough of a break in the conversation for you to throw your hat into the distraction-ring, you’re thirty minutes from the Indianapolis International Airport.

“Both of you are wrong,” you decide. “There’s only one reasonable answer to that question, and it’s Rumours.”

Dean audibly grumbles, and when the Impala jams to a stop in front of a red light, he dramatically points at you in the rear-view mirrors and declares: “You are obligated by hippie, witchy-girl bullshit to love that album, Proctor. And it’s good, but it’s not the best. It’s mostly…” he flashes you a mean, big-brother smile, “girly music.”

You know you’re right, so his comment rolls right over you. Cooly, you remind him, “Nuh-uh. Sam loves Fleetwood Mac, too.”

You’d figured that was a good counter-point, since Sam was hardly girly. The hand he was using to keep his notepad on his knee was all kinds of veiny and calloused, and on top of being taller than Dean, he was a lot more comfortable with his masculinity. He didn’t have mile-long lashes or glazed donut cheekbones, either.

Sam hums in agreement, like you knew he would; the two of you listened to Go Your Own Way and The Chain endlessly before he left for school. Sometimes he’d even dance around the attic at home with you.

Dean side-eyes his brother, then barks out a hearty laugh. “Case in point.”

Sam elects to pretend he didn’t hear that, and instead turns around to talk straight to you: “I mean, the end of Silver Springs alone…”

…Maybe if Dean listened to more “girly music,” he’d have more women melting over him the way you melt when Sam says that. Even though you’ve gotten used to having him in front of you again, there are moments like these where you’re stunned by how similar the two of you still are. Dreams would play in your attic and Sam would already be offering you his hands, gangly and shy and bright red for you and only you…

You listened to Silver Springs a lot after Sam started dating Jessica.

INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 4th, night.

All three of you must’ve been hyper-planning what to do the second the Impala parked, because you fan out as soon as Dean jams the break.

Sam uncaps the travel-sized hand sanitizer from your purse and empties it out onto the pavement. You’re a little sad to say goodbye to pumpkin cupcake, but then he starts pouring as much holy water as he can into the teeny bottle, and you’re reminded how clever he is. When Dean gives him a weird look, Sam explains, “3.4 ounces or less per liquid item, dude.”

“Shit,” Dean curses. Right. Travel size restrictions. That cuts your only physical weapon against the demon in half—or into a fucking fifth, I guess. But it’s something. “At least he’ll fuckin’ smell good when we send him to hell. Great.”

You give Sam the marshmallow pumpkin latte sanitizer, too. You’re going to look painfully suspicious walking into an airport with nothing but hand sanitizer and an occult journal, but there’s nothing you can do. There’s no time to check bags or trudge through security lines. Hopefully you won’t have to board, but knowing your luck…

You’re about to go peeling out of the parking lot at top speed, when you turn your boot and feel the warm piece of metal pressed against your ankle. Shit. “God, this is stupid,” you curse, and drop onto a knee. You lose the pocket knife in your boot, then dig around for the loose rock salt shells rolling around in your pockets. There’s a visible pout on your face when you abandon your iron knuckles. Anything that’d be caught by security or picked up on a metal detector goes straight into the trunk.

When you pull your butterfly knife out of your bra, Sam is suddenly very interested in the color of the sky.

The boys follow suit. By the time you’re through the doors and among the harried, criss-crossing crowd of travelers, you’ve lost ten pounds in weapons each. Dean grumbles the whole way about feeling naked. Everything in the airport is overstimulating, even at this time of night. The long, endless squares of glass looking out over the runway reflect the too-bright lights in big glossy spots, and the air is flooded with a constant stream of intercom updates and civilian chatter. You duck and weave all the way to the departure schedule, which is just the right font size to make you anxious.

Sam scans the chart. “They’re boarding in thirty minutes.”

Shit. You wrack your mind for something that could coax Amanda off her flight. But the gears in your head are suddenly muddy, and Dean’s faster than you, anyway. His eyes dart around the floor of the airport. “Okay… we still got some cards to play. We need to find a phone.”

Sam and Dean dart off like twin bomb-sniffing dogs. You move to follow them, but something tethers you in place. The buzzing, bustling commotion in the air pitches up, and then your ears are ringing, and your whole body is stinging with the ugly leeching feelings from before. The demon. It’s close.

You blindly walk in the direction your internal Winchester compass gives you, and just when Dean’s about to take a courtesy phone off its hook, your body extracts the phone from his hand on autopilot. For a brief flickering moment, you’re not yourself. Your powers talk through you.

Your Gift foresees, “That won’t work. Your only option is to board the plane.”

The boys exchange an unsettled look. For a second you’re confused why they’re giving you their Freaked Out faces, then you feel the hollow plastic of the phone in your hand, and you realize you’re a whole twenty feet from where you started. Man… you hate the whole psychic-possession thing. Just for fun, your Gift loves to take over and course-correct you when it thinks you’re being stupid. You drop the phone back on its hook with a heavy click. It takes Dean a second to answer, and he’s still giving you that look. After a long pause, he knocks up his chin and not-so-happily mutters, “...Uh, okay.”

Sam, at least, has learned to roll with your weird psychic bullshit. His voice is soft with conviction. “Fine. Plan B, then. We gotta get on that plane.”

You run your palms down your face, then steel yourself. There’s no other way, and no time to second-guess. Even your Gift has decided it’s your best plan. “Okay. Fuck it.”

The usual authority in Dean’s voice hikes up with a note of panic. “Uh, woah. Let’s just hold on a second–”

“Dean,” you wince, and your hands drop heavily at your sides. “We gotta. I’m sorry.”

Sam, per usual, reads Dean’s hesitance as something else. “That plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board. And if we’re right, it’s gonna crash. We have to–”

You watch as they have their usual back and forth; Sam, eager to throw himself at this, and Dean gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It’s easy for you to sense the steam of real, nail-biting terror radiating off your best friend. You feel Dean’s fear all the time–and even then it’s hard for you to picture him being afraid of much of anything, much less planes. It’s even harder for Sam to look past his little brother glasses.

“...Flying?” Sam puts it together. His voice is understanding, but super confused. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Dean flails. He fists his hands as he talks, swaying back and forth to try and work up the nerve. He glances at you, the only other witness to his weakness, just once. “Why do you think I fuckin’ drive everywhere, Sam?”

Sam is genuinely stunned. Slapped-in-the-face stunned. But he takes it in stride, and, also glancing at you only once, he blurts out: “Alright. Uh, I’ll go.”

The anticipation of boarding the flight is making your skin prickle with anxiety, and you can’t help but inch back toward the ticket counter as they talk. But when Sam says this, without question or complaint, you’re instantly stepping up to his side and demanding, “Then I’m going with you.”

You brace yourself to shut down the argument you know is coming, but this Sam continues to be different from the guy you knew four years ago. This answer is just as easy for him, too. “Okay.”

Not, you’re staying here, or even, I won’t let you risk yourself like this. Just a plain and simple, okay. It bugs you. You don’t even have time to dwell on it, though, because Sam’s blatant courage tugs Dean over his fear.

“Man…” Dean utters, face twisted with nervousness. He gives in with a helpless scrunch of his shoulders, and taking that as permission, Sam twists around to buy your tickets not two seconds later.

You both watch him rush off, neither of you over the moon about this situation. Dean’s so anxious that his hands are clammy, and you can tell because he clutches at the sleeve of your jacket like a little kid. He knocks his forehead down on your shoulder with a groan, and your palm automatically loops around to give his back a soothing rub.

“This is fucking… awesome,” Dean gripes. “No guns. Can’t even bring a damn bottle of holy water. Is there some kind of psychic Xanax you can give me?”

Maybe some of your Gift drains into your voice when you promise, “We won’t have to worry about that. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Dean doesn’t make his Freaked Out face this time. He does, however, bump his forehead against your shoulder again, and sink into your touch with a rough sigh.

FLIGHT 424 - Dec. 4th.

You’d felt bad for Dean the whole time he’d struggled to get on the plane. Now, you kind of felt like choking him with your bare hands.

So many people crammed into one space was enough to flatten your Gift with the weight. Adding Dean to the mix, shoved shoulder-to-shoulder against you with his jitters ramped up to eleven, made you feel like picking your brain out with a fork. Your Gift ping-ponged between Dean and Sam, making you bounce between chattering your teeth with fear and thinking things like, wow, I just love the Dewey decimal system.

Maybe it was a good thing. You’d much rather be in one of their heads than yours.

All day, you’d done a pretty good job not obsessing over the things your mom had said over the phone. It was hard with so much time to marinate in the car, but the massive weight of the existence of demons only slammed on top of you once or twice. Boarding had managed to keep you occupied, but then the colossal body of the plane had shuddered and heaved its weight off the tarmac, leaving all chances for escape behind on the ground.

A part of you was resigned to it; it is a simple fact of your life that evil things are real. So what’s one more, right? But at the same time, you thought about the cross Sam wore under his shirt… you thought about being one of those things, being “made of lies,” like Mom had said. That, too, had been gnawing at you—what had she seen to learn all that? How did she know that a demon would “tear into your mind?” The Vague Psychic Thing is fun, until you’re on the receiving end.

“Can you sense who it’s possessing?” Sam’s smooth, calculating voice interrupted your thoughts.

…Oh, right. You’d gotten so swept up in your own head, no doubt influenced by Dean’s incessant foot-tapping, that you’d totally forgotten to scan the plane. Tilting away from Dean and his panic, you subconsciously shifted toward eerily calm, level-headed Sam. Just catching a wisp of the clean cologne he wears cools you down a little bit. Okay. No more freaking out—it’s game time.

You’d hoped that the white noise of the flight would settle your nerves, but the air tasted painfully sterile, dry, and cottony against the back of your throat. Everything felt like cold metal touching an open nerve. If the demon’s influence wasn’t making your powers touchy, then the woman across the aisle definitely was, oozing with homesickness as she watched Indianapolis shrink far below—or maybe it was the guy two rows back, replaying an argument again and again in his head—or maybe the other two hundred fucking people stuffing the plane with their boredom and their tiredness.

You push your knee into Sam’s. He pushes back.

After a tense beat, you whisper to him over the chatter of passengers, “Too many people. There’s no way I can narrow it down to one person—not unless they’re right in front of me.” Sam’s gaze turns expectantly to Dean, who’s still in full-on dissociation mode. He’d spent the whole boarding process humming tracks from St. Anger, and you knew he was really going through it, purely because he’d stopped and restarted Some Kind of Monster three different times now. Poor guy.

One of the things that made the three of you such a natural team was your ability to rotate leadership. In moments like these, with Dean way too wigged out to take charge, you’d usually step into his shoes without much trouble. But Sam has fielded your fainting spells and panic attacks all week, so he’s already got a pep-talk prepared for the two of you.

“...Okay.” Sam checks his watch. His voice still has that touch of classic Sam softness, probably because he knows how hard this is going to sound: “Stay focused. We got thirty-two minutes and counting to track this thing down, figure out who it’s possessing, and perform a full-on exorcism.” You’re about to make a comment about how blissfully easy he makes things seem, but Dean beats you to it. He snipes, “Yeah, on a crowded plane. That’s gonna be easy.”

You snap one of your bracelets against your wrist a few times, thinking. “Who would it want to possess?”

This gets Dean’s head in the game. Easily, he recites: “It’s usually somebody with some sort’a weakness, y’know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through. Somebody with an addiction or emotional distress.”

As he explains this, you unlatch Dean’s claws from their death-grip on your arm and give the top of his hand a little soothing pat. Your gaze remains fixed on the pattern of the seat in front of you. “For a regular demon, maybe. This thing might not even need a chink. It wants maximum damage here—so maybe it’d go for the pilot?”

This is not a soothing thought. Checking his watch again, Sam suggests, “Or Amanda… Surviving a crash like that? I’d be pretty messed up if I was her. We should check both.”

You’re happy to spend the little time you have left wisely, so you’re quick to push out of your seat and get moving. Dean puts on a brave face and follows your lead. There are only two ends of the plane to check—this thing can’t hide forever. Just when you start to do an awkward side-shuffle to nudge Dean out into the aisle with your hip, the whole plane thrashes top to bottom, and there he goes, dropping like a rock back into his seat. His spike of panic is so genuine that you end up dropping with him.

“Come on!” Dean hisses through his teeth. “That can’t be normal!”

You and Sam immediately get to shushing and soothing him, and suddenly you understand how married couples feel when their kid starts crying on a flight. Shifty eyes in other seats pretend they’re not glaring at you. Summoning as much strength as you can to share with him, you drop a hand on Dean’s shoulder and order: “Breathe, dude. You’re okay.”

“I’m not fuckin’ four,” Dean whisper-shouts, sulking flat back into his seat.

“She’s right,” Sam whispers back. Should it be worrying you how much he’s been agreeing with you lately? Stern, he says, “Listen—if you’re panicked, you’re wide open to possession. So you need to calm yourself down. Right now.”

A weird part of you is grateful that Dean is having a rough go of it, because it’s giving you something to focus on. You’re usually pretty good with planes. But for a minute there, when the turbulence had hit, your mind had defaulted to oh shit, this is real, we’re all going to die. A slideshow of the last crash had blitzed through your thoughts. Thoughts that had nothing to do with the anxiety you were picking up from Dean.

You know you despise it when Dean uses his Parent Voice on you, so you try not to use it on him when you urge, “C’mon. I think Amanda’s in the back of the plane. I’ll check up front.”

Dean gives an unconvinced, “I’ll go talk to her,” then makes grabby hands at Sam’s pockets, “pass me one of the hand-sanitizers. Fuckin’ uh, pumpkin latte—don’t gimme that face, _____, not all of us can tell with just a look. What if it’s in her?”

“It’s a bit more than a look—” you begin to clarify, but Sam stops your back and forth with a shake of his head. He pulls out the little orange plastic container of your pumpkin cupcake holy water and passes it to Dean.

“We should try to conserve what we got,” he warns, passing you the only other weapon against the demon (marshmallow pumpkin latte). “Go more subtle—if she’s possessed, she’ll flinch at the name of god.”

Now that you’re running out of both time and options, the second Dean unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out into the aisle on coltish legs, you take the opening and bolt out of your cramped middle seat. Anything you can do to get closer to finding this thing will make you feel loads better.

You start down the aisle. As the chatter of the boys fades into the all-encompassing thrum of the plane behind you, you take slow unhurried steps past each row of seats, soaking up what you can get. A girl listens to music in her headphones. A businessman clicks away at his laptop. Each of them you comb over with your powers, and each pass feels like scooping your hand into a bowl of tacks and waiting to get stabbed.

They’ll rip into your mind… take you apart if they have to, Mom had said. You waited for that moment, steeling your nerves the closer you came to the cockpit. If the demon’s on this side of the plane, and it sensed you, would it immediately press into your mind? Would just being near you snap its presence to you like a magnet? You didn’t like the mental feeling that gave you; the stark secret-seeking white of your Gift clashing with the black choking smoke that’d been chasing you all week. When you spoke to a spirit through your Gift, it felt like you were touching fingertips through a curtain. Would it be like that? Would this demon press its claws through the veil and dig around for something to tear, to grab?

The other flight attendant on board pushes past you with her cart, leaving no barrier between you and the cockpit. Behind you, bobbing in a sea of blurry people, your Gift could distinctly make out Sam (practicing the exorcism) and Dean (talking to Amanda). You’re just a few paces from the front exit of the plane when a man emerges from the bathroom cabin, and—

He twists to meet eyes with you. Expecting you.

You’re flashed a clever, haunting smile, then—a set of glossy void-black eyes.

You wait for it. And in its own way, the presence of the demon does overpower you, bringing the heavy-as-the-sky, parasitic feeling from your visions into the real world. For a long ringing moment, you are blasted with dark leeching power hot enough to singe the entire front of your body—like a nuclear bomb had dropped down just a few steps from you. It is spidery and vicious and knowing and awful—

…but the conquering sensation never comes. Beth had said that it would root into your mind, that just feeling it with your Gift, as you are right now, would tear you to pieces. Yet all that really happens is you staring at it and it staring at you, before it shoulders its way through the cockpit door and disappears inside. The only thing you really experience is the shock of seeing it in somebody, puppeting around a person with dreams and thoughts and memories.

For a few moments, you suck down heaving breaths through your nose and stare at the closed door.

Something about it nagged at you. Besides the obvious—how different it felt compared to what your mother had described—you swear you felt something else, some ringing sense of strangeness that you just couldn’t put your finger on. Maybe it was the fact that you’d just made eye contact with a real creature of hell, an evil spirit, whatever. But you made eye contact with evil spirits all the time. This was… closer to home than that. Underneath the writhing mass of bloody, black ink that made up the demon, your Gift had recognized something unimaginably familiar.

Sensing the demon in person had reminded you of… of a sensory memory, almost. It smelled like… warm static. The old staticy TV in your house, the ancient one that sat square and unattractively on your Mom’s slanting sideboard in the living room. You remembered her crystal ashtray propped up on the top, the fizzy sound the TV made when you’d shut it off…

On the nights when it was just you and Sam home, and the house felt so big and empty that the silence throbbed in your ears, the two of you would set up a fort in front of that TV and watch old horror movies well past your bedtime. The silly effects and the dated acting were easy to tease together. You’d much rather watch movies on the newer screen in your Mom’s room, but for whatever reason, Sam insisted on the clunker in your living room.

Y’wanna know somethin’ cool? He’d asked you once, running a finger through the film of static bubbling on the surface of the glass. A little bit of the static in TVs is actually radiation leftover from the Big Bang. How weird is that? Something so old and powerful, picked up by this random piece of junk.

Sam always crashed first, leaving you alone with the white static the TV defaulted to when the movie ended. You could vividly remember how your shoulders bumped against the hard floor through the thin sleeping bag the two of you had shared—how Sam’s warmth had seeped into your shirt where he was curled up behind you, his soft sleepy breaths tickling your hair.

When you’d pulled his arm around your waist to snuggle, a spark of static had shocked you through his touch. When you’d closed your eyes and tried to go to sleep, you swore that the ancient, cosmic hum of the static in the TV ebbed and flowed at the same exact time as Sam’s breath.

In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh. Crackling as he breathed.

It wasn’t the demon you were scared of anymore. The ancient, ever-present sting of static you’d felt deep down inside it… that scared you a million, a billion times more, because—

You felt that static every time you felt Sam.

_

It’s like trying to describe the smell of your childhood home.

Logically, you know your house must smell like something. But when you’re in one place long enough your brain filters it out as background noise, and it becomes something you can only notice after a long time away.

You’d known Sam since you were in diapers. Back then, the meager threads of your Gift were already taking him in and absorbing him into your memory. Eventually, you felt him so often that all the pain and optimism in his core, all the stuff that made Sam himself, had smoothed out into warm, familiar background noise to your Gift.

Then he’d left for Stanford. Four years passed, and the only exposure your Gift had to him was the flimsy thread stretched two thousand miles down to California. Because it’d been so long since you’d sensed him in person, hugging him outside his apartment had been like stepping into your home after a long time away—for a brief moment, the filter over your psychic perceptions of him had lifted. You’d sensed for the first time what had always been there, buried deep. The Static.

At the time, you’d gotten so swept up in Sam, Dean, and the adventure of finding their Dad, that it was easy to get sidetracked. Things came up. You got used to Sam again, and his Static faded to background noise.

Until you’d felt that demon with your Gift.

A demon. A creation of Lucifer. You’d always remember what Sam felt like—you’d never forget the smell of home—but in one of them?

Your mind whirls with so many questions that it flat-out pops, failing you. Pulled along on a cloud of white noise, you somehow manage to turn away from the cockpit and start back down the aisle. The demon is possessing the pilot. You have forty minutes, less than, to exorcize it and save the two hundred people on this flight. These are all truths floating around in your head, but no matter how much you try to circle back to one, the static of the demon overcomes you again.

Static. You think of Sam, the crackle of his soft raspy voice through the phone. Your heart is pounding in your ears, thudding away in your chest like a piston. The static had burned in the demon, burned like busted speakers and smoking plane wreckage. Little pins all over your skin pressing in. The space you have until you make it to Sam’s seat seems to yawn, your footfalls sluggish and shivery. Why do they feel the same? Why does he feel the same? The static of the demon worms under your fizzing skin, bubbling, boiling—

You stop in front of Sam’s row, and he’s already looking at you when you get close. He asks you a question. You stare at him, the whole world filled with that awful roaring buzzing, the air tight and dessert dry in the back of your throat. Even though he’s right in front of you, you feel like you barely see him—just the vague burning outline of him in your powers.

Sam reaches out to grab your wrist, tugging it away from the long marks you’re viciously scratching into the flesh of your arm. The touch of his hand causes a literal static shock to jolt from his fingers to yours. You yelp in surprise, but it’s—

It’s different. There’s a similarity, definitely, between what you sensed in the demon and what’s always been in Sam… but his Static is hot chocolate warm and fuzzy and so good. Melt-in-your-mouth good. Your surroundings filter back in, and there are his soft, worried eyes looking up at you under his brow, and his big hand soothing over the irritated skin you’ve scratched raw. Sam. The same Sam he’s always been.

…Whatever it is, whatever weird connection you’ve just made, you’re sure there’s a lot more to it than Sam having something in common with a demon. Right?

Sam takes one look at you, your insane reaction, and your mysterious reappearance, then easily puts two and two together: “One of the pilots?”

“Co-pilot,” you tell him, and one of your absent-minded hands drifts up to scratch at your arm again.

And again, Sam fishes his fingers around your wrist and pulls it away. Now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t un-notice it. His touch makes your fingertips and the ends of your ears tingle, and not completely in the boy-crush way. In the psychic way.

He asks, “You gonna be okay? We got twenty-two minutes.”

That jolts you back to life. Twenty-two minutes until this plane is smoking ashes in a Pennsylvania cornfield. Though the last ten minutes have easily overcomplicated all twenty-four years of your life, you won’t have a life period if you don’t see this job through. When Dean returns from investigating a very un-possessed Amanda, he feels the exact same way.

Your resolve hardens, and you manage to give Sam an absent-minded smile. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s no time for arguing. Dean and Sam unanimously agree that the only possible place to exorcize the demon would be in the back, where Amanda is, since you can’t exactly jump the guy in the middle of economy. You don’t exactly like the idea of roping her into this, but Amanda’s the only one who could potentially lure that—thing to the rear of the plane. It is the world’s shittiest ambush. But by the time the three of you decide what to do, you’ve burned ten whole minutes on anxious chatter. A shitty ambush is the only plan you’ve got.

Dean starts down the aisle for the back of the plane. You stare at nothing for a beat, and only remember to get out of your seat when Sam nudges your elbow. He presses his lips together like he wants to ask you the million-dollar question (“Are you sure you’re okay?”), but there is literally no time. In a haze, you shuffle out of your seat after Dean and make a feeble attempt to get your head into gear. Sam does not make it easy. One of his broad hands brushes against the small of your back as you both squeeze out of the row, and you feel like you’ve just gone down one of those static-charged plastic playground slides.

Your Gift is exaggerating it. It has to be, right? Making big connections out of little things, picking at a fresh bruise. For weeks, you’ve been crammed into a little car with Sam, into teeny motel beds with him with no room between you. Why hadn’t you felt it? Why now? Not when you were four, napping in the same bed after playtime—not when you were twelve, and Sam was the first person outside your family that your Gift had connected with. Had it always been there, living inside him? Had you missed it?

You reach the back of the plane. Amanda is there, a pale, blonde flight attendant straight out of a commercial. You are dully aware that you have twelve minutes left before the demon makes its move, always on the forty-minute mark (...and you don’t like the line suddenly drawn between Sam and such an old, biblically evil thing).

The boys talk. A familiar conversation occurs over your head, which might be why it’s easy for you to tune out. Your mind returns again to thoughts of Sam, so intense and loud in your head that it all fizzles out to nothing, and you’re left standing there with the air pressure making your ears ring. Sam. The demon. It’s stupid and intangible and you’d have no fucking clue how to explain it out loud, but your Gift is made to find the truth. Something inside that demon exists in Sam, too. Something.

You try to reassure yourself that maybe, just this once, your Gift is wrong. Maybe this is the demon getting into your mind—learning your deepest fears and bringing them to life.

Sure enough, Dean’s charm and Sam’s earnest face must win Amanda over, because she flits out of the back room like a frightened bird. The boys peer through the curtain to watch her go, the two of them as still and sharp-eared as twin watchdogs. You’re slapped back to life by the sudden tension in the room, and quickly scuttle up behind them. Right. Amanda’s getting the co-pilot. These next ten minutes will determine the rest of your life.

In the same beat, you and Dean ready your holy water, and Sam gets the written exorcism from their dad’s journal out in front of him. There’s no need for the three of you to say a word. An understanding passes between each of you, hammered in from years of hunting as a team. Sam slides up next to you and Dean gives you a firm nod, squashing your last wisps of fear. You’re here to do a damn job.

A man’s voice floats toward the closed curtain to the back room, followed not-so-closely by Amanda’s. You’re glad she’s not the first one into the room—because Dean instantly slams a fist into their face.

The co-pilot—or really, the thing inside him—goes sprawling. You’ve got a strip of duct tape bridled over his mouth before he even fully collides with you, and for the blissful moment you have him pinned, Dean gets another fierce hit in.

While he’s still stunned, you whip the co-pilot to the grated metal floor. Dean clambers on top of him and keeps him there with a firm fist twisted in his rumpled button-up.

Amanda panics, “W-what are you doing? Y-you said you we-were gonna talk to him—!”

“We are gonna talk to him,” Dean grits.

Then, you’re hosing him down with holy water, splashing it brutally in the man’s pain-twisted face. Your gut clenches with empathy. Did the demon leave his body already? You’re terrified for a moment that you got the wrong guy… until you smell the smoke. It’s not just sulfur, but full-on dead body bloat, steaming up from the big black boils that spring up where the holy water hits skin. You get a mouth and noseful vile enough to make you gag. This thing fighting you? This is definitely not a man.

Amanda watches the demon’s skin sizzle, the usual terror and confusion on her face. “O-oh my god, what’s wrong with him?”

You pour all the psychic clarity and calmness into your voice when you whip around and tell her: “It’s going to be okay. Be calm, go outside the curtain, and don’t let anybody in. Can you do that, Amanda?”

You don’t stop to listen to her answer. Sam’s already tearing through the opening to the exorcism at ninety miles an hour, his pronunciation punchy and fatally clear. That had been one of the less exciting parts of the five-hour drive here; when Sam had run through it over and over, re-training himself. One misspoken word could get everyone on this plane killed.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”

The demon thrashes viciously in your grip, twisting and contorting under Dean in ways the human body can’t bend. Bile rises in your throat as you hear a snap, then two, as the demon does everything it can to buck Dean off. By the time you go to stun it with another splash of holy water, it’s more of a dribble. That’s your first mistake.

Two people are not nearly enough to keep this thing down. It gets a hand loose that instantly sends Dean flying, and before you even see where he lands, it cranks your head all the way to the left in one vicious slap.

Your whole face is blasted with red, stinging pain. You go down hard, smashed sideways into the cramped wall.

The pain stuns you out of the headspace you built to distract yourself, and all at once the presence of the demon is thrust upon you. The black, molten psychic power of it crackles through your body, filling your nose and mouth with the same terror hanging in your visions all week. Until you realize— It fucking backhanded you.

Trying to see past the dots swimming in your vision, you mindlessly shove off the wall, snarling with rage. No fucking way.

And then it speaks (to Sam?), and in the fizzing noise of pressure in your ears you hear it promise, “I know what happened to your girlfriend!” The constant stream of Sam’s exorcism stops cold.

When the demon speaks again, its voice, a spectral twist of the co-pilot’s and something older, drooled with pleasure. “She died screaming,” it rasped, “Even now, she's burning.”

A lot happens in the next precious seconds. First, the little circular light flushed flat to the back cabin’s ceiling explodes. Just—bursts, in shock, spraying sparks and glass all over the little room. You’re stunned enough as it is getting hit in the face, so one more thing to fuck up your vision doesn’t help. But you heard what the demon said to Sam. Through the suffocating evil flooding your mind, you feel the sharp spike of hurt and rage and grief in your best friend—and that’s the precise moment when you decide that you’ve had e-fucking-nough.

These last few days have not been winners. And though you live a pretty shitty life with an impressive amount of shitty days, even before you got to Pennsylvania, your streak of bad luck had only just gotten started. This demon has screwed with your Gift on an unimaginable level. Your last few nights have been plagued with nightmares straight from hell, and your days haven’t been much better, riddled with useless visions that get more and more disconnected every time you faint. It made it even more obvious than usual that you’re deadweight for Sam and Dean. They had to handle your boiling water burns and your freakouts, not to mention your mood swings and your unhelpful visions.

The demon hurt Dean, which is enough to get your teeth grinding. And Sam—it had cut him much deeper.

You wanted to tear it apart. You wanted to reach into it the same way it had reached into you, dig in with your nails, and rip something out. Your mom’s words buzz in your head: contact, truth, lies, rip, apart. Rationally, you know you should listen to her warning. If just looking into its eyes has forever changed your view of the man you’ve loved since you were little, then looking deeper could kill you—scramble your mind. You know that. But beside the rage and exhaustion fizzing under your skin is this desperate need to know.

Demons are made of lies. What if it was lying about Sam? What if it had screwed with your Gift in some new way, tweaking the image of him in your mind? It had to be lying. The Static in him, as warm and as good as you swore it was—it came from something evil. Sam. The man you love, the boy you’d fallen in love with, his soft sleepy breaths as he lays on the floor beside your bed, his freckly arms swimming in his too-big sleeves. How could any part of him be evil? He couldn’t be. N-not your Sam. How could he ever have something like that inside him?

You need to be sure. Consequences be damned.

As the demon rears up to keep snarling in Sam’s face, you slap a hand over its forehead—reach in—and start ripping.

_

She died screaming.

Sam can’t pull a full breath in. The words burn through his body like a syringe of poison, spreading from limb to limb. The demon snarls up at him, its foamy spit hitting Sam’s face and its teeth snapping around Jess’s name—until.

_____’s hand seals over the demon’s face. The demon’s jaw snaps shut. There is a terrible hanging moment where Sam’s brain struggles to connect the touch to what she’s doing; she never, ever psychically connected with the full face of her palm tattoo. Even with her mom Sam knew she put up a barrier, reading Beth with the smooth back of her knuckles instead.

Shit. Another fresh shot of horror lances through him. What the hell is she doing to it?

The effect is instant. Whatever button _____ had just hit, it activates every horror-movie, Exorcist-level instinct in the demon’s body. Surprised yelps echo down the back of the plane as the lights violently flicker. In electrified, strobing flashes, Sam sees it. The co-pilot’s body is diagonal on the floor one moment, and then it’s arching its back three feet in the air, lurching up into ______’s palm like she’d hit it with a defibrillator. The demon floats up and stays up.

…Until Dean brings it smashing back to the floor again, throwing his weight on top of the co-pilot. He barks, “Sam!” Right. Whatever she’s doing to it, it’s the only working distraction they’ve got. Slapped back to focus, Sam stutters out where he left off: “...O-omnis congregatio et secta diabolica—” It’s a blessing that he makes it through the next lines of the exorcism. Sam pours all of his willpower into keeping his eyes on the stained notebook page it’s written on, no matter how many times his gut begs him to check on her. All he can do is have faith. This is what she does—when Dean’s not strong enough and Sam’s too weak, she finds a damn way, come hell or high water. Sam has always had endless faith in that. So when the whole plane gives that terrible shudder that he was expecting, and then tips, and tips, and tips into a full pitch forward, Sam grips that faith with both hands. The demon’s power ripples through the rest of the plane. Everything descends into chaos. Past the curtain, the lights go out in one silent burst, followed by the explosive, concussive screams of the passengers as the oxygen masks drop. Movies are unfortunately good at capturing this precise moment, but nothing could ever replicate the way Sam’s belly swoops as all five hundred tons of the plane heads straight for the ground. Sam and Dean both go flying, crashing sideways into the walls of the back cabin. The turbulence rips the journal from his hands, and of course, with their fucking luck, it goes skidding through the curtain and down the aisle to ricochet under the seats. “Grab it!” Dean screams.

Sam can’t hear him. He staggers into the open doorway of the back cabin, clutching the frame for dear life. A terrifying, unnatural howl whistles through the cabin, even louder than the wails of the passengers. Its wind flutters his hair around his face and sends luggage toppling out of the overhead bins. For a moment, Sam wonders if the plane’s been hit or the demon has done something—but no. It’s her. He flattens himself to the floor—or rather, gravity flattens him—crawling on his belly towards the shadow of the journal under the seats. The passengers sob and shriek. The air is singed with smoky fear, and riding that same fear, Sam surges ahead, lunging for the book where it’s lodged between tossed luggage. He has to twist to get his hands on it, and it’s then that he feels it.

Down the aisle behind him, the wind drags luggage and loose papers into the void-like darkness of the back cabin—where the great, cleansing, sweeping power of her is fighting the demon. Sam believes in what he’s seen; Sam believes in angels.

She’ll buy him enough time. He knows she will.

Sam’s hands don’t shake as he pries the journal open to the right page.

“Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus,” he shouts, and the words ring as clear and clean as a bell. The plane tries to toss him again, but Sam grits his teeth and persists, “audi nos!”

He waits. Sam sees it more than he hears it. Deep in the blackhole darkness of the plane’s cabin, something red and fiery flashes to life… flickers… and dies.

Maybe he’s imagining it, but he swears he feels the demon fizzle out. The heaviness in the air melts away. The lights, which Sam realizes had been snapping on and off, turn on for good. The hissing of the turbines spins to its normal hum. The plane swooshes back up with a slow coasting motion, then sets itself back on its peaceful forward track.

Gasps and sobs of relief chorus all around Sam, and sprawled in the middle of the aisle, he finds himself doing the same. Overhead, the pilot’s voice crackles reassurances over the intercom. As big wuffs of air cycle in and out of Sam, he waits for the moment for his heart to stop thumping, for the big “we won” moment to wash over him—but it never really does. It sits with him. For a long terrible moment, he is on the bed in his apartment in Palo Alto, Jessica’s blood boiling holes in his neck.

Even now, she’s still burning.

INDIANAPOLIS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - Dec. 5th, early morning.

Somehow, amid all the noise of swarming paramedics, feds, airline authorities, and stunned 424 passengers, Sam manages to remain lost in his own head. He clenches his jaw til’ his ears pop. How had it known about Jess?

The terminal is quickly packed. He’s not in airports often enough to know whether they should be packed at one in the morning, but he’s gonna guess not. It is all background noise for him. Passengers whirl past, getting cleared by cops to go home, and Dean subtly nudges the three of them into the leaving crowd. Sam has a vague notion that he’s putting one foot in front of the other, but everything feels distant and hazy. His neck blazes with that terrible tingling feeling, and he digs into it with his nails until Dean stops him.

“Sam,” Dean orders, dipping his head towards the direction of the parking lot. Apparently Sam isn’t cooperating well. “Let’s get the hell outta’ here.” For a brief moment, the awful burning feeling covering him in a fog parts long enough for him to think, and Sam realizes that he doesn’t know where _____ is. Panic lances through his chest so fast that he sobers all at once, and he opens his mouth to panic more—until he sees her, scrunched up behind Dean.

Well, clutching Dean. Left shameless by whatever she saw in that demon’s head, she’s got Dean’s hand and wrist in a deathgrip, trailing him so close that her shoes catch the heels of his boots. She does not look good. Her eyes are big and wide and she looks straight through everyone and everything, still tethered to the other dimension her powers live in. She’s got her elbows pressed into her ribs and her body bunched up so tight that Sam can almost feel her psychic overstimulation from where he’s standing.

“S’okay, sweetheart, ” Dean hushes, the first in a long, quiet string of reassurances.

Sam stares at her. Even if she’s in her own world, she must be able to feel it, ‘cause she physically leans out of his way. That should hurt him—should make him burn with sympathy—but instead, all he can think is, she would know. She would know if the demon was lying. Sam’s connected with her like that—there’s absolutely nothing to hide, even if you wanted to, so there’s no way she couldn’t see if the demon had been telling the truth.

The line of people seeping through security to get out of the airport slows to a stop, making way for the pack of paramedics hauling 424’s copilot away on a stretcher. The black boils from the holy water have left his body entirely.

He’ll ask her once. He has to try. Sam lets the two of them in front of him, Dean, then _____, almost pressing her face into Dean’s back. When they’re stopped in line, Sam lifts a hand to touch her—but stops himself, not wanting her to feel any worse. “_____,” Sam swallows, trying to keep his voice even. “What did you see? H-How did it know about Jessica?”

Before she even has the opportunity to answer, (if she can even hear him), Dean swings around to shoot Sam a pained look. “Dude, look at her. Now is not the fuckin’ time. Let her get a full breath in before you start with the interrogations, okay?”

Sam recoils. The gnashing, rebellious fire he usually saves for Dad pours out here, instead, and before Sam knows it he’s snarling back, “I can’t ask one question about my dead girlfriend?”

It lasts only for an instant, but Sam gets to watch in real time the way that hit lands. He’s aware that it’s deeply fucked up of him to enjoy throwing Jess in Dean’s face, but it is his backward, comforting reminder that she was a real person; not a four-year-long fever dream he invented to escape. No one says her name but him anymore. At least, when he talks about her, someone else is forced to feel something too.

Dean sets his jaw. He makes the mistake of trying to turn towards Sam, which _____ thinks is an attempt to shake her off—and she lets out this awful, hoarse sob sound that stops them both cold.

Sam feels like a rail spike has been driven through his chest. Dean gives him a look, then mercifully drops it.

Immediately, Dean’s wheeling her back in and soothing her. The angle at which she’s clinging to him is awkward for all three of them, so he endures her trembling and hitching little sobs as he peels off her hands and re-arranges them. Dean loops an arm around her back so he can stroke her shuddering shoulders, uttering, “S’okay, kiddo, s’ all over… ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you…”

And of course, because Sam can never exist in peace, he watches the way ______ drops all her weight onto Dean and feels his chest squeeze. Suddenly, he’s very aware of what four years have changed between her and his brother.

The rush back to the car is silent, but for _____’s little sniffling breathes. After making it out of the blistering lights of the chattering airport and out into the peaceful snowy parking lot, things calm down.

Four separate times Sam thinks about reaching out to comfort her. The Gift always leaves her freezing cold, and early December in Indiana on top of that has her making audible little shivering sounds as they walk. Sam’s boiling under his coat. He unzips it, then zips it up again, unsure if she’d even want it. Dean gets her in the car and puts a warm blanket around her before Sam can get over his indecision.

They just saved two hundred people. In hindsight, that’s a massive win. Maybe if the demon hadn’t said what it’d said, and maybe if it hadn’t reduced her to this, Sam could celebrate. Seeing her so messed up always throws him. Less than an hour ago, she was the powerful psychic that used to have Dad clutching his telepathy-blocking charm under his shirt.

Sam scrubs his hand down his face, staring blankly at the trembling lump of blanket lying across the backseat. Now, she’s… whatever she saw in that demon.

Dean tucks her feet up onto the seat, then nudges the door closed with his hip. Sam stares past him, through him, at her silhouette in the Impala’s dark glass, because that’s somehow easier than looking at Dean.

The smattering of snow growing on the asphalt makes the whole world sound muffled. Sam feels like he’s talking to empty air when he croaks, “It knew about Jessica.”

“Sam,” Dean calls, softer this time. Asking for Sam to look at him. When he manages to heave his head up, Dean’s face is firm and reassuring. “These things—they read minds. They lie, just like Beth said. That’s all it was. Don’t let that thing get into your head, okay?”

Sam forces himself to nod. They both spare the shaking shape in the backseat one more look, then Dean’s rounding the car for the driver’s seat, and Sam’s sliding in next to him without another word.

PITTSBURG, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 5th, night.

Green. It had to be the ugliest color a motel room could be, Sam thought as he stared at the empty room. The walls were this sad limey green color that managed to look awful even in the dark, some parts made even limey-er by the huge neon green vacancy sign right outside their window. Their room was parked right next to it, so there was no escaping the sign even with the curtains pulled shut.

You and Dean, who were positioned right under the ugly green light, had somehow managed to fall asleep anyway. The only sound in the whole world was your soft breathing across the room and the crackle of the ancient TV.

Right now, it was playing a rerun of some televangelist in a big shiny white suit. He paced the screen on mute as Sam watched, curled on his side, laying diagonal to face the screen. Nightmares were so common for him now that the hardest part of the battle was getting to sleep in the first place. His strategy was to get so bored and so tired that his body would simply have nothing else to do but crash. Bored was the key word—Sam had tried reading, sudoku, and counting cars as they whisked by, but all of that occupied his mind too much to work. Tonight was another night where his mind was just too full to sleep.

He hoped Dean was right. He prayed that the demon had just been lying, lips pressed to the cross he kept under his shirt. Most days, Sam dropped into bed and sent off a brief prayer before the fight for sleep began. Tonight, though—tonight was one of those nights where he clasped his cross in both hands and poured his heart out. Sam prayed for his brother, his Dad, and for you, like usual, pleading for protection and strength. Sam prayed for Jessica, too.

(But never for her forgiveness—he knew he didn’t deserve that).

When Sam had first started getting comfortable with prayer, he’d always worried that he was being greedy or selfish by asking for so much. Health, food, lunch money, for Dad and Dean to get home okay. Now, it’s a natural comfort to him. To open yourself up to something higher than you, to give up your pride and ask for help—that is a mark of holiness. Goodness. Sam closes out his prayers and feels clean.

Across the room, Sam hears the covers in the opposite bed shift. He squints sleepy eyes at your silhouette, and even sluggish and drained, the shifting colors from the TV and the vacancy sign illuminate you like something not entirely from this world.

You pad over to his bedside. A soft, ice-cold hand shakes his arm. When you get up close and realize Sam’s awake, you scuttle back in surprise. “Uh.”

Sam shoves his face into his pillow. With his mind still on Jess, it’s hard for him to look at you right now. “What is it?”

It’s funny. From the moment you got off flight 424, you’d been glued to Dean’s side. Sam had kept his teeth pressed together through the entire thing, watching from a distance as you reached for Dean, spoke to Dean, took the food Dean gave you. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d figure you were avoiding him. Now you’ve decided you want something from him?

The second you touch his arm, every wisp of jealousy in Sam dries up. Not at all in the mood to be touched, he squirms out from under your hand and hoarsely repeats, “What?” You speak to him for the first time in hours. You sound rough and broken, and the edge of that awful sob from earlier today threatens to tip into your voice. “Can I…?”

Sam keeps his face planted in the pillow. At first he’s unsure what you’re even asking for—until you drop a hand on the mattress and he feels your weight tilt closer, wanting to… to lay with him. Like when you were little. When you share beds on the road, there’s often space left between you. That’s not what you’re asking for. If that’s what you wanted right now, you’d be in Dean’s bed.

The soft, choked little voice he can’t resist begs, “I just need to feel you.”

The last sliver of guilt and self-loathing that Sam has been holding onto instantly slips out of his grasp, hearing that. For the millionth time since this morning, he’s reminded of how awful he was to you. You’d been brought to the brink with your powers in a way they hadn’t seen in years, and Sam chose that precise moment to freak out. He wished he’d been better to you. Maybe he can’t pray for Jess’s forgiveness, but he can work to earn yours now.

Sam shuffles back on the mattress and opens the covers for you. “C’mere.”

As quiet as a mouse, you duck under his arm and slip under the covers. Sam immediately realizes that he should’ve fucking braced himself or something, because holy shit, you are so close. He accidentally gave you very little room in the already small bed. To keep from tumbling off the mattress and onto the questionable carpet, you reasonably and logically slot right up against him, your back against his chest and your heads on the same pillow. Holy shit, he did not think this through. Sam has very few gentlemanly places to lay his arm. And even if he found one, your icy cold hand picks up his warm one and—right, okay, you take it and wrap it right around your middle. That’s fine too. Cool. Awesome.

Okay. Forgetting every way he could sabotage this for himself for just a moment, Sam realizes that he missed this. God, he missed it so much. You wiggle back into his body and Sam gives you a big, indulgent squeeze around the tummy, earning this watery little sigh that makes his already racing heart zing out into orbit. Friendly snuggling became a lot less friendly when you were pushing seventeen instead of nine, so Sam hasn’t allowed himself to properly, um… cuddle you… in ages.

That isn’t even the best part. That little squeeze makes him realize just how pleasantly cold you are, a wonderful ice cube in blazing hot soup. Sam’s practically cooking under the covers—and that must be perfect for you and your chilly hands, because you make the same pitiful happy noise that Sam does as you get comfortable against each other.

Maybe if this were any other moment, after any other day, that would be something you might laugh about together. Instead, Sam’s prayers are filled with you and your incredible burden. He hesitates to go all in and hold you like he wants to… until your breath makes that tight, hitching sound again, and Sam’s sure you’re holding back tears. Screw it, Sam thinks. He’ll take care of you this time. Sam presses his face into your hair and entwines your hands on your belly, unsure of what to say and yet wanting to say so much. Dean can’t hold you like this—this is something you only want from Sam.

You both go still. Sam feels you hold your breath. His legs are itching to shift under the covers and your hand awkwardly holds his, the two of you afraid to disturb the magic.

Your thumb slowly caresses along the flat side of his hand. His heart leaps into his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, willing himself to relax. You need this. Finally, it’s his turn to comfort you.

Sam swallows hard. There’s no way you can’t feel his heart thudding away, inches from popping clean out of his chest. Neither of you are stupid. If Dean were to wake up, you know exactly what this would look like to him—to the cleaning lady, to the strangers out on the street. But right now, in this frozen moment, there’s no one awake in the world but the two of you and the TV. It is so, so wrong. But when you touch him, Sam feels clean.

Bit by bit, you adjust to one another. Your breath syncs up. The whole time, your eyes never move from the TV, but if Sam focusses he swears something washes over him—that same great, sweeping, cleansing power from the plane, as light as moth wings on his skin. He has to bite back his smile. If you did that to anyone else, they’d find you creepy as hell.

After what feels like forever, you plainly croak, “It was lying about her. It was made of lies.”

That hits Sam like a slap to the face. That’s… yeah. That sounds right. He absorbs the impact as best he can, because although his faith was thin, Sam trusted Dean’s word and he trusts yours, too. There’s—so much that he feels about that, but he doesn’t want any more of his grief to overwhelm your Gift. Sam’s not naive. No matter how good of a person you are, no matter how considerate and understanding and empathetic you can be, Sam knows that talking about Jessica brings you some level of pain. It hurts him, too. And he has zero clue where that conversation would even begin, so he stores his shame and his loss and gives a shaky nod.

Instead, Sam asks, “...What did you see? When you looked into its head?”

Right. Cause’ that was such a better question to ask her, Sam.

You go silent. It’s a weighty, knowing silence, one that chokes the whole room. Sam readies himself for whatever you’re about to share with him. Admittedly, he’s curious. When the Gift was something new in your life, Sam used to pile on question after question about what the world felt like to you. ‘What does it feel like when Dean’s happy?’ A car motor turning on. ‘What does my happiness feel like?’ Dimples and a mystery being solved. ‘You’re joking.’ Not even a little. It fascinated Sam—how does a demon feel in comparison to a regular spirit?

“...It was just an evil spirit, Sammy,” you dismiss. “That’s all.”

Sam highly doubts that’s true. If it was just a spirit, then why did it screw with you so deeply? What had you seen in its head that had scared you? You, of all people, who was built for this? He knows there’s something more here, but after this week and all the ways you’ve fought to avoid being a burden, the fact that you’d crawl to Sam for comfort is a sign of surrender. You’ve given up. Clearly, you don’t want to talk about it. Sam isn’t going to push you. God knows he’s done that enough.

When Sam doesn’t push you, you shudder out a wet sigh and pick up his hand. At this point, Sam expects you in this state to do something weird—and sure enough, you do. You pick up Sam’s hand and you just stare at it. Just stare. Your thumb presses into the meat of his palm, almost like you’re looking for something. Feeling him. Sam’s heart gives another pathetic, noticeable throb. Feeling him and being close to him is, after everything, still a source of comfort for you. His cheeks burn.

Just to fill the silence, Sam whispers, “I’ve lost a lot of my calluses.”

Per usual, his little creep says nothing. You’re still feeling him. Your other hand comes up to investigate too, adding even more soft gentle touching to Sam’s already overloaded system. Your thumbs press into the center of his palm (reading it, maybe?), then over each bump, confirming for yourself that Sam’s real.

Maybe he’d be a bit more resilient if you were doing this to him in a crowded diner or a rowdy college party. Instead, Sam can feel the rise and fall of your breath through your thin shirt, and it’s the only sound in the dead world besides the buzzing static on the TV.

Your gaze turns to the TV. The fingers caressing his hand stop cold.

Sam says your name. He can feel your heart thud thud thudding deep in your chest, like rabbit’s feet hitting snow.

Again, absorbed completely in your own task, you don’t answer him. You roll over very suddenly under the covers. Sam hopes for a minute that being face to face with you will give him some answers, but the flash of your face he sees only serves to scare the shit out of him. You give him no time to process before you’re full-body hugging him, shoving a hand between his side and the mattress and fisting one in his shirt to bodily haul him against you. Sam sputters out a sharp noise and awkwardly slopes his hands down your back. The sudden intimacy gives him a whole world of shameful butterflies and freaks him out enough, but…

You looked terrified. The same bone-deep horror you had on your face after you saw the demon in person—when you trudged up to Sam with those haunting Proctor eyes, staring straight through him and right at his future. What had you seen in that demon?

Sam tries to speak, but you talk over him, just as haunted as you’d been on that plane.

“I love you. So much, Sam. You know that?”

It’s not a sweet, reminiscent kind of question. It is a genuine, unironic, please-tell-me-the-truth, You know that?

Sam’s brain stalls. “...Yeah. O-Of course.”

In case that wasn’t worrying enough, your hands needily grasp at his back, refusing to let Sam go as you duck your face into his shoulder. Sam can feel your entire body trembling from head to toe, can feel your hot breath on his neck choking back tears. “You’re a good person,” you tell him, insisting. “The best to me.”

“That’s—”

“I can feel it, okay?” You snap. One of your hands slips up his chest to smooth over Sam’s heart, and you squeeze him against you, promising, “Here. Right here.”

…Okay. Consider him officially freaked out. Sam manages an unconvinced, “...Thank you.”

You’re so wound up that you’re gritting your teeth, digging your nails into his shirt and clawing him as close as possible. This has to be an effect of what you saw. Which is strange, because that… whatever that was, did not feel like psychic possession or a psychic panic attack or any kind of psychic anything. It felt like you, trying to convince Sam that he’s a good person. It strikes a cold, dark chord somewhere deep within him that he doesn’t like. You’re just… you’re just reacting to what the demon showed you. You’re overwhelmed from stretching your Gift so thin. T-that’s. Yeah. Regardless, you’re scared. You need him. That, at least, is something he can work with.

“Shh,” Sam coos. He rubs a warm hand from the base of your scalp all the way down your back, then up, and back again, repeating the soothing motion until his arm goes numb. “You’re tired. Let’s go to sleep.”

You mumble something non-committal under your breath.

Sam hushes you, blindly reaching for comforting things to say. “S’ okay. You’re okay, baby. You can fall asleep on me.”

Maybe the demon showed you visions of Sam getting hurt. Something. That would explain this, maybe. He fixates on it, purely because it’s a problem in front of him that is much easier to think about than how scared he is for you, and worse, how much he loves this. Being your person. It’s a stupid, selfish thought to have in a moment like this, but—Sam wishes he could take care of you like this all the time.

As your frantic breathing smooths out into a clear, easy in-and-out, Sam wonders, wherever Jess is, what she would think if she saw this.

He closes his eyes and tries to steady his own breathing, the TV still crackling away on the dresser.

In. Bzzzsh. Out. Bzzzsh.

- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydennyy @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #pythia #sam winchester imagine #supernatural rewrite

[wynnyfryd]

hi wyn!! for the dialogue prompts, i'd love to see you tackle #34 w/ steddie

34.  “Who cares? Who cares? I care!”

“For the last time,” Steve snarls as he reaches into the steamy shower Eddie just stepped out of and starts angrily shuffling wet bottles around on the shelf. “Fabergé Organics goes on the middle shelf, Wella Balsam goes on the bottom. If I have to tell you again I’m revoking your shower privileges! You can go wash your hair under the garden spout, Munson, I swear to God!”

And maybe it’s just because it’s early, because he’s tired and cold and running late for work — or maybe it’s because he can’t help but be a complete and utter foot-in-mouth dipshit regardless of circumstance — but Eddie decides to respond to this little rant by flipping his head over the bathroom sink and muttering, “Literally, who cares?” as he scrubs the excess water out of his hair with a towel. 

“Who cares? Who cares?” 

Eddie doesn’t even need to see Steve to know he’s fucked up, sent Steve spiraling into pissy mom mode, even before his boyfriend stamps his foot and says, “I care! I care, you asshole. It’s—” 

Eddie looks up. Steve’s red in the face, his eyes going shiny with frustrated tears, and fuck. Right. Eddie forgets how particular Steve gets about his stuff sometimes. How it’s not really about the stupid fucking shampoo at all, but about Steve’s need for things to be in their proper place. To feel like he has a modicum of control over his life after going four rounds with the fucking Hell dimension. Right. 

Shit. 

“It’s my stuff,” Steve tapers off, pinching the bridge of his nose, his voice so small and wounded.

“Shit,” Eddie sighs aloud for good measure; he runs the towel over his bare skin, makes sure it’s nice and dry because Steve hates the feeling of being damp, and then turns to him with his arms held out in offering. “Shit, baby, I’m— I’m stupid, I’m sorry. Can I give you a hug?”

Steve sniffs, nods, and Eddie throws his arms around him, squeezing him tight against his chest. 

“I just- I just like my stuff how I like it,” Steve whispers, shoulders tense.

Eddie kisses his hair. “I know you do, sweetheart.” 

And if Steve comes home that night and finds freshly laminated labels under each shampoo and conditioner bottle in his shower, well. Eddie has no idea what he’s talking about.

---

send me prompts!

#thank you for the ask! #steddie #steddie drabble #steve harrington #eddie munson #ocd steve #steve harrington has ptsd #someone get that boy so much therapy #steddie prompt fill #asked and answered