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

castielscaplan · 5 months ago

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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!!//

#supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x sister!reader #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester smut #dean winchetser angst #spn #spn fanart #spnedit #spnfandom #spn rp #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanart #angst with a happy ending

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inheritedbelly · 8 months ago

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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…

#bear transformation #boddy swap #old man transformation #tf #transformation #beartf #gay gainer #chubby boy #uncle boddy swap

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cosmicaura7 · 2 months ago

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AITA SERIES

Pairings : pedro pascal characters x reader

Genre : f/m, sexual implications, controversial topics, taboo topics, use of R to refer to reader,

Synopsis : So Reddit, Am I the Asshole…?

Clint Flood (Freaky Tales)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for being in love with my boyfriend’s dad?

I know how this sounds. I’m not proud of it. But I also can’t stop thinking about it, so here I am.

I (26F) have been dating J (28M) for almost a year now. He’s a good guy, steady, kind and a little boring but safe. The kind of guy you’re supposed to want to marry. The kind your mom would approve of.

Then there’s his dad. C (mid-50s). A little rough around the edges. Quiet, tall and intense. He’s got these piercing eyes that feel like they can see right through you and this whole ex-military and no-bullshit vibe that makes the air change when he walks into a room.

The first time I met him, I already felt something. But I ignored it, pushed it down. But it’s gotten worse. Every time I visit their family cabin, every time we sit across from each other at dinner, I feel his gaze linger just a little too long. I catch him watching me when he thinks I won’t notice. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look right back. It’s not just lust, either. He actually sees me, listens to me in a way his son never really does. He remembers the small things I say, and even notices when I change my hair. Once, when I was quietly crying in the hallway during a family weekend (long story), he was the one who came out and handed me a glass of water without a word.

I feel so drawn to him. And I know how messed up that is, I’m dating his son after all. There’s no world where this ends well. I haven’t cheated. I haven’t done anything beyond maybe letting my imagination wander and entertaining a few dreams I’ll never admit out loud. But lately, when I’m with J, I just feel off. Like I’m pretending. Like I’m waiting for someone else to walk into the room. Someone who makes my skin burn with just a glance.

So Reddit… AITA for staying in a relationship when my heart might be somewhere else? Am I horrible for wanting a man I can’t have? Or is this just a passing obsession I need to bury deeper?

Dave York (The Equalizer 2)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for not acting on feelings for my kids’ babysitter even though she clearly wants me to?

Okay Reddit, I know how this sounds, but hear me out before you jump to “creep” in the comments.

I (41M) am a divorced dad of two daughters, A (10) and M (7). They’re my world. Been raising them mostly solo for the past three years since the split and it hasn’t been easy. Between work, school pickups and dance recitals, I needed help. Enter her (let’s call her R, 26F), the babysitter I hired after a friend’s recommendation.

She’s absolutely incredible. Responsible, patient, smart, funny and grounded. Everything you’d want in a woman. My girls adore her. They draw her pictures, ask for her when they’re sick, even slip up and call her “Mom” sometimes. I figured that would make things easier, someone stable in their lives.

What I didn’t expect was me being the unstable one. Because the problem is, she’s also gorgeous. Like, unfairly so. And lately, I can’t tell if I’m imagining things or if she’s trying to test me. The casual touches, the way she lingers in the kitchen when I come home, the soft voice when she tells me I look tired and should get more sleep, the ridiculously tight tank tops, the lip gloss and the way she looks at me when she doesn’t think I notice.

Part of me, a big part, wants to give in. I’m a man, I’m not oblivious to it. But the other part? The one that tucks my daughters in at night? That part is scared shitless. What if I misread everything? What if this ruins the bond she has with my girls? What if they lose someone they love because their dad couldn’t keep it in his pants?

She’s never said anything outright, never crossed a clear line. But I can feel the tension and I can feel myself getting closer to breaking every day. I want her so badly but I also want what’s best for my kids. I just don’t know if those two things can exist at the same time.

So Reddit… AITA for keeping her at arm’s length when all I want to do is pull her closer?

Dieter Bravo (The Bubble)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for falling in love with my fake PR girlfriend and not knowing if she actually likes me or is just a better actor than I am?

Okay. Buckle up, internet strangers because I’m spiraling.

I (early 40s M, actor, you’ve probably seen me snort a line or die dramatically in something) was recently paired up with another actor (let’s call her R, 30s F, wildly talented, unfairly hot and intimidatingly cool) to star in this big dramatic slow-burn romance film. Think tortured artists, rainy kisses and completely Oscar bait.

To sell it? The studios and our agents cooked up this genius idea, let’s fake date. Hold hands at events, post blurry selfies on Instagram, give flirty interviews. You know, classic “no, we’re just good friends… wink” PR bait. At first, I laughed. I’ve done this crap before. All the camera flashes, fake kisses, casually mentioning her in interviews, rinse and repeat.

Except it stopped feeling fake. I stopped feeling fake. Somewhere between the shared hotel rooms, the quiet after-parties, the little glances during press junkets, I fell for her. Fully, horrifically and irrevocably. The kind of fall that makes your chest hurt and your ego scream. The worst part? I have no clue if she feels the same. She’s good, man. Oscar-nominee good. She leans into my arm like she means it. Laughs at my dumb jokes like they’re brilliant. Once she looked at me after a long day of shooting and said, “Sometimes I forget this isn’t real.” and I swear to god my soul left my body.

But then the next morning she’ll be cold again. Professional and distant. Like I dreamed the whole thing. Like it’s all just lines from a script I don’t have a copy of. Now I’m sitting here, fully in love with the woman I’m supposed to be pretending to love and I don’t know if I should say anything. What if I ruin everything? What if she is just pretending? What if I’m just another role she nails while I’m over here method acting heartbreak?

So Reddit… AITA for catching real feelings during a fake relationship? Or just an idiot with a crush and no chill?

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for not following through with a hit because I fell in love with the target?

Yeah. That title’s a mess. So’s the situation.

I (40M) work in a niche line of work. Let’s just say I solve problems that require extreme discretion and no paper trail. You hire me and the problem disappears. Clean and quiet within a blink of an eye.

A few months ago, I got a high-paying job from a rich smug prick who wanted his ex-wife taken care of. No explanation, just names, photos and a price I couldn’t ignore. I’ve done worse for less so I took it. Her name is R (36F). First time I saw her, she was sitting outside a little bookstore she owns, sipping coffee, talking to some neighborhood kid like she wasn’t marked for death. I kept my distance. Observed and waited for the right time.

Only it never came.

The more I watched, the harder it became to see her as a target. She volunteers at shelters. Leaves snacks out for delivery drivers. She sings in her car when she thinks no one’s watching. She’s light and warm. The kind of woman you protect, not eliminate.

I told myself I was just gathering intel but days turned to weeks. I started memorizing her routines. I learned the way she laughs when she texts her sister, the exact brand of tea she drinks, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. Somewhere along the way, the job stopped being a job. I never made contact, never said a word. But I started feeling and now I’m in too deep. I backed out of the job quietly. Told the client it was unworkable, returned the deposit. He wasn’t happy but I’d rather deal with him than live with the thought of hurting her.

Problem is, I still want her. And I’ve imagined going up to her. Introducing myself as just a guy who walked into her in a random shop. Letting her fall for me without knowing who I really am. But that feels like a lie. I’ve already lied by omission.

So Reddit… AITA for falling for her while stalking her? For not telling her the truth even though every part of me wants to protect her now? Or would telling her everything be the most selfish thing I could do?

Ezra (The Prospect)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for secretly dating my best friend’s brother even though she explicitly told me not to?

So I (F, 27) have been best friends with this girl since we were 7. We grew up together, sleepovers, secrets, teenage rebellion, the whole deal. She’s like a sister to me and we’ve been through everything.

Which means I also grew up around E (M, 34), her older brother. E was the charming, sarcastic, effortlessly cool older brother who’d tease us when we were kids, drive us around when we were teens, and smirk at me in that infuriating way that made me blush harder than I’d like to admit. We always had this… thing. Flirty comments, lingering looks, stupid jokes that only made sense to us. But I never acted on it. My best friend made it very clear and very early on that E was off limits. “It’d be weird.” She said, “Gross. I don’t want my bestie being near my brother like that

Fast forward to last year. I ran into E at a party she dragged me to and it was different. The flirting was heavier. The air was tense. He looked at me like he really saw me. One thing led to another, and… yeah. We started secretly dating. At first, it was light, late-night texting, stolen moments, private dinners. But it grew deeper. He’s thoughtful, steady, makes me laugh and makes me feel safe. He listens. We talk about everything. I think I’ve loved him longer than I’ve even known what love was.

We’ve been together for 5 months now. My best friend doesn’t know. I’ve lied to her face more times than I can count and I hate it. Every time E and I sneak around, a part of me dies a little because I know how betrayed she’ll feel if (when) she finds out.

But here’s the thing, it’s not some casual fling. We’re in love. I want to tell her. We both do. We just don’t know how without blowing up twenty years of friendship. And I can’t stop asking myself, do I owe her that level of loyalty? Or am I allowed to be happy even if it’s messy?

So Reddit… AITA for going behind my best friend’s back and dating her brother, the one person she begged me not to fall for?

Francisco Morales (Triple Frontier)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for wanting to ask out a woman who used to sleep with my best friend (even though I’ve liked her for years)?

Yeah, I know how this sounds. Buckle up.

I (38M) have this friend, let’s call him Pope, who I’ve known forever. We’ve been through the shit together. The kind of friendship where you’d kill for the guy, no questions asked.

A few years ago, he was hooking up with this woman (let’s call her R, 30F). Nothing serious. Just casual, no-strings. He made that clear to all of us. And she seemed fine with it. They’d hook up after drinks or late nights but it fizzled out naturally. No drama. No breakup. Just life moving on.

Thing is that I liked her, always liked her. Since day one. She’s smart, hilarious, can handle a room full of testosterone like it’s nothing and has this way of looking at you that makes you feel like you’re the only guy in the world. I kept my distance out of respect. You don’t move in on your best friend’s girl even if she was never really his girl. But now, years later, I still haven’t stopped thinking about her. We still talk and hang out sometimes. There’s a spark there, I swear. But I haven’t said a damn thing. Partly because I’m a coward, partly because I don’t want to blow up my friendship with Pope.

I asked him once, hypothetically, how he��d feel if someone dated a girl he’d just “hooked up with.” He shrugged and said, “If it was just a hook-up, I wouldn’t give a shit.” But I don’t know if he actually meant it. And I don’t know if it’s different when it’s one of us, tight-knit, military bond and all.

So Reddit… AITA if I ask her out? Am I a bad friend for wanting a chance with the woman he technically had first, even if it was casual and years ago? Or should I just shut my mouth and keep pretending I don’t care?

Harry Castillo (The Materialists)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for wanting to financially support my assistant in a way that might make me her sugar daddy?

Throwaway because, well, obviously.

I (42M) run several successful business firms and have a phenomenal assistant (26F). Let’s call her R. She’s sharp, competent, endlessly patient with my disorganization and frankly the reason this whole damn office runs at all.

Here’s the thing, I’ve noticed she’s been struggling lately. She’s skipping meals, avoiding turning on the office heat even when she’s freezing. I caught her patching a hole in her shoe with tape. She’s proud and never complains, but it’s obvious she’s barely staying afloat. I pay her more than what she deserves for her position but I know life’s expensive, especially in Manhattan. I also know she’s got student loans and takes care of her family. And I hate seeing her like this, it’s been eating at me.

So here’s where I might be the asshole, I’ve been toying with the idea of offering her help. Not a raise (I already gave her one recently). Not a loan (she’d never accept). More like a “no strings attached” arrangement where I’d take care of her rent, groceries or whatever she needs, if she lets me. Yes, I know how that sounds. I’m not trying to be a creep. I’m not expecting anything in return, no paying back, no sexual favors. But there’s no way to make this offer without it sounding like I want to be her sugar daddy.

Truth is… I wouldn’t hate that idea if she was open to something more. She’s beautiful and smart. The kind of woman I’d fall for in another life. But that’s not what this is about. I just want to take care of her and make sure she’s okay. If there’s anything more deserving in living the lavish life, it’s definitely her.

So Reddit… AITA for even thinking about offering something like that? And if not, how the hell do I go about it without sounding like an old pervert?

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels (Kingsman)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for being cold to a woman at work because she reminds me of my dead wife?

I (late 40s, M) work in a high-risk field, let’s just call it federal-level security with a cowboy hat on top. I’m used to staying sharp and staying detached. I’ve had to be, ever since I lost my wife ten years ago. She was my everything. Sweet, sharp-tongued and tough as nails under lace. When she died… I buried my heart with her.

Then came her.

Let’s call her R (mid-30s, F). She’s the new secretary at our organization. Handles the logistics, the schedules, the background noise of our chaos. Always has a coffee in hand, always humming something, always looking at the world like it still deserves to be forgiven. The first time I saw her, I froze. She didn’t look exactly like my wife, not quite, but she moved like her, laughed like her and smiled with that same little tilt that used to undo me in an instant. And ever since then, I’ve treated her like she’s done something wrong just by walking into the damn room.

I’m short and dismissive with her, sometimes even rude. I pretend not to hear her when she says good morning. Once or twice, I’ve even corrected her harshly in front of others for mistakes she didn’t make. I know I’m being cruel. She hasn’t done a damn thing to deserve it. But every time she opens her mouth, I hear a ghost. Thing is, she’s never pushed back. She just looks at me with this confused kind of hurt, like she doesn’t understand what she did wrong and the truth is, she didn’t, never did. I did. I’m the one turning grief into anger. I’m the one who never dealt with losing the woman I loved and now I’m taking it out on someone who’s just being kind.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about apologizing, about telling her the truth. But I’m afraid if I let her in, I’ll start feeling again. And I don’t know if I’ve got the strength to lose someone twice.

So Reddit… AITA for being a jackass to someone just because she reminds me of someone I lost? Or is this just the only way I know how to cope?

Javi Guttierez (The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for kissing my assistant and confessing my feelings, only for her to completely ignore it the next day?

This might be a mess so bear with me.

I (M, 33) am a scriptwriter and producer. I’ve worked my way up in this business and I take it seriously. One of the smartest things I ever did was hire her, my assistant (F, 28). Let’s call her R. She’s incredible. Organized, sharp, cool under pressure, has this dry humor that makes me laugh at the worst times and somehow remembers every detail about everyone I ever meet. She makes me better. She makes the job look easy.

And I’ve been in love with her for almost two years.

I know it’s unprofessional. I kept it quiet, never crossed a line, not even a toe near one. Because she deserves respect and I’d rather suffer in silence than make her uncomfortable or jeopardize her career.

But it’s been getting harder lately, especially at industry parties. She turns heads when she walks into a room. Every actor, every big name, they all want a piece of her. And I just stand there, pretending I don’t care. Pretending I’m not dying inside when they make her laugh, when they ask for her number, when she says, “I’m working” and looks away.

Then came this gala. One too many champagne flutes. One too many guys trying to corner her. She looked uncomfortable, kept glancing at me across the room. And something in me snapped. I pulled her away from the crowd, took her to the balcony, and without thinking, I kissed her. Then I told her everything. That I’ve liked her since week one. That I think about her all the time. That it kills me to watch her with anyone else.

And she just ran. Didn’t say a word. Just turned and walked away.

Next morning? It was like it never happened. She showed up, clipboard in hand, rattling off schedules, looking me dead in the eye like she hadn’t fled from my lips ten hours prior. I’ve tried talking to her. I’ve begged for just five minutes of her time. She dodges me, changes subjects, acts like everything is normal, and it’s driving me insane. I feel like I crossed a boundary. But also, I was honest. I never forced anything. I just said how I felt.

So Reddit… AITA for kissing my assistant and confessing my feelings after years of silence, even if now she won’t speak to me?

Javier Peña (Narcos)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for constantly rejecting my coworker’s advances even though I’m actually in love with him?

This is going to sound like I’m the world’s biggest idiot, but here goes.

I (29F) work for the government. It's a hard, high-stress job and there’s not a lot of room for vulnerability or, y’know, romance. Which sucks because I’ve been half in love with my colleague, let’s call him J, since the day I met him.

He’s everything you’d want in a man. Confident, charming and dangerous in that bad boy way. He walks into a room and women stare. He talks and people listen. He flirts like it’s breathing. And yeah, he’s got a reputation. Everyone knows he’s been around, probably the most sexually experienced man I’ve ever met.

Me? I’ve never even had sex. Not religious, not traumatized, it just never happened for me. I’ve always been shy and easily intimidated. I was the "shy bunny" in the academy, not the one guys chased after. And when J started flirting with me, like really flirting, I froze.

It’s not like I’m not interested, I am. But every time he makes a move, I panic, I dodge, I pretend that I’m too busy or brush him off with a joke. Because the thought of actually being with him, of taking off my clothes in front of a man like that, makes me want to crawl into a hole. I’m scared I’ll disappoint him. That I’ll be awkward or inexperienced or just not enough. And then I’ll ruin the one good relationship I have on this damn job. He still flirts, still checks in. But I can feel the distance growing. I think he’s starting to think I’m not into him. Or worse, that I’m playing games. I’m not. I just don’t know how to tell him why I keep backing off.

So Reddit… AITA for rejecting him over and over while secretly being in love with him? Should I be honest and risk everything? Or just keep my mouth shut and let him move on to someone who won’t choke up the second he touches her?

Joel Miller (The Last of Us)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for having feelings for my dad’s best friend, who basically helped raise me?

Okay, so this is going to sound real bad on paper, but hear me out.

I (26F) have known this man, J, since I was a kid. He’s my dad’s best friend, a grumpy rugged Texan who’s been around for every milestone in my life. School plays, birthdays, college move-in day, you name it, J was always there, usually fixing something or standing off to the side with a cup of coffee and his permanent scowl.

Here’s the thing, somewhere in the last year or two, I started not seeing J as just “Dad’s friend.” Like, I’ll walk into the kitchen in my pajamas and he’s fixing the sink with his sleeves rolled up, arms flexing and suddenly I’m thinking things I should probably be arrested for. It’s not just physical. He listens to me, respects me and treats me like a grown woman, not a little girl.

A few nights ago, he stayed over after helping Dad rebuild the deck. I poured him a whiskey after Dad went to bed and we talked for hours. At one point, he brushed my hand and didn’t pull away right away. It was small but it felt like something shifted. Here’s the kicker, I want something to happen. I want him but I feel like the biggest asshole on the planet because 1.) he’s my dad’s best friend, 2.) he’s literally 20+ years older than me, and 3.) I know if my dad ever found out, it’d destroy their friendship.

So Reddit… AITA for wanting to sleep with the man who basically helped raise me? I haven’t acted on it yet, but I want to desperately. Am I a terrible person for thinking so?

Marcus Acacius (Gladiator II)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for secretly dating my professor after we hooked up, even though I was the one who pursued him first?

Throwaway for obvious reasons. This is messy and I know it.

So I (22F) am a senior in college, finishing my degree in classical studies. For the past year, I’ve been taking a Roman history seminar taught by Professor M (M, late 30s?). He’s brilliant, sharp-tongued, a little intimidating and, honestly, incredibly attractive in that cold, untouchable kind of way. I’ve had a crush on him since day one.

He’s very professional, like textbook boundary-keeper. Never gave me special treatment, never even hinted at anything, even though I was top of his class and probably tried way too hard to impress him. I figured it would stay one-sided forever. Until a few weeks ago, I went to a bar near campus with friends. And who do I run into? Him. Out of the suit, out of the lecture hall, totally relaxed. He buys me a drink. We talk, like, really talk. He’s charming, funny and flirty. I was shocked. One thing led to another and I ended up at his apartment. We slept together. It was intense, passionate and everything I’d secretly fantasize about.

We talked the next morning. He made it very clear that he hadn’t planned it, that it was wrong in theory, but neither of us wanted to stop. So we kept seeing each otherecretly. Always professional on campus. No PDA. No weird behavior in class. It’s all strictly off the clock.

And honestly? I’m happy. I care about him. I think he cares about me too. But lately, some classmates have started joking that he favors me, not knowing anything is happening, and it’s making me feel paranoid. I’m terrified of ruining his reputation, of jeopardizing his career or mine.

So Reddit… AITA for crossing that line with him? Or are we just two adults trying to be careful about something real in a setting that doesn’t make room for it?

Marcus Moreno (We Can Be Heroes)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for feeling blindsided that my neighbor, who babysits my daughter and I might be falling for, has a kid I didn’t know about?

Hey Reddit, this might sound like a midlife crisis-in-the-making but I really need some outside perspective.

I (M, 39) am a single dad. My daughter, also M (F, 8), is the best part of my life. I work a demanding job, and for the past year or so, my neighbor (F, 35), let’s call her R, has been babysitting M when I’m away. She’s kind, dependable and just gets my daughter in a way that instantly puts me at ease.

More than that, she gets me. We’ve grown close. Coffee on porches. Passing each other in the hall. Sometimes we talk until midnight over paper takeout boxes and M’s school projects. I always chalked it up to neighborly chemistry, nothing more. But lately, I’ve caught myself looking at her differently, wondering if maybe, just maybe, she might feel the same. My daughter doesn’t help. Every other night it’s, “Daddy, she has a crush on you.” Or “I think she’d be a great mom someday, like, to me.” Kids, right?

I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. I figured if she felt something, she’d say something or maybe I’d grow the courage to bring it up myself. But then, this weekend, a car pulls up in her driveway. I look out the window and I see a man step out, not threatening, just there. And then a little boy hops out of the back seat and runs into R’s arms.

My heart dropped. Turns out she has a kid, a son. From a previous marriage, she’s divorced. None of this was ever mentioned in all our conversations and now I feel off? Confused. A little betrayed? I know that sounds unfair, she’s not obligated to tell me her life story. But after all these quiet, close nights and tender moments and hearing from my daughter that she might have feelings for me, why didn’t she ever tell me about her son? I haven’t said anything. I don’t want to make her feel guilty. She still babysits my daughter. But I can’t stop replaying it all. Did she keep it from me on purpose? Was I just a fool for thinking we had something? Or am I just overwhelmed because I wanted her to be part of our little family and didn’t realize she already had one of her own?

So Reddit… AITA for feeling a little heartbroken and distant after finding out my neighbor has a son she never told me about?

Marcus Pike (The Mentalist)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for not telling my best friend that I’m secretly dating the man she just asked me to help her get with?

I (F, 30s) have been dating a coworker of mine, let’s call him M (late 30s, thoughtful, charming, ridiculously handsome) for over three years. We met working in the same department (federal law enforcement, so discretion is basically part of the uniform), and from the start, we kept it quiet. No PDA at work, no romantic texts on company phones, nothing that could put us under scrutiny. It was just easier that way, completely private and ours.

Fast-forward to now, we’ve built a whole life together in the shadows. We take trips, spend weekends at each other’s apartments, and talk about buying a house someday. The real deal.

Here’s the problem, my best friend, who also works in our agency, pulled me aside a few days ago and told me she has a huge crush on M. She said she’s had a thing for him for months but didn’t know how to approach it. And then she asked if I could help set her up with him, talk her up, ease her in, “put in a good word.” She has no idea I’m with him. We’ve never told anyone. And the worst part? She was genuinely excited when she told me, like school girl giddy level. She said, “I really think he could be the one.”

Now I feel sick. I didn’t know what to say. I kind of froze, gave a weird laugh and changed the subject. But now she keeps asking about it. And I feel like I’m betraying both of them, M, by not protecting our relationship and her, by hiding something huge.

M says we can go public. That he’s fine with it if I am but then what? I tell her I’ve been with the guy she’s secretly pining over for years and just didn’t say anything? Won’t she feel humiliated? Betrayed? I’m terrified it’ll destroy our friendship.

So Reddit… AITA for not telling my best friend I’m already with the guy she wants? And if not, what the hell do I do now?

Max Philips (Bloodsucking Bastards)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for wanting to quit because my boss won’t turn me into a vampire even though I’m literally the top performer?

I (24F) started an internship at a mid-size sales company a few months ago. I was just trying to get some experience and a paycheck. I didn’t expect, you know, vampires to be a part of that experience.

The office rumor (that everyone knows is true) is that M (mid-30s? ageless? hot in a soul-sucking Wall Street vampire sort of way) is the boss who handpicks the best employees to “promote” aka turn them into vampires. It’s a reward. Eternal life, endless energy, better insurance and apparently a coffee tolerance that doesn’t make your hands shake. Thing is, I’ve crushed the sales board for three months straight. Like, no competition. The next closest guy is 42 calls behind and cries during lunch. I stayed up late. I meet quotas no one else touches. My neck is basically exposed at this point, figuratively and literally.

And yet nothing. No shadowy invite. No creepy-but-glamorous “let’s talk in my office with the lights off.” M just gives me these weird once-overs in the elevator and says things like, “Good work, kid,” like I’m still in high school. Meanwhile, last month’s top performer (D, who sells like he’s reading from a cereal box) got “promoted” after one good week.

I tried asking. M just smiled, that smug fanged GQ smile and said, “It’s not just about the numbers.” Which… okay? What is it about then? Charm? Blood type? Being less annoying during meetings? Now I’m spiraling. Like am I not vampire material? Am I too ambitious? Not attractive enough? Too human? Every day I walk past the break room and see the cool undead crowd sipping their crimson smoothies and laughing at inside jokes about graveyards and their never ending orgies, and I feel like the nerd no one wants at the slumber party.

I’m starting to hate him. Not just because he won’t bite me but because I wanted it. I earned it. And now I’m stuck here, mortal, exhausted and drinking stale coffee while wondering if I’m not enough.

So Reddit… AITA for wanting to quit my job because my boss won’t make me a vampire? Or am I just taking professional rejection way too personally?

Maxwell Lord (Wonder Woman 1984)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for wanting to ask out my son’s teacher even though I’m afraid of messing up his life again?

So, I (M, early 40s) am a single dad to the best kid on the planet, A (9M). Sweet, brilliant and too good for me honestly. His mom and I split a few years ago and I’ve been doing the whole daddy CEO redemption arc thing ever since. Trying to be a good man. Trying to keep the chaos in check. Trying not to completely screw this kid up.

Enter her. My son’s teacher. Let’s call her R (30s F). She’s sunshine in human form. Whip-smart, patient and warm. She talks to A like he’s the most important person in the room, and hell, she talks to me like I’m not just a walking Wall Street headline. I’ve been smitten since parent-teacher night. Every time I drop A off or pick him up, I try to be charming, likeable, funny, confident. You know, my usual moves.

And I fail miserably. Every. Single. Time.

She doesn’t laugh at my stupid money jokes, she gives me this look when I bring her overpriced coffee like she knows I googled “gifts teachers love.” Once, I tried to compliment her and said, “You’re doing really admirable work wrangling a room full of small people.” I sounded like I was describing a livestock auction. Still, she smiles. She’s kind and I think, maybe, she likes me back? Or at least doesn’t hate me. Which, for me, is progress.

Here’s the problem, I’ve been thinking about asking her out. Just coffee, something simple. But I keep stopping myself because of A. He adores her. I mean, glows when he talks about her. I don’t want to confuse him. I don’t want him to feel weird if she becomes something more to me than “Ms. R.”

But lately, he’s been drawing pictures of the three of us. Me, him and her. He says stuff like, “Ms. R would make a good mom.” Or, “Ms. R always makes me feel safe.” And I can’t help but wonder, is he already hoping for something more?

So Reddit… AITA for wanting to ask out my son’s teacher even if it risks changing something sacred in his life? Or should I just keep pretending this isn’t killing me a little more every time I see her?

Lucien De Leon (The Uninvited)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for not being able to look at my best friend the same after I saw her camming and moaning my name?

Yeah. I know how that sounds. But please let me explain before you judge.

I (M, 29) have been best friends with R (F, 28) since we were kids. Grew up in the same neighborhood, went through awkward teen years together, cried on each other’s shoulders during breakups, shared popcorn during horror movie marathons, the whole “platonic soulmates” deal. Everyone always assumed we’d end up together but we never crossed the line. Mostly because I never had the guts.

Truth is, I’ve been in love with her since high school. She’s funny, brilliant, completely unfiltered and has this laugh that makes me feel like everything’s okay. I never told her because I didn’t want to lose what we had.

Then last week, I was up late, bored, scrolling whatever and I ended up on a cam site. Just clicking around, not expecting anything.

And there she was.

On camera.

In the most sinful lingerie I’ve ever seen and looking gorgeous as ever. And at first I froze. I thought, “No way. That can’t be her.” But it was 100% her. The mole on her hip, the way she chews her lip when nervous, her voice.

And then she moaned my name. Not in passing. Not like in a roleplay type of way. My actual real name. I exited so fast I nearly dropped my phone. I haven’t told her. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop picturing it. Her, saying my name, like that. And now every time we hang out, it’s like a war in my head, part of me still wanting to protect her, the other part completely wrecked by desire and curiosity. I feel like I’ve violated something, even though she’s the one streaming it publicly. I feel like a creep but also kind of hopeful? Like maybe she feels something for me, too? I don’t know what to do. I can’t unsee it and I don’t know if I should talk to her, confess, or bury it forever.

So Reddit… AITA for not being able to treat my best friend the same now that I’ve seen her in that way, even if she doesn’t know I know?

Oberyn Martell (Game of Throne)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for falling in love with the enemy and not telling her I originally used her to get revenge on her family?

I (41M) come from a family with blood in the streets and revenge in its bones. We’ve been at war with another family, let’s call them the Ls, for decades. The kind of feud where you don’t just destroy businesses, you burn bloodlines.

A while back, I met her. Let’s call her R (32F) and is the youngest from that said family. She walked into a neutral club downtown like she owned it, and every man in the room turned to look. So did I. At first, I saw an opportunity. I’m not proud of it but I’ll be honest, I wanted to get close to her to hurt her family. Seduce her. Use her. Break her heart. Maybe learn a few secrets along the way. That was the plan.

Except, it didn’t go that way.

She didn’t fall easily. She’s not some porcelain princess. She challenged me, even mocked me. Didn’t take any of my shit. And somehow, in all that fire and venom, I started wanting her. Not as a pawn. As a person. As mine. We've been seeing each other in secret for almost a year now. Behind closed doors, it’s real. It’s not a game. I bring her flowers. She brings me peace. She’s the only one who touches me like I’m a man, not a monster. And gods help me, I think I’d burn down my whole empire just to keep her safe.

But I haven’t told her the truth. That I used her at first. That I lied when I said I just "ran into her." That I walked into her life with a knife hidden behind my back and only dropped it once I realized I didn’t want to hurt her, I wanted to keep her. Now I’m stuck. If I tell her the truth, I risk losing her forever. If I don’t, I’m living a lie. Every time I touch her, I wonder if she’d still look at me the same if she knew what I was when this started.

So Reddit… AITA for not telling her? For falling in love with the one woman I was supposed to destroy?

Pero Tovar (The Great Wall)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for wanting to say yes when my boss’s daughter asked me to get her pregnant to avoid sleeping with her fiancé?

I know how that title sounds. Believe me, I’ve lost sleep over it.

I (late 30s M), am an ex-military, currently working in private security. I was hired by a very rich, very controlling man to be his daughter’s bodyguard. Let’s call her R (mid-20s, beautiful, clever, and way too good for this world or for me).

R’s family is old-money, traditional and practically treats her like a business asset. A few months ago, they arranged for her to marry some stiff in a suit who’s more in love with her father’s power than with her. She doesn't love him, she’s made that clear. And now her family is pushing for kids. Like, very soon. Like, contracts signed and wedding night kind of pressure.

I’ve seen the way she looks after long meetings. Like she’s drowning. I’ve heard her cry in her room when she thinks no one’s listening. But I didn’t expect what she asked me. She pulled me aside yesterday. Calm, serious and no games. She said she couldn’t go through with letting a stranger own her body. That if she had to have a child, she wanted to choose the father. Someone she trusted. Someone she felt safe with. Someone like me. She said she wouldn’t expect anything else. No strings. No relationship. Just this one thing. And god help me, I want to say yes.

Because I’ve been falling for her since day one. Quietly. From the shadows. I was hired to protect her, not touch her, but every time I see her, I want to pull her away from all of this. From her family. From the cold fiancé. From the life she never chose.

But if I say yes, am I crossing a line? Taking advantage of her desperation? If I say no, I keep things clean, professional but I leave her alone in something that clearly terrifies her.

So Reddit… AITA for wanting to say yes when she asked me to give her something real in a life full of things she never chose?

Reed Richards (Fantastic 4)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for constantly arguing with my scientific rival, even though I might actually be in love with her?

Let me start by saying I’m not great with emotions. Equations? Fine. Quantum mechanics? My playground. Human connection? That’s where I fall apart.

I (40M) work in advanced theoretical physics, and I’m fairly well-known in my field. A few years ago, a new name started popping up in peer-reviewed journals. Let’s call her R (34F). She’s brilliant, bold and completely unapologetic. And somehow, infuriatingly, smarter than me in areas I used to dominate.

We met at a symposium and things escalated. What began as subtle jabs turned into full-blown intellectual warfare. Debates in front of panels. Arguments in laboratories. Petty rebuttals in published work. To everyone else, we’re rivals, frenemies at best, sworn enemies at worst.

But here’s the part no one knows, I don’t hate her at all.

In fact, I admire her more than anyone I’ve ever met. She challenges me. She keeps me on my toes. And, God help me, she’s gorgeous when she’s yelling at me about my “antiquated entropy model.” I’ve even found myself intentionally provoking her just to see the fire in her eyes. The problem? I’ve backed myself into a corner. I’ve spent so long acting like she’s my nemesis that I don’t know how to flip the script. I can’t just say, “Hey, I know I’ve spent the last three years criticizing your work in front of Nobel committees, but want to grab dinner sometime?”

She probably does hate me. Or worse, she sees me as a childish competitor who can’t handle being challenged by a woman. And maybe that’s not entirely wrong.

So Reddit… AITA for keeping up the act? For pretending to hate her when in reality I can’t stop thinking about her? I don’t even know if she’d take me seriously if I tried to be honest now. Or is it too late to change the rules of the game?

Tim Rockford (Merge Mansion)

~~ COMING SOON ~~

AITA for developing feelings for a witness in a murder case even though I’m the lead investigator and she’s the victim’s wife?

I know how it sounds. I hate that I’m even writing this. But here we are.

I (M, 40s) work in law enforcement, been doing it a long time. I’ve seen the worst of people. I’ve interviewed killers with no soul behind their eyes, and families so broken by grief I had to go sit in my car afterward and just breathe.

Then came her.

Let’s call her R (30s F). She was the wife of the man we found shot dead in their home. Brutal scene. She was there too, barely alive when we arrived. Beaten, bloodied and she fought like hell to survive. We think she wasn’t supposed to make it. Suspect must’ve thought she was dead when he fled.

We put her into a protective program while we sort this out. There’s still a threat, still pieces missing. And since I’m the lead on the case, I’ve been around a lot.

It started small, making sure she felt safe. Bringing her updates. Listening when she needed to talk about the past. Her husband wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. There’s a lot to unpack there. And somewhere along the line, I started seeing her as more than a witness. More than a case file. She’s sharp and resilient. The kind of woman who makes you want to be softer just standing near her. And she smiles at me, like she’s grateful I’m there, like she trusts me.

But here’s the thing: her husband just died violently. No matter how their marriage was, he’s gone and I’m the man investigating it. I’m supposed to be objective, professional. And I am, I swear I am. But I can’t lie to myself anymore and pretend I’m not catching feelings I shouldn’t. I haven’t acted on anything. I’d never cross that line. But the way she looks at me sometimes, I wonder if she feels it too.

So Reddit… AITA for wanting something with a woman who’s still technically grieving her dead husband, while I’m supposed to be the one protecting her?

123 notes · View notes

musings-of-a-rose · 4 months ago

Note

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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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 1 year ago

Text

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

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angstywaifu · 5 months ago

Text

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

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lunajay33 · 1 month ago

Text

Always There Part.2

•🌑🪻🏹🐺•

Summary: Growing up being Scott’s nerdy little sister had its struggles and when the supernatural takes over your brothers word you find yourself struggling to be seen but someone always noticed you no matter what

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x f!reader McCall

Includes: Angst, Slow Burn, Brothers Bestfriend, Supernatural, Teasing

Part.1

•Masterlist•

It’s been a few days since what happened between me and stiles and I’ve sort of been avoiding him and Scott, how could stiles thing he was a loser, and girls didn’t notice him, I’ve only ever noticed him from the day Scott brought him home

Playing around the front yard with my jump rope while mom sat on the porch drinking an iced tea as we waited for Scott and his new friend

“Mom where’s Scott I wanna meet his new friend! Maybe he can be my friend too!

“Soon honey, he’s a sweet boy!” She smiled as she twirls one of my pigtails

At that moment a police car pulls up and out come the sheriff, Scott and the cutest boy I’ve ever seen, they both run up to me all smiles

“Y/n! This is my new best friend stiles!” Scott beams after he hugs me

I felt so nervous just looking at the boy but I smiled anyways and waved

“Hi” I felt my cheeks heat up and mom and the sheriff laugh

“Hi! Wanna play with us?” He asks taking my hand and the three of us run up to Scott’s room and play for the rest of the evening

Ever since that day it’s only ever been stiles for me, never once did he ever treat me different until now, I need to find out what’s going on with them

I take a deep breath feeling the nerves start to set in as I stand infront of Scott’s room, knocking and almost instantly he opens it

“Hey sis, come in” he says a little melancholic, I sit on his bed and he sits across from me

“I’ve missed you, so has stiles, he feels awful”

“He didn’t do anything wrong just…..you know how I struggle with making friends and I’ve always had you and stiles and he said he felt like what ever has happened recently that’s changed everything that it was the chance to not be losers anymore, and well I guess that just solidified my feeling of being a nerdy loser, and I just miss you guys, and you’re keeping something from me….just tell me Scott we’ve always been there for eachother, just let me in”

The way he looked at me with his puppy dog eyes, his hand soothing my arm, he was always protective of me which I loved about him but I’ve been here before and I know what he’s going to say

“I never meant to leave you out but what’s happening right now……we just wanna make sure you’re okay and you’re not in danger, I’m still trying to figure everything out myself just…..give me time sis” I sigh standing up

“You can’t protect me forever Scott, it’s not fair…..” I leave his room taking my purse leaving the house in only a pair of leggings and a blue hoodie stiles left over once

Wandering around the streets of beacon hills was always something that calmed me down, making my way to the local park that edged the forest I sat on a bench and sighed

I remember the times where I’d come home from a rough day of being picked on and stiles and Scott would be there and cheer me up, it was just the three of us, and now I’m left in the dark alone again

“They tell you yet?” I look infront of me and Derek is sitting across from me, how he got there I had no idea

“No, they say it’s to protect me but I’m not an idiot, they probably just don’t wanna drag a loser along to their new friend group” I rub my eyes frustrated, he stands up and takes my hand

“Come with me” for some reason I knew he wouldn’t hurt me so I followed as he brought me into the woods where it was just the two of us and the moonlight shining over us through the trees

“I’ll show you”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s going on with Scott has nothing to do with this popularity status, he’s the same as me” his eyes shine vibrant blue, hair grows around his cheeks and he growls with four long sharp canine teeth

I step back startled not thinking this would be the explanation for everything

“So….wait I don’t understand, Scott’s a….”

“A werewolf, a month ago he got bit by the alpha, I’ve been trying to help but him and that spaz you so obviously love, think I’m out to get them”

“He didn’t tell me….” I feel my heart pounding and my breathing quicken

I fall to my knees on the cold damp forest ground

“Hey you have to breath” he says as he kneels beside me but I could barely focus as the world became dizzy like the day at the game

“I can’t it hurts….i…” I suck in a breath when the world finally turns black

•

I wake up noticing I’m on my couch at home, stiles and Scott sitting on the chairs across from me

I groan as I sit up and they perk up, coming to kneeling infront of me

“Hey you’re okay take it easy” stiles says as he hands me a glass of water

“What happened? Did he hurt you?” Scott asks as he looks at Derek who’s looming in the corner with his arms crossed and he scoffs

“He didn’t hurt me, he actually told me the truth…..I know what you are Scott” his eyes shoot open and he growls at Derek

“We were just..” I cut him off

“Just trying to protect me? You guys know nothing would change how I feel, I’ve always been there for both of you, so what you’re a werewolf now, I just want to help, and stiles you’re not a loser and trust me girls will look at you nerdy or not can’t you see that” I sigh feeling the headache start to creep in

“Easy for you to say, I’ve never had one girl look at me in that way”

“Easy for me? I’ve never had a guy show interest, I haven’t even……I haven’t even had my first kiss stiles, and you’re wrong because…..”

Scott nods to me with a reassuring smile

“Because what?” Stiles asks confused

“Because I look at you like that stiles how do you not see that” his eyes grew wide and he didn’t say a word, I knew he wouldn’t feel the same but atleast it’s off my chest now, I stand a little wobbly and Derek takes my arm to help

“I think I’m gonna head to bed, night guys” I say keeping my sight of the ground, embarrassed to even look at them as Derek helps me up the stairs to my room

He lays a blanket over me as I get comfortable even though my heart feels like someone’s squeezing it

“Kids an idiot, I know it’s a lot to take in but soon you’ll feel like everything is somewhat normal again”

I look up at him with a weak smile

“Whyre you being so nice to me Derek?”

“I hate to see a sweet girl in pain…..I can ease it you know”

“What do you mean?” He sits next to me and takes me hand and black veins crawls up his arm and he groans but I feel my heart lighten and the headache seep away, he lets go and I feel a sense of euphoria for a moment

“Feel better?” He asks seeming to be back to normal

“Yes thank you Derek I feel a lot better” my eyes feeling heavier as sleep overcomes me

“Goodnight y/n”

•

5 days, it’s been 5 days and stiles has been avoiding me like the plague, anytime I’d approach him and Scott he’d run the other way or make an excuse to leave the room and god did it hurt and I know Allison and Scott could see it killing me, she’s been coming over more to check up on me while she’d hang out with Scott

Curled up in bed I feel so heavy, no tears left to cry and the hollow feeling in my chest, what a way to spend my weekend

My door opens and in comes Scott and Allison with worried eyes

“Hey sis, still not feeling good?” I shake my head

“Anything we can do to help?” Allison asks

“Let me go back in time and never confess to stiles cause now I’ve obviously embarrassed him”

“You know how he is, he’s just not use to a pretty girl actually liking him” Allison smiles brushing my hair back

“You guys should go, enjoy the weekend together”

“Did you want anything before we leave?” Scott asks with pleading eyes, I bite my lip in thought trying to get the courage to ask for what’s been on my mind all week

“Can you get Derek over here?” The look at eachother confused

“Derek? Why him”

“Just do it please, he’s not gonna hurt me if that’s what you’re worried about” I sigh but I know he’s just a worried brother

“Okay yeah, I can do that if it’ll help you” he places a kiss on my forehead and then they both leave

Half an hour later I hear the front door open and a few seconds later Derek’s walking through my room to slump down on my bed next to me

“Hey kid, still in a funk?”

“Yeah, I’ve ruined everything, he won’t even talk to me anymore”

“Spaz……Scott said you wanted me”

“I just….could you help me again? I know it doesn’t feel good for you but I’ll do whatever just please it hurts so much” his usual hard expression softens as he looks over my dishevelled state

“Only cause you don’t drive me insane” his hand comes up to cup my cheek and those black veins come back and I can’t help but gasp feeling okay for once this whole week and that high like bliss takes me over again

“You’re really in pain hun” I nod barely being able to focus as he plays with my hair

“I’ll talk to him, put the fear of god in him, make him man up”

•

Derek’s POV

I’ve heard of stories, rare, but humans that got a taste of our healing powers when they’re in a rough state they get addicted, it’s like a drug to them, euphoric and I can see the high state she’s in after

Scott and stiles need to help her before she gets too far that there’s no getting her back

•

Part.3

Taglist: @rebekahdawkins @extremebookreader @lonely-nerd-sodaholic @mrtonystark

#stiles stilinski x scott’s sister #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski #derek hale x you #derek hale x reader #scott mccall #Scott McCall x sister #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf one shot #teen wolf

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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 7 months ago

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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��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

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha

@iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric

@panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee

@shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin

@whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun

@ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael

@skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads

@jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld

@kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9

@minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg

@leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon

@night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @holly-here

#skz imagines #skz x reader #skz stay #skz reactions #stray kids #skz angst #skz fluff #skz #stray kids reactions #han jisung #han skz #stray kids han #skz han #jisung #jisung skz #jisung x reader #han x reader

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giuliettagaltieri · 6 months ago

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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

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