#I keep trying to tell myself to give it a few days and maybe I’ll get used to it and like them better

[sitkowski]

watching heaven burn (jolly karlsson x nicholas ruffilo)

pairing: jolly karlsson x nicholas ruffilo cw: 18+ MDNI ⚠️ angst, discussions of mental health, post tour burnout, mentions of therapy sessions, a little bit of a slow burn fix, making up, blowjobs, finger sucking, unprotected anal sex w/ minimal prep, happy ending. word count: 3.5k author's note: the fix it continuation of the white light of the morning. this one kicked my ass, but happy endings all around. title comes from a trashboat song, divider by @strangergraphics

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The slam of the door echoes through Jolly’s head for days.

He somehow manages to avoid Nicholas when he comes back to get some of his stuff, and to get the cats. Maybe it’s weird to feel hopeful to see the majority of his things still in the apartment; he doesn’t think that he deserves the hope right now. But even if it’s small, it is still there. For all he knows, He’ll come home and find everything gone one day.

He’s managed to avoid Nicholas, but there’s no avoiding Noah, who shows up after just a few days. He lets himself into the apartment like he’s always been known to do, and gives Jolly a mock disapproving look.

“You know, only one of us is allowed to have a mental breakdown at a time,” he says as he looks around the living room.

Jolly hasn’t been the best at taking care of things right now. He’s not really taking care of himself if he’s being honest. There’s a pile of takeout containers on the coffee table, one of his guitars on the sofa. The place is a mess, and he wishes he cared more about it.

He scoffs, “Right, I forgot.”

“Hey,” Noah frowns. “I was joking. What’s going on?”

“You mean Nicholas didn’t tell you?” he doesn’t really believe it given how close the two of them are, but Noah’s confusion seems genuine. “I broke up with him.”

He’s only said the words out loud to Nicholas, and to the therapist he started seeing. It doesn’t make it any less painful. He wasn’t expecting the break to be like this, he wasn’t expecting to feel like this. The air in the apartment feels thin as Noah just stares at him as if he told him he was quitting the band.

“You broke up—he didn’t say anything. What happened, why—what did you do? Jolly, what the hell did you do?”

Noah’s not yelling at him, but Jolly wants to stand up and shout at him. He doesn’t though, he just wraps his hands around the back of his neck and slumps forward, closing his eyes. “I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t be okay for myself and for him. I fucked up, Noah.”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting now that he’s told him, but it’s not for Noah to kneel down in front of him and make him look at him. He looks so disappointed, it makes Jolly want to cry. But he’s also not punching him or walking out the door, so he considers that some sort of win.

“Are you talking to someone?” he asks, and Jolly blinks at him. “Therapy? Talking out your shit, working through the burnout?”

Jolly realizes that Noah probably knows exactly what he’s going through. They took a break from touring because of it. But Noah didn’t set fire to the best thing in his life just because he felt so mentally drained he couldn’t be what Nicholas needed. He just nods and Noah nods along with him.

“I’ll track Nick down and talk to him, I’m not going to try to convince him to come back to you or anything, that’s your job,” Noah pats his knee and gets up. He gestures for Jolly to stand up. Swallowing hard, he does and immediately accepts the hug that Noah pulls him into. “It’s going to be okay.”

Jolly doesn’t believe him.

When he’s gone, the apartment is too quiet and it feels cold. Jolly’s used to Nicholas being in his space constantly, being able to walk in a room and find him there with that smile of his that only gets brighter when he looks Jolly’s way. Laying on the couch with him watching television, the cats keeping them company. Hours lost tangled up in bed. Jolly walks into their bedroom and opens the closet door, double checking to see that the majority of Nicholas’ stuff is still there.

He pulls the first shirt he sees off of a hanger and holds it against his chest. It mostly smells like their laundry detergent but if he tries hard enough, he can still smell Nicholas on it. 

The next week is nothing but a blur; going to therapy, cleaning the apartment, staring at his phone and trying to decide if he should text Nicholas. He hears from Noah, who tells him that Nicholas and the cats were at his sister’s place. He won’t give Jolly anything more than that because at the end of the day while they’re all friends, Nicholas was his first and Jolly hurt him. He gets it. And as one week rolls into another, he starts to feel more like his old self again, despite the gaping wound in his chest that keeps bleeding everywhere he goes.

Nicholas had told him not to reach out to him until he felt like he was ready to talk, and Jolly’s been respecting his wishes. He knows Nicholas has been in the apartment again when he comes home and can smell hints of Nicholas’ cologne and cigarettes faintly lingering in the air. He thinks he’s imagining it; maybe because he’s wearing one of his boyfriend’s t-shirts right now beneath his hoodie. Dread fills his stomach at the thought of more of Nicholas’ things being gone from the apartment, of everything being gone altogether.

Instead of finding things missing from their bedroom, he finds Nicholas. He’s sitting on the end of their bed. Jolly sags against the doorframe with relief at seeing him. This is the longest the two of them have been apart in years, and he missed him so much it physically hurts him. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting and he doesn’t know why he’s here right now. He won’t get his hopes up. 

“I got tired of getting updates from Noah,” Nicholas says finally. “I got tired of waiting.”

Jolly walks further into the room. Instead of sitting beside him on the bed, he kneels down next to him. He doesn’t touch Nicholas yet, he doesn’t even know if he wants him to. He just waits. He won’t look at Jolly right away, and it stings. But he deserves this, and he knows he’s got a long way to go until he’s forgiven, if he’s going to be forgiven at all.

“Well? How are you?” Nicholas asks.

“Better…in my head at least. Miserable without you. I fucked up, Nicky. You were right, it wasn’t healthy to do this without you.”

Nicholas finally looks at him. “You don’t love me anymore.”

“You know that isn’t true—”

“Do I? You are the one who broke up with me because you didn’t love me anymore.”

Jolly shakes his head, grabbing onto Nicholas’ hands urgently. “I didn’t know how to love you when I didn’t even love myself. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you away again like I did.”

Nicholas isn’t trying to get away from him, but Jolly sees the tears in his eyes. He reaches up to brush one away as it slides down his face. He thinks Nicholas is going to turn away from him but he doesn’t. He leans into the touch almost desperately. “Say it then.”

“That I’m sorry? I’ll say it as many times as you want—”

“Say that you love me.”

“There has never been a time where I haven’t been in love with you, Nicholas Ryan. No matter what I said to you before, I never fell out of love with you. I was just…afraid I was going to drag you down to the bottom with me and then neither of us would get back up. I love you too much for that.”

“Hey,” Nicholas grabs onto the hand still on the side of his face, squeezing Jolly’s fingers. “I’ll always be here to pull you back up, okay? But you have to let me.”

His free hand comes down to pet through Jolly’s hair and all he can do is nod again and slump forward, pressing his forehead against Nicholas’ knee. His tears seep into the denim of his jeans, and he feels Nicholas’ hand move to the back of his neck gently.

This isn’t exactly forgiveness yet, but it’s something.

Nicholas doesn’t stay that night. Jolly wants him to, but he honestly would have been surprised if he had. He doesn’t see Nicholas again for three more days, when he comes home and finds his bags tossed in the foyer and the cats wandering around getting reacquainted with the apartment. It loosens something in Jolly’s chest. It’s impossible not to immediately go and look for him. Just like the other day, he’s in the bedroom again. Except this time, he smiles a little when he sees Jolly come into the room.

“Hi,” Jolly says.

Nicholas’ smile widens. “Hey.”

It’s silly how shy Jolly suddenly feels around him. But he can’t help it, not after anything. When Nicholas pats the mattress beside him, he moves and sits down next to him.

“I saw your stuff, and the kids. You’re back for good?”

The amount of hopefulness he feels right now is a little overwhelming. Nicholas reaches over and threads his fingers between his, and he nods. “Are you okay with that?”

“I’m very okay with that. I just wasn’t sure at first if you wanted things to go back to the way they were. Or if you needed me to apologize more. Whatever you want—”

Nicholas cups Jolly's face and kisses him. At first, Jolly doesn't react, he can't. It's been weeks since he's felt Nicholas' lips on his and he thinks he might be dreaming or something.

"Kiss me back," Nicholas breathes out, kissing the corner of Jolly's mouth softly. "I want you to kiss me back, Joll."

Jolly does. He brings a hand around to the back of Nicholas’ neck, pressing light kisses along his cheek and the bridge of his nose, up across his eyelids and down to his lips again finally. And he keeps kissing him until they both pull away breathlessly. Jolly leans his forehead into Nicholas’, closing his eyes. 

“I need you to do something for me though, okay?” Nicholas’ asks, and Jolly would do anything he wanted. He nods, feeling overwhelmed. “I need you to talk to me and keep talking to me. I’m not going to let you push me out like that again.”

“I shouldn’t have and I won’t again, I promise,” it’s a promise he knows he has to keep because he knows if he were to do something like this again, Nicholas wouldn’t come back. And he’s not willing to risk this a second time.

Nicholas reaches up to run this thumb along the edge of his brow and Jolly melts into the touch. He starts to say something, but he cuts him off with another kiss. The audible sound of a stomach growling between them has them pulling away from each other, laughing.

“Clearly you need me to feed you,” Jolly says, and presses a kiss to the corner of Nicholas’ mouth before tangling his fingers with his to pull him up from the bed. “C’mon, you can help me cook.”

“Helping is just me sitting there on the counter watching and giving commentary, Jolly.”

“And you look pretty doing it, so come on.”

He’s missed this, having Nicholas in the kitchen with him. Even doing just what he said he’d do, sitting on the counter and slouching back against the cabinets, eyes tracking every move Jolly makes. Nicholas has always been distracting, but for some reason right now, he’s making Jolly nervous. Not in a bad way, but in a way that he hasn’t felt since before they got together. When he realizes that he needs something from the cabinet behind Nicholas, he clears his throat and presses his hands on his knees, watching as the corner of Nicholas’ mouth turns up.

“You need something?”

Jolly does what he would have done before, he doesn’t want to act like anything has been different between them. He slides his hand up Nicholas’ thighs, almost feeling relief when Nicholas opens his legs for him to step between.

“I need the colander out of the cabinet.” Jolly says, and Nicholas sits up so that he can get it. He pecks Jolly on the lips before leaning back in the same position. “Do you want to put together the salad?”

Nicholas nods, “Sure.”

They prepare the rest of the meal in a comfortable silence, and maybe it’s dramatic, but Jolly can feel that hole closing up in his chest the longer he and Nicholas are in that kitchen. It’s not as if he never left, that would be impossible, but it does feel like they’re going to be able to move past this. After dinner, they stand side by side at the sink, washing and drying the dishes together like they have a million times before. For some reason, that’s what makes Jolly a little emotional. He leans against the counter for a minute, closing his eyes and trying to breathe.

He feels Nicholas press a hand between his shoulders, rubbing back and forth. “Hey, we’re okay. You’re okay.”

Jolly nods, head hanging down for a moment. Nicholas cups his face and turns him so that he’s looking into his eyes. It’s impossible not to kiss him, and he doesn’t even care that his hands are soapy and wet, he wraps them in Nicholas’ hair and pulls him close. Nicholas pushes at him until he’s backed up against the opposite counter and he licks his way into Jolly’s mouth, tongue teasing over his before pulling back to nip at his lower lip. Reaching back, he manages to fumble with the faucet, turning the water off.

“Would it be wrong of me to say I want to take you to bed?”

Jolly shakes his head, “Nothing wrong about that at all. I’m yours, Nicky.”

He sees the way those words affect Nicholas, and when he holds out his hand to him, Jolly doesn’t hesitate to take it, sliding his fingers through his. Nicholas starts walking backwards, leading him towards the bedroom. They only get as far as the hallway before he gets impatient, pushing Jolly up against the wall and kissing him, more insistent than before. Before Jolly can return the kiss, Nicholas is sinking to his knees in front of him, tugging his pants and boxers down Jolly’s thighs in one go. The surprised noise he lets out makes Nicholas laugh, a sound that Jolly had probably missed more than anything.

He feels the sharp bite of Nicholas digging his nails into his hips, pinning him against the wall, minutes before he shifts his head and sinks down on Jolly's cock, taking him into his throat in one smooth movement. Jolly lets out a loud moan, banging his head back against the wall. If this had been before, he might have grabbed onto Nicholas by the back of his neck, held him there the way that he knew he liked, but instead he just curls his hands into fists as Nicholas pulls off and does it again, over and over, cheeks hollowed as he sets a fast rhythm.

“Wait, fuck, wait wait!” Jolly finally manages to pull him off and the disappointed pout on Nicholas’ face is cute. “I don’t want to come like this. Not after all this time.”

He almost expects Nicholas to argue, but instead he starts tugging at Jolly’s clothes again and he gets the message. They leave their clothes scattered in a path to the bedroom, where he pushes Jolly down on the bed, crawling over him and kissing him.

"Missed you," Nicholas mumbles, stroking Jolly's cheek with his thumb, and Jolly can't breathe. "I missed you so much."

“Nicky…” Jolly chokes on the emotions he’s feeling, breath stuttering out of him when Nicholas drags his free hand down his chest and wraps it around his cock. “Whatever you want, just please do something.”

Nicholas’ raises his eyebrows teasingly, “Whatever I want, huh? That’s something.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are, Joll,” he kisses him again before taking his hand away and bringing it to Jolly’s mouth. He presses his index and middle fingers to Jolly's bottom lip, pushing inside gently. "Suck."

Jolly blushes hotly at the idea that he can taste himself on Nicholas’ fingers, but he sees the approval in Nicholas’ eyes as he watches, and he slides his tongue around those fingers, getting them as wet as he can. Finally, he pulls them away, drips of saliva hanging off of the digits and without being asked, Jolly opens his legs for Nicholas. He knows how this is going to go, and he yearns for it.

Nicholas works those fingers into him slowly, and Jolly’s hands fly up to grab at the pillows above his head. Nothing will ever feel as good to him as this; Nicholas’ fingers inside of him, his eyes watching filled with love and a little bit of awe. Those fingers skim across the right spot, almost but not quite. Enough to make Jolly writhe under Nicholas’ touch.

Jolly lets out a soft moan when he pulls his fingers out, but then Nicholas is kneeling between his thighs, spreading them further. Jolly watches as he reaches over him towards the nightstand to grab the bottle of lube from the drawer. Nicholas slicks his cock, and then his eyes meet Jolly’s.

“You want it like this?” he asks.

Jolly nods, “Yeah Nicky, I want it like this.”

Bracing one hand on Jolly’s hip, Nicholas uses the other to slowly guide his cock into him. It’s always been something Jolly’s been into, something that Nicholas is always willing to give. It burns a little, the initial slide in, but Jolly feels everything and all he can really do is lie there until there’s no space left between the two of them. His fingers trace where Jolly’s stretched open around him and Jolly chokes on a breath.

“You feel so good around me,” Nicholas murmurs, leaning over so their lips are just barely touching. Jolly clenches around him instinctively. “Just stay still for me for a minute.”

It seems like an eternity before Nicholas pulls back and thrusts in deep, and Jolly's breath catches in his throat. He reaches for Nicholas' hand and he obliges him immediately, tangling their fingers together as he leans over him to press wet, open mouthed kisses along his chest and neck. Jolly's heart pulses in his throat and he wonders if he can feel it.

When he kisses him, Jolly kisses him back, urgent and messy. He wraps his free arm around Nicholas, crushing him close and hoping that he says everything he can with the kiss that he hasn't said out loud yet. Nicholas gets it, he always does, the way he angles his head to kiss him back. He thrusts into him harder, faster, a sound that Jolly has never heard from him before being wrenched out of him.

Nicholas slides a hand between them to wrap around Jolly's cock, working him hard and matching the pace that he's driving into him. "Missed you, never stopped missing you."

It doesn't matter that it was only weeks, it felt like forever to them and Jolly nods, tears welling up in his eyes as he keeps him as close as possible.

"Missed you too, Nicky, please, I need you," he presses his face into the curve of Nicholas' throat, whimpering against the sweat-slicked skin as he comes over Nicholas' hand and his own stomach.

It's enough to push Nicholas over the edge, no sound coming out of his open mouth as he moves unsteadily inside of him until he gives one last hard thrust. Jolly doesn't let him go, feeling him go slack against him and they're practically fused together. A few moments of unsteady breathing pass and Jolly's carding his fingers through Nicholas' hair, eyes closed in contentment.

"Are you okay?" Nicholas asks.

Jolly laughs, knowing it probably has an edge of emotional hysteria to it. "Yeah Nicky, I'm okay."

He only moves enough to pull out before immediately making himself comfortable on Jolly’s chest, tracing his fingers over his tattoos. Jolly keeps his arms wrapped around him, unwilling to let go.

“I don’t like makeup sex,” Nicholas says, and Jolly winces. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great, but everything before it? We can’t do that again.”

“I can’t say things won’t get hard again, but I’m not going to push you away. I promise.”

Nicholas looks up at him, propping his chin up on his hand. There’s a small smile on his face, still a bit of sadness in it. “No, because I’ll chase your ass down if it happens again. I’m always here, okay?”

Jolly nods and rolls them suddenly, and the surprised laugh that Nicholas lets out is music to his ears. He’ll be hearing it in his head for days.

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if you ’d like to be added to the taglist, you can find the form at the top of this fic! thanks for reading/reblogging 🩷

[ningvory]

yaaaayyy congrats on hitting 2k this is big!!! <3 <3

I was thinking maybe we could get a massage parlor AU with pervy mausseuse!julie being obsessed with her new client's ass to the point where she can't keep her fingers to herself and decided to give reader's ass a "deep tissue massage". So some dubcon and anal but feel free to add other things too! <3

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 1,383 words • 2k event

a/n: anon this has gagged me..and i was lowkey feeling like reader with the major back problems..might need to go to a massage parlor myself..

CW: dubcon, g!p julie, ass play, anal, degrading, readers first time with anal, julie takes advantage of how oblivious reader is, belle is readers cowokers and recommends it to her, not proofread!

your back has been killing you for what seemed like forever, and being hunched over looking at a computer screen for over five hours doesn’t help you one bit. it’s probably the reason why your back is in the state it it.

normally you don’t have such an awful posture but it’s almost physically impossible to keep a straight posture the whole day. then you only have a thirty minute lunch break and a fifteen minute break.

“y/n~ fix your posture!” the voice of your coworker, anabelle pulled you away from the screen on your computer. when her words finally registered into your head, you slowly fixed your posture.

“it’s just so hard to keep a good posture, my lower back is killing me..” you mumbled, trying to ignore the pain from your back.

“luckily for you, i know someone who works at that new massage parlor down the street from our apartment area!” anabelle quietly squealed, almost like she’s been dying to tell you this information.

before you could even ask her anything she answered your questions almost immediately, “her names julie, she’s a few years older than us. i’ll book your appointment and text her that you know me!” she smiled before dragging a guest chair to the side of your chair.

she pulled the booking website up, doing all the work for you like shes worked at a massage parlor before, only letting you pick your favorite oils and candles for you. “done! your deep tissue massage is booked for 6:30 pm today, i got you the deluxe package so don’t forget to remove every single clothing, including your panties~” anabelle smiled your way, it was currently 6:00 pm, exactly an hour away from the time so you and anabelle began to pack up your things.

“you must be y/n, right? you’re our last client of the day!” the woman asked, you confirmed her assumption with a meek ‘yes’.’ “i can tell this is your first time at a massage parlor so i’ll guide you where you need to go.” the receptionist came from behind the counter to lead you the way.

“you must be y/n, right? you’re our last client of the day!” the woman asked, you confirmed her assumption with a meek ‘yes’.’ “i can tell this is your first time at a massage parlor so i’ll guide you where you need to go.” the receptionist came from behind the counter to lead you the way.

“you must be y/n, right? you’re our last client of the day!” the woman asked, you confirmed her assumption with a meek ‘yes’.’ “i can tell this is your first time at a massage parlor so i’ll guide you where you need to go.” the receptionist came from behind the counter to lead you the way.

she stopped in front of the changing rooms, “here’s your white and gold robe that come with the deluxe package, along with matching slippers.” she handed you it, allowing you to change in it.

once you got in the changing room, you stripped all your clothes, placing it in the bag your brought. you silently thank yourself for carrying extra clothes in your trunk in case of an emergency. you were slightly nervous, you’ve seen the videos of their hands going all over the client’s body and the noises that unexpectedly come out.

you opened the door, handing her the bag with your clothes and letting her lead the way to the room which was right around the corner, “ms. julie is already waiting for you in there. enjoy!” she lady said walking off, giving you a small smile.

you opened the door, to see julie sitting in her chair scrolling on her phone until she heard the door close, eyes falling on you and smiling. “ahh you must be y/n~ i’m julie.” she smiled at you, extending her hand for you to take. her personality relaxing you quickly.

“hey nice to meet you!“ you smiled, shaking her hand, “first time here?” she asked, noticing your nervousness, removing your robe for you and sitting you down on the table. “yeah” you said breathily, your nipples began to harden from being exposed to the atmosphere. you didn’t noticed her smirk when she took a look at your ass, “don’t worry~ and just relax..” she dragged the work out.

she began to set up the oils and candles, the ones you preferred. she grabbed the remote to the flatscreen tv in the room and played her shuffle of music to make thing less awkward for you. she instructed for you to lay down on your tummy and place your head in the hole before adjusting it to fit your body height just right.

she started warming your body up, placing the oils on your body, gently loosening you up, pulling a small moan from your mouth. “breathe, baby” she reminded you, guiding your breaths with her own. she quickly finds the tense spots, getting rid of them almost instantly, dragging out whimpers that just go straight to her cock! it didn’t help that your ass was just on full display for her and your whines makes it worse :(

when she gets to your lower back, just above your ass, she get a little rougher, massaging the most tense spot of your back, pulling out small moans. her hands slowly cups your ass cheeks, softly squeezing them in her hands and spreading them wide, revealing your cunt and asshole to her. “julie? is..is this apart of the massage?” you gasp, fighting the urge to moan. “of course, why wouldn’t it be? i’m a professional ‘ya know.” she bites her lip, responding to you.

“ah~ sorry” you replied, deadpanning yourself for asking something stupid, why would it not be apart of the massage? “no worries, sweetheart, now..tell me how this feels..” she interns her oil covered finger into your ass, earning a loud whine from you before swiftly slapping a hand to your mouth. “f-feels good..” you whine, the new sensation flooding your system.

you heard her pants unzip and her boxers fall to the ground, and that’s when you figured this probably wasn’t apart of the message, but your body felt so relaxed after she worked her magic and she was attractive. “don’t scream.” she warns your before pushing her thick cock into your ass, rendering you speechless, your eyes were closed tight trying to adapt to the stretch.

“so oblivious..it’s cute..” she grunts, pulling her cock all the way out just to plunge right back into your tight ass, you couldn’t find it in you to form a sentence, strangled moans just spilled out of your mouth.

“answer, slut.” she smacks your ass, making a loud moan come out of your mouth. the rooms were actually soundproof but she thinks it’s cute how hard you try to keep quiet. “y-yea..sorry” you reply, not really sure of what she even said.

she finds a steady pace, making you slide up and down on her table from the force of her thrust. “m-more please..” you beg and she smiles behind you before her hand found your hips and began ponding into you with her other hand toying with your clit, making you squirm under her touch.

after a few more thrusts and her degration, you felt something unfamiliar bubbling in your tummy, “julie.. i think i have to pee?” you questioned, not even sure yourself what this feeling was.

she giggled at your words, “silly baby, you’re about to squirt.” she explained, rubbing your clit quicker, as you thrash around on the table, back arching deeper into the table as you squirt all over her, legs shaking under her.

“fuck!” julie whines, shooting her thick spurts of cum into your used ass. “your appointment is all done!” she chuckles, pulling her spent cock out of you and zipping her pants up, and helping you get situated.

“should we schedule your next appointment? from now on my services will be free!” she winks, washing her hands off at the sink in the room. “uh huh..” you breathe out, still trying to collect yourself after that orgasm. “see you soon then!” she slips a paper with her phone number on it in your bag, and bids you goodbye for now.

you looked down and read the paper,

‘need to fill your other holes up too.. call me! <3’

[itelya]

synopsis: you are sick and your loving boyfriend/husband worried about you.

character [separate]: Nanami Kento x reader, Gojo Satoru x reader, Suguru Geto x reader, poor! Toji Fushiguro x reader, Sukuna Ryomen x reader, Choso Kamo x reader.

warning: SFW sweet & fluffy asf, suitable for all genders

words: 2030.

Kento N.

You've been sick for two days after a weekend in the mountains with Nanami. Feeling guilty for exposing you to the cold, he's been trying his best to take care of you, as he knows so well how to do.

"I feel guilty.. because of me that my love is sick." he whispered, his gaze filled with remorse.

You shook your head, the warmth of his gaze comforting you more than the blankets you had on you. "It’s not your fault, Ken, I’m the one who didn’t take care of myself enough. You have nothing to reproach yourself for."

You couldn't help but smile. You kept telling him that it wasn't his fault but yours for not being covered well enough but he wouldn't listen. You see him working with as much attention. He continued to watch over you, bringing more tea, adjusting the blankets around you with almost military precision, and cracking his clumsy jokes, just to see you smile.

You dozed off for a moment, enjoying the warmth he brought, but you woke up quickly when he leaned down gently to place a kiss on your forehead.

"Do you want me to bring you something else, or would you rather just stay here, quiet?" he asked, his voice soft, almost a whisper. You looked at him with a tired but sincere smile. "Just you, Nanami. That’s all I need to feel better."

He smiled, a glint of tenderness in his eyes, and settled down next to you, making sure not to move until you were fully recovered. In moments like these, you knew you were in good hands.

Gojo S.

You sneeze once more. Gojo, who was already looking at you with worried eyes, abruptly gets up from the chair he was sitting in. He takes his phone and dials the number of one of his available doctors.

You're sure of it because you barely started coughing, Gojo wanted to call but you managed to convince him that it will pass. It doesn't end up being the case.

You roll your eyes with a sigh. "Gojo... that's ridiculous. It will pass, it's just a little cough.", he gives you a half-offended, half-stubborn look. "Ridiculous? You're sick, it's a national emergency, baby. Do you want me to wait until it gets worse and you're bedridden for days?"

Before you can even answer, he's already talking to a doctor. "Yes, good evening, Doctor? It's Gojo Satoru. I have an emergency. Yes, it’s serious. My love has been coughing and sneezing for a few hours, and I think it could be… something serious."

You stifle a laugh despite yourself as you hear him exaggerate the situation. "Gojo, it’s not the Black Death either!" He looks at you and signals you to be quiet. "Shh, I’m handling it." Then, he continues with the doctor. "Yes, okay. Very well. I’ll write everything down and we’ll come if necessary. Thank you, Doctor."

As he hangs up, he looks at you with a triumphant smile. "Here, I’ve got it all planned out. Rest, hydration, and a list of medications just in case."

"You know you’re being dramatic, right?", you say, crossing your arms. "Maybe.", he replies, sitting down next to you. "But if it keeps you healthy, I’m willing to be ridiculous."

And despite your initial annoyance, you can’t help but smile. Gojo had this unique way of showing you how much he cared for you, even in times when you would have preferred him to calm down a little.

Geto S.

Lying on the couch, a soft blanket wrapped around you, you tried to fight the fever that had been pinning you there since the day before. Your nose was stuffy, your throat was on fire, and every muscle in your body seemed to scream in pain. All because of that stupid outing in the rain he had insisted on doing.

"It’ll be okay, you’ll see, a little rain never killed anyone," Geto had told you with his mischievous smile, as he led you on an unplanned walk, under a threatening sky.

But now, he was looking at you with remorseful eyes, a tray in his hands, containing hot soup and a glass of water.

"I’m sorry," he whispered for the umpteenth time as he placed the tray on the coffee table.

"You’ve said it ten times already," you replied in a hoarse voice, a slight smile stretching your lips despite the fatigue. “But I forgive you… even if I’m a little angry with you.” He crouched down beside you, his serious gaze fixed on yours.

"You should be very angry with me. I should never have insisted. But now, I’m going to make up for it. You just have to ask, and I’ll take care of it, understood?" You nodded softly, amused by his authoritarian tone that betrayed a great deal of guilt.

"Then stay here. That’s enough for me."

A comfortable silence settled between you. He sat down next to you, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders. Then, with a tender gesture, he brushed a lock of hair from your forehead.

Toji F.

You've been sick for a few days now because of a meal Toji made for you with expired leftovers from his fridge (he didn't pay attention to the expiration dates). It was his clumsy way of making you happy for once, but instead, you're sick because of him. Eaten up by guilt, he did everything he could to make it up to you.

To make matters worse, he had wanted to buy you what you needed to heal and comfort you, but he had quickly found himself facing a problem: he didn't have a penny in his pocket. He had ended up asking you for your own card to pay for your medications and your favorite meals.

"I’m so sorry, baby… I’m ashamed, really… I’m not worthy of you," he whispered, his voice almost shaking. You coughed slightly before giving him a reassuring smile. "It’s not your fault, Toji. You deserve me, and you know it. You made a mistake, it happens to everyone."

Toji looks at you silently, hesitant, then he sighs as he runs a hand through his hair. "You say that, but I keep screwing up… I meant well, and look where it got us. You stuck in bed, and me paying with your card when I’m the one who made you sick…"

You reached out a hand to grab his. Despite his clumsiness, you knew his intentions were sincere. "Toji, what matters is that you’re here for me right now. You’re doing your best, and that’s all I ask of you."

He smiled before leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead. "You’re such a good for me." With a tired but genuine smile, you replied, "Because I love you, even if you don’t do everything perfectly."

Toji then took a blanket to put it on your shoulders and wrapped you gently. "Now, I'll take care of everything. What do you need? Water? Another herbal tea? Is your pillow well installed?"

You laughed softly, touched by his sudden protectiveness. He was rarely like this even though he loved you. "Toji, calm down, it’s okay. Just sit with me, that’s all I want."

He nods, almost relieved that you’re not asking him for anything more complicated. He sat down next to you, wrapping an arm around you to hold you close. "I promise, I’ll do better next time. But for now, at least let me cherish you as best I can."

Despite your fatigue and your persistent stomach ache, you had found comfort in his arms, feeling all his sincerity in his clumsy but loving gestures.

Sukuna R.

You fell seriously ill because of a servant of Sukuna, who poisoned you with a tea, consumed by jealousy towards your relationship with him. When he found out the truth, his anger was like hell, horrible and without real words to describe. Without the slightest hesitation, he killed her mercilessly.

Sukuna returned to your bedside. Despite his often impassive air and his terrifying reputation, he did not hesitate to take care of you with surprising attention. His hands, so accustomed to killing, were surprisingly delicate in touching you.

“Rest.” he orders, his tone intended to be authoritative, but with a hint of gentleness in it. He has summoned the best healers, demanding that they examine you and treat you immediately. You know he blames himself, even if it’s not his fault.

When they left, he stayed by your side, sitting on the edge of the bed. For a moment, he simply observed you, his dark gaze softened by an almost indecipherable expression. You were so beautiful even when weakened.

“If you would have died because of her, I would have never forgiven myself,” he whispers, his voice low but filled with a weight you’ve never heard before. You crack a weak smile despite your extremely tired and weak state. He was so gentle with you in private, more than he would have liked.

"I'm fine... thanks to you Sukuna. I love you.", he doesn't answer, his voice could become weak in front of you, he doesn't want to. He wants to be strong for you. He stands there, watching over you without a word, as if he refuses to take his eyes off you even for a moment, not letting anyone in.

For the first time, you glimpse a side of Sukuna that perhaps you must have known: a man capable of protecting without hesitation what he considers precious.

"I love you too."

Choso K.

You were lying on the couch, your face pale and your eyes half-closed, a warm blanket wrapped around you. The flu had caught you after her day spent with Choso, accompanying him to a tattoo parlor. You had insisted on coming to support him, but the cold morning air, combined with the hours spent in the poorly heated room, had gotten the better of you.

Choso, who never stopped blaming himself, watches you with a worried expression. He sits down next to you, gently stroking your hair, a tenderness in his gesture that contrasts with his usual air.

"I told you you didn't have to come," he murmured, his eyes filled with guilt. "I could have gone alone." You open your eyes slightly and sketch a tired smile, his voice hoarse but soft. "But I would have missed you, Choso. And besides... you knew I would insist on being there with you, even if it was to get you tattooed for hours."

He breathes, a slight frustration in his voice. "I'm sorry... You shouldn't have been exposed to all that." You shake your head gently, although your weakness doesn't stop you from wanting to reassure him. "It's okay... It's not your fault. I should have covered myself better, that's all."

Choso gets up and goes back to the kitchen, he prepares you a cup of hot tea that he brings to you delicately. He sits down next to you, making sure you were comfortable before handing you the cup.

"Drink this, it should help you a little. And I'm staying to watch over you, you can't refuse." You take the cup with a weak smile and take a few sips, enjoying the warmth that returns to his body. Choso smiled at you and brushed your forehead to check your temperature.

"Okay but if you give me a little tattoo...", she whispered, a playful wink. Choso smiled softly, leaning down to give you a kiss on the forehead.

"Maybe next time, when you're in better shape, I promise."

He stayed there, watching over you, ready to do anything to make you feel better. In his eyes, you could see all the sweetness and care he had for her. You knew he would do anything to make you happy.

any opinion is appreciated! thanks for reading till the end 💗

pls note and reblog!

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© 2025 itelya. All work belongs to @itelya. Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

A Changed Future (2) | Yandere Isekai

Part 1

It’s so irritating for Haruko 

He remembers how he used to try and make noise in the beginning, when the same thing happened to him

But even without your struggling, he’s got more obstacles than he thought

“Tch all these guys getting in our way, maybe I should just kill them.”

“Haru no!”

“Why not, I'm sure you did it when I was trapped.”

“That…that doesn’t make it right!”

“So? Who cares about right when we’re in love? I think it was you who said that.”

Either way with or without your approval he’s figuring out a way to take down his newfound rivals

He kind of hopes they are as ambitious as the friends who recently abandoned him

Too bad they aren’t

In the original story, the crazy thing about the protagonist was that despite their obsessive love for Haruko and general disregard for those who got in the way of that was otherwise really inspiring

Breaking away from their elitist family for their violent morals ironic right

Joining the workforce, easily rising because of their work ethic and intelligence

And all that while beautifully evading a less-than-clean detective trying to pin the blame of random crimes on them

Which of course got them their own male leads attempting to pursue their affections

Always doomed to fall short because of circumstance or the protagonist suavely crushing their hopes to gush about their love

It was a uniquely terrible tragedy for their characters to be written this way

That’s what the random reviewers would say

Which is why you did feel inclined to maybe entertain them a bit more than the original protagonist would have ever done

“Since you are quitting….I hope you’ll let me treat you to dinner. For all your hard work of course.”

“Uh sure but I have to be home by sunset.”

“That’s a shame then we’ll have to—Wait. Did you say you would?”

“Yeah, are you okay?”

“YES! Ahem I mean yes I’m fine! I look forward to a nice evening together!”

Unknowingly furthering the obsession the protagonist was barely keeping at bay

“So mind telling me what you ordered that day at the restaurant?”

“I think it was my favorite dish there called the berry delight but I’m not sure. I think they changed the menu since I was there.”

“Why not confirm it later today? That way you can tell me if you did see the missing classmate of yours.”

“But I don’t remember exactly where I sat–”

“Then we’ll just have to sit in every spot until it rings a bell.”

“I don’t know if that’s–”

“Don’t fret. I’ll be paying but there's no way we’ll get to try every table. We’ll have to come back multiple times.”

“Okay…”

“No worries I’m sure you’ll get tired of eating there so we’ll go to some other places to give you a rest. Anywhere you wanted to try?”

You’d be foolish to think you could escape them by agreeing to Haruko’s entrapping of you 

It only takes a day of you not responding to messages that they both eagerly awaiting you at your door

And after the first few times, Haruko shooing them away they begin to get resourceful

“Yeah bud nice try their still out.”

“Hm well say that to my lovely warrant right here.”

“Wait! H-h-hold on! Geez I-i’ll go get them now but they are not going to be happy with you!”

It really doesn’t get better as the guard against the protagonist’s secrets begins to be let down as interested parties slowly make their way in

You don’t have the same ruthlessness or ability to deceive as the protagonist you took over for 

On top of that you never actually read the webtoon so you’ll be left trying to piece together whatever few weak points the protag has

Where if you hadn’t already started to make your pursuers interested all those faults are fuel for their agenda

“It’s so unfortunate that the company can sign off on your absence during this suspicious crime but I don’t mind editing records if you wouldn’t mind spending time with me. That way I can vet your personality myself. Over wine of course!”

It’s overwhelming constantly being pulled in 3 directions 

What’s worse you’re completely oblivious when the latest obstacle in the protag’s perfect life finally makes themselves known

“Hello darling, it took us years to find you but we did it!”

“Don’t look like that come give your Mama a hug!”

Part 3: Here

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Ink & Oath (tattoo artist!Mafiaso!Dean W.)

Summary: Reader comes to a quaint tattoo shop to get some much needed work done to her back piece... little does she know that her entire life will change in just a few short moments.

WC: 13.5K

Warnings: mafia au,tattoo artist dean nongraphic smut, angst with a happy ending, pregnancy

Read on ao3!

A/N: i wasn't going to put this piece on tumblr, because of it being so long. Plus i'm honestly so tired of the blank blogs giving empty notes and not really giving much else. So i'm *probably* not going to keep this posted if it receives nothing but likes w/ little to no reblogs. I worked extremely hard on this piece a few days ago and it's honestly so discouraging to not get /something/ in return. Anyway, whatever.

--

You’re standing at the counter of Winchester Ink, half-annoyed and half-desperate. The sleek, industrial-style tattoo parlor is packed, and the receptionist informs you that due to their packed schedule, only 40 minutes of work can be squeezed in today. You’d planned to finally finish the intricate back piece you’d started with another artist—one who bailed on you last minute.

Agreeing to the partial session, you put down the deposit and prepare for a follow-up. The artist does incredible work, but it’s not enough to bring your tattoo to completion. When you return for your second appointment, you’re shocked to find the shop’s owner himself—Dean Winchester—waiting for you. His broad shoulders and sharp green eyes hold a glare that’s almost as intimidating as his reputation.

He explains that your rushed appointment cost him money and time—and now you owe him. But when he notices your determination and sees your unfinished ink, a mischievous smirk creeps across his face.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Dean says, leaning on his desk, “I’ve got an offer. You want your back piece done? You’re gonna work it off. Be my shop assistant for a few weeks, cover some shifts. And maybe… I’ll finish the job myself.”

The lines between professionalism and something much darker start to blur as Dean’s attention becomes far more personal than just your tattoo.

You blink at him, trying to gauge if he’s serious or just messing with you. The way his smirk deepens when you hesitate tells you he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Are you even allowed to do that?” you ask, crossing your arms.

Dean shrugs, completely unbothered. “My shop, my rules.”

You glance around the parlor, the buzzing of tattoo machines filling the space, the scent of antiseptic and ink in the air. The place is busy, artists hunched over their clients, lost in concentration. Winchester Ink has a reputation for being one of the best, and Dean Winchester himself is practically a legend. It’s an opportunity, but it also feels like a trap.

Still, you want this tattoo finished. It’s been sitting on your back like an incomplete story, haunting you every time you catch your reflection. You can’t let it stay unfinished.

With a deep breath, you square your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Dean grins like you just handed him the keys to your soul. “Atta girl.”

The next day, you show up, not sure what to expect. Turns out, working at a tattoo shop is nothing like you’d imagined. It’s long hours of cleaning stations, refilling ink wells, running the front desk, and dealing with clients who can’t decide on a design to save their lives.

Dean watches you like a hawk, making sure you don’t slack off, but there’s something else in his gaze too—something that makes your stomach flip. And when he finally gets you in his chair, stretching your skin taut beneath his gloved hands, the air between you shifts. His touch is precise, his focus unwavering, but every now and then, his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You sure you can handle working here, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin as he leans in, the tattoo machine whirring softly.

You lift your chin, refusing to let him see how much he affects you. “I can handle a lot more than you think, Winchester.”

His smirk returns, this time laced with something darker, something that makes your pulse stutter.

“Good,” he says, dragging the needle across your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke. “Let’s see just how much."

--

The next morning, you step into Winchester Ink, now seeing it from the other side of the counter. The usual buzz of tattoo guns fills the air, along with the scent of antiseptic and ink. Dean, already working on a client, jerks his head toward the reception desk.

“You’re on desk duty today,” he calls over his shoulder. “Phones, appointments, clean-up. Try not to scare off the customers.”

You roll your eyes but take your place, answering the phone as a biker-looking guy strolls in, flipping through the portfolio. It’s an adjustment, sure, but you settle in fast. You’re almost enjoying it—until Dean appears behind you, close enough that his breath warms your skin.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, his voice rough, teasing. “But don’t think I won’t put you to work scrubbing floors if you slack off.”

You turn to retort, only to find yourself inches from his sharp green gaze. The tension crackles between you like a live wire, and from the slow smirk spreading across his lips, he knows it too.

Maybe this deal isn’t as simple as it seemed.

The shop closes late, and you’re still sweeping up stray paper towels and discarded ink caps when Dean finally locks the front door. Most of the other artists have already left, leaving just the two of you in the dimly lit space. The buzzing neon "Winchester Ink" sign outside casts a soft blue glow through the glass, flickering faintly like it’s seen too many late nights.

“You survived day one,” Dean says, leaning against the front desk with an amused smirk. “I was half-expecting you to run out crying after dealing with that Karen who wanted a ‘spiritual wolf’ tattoo on her lower back.”

You snort. “Please, I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Yeah?” He watches you for a beat, arms crossed over his chest, his black t-shirt stretching just enough to be distracting. “Guess we’ll see if you can handle tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it—low, laced with something unreadable—sends a slow shiver down your spine.

“You really that desperate for free labor?” you tease, tilting your head.

Dean’s smirk deepens. He steps closer, just enough that you catch the faint scent of leather and aftershave beneath the lingering ink and antiseptic.

“Nah,” he says, voice dropping a little. “I just like watching you squirm.”

Your pulse kicks up, and you hate that he can probably tell. But before you can come up with a sharp response, Dean straightens, stretching his arms behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

“Go home, sweetheart. Get some rest.” He nods toward the back. “Your tattoo’s not getting finished if you pass out on me halfway through.”

You don’t move right away. The reminder of why you’re here—why you agreed to this in the first place—grounds you, just enough to shake off the heat in your chest.

“Goodnight, boss,” you say, deliberately casual as you set the broom aside and grab your bag.

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

And damn him, you swear you can still feel his gaze on your back long after you’ve stepped outside.

--

Working at Winchester Ink is no joke. The shop is always packed, and between scheduling appointments, sterilizing equipment, and dealing with customers who either can’t commit or want the worst design ideas imaginable, you barely have time to breathe.

Dean? He’s a menace.

He pushes you, makes you run errands, hands you the mop at the end of every shift like it’s some kind of personal game. But the worst part? The way he watches you.

It’s not outright—nothing you could call him out on—but it’s there. A glance that lingers too long. A smirk when he brushes past you, his hand skimming your lower back like it’s an accident. And the way he says things.

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

"Bet you’d look even better covered in more ink."

"Careful, sweetheart. Keep biting that lip, and I might start thinking you’re doing it for me."

It’s infuriating. Mostly because part of you likes it.

--

By the time your shift ends, your feet ache, and you’re pretty sure you have ink on your cheek. Everyone else has already left, and it’s just you and Dean—again.

“C’mere,” he says from his station. His voice is softer than usual, but there’s still that teasing edge to it.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He taps the leather tattoo chair. “You wanna get that back piece finished or what?”

Your stomach flips. “I thought we were waiting—”

Dean raises a brow. “You put in the work, didn’t you? I think you’ve earned a little progress.”

You swallow hard. This was the deal. Your tattoo. That’s why you’re here. That’s all this is.

Right?

You climb into the chair, heart hammering as Dean snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. His fingers ghost over your skin as he carefully peels back your shirt, exposing your unfinished tattoo. The cool air sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean’s touch lingers, his fingertips dragging just a second longer than necessary.

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “I’ll take good care of you.”

The tattoo gun hums to life, but the only thing you can focus on is him—his breath against your neck, the steady grip of his hand on your waist.

And when he starts tattooing?

You swear it has nothing to do with the ink and everything to do with the way his touch sinks under your skin.

The sharp sting of the needle drags across your skin, but it’s not the pain that makes your breath hitch—it’s him. Dean’s touch is firm, his other hand resting against your waist, grounding you. His breath ghosts over your exposed skin as he leans in closer, the scent of leather, whiskey, and something unmistakably him flooding your senses.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “Gotta loosen up for me, sweetheart.”

The words send a jolt of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach. You grip the edges of the chair, trying to focus on the rhythmic buzz of the tattoo gun, but it’s impossible when Dean is right there, his presence overwhelming.

He works slow, deliberate, the pressure of his hand steadying you with every pass of the needle. His fingers, clad in latex, slide against your skin, adjusting your position with a touch that’s almost too gentle. And maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s the adrenaline, but there’s something in the way his thumb sweeps over your side—something that feels less like a professional touch and more like a test.

A challenge.

“You okay?” he asks, but there’s something smug in his tone, like he already knows the answer.

“I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is breathier than you’d like.

Dean chuckles, and you feel it vibrate through you. “Yeah? You sure?” His voice dips lower, teasing, and then—fuck. His hand moves, sliding just a fraction higher, his thumb tracing the dip of your spine in a way that has nothing to do with the tattoo.

Your pulse hammers. You should say something, should shift away, should stop this before it goes somewhere dangerous.

But you don’t.

Instead, you let out a slow exhale, pressing just slightly into his touch. It’s barely anything, just a shift of your body, but Dean notices.

Of course, he does.

His grip tightens—not rough, but possessive. The needle lifts from your skin, and suddenly, he’s not working anymore.

You hear the quiet click of the tattoo gun shutting off, the eerie silence of the shop settling between you. Your heart pounds as Dean pulls his gloves off with a slow, deliberate snap.

Then, he leans in, lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“I think we both know this ain’t just about the tattoo anymore.”

You swallow hard, your breath uneven. “Dean—”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice nothing but a growl now. “Tell me to back off, and I will.”

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

Instead, you turn your head just enough that your lips are a whisper away from his. The air between you crackles, electric, and then—

He kisses you.

It’s not slow. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all that tension, all those unspoken words, poured into one desperate, claiming kiss. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, his other arm sliding around your waist and pulling you against him, hard.

You gasp against his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, demanding and sinful. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he sucks it between his own, and you swear you feel the heat of it all the way down to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, your lips swollen, breath ragged.

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, his voice pure sin. “We’re just getting started.”

--

The air in the shop is thick with heat, the scent of ink and sweat lingering between you. Your back is still tingling—not just from the fresh tattoo, but from the way Dean had held you, touched you, ruined you right there in his chair.

You’re still catching your breath, your body limp against the leather, when you feel him shift behind you. His fingers trace over your spine, a ghost of a touch that sends another shiver down your already overstimulated body.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, rough with something smug and satisfied.

You manage a breathy laugh. “You really have to ask?”

Dean chuckles, and you feel the warmth of it against your bare shoulder before he presses a slow, lingering kiss there. “Just making sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re too spent to come up with a sharp retort. Instead, you sigh, shifting slightly as you feel the ache settling into your muscles.

Dean moves away, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he tugs his jeans back on. You should probably do the same, but right now, your body feels like it’s made of liquid, melted into the chair that still smells like him.

A moment later, something soft lands on your back—a towel, warm and slightly damp.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, rough around the edges in a way that sends another ripple of warmth through you. “I’ll grab you some water.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching as he moves across the shop. His shoulders are broad, his movements lazy, like he’s entirely at ease, but there’s something else there too—something in the way he glances at you over his shoulder like he’s still thinking about what just happened.

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

By the time he returns, you’ve pulled your clothes back on, though your skin still hums from his touch. He hands you a bottle of water, watching as you take a few slow sips.

“So,” you say finally, breaking the silence. “This part of the standard Winchester Ink experience?”

Dean smirks, leaning against the counter, his green eyes flicking over you like he’s already plotting his next move. “Nah,” he says, voice low. “Just the VIP package.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The weight of what just happened still lingers between you, heavy and unspoken. And maybe this should be awkward—maybe you should be freaking out, wondering what the hell this means for the deal you made, for the tattoo, for anything.

But you’re not.

Instead, you watch Dean, the way his jaw shifts slightly, the way he looks at you like he’s still hungry, and you realize something.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

And judging by the way Dean grins at you, slow and wicked, he knows it too.

You knew something was off about Dean Winchester. No man carries himself with that much confidence—that much authority—without having something to back it up.

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

You’re sitting in his apartment, a loft-style space above Winchester Ink, still tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts. The tattoo on your back is finally finished, but that’s the least of your thoughts right now. Because Dean just told you something that should have made you run.

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

Dean Winchester owns this city. Or at least, the parts that matter.

He’s the leader of something much bigger, much darker. The kind of operation that people whisper about in hushed tones, the kind that law enforcement pretends doesn’t exist because even they’re too scared to take him on.

And yet… you’re still here.

“You’re not saying anything,” Dean murmurs, watching you from across the room. His back is to the window, the neon glow of the city framing him in pale blues and reds. His green eyes are unreadable, but there’s tension in the way he holds himself—like he’s waiting for you to get up and walk away.

You take a deep breath, considering your words. “You just told me you run a criminal empire, Dean.”

He huffs a dry, humourless laugh. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

You tilt your head. “What do you want me to say?”

Dean studies you for a moment, then looks away, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know. Figured you’d freak out. Maybe tell me I’m a monster.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s bracing himself for something inevitable. “Most people would.”

You take a moment, looking at him. Really looking.

And what you see isn’t just power, or danger, or the weight of everything he’s done. You see a man who has lost too much, who carries the weight of his past like a chain around his throat.

“You’re not a monster,” you say softly.

Dean’s eyes snap to yours like he wasn’t expecting that answer. “You don’t know the shit I’ve done.”

You exhale, pulling your knees to your chest. “Then tell me.”

He hesitates, his fingers twitching at his side. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“My dad built this empire,” he says, staring out at the city. “He wasn’t a good man. He did a lot of bad things hurt a lot of people. But he kept us safe—me and my little brother, Sam. When he died, I took over. Thought I could do better, clean things up.”

You already know this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

Dean swallows, his jaw tightening. “I tried. But this life? It doesn’t let go. Sam didn’t want any part of it. Got himself a real job, a real life.” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “Thought I could keep him safe if he stayed away. But they still found him.”

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I buried him six years ago.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for the first time, you see it—the real Dean Winchester. The man who lost everything, who built his own empire on the bones of his past.

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

You slide out of bed, crossing the room before he can stop you. When you reach him, you press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart beneath your fingers.

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

Dean’s breath catches. His hands, rough and calloused, come up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His thumbs brush along your cheekbones, and when he speaks, his voice is almost pleading.

“You should be scared of me.”

You smile, just a little. “Maybe.” You lean up, brushing your lips against his. “But I’m not.”

Dean groans softly, his grip tightening, and when he kisses you, it’s different this time. Not just hunger, not just claiming.

It’s desperation.

Like he’s been drowning for years, and you’re the first breath of air he’s had in a long, long time.

Dean kisses you like he’s unravelling—like everything he’s kept buried for years is clawing its way to the surface. His fingers grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, like if he holds you tight enough, he can stop the ghosts from creeping back in.

You let him.

You let him take what he needs, because you’re still here. You don’t flinch when his hands slide lower, gripping you with a kind of desperation that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with the fact that he’s terrified. Terrified that now that you know the truth, you’ll vanish like everyone else he’s ever cared about.

But you don’t.

Instead, you press closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring you, like he’s memorising the way you feel against him.

His hands roam, calloused palms skating over your skin, slipping beneath the flannel you’re still wearing. When his fingers find bare skin, he exhales against your lips, his breath uneven.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, almost like a warning.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “I’m still here, Dean.”

Something in his expression cracks, just for a second, before he fists the back of your shirt and tugs you toward him. His lips brush against your temple, your cheek, and your jaw. His breath is warm and ragged.

“You don’t know what you’re signing up for,” he mutters against your skin, his mouth ghosting along your collarbone.

“I don’t care.”

Dean stills. His grip on you tightens for half a second before he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“You should care,” he says, voice rough. “People in my world don’t get happy endings.”

You reach up, fingers tracing along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the way his muscles tighten beneath your touch. “I don’t need a happy ending.” You tilt your head, letting your thumb brush the corner of his mouth. “I just need you.”

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a groan and a curse, before his mouth crashes back onto yours.

This time, there’s no hesitation. No restraint.

Dean takes—his lips moving against yours with purpose, his hands gripping your hips, lifting you with ease as he carries you back to the bed. The mattress dips beneath you as he lowers you onto it, his weight pressing you into the sheets, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill of the night.

“You sure about this?” he mutters against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl. “Shut up and kiss me, Winchester.”

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

And when he claims you this time, it’s not just need—it’s something deeper, something neither of you are ready to name yet.

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

Dean doesn’t just kiss you—he devours you like he’s been starving for something real and only just realised you’re the thing he’s been craving. His hands are everywhere, sliding under the flannel you stole, gripping your thighs, tracing over the fresh ink on your back like he’s memorising the way his work looks on your skin.

The sheets are tangled around you both, the air thick with heat and the scent of him—leather, whiskey, something dark and utterly intoxicating. His mouth drags from your lips to your jaw, then down, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

“I should ruin you,” he mutters, voice dark and full of something dangerous. “Make sure no one else even thinks about touching you.”

Your stomach tightens, heat pooling low in your belly. “You already have.”

Dean groans against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone before he sucks a bruise there—one that’ll be impossible to hide. “Damn right, I have.”

His hands are rough, calloused from years of working with them, but the way he touches you? Reverent. Like you’re something precious, something breakable—but only if you want to be.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips trailing lower, his breath hot against your skin.

You grip his hair, tugging just enough to make him look up at you, those sharp green eyes blown wide with hunger. “I want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

And when he finally gives you what you want, it’s not just sex.

It’s a claim. A promise that he is yours and yours alone.

The city hums beyond the window, but inside Dean’s apartment, everything is quiet except for the sound of your slowed breathing and the faint rustle of sheets as he pulls you against his chest.

You’re spent, muscles aching in the best way, his warmth sinking into your skin. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your stomach like he’s not ready to let you go.

“Still not scared of me?” he asks, voice rough with exhaustion.

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

Dean huffs a laugh, but when you glance up, his expression is unreadable—something guarded, something uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he says after a moment. “This life isn’t clean. It’s not safe. Being with me? It means something. You don’t just walk away from it.”

You tilt your head, searching his face. “Are you asking me to?”

Dean’s fingers tighten against your waist. “No.” He exhales, something shifting in his gaze—something like vulnerability. “I’m asking if you can handle it.”

You reach up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the scar on his shoulder, one of many marks that tell a story you’re only just starting to understand.

“I think,” you murmur against his skin, “I can handle you just fine.”

Dean makes a sound—something between a groan and a chuckle—before flipping you onto your back, caging you beneath him once more.

“Sweetheart,” he drawls, his smirk slow and wicked, “you have no idea what you’ve just signed up for.”

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

The familiar buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but this time, the sound isn’t the only thing making your pulse race.

You’re back at Winchester Ink, straddling the tattoo chair, your shirt discarded, leaving only your black lace bra as Dean hovers behind you. His fingers graze your skin—not with the same desperate need as last night, but with something just as intense.

Possession.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” His voice is low, teasing, but you can feel the weight behind it. This isn’t just any tattoo—this is his mark, something new, something permanent.

You glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes—dark, intense, hungry—and smirk. “You gonna keep asking me that, or are you actually gonna put your money where your mouth is?”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head, but there’s something sharper behind his amusement. He leans in, his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire.”

Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly, but you don’t break eye contact. “Maybe I like the burn.”

Dean mutters a curse under his breath before snapping on his gloves. The scent of antiseptic and ink fills your lungs as he dips the needle, and then—

The first sting.

Your body tenses for half a second, but Dean’s free hand finds your waist, grounding you. “Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, his tone softer now, intimate. “You know the drill.”

You exhale slowly, sinking into the sensation. The pain is sharp, but it fades into something almost hypnotic, especially with the way Dean’s fingers press into your hip, steadying you.

The shop is closed—Dean made sure of that—but the thought of anyone walking in, seeing you half-dressed, stretched out beneath his hands, sends a thrill through you.

“What’s it gonna be?” you ask after a while, voice laced with curiosity. You hadn’t asked for a design, just told Dean you wanted something from him.

Dean hums, his tone smug. “Something to remind everyone who you belong to.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

Minutes pass, the pain blending into pleasure, and when Dean finally leans back, wiping the fresh ink clean, you swear you feel his lips brush your shoulder.

“Done,” he murmurs.

You twist to look at his work, and your stomach flips when you see it.

A small, intricate sigil—subtle, but unmistakably his. Right along your ribs, where only he would ever truly see it.

You glance up at him, your heart pounding. “That what you wanted?”

Dean peels off his gloves, tossing them aside before gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushes over your lips, his gaze dark.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His smirk is slow, dangerous. “We both know this is just the beginning.”

The tattoo still burns, a dull ache that lingers under your skin—but it’s nothing compared to the way Dean is looking at you right now.

You’re still straddling the chair, breath unsteady, your skin warm under the shop’s low lighting. The ink along your ribs feels like a brand, like a claim, and Dean? He’s drinking you in like he’s memorizing every single second of this moment.

His fingers brush over the fresh ink—featherlight, barely a touch—but it still makes you shiver.

“You like it?” His voice is rough, low, laced with something possessive.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, there’s nothing between you but the hum of the tattoo gun, the scent of ink and antiseptic, the tension coiled thick in the air.

“I love it,” you admit, and it’s not just about the tattoo.

Dean's smirk flickers, something darker lurking beneath it. He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Good,” he murmurs. “Because it means you’re mine now.”

A shiver runs through you, but it’s not fear. It’s need.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you tilt your head, baring your throat just slightly—an unspoken challenge. “Oh yeah?” you tease, your voice softer now, breathless. “That what this means?”

Dean huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. His fingers trail lower, over the ink, then down to your waist, pulling you forward until your chest brushes against his.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “you’ve been mine since the second you walked into this shop.”

You should push him away. Tell him he’s being ridiculous, that a tattoo doesn’t mean ownership. That he doesn’t own you.

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

So instead, you smirk, dragging your nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. “Then maybe,” you murmur, “you should remind me.”

Dean’s grin turns wicked, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth already crashing onto yours.

And as he presses you back into the chair, the unfinished tattoos and the world outside forgotten, you realize something:

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

--

The night is quiet—too quiet.

Winchester Ink should’ve been locked up an hour ago, but Dean insisted on keeping the doors closed while he finished some business in the back. You were wiping down the front desk, waiting for him, when the first gunshot shattered the silence.

Pop-pop-pop!

The windows explode inward, glass raining down as you instinctively duck behind the counter. Your heart slams against your ribs as tires screech outside, bullets peppering the front of the shop like a damn war zone.

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

He bursts in from the back, gun already drawn, his sharp green eyes scanning the chaos before landing on you. In a second, he’s in front of you, crouching low, shielding your body with his own. His breath is rough, his muscles tense, but his voice? Steady as hell.

“You okay?” he demands, his fingers curling around your wrist, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you manage, swallowing back the adrenaline climbing up your throat. “Dean, what the hell—”

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He peeks over the counter, eyes narrowing as he counts heads outside. You follow his gaze—black SUVs, men with weapons, their faces hidden under masks.

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he mutters darkly. “They are.”

He turns back to you, and for the first time, you see something raw in his expression—not just anger, not just control, but fear. Not for himself. For you.

“We gotta move, sweetheart,” he says, shifting so his body shields you completely. “Stay behind me. No arguments.”

You nod, your fingers curling around his jacket as he pulls you toward the back exit. His gun stays up, movements sharp, calculated. The Dean Winchester you know—the inked-up, cocky-as-hell tattoo artist—is gone. This Dean? This is the real one.

The leader. The fighter. The man who kills for the people he loves.

A shadow moves near the doorway, and Dean reacts instantly. Bang! One shot—dead center. The masked man drops without a sound.

Your breath catches. You’ve never seen him like this. Never seen death come so easily to him.

Dean turns back, his hand finding yours. “You still with me?”

You meet his eyes. Despite the gunfire, the danger, the fact that he just killed someone—you're not scared. Not of him.

“I’m with you.”

Something flickers across his face—relief, maybe—but there’s no time to dwell on it.

More men are coming.

Dean tightens his grip, pulling you close, his lips brushing your forehead before he exhales sharply. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

And as the two of you disappear into the night, chased by bullets and fire, you realize something.

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

The shop smells like antiseptic and fresh ink, but beneath it lingers something metallic. Gunpowder. Blood.

Dean’s grip on your wrist is tight, dragging you through the back hallway of Winchester Ink, his jaw clenched so hard you’re surprised his teeth haven’t cracked. The shootout from earlier still echoes in your ears, your pulse hammering in your throat.

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

You should be questioning everything—how many people Dean just killed, how easily he moved, how ruthlessly he handled the ambush.

But all you can think about is the way he shielded you, how his first instinct was to grab you, tuck you against his chest, his own body between yours and the bullets.

Now, inside the safe room of the shop, he’s pacing like a caged animal, gun still clutched in his fist, blood splattered across his knuckles.

“Dean.” Your voice is steadier than you expect.

He stops, his sharp green eyes snapping to yours, wild and dark.

“I told you this would happen,” he growls, voice low, ragged. “Told you my life isn’t safe.”

You take a step toward him. “And I told you I could handle it.”

Dean exhales sharply, shaking his head, his fingers flexing like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you. “You don’t get it, sweetheart.” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “I kill people. Not just assholes who deserve it—anyone who’s a threat. Anyone who crosses me.”

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

You take another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the blood drying on his skin. He’s still Dean—the man who tattooed you with steady hands, the man who kisses like he’s trying to brand you, the man who just tore through enemies to keep you alive.

Your fingers graze his wrist, just above the gun. “You could’ve let me go,” you whisper. “Could’ve left me behind.”

Dean lets out a breath, harsh and uneven. “Not an option.”

You press your palm against his chest, right over his heart. “Then stop trying to scare me away.”

His control snaps.

One second, he’s standing there, tense, on edge—then his hands are on you, everywhere. Gripping your hips, dragging you flush against him, his mouth crushing against yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

Like he needs to feel you alive, solid, beneath his hands.

“Mine,” he mutters against your lips, his voice raw. “You’re mine.”

You nod, gasping against his mouth. “Yours.”

Dean pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Then from now on, sweetheart? You stay glued to my side.”

Your lips curl into a smirk. “You just want an excuse to keep your hands on me.”

Dean huffs a laugh, his grip tightening. “Damn right I do.”

And just like that, Winchester Ink isn’t just a tattoo shop anymore.

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

The aftermath of the shootout settles into a strange, electric silence. The back room of Winchester Ink feels too small, too charged. Outside, Dean’s men are cleaning up the mess—disposing of bodies, wiping down shell casings—but inside, it’s just you and him.

Your pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment the bullets started flying. You should be shaken, but instead, you’re standing in front of Dean, watching the way his chest still rises and falls too fast, his gun hanging loosely in his grip.

His knuckles are raw. Blood smears across his inked skin, a dark contrast against the swirling black designs crawling up his forearm.

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

But the only thing you feel when you step closer is heat.

Dean watches you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His fingers twitch, like he’s deciding between pulling you closer or pushing you away.

“You’re not scared,” he finally mutters, almost accusingly.

You raise a brow. “No.”

Dean lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You should be.”

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

His jaw clenches. “Because I keep waiting for you to wake up and realize I’m not a good man, sweetheart. I’m the kind of guy people run from.”

You tilt your head, letting your gaze drag over him—the blood, the bruises forming along his jaw, the way he’s still standing between you and the door, as if another threat could come at any moment.

“You think I don’t see who you are?” you ask softly. “You think I don’t get it?”

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

“I know what you do. I know what this shop really is,” you continue, stepping closer until your fingers ghost over his forearm, tracing the ink there. “And I know you didn’t hesitate to put yourself between me and those bullets.”

Dean swallows hard. “That’s the problem.”

You shake your head. “No, Dean. That’s the part that tells me everything I need to know.”

His eyes search yours, something flickering behind them—uncertainty. Vulnerability. Maybe even something darker, something deeper.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he finally says, quieter now.

“No.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite believe you. Then, before you can say anything else, his hands are on you again—tugging, gripping, claiming. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation, like he’s trying to consume you.

You don’t resist.

You meet him with the same fire, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. You can taste blood on his lips, feel the way his breath stutters when you press your body against his.

Dean breaks away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his hands flexing against your waist.

“I kill for you,” he murmurs, voice raw. “I’ll burn the whole fucking city down if it means keeping you safe.”

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

It’s been months since that night—since the shootout, since Dean pulled you close, breath ragged and raw, demanding you stay with him. Since you allowed yourself to slip deeper into his world, where danger was an ever-present shadow and the line between love and possession was blurred beyond recognition.

Now, you're sitting in the back of Winchester Ink, the familiar scent of fresh ink and leather comforting in a way you didn’t expect. Your shirt is tight, stretched over the curve of your stomach. Your fingers rest lightly on it, tracing the tiny life growing inside of you.

Dean’s son.

The weight of that realization still sometimes hits you like a freight train—his blood runs through you, through the baby you’re carrying.

You’re not just his lover anymore. You’re the mother of his son.

And, God, does he make sure everyone knows it.

Everywhere you go now, there’s the unmistakable, possessive edge in the way Dean looks at you. His hands never leave you, whether he’s holding your waist or brushing his thumb over your wrist. The people in the shop, his men, they all treat you with reverence—like you’re untouchable.

Because you are. To him, anyway.

You shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable, but the weight of your growing belly makes everything feel… off. You smile softly, your hand resting again on your stomach.

“Is it kicking again?” Dean’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft but commanding, as always.

You glance up to see him standing in the doorway, his dark eyes already on you, softened by something that could almost be called gentleness—a rare sight from the mafia king. His hands are in his pockets, but he’s still intimidating as hell, the muscles of his arms straining under the black shirt he’s wearing.

“Yeah,” you admit, a small smile tugging at your lips as you rub your stomach. “It’s starting to feel real now, you know?”

Dean crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze never leaving you. He kneels beside you, hands instantly reaching for your stomach like they always do when he’s near. His fingers are warm, rough against your skin.

“Damn right it’s real,” he mutters, a soft grin curling his lips. “You’re carrying my heir.”

His words, so heavy with ownership, almost make you laugh, but then you feel a flutter under your palm. The baby kicks again, strong enough to make you gasp.

Dean’s face softens, his hand pressing gently against your stomach, as if he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside of you.

“You feel that?” His voice is low, almost reverent.

“I do.” You smile up at him.

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, and for a brief second, you see something in him that no one else gets to see: vulnerability.

“You’re not just mine now, you know.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

He meets your eyes, his expression fierce and possessive. “You’re carrying my son. That’s not something I take lightly.”

You know he means it. You know Dean doesn’t do lightly. He owns everything he touches, and now, he’s made you his queen.

You reach out, cupping his jaw with your hand, pulling him closer. “I know, Dean. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a breath of relief, but there’s something darker, something more primal in the way he kisses you—his lips urgent against yours, demanding.

His hand moves lower, caressing the side of your belly, the other pressing against the back of your neck to pull you even closer. You melt into him, feeling his warmth, his power, and the weight of his love—of his claim—surrounding you.

You are his, and you always will be.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I’ll protect you. And the baby. No one will ever hurt either of you.”

You nod, smiling softly at him. “I know.”

His hand slides up to your neck, cupping your jaw, his gaze darkening. “Good.” Then, with a soft but insistent pull, he presses his lips to yours again. His kiss is rougher this time, more demanding, as though trying to make you feel the depth of his promise.

As you melt into him, you know one thing for sure:

You are his. Completely.

And no one, not even the world outside these walls, can take that from you.

--

The sterile scent of the hospital is sharp in the air, mingling with the soft beeps of machines around you. You’re propped up in a bed, your body sore from the grueling hours of labor. Your arms are still aching from where the IVs had been placed, but there’s a weight on your chest now—the kind of weight that makes everything worth it.

The small bundle in your arms—your baby, Dean’s baby—softly coos, the tiny body swaddled in a pale blue blanket. You stare down at the little face, marveling at the miracle you just created, your heart swelling with something fierce and protective.

Dean’s sitting beside you, his rough fingers lightly brushing the side of your hand, his gaze never leaving you or the baby. He hasn’t moved since the moment the baby was placed in your arms, his body radiating tension as if the world outside could suddenly break in and take everything from him. From you.

His eyes are dark, intense—like a man who’s seen too much blood to believe in peace. But the way he looks at the baby in your arms? There’s something almost gentle there, something protective and soft, like this tiny being is the only thing that could make him show any weakness at all.

It’s a weakness you know he’ll do anything to protect.

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

Your heart skips, your hand instinctively tightening around the baby. Dean is on his feet in a second, moving so fast you barely register the movement. His body is between you and the door before the intruder has even fully entered the room.

A man—dark hair, tense shoulders—stands in the doorway, his eyes flickering quickly over Dean, then to you. He’s got a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans, the cold metallic glint catching your eye.

Dean’s expression is pure stone, his hands already reaching for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

“I told you,” the man says, his voice low but sharp, “the baby's the next target.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together. “Get out.” His voice is thick with menace, each word weighted with the danger of a man who has nothing left to lose.

“I don’t think you understand,” the man says, taking one step forward, the gun clearly visible now. His hand rests on it, like he's daring Dean to move. “We’ve got orders. The baby’s a liability.”

You flinch at the words, the weight of the situation settling in. You’re not just the mother of Dean’s offspring anymore. You’re a target.

Dean’s movements are so fast, you don’t even have time to react. He pulls the gun from his waistband, smooth as a snake, and in one fluid motion, he’s pointing it at the intruder’s head.

“Leave. Now.” His voice is ice-cold, every syllable laced with authority and the threat of violence. The room feels smaller, suffocating. The air is thick with the promise of danger.

The man’s hand hovers over his gun, but Dean’s eyes never waver, never falter.

“You don’t want to do this,” the man warns, a tremor of hesitation creeping into his voice.

“Last warning,” Dean growls, his finger pressing lightly on the trigger. “Get. Out.”

The man stares at Dean for a moment longer, before his gaze flickers to you—the mother of his enemy’s spawn—and then he seems to make a decision. Slowly, he backs out of the room, never breaking eye contact with Dean.

When the door clicks shut, the tension in the room snaps. Dean holsters his gun, but his body remains rigid, every muscle in his frame still coiled tight, as if he’s waiting for the next attack.

You can’t breathe.

It’s almost too much—the rush of emotions, the exhaustion from labor, the fear that still clings to you. You want to scream, but you only manage to whisper. “What was that, Dean? What the hell was that?”

Dean turns toward you, his eyes filled with something primal, his hand going straight to your side, pulling you against him. His arms envelop you like a fortress, protective and warm.

“They’ll never stop coming,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice thick with the weight of the life he’s pulled you into. “But I’ll never let them touch you. Never let them take what’s mine.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hand resting on his chest. “Dean…”

“Don’t say anything, sweetheart. Not right now.” His hands cradle your face, his thumb gently brushing across your cheek. “You’re not just carrying our baby anymore. You’re my queen. And anyone who thinks they can take either of you, they’ll be facing a war they don’t want.”

A chill runs through you, but it’s not just from fear. There’s something else in his voice—something deep, something dangerous.

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

The room falls into silence again, save for the soft breathing of the baby in your arms, a new life and a new threat, forever intertwined with Dean’s world of shadows and blood.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The buzz of the tattoo machines fills the air in Winchester Ink, the low hum a familiar soundtrack to your day. Your hands are busy, one on the counter, the other moving skillfully to help a new client pick out their design. The shop is quieter than usual, but it’s still early, the door just having closed behind the last customer who left for the day. The steady rhythm of your work is a welcome distraction—until you hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching.

You glance over your shoulder, only to stop dead in your tracks.

There, standing in the middle of the shop, is Dean. But he’s not alone.

In his arms, swaddled snugly in a soft gray blanket, is your baby. The little one is asleep, content and peaceful—completely unaware of the chaos that swirled around its birth. Dean’s eyes meet yours, the same possessive look in them, but now, there’s something softer, something tender beneath the hard edge.

He takes a few steps toward the wall, his gaze never leaving you.

“I’m teaching them the family business,” Dean says, a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

Dean doesn’t answer directly. Instead, he pulls a small padded wall-mounted bassinet from beside one of the stations, carefully setting it down against the tattoo wall. He adjusts a few straps, making sure the baby is securely tucked inside.

You watch, your heart skipping a beat. There’s something about the way Dean handles the baby—so careful, so deliberate—that takes you by surprise. He’s never showed much patience with anything in his life… except for this.

“Dean…” You take a step forward, a small frown creasing your brow. “What are you doing?”

He shoots you that smug grin of his, the one that drives you crazy in all the best ways. “I’m teaching them how to survive in this world. It’s not enough you’re carrying our blood. I need them to know how to handle this.”

You blink again, unsure if you’re about to laugh or scold him. "You’re setting the baby down against the tattoo wall?"

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly, his gaze flickering to the little bundle. “It’s not just any wall. It's our wall.” His voice drops lower, his eyes flashing with that dangerous glint you know too well. “You’re not the only one around here that needs to be toughened up, sweetheart.”

Before you can reply, a soft cry rings through the air, and you turn to see the baby stirring, fingers curled, lips pursed as it starts to wake.

You rush over without thinking, your heart pounding, instinct driving you as you scoop the baby into your arms.

Dean watches you for a moment, his posture still tall, like he owns the room. When your eyes meet his, there’s something in the way he looks at you—a hint of pride, mixed with something dark, something almost possessive.

The baby settles into your arms, its tiny face scrunched in that adorable way babies do when they’re just waking up. You smile softly, the weight of your love for this little one threatening to break you. But Dean’s presence beside you is like a shield, strong and unwavering, giving you strength you didn’t know you had.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, his voice softer now, his arms crossing over his chest. “Just need to toughen up a bit more, kid.”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gently rock the baby. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Maybe. But in this world, we need to be.”

You raise an eyebrow, but before you can respond, a customer enters the shop—an old friend of Dean’s, someone who’s clearly seen their fair share of tattoos, judging by the sleeve of ink already visible on their arms. They’re a regular, and you’re used to handling them on your own, but today, Dean stands beside you, just a step behind, his protective aura nearly suffocating.

The client sits down in one of the chairs, and you turn your attention back to them, pulling out a design sketch from the folder. “So, you wanted something custom, right?”

Dean moves to stand just behind you, his gaze flickering from you to the client, eyes hard. His presence is imposing, like a lion lurking nearby. His fingers brush against the top of your shoulder, a subtle reminder that he’s still there.

“You’re getting the best I’ve got,” Dean mutters, his voice low enough only the client can hear. “Don’t waste my time.”

The client hesitates, looking up at him and then at you. There’s a moment of tension in the air, as if Dean’s mere presence commands their respect. They nod quickly, understanding that there’s more than just ink on the line here.

You work on the design, laying out the details, explaining the placement as you always do. The buzz of the tattoo gun fills the air, but your mind can’t help but wander back to Dean—watching, waiting, always so protective.

And when your eyes flick to the bassinet against the wall, you see Dean’s gaze fixed on the baby, the softness in his eyes evident, even if he’s trying to hide it.

The family business, he’d called it.

And as you glance at the client, then back at Dean, you realize the full extent of what that means.

You and your son are the center of Dean’s world. His empire. His everything.

And no one, not even in this room, would dare to touch you or the life you’ve built.

Dean would see to that.

---

The sun is warm on your skin, a soft breeze rustling the trees around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not in Winchester Ink, you’re not in the chaos of Dean’s world. You’re outside, in the real world, with your baby tucked safely in your arms. It’s a rare moment of peace, and you’re soaking it in.

Dean walks beside you, his presence still larger than life, but today, it feels different. The weight of his usual dominance is softer, almost protective in a way that makes you feel safe—not just from the world outside, but from him.

You glance over at him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing the tattoos that run the length of his arms, his posture still straight, but his eyes are warm as he watches the baby in your arms. Every step he takes, every glance he throws your way, speaks volumes. He’s here—truly here. No business meetings, no threats, no blood spilled. Just him—Dean, your partner, and the father of your child.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly, his voice always so gruff but softened by the moment.

You look down at your baby, whose tiny hand has wrapped around your finger, a soft coo escaping from them. You smile, looking back at Dean. "Like everything’s perfect."

Dean’s lips curl into a rare smile, one that’s softer than you’ve seen in a long time. It’s a smile that feels more genuine than any of the cold, calculated grins he gives in the tattoo shop or when he’s dealing with business.

You walk through the park, the sound of children laughing and playing around you, birds chirping overhead. It’s almost too perfect—like you’ve stepped into a moment that isn’t meant for people like Dean. People like you.

But here you are.

Dean takes a step closer, his body brushing against yours, his hand brushing against your waist protectively. His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the baby in your arms, and you feel a shiver of warmth run through you.

"I can’t believe how small they are," Dean murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s in awe.

You smile down at the little one. "They’re only going to get bigger, you know."

Dean’s eyes meet yours, a flash of something fierce flickering in his gaze. "I’ll protect them, sweetheart. No one’s taking what’s mine. Not now. Not ever."

You chuckle softly, but there’s an edge to your voice when you reply, "I think we’re safe here. We’re just… family today."

Dean’s smile deepens, but there’s still that ever-present glint in his eyes—the reminder that no matter where you are, he’s still the king of his world. And that’s a world that’s made of blood, ink, and power.

"Family," he echoes, the word heavy on his tongue. He looks down at the baby again, his expression softening. "Yeah. This is all I care about now."

You lean into him slightly, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You’re good at this, you know. Being a dad."

Dean’s eyebrow raises, a small, teasing smirk forming on his lips. "I wasn’t sure I’d be any good at it, but I guess I’m figuring it out." His gaze softens as he looks at the baby. "I’d kill anyone who thought otherwise."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t suppress the smile that tugs at your lips. "You really do make everything sound like a threat."

Dean chuckles, the sound rich and deep, and for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine a life like this—simple, quiet, full of moments that are just about you and him and your baby. A family.

But even as that thought swirls in your mind, you know that this peace, this quiet moment, is fleeting. Dean’s world doesn’t just let you walk away from it. It pulls you back in, no matter how hard you try to resist. And you’ve come to accept that. Because as dangerous as that world is, it’s the one where your heart beats the strongest.

And as long as Dean’s by your side, you’re ready to face it. Together.

Dean’s hand slips into yours as you both stop at a bench, the baby still in your arms, nestled comfortably against your chest. He sits down first, and you follow, sitting next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, his hand resting on your leg, grounding you in this rare moment of normalcy.

The world around you continues—kids laughing, families strolling by—but for you, in this moment, time stands still.

This is your family. And Dean’s right. This is all that matters.

"You’re my everything, sweetheart," Dean says softly, his lips brushing your temple. "You and the baby. I’ll never let anyone come between us."

You nod against him, breathing in the scent of him—leather, ink, and something uniquely Dean. "I know."

And for once, you allow yourself to believe it completely.

--

The sun is low in the sky now, casting a warm, golden glow over the park. You and Dean are sitting on the same bench, your toddler nestled comfortably on your lap, their small hands wrapped around a stuffed toy. The baby—who’s growing bigger by the day—rests in the stroller beside you, peacefully asleep.

It’s a rare moment of tranquility, and for once, you feel the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. The tension from the past months, from the dangers that come with being with Dean and the world he inhabits, seems to dissipate when you’re here, in this bubble of calm.

Dean’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb absentmindedly stroking over your skin. His eyes are on you, but it’s not the usual hard stare. There’s something softer there—a vulnerability that you don’t see often. He’s been different ever since the baby arrived, a side of him you’ve been learning to understand.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “What are you thinking about?”

Dean’s lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something nervous about it. “Just… you, sweetheart. You and the kids. And what I want to do next.”

Before you can ask what he means, you feel a small hand tug at your sleeve. Your toddler, wide-eyed and eager, pulls on your arm to get your attention.

“Mommy!” they say, their voice high-pitched with excitement. “Look!”

You look down, your heart melting at the sight of your toddler, holding out a small box, the velvet lining peeking through.

“Mommy,” they repeat, clearly serious. “This is for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You glance up at Dean, whose gaze has softened into something that makes your heart race. He’s watching you with that same intensity, but now it’s mixed with something else—something raw and honest.

You take the box from your kid, your fingers trembling slightly as you open it. Inside, nestled carefully, is a simple yet stunning ring. A diamond, elegant but not flashy, set in white gold with delicate engraving along the band. The ring that could change everything.

“Dean…” you breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the glint of the ring. You glance back at him, your heart pounding. “What is this?”

Dean stands up, slowly, carefully, his hand reaching out for yours. He drops to one knee in front of you, his movements deliberate, measured.

“Sweetheart,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “I’ve never been good with words. Never been good at this… stuff.” His gaze flicks to the toddler, who’s watching intently, their small face beaming with pride. “But I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

You feel your heart skip a beat, your hand instinctively going to your chest. You know exactly where this is going.

“I don’t need the world, not anymore.” Dean’s voice drops even lower, his eyes never leaving yours. “All I need is you. And I want to make sure you and the kids are mine. For good. So, what do you say?”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you look at him—really look at him. The man who’s seen things that would make most men break. The man who’s shown you what it means to truly care. The man who’s protected you, fought for you, and built a family with you.

“I—” You swallow, emotion thick in your throat. “Yes. Yes, Dean, I’ll marry you.”

Dean smiles—a rare, genuine smile—and slides the ring onto your finger. The weight of it, the finality, makes your heart swell. You’ve never been more sure of anything yourself. This moment, this family, this life—it’s all yours. Together.

He stands up, pulling you into his arms, the ring sparkling between you. Your toddler jumps into your arms, eager to be a part of the hug, and Dean chuckles, holding you both close.

“We’re a family,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “And we’re never going anywhere.”

You close your eyes, the world around you disappearing for a moment as you let the warmth of the moment settle in. The past, the dangers, the blood—it doesn’t matter anymore.

This is your family. And Dean’s made it clear that he will fight for it. Fight for you.

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

--

It’s been years since that day in the park. Since the proposal, the wedding, the birth of your son. Time has passed, and with it, your family has only grown stronger. Your little one, once a tiny bundle, is now a teenager—tall and lean, with that same fire in their eyes that Dean has. They’ve spent their years in the tattoo shop, learning the business, the art of ink, and more importantly, the way of the Winchester world.

The shop is bustling as usual, a steady stream of clients coming in and out, getting their tattoos, chatting, and sharing their stories. But today, something feels different. You can feel the shift, the weight of the next generation taking shape. Your child—your teenager—stands at the counter, just like you once did. Their gaze flicks to Dean, who’s overseeing everything as usual, arms crossed, his intense green eyes never missing a beat.

Dean’s been watching them grow, guiding them, teaching them. Not just the art of tattoos, but the code that runs deeper than ink—that’s part of the Winchester legacy.

You’re sitting at the back, flipping through some paperwork, but your eyes can’t help but watch the scene unfold in front of you. Your son is sitting with one of the artists, learning the flow of a new design, a quiet determination in their posture. They’re like a mirror of Dean in so many ways—calm, collected, and with a sharpness that hints at something darker, something deeper.

Dean’s voice breaks through the hum of the shop, a low rumble that commands attention. “Kid,” he calls, his gaze sharp but approving. “You’re not just here to learn how to make art. You’re here to learn how to run this place. And when the time comes, it’ll be your job to make sure it stays running.”

Your son looks up at him, nodding with that same serious expression that’s so much like Dean’s. “I know, Dad.” They’re not scared. They’re not hesitant. It’s like they were born for this.

Dean nods approvingly and walks over to where your son is working. He places a hand on their shoulder—a gesture of both authority and affection. The weight of that touch is something you know all too well. It’s the same touch he’s given you, the same reassurance that says you’re mine, and I’ll make sure you know it.

You stand up from the back and move toward them, quietly observing. Your heart swells with pride, mixed with the heavy weight of the life they’re stepping into.

“Everything okay?” you ask, your voice soft but steady.

Dean glances up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “They’re learning. Got a good head on their shoulders.”

You look at your teenager, who’s now carefully sketching out a new design, their movements swift and precise. Their concentration is unnerving, even more so than Dean’s at their age.

“You’re teaching them the ropes?” you ask, your gaze flicking to Dean.

“I’m teaching them everything,” Dean replies, his voice low and controlled. “Business, loyalty, the family code.” His eyes flicker back to your son, watching them work. “They’ve got the skill. But they need to understand what it takes to lead.”

You swallow, your heart tight in your chest. It’s not just tattoos Dean is passing on—it’s everything that comes with being in this world, with him. The mafia lifestyle, the control, the power that pulses through his veins.

You’ve seen the darkness that follows Dean everywhere, the long hours, the moments when his past comes rushing back. You’ve seen the way his eyes harden, the way he can turn from loving to lethal in an instant. And now your son is learning that same side of him—the side that can protect and destroy with equal intensity.

“Do they know what this life means?” you ask, your voice suddenly quiet, worried.

Dean’s gaze softens just for a moment. “They will. They’re not a kid anymore. They understand what we do.” His eyes shift to the teenager again. “And they’ve got what it takes to keep this legacy going. I see it in them. They’re not afraid.”

The words hit you harder than you expect, and for a brief moment, you feel a flash of the weight of it all. This life is dangerous, it’s unpredictable, and the world you’ve built together—your family, your empire—is always under threat.

But then your son looks up, meets your eyes, and gives you that small, knowing smile. It’s as if they’ve already made peace with this life, just like you and Dean have. They are part of this, and there’s no turning back.

“We’ve got your back, Mom,” they say, their voice steady. “Always.”

The words are simple, but they carry more weight than you could ever imagine. You feel a lump form in your throat, but you swallow it down.

“Just don’t forget that you’ve got to stay smart. There’s always a price,” you reply, trying to keep your voice level. “The tattoos, the ink—it’s not just art. It’s a symbol of what we stand for. You remember that, okay?”

Your son nods, their eyes filled with the same quiet confidence you’ve seen in Dean for years. “I will.”

Dean steps forward then, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you close to him. You lean into his warmth, your hand resting on his chest.

“This is their world now, too,” he murmurs against your ear. “We’ll make sure they’re ready for it.”

The weight of it presses down on you, but you know Dean’s right. This world is theirs now. The legacy is theirs to carry, to shape, and to protect.

And as you look at your son, standing so tall and unflinching in the face of everything this life demands, you know that Dean’s right about one thing: they’ve got what it takes.

The Winchester name will live on.

The night had started like any other, calm and quiet. The tattoo shop had closed for the evening, and the low hum of the neon lights outside cast a soft glow on the shop floor as you and Dean sat in the back, the baby long since tucked into bed and your teenager nowhere to be seen. The air smelled like ink and leather, a familiar comfort in the chaos of your life.

But that peace shattered in an instant.

Dean’s phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then a third time. He didn’t pick up, not yet. The silence lingered for a moment too long before you saw his posture shift—his muscles tensing, his eyes narrowing. You could feel it in the air; something was wrong.

"Dean?" you asked, but it was too late. He was already moving, pulling his phone from his pocket with a cold, calculated expression.

He answered the call.

“Where the hell are they?” Dean’s voice, usually low and measured, was tight with barely contained fury. “What do you want?”

You felt it then—the gut-wrenching, icy realization.

Your heart skipped. You were already on your feet, rushing towards him.

“Dean, what’s going on?” you asked, your voice shaky.

Dean didn’t answer you right away. His eyes were locked on the phone, his lips tight, his jaw clenched. He took a slow breath before his words hit you like a freight train.

“They’ve got our kid.”

A rush of cold terror slammed into you. Your breath hitched. “What? Who? What the hell do you mean?”

“Somebody took them. For ransom,” Dean growled, his hand tightening around the phone. "They want money, but it’s not about money. It’s never just about money."

You could see it now—the flicker of rage in Dean’s eyes. A darkness, deep and unsettling. His body was wound so tight you could practically feel the tension radiating off him. He hung up abruptly, his face pale but his eyes burning with something darker.

You took a step back, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind racing. “What do we do? Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions, none of them good. “We get them back. Now.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the back of the shop, where the emergency stash of weapons was kept. You followed, heart in your throat. You knew Dean better than anyone. He was a force—calculating, ruthless, deadly—but seeing him like this, seeing that raw desperation and fury... it made your blood run cold.

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

“No,” he interrupted sharply, the venom in his voice making you flinch. “No more talking. This isn’t some negotiation. This is personal. Whoever thought they could touch my kid is about to learn what happens when you mess with the Winchesters.”

You were barely able to keep up with him as he grabbed his gun, the sound of it clicking into place ringing in the otherwise silent room. He was already sliding on his jacket, the hard edge of his jawline like stone.

“You’re not going alone,” you said, your voice firm, no longer the shaky one you had been a moment ago.

Dean stopped, the briefest hesitation crossing his face. His eyes flicked to you, narrowing, but you saw that brief flicker of worry. It didn’t last. He took a deep breath and turned to face you.

“You’re staying here with the baby,” he ordered, his voice low and controlled. But the undercurrent of his tone betrayed him. He was barely holding it together. “You’re safer here.”

“Don’t tell me what’s safer, Dean,” you snapped, taking a step forward. “They’re our kid. I’m going with you.”

He gave you one long, unreadable look before his lips twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but more of a grimace.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he muttered under his breath. “They’ve crossed a line. And I’m about to show them just how bad an idea that was.”

Before you could argue, Dean was out the door, moving fast. You had no choice but to follow.

The city streets blurred around you as you and Dean sped through the darkened roads. Dean’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his jaw clenching so tightly you thought it might break. His gaze was laser-focused on the road, but his mind was already somewhere else—somewhere far darker.

The message had been clear. The voice on the other end had been muffled, but the demand had been simple. Money, or we end them. But the truth was far more terrifying than that. Dean knew this wasn’t just a random kidnapping. This was a message.

And Dean never let messages slide.

You didn’t dare ask questions as the car whipped through the streets. Every second felt like an eternity, but Dean’s pace never faltered. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, thick and palpable. He was slipping back into that dangerous, unpredictable rhythm you knew too well.

“I’m gonna tear their fucking world apart,” Dean muttered, his voice tight with venom. “You don’t touch what’s mine and expect to walk away. No one does.”

He slammed the car to a stop in front of an old, rundown building—no lights, no signs, just a hollow shell of a place. His eyes flicked to you, once again soft for a fraction of a second. “Stay close, sweetheart. Don’t let them get to you.”

Before you could respond, Dean was out of the car, moving like a shadow—fast, calculated, lethal. You grabbed your own weapon and followed close behind. You knew, even without him saying a word, this wasn’t just about money. This was about respect. About vengeance. About showing whoever had taken your child just how badly they’d fucked up.

Inside the building, it was eerily quiet—until the sound of a door creaking open echoed through the dark. Your heart stuttered, but Dean was already at the door, his presence commanding. You could hear voices inside. One was familiar—your child’s, a little shaky but still strong.

The seconds felt like hours.

Dean motioned for you to stay low. You crouched behind him, your heart thudding in your chest as you followed his lead.

Then Dean burst through the door. The sound of gunfire rang out, deafening and sharp. It was chaos—screams, shots, but Dean was a whirlwind. He moved faster than anyone could react, gunfire flashing, bodies hitting the floor.

And then you saw them. Your child, bound to a chair in the corner of the room, looking at Dean with a mix of fear and relief.

“Dean!” you shouted, rushing to their side.

Dean had already disarmed the remaining goons, his eyes cold and dead set on the leader of the operation—a man who had made the mistake of thinking he could get away with this.

Dean was on him in an instant, grabbing the man by the collar and lifting him off his feet. “You think you can fuck with my family?” His voice was a deadly growl. The man’s eyes widened in terror.

The next few moments were a blur. The others were dealt with swiftly—brutally. Dean didn’t speak again, not until the building was clear and your child was free.

Dean walked toward you and your som, his demeanor still cold, but his hands trembling just slightly as he reached out to untie them.

“You good?” he asked, his voice gruff, but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the undercurrent of worry he was trying to hide.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Your son’s voice was steady, but you could see the relief in their eyes.

Dean looked at them, then back to you, his voice softer this time. “No one ever takes what’s ours again. Not while I’m breathing.”

And for a moment, you believed him.

It had been weeks since the nightmare ended. Since Dean stormed through that warehouse like the wrath of God himself and took back what was his. Since he’d carried your son out of that hellhole and brought them home, holding them so tightly you thought he’d never let go.

Things had settled, in the way only the Winchesters knew how—cautiously, quietly, always keeping one eye open. But the weight had lifted. Your family was whole. And today, for the first time in a long time, life felt normal.

The shop was closed for the day. No buzzing tattoo machines, no clients, no business meetings in the back with men who spoke in hushed voices. Just you, Dean, and your now fully-recovered teenager spending the day somewhere safe—somewhere untouched by the chaos of the world outside.

The park was bright and warm, sunlight filtering through the trees, kids laughing in the distance. You sat on a picnic blanket, watching as your son—your fighter—taught their younger sibling how to climb onto the jungle gym. Dean stood off to the side, arms crossed, that usual scowl on his face, but you knew him well enough to see through it. The tightness in his jaw wasn’t anger—it was pride.

“You gonna hover all day, Winchester?” you teased, nudging his arm.

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “Not hovering,” he muttered. “Just… watching.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Watching for what? Squirrels?”

Dean shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You know what I mean,” he said, his voice quieter now. “After everything…” His gaze flicked back to your teenager, who was laughing as their little sibling clung onto their back, begging for a piggyback ride. “I just need to know they’re okay.”

You softened, reaching for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “They are okay, Dean. Because of you. Because of us.”

Dean let out a slow breath, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah,” he murmured, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

You squeezed his hand. “Hey. Look at them.” You tilted your head toward your kids. “They’re happy. They’re safe. They’ve got us. And nothing’s ever gonna change that.”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a long moment, like he was memorizing the way you looked in the sun, how your eyes held no fear, no worry—only love.

Then, finally, the scowl eased off his face, replaced by something much softer.

“Damn right,” he said, pulling you into his side, his lips brushing against your temple. “No one’s ever taking what’s mine again.”

The wind rustled through the trees, the laughter of your children filling the air, and for the first time in what felt like forever, everything felt right. Whole.

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

//this is your kind reminder to REBLOG!!//

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

P.S. Do You Still Love Me| Pt3

ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒConclusion: Can we fix this? ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ

Morning light couldn’t even filter through the curtains they were drawn so tightly. The only reason you woke was the slamming of the front door. You laid in bed for a few minutes, amounting the slamming to Minho, as Jisung tended to be a bit softer closing the doors ever since you once told him he would find a way to break a door one day. 

There was always little things you told him that he took into consideration. Little things that didn’t even really need to be fixed. But things he wanted to change for the sake of being perfect for you.

Maybe thats why…you thought

But you didn’t want perfect. 

You wanted Jisung.

Your head throbbed as you stirred, vaguely aware of the scent of Jisung lingering on the pillow beneath you. You squinted, trying to better piece together the fragments of last night, but the fog in your mind was heavy.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the bed,you spotted your phone on the nightstand. 

You wondered when someone had found the time to retrieve it, but you didn’t mull over it too much. Swiping away the notifications on your phone. Apology after apology from the one who had kissed you. A few messages from your friends, and then a message from Jisung.

I had to head to the studio. There is some hangover stew Minho hyung prepared for you if you like. And some orange juice in the fridge as well.  

You sighed as your finger hovered over the messages for a moment. 

Another message popped through. 

I’ll see you later, Y/N-ie. Rest up, please. I’ll be home soon.I asked Hyung for a half-day :/

Damn you Han Jisung. You thought as you held your hand to your chest. How could he be so considerate yet so infuriating at the same time. 

You looked around for a pair of slippers, and realized the ones Jisung had gotten you a while ago were slightly under the bed. You got down to grab them, but your hand nudged against a small box tucked beneath the frame. Curious, you reached further and pulled it out. 

It was plain, a little scuffed around the edges, with a lid that felt oddly heavy in your hands.

Inside, there were letters; neatly stacked, each one addressed to you.

Your heart skipped.

You hesitated, knowing that you weren’t meant to see these, but giving into the temptation of opening them. 

The first one was dated the day Jisung had broken things off with you. 

Hesitantly, you unfolded it, his familiar handwriting staring back at you. The crinkle of paper doing little to ground you in the moment.

The words were a bit smeared, obviously spread from the wetness of tears. The pattern showed he had spilled many.

Y/N, I know I hurt you today. I hurt myself too. I don’t even know if this is the right thing to do, but I felt like I couldn’t hold on to you while I was so lost in myself. You deserve so much better than that, better than me. But even now, I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Jisung P.S. Do you still love me?

Your hands trembled as you unfolded the second letter, heart pounding in your chest.

Y/N, It’s been two weeks, and I still can’t stop thinking about the way your face crumpled when I said it was over. I didn’t want to hurt you- I never did. But I thought… maybe if I let you go, you could find someone who wouldn’t make you feel like you were always waiting on me. The truth? I wasn’t brave enough to face my fears. I wasn’t brave enough to tell you how much I needed you, even when I was falling apart. I was afraid that if I told you I was growing dependent, than you’d want to leave. Was that selfish of me? I wish I was more selfish. Selfish enough to keep you by my side, regardless of how you felt- or how I thought you felt. Because I was happy. And I like to think you were happy too. If I was selfish enough, maybe I could have gotten rid of my fear of being too undeserving. If I was selfish enough I could trick myself into not caring.  I wish I hadn’t cared.  I miss your laugh. I miss the way you’d throw a pillow at me when I teased you too much.  I miss you, Y/N. Every single day. Jisung P.S. Do you still love me?

Before you even finished the second letter you were already reaching for the third. 

And soon enough you were on the seventh letter.

Y/N, It’s been a month now, and I keep asking myself if I made the biggest mistake of my life. I can’t get your smile out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I thought I was doing the right thing- giving you space, giving you freedom. I thought I was being a hero, letting you go to find someone to make you happier. But all I did was rip my own heart out in the process. I don’t want you to be happy with someone else. I want you to be happy with me. I saw your favorite coffee shop today. I almost went in, hoping you’d be there. But what would I even say? Would you even want to see me? I don’t think I deserve your love anymore, but if there’s even the smallest chance you still feel something for me I’d jump at it. Regardless of any consequences. Jisung P.S. Do you still love me?

Then soon enough you were on the tenth, eleventh, twelfth. So many letters you almost lost count. But it was the last one that struck you the most. A letter Jisung had seemingly written the night before.

Y/N, You’re asleep right now. You’re curled up in my bed, wrapped in my hoodie like it’s some kind of armor, and my pillow’s soaked in tears you probably don’t even remember crying. You always did this thing where you hugged your pillow when you were upset, like it could shield you from the world. I hate that I’m the one who made you feel like you needed it. I don’t even know where to start, because there’s so much I want to say- so much I’ve held back for far too long. I thought leaving you was the right thing to do. I thought that by walking away, I was sparing you from…well, from me. But I was wrong. God, I was so wrong. When you looked at me tonight, your eyes full of hurt and confusion, it felt like someone had taken every piece of me and smashed it all over again. And then you said it. ‘I thought I did something wrong…’ You have no idea what those words did to me. You didn’t do anything wrong, Y/N. You never did. I left because I thought I was protecting you. I thought I was saving you from the storm that comes with being near me. But I never stopped to think about how selfish that was. I thought it was selfish to want you, but time has made me realize it was selfish of me to do all that I’ve done. I didn’t ask if you wanted saving. I didn’t ask if you wanted to face that storm with me. I didn’t ask your feelings on anything. That was wrong and selfish. So very much so.  I hurt you, and in doing so, I hurt myself even worse. Every day since I left has been empty- like I’ve been living in black and white while you were the color in my world. I didn’t just walk away from you; It’s like I’ve been walking through my life wearing blinders ever since I let you go. I see the world, but it doesn’t feel real. Food doesn’t taste the same. Music doesn’t sound as good. Even the things I used to love feel hollow because you’re not there to share them with me. I find pieces of you everywhere. In the songs we used to listen to on repeat, in the shops we always went to, in the way the sunlight hits the sidewalk on those rare quiet mornings when the world feels like it’s holding its breath. It’s ridiculous, really- how you’re still everywhere, even though you’re nowhere near me. I try to pretend I’m okay. I smile for the cameras, laugh with the guys, and act like I’ve got it all together, but it’s just that- an act. Every time I hear someone call my name, I wish it was your voice. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s you, even though I know better.

You swallowed, hands shaking.

Do you know how many times I almost called you? How many times I wrote out a message, only to delete it because I thought you’d moved on, or worse—that you hated me? I’ve kept every letter I wrote to you, every unsent apology, every unspoken word, because I couldn’t bear to throw them away. I walked away from my own happiness, from the person who made me feel like I could be enough. And now here you are. In my bed. Looking so small, so fragile, and all I can think about is how much I want to fix this. I want to fix us. Tonight, you called me a squirrel. Do you know how ridiculous that is? But somehow, even in your drunken haze, you managed to ask the one question I’ve been too afraid to answer for myself: Do I get lonely? Do I miss you like you miss me? The answer is yes. God, yes. I’ve never stopped being lonely since the moment I walked away. I’m so lonely without you that it feels like I’m suffocating. I miss you more than I have words for. I miss your smile, your warmth, your everything. I miss you in a way that’s so deep it’s become a part of me, and I don’t know how I’ve survived this long without you. You were always my safe place, Y/N. The person I could run to when the world felt too big, too overwhelming.  Do you remember the night we sat on the rooftop and you told me no matter how heavy my heart felt, I had people by my side who could help me handle it, and you held my hand while I cried. I don’t think I ever told you how much that meant to me. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? I never told you enough. I didn’t tell you how much I loved the way you’d scrunch your nose when you were concentrating or how you always danced in the kitchen, even if there wasn’t any music.  I didn’t tell you how your laugh felt like the first day of spring after a long, bitter winter. I didn’t tell you that you were the one who made me feel like I wasn’t just enough, but more than enough.

You sniffed, trying hard to blink away your tears to no avail, before continuing.

I’ve thought about what I’d say to you if I could do it all over again. If I could rewind time to that moment where I made the biggest mistake of my life; I’d tell you the truth instead of running away. I’d tell you that I wasn’t leaving because of you; I was leaving because I didn’t feel good enough for you. I didn’t feel like I deserved someone as bright, as kind, as endlessly loving as you. I was scared, Y/N. Scared of dragging you down with me. Scared that my flaws, my insecurities, and all the baggage I carry would crush you. I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go, by giving you the chance to find someone better- someone who could love you the way you deserve to be loved. But I was wrong. So unbelievably wrong. I see that now, and I hate myself for being so blind.  Because the truth is, no one could ever love you the way I do. It might sound egotistic to say but its the truth. No one could ever know you the way I do, with all your little quirks and habits that make you so…you.  No one could ever feel what I feel for you. They couldn’t even come close. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this time apart, it’s that love doesn’t go away just because you’re scared. It doesn’t fade just because you run from it.  Rather, It stays. It grows. It becomes a part of you, even when you think you don’t deserve it. And I love you, Y/N. I love you so much that it terrifies me, because I know what it means. It means that no matter where I go, no matter what I do, my heart will always be with you. It means that even if you tell me you don’t love me anymore, I’ll still love you. So I guess it won’t hurt to write once more. I love you. Jisung P.S. Do you still love me?

You sat frozen, the crumpled letter trembling in your hands as Jisung’s words crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under. Every sentence struck like a raw nerve, unraveling the walls you had built brick by brick to keep the pain at bay. Tears blurred your vision, dripping onto the paper as if your heart was spilling out along with them. You had wanted this, dreamed of this—of him finally saying the words you’d been desperate to hear. But now that they were in your hands, they felt too heavy, too full of everything you hadn’t let yourself feel in so long.

Your hands shook as you placed the letter on his desk, scanning the room for something—anything—to channel the emotions surging through you. The mess of his drawers caught your eye, half-open and chaotic, and before you could think, you were rifling through them, searching for a blank page and a pen. Papers and notebooks slid around under your fingers, faint traces of him clinging to the air, and for a moment, you hesitated. Did you really want to do this?

But the words were already bubbling up inside you, and you couldn’t stop them. You grabbed a sheet of paper and sat down, your hands trembling as you pressed the pen to the page. The first few lines came hesitantly, but then the floodgates opened, and everything you had been holding back poured out. You wrote with a desperation you didn’t fully understand, the scratching of the pen the only sound in the quiet room.

When you finally set the pen down, your chest felt lighter—but only just. You stared at the folded letter in your hands, running your fingers over the edge as you debated what to do next. For a brief moment, the weight of all that had passed between you felt like too much, like this might only bring more pain. But as you stood, gripping the letter tightly, a quiet determination settled over you.

You slipped the letter into your pocket, glancing back at the room one last time. Something about the stillness felt final, like you were closing a chapter, but whether it was the end or a new beginning, you couldn’t quite tell. With a deep breath, you stepped out of the room, clutching your words like a lifeline, ready to face whatever came next.

ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ𝟶ﾒ

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[musings-of-a-rose]

I got an idea for a soul mate type thing with Benny and a girl who works at a coffee shop, as for the soul mate part, maybe every time one person is injured the injury appears on the other person’s in the same spot but as flowers. Oh! With Benny being an MMA fighter he gets punched a lot and it affects his soul mate, so when he goes to her place to tell her about his fight, he sees her covered in flowers that are similar to the bruises on him and it turns inti the soul mate thing dawning on him and him apologizing profusely and her telling him that it wasn’t his fault . Maybe just a tad fluffy at the end

(I also really like your one shots, they’re very good. Thank you

SoulMMAtes

Pairing: Benny Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 1865

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Sorry this took so long to get to! I've never written a soulmate au and then I wrote it but we all got sick! I hope this is what you're looking for.

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**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Benny Miller Masterlist

“Cappucino for Keith!” I project out at the handful of people waiting, a middle aged man coming forward, phone glued to his ear as he snaps his fingers at me, yanking the coffee from my hand and leaving without a word to me. 

“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath, moving to take the next order. 

I glance at the ticket and look for what I need, only to find the container empty. I sigh internally and head to the back room, my eyes scanning the shelf to locate the right syrup bottle. Which happens to be on the top shelf. I reach up to grab the bottle, my coworker, Amy, coming in behind me. 

“More flowers?” She points to where my shirt had ridden up, the bottom of a bloom of flowers just visible under the hem. I grab the syrup bottle and stand straight, lifting my shirt slightly to show her the rest. “Your soulmate is either clumsy as fuck or really loves to get beat up.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, that would be my luck.”

“Still no idea who it is?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Do they hurt still?”

I shrug. “They used to. Now I guess I’m used to it.”

I remember being told about soul mates and our attachment to each other, any pain the other receives will show up on their mate’s bodies in the form of beautiful flower tattoos. They did not mention that pain often comes with it. The first time they appeared, it was my right eye. I missed class and called out of work for a few days. Supposedly, the flowers are to give you a clue as to who your mate is. How it helps, I’m not entirely sure, since I still haven’t found my soulmate yet. 

I follow Amy out of the backroom, bottle of syrup in hand, swapping it out with the old one. Some time passes, and then I hear my favorite regular’s voice placing his order. I look up just as Benny walks to my end of the counter, all blue eyes and a big smile. 

“Hey, sweetheart! Do you ever go home?”

I smile, looking away from the intensity of his gaze for a moment. “Nah. I sleep in the back on top of the bags of beans.”

Benny chuckles and my stomach flips. “Is that why your coffee tastes the best?”

Fuck. Why can’t he be my soulmate?

“I sneak hard core drugs into yours so you’ll keep coming back for more.”

A smile stretches across his face, his eyes darkening slightly. “I’ll come for you anytime.”

I can feel the heat in my cheeks, spreading across my face. I turn, trying to hide it and the smirk on my face as I busy myself with his regular order. I feel a small tug at my heart, a yearning for this man that I know I’m not matched with. I school my face and turn back, handing him his coffee. 

“Well that’s good to know. It’ll save me money. But my dealer may not be happy.”

Benny laughs, his eyes twinkling as he opens his mouth to say something. But then another blonde man walks up to him, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You ready to go, Ben?”

Is it just me or does Benny look a little…sad? He turns towards the man and nods. “Yeah. Oh, Will. This my favorite barista in the world. This is my brother, Will.” 

He sticks his hand out and I take it briefly, noting the firm grip. “Nice to meet you, darlin’.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

Will turns to Benny, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “We gotta go now or you’re gonna be late.” 

Benny glances at his watch. “Shit. Yeah, ok.” He looks at me, a little sadness in his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I feel like my heart is in a wrench. Get over yourself. He’s not even your soulmate. I plaster on a smile that I hope seems genuine. “I’ll be here!”

—----

That night was one of the worst nights in a while. I just barely make it home before the pains start, first across my ribs, then a knee, my cheek, and my eye. The pain is more intense than it has been, and I throw my bag down, kicking off my shoes just to drop my body onto my bed. Smaller flower tattoos erupt across my body for next few minutes, the pain eventually fading into the background as I curl in the fetal position, wondering what the hell my soulmate is doing. Eventually, somehow, I fall asleep.

—----

The morning sun shines through the blinds on my face and I blink awake, stretching my cramped limbs. It’s a moment before I remember why I was in this position. I drag myself into the bathroom, shedding off all my clothes and step in front of the mirror to assess the marks. There are small, lighter ones scattered around my body, mostly on my torso, with the one on my ribs bright and beautiful. Thankfully, the flowers on my face have faded, for the most part. Gently, I touch them, a tear slowly falling down my cheek, thinking about what might have happened to my soulmate. 

I reach for my phone and call my manager, explaining that I can’t come in today. They weren’t having it though, telling me that I’m closing and they’ll see me tonight. Sighing, I hang up the phone and try my best to cover up the gorgeous marks, wondering and hoping that my soulmate is ok. 

—----

The only thing that was getting me through my shift was the thought of maybe seeing Benny. The doors open and close, people coming and going, none of whom are the man I want to see. I shouldn’t want to see him, but I do. About 10 minutes from closing, the last of the customers file out, one of the men laughing loudly and punching his friend in the arm as the door closes behind them. I sigh, moving to start the closing routine, especially since I’m alone. It was so slow, I let the other employee go home early to be with her kid. The door opens as I’m about to dump the remaining coffee. I turn and am met with familiar bright blue eyes, sweaty hair plastered to his face.

“Did I make it?” Benny is trying hard to make it look like he isn’t breathing heavy.

I’m happy to see him, but also worried. “Yeah but..are you ok?”

He nods, slight pain in his eyes that he desperately tries to bury. “ ‘m good.”

There’s silence for a few moments as I watch him try to fight for his life with the breathing. “I’d make you our usual, but honestly that coffee has been sitting a while. You should probably have a decaf tea anyway.”

Benny nods. “Sounds good.”

I turn away from him, hearing him suck some air quickly through his teeth. A little sharp jab in my side reminds me that I’m nearly overdue for another round of pain killers. I head towards our tea shelf. 

“Slow night?” Benny asks.

“Yeah. It’s never busy on these nights.”

I scan the jars on the counter, naturally finding the chamomile on the highest shelf. Sighing, I stand on my tip toes, my arm outstretched to reach the box. My fingertips graze it when I hear Benny move, his shoes thudding across the floor as he comes around the counter. 

“What is that?” He asks, suddenly behind me and the closest he’s ever been. Fuck he smells so good. 

I glance back over my shoulder, tea bag in hand as I mange to turn in place. “Uh…what?”

Benny points to my back, where my shirt had ridden up while reaching for the tea. “The marks.”

My cheeks flush and I look away from him. “Oh, it’s uh…a tatt…too?” Great. That sounded convincing. 

“Show me.” It wasn’t a demand, but it didn’t feel like a request. I swallow the lump in my throat. I know that once he sees the marks, he won’t come back. Why would he waste his time when he could be finding his soul mate?

“It’s nothing, really. A dumb idea when I was younger.”

His eyes soften slightly, his eyebrows pulling together to do that stupid look that makes me go weak. “Can I see?”

We watch each other for a long moment before I nod, turning my back towards him and raising my shirt to show off the beautiful flowers that bloom across my ribs. His fingertips brush against the marks and my body tingles, shivers shooting through ever nerve in my body, my stomach feeling like it’s full of butterflies. 

“I…I am so sorry, sweetheart.”

I turn back to him as he takes a step back, my heart clenching at his movement. “Sorry for what?”

“I didn’t fucking think about…I didn’t realize…holy shit but yeah of course! Oh fuck this makes sense!” The concern is battling with a dawning realization on his face.

“Benny, what-” He grips the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, his chest bare. 

And covered in bruises and nicks. 

My eyes widen as I see the darkest and most prominent bruise, splayed across his ribs exactly where my flower marks are. As my eyes roam across his torso, my hands touch places on my body where the marks are, each one of them identical to the bruises on Benny. 

“You?” I whisper, my eyes finally landing on his. 

He nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “Me.” He holds a hand up, palm facing me and I press my hand to his. The same feeling shoots back through me, my nerves alight, butterflies bursting from my stomach, but also a sense of coming home, being safe, warm, and loved. Benny steps closer to me, lightly gripping my ribs and pulling me close to him. With his other hand, he brushes some stray hair from my face, tipping my chin up to him as he places the softest kiss on my lips. Everything slides into place - the way I always felt drawn to him, why my body was physically reacting to him in more ways than one, why I couldn’t stop thinking about him once I’d seen him. His embrace feels exactly where I belong. 

I pull back, his eyes searching mine. 

“Are you a terrible ninja or something?”

Benny laughs, his whole body shaking with it. “Nothing cool like that. Just MMA.”

“Are you terrible or?” My eyebrow cocks up and he smirks. 

“I win every fight. I just know how to take a punch.”

“Well could you maybe take a few less from now on?”

Benny smiles. “No need, sweetheart. I’ll quit. I don’t want you in pain for my stupid mistakes.”

He presses his lips to mine again, moaning slightly into the kiss. But then he inhales sharply, hissing out. I feel the twinge in my ribs and I know he’s hurting. 

“Ok, let me clean this place up and then I’m taking care of you. Got it?”

Benny smirks, his eyes twinkling. “Yes ma’am.”

-------

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[inheritedbelly]

The weight of betrayal

"I'm sorry," I said, after accidentally turning all my weight onto my boyfriend while trying to get comfortable at night. My name is Tommy; I’m 22 years old… or rather, I used to be. I met my boyfriend on a dating site two years ago. When he told me he had magical abilities, I didn’t believe him. Until he proved it, right in front of me, making objects appear or change shape. After a few months of dating, I made a mistake and ended up cheating on Matt at a party. I didn’t intend to tell him, but… he’s magical, and he found out on his own. There was no way around it: he threw everything in my face, and I had no choice but to humiliate myself, begging for forgiveness. After all, I loved him. I made just one slip-up, which, in the end, came with a very high price.

"I used to be a good-looking, fit twink, everyone would stare at me, and I couldn’t help it that I was so drunk that night. Well, maybe a little bit of guilt," I thought.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t believe you had the nerve to do this to me. I don’t know if I can trust you again, but… I can make the most of this.” He grabbed one of his books and pointed his finger at me. I knew nothing good would come from this. “I’ll make sure you never betray me again. And since I like older, bigger guys… I’ll make the most of this.”

The result of this "game" is that today, here I am – a man in his 50s or 60s, old and fat. I never imagined I could be this big. Being old felt strange. I preferred lying down all day, and no one looked at me like they used to. I had no choice; Matt had said countless times that he would never undo the spell, no matter how much I insisted. All I could do was accept this new life as an old man. My back hurts, and I still haven’t gotten used to this huge belly. Being fat is a complicated experience – I sweat from the smallest effort and, all the time, I’m hungry. My deeper voice and advanced baldness give away my age.

But, when I think about it, not everything is as bad as it seems. After all, I love Matt, and someone like me – now old and fat – would hardly have another chance at a relationship. And, to my surprise, Matt seems to like it. In the afternoon, we sit on the couch, while he feeds me and strokes my belly, which has become a kind of giant cushion. At night, when we go to bed, he buries his face in my sagging chest, and at least now I fall asleep much faster than before, even though I snore loudly like a sleeping elephant. Everything feels much more affectionate than before, even though everyone thinks I'm Matt’s grandfather, not his boyfriend. And apparently, no one looks at me anymore. In fact, his exclusivity plan seems to have worked.

Although I want my old life back, I can’t deny that some things have improved, at least for Matt. He assured me that my life hasn’t been shortened – I’ll just keep this form until he also becomes an old, fat man like me. So, I guess it’s better to get used to this new appearance. After all, I kind of deserved what happened. I just wish my back didn’t hurt so much from having to carry this huge belly around…

[giuliettagaltieri]

Trouble in Paradise

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Chapter Synopsis: It's not always perfect with him.

Warning: Talks about fertility awareness and pregnancy, lifestyle differences.

Word Count: 4075

Chapter: 4

“For someone who lost the love of his life and his career in one day, you sure have a sunny disposition.” 

Charles watches you pull a grocery cart, clearly not aware that your words weighed a little heavier than you meant.

“She’s not the love of my life.  The worst has already happened and I don’t want to dwell in it anymore.”  He mutters quietly but his dimples deepen at the playful quirk of his lips, making you purse your lips.  “Charles Leclerc the F1 driver is gone now and as for the moment I just want to live without the burden of my name.”

You bite your lip this time, watching him as he places the basket on the bottom tray of the cart.

“I’m sorry.”  You bite your lip, your hands immediately fumbling with your bag and Charles notices it.  “I shouldn’t comment so carelessly about your persona-”

“Sweetheart.”  He cuts you off.  “If anything it’s me who should apologize.  I dragged you into my mess and I’m making myself your burden.”

Your eyes widen and you raise your hands as if asking for a double highfive, he glances at your palm when you shake them side to side erratically, trying to dismiss his statement.  “Charles, don’t think for a moment that you’re a burden.” 

He’s about to protest but you cut him off this time.

“I was willing to let you in that night.  And today, I made the decision to let you stay.”  You sigh when he still looks unconvinced.  “Just think of me as a friend.  Friends do stuff for each other, right?”

“I think we’re a bit over friends by now but sure.”  He nudges you gently with his body so he can push the cart instead, his smile widening a fraction and it just infects you for some reason.

“Charles, I’m trying to be serious.  Don’t laugh at me.”  You say as small laughs escape you.

“Alright then.  I’ll consider this as a favor from a friend.”

“Yes!”  You point a finger at him as if he hit the jackpot.  “Not a burden.  Just a favor.  PLUS!  You’re keeping me company, and I quite enjoy it.”  You mumble the last part, avoiding his eyes as your cheeks flush.

He quirks up an eyebrow, his easy smile becoming teasing.  “Of course you enjoy it.  I’m pretty good company.”

Rolling your eyes, you start picking out the groceries and he watches your selection and knows immediately you’re not exactly trying to save money.

“You can pick out a few ingredients or snacks if you want.”  You tell him and his eyes immediately flit to the line of refrigerators in the corner.  You don’t miss when his gaze linger on the ice cream section.  He tells you that he’ll do it later.

Charles stands there as you try to reach for a bottle of olive oil on the top shelf and he enjoys watching your struggle before he gives in and reaches it for you.  “Could've asked for help.”

“Excuse me, I’m perfectly capable of getting that myself.”  You say sassily, with your hands finding your hips but your act wavers when he leans close to you, a hairbreadth of distance keeping your noses from brushing.

“Of course, whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Your eye twitches and he leans back, standing on his full height, forcing you to crane your neck to look at him.  And Charles proves his point.

“My height is average!  You’re just slightly tall.”  You argue, feeling the need to justify your height.

He yawns as he pretends to clean his ear with his pinky.  “What’s with the squeaking?  Maybe the mall should call an exterminator.”

Charles laughs when your cheeks puff.  Reminding him of those sticky rounded sweets he had in Tokyo.  He calls you the exact same thing in French and you don’t know if you should get mad, because you feel like you definitely recognized a word in his sentence but you couldn’t be sure as you don’t speak the language.

You huff this time, marching off to the next aisle.  “You just wait, Charles Leclerc.  I’ll kick your butt with Duolingo.”

He observes that you systematically choose the items, even constantly checking on your phone, looking quite oblivious to the world around you...and the casual stares you get here and there.  Charles looks at you.  Really looks at you.  You’re not the conventional pretty that he usually sees in his world but you have this charm that really drew him in, even last night too, and he was drunk out of his mind.

“Do you prefer wine or beer?”  You ask and he rubs his chin.

“Mh….both.”

You like his style.  

You put a small box of beer cans and a few bottles of wine in the cart.  “We’re not allowed to get drunk together though.”

Charles nods slowly, looking at you thoughtfully.  Ah…so you don’t have any interest in having that kind of relationship with him.  You said it yourself earlier too.  Friends.

“I also need detergent liquid and fabric conditioner.”  You mutter to yourself.  “Oh and your snack.”

“I’ve decided on ice cream.”  He informs you.

“Sure thing.”

Charles watches as you scan each item as he arranges them in the grocery bag.  He grins when you give him the ice cream tub last so he can eat it as you leave.  You also get a small treat of your own, happily munching on it as you walk side by side.  He looks like a child, pushing the cart filled with grocery bags as he eats on the vanilla ice cream he eagerly chose.

“I can push the cart while you eat.”  You tried to offer but he swerved the cart away from your hand, his reflexes nearly startling you.  “Calm…down, man.”  You gape at him and he only scoops more ice cream to his mouth.

“Ayh ghot et.”

You let him be as you enjoy your own snack.  You also watch him load everything in your trunk since he insisted.

“The meat?”  He asks and you pull out a retractable basin and he seems impressed.

“I take care of my baby.”  You pat your car with a lazy smirk.

He hums, the thick accent coating his words after.  “Yeah, pretty good condition.  How long have you been driving her?”

“A little over a year.  So I think she should be in good condition or I would have been a pretty shit owner.”  You chuckle.  Shit owner.  Charles nods wordlessly, reflecting on how he can destroy a car in a single race.

“Right.”

He finishes loading the groceries along with his stuff and almost heads to the driver’s seat before backtracking and going the other way.

The ride home was not as eventful.  You play as a tour guide and point at historic buildings, telling him briefly what you learned from the time you also got a tour of the town.  Charles finds out that the road around town isn’t that complicated and he can easily commit it to memory. 

The area is not bustling but it also isn’t deserted, unlike that night when he first arrived.  The place looked like a ghost town then, with its eerie fog and flickering old fashioned lamp posts.

“How come your apartment doesn’t have cobblestone streets?”  He asks out of curiosity.

“Some of the apartments at the edge of the town were built a little later than the town center.”  You grin quickly at him before turning back to the road again.

He peers out the window and onto the road.  “It’s like we’re in some sort of Victorian drama.”

You laugh.  “It’s one of the reasons why I moved here.  Plus the beach.”

Charles listens in, liking how you’re openly sharing about yourself without being asked.

“It sucks sometimes though, when a stone is dislodged or when it rains or snows.”  You add.

“Gets slippery.”  He finishes for you and you agree, chuckling.

“It’s slowly sinking in that you are what you said you are.”

His eyes widened, immediately looking defensive.  “I am what I said I am!  You searched me.  It’s on Google.”

“I know but you’re just Charles to me.  Not some Monégasque F1 superstar.”  You say gently and he looks at you, surprised at your ability to make him feel things he never had before.  “And just someone playing the passenger princess.”

Oh no, you didn’t.

He looks at you in disbelief but his lips are quirked up.  “No, no.  Get out of there, we’re switching seats.”

“No!”  You immediately laugh when he starts spewing, what you can only interpret as French curses.  “This is my car, don’t take off your fucking seatbelt, dumbass!”  You yell as you clumsily grip his wrist, laughing at the chaos ensuing inside your car.  “Stop it!  We’re gonna crash!” 

He keeps trying to explain how he is NOT a passenger princess and that he has no problem driving if you just let him.  When he almost sounds begging, his hands make those huge gestures again as you tear up in laughter. 

“Sorry, I didn't know it was sensitive.”  You chuckle as he calms down a bit but he still keeps talking, his English breaking when his native language slips in on his sentences.  “Is it like an alpha male thing?”

This makes him look at you weirdly.  “What?”

“Alpha male?  Or what do they say now?  Sigma boy?”  You raise both brows at him briefly, grinning from ear to ear.  “Are you one of those guys, Charles Leclerc?”

He visibly cringes not knowing what to make of the stuff you’re saying.  “That’s fucking stupid.  I don’t even know what that means.  You are very weird.”  He says while side eyeing you.

“Yeah this is the catch when you live with me.”  You say, attempting to sound cool and obviously failing.  “You get to deal with my weirdness.”

He shakes his head, his hand covering the smile on his lips under the guise of smoothening his growing stubble.  “Is this going to be what everyday looks like with you?”

You suddenly glance at him in your normal calculating eyes.  “Not really.  That was just a sudden burst of energy and I will proceed to ignore you for the next three hours now.”

Charles narrows his eyes at you dramatically.  “You’re like a cat.”

“Thanks.”  Nobody told you that before and you don’t know if it’s a compliment or if it was supposed to insult you.  “Seriously though, I need my social battery constantly recharged so you should cherish it when I’m being playful.”

“Minette.”

“What was that?”  You turn to him briefly before slowing down when you arrive at your driveway.

He shakes his head and steps out of the car when you finally park it. 

Charles was quick to head to your trunk and he insisted on taking the grocery bags.  He actually manages to carry every single bag and you’re impressed.  It usually takes you at least two trips to carry two weeks’ worth of groceries, and that was just for one person too.

“I can help.”  You jog after him, watching how his tendons pop out of his arms, making your throat go dry for a moment.

“Just open the door, babe.”  He tells you and you falter in your steps before doing as he says with your tummy fluttering lightly.  “Where’s the kitchen again?”

“Huh?”  You ask dumbly.  “Uhm, over there.  You can place them on the counter, thank you.”  You say a little meekly, still disarmed by his sudden endearment.  You watch his back as he disappears in the kitchen.

“He’s a French guy…it must be natural for them to be endearing.”  You try to reason out before following him to the kitchen to place in the freezer the variety of meat you bought.  “I’ll wash your clothes for you so you can shower.”  You offer and he tongues his cheek.

“No, just teach me how to do it.”

You beam.  “Alright.”  You lead him to your laundry room, tell him which buttons to use and how the cycle goes.  He impresses you when he does it flawlessly when you tell him to try on his own.  “Good job.”  You hum, clearly impressed.

“Oh please, I am not that helpless.”  He rolls his eyes.  And he glances at your feet and does a double take before he jolts in surprise.  “Fuck!”

You glance at your feet, already have felt Lily’s fur.  You bend down to pick her up and you let her face Charles.  “This is my baby, Lily.”  You gently take her paw to wave at Charles who still looks at your cat like it was a spawn of evil.

“Why is it so huge!”  He asks and you immediately take offense.

“I…excuse me, she is the perfect size!  Lily is just fluffy a-and has…big bones!”  You are ready to throw hands if he insults your baby again.

Charles exhales softly and meets the bored feline eyes.  “She looks angry.”

“She always looks angry.”  You coo.  “Don’t you, honey?”  You hug her a little tighter and the cat just stares off into space, letting you do your antics.

“I don’t know.”  Charles laughs nervously.  “Does she scratch and bite?”

You bubble your cheeks before an idea pops into your head.  “I know!  Let her sniff your… scent for now.”

He reluctantly touches his hat.

“I think it’s good if you let her get accustomed to your scent and presence before you start trying to befriend her.”  You mumble, sounding unreliable but it does sound like an okay strategy so he tries it.

Charles takes off his hat and lets Lily sniff it and for a moment she sniffed eagerly at the foreign scent before she turns her nose away, already losing interest.  She hops off your arms and trots to the doorway and you both watch her silently and disappointedly before Lily meows angrily at you.

“Oh!  Her breakfast!”  You hurry to your kitchen to open a can of wet food for her.  “I’m so sorry.”  Your cat meows sharply before eating and ignoring your pets.

“She’s sassy.”  Charles comments as he crosses his arms, looking at your cat.  Kinda like you.

You pull off your scarf and head to the bathroom to clear a space for him.  You give him a towel and tell him to use the small closet in the laundry room for his clothes.  Charles quickly settles in your apartment thanks to your warmth, even going as far as giving him something that he can call his.  He bounces a bit on your fortunately large couch and hums his approval, yeah he can sleep in this thing.  He hears you in the kitchen, organizing the grocery in the pantry and fridge.  He offered to help but you told him to relax on the couch.

The doctor did say to let him rest and to keep him in close monitoring.

Charles does his laundry while you busy yourself with other chores.  Because it’s your house and he feels like you earned it after moving around, Charles tells you to shower first, refusing to budge and insisting on it when you try to argue.  You can be quite stubborn so he guides you to the bathroom, himself.  The brief glance he makes on your pelvis confirms that he does remember what mess he left in there.

When you step out, looking refreshed, he is waiting right outside your bathroom door like he did this morning but he had fresh clothes draped on his arm this time.

“Were you standing there the whole time?”  You chuckle but his face is etched with a different kind of seriousness that you throw any other jokes that come to mind out the window.

“Y/N.”  Your name rolls in his tongue with the thick French accent you’re starting to get used to.

“Yeah?”  You whisper as you meet his eyes.

He sucks his teeth and sighs loudly, looking unsure how to start the conversation.  “I just need to ask you something.”  He clears his throat and rubs his neck, your eyes following all his nervous habits.  “I mean, we slept together, and we did it without protection.”

Oh…it’s that kind of conversation.

You smile sweetly at him.  “Come with me.”  You lead him inside the bathroom where the scent of your body wash fills his lungs as it hangs heavy in the air, he can almost taste your skin on his tongue.  You show him a tiny table calendar resting on the countertop, it sits next to your bathroom products.  He snaps out from his thoughts and watches as you flip it to the previous month where red exes mark some of the dates.  “These are the days when I got my last period.”  You flip it back to the month now.  “My next cycle should be around here.”  You point vaguely to a few dates and your finger traces the calendar backwards, stopping to point to the date today and yesterday.  “It’s a safe window.”

He looks at you to confirm.  “So you won’t get pregnant?”

“No.”  You smile understandingly as he slowly grasps it.  “Sorry, we probably should have talked about it sooner but you know.”

Charles nods before straightening up, feeling relieved to get it out his chest.

“I mean, you’re a great person.”  He tells you quickly, looking almost afraid that he might have insulted you at some point.  “I just…not yet.”  He smiles softly, bringing out his attractive features, and his dimples make your heart skip a beat.  For a split second you wondered what it would be like to have a kid that has his eyes but you manage to not make a fool of yourself in front of him and instead, you nod, feeling the same as him.

“Well, me too.”  You smile tightly, feeling a little flustered and awkward to be talking about these stuff with him suddenly.  “So uhm…”

“Yeah.”  He says, quickly understanding and he steps back to let you through.  You close the bathroom door for him and he glances at your calendar again.  He reaches for it and hesitates as it was personal but he lets the voices in his head win and he flips through them.  Your cycle isn’t as consistent as he thought but considering you did point to multiple dates earlier, he guesses that it might not be an exact date all the time.  “Come on, Charles.  She said it’s a window.”  He reminds himself.

You on the other hand are still pacing in your room, throwing on the first set of clothes you saw, still trying to shake off the effect he had on you.  Charles is a very goofy guy but he no doubt is able to make you swoon without even trying.  You fan yourself with your hand despite the blasting ac.

Charles Leclerc.

Just who exactly is that guy?  You hop on your bed and reach for your laptop, cursing when you drop your airpods, you refuse to get up from your bed and blindly sweep your carpet floor with your hand, constantly glancing at your closed bedroom door as if Charles would burst in at any moment.  You finally manage to grab your airpods, quickly opening Youtube.  “Cha..rl..es…Le..c..le..rc...oh! And F1.”  You jab your finger at enter.

For you don’t know how long, you just watch the shorts with Charles on the F1 channel.

“He’s funny.”  You giggle.  “And an idiot.”  A hot idiot at that.

A knock on your door pulls you out from whatever is running through your head and you slam your laptop close to open the door for him.  He looks at you suspiciously as your chest heaves, looking absolutely guilty.  Charles glances inside your bedroom before looking at you again.

“Can I have one of your granola bars?”

Lunch!  “Oh my, I lost track of time.”  You push your way through and you quickly hand him a granola bar once you get to the kitchen.  “I’ll make us lunch.”

Charles sits on the barstool and watches you make a quick mac n’ cheese.  It’s entertaining how focused you can be.  He thanks you when you place the bowl in front of him but to his disappointment, you leave for your bedroom.

You come back shortly with your ipad this time.  He watches you work on something he has absolutely no idea about.  You feel his heavy gaze and you slowly look at him with wide eyes.

“Sorry, I’m being rude.”

“Well, kind of, yes.”  He smiles kindly and you immediately set your ipad aside. 

“Sorry, I just needed to contact my suppliers.  Usually, I’d be working in the office by now.”

He understands that you probably haven’t had someone over since forever to disrupt your schedule and nods understandingly.  “Oh yeah, you mentioned it earlier.”  He tries to start a conversation.

“Yeah and it's Sunday so I don’t have much time as I need to meal prep for Monday to Wednesday.”  You explain.

“Meal prep?”  He shifts weirdly and you don’t understand it until he asks.  “You mean you eat the same refrigerated meal that you make days before?”

“Well, I always heat them up real well though.”  You argue but he looks resigned from the conversation.  “Don’t judge me.”  You playfully punch his shoulders and he looks at you again.  “It’s still a normal meal but it saves me so much time.”

“I don’t know.”  He tells you honestly and turns back to his food.  It sounds so practical especially with your schedule but it just doesn’t appeal to him.

“Unless I wanna eat take outs for three days, I have to meal prep.”  You say, feeling slightly offended now.

“It just sounds boring having to eat the same meal.”  Charles swallows the food in his mouth.  “Kind of like having leftovers.”

“I don’t just make a single dish and have it for three days straight!”  You tell him defensively.

He nods hastily upon hearing your tone, not wanting to start a full argument.  “…you know, you’re right.”  He smoothes your hair but you’re frowning really deeply.  “But I tried it once before and it didn’t work for me.  I just think that the texture of food would be better if it was made fresh.”

You shove the spoon in your mouth, chewing angrily what’s left of the mac n’ cheese before getting up to leave him for the sink, his hand that was on your hair still suspended in the air as he stares at you nervously.

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of having chefs serve us with meals three times a day.”  You snap and he feels bad immediately.  He doesn’t even have chefs serving him meals…most of the time.  But you get the point.

“I’m sorry.”  He shoves the mac n’ cheese left in his bowl to his mouth and rushes to your side as you frown at the bowl you’re washing.  “I am being so ungrateful.  Y/N, I am really sorry.”

You place the bowl on the drying rack and turn to him angrily but your eyes are glassy and he wants to strangle himself for doing this to you when you have done nothing but be kind and understanding to him.

“Sweetheart.”  He breathes, not knowing what else to say.

“I am doing what I can, okay?”  You say and he watches you blink away tears.  “This isn’t Monaco anymore, Charles.”

He tries to wrap his arms around you but you pull away just as quick.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to insult you.”  He tells you in a hushed tone, leaning down to try and meet your eyes but you’re glaring at the sink instead.

“If you don’t like refrigerated meals then you are free to cook for yourself.”  You say before deciding to give him the cold shoulder.

For the rest of the day, you stay yourself in your office, he hears the printer working and paper being crumpled, along with cellophane.  You’re packing the orders from your business and he knows better than to mess with you again.

You didn’t even get to meal prep.  

Charles doesn’t understand why it bothered him so much before when now as he lies on your couch, meal prepping sounds very practical and smart. 

People can have different lifestyles, he understood that night.  And just because yours is different, doesn’t mean it’s bad.

He’ll have to make it up to you soon.

Overdrive

[angstywaifu]

Black Dahlia - 35. Just Sex?

Summary: Fucking War Games.

Garrick Tavis x OC (Dahlia Aetos)

Black Dahlia Masterlist | Masterlist | Links

I can’t help but glare up at the dais. Fucking War Games. Leadership had strolled down the halls at an ungodly hour this morning, ringing bells, banging on doors, and calling for us all to dress and head to formation. Which for those who got sleep was fine. Myself on the other hand… the multiple rounds Garrick and I had gone for had left both of us with very little sleep. And by very little. I got none.

I wanted to burn the memory of me trying to scurry off Garrick, hastily dressing in my dress uniform before I’d rushed out the door only to run into Xaden who was about to knock on the door, as well as Bodhi who had been following him like a lost puppy. Bodhi who was now staring a head with a shit eating grin on his face.

”What’s up with you two? You look like you want to murder someone and Bodhi looks like you’ve given him the best gift he’s ever gotten.” Austin comments as she looks between the two of us.

”Oh because she did.” He joyfully adds as he smiles down at me. I roll my eyes, ignoring his comment.

“It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well.” I say dismissively, Austin looking at me like she doesn’t believe me but slowly nods.

”I hardly think Garrick is nothing.” Bodhi teases from besides me, Austin’s eyes snapping to him. I on the other hand turn and narrow my eyes at him, catching a pair of familiar hazel eyes as I do so. “Remind me where I found you this morning?”

Austin grasps my shoulder excitedly. “Holy shit, did it happen?”

”Oh it definitely did.” Liz says happily as she pokes her head around Austin.

”For fucks sake, yes. Now keep your voices down.” I hiss at them as I turn my attention back to the front where leadership and wing leaders are talking.

”So are you two like together?” Bodhi whispers to me as he leans closer.

I shove him away jokingly. “It was just sex.”

Bodhi looks shocked at my words, looking between me and where I know Garrick stands. I don’t dare meet Garrick’s eyes though. I know if I do I’ll want to drag him away at figure out what the fuck we were now. And maybe go another round or two. Two weeks ago he’d essentially broken my heart even though I’d never given it to him. Then he’d come and defended me against my father like I meant something to him. And then I’d thrown caution to the wind and kissed him. Let him consume me, and give into the tension that had been there for the better part of the year. Though the few words we had spoken indicated this was more than just sex. But how much more I wasn’t sure. ”

I don’t think it was just sex, for either of you.” Bodhi states as he turns his attention back to me. “I might have only known you a year Dahlia, but I’ve never seen you like this. Go tell him.”

I look over and see Garrick looking directly at me. His hazel eyes piercing into mine, as if trying to read my thoughts, see what’s going on inside my head. I should hate him. Should want nothing to do with him after everything that had happened in the last year. But I didn’t. I wanted that handsome asshole more than anything. I wanted to leap into the unknown and see where the hell it took me. See what this could be, even if it meant getting hurt again.

”We have War Games to win first.” I tell Bodhi as I turn my head to look at him. “Let’s see if we survive that first before diving into my questionable love life.” A/N: And don't worry, I'm not that cruel to leave you hanging for a week. Post War Games coming tomorrow.

@imtoanonymousforyou @simplyme-fornow @omalmal @lalaluch @wolfbc97 @leptitlu @fullmoon-94 @the-fandom-ness @fan-of-many-bands @awkardnerd @heeseungthel0ml @acourtofsmutandstarlight @fairchild06 @freyagallileaevans @pit-and-the-pen @hannraumari @elliot-rain @thestarseternaal @stupid-and-contagious01 @hyperfixation-train-station @lxnvmvrzx @thebreadisthetruevillian @red0202 @fangirling-galore @craftytrashprincess @taliyahvermillion @xadenswhore @fenixyrie @lagrandeourse @hellodarling1357 @iambored24601  @thegiftofacreativemind @fanfictionjunkie1112 @mysticalfuncollectorus

[yanderemommabean]

for the red rooms in devildom, imagine lucifer finally deciding to give red rooms a shot when he realizes mc will soon leave devildom and/or keeps rejecting his affection

Lucifer being the avatar of pride means he can’t exactly handle rejection. Maybe a few times at first, seeing it as a way to chase and have fun and to prove himself to you and sweep you off of your feet, but after a while it really gets under his skin. 

Why? Why are you denying him? Sure he can understand being scared of him, he’s one of the most powerful demons after all, and sadly you were more than once on the wrong end of that ire and anger when you first arrived. He won’t deny that your emotions with those incidents are possibly why you wouldn’t want to be with him, but surely now you see hes trying to make amends? That he’d kiss the ground you walk on and make sure to keep you safe? 

It seems you were serious about denying and rejecting his affections. You tell everyone at dinner what a wonderful time you’ve had, and how in three days time you’re expected to leave, back to the human world, leaving them to wallow in your absence. 

Well, you won’t get away with that. He won’t let you make this mistake. He just gives a soft smile, a gentle hug, and tells you that he’ll miss you, but as you head up to bed and listen to Mammon and Levi’s blabbering and sobbing, Lucifer decides to make a rather last resort call. 

The Red Rooms. The last place he ever wanted to bring you. While they care for the darling's experience, he doesn’t want to have to force this, but you’re really leaving him no choice! 

He’ll make sure the rooms are to your tastes. Stuffed animals to cry into when overwhelmed, softer gags to be easier on your jaw, padded cuffs to make sure your delicate human skin isn’t bruised unless he decides to bruise it himself. 

The demon chuckles on the other end of the line but once they hear who’s making the call, they shut up and show respect. 

“Nothing rough. This is to prove my devotion and how I’m better than my brothers. I want only the best, the softest, the cleanest and the safest. I won’t hesitate to kill you and wring your blood into my food to devour. Do we have an understanding?” 

He goes through the list, his mind getting even more perverted than Asmo as he pictures how he’ll make you moan and whimper for him. “Oh? Well I must admit that golden hellfire newt syrup would be a nice touch but I'm as ready as ill need to be. Yes, I'm aware it's a potent aphrodisiac but I assure you, my love and lust know no bounds when it comes to my sweet little minx” 

The call goes on a little longer, Lucifer giving some final details on safety measures, only giving Diavolo's emergency number in case he completely loses himself, and so on. Who woulda thought the demons in the seediest parts of the underworld would be so caring? Then again it’s rumored Barbatos and Diavolo run the palace in disguise so…

When asked how they are to bring you in, Lucifer just smiles and tries not to break the phone in an angered crush. To think they’d touch you, it just sent a pang of anger through his core. But he knows they’re simply doing their job, so he can’t exactly kill them just yet.

“I’ll use the spells you have on hand, or ill bring them in myself under a guise of a last dinner together. You’ll know it's me by what I'm wearing. None of this better go wrong, or I assure you, you wont live to warn the others of my wrath”.

-Mommabean (HI! I hope you likes this bean!!)

[cece693]

Stupid Crush Pt. 2 (Nico di Angelo x Son of Poseidon)

Because many of you keep requesting a part two of my original post, I couldn't help myself :) However, you might hate me for this but I want to practice writing sad endings, so if you aren't comfortable with that, I suggest living blind.

link to part one

tags: breakup, no making up, reader tries to move on, major character death, ambiguous ending, heartbreak

Nico di Angelo had never been one to give up easily, and when it came to you, he refused to let you slip away without a fight. Even after your breakup—after the heart-wrenching conversation that left him feeling gutted and empty—Nico couldn’t accept that it was truly over. He loved you. He knew he had made mistakes, but there was no way he could let that be the end.

For weeks after your relationship had ended, Nico threw himself into trying to prove his love. He started small, hoping that maybe you’d notice: he’d offer to help with your tasks, leaving small reminders that he still cared. He lingered around the Argo II, hoping for a chance to talk, to catch your eye. But every time, you kept your distance.

But then came the war.

The final fight against Gaea loomed over them all, leaving little room for anything other than survival. The battle was brutal, stretching the demigods to their limits, and for a while, Nico had to push his desire to win you back aside. They were fighting for their lives now. There was no time for hearts and feelings when the world was on the verge of collapse.

Even as he fought with everything he had, one thought kept Nico going: you. He clung to the hope that when this was all over, when Gaea was defeated, and the war was behind them, he would have another chance. Every swing of his sword, every shadow he manipulated, every ounce of his energy was fueled by the need to return to your side. He had to survive. He had to make it back to you. The war didn't come without a cost; many campers had died in battle, and with restoration efforts taking everyone's time, Nico didn't breach you or the topic until a week later.

He took it a step further. If you didn't want to see Nico, he will leave reminders of his love. This gesture alone should tell you how much you meant to him; he was always someone who kept his emotions buried beneath layers of coldess and sarcasm. But for you, he would try. He left small letters under your door—handwritten notes that declared his love in ways that were unfamiliar to him. They were never long, just a few lines scrawled in his messy handwriting, but they held every ounce of sincerity Nico could muster:

I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll never stop loving you.

You were never the second choice. I wish I could make you see that.

I’m still here. Waiting.

He even placed his skull ring inside one of those notes, hoping that action alone would make you answer his pleads, but to no avail. Finally, after countless sleepless nights and too many failed attempts to reach you, Nico couldn’t take it anymore. He needed closure. He needed to hear your voice, even if it ended with you punching him (rightfully so.)

It was late in the evening when Nico made his way to your cabin. The sky was painted in hues of deep purple and orange, the last remnants of the sunset casting long shadows across the camp. Nico’s heart pounded in his chest, dread and hope warring within him as he stood outside your door. He knocked, and after a long moment, the door creaked open.

You stood there, framed by the soft glow of the cabin’s lanterns, your expression unreadable. You didn’t say anything at first, just stared at Nico, waiting. Nico swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly. “Can we talk?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You hesitated, but eventually stepped aside, letting him in. The cabin was quiet, Percy nowhere to be seen. For that, Nico was thankful. He wouldn't be surprised if you had told Percy what occurred that day. He stood there for a moment, unsure where to begin. He’d rehearsed this conversation in his head a thousand times, but now that he was here, in front of you, the words felt heavy, stuck in his throat.

“I—I’ve been trying to show you that I’m sorry,” Nico started, his voice shaky. “I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I never wanted to. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

"Nico." You whispered softly, eyes softening. "I-I'm trying things out with Will."

Nico's world shattered. "What?" was all he could muster. He blinked rapidly, unable to process what you had just said. His mouth opened, then closed, and for a moment he looked like he was going to crumble right in front of you.

“I…I’m trying things out with Will,” you repeated, a bit more firmly this time. Your voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it that made Nico’s heart twist painfully. His gaze dropped to the floor, staring at his shoes as if they held some kind of answer he couldn’t find in your eyes.

The silence stretched on between you, heavy and suffocating. Nico’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, the weight of all his efforts—the letters, the gifts, the endless nights of regret—collapsing under the simple truth of your words. He wanted to scream, to beg you to reconsider, but his voice failed him. When he finally managed to speak, his voice was barely a whisper.

“When did this happen?” His throat felt tight, like the air was being squeezed out of him, but he forced himself to look up, to meet your gaze even though it hurt.

You hesitated, biting your lip. “A few weeks after the battle with Gaea. Will and I…we just started talking, and things…they just happened.”

Nico’s heart twisted again, sharper this time, like a knife being driven deeper. The battle with Gaea—the war that had forced him to pause his desperate attempts to win you back, the war he had survived just so he could return to your side—had been the turning point for you, but not in the way he had hoped. He’d come back, bruised and exhausted, believing that his chance would come after the fighting was done. But the war had ended, and you had already found someone else.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You exhaled slowly, the sadness in your eyes deepening. “Because I didn’t want to hurt you. I was waiting for the right moment, but there never seemed to be one. You’ve been trying so hard, and I didn’t know how to tell you that I had moved on.”

He flinched, feeling the sting of those words cut deep. His hands trembled, and he shoved them into his pockets, trying to stop them from shaking. “Moved on?” The disbelief in his voice was raw, painful. “I never stopped loving you. Every day, I thought of ways to make it right, to show you how much you mean to me.”

“I know, Nico.” Your voice was almost pleading now, as if you wanted him to understand. “I saw everything you did. The letters, the ring—you don’t know how much it meant to me. But it’s not about how much you love me, Nico. It’s about trust. It’s about how I felt and how I still feel.”

“Then why did you keep the ring?” he asked desperately, his voice breaking as he gestured towards your desk, where his skull ring still sat, untouched since the day he left it there.

You looked away, your expression pained. “Because a part of me will always care for you. You were my first love, and I’ll never forget that. But Will, he’s been there for me in a way I needed. He’s open, and he doesn’t hide from me. I needed someone who could be honest with me, and you never were.”

The words felt like a slap to Nico’s face. He stepped back, his breath hitching as he tried to hold back the tears burning in his eyes. “I wanted to be,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I tried. I tried so hard.”

“I know you did,” you said softly, a single tear slipping down your cheek. “But sometimes trying isn’t enough.”

Nico’s chest tightened, and he felt the darkness inside him stirring—the familiar, suffocating void that had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface. He’d fought so hard to keep it at bay, to be stronger for you. But now, standing in your cabin with the truth hanging between you like a wall he could never break through, he felt it closing in on him again.

“I—I have to go,” he choked out, turning away before you could see the tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at you any longer, not when the weight of your rejection was crushing him from the inside out.

“Nico, wait—” you called after him, but he was already halfway to the door, his footsteps heavy and unsteady. He paused, just for a moment, his hand on the doorknob, and for a second he thought about turning back, about begging you one last time not to leave him behind. But he knew it wouldn’t matter. Your mind was made up, and no amount of pleading would change that.

Without another word, Nico stepped out into the night, the cool breeze washing over him as he made his way toward the darkness beyond. The camp was quiet, the stars twinkling overhead, but all he could see was the shattered remains of his hopes and dreams, lying in pieces around him. He had tried—he had tried so hard—but in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

As he walked away, the darkness swallowed him whole, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to fight it.

Three days later, the camp was still buzzing with post-war activity. You threw yourself into helping with the rebuilding, avoiding thoughts of Nico and the painful conversation that had ended it all. Will was always by your side, his presence a comfort to your wounded heart. It wasn't that you didn't love Nico anymore; you would perhaps love him for the rest of your life, but it was time to put yourself first.

One afternoon, you were helping organize the infirmary with Will when a sudden, cold chill ran down your spine. You froze, a sense of dread settling over you. Before you could say anything, a shout rang out from outside, a voice filled with panic and fear. “There’s been an attack!”

You and Will bolted out of the cabin, following the frantic crowd toward the forest’s edge. Your heart pounded in your chest as you pushed through the campers, the anxiety mounting with every step. When you finally reached the clearing, you saw them—several demigods huddled around a small, motionless figure lying in the grass.

“No,” you whispered, your blood turning to ice as you caught sight of the dark clothes, the familiar face pale and still. “Nico…”

Will was already kneeling beside him, his hands glowing with golden light as he tried to heal the deep, ragged wound that marred Nico’s side. But you could see it in his eyes—the terror, the hopelessness. The injury was too severe, the damage too great.

“No, no, no,” you said, falling to your knees beside him, your hands hovering helplessly over Nico’s broken body. His eyes fluttered open, just barely, the shadows that had once seemed so invincible now dimmed to a fragile flicker.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a faint rasp that barely reached your ears. His gaze was distant, glassy, but somehow he managed to find yours, a small, sad smile ghosting across his lips. “I never meant to hurt you."

A sob caught in your throat as you cupped his cheek, your hands trembling. “Nico, please…Just hold on,” you begged, your voice cracking under the weight of panic and grief.

Nico’s smile wavered, his chest shuddering with the effort to breathe. “I’m…I’m so tired,” he murmured, his eyes beginning to drift shut, the pain etched into every line of his face. “I wanted to make things right…to make you…happy.” Each word came slower, his strength ebbing away with every breath he took.

“You did,” you said, your voice fierce despite the tears streaming down your cheeks. You squeezed his hand harder, as if the strength of your grip alone could keep him tethered to this world. “Nico, you did make me happy. You still do. Just stay with me. Please, Nico, don’t go.”

A tear slid down Nico's pale cheek, mingling with the blood that stained his skin. “I love you,” he whispered, the words barely a breath, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate intensity. “Always…love you.”

“I love you too,” you choked out, pressing your forehead against his, your tears mingling with his. You felt his body go slack, his hand falling limp in your grasp. “Nico! No, please! Nico!” You held his body close, your heart breaking all over again as the truth settled over you. The boy who had fought through hell for you, who had bared his soul and faced his deepest fears, was gone.

His last breath had been a promise—a truth you’d never doubted, even when he had hurt you. But now, that truth lay heavy in your arms, lifeless and still. His body felt too small, too fragile, for someone who had carried so much pain, who had survived so much darkness. The only comfort you took was that you would see Nico again. That was a promise.

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Part 3 - Oakmoss

Autumn Embers Masterlist

CW: Omegaverse scent-heavy flirting, food related flirting, Brandon (derogatory)

It’s three weeks later that Sergeant Garrick catches you walking out of your building at the end of the day. You’re more distracted than usual - trying to decipher a text from Jack about his upcoming heat - so you’re almost on top of him before you realize. His smile is genuine when you jump back from nearly stepping on his boot.

“Sorry!”

“No harm done,” he assures you. His hand comes forward. “Sergent Kyle Garrick.”

“We’ve met,” you point out, allowing a short, comfortable handshake.

His grin goes a little bit sheepish when he takes his hand back. “Well, I had to introduce myself better than Soap, at least. That’s MacTavish.”

“Ah,” you say. “Well… good to meet you.”

“The team wanted to thank you, for the information,” he continues. “It was very helpful. That Lawrence guy would have had us runnin’ in circles. We also, uh,” he shuffles his feet a bit, and looks away. “We didn’t want to overstep. By offering a gift before clearing it with you.”

Oh, he thinks he’s clever. You arch an eyebrow, “You want me to give your pack permission to give me gifts, Sergent Garrick?”

“I told them you’d catch on too fast,” he laughs.

At least he has the decency not to deny it. Here you had been tying yourself into knots about being too emotional in a meeting, and now a pretty man is asking permission for his pack to court you. Part of you is relieved. The last thing you need is more alphas pissed off at you, prowling around the base looking for a pissing contest.

Another part of you is annoyed.

You carefully regulate your breathing. “Yeah, I’m pretty good at catching these kinds of things by now. But you don’t have to thank me for doing my job.” You sidestep him and start walking toward the car park.

Sergent Garrick falls into step beside you. “I’ve offended you.”

You sigh. Of course he’d be sensitive to the way your scent changes. You practically scent burned him in a closed room. You step to the side of the walkway and turn to face him. “I’m sure you and your pack are wonderful, sergeant, but I’ve had a long day.”

His smile is charming. “Anything we can do to help?”

“Not approaching me with a courting offer at my workplace would be a good start,” you say, blandly. You watch his face muscles twitch through confusion, shock, and a tinge of horror before continuing. “While I’m flattered that you would tell your pack about me, I prefer to keep things professional on base. And I’m sure your team would prefer that as well. Have a nice night.”

“Wait,” He reaches out, but has the good sense not to touch you. “Would it be better, then, to maybe approach you off-base?”

Why do alphas think I’ll find you elsewhere is ever a good thing to imply? “Like how Sergeant MacTavish approached me at the bar?” He doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. You take a step back, his confusion tickling your nose. “I’m not really interested in being the subject of whatever competitive thing you have going. Have a good night, Sergeant.”

By the time you get back to your car, you’re not mad anymore. Just tired. You climb into the drivers seat and tip your head back with a sigh. Garrick and MacTavish aren’t the first alphas to want to try taming the Wildfire, and they won’t be the last. But it still stings. For once, it’d be nice if someone saw you and thought you were pretty and interesting instead of just a challenge to conquer.

You let yourself have a few more seconds of self-pity before you strap in and start the car. You’ll give Jack a call, make plans for his heat, and leave the sergeants to do their thing.

The next day, when you get to your office, there’s a travel cup of hot coffee from your favorite coffee shop on the edge of your desk, along with a gift card and a note. You don’t really think much of it - coffee from Sherry as a reward for a job well done isn’t unheard of - but the the gift card for 25 pounds is a bit excessive. The unfamiliar handwriting on the note catches your eye.

Please accept this apology for yesterday.

It’s signed by Captain John Price. That’s… interesting. Speaks well to the cohesion of the 141 that Sergeant Garrick would let him know that he made you uncomfortable. Hopefully this means that neither of the sergeants will be dogging your steps. On the other hand, an almost perfect coffee made it to your office somehow. You’re still dealing with a bit of overbearing alpha bullshit. But apology bullshit is better than the alternative, so you settle in for your day.

By lunch, you’ve pushed the note to the back of your mind. When Sherry walks in, you expect a conversation about taking on Jerry’s workload with his upcoming parental leave. You don’t expect her to place a paper bag from the very fancy sandwich shop across town onto your desk. You can smell warm bread and something else in there.

“Special delivery,” she says. Before you can pull the bag close to poke around, she holds out a folded piece of paper. “Ah, ah! I was told to give you this first.”

“What? Sherry, let me… eat.”

Please accept this offer as a formal request to discuss an intention of courtship. Captain Johnathan Price Lieutenant Simon Riley Sergeant Kyle Garrick Sergeant Johnathan MacTavish

Each of the signatures is different. You look from the note to Sherry’s curious face and back down. You’re glad you have so much practice locking down your scent, because your emotions are all over the place. You flash her a quick smile as you refold the note and stick it under the edge of your keyboard.

“Thanks, I’ll take care of it.”

She nods, with a nervous smile of her own. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you lie, hoping she doesn’t pick up on the spike of your scent as your heart races. “The 141 had a successful mission after that awful meeting with Brandon and that CIA agent.”

“Oh! Well that’s good,” she says with a sharp nod. She knocks twice on the edge of your desk before she turns to leave. “You always do good work. Least those boys could do is buy you lunch.”

Once she’s gone, you wait a few seconds, then get up to quietly close your door. And then you eye the fancy paper bag on your desk like it’s a bomb. You circle back to pick up the note, read it, fold it, open it to read again.

You snap a picture and send it to the group chat. Then snap a picture of the gifts and note from this morning. You re-re-re-read the second note again.

When you phone rings, you pick up without looking. “What do I do?”

Jack wails into your ear. “Bitch, what do you MEAN what do you do?”

“Do I open it?”

“Open what?”

You snap a picture of the stamped bag sitting on the edge of your desk and send it to the chat. “They sent this with-”

Chrissy’s icy voice startles you. “If you don’t show me what’s in that bag right now I will scream.”

“What if opening it is accepting it?” When the phone chirps in your ear, you hiss, “I can’t do a video call, I’m in my office.”

“Quit stalling,” Chrissy snaps. “Open the bag.”

You pull it closer, then pause. “Should we wait for Mel?”

“NOW,” Jack bellows.

“I’m also at work,” Mel’s says, steady and unbothered. “So please stop yelling.”

The bag crinkles a bit when you pull it closer, silencing everyone. You’re not sure why you’re holding your breath, but it comes out in a little huff of disappointment when you look inside and the first thing you see is napkins.

“Okay,” you whisper, as you start pulling things out. The first food item you find is a roll. “We have… bread, still warm. A half of a sandwich - ooh! The goat cheese and pear one. A half salad,” you squint through the translucent lid. “It looks like it has berries. Oh, it looks like there’s a soup in here, too, nice. And the utensils. And…”

When you don’t say anything else, Jack prompts you. “And?”

“There’s a, uh,” you cover your eyes as your face flushes. “It’s a cake.”

The silence is deafening. You make yourself peek into the unassuming box, and the four-inch, round cake positively dripping with what smells like orange syrup, spices, and the faintest hint of alcohol. Your face gets even hotter when you connect the dots and realize the cardamom you’re smelling reminds you of Sergeant Garrick.

It’s Mel who breaks the silence, clearing their throat before asking, “Did they get you a custom cake from the Trinity Rose?”

You can’t make yourself say anything, so you take a picture of it for the group chat. Then a couple more at different angles, because the curl of orange and peel on top looks like something out of a movie. You hear when the photos load, each of your friends sucking in a quiet breath. Chrissy must mute her mic, because the background noise drops significantly.

“Someone please say something,” you whisper.

Jack says, “Holy shit.”

“What does it smell like?” Mel asks, cutting to the chase. “Is it good?”

“It smells so good,” you admit. “Like… ridiculously good.”

Chrissy comes back on the line, sounding a little breathless. “They apologized with coffee this morning?”

“Yeah-”

“So this wasn’t part of the apology,” she continues. “Guys, this is. This is a legit courtship thing.”

“The website says they offer courtship packages,” Mel confirms. “It’s pretty cute, a subscription service for lunch. But it doesn’t actually include a cake.”

“There’s gotta be at least a two week wait on something like this.” You say it as soon as you realize it. Embarrassment flashes hot and cold down your entire body and you have to cover your face. “Oh gods, this had to be planned in advance.”

Chrissy hisses, “The bakery at the Trinity Rose is award winning. Of course this was planned in advance.”

“Wait, are they all in a pack?” Jack yelps. “All four of them? And they’re all alphas? There has to be more to the pack than that, right?”

Mel makes a disagreeing sound. “If there were more, they’d have signed. This is a very formal pre-courtship gift. Well. Mostly formal.”

You have to resist chewing on your lip. “Should I eat it?”

“No reason to waste a perfectly nice lunch,” they point out. Jack and Chrissy make agreeing noises. “But I’d probably wait to eat the cake until you get home.”

“So I can think about it?”

“What? No. You’ve already decided to hear them out,” Mel dismisses. “I just wouldn’t eat a sex cake at work.”

That startles a squawking laugh out of you. “It’s not a sex cake!”

“Oh, so they got a custom syrup cake that matches your scent as a platonic gesture?” Chrissy challenges.

“…There’s a little bit of cardamom,” you admit. “That’s Sergeant Garrick’s scent.”

“It’s a sex cake,” Mel confirms over the train whistle noise Chrissy makes before she can mute herself again. “When Garrick shows up to escort you to your car this evening, maybe don’t chew his head off.”

“Oh no,” you groan. Your head thumps against your arm as you throw yourself down onto the desk. “He was trying to ask for permission to court me and I was a complete bitch to him.”

You deserve the laughter of your best friends for that. But eventually, you rally. If you’re actually going to enjoy your lunch, you have to start eating now or you’ll have to eat and work later. You start with the sandwich and mute your mic as you take a huge bite. By unspoken agreement, the conversation shifts to the weekend and Jack’s heat, then Chrissy’s client who insists on in person meetings three days before her heat. Mel lets you all ramble for a good twenty minutes before ushering everyone off the phone since Jack is the only one who doesn’t have deadlines and scheduled clients.

Which leaves you staring at the cake.

Your eyes dart to the still closed door of your office, then back. You’re too full of good food to eat a whole cake, but… a bite couldn’t hurt. And while the gift is definitely a little… suggestive… it’s not actually a sex cake. Just a bit... decadent. Sherry’s husband sends her flowers that match their pack’s scents. That’s basically the same thing.

Right?

Before you can second guess yourself, you scoop a bite into your mouth.

The taste that bursts over your tongue makes you moan out loud. You definitely should have waited until you got home. The cake is so rich, cut by the orange and whiskey in a way that almost demands a second bite. There’s something indescribable teasing the back of your palate, hidden by cardamom and the hint of something - raspberry? - but so distinctly there. When you try to focus on it, you keep coming back to a smokiness that can’t be anything but the alcohol.

Before you know it, you’ve eaten a quarter of the little cake. Your stomach feels warm, and you admit to yourself that it’s probably not a good idea to keep consuming alcohol at work. So you close the little box and lick the fork while you log back into your computer one handed. Your lips are sticky. Even after you use your thumb to help clean them off you’re so aware of them.

You catch yourself pursing and rolling your lips through the rest of your day. You can’t resist taking another bite every now and then. Every time, you remember Mel calling it a sex cake and wonder if Captain Price thought about this when placed the order. You remember the way Lieutenant Riley’s eyes had slid down your body. Had he known he wanted to send you this cake then? Did Sergeant MacTavish imagine you licking your fork when he signed the note? Was Sergeant Garrick thinking about this moment when he saw you yesterday?

When the day ends, you send a picture of the cake with more than a third missing to the group chat as you log out. I fucked up, it’s a sex cake.

Beta Daddy: Told you.

Best Bitch: WHAT DOES IT TASTE LIKE

Barbie: drinks at mel and jax tonite

You: :thumbsup:

You: genuinely no idea how to describe, i’ll try tonight

You’re nervous, closing up shop for the evening. Would Sergeant Garrick be waiting for you again? Or will your hyper-independence come back to bite you? You hope someone will be there to walk you, and the possibility of that not being the case cools you. And then you look back at the box of cake in your hands and flush hot. Maybe it’s better that you don’t run into anyone after an entire afternoon of rubbing your lips and thinking of the 141.

You’re shocked out of your musings just before you can exit the building by Brandon of all people calling your name. With a groan, you’re dropped back to reality. You at least let yourself step outside for some fresh air before he can reach you.

“Sherry said the 141 had a question for you. What was it?” Not even a hello. Typical. Thanks a lot, Sherry.

Luckily, you have a lie prepared. “Just another question about Cloudstone.”

“What question?” He steps closer, trying to use his height to intimidate. “I’m the point of contact, they should be speaking to me directly.”

“Hm. Maybe should’ve reached out to you,” Lieutenant Riley’s voice says from behind your right shoulder. “Got a lo’ of info on alpha enhancements, then?”

Brandon’s shocked, offended scent almost drowns out the Lieutenant’s. Almost. You tilt your head before you realize you’re doing it, and catch that hint of something that you’ve been chasing all afternoon, earthy and intriguing. Your mouth waters. You barely stop yourself from biting your lip and tune back into the conversation.

“I wasn’t able to give them an answer today,” you butt in, before Brandon can get too worked up. “I’ll CC you on the email when I have everything.”

“Fine,” Brandon says, glaring daggers at the Lieutenant.

And then the three of you just… stand there.

Behind you, Lieutenant Riley smells amused. “Dismissed.”

Brandon gapes at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re dismissed. Unless you have more to add on the subject.”

Being caught between clashing alphas is not how you thought today would end. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see people look at Lieutenant Riley, then at Brandon, and then visibly decide to wait to exit the building. When you start to inch away, the lieutenant touches just beneath your left shoulder blade with the tips of his fingers. You freeze with a sharp inhale. Brandon looks between the two of you. Then his face settles into a sneer.

“Think hard about what you say next,” Lieutenant Riley ways with almost no inflection. Brandon’s face freezes and goes a little pale. You remember, suddenly, that the man at your back is also called the Ghost. “Because challenging me won’t go well for you. Walk away under your own power.”

The resonance of his voice combines with the way his scent teases your olfactory nerves and sends a shiver through you. You’re suddenly aware of the warmth that’s been building behind your bellybutton all afternoon. You don’t hear the next thing Brandon says. He’s too focused on his own offense to notice your distraction, thank the gods, but -

One of the fingers at your back taps you gently, once, twice. And then you feel the gentlest scrape of a fingernail against your shirt.

“I have to go,” you squeak, taking a step toward the parking lot. To Brandon, you say “I will make sure I email you first thing in the morning.”

You can see Brandon’s jaw working, but no matter how irritated he is, he’s outmatched and he knows it. After a moment, he answers. “See that you do.”

“’Ll walk you,” Lieutenant Riley intones. “Wanna make sure I understand the answer to the Captain’s question.” He turns his back to Brandon and gestures for you to continue walking.

A part of you wants to see what will happen if Brandon answers the obvious insult. It’s not hard to imagine the crunch of his body hitting the pavement, the way the Ghost might growl down and force him to yield. Another, loud part of you needs to not get this wet standing right outside of your office. So you hustle away and try to cool yourself down.

Of course, the Lieutenant is right beside you. You chance a glance up - he’s so tall! - at his face, covered today by a black surgical mask. His brown eyes catch yours and crinkle at the edges as he smiles, but he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps walking with you until you’re standing next to your car.

“Sorry,” he says, looking across the car park. “Weren’t my intention to cause trouble.”

“No,” you say, fidgeting with the edge of your jacket and looking at your keys in your hand. “It’s not your fault, I, um, I told my coworker that lunch was work-related. I guess she told Brandon.”

He nods. “Tha’s fair. Should I tell the Cap’n that lunch was work-related?”

When you look back up, he’s already gazing back at you. There’s just enough light to see his eyes darken as he tips his head up just a bit. He’s scenting you, his effect on you. You feel your face get hot as you look away from him again.

He gives an amused-sounding huff. “Need time to think about it?”

Do you? “No, I… I would be open to discussing an intention of courtship.”

Lieutenant Riley purrs. It’s deep and gravely, but unmistakable for anything else. The sound startles you into meeting his eyes. This time, he holds your gaze and takes a step forward, then another when you back up until you bump into your car. He doesn’t come any closer, but his eyes say that he wants to.

“Skipper wants to meet somewhere open,” he says. “The Spice Garden has a nice outdoor space, if you’re free Saturday.”

You almost say yes, but catch yourself. “I… have to help my friend through his heat this weekend.”

He nods his head, never breaking eye contact. “Next week, then.”

You do a quick calculation in your head. “I can be free tomorrow evening by… seven, as long as things aren’t too… formal.”

“Won’t be formal,” he assures you. “Cap insisted on a gift and formal invitation, but we don’t stand too much on ceremony. Bit unconventional, far as packs go.”

You nod, too fast. “Okay. I… does tomorrow work?”

“If you wanted us tonight, you could have us,” he answers, eyes crinkling again. He takes a step back, looking at the box in your hand, then back into your eyes. “Tomorrow then. Enjoy the cake.”

[chrxsprettygirl]

𝑻𝒐𝒙𝒊𝒄!𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏!𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒙 𝑺𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝑹𝒆𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒔…

AN: a lil thank you for 600 followers :)

It’s been about a month since me and Chris made up, things has been okay to say the least we’ve gone back to talking the way we used to, we’ve been going out a lot. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t talking to other people but nothing serious. It’s been nice. Im currently out with Stella, we both just finished spring cleaning and decided to go shopping as a reward. We walk around the mall going into a few stores, eating stuff from the food court.

“Let’s go to Victoria’s Secret” Stella says handing me the drink we both are sharing, I nod as she drags me into the store. We pick out a few things trying them on for each other switching up a few things. As we’re checking out I get a call, it’s Chris. I answer the call “Heyy” I greet him “Hey are you busy today?” I raise my eyebrow looking at Stella “Um im out with Stella right now but I think I’ll be home all night why?” I reply pulling my wallet out to pay “Okay can i pick you up tonight? Just to go get ice cream or something anything you want” I grin as I pay for my stuff and the cashier hands me the bag, I give her smile “Uh sure what time?” “Is 9 good for you?” “Yeah I’ll see you then bye” I hang up turning to Stella telling her everything “I bet he’s gonna ask you to be his girlfriend” she says playfully, I smack her arm softly “shut up”. We continue to go around buying things here and there.

Later that evening…

We arrive home going into our rooms to pack up all of our new stuff, im playing music on my tv as I organize my stuff. When I’m done I decide to do a bit of laundry when there’s a knock at the door I look at the time, it’s not 9 yet I go over to Stella’s room “Are you expecting someone?” I ask her “yeah this girl I met a few weeks ago but she’s coming in like an hour” I nod honing to open the door, maybe she’s here early, I open the door and there’s a guy with a bouquet of flowers and a basket, it looks like some your boyfriend would make for you on Valentine’s Day “Hello is this where Y/N L/N lives” he ask “yeah” I reply and he hands the stuff to me asking me to sign a paper, I do thanking him bring the things inside setting them down in the kitchen counter “Ou is this from Chris?” I hear Stella coming into the room, I shrug “I don’t know I’m lookign for a note” I find a little card on side of the basket, it’s from the guy I was talking to when Chris and I weren’t talking “Oh it’s from the guy I was telling you abt, the one with the dreads” I tell her, she fake gasp “scandalous” I scoff at her antics going to my room grabbing my phone to thank him, I look through the rest of the things seeing another card in the basket ‘be my girlfriend’ I read it and internally cringe, not because of the card but because I haven’t talked to this dude in almost 2 months.

I send him another message turning him down, as I send that message he angerly replies, he’s calling me all sort of names and threatening me, I send him one last text telling him to fuck himself before blocking him. I lock the front door bring the stuff to my room contemplating if I should keep them or send them back to him. “I mean fuck it im keeping it cuz like the fuck is h goign to do with them” I say to myself also packing them in my room and bathroom. When I’m done I decide maybe I should start getting ready for my date (can you even call it that) with Chris. I go to my bathroom taking a shower, once I’m out I do my regular routine. My skincare, drown my body in lotion and get dressed, i can’t decide if I should get dressed up or just wear sweats. I eventually decide to just wear some jeans and a top Ig laced at the time it’s almost 9, I sit at my vanity doing my edges and putting on some lip gloss. I get a message from him saying he’s in the parking lot and asking for my room number I hesitate a bit before sending him the number I hear the knock at the door followed by voices.

I walk out the room to see Stella, Chris and who I assume is Stella’s guest in the kitchen. My eyes fall on Chris he has a small bouquet of flowers in his hand , damn looks like the universe loves me today, I smile walking over to him “Hii” I greet him “hey these are for you” he hands me the bouquet I smile going to my room and putting the flowers in my desk, I walk up to the front door putting on my shoes and he follows behind me i grab my keys telling Stella bye and we both leave “Did you really come up to my room to give me flowers” i question him when he calls for the elevator, he looks down at me “yep do you like them?” The doors open amd walk into the elevator “yes they’re very pretty, thank you” he grins “no problem sweetheart” he puts his arm around my shoulder. We get the elevator going into the parking lot getting the car.

On the way we’re both yapping to each other catching up on what’s been going on. We arrive at a little ice cream parlor, we go inside standing in line I turn to look at all the flavors they had my eyes going wide and my mouth watering slightly “What are getting?” He ask as he places his hand on my lower back I shrug “i don’t know they all look so good…. What are you getting?” I ask him “Mint chip” he answer I make a face “that’s shits ass” he scoffs “No its not” “Yes it is” he shakes his head “Whatever you say princess but im still getting it” I hum “I think I’ll get the strawberry cheesecake or maybe the macadamia” I say “Just get both” he says nonchalantly I look back at him surprised “Can I?” He nods his head as he walks up to the counter ordering it for the both of us. We get our ice cream paying before leaving at going to sit on one of the benches outside. We stay out there for a got minute talking about any and everything, we’re laughing and playing around people are walking by us giving us looks but we don’t notice too caught up in each other’s company to care.

“Ah think is time we start getting you home” he says looking at him phone, I glance at my watch to check the time, 11:36 pm, guess I’m gonna be late for class tomorrow. I nod we get up from our seat throwing away our garbage going into the car, as I’m buckling in I notice a little bag in the backseat, it looks like those bags they give you at some fancy jewelry store, I wanna ask him about but I don’t “Wanna be on aux?” He ask me offering the cord “You know damn well the answer to that” I say yanking the cord out of his hands as he chuckles, I plug my phone in putting on I playlist I made for when I’m in the car with him, the entire ride home is just us singing along to the songs and chatting a little bit more, we’re just having so much fun im sad when I recognize the familiar road leading up to the dorms, when we park I let out a sigh grabbing my things turning to him “Thank you, I had a lot of fun” I tell him he smiles “Wait I got something for you” he says reaching into the backseat grabbing the little bag I saw earlier handing it to me.

“What is it” I ask him accepting it “Open it” is all he says, I look at him suspiciously reaching into the bag and I pull out a Van Cleef jewelry box I gasp looking at him “You got me something from Van Cleef are you insane?” I ask excitedly he nudges his head at it “Open it” I shakily open the box to see a beautiful white jewelry set, my jaw drops when I see it I look up at him when he reaches in his pocket and hands me a card, I take it from him opening it up ‘will you be my girlfriend’ damn im on a roll catching these boys like damn Pokémons , I look back at him going over the cars middle console to give him a hug “YES OFC THE FUCK? DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS” I tell him, I feel like I’m on cloud nine, on a high I hope to never come down from, he wraps his arms around me letting out a sigh “Thank God” he whispers under his breath. We finally pull away when he offers to help me put on the jewelry, I let him looking in the little mirror I turn grabbing his face smashing my lips on his, he returns the kiss with the same amount of passion holding my head in place it felt like the world stopped, all I could think about is him, his hands, his hair, his lips, his scent, all him. We pull away our breath heavy “Thank you so much” I tell him he smiles at me, oh God how I love his smile “My pleasure sweetheart, no go inside you need your beauty rest, I’ll talk to you in the morning?” I nod, he peck my lips one more time before I leave going inside my door, when I get inside the place is empty and quiet, Stella’s probably asleep I go into my room deciding I’ll tell her everything tomorrow. I look into my mirror looking at the stuff Chris got me, My boyfriend got me I smile to myself, I get undress flopping into my bed going to sleep not knowing how much my life’s about to change……and I mean really change.

An: hehe hellooooooo thank you from the bottom of my pussy for 600!! Hope you enjoyed this one, shits abt to get crazyyyyyyy

Random tags n taglist: @trevorsgodmother @tezzzzzzzz @weirdothatwritess @dykes4chris @chrepsi @chrissfavhoe @natesfavoritehoe @bamsblooming @chrissleftshoe @chrisslluut @cams-cult @chrissturnioloslvt @starrii-sturns @chriscumslut @chrisshands @chriss-prettyygirll @chrissturnioloswife88 @mattztrip @mattsleftball @mattsslvtzx @mattswrinkleton @mattsturnswife @mattsturnioloismylordandsaviour @mattsturnioloarchive @matthewsturnsgf @matthewswifeyx @matthewsturniolosactualgf @nickssidewitch @jayaluvsyu @nicksbestie @adoreechxmpion @sturnshood @sturnswiftie @sturniolotripletlover @chrissturnfavlilslut @abbystromboli @megameatymatt @zenithsturniolo @chrissweetheart

[luvismenu]

STARBOY — JJK ,, 05 universe ✎ ,, index

warnings: just them bantering and idk, fluff? (jungkook trying to be romantic ekjwkwja)

note: yay finally!! i will update more often now dw guys (not an empty promise) only 5 more chaps!

“___! can i take a break now? i think everything’s fine.”

you glance around the room, groups of students chatter excitedly, some jittery with nerves as they await the start of the contest, while others treat the event like a casual hangout, their laughter echoing too loudly in the room.

turning back to elena, you let out a sigh. “just a few more minutes, vice. can you help me get everyone to settle down? you’ll get your break once the contest ends and we’re waiting for the results, yeah?”

she looks momentarily disappointed, her shoulders slumping slightly, but she nods.

you offer her a small, reassuring smile. “thank you for sticking with me through all of this. it’ll be over soon, i promise.”

her expression softens at your words, and she gives you a faint smile before heading off to manage the crowd. you take a moment to breathe, trying to mentally prepare yourself for the long day ahead.

that’s when you notice kim namjoon weaving his way through the throng of students, his tall frame making him hard to miss.

“looks like you’ve got everything under control,” he says as he approaches

you let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “i wouldn’t say that. it’s more like controlled chaos.”

namjoon smiles. “that’s still impressive. pulling off an event like this isn’t easy, but you seem to have it handled.”

“well, i have all of you to thank for a lot of it,” you admit, glancing towards the vice as she speaks to a group of students. “and honestly, i’m just praying everything goes smoothly once the contest starts.”

“it will,” namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “you’ve planned everything down to the last detail. plus, the turnout’s great. everyone’s excited.”

“that’s what worries me,” you joke, half serious. “the more people, the more chances for something to go wrong.”

he chuckles, shaking his head. “classic class president mindset. always prepared for the worst.”

“someone has to be,” you reply, giving him a small smile. “what about you? are you just here to observe, or are you part of the contest?”

“observe,” he says with a shrug. “i wanted to see how this plays out. it’s not every day the english majors get this much attention.”

“true,” you agree, scanning the room briefly before turning back to him. “but i thought someone like you would’ve joined. you’re always talking about writing.”

“i prefer writing stories for myself,” he admits, his expression thoughtful. “contests like these are great, but they’re not really my thing. i like watching people shine in their own way.”

his words are sincere, and for a moment, you find yourself appreciating his perspective. “that’s... nice. i hope the participants feel the same way and don’t faint from all the nerves.”

“they’ll do fine,” he says with confidence, glancing at the other students. “but you should probably take your own advice and relax a bit. you’re doing great.”

you scoff lightly but nod. “i’ll relax when this is all over.”

“fair enough,” namjoon replies with a knowing smile. “good luck, ___. not that you need it.”

“thanks,” you say, watching as he turns to blend back into the crowd.

you wonder where jungkook is.

not that you care, of course.

he was one of the people who helped the student council a lot with the event, so it’s only polite to thank him. nothing more, nothing less.

pulling out your phone, you scroll through the messages he sent earlier.

starboy: should i wear a suit?

you: it’s a contest, not the met gala.

starboy: says the girl who’s defo trying to outshine me

you: i don’t need to try :)

starboy: wow u're so humble 🙄

you: confident, maybe

starboy: r u looking forward to seeing me

you: only because you told me you're participating. nothing more.

starboy: sure. keep telling yourself that, stargirl. i know you wanna see me so bad ;)

you: wtv helps you sleep at night, starboy.

you shake your head, fighting back a small grin that threatens to creep onto your lips. he always had this way of getting under your skin, whether you wanted him to or not.

deciding to refocus, you make your way over to the vice. but to your surprise, she isn’t standing alone.

elena is talking to someone, her hands gesturing wildly, a small laugh escaping her lips. it takes you a second to realize who’s standing there with her, but the sight makes you stop in your tracks.

jungkook.

of course, he’d show up now, looking every bit like he belonged in a spotlight. he’s dressed in a crisp black suit that, while simple, fits him too perfectly to be considered anything but deliberate.

he catches your gaze almost immediately, a smug grin curling at the corner of his lips as if he knew you’d been wondering where he was.

“prez,” he says smoothly, breaking away from elena to walk towards you.

“oh no, they’re gonna argue again,” one of elena’s friends whispers, leaning closer to her.

“let’s hope not,” elena mutters nervously, her eyes fixed on you and jungkook.

“you look... stressed.” jungkook points out.

“and you look overdressed,” you shoot back, crossing your arms as you try not to let his presence throw you off.

“i call it setting the bar high,” he quips, standing in front of you now. “wouldn’t want to disappoint, you know.” he shoots a glance to a group of girls who are already eyeing him like he's the main event.

you roll your eyes, “and i thought you were here for the writing contest, not competing for bestdressed.”

“why can’t it be both?” he shrugs, the grin never leaving his face.

you shake your head. “you’re late, starboy.”

“perfection takes time,” he replies with a casual shrug.

“is perfection in the room with us?” you raise a brow, and he pretends to look offended for a moment.

“my goodness, prez,” he says dramatically, clutching his chest as if wounded.

you chuckle despite yourself, and he smiles.

“thanks for helping out, jungkook,” you say, your tone softening just a little. he looks genuinely surprised for a second before his face turns smug.

“oh?” his brows lift playfully. “am i high or did you just thank me?”

“don’t make me take it back,” you warn.

he lets out a small laugh, the sound warm. “don’t mention it. after all, i am the best,” he says, leaning back as if basking in imaginary applause.

your smile immediately fades. “you’re so full of yourself.”

as you follow jungkook to the registration desk, you notice how the girls in the corner giggle louder when he walks by. he tilts his head slightly in their direction, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“you’re enjoying this too much,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“what can i say? people appreciate greatness.” he shrugs, feigning modesty.

“greatness? please. you’re just tall and have nice hair. it’s not that deep.”

“you think my hair is nice?” his smirk widens, and you immediately regret your choice of words.

“focus, starboy,” you snap, pointing to the line of participants. “you’re here to submit your entry, not to boost your already inflated ego.”

“don't worry about me stargirl, i can multitask.” he flashes a grin and steps forward to sign in.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner that you were participating?” you ask, crossing your arms.

“surprise, surprise,” he says in a sing-song tone, not even glancing back.

you hum thoughtfully, narrowing your eyes at his back. “i don’t know if i’m more annoyed that you didn’t tell me or impressed that you kept a secret for once.”

“i’m full of surprises, prez,” he replies, finally turning around. “are you perhaps curious about what i wrote?"

“curious isn’t the word i’d use,” you deadpan.

as the two of you walk away from the desk, you glance at his entry form, trying to peek without being obvious. but he notices immediately.

“curious isn't the word i'd use.” he mocks you, holding the form just out of your reach.

“i was just checking if you spelled your name right.” you roll your eyes yet again.

“i’ll have you know, it’s going to win.” he says.

“oh, it’s definitely going to win something,” you say with a smirk. “most mediocre attempt, maybe.”

“keep talking,” he laughs, “but when my name is announced as the winner, i want you in the front row, clapping louder than anyone.”

“i am not a seal, you know,”

the banter continues as you both head towards the seating area, your playful digs turning heads as others watch the dynamic between the class president and the self proclaimed starboy.

the chatter in the room quiets down as the head of the event steps forward, holding a small glass bowl filled with folded slips of paper. “to kick off the contest,” she announces, her voice echoing slightly in the room, “we’ll randomly select one of our participants to read their submission aloud.”

a murmur spreads through the crowd. your eyes flick to jungkook, who leans back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, pretending to be unbothered. but the way his posture stiffens as the name is drawn doesn’t escape you.

“jeon jungkook.”

you swear you see his confidence falter for just a split second, his eyes widening ever so slightly before he quickly recovers

“well, well,” you say, unable to resist a jab. “didn’t think the universe would humble you this quickly.”

“humble me?” he scoffs, standing up and dusting off his pants as if preparing for a performance. “please. this is nothing.”

the crowd shifts, a few participants nudging him towards the makeshift stage at the front. he lets out a dramatic sigh, walking forward with a nonchalance that feels just a little too forced.

“don’t trip,” you call out, earning a few chuckles from the students around you.

jungkook turns just enough to throw a glance your way, his eyes glinting. “enjoy the show, prez.”

as he steps up to the mic, the room falls into an expectant hush, the silence settling over everyone. jungkook takes his entry, he scans the words, his expression unreadable, before finally beginning to read.

“the story,” he starts, his voice steady yet soft, the kind that makes everyone lean in just a little closer. “it’s about… how one person can change everything, even if they don’t know it.”

he takes a pause, eyes scanning the room briefly before settling somewhere in the distance, as though he’s speaking to a ghost only he can see.

“she’s not like the sun, burning too bright for anyone to hold,” he begins, his voice growing quieter, more deliberate. “she’s more like the moon.. steady, always there even when you can’t see her. the kind of light that keeps you grounded on the darkest nights.”

you hear a few soft sighs from the crowd, and you can’t tell if they’re swooning or genuinely moved. you shift in your seat.

“she’s… not perfect,” he continues, a small, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “but that’s what makes her real. she’s messy, stubborn, maybe even a little mean—” there’s a flicker of amusement in his tone, “—but somehow, she’s still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever known.”

your throat tightens, and you don’t know why. it’s just words, you tell yourself. just another story for the contest. but the way he says them makes your stomach twist.

“she doesn’t know,” jungkook says, quieter now, almost like a confession. “she doesn’t know how much space she takes up in my universe. how, even when everything else feels like it’s falling apart, she stays constant. the one thing i never want to lose.”

the silence in the room is deafening. you can feel your heart thudding against your ribs.

his voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of vulnerability that catches you off guard. the story he weaves is vivid and poetic, describing a brilliant, infuriating force of nature who constantly challenges and inspires him.

“she’s impossible to ignore,” he says, his eyes scanning the room but never quite meeting yours. “like a star in the night sky, guiding but distant, always just out of reach.”

his eyes finally meet yours.

“she's my universe.”

your heart stutters.

is this about—

the applause is immediate, loud and thunderous. jungkook gives a small bow, his usual smirk creeping back into place as he steps down from the stage. but for a split second, as he glances your way, you think you catch something else in his expression; something raw, something different.

“woah,” elena whispers beside you, nudging your arm. “that was… something.”

“yeah,” you murmur, but your voice sounds far away, your mind still caught on his words. “definitely something..”

note: took me a while becuz I AM NOT POETIC— 😓 but anyway lol do u guys think he could win? 🫢

📜 series taglist: @rrosiitas

📜 permanent taglist: @internetrando64 @jkvias @lovieku @deluluisdasolulu @ddanasjk @onlyforyoukook @diamondjeon @nnybtitts08 @lil0u0 @butnotmontana @fr0ggieth1nk @minimoninini @whoa-jo @lola75111 @iswearimover5feetall @rispwr @genevieveeeee @kookoo-kachoo @junecat18 @iheartchanelle

@134340-kr @mar-lo-pap @fluttershypoo @kyuupii @https-mei @elinaki92 @jungkookmyoneandonlybaby @hoseokteardrop @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @jaykay-world @jmscaffeine @libra04 @beigerin @nikidream24 @svnbangtansworld @mimi1097

[a-haunting-memory]

hello!! Hope you are having a wonderful day <33 This is a Lackadaisy request for a one shot so yippee! Basically just reader having a toxic relationship and how Mordecai, Rocky, and maybe other characters deal with it. Hope you have fun writing this angst prompt and I’ll be looking forward to it! Toodles <3

Hey, hi, hello! First of all thank you! I hope you're having a great day/night too! :3

Second of all, when I saw the request I was like: 'wait, that will be cool to write!' although ngl I've kind of procrastinated the writing process, sorry, I just lost my motivation and I had to push myself to start writing this ( ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ)

However I've finally got my motivation back. I'm not very good at making oneshots, it's my second time making one if I can even call this thing an one shot so if it's not looking like a proper one, I'm sorry. I wasn't sure how to get a hang of it. I was struggling a bit due to the lack of information so i tried to keep stuff neutral enough to not imply names nor gender which usually is not a problem to me, but lately I've been feeling like someone put a block to my creativity so if this writing isn't as good, you'll have to excuse me...

In case it is not what you expected, please let me know what to fix. Any advices are welcome!

Summary: How would Mordecai, Rocky deal with a reader who's in a toxic relationship.

Warnings: mentions of a toxic relationship of course, mentions of death, reader is gn, the relationship between the reader and canon characters is undefined.

Mordecai:

When he heard you complaining about some unreasonable arguments that you've had with your partner, he's been trying to be polite, trying to give you a few advices, telling you your partner was not acting wisely, not like a proper partner should. As the time passed, you had more and more complaints and on top of that you looked more gloomy. Seeing that, Mordecai's comments about how you should do something about it or just leave the person, worsened. How could you be so stupid not seeing what a two-faced, serpent with no respect your partner was?!

He always felt strange towards relationships, but now it was even worse after observing how someone close to him hurts themselves because of some weird relationships and odd feelings.

The line has been crossed when he saw you crying in a corner one day. The look of you - helplessly trying to wipe the tears off your cheeks, but only making it worse, rubbing them all over your face - reminded him of the time his little sister had scraped her knee and was weeping until he himself came to help her.

That was it.

You were too stubborn, too jumbled in those stupid feelings to do anything. If not him, no one is gonna take care of this situation.

That night he left his apartment with a fedora that cast a shadow over his face along with a coat that blended his figure into the darkness of the night. He already got everything he needed to know. He connected every little dot, every fact you said about your partner and the places you hung around - Mordecai quickly figured out their place of living.

In the future you have to be more careful what you say... he probably should tell you that.

After he reached your partner's flat, his lock picking skills were up to use. Much to his dismay, the rest of what he had left to do was a bit messy...

He didn't know how to comfort you the following days as you weeped over your not-so-alive partner, but at least neither you nor he had to worry about a certain somebody ruining your mental nor physical health anymore.

He's not a guy of many words nor one who shows much emotion / affection if any at all so you cannot expect much comfort from him, but he'll try to be there for you despite everything.

He will not tell you it was him who killed your partner tho, no, you would hate him for that even tho he 'did the right thing'... Or at least that's what he's been telling himself.

If you really want to, you'll find someone better, who will be the right for you, for sure.

Rocky:

He was happy to see you and your partner in the speakeasy. He loved bothering and teasing you two. It was fun and giggles until he started to notice you coming to Lackadaisy alone more often or acting somewhat odd when with your partner.

He observed you as you sat alone at the bar, leaning over a glass of illicit beverage. He was curious about the reason of it hence he came up to you:

- "hey there sulky-puss, where's your partner?" He rested his fists on his hips.

- "I don't really want to talk about this." You grumbled out.

- "Oh c'mon, pal! Spill the beans!" He cheered with his usual toothy smile.

- "No, Rocky, I'm not in the mood" you cut him off. Seeing his grin getting wiped away from his face exchanged for a confused look made you wince, you hated seeing him upset. "Sorry, I just-... It's a bit complicated, don't worry about it, okay?"

He nodded, he didn't want to bother you too much, he tried to ignore it... at least for now. However he couldn't shake off a bad feeling he had about what was happening. However he started to pick up stuff like: how your arms were often drooped, how hunched your posture was, how you looked like a walking ball of anxiety. He tried to talk to you, to crack a joke, to cheer you up. Sometimes it had the intended effect and sometimes it had the opposite outcome, but he didn't want to give up. After some conversations during which you may or may have not been slightly tipsy he concluded 'your partner was the matter'.

- "Woah, Woah, Woah-... Your partner did what?"

- "yeah... They started threatening me after I said I wanted to leave." You admitted quietly.

- "Oh no, that is not the spirit of love!" He pressed his palms to his cheeks dramatically, making his lips pursue like a fish.

- "Unfortunately you're right, it's not... I don't know what to do anymore." You whined and then took a sip of your beverage.

.

you may not have had any ideas on what to do but he did...

.

That awful person was making their significant other feel unsafe and unloved! I'll show them what the real threat is!-

He took a big swing and...

Clash ..Voomf..

A burning bottle filled with motor oil and gasoline hit the wall of a house and set it on fire.

- "TASTE THE BURNING FLAMES OF LOVE! Ahahah- Or rather the flames of sweet justice. I probably should've said that instead." Rocky brought his finger up to scratch his chin. "Hmm, I should have-"

- "YOU BASTARD!!" A sudden yell came from the window.

Rocky looked up and his lips widened in a twisted grin.

- "You brought this on yourself!! BhAHahHa!!" Once he saw the figure rushing and disappearing deeper into the house, he knew that was the moment to run and so he did...with a maniacal laugh.

The condition of your partner and their house depends on how generous Rocky felt that day.

Let's hope your partner is scared enough to leave you alone and not seek revenge.