₊˚♥︎ Babygirl ♥︎˚₊

Jensen Ackles as Soldier Boy THE BOYS (2022) | 3.04 – “Glorious Five Year Plan”

Me, after realizing I’m a writer who doesn’t write, a reader who hates picking up a book, and a storyteller who can never come up with a plot:

I feel like everything I write is actually ass. I think I have some really good ideas but I don't know how to put them together. That, or I overthink every small detail and it consumes me.

MAGA know they are inferior.

Anyone who has to negate black achievement is a loser. Complicit white people are bigger losers.

Charles Rogers represents all America. 🇺🇸

MAGA must disrespect black people. The racism feeds the myth of white superiority.

End the racism and the myth disappears.

i know it’s getting bad when i fantasize about mean and rough sex with a fictional man

02. takes one to know one

ᯓ★ story index abt, you join your new friend, outlaw!dean, in a little game of cops and robbers. warnings, robbery, guns, suggestive language, sprinkle of angsty hidden feelings, there's only one bed couch (more of that in prt3!!) 2.7k words

The sheriff had a lot more going on than just civil duties, the vast ranch set picturesque before you can attest for that. The house itself is massive, pure white siding glowing in the moonlight. Beyond that, a sleek brown barn cuts into the night sky. From where you and Dean sit, crouched behind one of the dozen jagged shaped trees that line the outskirts of the property, it looks deceptively peaceful. 

But you know better.

This stash of gold Dean assures you is hidden within those walls, isn’t gonna be an easy swipe. Guards patrol the quiet ranch, a few are pacing the front as you watch and search for a blindspot. 

“You sure about doin’ this, darlin’?” Dean drawls in a hushed whisper, his eyes light and playful, almost daring you to say no. 

Your narrow-eyed gaze goes toe-to-toe with his, your lips curling into a smile. “I was born sure, Winchester.” you quip, not missing a beat. 

Dean’s husky voice drops lower, momentarily lacking it’s usual cocky drawl, “you just stick to the plan, alright? You do that for me ‘n we’ll be swimmin’ in gold before sunrise.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t ignore the steady thrum of adrenaline in your veins. The plan—Dean’s plan—was simple enough: get past the guards, crack the safe and get the hell out of dodge. Simple, of course, was a relative term when talking about breaking into the home of a man who probably shot first and asked questions—never. 

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” you tease, tucking your body closer to his. Your chin grazing his leather-clad shoulder as you both keep steady eyes on the ranch. 

Dean gives a quick glance, the moonlight catching in the green of his eyes. That pretty grin of his making a slow return. “Because you couldn’t resist me.”

Playfully hitting his arm, you shoot back at him, “or maybe I couldn’t resist the payday.” His eyes are back on you, lingering as his lashes slowly lift as he takes in your features at this newfound closeness. He merely offers a quiet hum in response, brushing against you as he shifts to hand you a small set of lockpicks. 

“Figure, with the way you work a cue stick,” he mumbles, voice low and as teasing as his eye contact, “you got this part handled.” He places the small box in your hand, clasping his large hands on either side of yours as he smirks, “And I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble. Perfect match, huh?”

Before you could reply, the sound of boots crunching on gravel causes both your heads to snap towards the ranch. A guard passes by, just a few yards away, his rifle glinting in the moonlight. Dean’s playful demeanor is entirely consumed by a sharp alertness that makes you wonder just how many times he’s been in a situation like this. 

The stillness passes as the guard meanders away, the sound of his boots dying out in the quiet of the desert. Your new partner’s shoulders relax at the false alarm. That lopsided smile playing at his lips again as he tugs you closer, his nose brushing your cheekbone.

“Showtime, baby.” Dean whispers, pulling back with a wink as two fingers reach up to tip his hat. 

The two of you slip through the shadows of the ranch like ghosts. A mere step between your bodies as you stick close to the edges of the house where the moonlight doesn’t touch. Dean leads, moving with surprising stealth for someone so broad. Every now and then, he glanced back at you, giving a little nod of reassurance. His focused eyes softened slightly each time he turned back. 

Moving through the property was easier than you thought, but Dean’s uncanny sense for danger has made it so. He pauses just before a light sweeps over your path, his hand shooting out to pull you into the shadow of a nearby tree when he detects movement before you do. The guards are predictable, too. Their routes timed perfectly to give just enough room to duck behind a stack of barrels or hop over a fence. One guard left his post at the backdoor, leaving an opening to slip into the darkened home. 

You follow Dean’s silent lead of avoiding spots of creaky floorboards as you step inside, pulse thrumming with adrenaline. As you move through the dark, Dean peeks through doors with deliberate slowness. You watch between him and the back door, until he’s motioning you over with the flick of a finger. 

The study was just as grand as you’d imagined—dark wood paneling, glass cases displaying expensive weapons and memorabilia. A massive desk cluttered with papers sits before two large windows. In the center space, a portrait of some grim-faced ancestor takes up most of the wall. 

Dean’s already hovering over it, inspecting the frame. The sharp edges of his side profile illuminated by the moonlight spilling in through the window. His eyes finally catch yours, nodding for you to come over, a sly grin on his lips as he leans down over your shoulder. 

“These rich sons of bitches are always so predictable.” He laughs dryly, “go on ‘n tug on that side of the frame for me, Sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste a second, pulling on the frame until it pops open. Swinging like a hidden door, revealing a built in safe on the adjacent wall. Pulling the small box of tools Dean gave you earlier, you get to work on the silver lock. The tumblers click softly as you go, each sound loud in the otherwise silent room. Dean stood behind you, close enough to hear his steady breathing. Keeping an eye on the door, his hand resting lightly on the gun tucked into his waistband.

“Got it,” you whispered after what felt like an eternity. The safe door swung open, revealing stacks of gold bars that gleamed even in the dim light.

Dean let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a sight.”

You quickly began transferring the bars into the canvas bag Dean had brought, your heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear. 

This plan of his had gone so smoothly, too damn smooth to be more accurate. 

Just as you finish zipping the bag, heart still hammering in your chest, a muffled voice barks from the hallway, “check the study!”

Dean’s jaw tightened as he reached for the gun tucked in his belt, but the door burst open before he could draw. Two guards stormed in, their guns trained on you both.

“Drop the bag,” one of them ordered, his eyes narrowing.

Your mind raced as Dean slowly raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. His smirk returned, cool and steady, as if staring down the barrels of two guns was just a typical Thursday night for him.

“Well,” he drawled, his gaze sliding to you. “Guess now’s a good time to make a confession.”

Your stomach dropped. “Dean—”

“I mean, might as well, right?” he continued, cutting you off. His smirk softened into something maddeningly sincere, his eyes holding yours even as the guards barked for him to shut up. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. And if I were a better man, I’d have asked you on a proper date. Y’know, steak dinner and all that crap.”

You blinked, completely thrown, but before you could respond, Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing the desk lamp and hurling it at one of the guards. The heavy base struck him square in the face, and chaos erupted.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He ducked under the second guard’s arm, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it until the gun clattered to the floor. “Move!” he shouted at you, his voice sharp.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Snatching the bag, you bolted for the window, Dean hot on your heels. He shoved you ahead of him, glass shattering as you both tumbled through the opening and into the cool night air.

The shouts behind you were nearly drowned out by the pounding of your heart. Bullets whirl through the air, but Dean grabbed your hand, dragging you across the open yard and toward the safety of the rugged desert terrain ahead.

You didn’t stop running until the ranch was a distant glow behind you, your legs screaming in protest as you collapsed against a tree.

Dean slid down next to you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. A laugh escaped him, soft and incredulous. “Hell of a night,” he muttered.

A wicked laughing fit hurls out of you through panting breaths, reeling from the cooling adrenaline icing your veins. “You really had me for a second, y’know,” you manage through heavy breathes, “d’you mean any of that? Or was it all just part of your plan?” 

Dean smirked, taking off his stetson to run a hand through his messy hair. “Which part?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, biting your lip in mock-deep thought. “The part about me being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen? Or the bit about steak dinners?”

Dean chuckled, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, lazily tilting to peek down at you through his lashes, “I told you I wouldn’t lie to you, didn’t I?” He’s doing it again—that smug little smirk—a sweet boyish charm that tempts your nerves in the most unfamiliar way. 

You turn away from his gaze, settling your eyes on the bag in your lap and letting your hair fall around your face to cover the blush that’s creeping in. “Mhm,” you hum into the quiet between, “careful now, cowboy. I might just hold you to your word.”

He doesn’t answer, and you pretend there isn’t a slight twist straining your heart for half a beat. Quietly, he places his hat back on. Pressing into the ground, he rises to his feet with a huff. Dean extends a hand, his eyes scanning the distance as you take his offer. 

Boots kick up dirt as you walk side by side down the dusty terrain. And for a moment—in the quiet of the desert, with the bag of stolen gold between you, the danger of the heist morphed with the dawn settling in the horizon. A warm toned thing, burning at the edges of your cold exterior, new nerve endings bleeding light between your thoughts of Dean and the feelings he keeps insighting. 

Trudging on, the sheriff’s ranch is out of sight. The weight of the gold was growing heavier, hanging from your shoulder. But you’d be damned if you let him carry it, not when it felt like grasping some essence of control. 

“So,” you drawl, kicking at a red rock, “you looked like a real professional back there. How long’ve you been sniffing out trouble like this?”

Dean shrugs, burying his hands in his pockets as he considers his words. “Sorta spent my whole life in some type of trouble.” he states plainly, voice quieter as he continues, “Been on my own a couple of years, give or take. Found the type of trouble I like best in all that time.”

You glance up at him, his skin soaking up the orange light peeking over morning clouds. The warmth of the hue makes his eyes impossibly green. Like the cactuses zig zagging your path, sharp and rich in color. “You like it? Being on the road?”

“Yeah,” he sounds unsure, pausing with his lips parted, “Most of the time, I do. It’s… simple.” His hands return, moving with each word, “No strings, no one to answer to.” 

You hum back, nodding in agreement. It’s a sentiment you can agree with, the same idea you've convinced yourself of for much longer than just a couple years. 

“But,” he sighs, eyes flicking across the landscape, “I miss my brother, Sam.” The name makes a smile creep onto his lips as he mutters, mostly to himself, “m’little Sammy.” 

There’s a softness on the name that makes your chest ache, “Why don’t you go see him, then?”

Dean hesitates, jaw tightening, “not that simple.” He let out a low breath, running a hand over his chin. “I don’t even know where I’d start. And if I ever tried to show my face to my old man…” His voice trails off, the words tangling in a wide-eyed huff that says it all in one motion. 

You part your lips to reassure him, daring to give the advice of it’s-never-too-late to a soul you know won’t take it. But, before you could he hummed a low, dismissive note. 

“Anyways,” he quips, a lazy grin returning to his face, “look at me, turning into a regular chatterbox. This your doin’, pretty girl?” His eyes find yours, but the usual playfulness isn’t as prevalent as it has been all night. In its place is something dark, trying desperately to work its way out. 

A look you know better than to pry at. 

Leaning over to nudge his shoulder, you offer a small smile. “Maybe I’m just easy to talk to.”

Dean’s grin shifts into something softer, but he doesn't answer. With a deep inhale his chin is up in the air again, eyes looking at anything but you.

 A splotch of brown you both assumed to be more rugged desert hills comes into focus—a vacant ranch tucked between scattered fields of jagged trees and cacti. The barn had collapsed, its frame a shadow of what it once was, but the house stood stubbornly, its roof intact and its windows dark against the rising sun. 

Dean raised his brows, eyes glancing over, “looks cosy.”

You scoff, giving him a worried look, “if your idea of cozy is ‘haunted ranch on the hill’, sure it is.”

“Better than sleepin’ out in the dirt,” he shoots back, already heading for the porch. He spins on the heel of his boots as he walks backwards, “‘sides, darlin’, if there’s a ghost around I’ll keep you safe.” 

With a wink that works a giggle out of you, Dean jogs up the creaky steps and disappears into the run-down house. 

 The inside is covered in a layer of dust and dirt, but there’s furniture scattered around—a worn couch covered by a sheet sits in an otherwise empty space. A creaky dining table in the kitchen, where you plop the heavy bag of gold, a cloud of grey puffing around it. 

“Not too shabby,” Dean coos, coming down a set of weathered stairs. “Just an old mattress on the floor with, uh, minimal stains and a whole lotta dust. Looks like we’ve got options.” He crosses the creaky floor until his boots are inches from yours. A smirk shining down at you, as his voice finds that teasing tone again, “Unless, of course, you’re afraid of ghosts.” 

Your eyes roll at his taunts as you cross your arms. “Please. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Uh, huh,” his brows furrow, lips twisting with contemplation as his eyes dance across the curves of your face.

“Yes, huh. Cross my heart.” You swear with a reassuring nod. 

His eyes fall to the couch, and then back to the stairs before they settle back to you. His thoughts written in the smirk on his lips. “Mattress is kinda gross, actually. Couch could fit two—”

You cut him off, throwing your palm up with a humph. “Look, Cowboy, I may look the type but it takes a whole lot more than a game of pool and stealing gold to get me all cozied up on a dusty ‘ol couch in the middle of the desert.”

Dean barks out a laugh, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, hey—’m not suggesting a thing, little miss.”

You arch your bows with a “mhm,” the faintest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. Dean follows as you walk into the living room, discarding the sheet and plopping onto the cushion with a sigh. The couch dips under Dean’s weight on the opposite end. A quiet set in for a moment, comfortable and as warm as the growing heat of the sunrise. 

“Will say, though,” Dean sighs, his thighs sprawling over the soft surface as he relaxes into the creaky furniture, “I’d be a gentleman—”

“Shut up.” you shoot back, unable to hide the laugh that slips between the words.

hmmmmm should they boink in the next part???? hmm hm hmm

tags <3 @the-fandoms-onceler @a1ecmcdowell @titsout4jackles

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ˗ˏˋ 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟔𝟕.ᐟ ˎˊ˗

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ───── SEASON ONE, ───── ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ───────── PART ONE ─────────

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summary. california is a long drive & different in many ways to how dean's small-town, southern life in kansas was. but if there's one thing that's the same, it's the crackling of the annual start-of-the-year bonfire.

ㅤword count ! ㅤㅤ 2.7k ㅤㅤ content warnings ! ㅤㅤ no warnings! maybe a lil angst if u squint? welcome to stanford! ㅤㅤ track the season !

stanford is a twenty-seven hour drive from lawrence. all twenty-seven hours on the road were spent with the music so loud that dean’s ears still rang. he didn’t want to think about how his dad didn’t even tell him bye, or how sam was at school, and wouldn't get to. 

dean was strong, built to be a soldier from the moment he could hold a gun, constantly rising from the ashes of the destruction that his dad made of him, but he was not strong enough to know his brother would come home to an empty house. there was no doubt that their father would have skipped town already, on an alleged case that was more than likely just drowning himself in a case of booze.

it was whatever. he’d convinced himself of that in the two days that it’d taken to get from the shitty town that was lawrence to campus. his whole senior year was stressful to get to where he was now. minimum wage jobs, killing himself at football practice so the stanford recruiters would be interested in him, so he stood a chance. plus, his academics were stellar. he worked his ass off — just to have to abandon sammy at home, and not even get an ounce of approval from his stubborn father.

in front of him, the main building on stanford university’s campus towers above him like the greatest of monsters. the glass doors are open, held in a way that was meant to be inviting but was actually a little intimidating. the maws of the creature visible through its snarling mouth. 

dean had faced demons that wore his family’s face, who called him every name that they could think of while they rotted in a devil’s trap. he’d felt the fangs of a vampire hovering over his jugular before he’d even hit double digits, after his father did the hunter equivalent of tossing him into the deep end of the pool without any hands to catch him. this, though, felt like the scariest of all of them, just because of how natural it felt to get away.

he had to go get a parking pass. had to get his room assignment. had to talk to the football coaches about his position and his scholarship. had to unpack. all of the shit he had to do was piled atop the shit that he wanted to do, burying it in the rubble.

clusters of students already walk together down the brickstoned paths, their voices echoing off of the arched walls. their versions of home were rooted in civilization and the comfort of others, whereas his was in solitude and being on his lonesome.

dean didn’t get intimidated. he didn’t worry. but his skin was starting to crawl with the realization that he was as much of an outsider as outsiders could get. he did not belong amongst these people, felt like a wolf waltzing in sheep's clothing, but the point was that he was trying to.

he flips his phone open, a habit he’s developed since leaving home, to check for missed calls. there wasn’t a thing he could do if sammy needed help, but he wanted him to call, anyways. wanted to hear his voice. wanted to say sorry for abruptly leaving. 

but there was nothing, still. at least the excuse now could have been that sam was in school, but he was getting anxious. didn’t want to know how the absence of john winchester’s favorite punching bag would translate onto the next in line. 

dean shoves open the residence building’s door, struck dumb for a second by how long the line was. it made sense, but it still caught him offguard him, a little, that he was here. 

he’d made it.

a trio of girls finish up at the front desk and brush past him as they leave, one of them immediately breaking into giggles when they stumble away from him. the other two steal glances backwards at him once they’re nearing the exit. one's eyes lingered, held his stare like even if he clearly was out of place, you were not afraid of what it meant to be in the line of fire.

yeah. he liked it here. he could get used to this. 

next is a guy with shaggy black hair and the broadest shoulders that dean had ever seen. dean was big for his age, yeah, he'd thrown himself into working out when he realized that football was working for him, but this was a guy, clearly, who operated because of his bruteness, not the other way around.

his eyes are downturned toward the stack of papers in his hands, books tucked into the crook of his elbow, a backpack that looked ridiculously small on his shoulder. his eyes lift to squint down the line of people, like he's looking for something, and dean realizes in a wave of surprised horror when they land on him, that it was him he was looking for.

"dude!" the guy shouts — shouts! in the dead silence of the building! — his papers crinkling in his fists. he stomps up to dean and tosses his arms around him in a hug that dean had no choice but to awkwardly return, squashed arms patting at the guy's elbows.

dean didn't mind standing out, but this was another level. every eye in the room was on him when he was already certain that they were staring, and all he wanted to do was disappear. maybe this guy would crush him into pulp and solve those issues for him.

"you're my roommate," he says, scruffing a palm through dean's mop of blonde hair. "my roomie. ah, look, you're blushing."

dean's mortified. he shoves a hand into the guy's arm again, this time with the intent to push him away. "shut up." he nods at the crumpled paper's in his hands. "what the hell is your name, anyways?"

"taylor." taylor's eyes fall to his papers again, eyes narrowed as he scans across whatever he's reading. "dean. helluva name."

dean can't help but snort. "i mean. yeah. it's definitely... a name," he shoves his hands into his jeans' pockets, "football?"

stupid question, but he doesn't know what else to say to him. the guy's about to bust out of a letterman jacket, stretching the leather of the fabric with his broad frame. if he hugged dean one more time, it'd probably split down the back. "hell yeah," taylor says, and maybe the leather is used to this guy's antics, because when he lifts his arms in a flexing sort of pose, all it does is creak, "lineman for the last four years."

dean follows the slowly shrinking line, and to his dwindling horror, his roommate follows. yeah, he's a little much, but he's friendly, and dean really could use a friend in these times. "quarterback," dean answers a few seconds too late, then adds, "we're probably not gonna see the green at all this year, y'think?"

"speak for yourself," taylor snorts, adjusting the bag hanging off of him, "i'm gonna be a starter if it fuckin' kills me."

"yeah, alright," dean laughs, shaking his head. "good luck, man."

underclassmen usually didn't get anything but the bench, unless they were stupid good, and dean was stupid good for kansas standards; he was fully convinced for there to be a spot on the bench indented from his ass by the end of the season.

taylor had shrugged his backpack off in the few seconds that dean had zoned out, rifling through the front pocket for something. he tugs out a black sharpie and plucks the cap off with his teeth. "wisteria, gerhard casper quad, castaño building. room 12." his voice is muffled through the cap in his mouth.

"i don't know what any of that means, dude," dean says, blinking a couple of times in succession. taylor's already got his wrist in a death grip though, tugging it into his space, the cool tip of the permanent marker scribbling on his inner wrist.

"neighborhood, the buildin' complex, n' the buildin'," taylor lisps around the cap, tugging dean forward when the line moves again. "c'mon, keep up. we gotta get the fuck outta here, stake out the frat."

dean physically cringes.

"don't make that face." taylor spits the cap into his open palm, giving dean a bright grin. dean really can't handle this much energy when he's operating on three hours of sleep on a shoddy motel bed, after driving as long as he did. "it's phi kappa psi. they're like, the frat."

"oh."

taylor nods again to make dean move forward. one more person in line. "yeah, oh. gotta get our foot in the door, bud, 'fore some fuckin' losers take our spots."

dean is not interested in a frat whatsoever. if anyone tried to haze him, he's not confident in his ability to keep from snapping their jaw. his fight or flight had gone dormant since he'd pulled back from hunting, but it was still there, something that lingered constantly in the back of his mind.

"'sides, they're havin' a bonfire tonight, y'know?" dean did not know. but taylor likes how his voice sounds, it seems, and dean is very okay with just letting him talk. "for all the freshies. have it every year."

dean nods slowly, setting all of his things on the counter for the attendants. student id, driver's license, all of the works. in the trade, he's given his class schedule, his basics' books, parking pass, and his room assignment. he compares it to the unintelligible words on his wrist in black ink and — yeah, they could be the same.

"well, i'm gonna nap when we get to our room," dean says with a lopsided grin, "so if the bonfire's good, come 'n get me or somethin'."

"you're an idiot."

dean shrugs. "sure."

"free booze, sorority girls fallin' all over us..." taylor whistles under his breath before he promptly smacks dean over the head. "idiot."

his arms are heavy from his books. his eyes are heavy from the drive. he hasn't had real food that wasn't cooked and thrown into a brown paper bag in nearing forty-eight hours. but the thought of being at a bonfire that wasn't made with the intent to burn a body but just to have fun and meet people was nice. mundane. he wanted to be mundane so desperately.

dean shoves taylor back in the chest, a laugh falling from his grinning mouth. "yeah. yeah, alright, i'll go."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ────

the hot smell of burning firewood and spilt beer were the first two things to grace dean's nose upon walking onto the spacious front lawn of phi kappa psi's building.

guys in jerseys and backwards hats manned a white foldout table besides the asphalt porch steps, red cups in their free hands. girls in short skirts and guys in mussed up versions of their sunday best hovered around in clusters.

dean had left taylor at the drinks table, unwilling to listen to him dickride frat guys who were probably too off their asses to know what was being said to them. around the fire were foldout chairs, legs dug into the soft grass, and a huge tray of marshmallows and various other snacks to cook over the flame, parallel to where dean sat.

he was content, he realized. he could have no one in the world at this school, except maybe taylor, who might or might not drop him like a dime if he got accepted into the frat. so long as he could have fires that didn't smell like charred bodies and burning hair, and walk around a campus full of hundreds of people and not have to worry if any of them were something else beneath their skin.

his eyes flick up from watching the flames at the sight of legs approaching the tray. legs in form fitting jeans, legs that plant themselves there like their own piece of furniture. and when he trails up the length of the body a few feet in front of him, he realizes it's you. the girl who held his eyes back in the residency building, with more challenge in your gaze than there was schoolgirl giddiness, like your friends.

you're watching him too. but you don't look away when he meets your eyes, like you didn't then, earlier.

his head jerks to the side, a little quirk of a smile on his lips. a dare. you seemed like the type of girl who liked dares — and again, he was proven right, when you steal two marshmallows from the tray and walk over to him.

"kind of silly to come to a party and sit by yourself," you say, holding out one of the marshmallows to him.

dean takes it, weighing his options for a response in his buzzed mind. "kind of silly to walk up to the weird loner guy sitting by himself at a party."

you grab one of the sticks propped up on various chairs, impaling your marshmallow with it with a hum. "maybe." you lift your shoulders, stick tight in your grip as you hold the marshmallow over the flame. "but i thought the whole point of college was to be silly and exploratory."

dean lifts his chin in a mock thoughtful expression. "really? i thought it was about, i dunno, education, or something like that."

"what's ed-u-ca-tion?" you ask, sounding out each syllable of the word, your face twisting up into a pout that was too pretty for him to think rationally at the sight of. "never heard of it."

he laughs, though, because he just can't seem to help himself. you're cute, and that's dangerous. he was on scholarship, the educational equivalent of big brother over his shoulder, making sure he stayed in line.

“actually,” you continue, fidgeting with the stick in your fingers, “i probably know it a lot better than you do.”

dean’s lip quirk a little more, as he reaches to his left to grab another one of the sticks himself. “fine, i’ll bite. why’s that, sugar?” 

“ugh. sugar. that’s such a douchey nickname.” your pout only deepens, and it’s even more of a sight. puckered frowning lips, pinched eyebrows. he’ll be a goner by the time the night’s over, if you kept it up. “but to answer your question, i’m cheering this year, trying to rush sororities, and here for nursing, so…” 

dean pokes his stick through his own marshmallow, holding it over the fire with one hand. his other reaches into his coat pocket for the pack of cigarettes he kept on him, humming in slight impress. good distraction, he’d once called his cigarette habit. vice of all vices, he said now.

 “alright, well, give me a few minutes to pick a new name for you, yeah?” 

you pluck the marshmallow off of your stick, setting it aside with the hot side up, holding the golden stickiness between your fingertips. “well, so will i, then,” you say defiantly, biting into the charred marshmallow with a crunch. 

dean’s definitely a goner. 

his eyes rake over you, not completely in a flirtatious way, but he had to admit, that you were gorgeous. you’re wearing dark denim jeans, a pair of black boots, and the brightest red cableknit sweater he’d ever seen. 

“cherry,” he says softly, almost wistfully, as his eyes find yours again. 

you seem taken aback for a second, lips parting and closing a couple of times. it might be the golden light crackling from the fire, but your cheeks almost look more pink, too. deep pink, like the inside of a cherry. cherry was a good pick. 

“well, what’s your name?” you shoot back at him, nodding in his direction.

he knows how to cook things over a fire. has burned enough bodies and the evidence of his being there to know. the marshmallow on his stick is charred golden, and he brings it close to light the cigarette in his free hand before he blows the flame on the marshmallow out. 

then, he turns the cooking end of the stick to you in a wordless offering. “dean.” his eyebrows bounce at the same time as his lips tilt in a warm, amused smile. "no frat affiliation, no interest in nursing," he continues with a dramatic sigh, teasing your earlier tirade, "i am on the football team, though. number 67."

"okay," you meet his eyes with that same gleam that was destined to get him into trouble, "i'll call you number 67, then."

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The revolution ‘bout to be televised, you picked the right time but the wrong guy.

The balls for Kendrick to utter this in front of him along with dissing Drake? Cinema? No, modern protest that’s recapturing decades of protest culture within music, specifically black music. Major props to Kendrick and I hope more are to follow

Messaging people for the first time is so hard. What am I supposed to say? Like, "You seem really odd and your blog intrigues me. Do you want to have philosophical conversations or perhaps talk about fictional characters?" What! Whatever. I will just follow you back and stare at your blog with my big beautiful brown eyes.

i love saying “i’m being normal about it” bc i’m actually a filthy fucking liar and i’ve never been normal about anything a single day in my life