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amdiriel · 2 days ago

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lonely pt. 2

Azriel x fem!Archeron!reader

SUMMARY: After a vulnerable moment of comfort, Reader tries to navigate Azriel’s increasingly flirtatious behavior without assuming anything. Because she really shouldn’t. Right?

WARNINGS: FLUFF, slight suggestiveness, a bit of hurt but SO much comfort, not proofread we die like men

NOTE: thanks for so much love on part 1! I have some ideas for new Az fics, so lmk if you're interested in being on my Azriel taglist! xox diri

WORDS: ~4.2k

part 1 main masterlist

•••

It had been about a week and a half since my little breakdown in my room, my cycle coming and going just days after it. I attributed my moment of uncharacteristic hopelessness to hormones.

I hoped Azriel would too, since I had trouble fully looking him in the eye ever since out of embarrassment. After a night of deep rest post-letting-it-all-out, I woke the next morning to a spill of hindsight in my mind, grumbling at my ridiculousness into my pillow. Despite my cycle being a royal pain in my ass, it was a few days where I could hide safely in my room.

So the next few days, I was determined to be fine. I was great, living the dream, no worries here, wielding a grin and a dry joke as always.

The first day after my cycle ending, I wake up to blissful absence of pain in my abdomen, and treat myself to a long bath.

Afterwards, I take advantage of a brisk morning walk, the sunshine making the late winter weather less intolerably cold. I barely get two blocks from the River House before a shadow passes over my head.

I tilt my head back, squinting through the direct sunlight. Then the shadow descends at an alarmingly fast rate and touches down near-silently beside me. “Good morning,” Azriel murmurs.

I jump at his sudden appearance, the bubbling nervousness at his closeness making it more pronounced. “Shit—Azriel,” I gasp, calming myself with a breath. “What the hell?”

He chuckles lowly and nudges me slightly as he matches my resuming pace. “Sorry. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” he says, not sorry at all.

I huff and roll my eyes, even as my lips curl up as well. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You need to wear a bell.” His laugh curls around me.

“I’m not sure it would go with my leathers,” he pretends to muse. “A collar would really ruin the effect of my scariness. Not to mention the whole point of being Spymaster.”

I snort, shaking my head. He nudges me again, drawing my gaze back up to him. I find his eyes warmly on me.

“I’m glad to see you out and about,” he says. “I was worried about you.”

I let the sweet words warm me for a quick moment before I huff a small laugh. “It’s my cycle, not sickness. I’m good.”

He shrugs. “Still. I know it’s much worse for you and your sisters now that you’re all fae. You handling them alright?”

My expression softens. “You’re sweet. I’m fine. I didn’t have much pain as a human, so I think as far as fae cycles go, my pain now is relatively mild. I mostly just don’t want to do anything,” I reply with a shrug of my own.

Azriel eyes me for a moment. “Alright. But you’ll let me know if you need anything, right? I haven’t forgotten about our agreement, you know,” he says with a sly smirk.

It takes a second for it to dawn, but soon a blush blooms on my face as I remember that night. I huff a sigh, finding it within me to laugh a little at myself. “So, what, you want me to come to you any time I have a problem?” I ask dryly.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he answers plainly.

I give him a look. “Are you now our resident therapist too?” I deadpan. “Your resume’s long enough, Shadowsinger, you can take a pause every once in a while.”

He laughs again, shaking his head at me. “I may be busy, but never for you. Never for family,” he replies, and with such sincerity in his eyes that my steps falter for a moment.

Fuck. What happened to cool and collected, Archeron?

But I swallow and arch a brow. “Sweet. But you’re barely here enough to be able to do so for the many members of our ever-growing household,” I say, thinking about our nephew Nyx.

He shrugs a shoulder, his wings unfurling then furling in a subtle motion that catches my eye. I’d always found them fascinating. “Then how about this—I’ll never be too busy for you,” he says, a note saucily that my widened eyes turn upon his smirking face.

I grasp for words for a moment, and I see his eyes delight at my moment of hesitation. I shut my mouth and switch tactics, laughing. “Why Az, you are positively Rhys-like today.”

His brows raise, expression lighting in challenge. “Oh am I? Enlighten me, sweetheart.”

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek at that damned pet name again. This male just made it so bloody difficult to be dignified at all. I swear, every moment in his presence is a fight for my life. “You’re all—” I gesticulate over his person, “Swaggering. It’s unnerving. Please, for my sanity, resume your duties as our resident brooder. You’re putting me off.”

His head tilts back with a hearty laugh that startles me into astonishment. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he drawls, suddenly feeling like he’s looming over me.

Stupid, tree-like male.

I don’t reply except for a disbelieving huff at his forward behavior. His smirk is self satisfied as he halts, taking a step back with a sketch of a bow.

“You’ll have to resume your walk without me, Ms. Archeron,” he says, and I wrinkle my nose at the use of my surname. His smiling eyes rove over it, dipping to my lips before locking with my own gaze again. “Think you can manage?”

I scoff and manage to flip him off as his enormous wings unfurl and beat his figure into the air. His rumbling chuckle disappears as his shape grows smaller in the sky.

—

The following days, he wasn’t as blatantly swaggering, as I had called him, but he was…

Forward. Disarmingly so.

I couldn’t seem to avoid his presence if I tried, if merely to kick some sense back into myself. First it was the library—when I had settled into the cozy window seat, my usual perch, an hour into my reading, he had strode in his silent yet confident way of his. I had stilled, as if hoping he’d simply not notice me. Fool. He notices everything. And he certainly had wasted no time sidling up to my perch and leaning over to observe what I was reading. His warmth and masculine scent was a pleasant yet oppressive blanket to my poor sensibilities. And I barely survived when he had hummed “Any good?” practically into my ear.

Or there was lunchtime—I’d wander into the kitchen to make something quick and simple for myself, and when I walked into the dining room he’d be sitting there already, looking up with a small, unassuming smile. When he bade simply, “Sit with me”, I had no choice but to obey and eat with him. In my suspicion, I confess that I switched the times I went to get lunch by random intervals, in which each and every time he either was already there or showed up soon after.

I couldn’t tell if it just happened that way, or if he was being overly clever in his intentional variation.

Now, three weeks post-meltdown incident, Azriel had been gone a few days on Cauldron-knows-what business, so I’d loosened up, no longer bracing myself like he could walk into the room at any second.

Which is apparently my folly, since as soon as I round the corner into the dining room one morning, I found him standing at the sideboard, back toward me, making a cup of tea.

I halted, nearly rearing back as my mouth started to form the word shit, but quickly clamping it down. But even the smallest of noise alerts someone as discerning as him.

He turns and calls my name with quiet warmth, and I banish the wince from my face. “Hey,” I say simply. “When did you get back?”

“Last night,” he says, abandoning his tea to draw near. My head tilts back as he stops in front of me. “How have you been?” he asks with a soft smile.

His quiet care is almost more flustering than his forwardness. “Well. Fine,” I answer. “And you? Your mission or whatever successful?”

He huffs amusedly. “My mission or whatever was just fine,” he replies. Then he returns to the sideboard. “Tea?”

“Oh, uh, sure. Just bla—”

“Just black. I know,” he says, throwing a smile over his shoulder at me. I blink in surprise, cheeks pink. He’s been paying close enough attention that he knows that?

Of course he has, dummy. He probably has dossiers on everyone in this city with information down to the way they take their tea, the pragmatic voice in my head deadpans. You’re no exception.

I blink again as he draws near with a second cup, passing it to me. I take it with a small thank you, sipping it gratefully.

Just when I start to squirm on my feet at the silence between us, he speaks. “About what we talked about that night a few weeks ago—” I still. “You’re alright in that regard? And don’t lie, I’ll be able to tell.”

I huff a sound between a sigh and laugh, looking down. “Well, I haven’t had a night as bad as that one since then, so that’s good right?” I say with wry self-deprecation. He doesn’t reply. “But really, I’m alright. Just winter blues, I suppose.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

I roll my eyes in a small flash of annoyance. “Alright, not just winter blues. But they certainly don’t help. But I’m fine. Really. You did really help that night,” I admit softly.

I don’t really notice my teacup is empty until he gently takes it from my hand and sets it next to his already abandoned cup. “What helped most, sweetheart?” he asks gently.

My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth—speaking my vulnerability aloud both impossible and foreign. Letting him in last time didn’t hurt. It helped, a small voice whispers in my head.

I take a breath. “Just—talking through it. Physical touch too, um…” I fight to stay steady. “It’s grounding.”

He hums, nodding. There’s a light touch to both my elbows, and my eyes shift down to find that he’d silently reached for me. I allow the touch, but don’t dare go further, suspended in the fear of the unknown.

“You don’t have to be afraid to ask for that,” he murmurs quietly. Suddenly I’m very aware of the air we’re sharing, how close he’s gotten to me. His hands slide slowly to my upper arms, my breath hitching as the warmth of his palms bleed through even my heavy sweater.

The panic sets in before I can think this interaction through, before I can rationalize that maybe, just maybe he wants to be close to me, wants to touch me. Instead my eyes find the clock and seize the subject change before me. “Don’t you have Valkyrie training in five minutes?”

Azriel stills and follows my gaze to the clock. His jaw works once before the fleeting tension is gone. “You’re right. I should go.” He squeezes my upper arms gently before letting his hands drop. “Stay warm today. Wind is supposed to get bad, and temperatures will drop rapidly once the sun sets.”

I nod, giving him a brief smile. “Of course, you too. Stay warm, I mean.”

He returns my smile before leaving the room.

A whoosh of air leaves my lungs as soon as I’m alone again. Idiot. Silly, foolish girl.

—

Azriel was at his wits end.

He’d been pulling far more stops than his usual personality allowed, hadn’t he? She was certainly clever enough to notice that he was acting much differently around her, right? Had he just not been forward enough?

And still, she did not allow him closer, as close as two people could be. He'd given her every sign he could think of without embarrassing himself.

Impossible girl. Can’t you understand that all I want is to comfort and coddle you?

He must not have taken care to erase any tension in his expression by the time he touched down in the ring atop the House of Wind, because Cassian’s brows raised upon seeing him.

Azriel just had to cast him a cool look for his brother to relent, though he caught the half-smirk on the General’s face as he turned toward the group of priestesses warming up and began training.

It was during sparring that Nesta finally deigns to sidle up beside him as he watches a match. “So. What the hell’s going on between you and my sister?”

He stills for just a moment before erasing the reaction. He debates lying to his friend, but she’ll call him on it. He doesn't think she’ll warn him off her sister either, so finally he admits evenly, “Much less than I would like.”

The eldest Archeron huffs a laugh. “I appreciate you sparing me a lie. Honestly, Az? My sister is just supremely oblivious, clever as she is. If nothing else has worked at this point, you just need to lay one on her.”

He chokes and turns his head toward her. “I would never. Not without her express permission—”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Gods, males can be so boring. At the very least you need to sit her down and make sure she doesn’t leave until she understands exactly what your intentions are. Then you can lay one on her, if she’s amenable to it.”

Azriel takes a deep breath, letting the words sink into his turbulent mind. “I don’t want to scare her,” he admits after a pause.

“You won’t,” she replies instantly. “She’s not afraid of you, she never could be. In truth, my sister is scared of very little. But based on the fact that she’s never had a romantic attachment before, what seems like indifference is likely just borne out of nervousness.”

“I don’t want to make her nervous either.”

“It’s not you that does. It’s just—being vulnerable. Emotionally intimate with someone,” Nesta says. “Years of fighting with her have taught me that she’ll hide anything behind biting wit or a laugh and joke. I think that’s what makes it all the more difficult to understand.”

He doesn’t reply.

“But speaking not as her sister, she definitely is attracted to you,” Nesta continues. “Speaking as her sister?” He looks at her cool features. “Don’t fuck it up.” Then she stalks away to Gwyn and Emerie.

Azriel forces down a growl. Tonight. He'd do it tonight or hell, he'd go crazy from this dance around the line. He'd spent too many centuries wanting this, wanting companionship for him to squander an opportunity with, at last, a female that he connected so deeply with. A female that seemed to need his touch as badly as he needed hers.

So...yes. He'd had quite enough of waiting.

—

True to Azriel's word, it did end up being very cold today.

I forgo any ideas of taking a walk, but I did end up camping out in the warmth of Feyre's study, taking turns with her to organize some of her paperwork or play with Nyx on the floor. My nephew (and his poor parents) had had some rough nights due to the last dregs of his teething pain, but it was good to see him smiling and playing despite it all. Rhysand stopped in frequently, unable to stay from his mate and son for extended periods of time, and after the fourth time Feyre shooed him out with their laughing, squirming son in his arms.

Our bi-weekly dinner fell that evening. Usually I enjoyed it.

Usually.

The dinner was fine. But I was so chilled that I took the opportunity of warmth from any hot dish passed around to me. I shiver for the upteenth time as Azriel passes me the potatoes.

"Cold?" he murmurs close beside me, and I shiver again. Not from the cold, damn him.

"Freezing," I retort instead, scooping potatoes on my plate. "Doesn't Rhys have this place warded to hell? Why is it so drafty?"

Azriel chuckles lowly. "How do you know that it isn't just you?" he teases.

I shoot him a look. "No, no, Mr. 'Stay Warm Today', I'm quite certain it isn't."

He laughs again, and it warms me only temporarily. I finish before everyone else, per usual. Not only do I tend to eat fast, but I'm also not caught up in constant conversation. Bored, my eyes travel the room, around my friends. My family. Even in my relaxed, two-glasses-of-wine haze, my mind doesn't fail to notice how paired up they all seem to have gotten.

Feyre and Rhys feed a fussy Nyx in his highchair, Rhys's eyes roaming over his mate and child with unrepressed love. Cassian's arm was slung around Nesta's shoulder, my usually stoic sister slumped comfortably into his side. Varian looked down at Amren next to him like she was the most fascinating creature alive, which...wasn't entirely a subjective statement, considering her interesting history.

Even Elain was speaking in shy tones with Lucien, who watched her with amused adoration. I had been so proud of my younger sister for finally realizing that she could just as well choose him as not choose him. They were taking it slow, she'd been telling me recently, but she begrudgingly had found that her mate was, indeed, her perfect match.

But as with all my friends and family, my happiness for them comes at a cost. To myself.

I turn and opened my mouth to chase away the tightness in my chest, but found that the Spymaster next to me was turned away, engaging Mor in conversation on his other side.

I quickly clamp my mouth shut and instead go for my wine.

Gods, hadn't Feyre mentioned there was some sort of will-they won't-they situation between the two of them? Something that had been brewing for the five centuries they'd known each other? It was none of my business, of course, and I hardly paid attention, but even I noticed that it had been pretty consistently they-won't in the past few years of living here.

Right?

Azriel laughs at something she says, and suddenly I feel sick.

Cauldron. Was I going to be the only one left?

And even worse—had I also been imagining his forwardness with me as of late?

There's a rushing in my ears and I tune out completely, going blissfully blank.

I hardly recall cleanup. Or the migration to the living room. My body seems to draw itself to the fireplace, a hand lifting to drag a blanket off the back of an armchair as I settle on the floor before the flames.

And as I wrap the blanket around myself, shivering minutely, I can't bring myself to look at what I know I'll find behind me—each couple in the house cuddling for warmth.

—

Azriel's heart aches at the sight of her vibrating form in front of the fire.

He'd taken his place behind the armchair she usually sat in, hoping to finally coax her into having a conversation in the privacy of the hall. Or if things went well, his bedroom.

But instead he watched her walk as if unawake from the dining room to the fireplace in the living room. Unblinking. Not looking at anyone else.

He doesn't know what to do.

He also doesn't realize that a shadow had flitted to her until it came slinking back to his shoulder, whispering, Upset. Crying.

His heart broke. Oh, sweetheart.

He felt suspended in air, in time for a moment. Everyone was lounging, cuddling in their respective pairs, speaking quietly with one another. Distracted. So he took a gamble.

And silently pushed forward.

—

I felt him before I heard or saw him.

I lock up as I feel his warm body settle on the rug, not quite directly behind me, but not quite beside me either.

His touch was warm, intentional.

Mother, I needed intentional touch so badly.

I hadn't realize how upset I had gotten until the first cold tear spills down my cheek. I wipe hastily at it.

"Hey," he coos softly in my ear, his arm coming firmly around me and drawing me into him. I sniff, shooting a panicked glance over my shoulder since everyone was in the room right now. I barely register that his wings block any sight of the two of us from the rest of the room before his gentle hand guides my chin back to look up at him. "No one can see, sweet girl," he murmurs. "You're alright."

The lump tightens painfully in my throat as a second, third tear spill down my face. "Sorry," I mouth, unable to get any sound out.

"Stop," he whispers gently. "You're alright. You're safe." His hand slides to the back of my head and I let myself be guided to the shelter of his embrace, once again in his lap as I silently shake. "Are you feeling that way again?"

I nod silently.

He sighs. "Sweetheart. Why don't you just let me in?"

I untuck my wet face from his shoulder to glance confusedly up at him. "I...I am," I breathe. "You're—you're hugging me."

He shakes his head, cradling my face with both hands. "I mean: why don't you let me into that head of yours? That world? Most importantly, why can't you just let me into your heart?"

Said heart seems to stutter and stop beating.

There's a long moment where my lips don't form words, don't do anything except lay parted, slack. "What do you mean?" I finally blurt, a note of tightness in my voice.

His jaw works and he sighs heavily through his nose. "Sweetheart, is it so impossible to understand that this whole time you've found yourself lonely at the sight of everyone paired off that maybe I want to be that person for you? Your person?"

"Wh—you?" I sputter on a whisper as everything dawns, hell, practically crashes down upon me. The denial comes a split second after. "No."

"Yes."

My expression shutters in emotion. "There's no way—"

"There is," he murmurs with an adoring smile on his handsome face, thumbs brushing at my tears. "And you can't change that, ever. But what you can do is let me in."

I take a shuddery breath, in and out. "Let you in?"

He nods.

"Be my person?" I croak. "And I be yours?"

The words seem to have an effect on him, his chest puffing for a moment before deflating again. His hands cradle my face like I'm precious. I've never felt more so than in his lap. "Yes, sweet girl. Mine. And I, yours."

A release another uneven breath, feeling my body go warm all over. "I—I never thought that I...that you could want this with me. Could want me," I rasp.

He smiles. "But I do. I have for a long time."

I let out a little wet laugh. "Gods, I—" I shake my head. "I don't feel like asking questions right now. I've wanted you too, for so long. I just didn't want to delude myself, to make a fool of myself in front of you when you're so..."

He raises a brow but his eyes remain warm. "So?"

"So perfect, damn you," I finish, no real malice behind my words. When he laughs this time, I feel it seep directly through my chest and into my soul.

"You're the perfect one, sweetheart," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to my hairline like he had those weeks ago. "In more ways than one." He draws back to look at me, and I return his gaze with nothing but openness, with love. Then he breathes, "May I kiss you?"

Heat blooms across my cheeks, but I give him a little nod. "You may."

He dips his chin ever so slowly, and when his soft, full lips finally meet mine, my eyes slip shut. Tentative, and so gentle with me, he dares his tongue over my bottom lip. Though I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing, I let him through.

The first swipe of his tongue, this hungrier kiss sets my soul ablaze, his hands travel to wrap around my waist, drawing my chest against his.

We kiss quietly yet needy for Cauldron knows how long. All I know is that I’m breathless, fuzzy, and light by the time I draw away softly. He chases my lips a moment more before settling his forehead against mine.

Breathing the same air.

A giddy smile tugs at my features, and I giggle with blushing embarrassment. “They definitely know what’s going on,” I whisper, fighting the urge to peek. He chuckles lowly and draws me closer, depositing a kiss on my shoulder, my jaw, then my lips.

“I sent them out,” he replies. My brows raise. “I told Rhys mind-to-mind that if he didn’t get everyone out, I’d quit.”

A laugh bubbles up within me. “Liar. He just decided to have mercy on us. On me, at least.”

Azriel grins, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Boyish. Free.

“Kiss me again,” I whisper. And he does.

That night, he takes me to his room, scooping me under the covers and into his body. I’m too wired, too happy to fall asleep right away. It’s when I watch him slip into dreamland, the most relaxed I’ve seen him, that there’s a tug within my chest.

A soft glow flickers to life deep in my soul. I smile and let the tears fall as I feel what I think is the bond.

I settle in. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

•••

NOTE: i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it! i have an idea for a short series taking place post-ACOSF, where Reader is part of a group in Montesere that’s sort of adjacent to the Valkyries, and she comes to visit the Library, so I’ll start drafting if anyone is interested k love you bye! -diri

TAG LIST: @lilah-asteria @salvatoresister1 @a-courtof-azriel @thestartitaness @casiiopea2 @kk191327 @missxmarvelous @saltedcoffeescotch

#azriel x reader #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #my writing #azriel #rhysand #cassian acotar #feyre archeron #nesta archeron #elain archeron #morrigan #amren acotar #lucien vanserra

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space929 · 3 days ago

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This is an old post and I've talked about their relationship before and I'm doing it again because it needs to be done.

Which makes it sound like I disagree with the above, which I do not. This is 100% a based post.

Obvious TWs I think.

I gave him quite a bit of leeway in that I focused on the latter half of this scene and emphasized the difference in listening between the beginning of the movie and that portion, but this is really important to talk about.

This isn't an "error" that good parents make. There are a couple of reasons I think he might have done that - character wise - but none of them are good. Most of them have to do with emotional distancing and emotional immaturity. But I digress.

Let's talk about the beginning of this scene.

As I mentioned in my previous post, George is a lot like my mom. In that scene, he is very likely projecting. Gwen being angry and pointing out his "mistake" (quotes because I feel like it stops being a mistake when it involves a gun and time to think. Like, he's a cop. He has a permit. He has to know what to not do - I hate guns and I know what to not do! You do not point it at anything you do not intend to shoot. It stops being a mistake when you intend to shoot a child) makes him feel guilty, so he takes it out on her.

She needs to be quiet so he doesn't have to think about the hard things.

This is an idea that is incredibly prominent and generally comes hand-in-hand with the thought that you owe your parents respect regardless of what they do and how much they give you.

He gives her nothing up until this point. He does not listen to her, he talks about something he is aware she does not like or agree with and then shuts her down when she says that, he shuts her down every time she tries to share her feelings.

And then he's upset when she finally tries to shut down for the final time because he actually threatened her life. But that has to be her fault, because if it isn't, he would have to look in on himself and recognize the very real problems in their relationship and that they stem from him. The reason she never told him comes from him. The reason she left is because of him. The reason she's mad is him.

But then he'd have to deal with the guilt and self-reflection that comes with that, and that's uncomfortable. That's painful. It's far more comfortable if she keeps her emotions over there and he gets to remain the unquestionable authority that can do no wrong.

Anyway. This is just why he's doing it. It isn't an excuse or a justification. This is an awful way to think.

So he also tried to leave the house when she was mad at him. I went through and read the transcript for this part and it calls him a child for this which is hilarious. She follows after him to - and I pull this from the transcript - keep him from walking out the door.

She has learned to be more mature than her father. To go to him because he will never come to her.

There's just one more thing I want to mention.

Gwen's speech, which I love, focuses on her. It focuses on Ghost-Spider (I know that's not her name in ATSV but it's so much better and it should be) and the good she's trying to do.

It never mentions the way he hurt her. And I believe that that's because she knows he would shut down if it did. If she talked about him and what he did, he wouldn't respond the same.

When I was twelve, my mom practically kicked me out of the house to live with my dad. She got mad at me for this fact. To this day, I cannot talk to her about how I feel about this. I can complain to her about living with him. I can complain about him. I cannot tell her that she hurt me. She'll accept the first, she'll guilt trip me for the second.

And I think Gwen knows something similar would happen. She knows what not to mention.

I don't like how Jefferson parents. I think he's too authoritarian in a lot of cases. But they're right. He would never point a gun to Miles.

I ended my last one with an optimistic take on the fact that he was trying, and I want to end this one the same way, but the reality is that I gave a lot of leeway. He's done a lot of introspection, sure, but he hasn't done enough. He has to learn to take criticism that isn't edged around but never directly hitting the point.

George Stacy is not a good parent. I hope that he tries. I hope he learns. But he is not a good parent, and it's important to acknowledge that.

I still think about how Gwen's dad pointed a gun at her, and then got mad when Gwen didn't want to talk/look at him.

Like, sir, you pointed a GUN to your teenage DAUGHTER. You raised your gun back up after she unmasked.

Like, you found out Spider-ghost was your daughter and you still thought she killed HER best friend?? And on purpose??

You had a duty as a police man to what?? Shoot your unarmed teenage daughter if she tried to leave?? Instead of trying to let her explain at least??

Even Aaron let Spiderman go when he found out he was his nephew, and he was the villain.

#gwen stacy #spider gwen #george stacy #tw abuse #i think this counts well enough #I like the character #don't get me wrong #but all good characters have flaws and it's important to talk about them

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bluemerakis · 1 day ago

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Recently finished Swayze’s ‘ghost’ and now I can’t stop thinking about post-Hell Dean, where the reader has his iconic brown leather jacket hanging in her room thinking she’s never gonna see him again but he shows up in her room (in a non creepy way as much as possible lol) and they fuuuuck like old times and she thinks she’s dreaming until she realises it’s actually him (or not lol) but the romanticism is screaming out to me, idk if it’s something you’d be interested in writing but omfg you’d write this so painfully well

ANON!! i LOVE LOVE LOVE this SO much! i’m so honoured that you’ve entrusted me with this idea—i had the time of my life writing this & went a lil wild with it LOL. thank you for your support and kind words, it means the world to me! i hope i did your request justice 🩵

─ ۶ৎ ─

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ sunshine ❞

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pairing ୨୧ dean winchester x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ s4!spoilers, established relationship, dramatic descriptions of grief, cussing, angst, sam being an adorable little angel, nip sucking, unprotected sex p in v, tooth-rotting fluff. lmk if I forgot any! if there are typos, no there isn’t

synopsis ─ after dean had sealed the deal that warranted him a one-way ticket to hell, you had no hopes of ever seeing him again. you were overcome with a grief that felt inescapable, but with sam’s help, you’d managed to pull through the storm and enter clearer skies. just when you thought you’d have to navigate a new life without dean, against all odds, he makes an unexpected appearance.

word count ~ roughly 15k

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Four months.

The duration of your ongoing turmoil. The grim tally of his absence.

For four months, you’d been trapped in the stagnant bog of your grief. It had formed the very first night you’d lost him, seizing your mind like a rabid plague. It didn’t matter which way you attempted to swim, or how hard you paddled to try and stay afloat, there was no sure escape from its bottomless depth. It immobilised your existence, broke down your hope—scattered it like falling leaves to be lapped up by the famished surface and swallowed to the point of no return. It was lonely and suffocating, but you’d since given up on waiting for a lifeline to be cast from some land beyond your gloomy horizon, so sure that you’d isolated yourself from any soul kind enough to try.

Except for Sam.

Sam had tried to rescue you many times, but the lines he casted were always too battered—chewed up by the demons of his own grief. And you knew that if you grabbed onto it—where he stood barely clinging to the other end—it would snap and pull him right in. You couldn’t do that to him, so you’d surrendered to the bog entirely, allowing your grief to engulf you into its endless, bone-chilling nothingness. And each day, you sank further and further, like the dead weight of a stone, drifting down into the pits of your despair. Your living, breathing death.

A slow, agonising journey of digestion—your body, mind and soul disseminating into nothing.

Reaching rock bottom hadn’t taken long, not when you’d been left feeling so shallow by the robbery of your life’s meaning. And you’d laid there ever since, slowly deteriorating, slowly drowning. Over and over and over again. You could have said that you were losing every part of yourself, but you hadn’t been whole to begin with, not for a long time—not since losing him.

If he were here, he could have saved you from yourself. But he wasn’t. And you hated him for it.

You hated him. For striking a deal with the devil. For placing his life on the line without a second breath. For lying to you about it. For even thinking that nobody would notice the dead space left behind. There were certain days that tended to plunge that hateful knife—already engrossed in your heart—a little deeper. A day like this morning.

The day that marked the anniversary of Dean Winchester’s death.

On the first day without him, you’d spent your time trying to fight it—forced smiles, laughs of denial, stares that didn’t linger on any of his belongings for too long. But it was hard not to come face to face with his memory when the ghost of his existence seemed to prowl after you at every turn and every corner of the apartment. His favourite coffee mug with an infamous chip on the rim. The frozen, pasty pies he’d crammed the freezer full of. Six packs of canned beers stocked along the pantry’s top shelf. His discarded shoes. His sparse watch collection. The shampoo bottle he’d diluted to last a month longer.

And that damn leather jacket, which currently draped from the frame of your desk chair.

It hung there like a museum exhibit—the memory of Dean Winchester, frozen in time. The jacket he’d left behind on the day he’d slipped your life for good. You hadn’t once touched it. You couldn’t bring yourself to lay your fingers across the leather when there’d be no warmth radiating through its fabric to soothe you—couldn’t face the fact that it’d reflect the cold, empty truth of it all. So there it laid, collecting dust and slowly drowning beneath the suffocating, grey sea without a merciful hand to liberate it. It was a cruel parallel of your own withering state.

Every morning, your eyes would peel through a hollow sleep, and the first thing they’d settle on was that damn jacket. Every. Single. Time. As if you needed the constant recap on top of everything else. You could have mustered up the courage to move it some place else that’d finally warrant the motto out of sight, out of mind. But the naive fool that had created that saying failed miserably at accounting for the woes of the brain. Once scorched into memory, nothing would ever truly be forgotten. You’d remember regardless of where that jacket lay—a curse bound to your life, never to be broken.

Unless you broke first.

You shifted at the heart of your king-sized bed, your head sinking back into your plumy pillow as you gazed up at the ceiling. At anything but that jacket. Your limbs sprawled out between the cotton sheets, taking maximum advantage to voyage the sea of space left at your disposal. While a mattress this large and luxurious should’ve offered you a sense of comfortable freedom, you couldn’t help but mourn all the space—space that at one point, had been occupied by him.

The gentle, golden glare of dawn had begun its steady journey into the room, letting itself in almost shyly through the slits of your curtains. The meek sunbeams sliced through the dim atmosphere you’d found solice within, and you watched as dust particles began to waltz around one another through the bronzed air—as if they’d been cast into the centre of the ballroom. Around and around they swirled in perfect, mirrored harmony. You thought it looked a lot like a courting display—more mental imagery to emphasise your loneliness.

For a second, some faded image—a memory—flashed across your mind. Yourself and Dean, taking to the neglected dance floor of a bar nearing its closing time. A half-emptied beer bottle clutched in his one hand as his other linked with yours, serving as the leash that dragged your protesting form to its debut on the dance floor.

You’d never been too confident in your dancing skills, a fact you’d tried many times to disclose, but Dean had been insistent. Somewhere behind you, Sam had whooped from the comfort of the booth you’d both discarded, and when you’d glanced back at the younger Winchester, he had his beer-adorned hand raised into the air as a cheer. You’d scoffed with a heavy thanks for nothing.

When you’d turned back to Dean, he’d drawn up in his tracks without any prior warning, causing you to crash not-so-elegantly into his torso. Instinctively, your free palm had lurched forward to cradle his chest in a steadying motion, your chin tilting up to grace him with a stunned giggle.

The drink he’d throttled in his other hand sloshed with the jolt, foam tumbling over the nozzle’s edge like a provoked volcano’s tantrum. It slathered his fingers and trickled to the floor, adding fresh patterns to the aged, sticky blotches already scattered amidst the young night.

“Woah, easy there, tiger,” he’d laughed, but the hand that’d dragged you here released your fingers only to form a seductive curve at the small of your back. There, he’d pulled you in even closer, his lips closing in on you with the promise of a love-sick kiss. But instead, his jaw had dipped past your temple, lips grazing your cheekbone before hovering at your ear. “There’s nuff o’ me to go ‘round without you jumpin’ ship for the first spot,” he husked. You’d practically felt the grin spreading his lips.

You’d ducked your head away from his with a hearty huff. “Down, boy,” you’d scoffed, hands trailing up his chest to crown either shoulder with a natural ease. The touch had been smooth, magnetic. And maybe you two were like magnets, utterly obsessed with being intangible, and eager to keep on exploring every inch of one another with a shifting touch rather than be torn apart.

Dean’s eyes had lowered to the naughty line you’d drawn to his shoulders, the grin he’d taken up deepening enough to suction his cheeks into the dimples you’d come to adore. When he’d acquainted your eyes again, it was through a heavy-lidded stare that promised all sorts of activities to reciprocate your tantalising touch. “Oh, I’ll get down, alright,” he’d chuckled hoarsely, leaving the line open to interpretation as he brought his beer to his lips. He’d downed a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes not once straying from yours as he watched you mentally decipher his words.

“You know what? Enough of your games,” you’d laughed, hands slipping from his chest to forsake the dance floor before you’d have a chance to make it regret hosting you. You’d attempted to turn tail and flee, but Dean’s hand had found your wrist in a firm, yet gentle tug, and then you were held prisoner under those hypnotising eyes once more. Your lips had split to offer some final protest, but his own lips puckered into a shushing pout that had you clamping down on your tongue.

“Don’t say anythin’, just dance with me,” he’d instructed, and then the hand tethering you to him lifted, your arm following the motion like a chain effect. Against your will, you were spun around in an awkward, off-timed circle that deviated abominably from the background music. When you came to face him once more, his chest had rattled with a laugh a little too passionate for your liking. “That was adorable—like a toddler learnin’ she’s got the gears but don’t quite know which she’s shiftin’.”

Your cheeks had seared hot at that comment, free hand diving forward to shove his chest lightly. “Stop—I warned you!” You’d simpered.

“Hey!” He’d laughed, beer-occupied hand lifting in a gesture of innocence. “I’m only playin’! You’ll get the hang o’ it—I’ll teach ya. Watch.” Your hand lifted under his guidance as he executed his own spin—even more sprawled and ridiculous than yours had been. Your free hand had flown to cradle your mouth as a disbelieved chortle blared through, and as Dean came to face you once more, his brows were lifted in question. “Eh? I’m a natural, yeah?”

You’d giggled into your palm again before dropping your hand back to your side, lips pursing with amusement. “Let’s just say that I don’t think either of us should be teaching the other,” you’d huffed through a pained smile.

Dean lowered your joined hands to the space between you. “Well,” he’d begun, pulling you into his frame once more, like he just couldn’t get enough of your presence—like he wanted it to hog him. “Guess we just gotta. . . y’know, feel this one out together,” he’d murmured suggestively, eyes narrowing with cheek while he released your hand to settle into its natural hold at the small of your back.

You’d leaned your smirk-heavy lips closer to his with a content hum, your hands coming to wrap around his neck. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow if you lead.” He’d grinned approvingly at that, tugging you along to a slow and steady sway of the bodies, which you’d succumbed to and harmonised with in no time—much to your surprise.

“Sammy!” Dean had called to his younger brother, his eyes not once straying from yours as he presented his beer in the direction of the booth. “All yours for the takin’.” He’d paused to steal a glance at your beaming lips. “I got my own special o’ the night.”

You’d laughed at that, and Dean’s charm had grown all the more potent as he stretched out the dance between the two of you for what felt like a good couple of hours. In the background, the music in bad taste had blared on, ever so eager to cheapen the moment between the two of you, but you’d become so enthralled with one another that all else around you was drowned out, anyway.

Both his hands had selfishly hoarded your lower back, pressing you so far into him that you’d stumbled around his feet more times than you’d have liked to admit. But you’d remained steadied by the hands furled around his neck, and comforted by the gentle, reciprocated press of your foreheads, gazing into the sanctuary of one another’s eyes.

If you’d known then, in that moment, that Dean Winchester was going to die, you’d have held onto him a little longer—and probably never have let go. Even if it killed you, too.

With a heavy, rattled rise of your chest, you came back to your grim present, drawing in a long and shaky breath. You shifted between the sheets to roll onto your side, arm coming up beneath the underside of your pillow to cradle it like an emotional support teddy. You tuned your attention to your curtain-clad windows, and like a corpse, you continued to rot away within your coffin of a mattress, watching idly as the sun continued to announce its ascent.

It wasn’t long before warm golds drained into a paler shades that fully lit your room now—the official statement of a new day. But still, you didn’t stir. The curtains remained cast, the windows crammed closed as tightly as they’d been left about a week ago, and your soul feeling anything but renewed to tackle this heavy day head on.

Somewhere beyond your wall, footsteps thrummed lightly down the hallway. Now and again, you’d let yourself believe that they belonged to Dean, on his way to brew you both a morning cuppa—just to offer some pathetic, fleeting slither of comfort. But nothing—nobody could ever fill those shoes left behind. It hadn’t stopped Sam from trying, though.

Before Dean’s. . . disappearance, the brothers had stayed together in the larger room of your two-bedroom apartment—nothing like reliving the good old times, right? It didn’t much bother either one of them, given that Dean had slept in your bed on most nights, leaving the space feeling basically like Sam’s own. The dynamic between you all worked well, and it was practical for a hunter’s lifestyle. Costs were cut, perimeters familiarised and mapped out, and the shared company between you all was reliable. Trustworthy.

You’d become a blended family of some sort. You didn’t think there was any external force that could’ve torn you all apart. But you hadn’t accounted for an inside job. Hadn’t accounted for the weak link that was you.

After Dean’s death, you’d gone into a self-destructive spiral, eager to push anybody and everybody away while you feigned bravery. But Sam had clocked you like an open book, and it made him the hottest target of your impulsive ire.

You couldn’t stand looking at the younger Winchester, how he served as a constant reflection of your own grief—the grief you’d tried so hard to drown out. You knew you should have bonded with him over your shared loss, and the younger Winchester had tried everything to utilise that angle to be there for you, but it’d only made you push back harder. You half expected him to walk out after the first week, but you’d forgotten how deep-rooted stubborness ran within the Winchester bloodline.

Sam had continued to stick around. Why was beyond you. You could have argued that it was because he’d come to love you like a sister, but you couldn’t help the feeling that Dean had made him promise to look out for you, should he ever bite the dust. And it made you hate him more. Because if it were the latter, it meant that Dean had always intended to stay en route on the sacrificial pathway you’d tried countless times to swerve him from. And it meant that loving you hadn’t been reason enough for him to become sidetracked.

If only he’d held out a little longer and put off making that damned deal, you could have continued searching for a solution that didn’t end with either of the Winchesters’ deaths. But deep down, you knew that fate hadn’t written that ending down in any of her books. That continuing to skim page after page would have done nothing but waste minutes paid in blood. Deep down, you knew that Dean had no other choice, but it didn’t make you hate him any less for choosing it.

The faint clanking of utensils transcended the walls, indicating that Sam had worked himself into the kitchen. It was like a routine now. Every morning, the same time. You thought he might’ve craved some taste of control over his life by instilling this morning pattern he now followed so religiously.

You envied how well he seemed to hold himself together, despite it being his blood that had passed on. It made you feel invalidated in all your mourning. After all, if he could move on from the loss of his brother, whom he’d known all his life, why couldn’t you move on from a man you’d known for a pitiful number that paled in comparison?

As they so often did, your thoughts rampaged for a while longer, so eager to hold you captive between the sheets. But eventually, you felt the pit of neglect burrowed into your stomach gape wider, something that you couldn’t ignore any longer.

Your head turned to glimpse the plates you’d stacked atop the bedside table over the last few days. Almost all of them held meals that you’d scarcely picked at, meals Sam had cooked you, and they were starting to smell. It wasn’t doing much to help encourage the full return of your appetite. But still, you had to eat—something fresher, of course.

Eventually, you mustered up the courage to stir and shed the sheets, your week-old pyjamas falling limp around your frame as you shovelled your weight onto wilted legs. You stood for a moment, taking in this new pull of gravity, before angling yourself toward the door.

At the corner of your eye, it beckoned to you. You shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have given it the attention it so desperately craved, but how could you stand steadfast when you were crippled with the need to reminisce him during every waking moment? So you buckled, like you always did, and turned to glance over the waiting leather jacket.

It beamed a little brighter this time around, illuminated by the sun’s pale touch. It looked almost angelic, and you could have sworn that new life had been bestowed upon it—like a reincarnation. But no matter how long you stared, no body seemed to materialise between its hold to glorify that hope. Still no Dean Winchester to show for it.

So much for having faith.

With a barely audible scoff, you finally tore your gaze away and trudged toward your bedroom door. You reached for the handle, fingers hovering over the cool metal as you took a moment to think about what’d you say to Sam. Starting with an apology would probably be ideal, followed up by a looping string of thank yous for everything he’s done. You swallowed thickly before tightening your hold, the mechanism clicking open with a brash sound that cut through your senses. And then, like a ghost, you neglected your grave and slunk into the hallway.

When you traipsed into the open-plan apartment on light, reluctant feet, your eyes wandered over to the kitchen at the corner, where Sam had already made himself comfortable at the hot lip of the stove. His back was turned on you, but you caught the whisk of his arms as he executed an impressive flip of something within the skillet. It landed with a muffled thump, a result that had Sam hissing out a noise of satisfaction.

A shy, smoky ghost levitated above the Winchester, and it wasn’t long before the cracked kitchen window wafted a clue in your direction—the sweet tang of pancakes tickling your nose. Usually, it was a smell that had you inhaling a little deeper, like you couldn’t miss savouring even a scrap of its existence. Now, the smell roused nothing other than a faint reminder of just how much you didn’t crave breakfast. Or anything, for that matter. But still, duty called. More like your stomach would begin eating itself if you insisted on starving it for a day longer.

With a practiced breath of bravery, you picked your way past the living room sofas, your sock-clad feet scuffling across the floor with a severe lack of motivation. As you approached the kitchen island, you spotted a can of sweetened whipped cream—your favourite—and a bowl of berries straddling the plated, ever-growing stack of pancakes. It was the complete picture your stomach needed to enlist the first of its rumbling, but you hadn’t had much of a mental appetite for quite some time. The simple joy you’d once held for eating had been boiled down to the dull necessity of sustenance—you ate only because your body needed fuel. Anything more than that just wasn’t worth feeling.

And, truthfully, it was a baffling, new reality because there was a time you'd have nagged the boys to drive you halfway across the country to try some new cuisine you'd seen advertised across billboards. You’d scribble down the names of the niche diners and renowned restaurants in your trusty notebook to be reviewed on the trips back to the motels, heated debates unfolding as the brothers either vouched for or condemned your idea of a good meal. Now, the memories were so distant that you'd started to wonder whether they'd even existed. Whether that version of you still existed.

You brought up the rear of one of the kitchen chairs, moving a hand to cradle your protesting stomach while the other outstretched to retract the chair at the rim. The sudden, intrusive screech of wood against wood was enough to startle Sam into a growing awareness of his surroundings. He pivoted on his heels to face you, the pan making a reflexive dive in your direction in what was meant to be some pitiful means of a defence. The white of his eyes blared through, his tall frame ducking slightly as he assumed a defensive position.

Your composure didn’t falter as you slunk into the seat; his reaction wasn’t any surprise, not when you lead the adrenaline-laced life of a hunter forced to guard their six on a daily. And you doubted he’d expected any company after you’d basically stopped existing outside of your room these last couple of days—and at this early hour, no less.

What did surprise you, though, was that the pancake had managed to cling to the metal of the skillet in the midst of his jolt.

As Sam drank in your familiar form, his broad shoulders sagged visibly under his growing relaxation, the vice grip he’d unintentionally taken up around the pan’s handle now relenting an inch.

“Oh,” he stuttered out, a flustered half-chuckle diffusing his misplaced adrenaline. He slunk toward the island with his head slightly bowed, his gaze flickering between you and the pan. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips pursing shortly after the meek sound, as though he were afraid to let the wrong words slip. His caution wasn’t misplaced; you hadn’t exactly been kind to him these last few days.

It usually went that way around this time of the month. The days stepping up to the anniversary of Dean’s death tended to trip you right into the worst vision of yourself. You were more sullen than usual, losing patience over minuscule things, and sinking jaws of hostility into anybody who’d even attempted to offer hollow words of comfort.

Bobby had been the first to withdraw with some muttered crap of I’m too old for this shit. But Sam had always been too forgiving. He’d stuck around regardless of your temper, taking all the verbal beatings while he tended to your unspoken needs in ways that you couldn’t. You owed him so much more than you were capable of giving at this time.

You leaned onto the cool marble of the island, your hands coming forward in a timid fold as your lips flattened into a pathetic spectacle of a smile. “Hey, Sam,” you murmured, and for a second, the sound startled you. It was so dull, so lifeless—you’d even go so far as to say that it was so unlike you.

It was a stark contrast to the version of yourself the brothers had learnt to tolerate, maybe even appreciate—constant chatter and running commentary streaming live from the backseat of the impala. Dean had gone so far as to nickname you sunshine and rainbows, trailing after the twin storm clouds—the Winchesters—that seemed to thunder down on the unassuming world. But now, you felt like nothing more than the rolling, gloomy skies that paved way for everything wet, woeful and destructive. A weather so devastating that a show of a rainbow would be a mockery rather than a promise.

Sam returned your smile almost sheepishly, his head dipping to drink in the view of the counter. “You, uh. . . you sleep alright?” He asked, the pan coming forward to leer you over as he tipped the metal downwards and crowned the seasoned stack of pancakes with the fresh newcomer.

Your eyes lowered to the newest addition of the pancake pile, following the faint trails of heat that seemed to rise with a freedom and lightness you craved to feel. “Yeah,” you lied, your lower lip instantly pulled into a tense bite. “Yeah, I slept. . . fine.”

You knew that Sam wasn’t convinced, the moment of silence following after evidence of some tactic he might’ve been mentally reviewing to try and coax the truth from you. You began tracing a line along the patterns of the marble counter with your index finger, anticipating the awkward conversation to come.

“Come on, really?” He laughed softly, but the sound was gentle and sympathetic, not slathered with amusement or scorn. “‘Cause I didn’t,” he confessed.

You glanced up at him in surprise, your finger halting in its place. “Really?” You breathed out softly, instant relief crashing over you. Maybe Sam hadn’t recovered as much as you thought he had, and as unfortunate as that was, you couldn’t help but feel slightly comforted—less alone.

He tipped his head to the side in consensus, a wry scoff piercing his lips. “Honestly? Can’t remember the last time I did,” he said, eyes flickering up to glance you over briefly before he turned his back on you to discard the pan at the sink. He slid over to the stove, flicking buttons and shifting dishes before he was back at the island. “I mean, I sleep—but just. . . not very well.” He took up a spatula and began shovelling at the pancake stack. “One?” He asked intuitively.

“One’s perfect,” you said. You watched as he dragged the rim of the spatula down the building of pancakes, stopping somewhere around the middle floor before he slid the utensil inward. He shimmied out a hot and fluffy pick, placing it onto your plate rather gingerly before he nudged it in your direction. “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured, receiving it with a forced show of eagerness—you didn’t want your lack of an appetite to make things more personal than they already felt.

“Yeah, anytime,” he answered, sparing you a soft smile before he took to plating his own stack of three.

You held off on digging into your singular pancake, hands idling around the knife and fork bracketing your plate as you waited for the younger Winchester to cover up the remainder of the breakfast.

With a satisfied dusting of his palms, he finally pushed his own plate across the marble to slide in a distance beside yours before he made his way around the island. He pulled out the seat beside you and settled himself down with a heavy plop and an appreciative grunt—almost like an old man of some sorts.

He took up his cutlery and glanced over at you with a comforting smile. “Time to, uh. . . dig in, I guess,” he laughed lightly. “There’s whipped cream and berries if you’d like.” His chin jutted to the listed toppings, and then his knifed hand jolted into the air suddenly. “Oh, and there’s syrup, too. I’ll fetch it from the pantry.”

Without waiting for your response, he set down the cutlery and shifted back in his chair, but you turned your body a slither to face him before he could slip away as quickly as your nerve.

“Sam, wait,” you said, your hands straying from the table to bundle in your lap in an anxious toying of fingers.

He halted in place almost instantly, turning to face you with his brows quirked an inch—like your sudden unrest was news to him. But you knew he was only trying to be polite in playing his attentive part; he likely knew exactly what this was about. “Yeah?”

You drank in his softened eyes, and they held so much purity and innocence that it caused your heart to sag with a fresh, guilt-ridden heaviness. It tugged your head down to the view of your lap, your chest heaving with a shuddering inhale. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice rattled by so much regret that it began to quiver.

At the edge of your vision, you saw Sam settle back into his seat, arms drawing onto the counter. “Hey,” he cooed gently. “It’s oka—”

“No, it’s not okay,” you cut in hastily. “I need to say this. I’m sorry for everything—for the way I acted. . . for the things I said—you didn’t deserve any of it, Sam.” You began picking at the skin of your nails. “I just, I have all this. . . anger inside of me. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Dean—I’m angry at everything cause everything’s just so fucking unfair. And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I just. . . I figured. . . I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” you scoffed, but you braved face and lifted your head to face him once more. “But I do know that I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Sam’s head lowered to take in the view of his plate, his eyes darting about the porcelain. “Listen,” he eventually murmured, his mouth stuttering around air as he searched for the right words. Eventually, he settled on grace. “I get it, okay?” His chin lifted to gift you with a break you didn’t think you deserved. “All that anger inside of you. . . I’ve felt it before—more than I’d like to admit, actually,” he laughed dryly before his expression warped into something more solemn. “It eats you up inside. . . makes you say and do things you wouldn’t usually say or do. There are so many times I’ve gone down that road, but Dean—he’s always been there to pull me back, even if it was by the tip of my ear.” He laughed again, this time more genuine, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile of your own.

Sam’s head lowered again, his smile simmering away. “Anyway, I guess what I’m tryna say is that, I get it. I get why you said the things you did, and I’m not mad about it. For once, I don’t feel that anger anymore.”

Slowly, your fingers began to still their fidgeting as you listened to him talk, your chest cooperating by letting up on its rapid pace.

The younger winchester upturned his eyes to yours with a new ferocity. “I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you—and not just because I owe Dean that much, but because you’ve been there for me, too. So many times. Even at my. . .” He trailed off as he averted his gaze to the side, some unspoken shame breaching his conscious. You saw his Adam’s Apple bop under a heavy swallow before he turned back to you. “Even at my worst,” he continued. “So. . . don’t worry about it, really. I get it.”

For the first time in a long time, you found your eyes watering an emotion other than grief and heartbreak—something far lighter and rejuvenating. Love. Appreciation. Relief. You envied Sam’s ability to barrel through this cruel life so determined to pin him down, and you admired how each time, he seemed to emerge with a heart even larger than before. Even after all the rounds you’d emptied into his chest, he stood tall, still offering that hand you so desperately needed to pull you from your self-dug trenches.

Maybe, it was about time you finally took it.

The first tear slipped the keep of your eye, jettisoned from the ledge of your cheekbone to where it splattered across the marble top. Your hand flew to wipe the moisture away, an ugly sniff racking your chest. There was a clank of shifting metal before Sam’s hand came forward to brush your shoulder.

“Hey,” he cooed softly, and then you were carefully tugged into the side of his towering frame. “Come here,” he urged, and he was so gentle that it had you fully succumbing to his hold without a single reflexive need to resist. His arm snaked around your shoulder blades to hook around your arm as he drew you into a tight hug, your hands bundling further into your lap. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. Together,” he added pointedly, a clear warning that he didn’t intend to let you get your lonely way again. You were okay with that.

Your lower lip began quivering with fresh emotion—guilt bouncing on the rim the heaviest. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” you reiterated.

Your felt his chin settle into the crown of your head, the vibration bouncing off your hair. “For what? Being human?” He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we tend to be dicks from time to time, and I’d say hunters have more right than most to be a bigger one now and again.”

You laughed—actually laughed at that, the sound snotty and slightly gross, but real. Sam harmonised with his own throaty chuckle, the hand furled around your arm in a tight, reassuring grip relenting to rub comforting lines up and down the expanse.

“Now, enough of the pity party. Let’s finish these pancakes before they get cold, and then what do you say we pull out a couple of board games?” He gave you one last comforting squeeze before slowly releasing you from the hug.

You leaned away from him, centring your weight back over your own chair as you turned your head down to your plate with a thoughtful pout. “Okay,” you agreed, your chin ducking in tiny, accepting nods. You sniffed away the lingering tears, hand coming up to pat your eyes one last time for good measure. Then, your head swivelled to face him as you put on a weak smile. “Hey—think you’re smart enough to challenge me to a game of scrabble?”

Sam laughed as though your challenge was satire, but you frowned with slight offence, which sobered his smile into a look of confusion. “Wha—you’re serious?” He huffed, jaw gaped around disbelief.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” You exclaimed, your voice cracking around a light giggle—the first you’d uttered in a while. “I’m as smart as you are—we read the same books!”

His averted his gaze, head cocking to the side with a scoff before he glanced back at you in amusement. “Yeah, and after you gave your reports, I had to go back and reread every single one of those books to fill in information you left out,” he said pointedly.

You shook your head with light disbelief, a thin chuckle following after. “You know what? Let’s have that round, and if you win, you can bullshit my literacy skills all you like. Deal?” You outstretched your hand across the counter.

Sam’s gaze ducked to the gesture, his brows cocking on a look that you thought was a little too smug, before his hand reached to link with yours in an informal pact. “Deal,” he said through a scheming smirk.

You squeezed his hand lightly as a warning. “Wipe that douche-display off your lips, nothing’s set in stone.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he replied nonchalantly, but when your hands unlinked, you saw the corner of his mouth hitch with some mental remark.

“All right, that’s it.” You took up your utensils while Sam glanced you over with slight surprise. You began digging into your pancake with a renewed sense, plopping the first piece into your mouth and taking on a ferocious chew. There was a brief wave of nausea at the food’s sudden intrusion before it quickly dissipated at the sweet taste, beckoning you back for another bite.

“You might wanna slow down there,” he laughed, hands tending to his own plate before they finally presented his first bite to his lips with far more poise.

“Uh uh,” you hummed through a mouthful, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I got a lot riding on this. You made it personal when you brought my ego into this. Sooner we’re done here, sooner I can beat you.”

Sam let out a disbelieved laugh, but didn’t argue any further as he began dissembling his own pancakes at a faster rate. Once you’d both lapped down the dough and licked the plates clean, you’d taken to washing up the dishes and wiping down the counters while Sam procured the board games that had long since collected dust. You’d taken the liberty of microwaving you both a bowl of popcorn and pouring glasses of soda while he set out the game within the living room. Then, you both settled down for the first round, snacks at the ready.

Sam had won, as he’d so smugly anticipated. But you weren’t so eager to be humiliated without a challenge, so for the rest of the day, you’d played out the game to a tally of the most wins. Hours seemed to pass like the impression of a second, the apartment growing dimmer and dimmer with each trailing retreat of the sun.

Eventually, you were both cast in a saturated bronze that poured in through the living room windows, illuminating the score page you’d scribbled up and further glorifying Sam’s final win. He took the game by far, and you were forced to acknowledge that maybe he was the smarter one of you both. Or at least the more apt thinker.

After that, you’d both powered through a movie of his choice, chowing down on some Chinese takeout he’d had delivered. And you emptied the carton down to the last noodle, appeasing the appetite you’d developed somewhere throughout the day. Already, you felt so much lighter—physically and mentally—and you knew that you owed it all to Sam and his perseverence. You couldn’t help but beam with some newfound appreciation for the younger Winchester.

Through the darkness, the tv screen emitted just enough light to illuminate Sam’s side profile. His eyes were glued to the screen, jaw circulating hasty chews as he practically inhaled his second bowl of popcorn. The sight made you shake your head with light amusement, and you watched him a little longer just for the sake of it.

“Hey, Sam?” You eventually called, which made him face you with a look of sudden concern.

His hand halted within his bowl. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For today—for everything.” You offered him a warm, appreciative smile. He’d given you something you desperately needed today—a distraction. From everything and most definitely from yourself. Debts like those didn’t feel possible to repay, but you’d try, regardless. As long as it took.

Sam took a moment to drink in your words, his features motionless before his brows furrowed like he’d made nothing of your gesture. “Yeah, no problem,” he answered, a smile to match yours following shortly after. You both turned your attention back to the screen, and for the rest of the movie, you sat in comfortable, popcorn-tinged silence.

Once the movie came to an end, you’d both chatted about anything and everything until the first person let a yawn slip—that person being you. After that, you’d both tidied up the space, folded the blankets and packed the games back into their keep. Then, you’d dipped into your room to gather your old dishes, discarding the food and washing up the plates. Sam had helped pack it all away.

Once the day’s chores were wrapped up, you’d both exchanged your nightly greetings before going your separate ways. Sam retreated back to his room, though not without snagging a thick book from the shared reading shelf. You’d briefly slipped into your own room to pull out a fresh set of pyjamas and a towel before dipping your toes into a much needed shower.

Once you felt you’d scrubbed off enough of your week-long rot, you’d slunk from the shower and back to your room to call it a day. When you clicked the door closed behind you, you hovered on the spot with a hearty sigh into the dim atmosphere. You took a moment to reflect on the day, and for once, it provoked a smile—not sadness, not anger, not grief—but a genuine smile. The relief after the storm.

You flicked on the light and dressed yourself into your fresh set of clothes, teeth brushed and hair secured back before you flicked the lights off and sank into your bed with a new type of exhaustion. A fulfilling one. It wasn’t long before sleep arrived to hurl you into vivid dreams, and not unlike other times, you dreamt of Dean.

Within your bed, he had you bare and sprawled out beneath his own nude figure, his lips wandering gentle, curious trails along the side of your jaw before dipping down the ledge to trawl the arch of your neck. His elbows propped him up on either side of your head as he took his time to lovingly brand you with his wet caress, your own hands combing blissful strokes through his hair.

You sank back into your pillow, lips parting with breathy mewls as he shifted his attention down to your breasts. He moved to cup one tenderly, tongue swirling a loop around the hardened bud, his strained moan sprawling into the mix of stimulation as you tightened your hold within his hair.

“Dean,” you exhaled weakly, for no reason other than to verbalise the unorthodox way he made you feel. Your teeth found your lower lip in a restrained nibble as he acknowledged your absent-minded praise with a gentle kneading of your breast—as if he sought to gorge on it to the point of total devouring.

You felt the blood flow vigorously to your chest, spurred onward by the suctioning of his lips, and it pooled at your nipple, causing it to throb within his hold. You let slip a soft noise of discomfort, your hand collapsing from his hair to gently push him back at the collarbone.

Dean’s head lifted to yours, a slight pant wafting from his glistening lips. “All good there, sunshine?” He murmured, hand slipping from your breast to run a light, reassuring finger across your cheek. He smudged away the moisture beading along your skin before settling his thumb in the divot of your chin.

“Too much,” you breathed through a dazed grin, hand coming up to gently wrap around his wrist. “You’re like a leech,” you added with a soft giggle.

His lips thinned in a proud smirk, encouraged by your tease rather than offended. “Damn right I am—have you tasted you? Freakin’ delicious,” he praised, smacking his lips in a dramatic show and tell. It made you giggle and release his wrist to pin his lips between your thumb and index finger, and you held them captive while he mumbled noises of protest. He looked so ridiculous, it warmed your heart.

“Stop that!” You laughed, your cheeks flushing hot at the silly sight of him.

Dean wiggled his lips between your grasp until he was able to wrap his lips around a finger, nibbling your skin tenderly so that you released a light squeal and pulled away from his famished lips. “Stop what?” He mocked lightheartedly, head lowering down to you as he followed after your retreating hand with a determined grin playing his lips.

Your hands flew to your chest in a pretence of helplessness, your giggles elevating to a heartier laugh as he pretended to chase after them. His teeth acquainted the air all around them with animated chomps, but made no good on the promise. Eventually, he gave up the hunt and pressed his lips to the side of your jaw, gradually tracing his way up to the soft curve of your cheek before he drew back an inch to gaze into your eyes.

“My sunshine,” he said softly, adoringly, leaning down to nuzzle the button of your nose with his own before he placed a soft kiss there.

Your heart trilled love-struck melodies around Dean’s proud declaration, the magnitude of your smile hoisting up the apples of your cheeks until your eyes were compressed into half-moons. “Say it again,” you murmured, palms drifting up to frame his face and thumbs twiddling to soothe the humps of his cheeks.

Your touch set Dean’s composure alight, his sultry stare softening into something more pure and needy. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at you, as though you had captured his complete and undivided attention. You found yourself getting so wrapped up in their green depths that for a second, it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“You’re my sunshine,” he repeated in a voice so low and soft that it bordered a husky whisper, but the love imbued into those words carried through as clear as a shout. “I don’t care if that sounds like the title of a Jane Austen novel. You’ve got this. . . fire to you, the kind that nobody—nothin’ can gank. And you draw people into your orbit like they’d never stood a damn chance. Trust me, I sure as hell didn’t,” he laughed, both his hands coming up as a unit to brush back the hair framing your face. “And you’re warm. . .” He trailed off to place a kiss on your cheek, “—and radiant—” and then the other. “And my whole goddamn universe.”

You gazed at him as he pulled away from your proximity, his eyes brimming with love as he waited for your response. What you wanted to say was, “I knew you read Jane Austin in your free time!”, a harmless poke that would keep this tender moment elevated at meaningful heights. Then you’d both share a laugh, and melt into the night cocooned within each other’s warmth.

But deep down, something more solemn tugged at the strings of your heart—an unanswered question that slowly began to resurface despite your attempt to bury it time and time again. So instead, you said, “then how could you leave me?”

Dean’s face warped into a light frown, your question catching him off guard. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, his lips parting to search for an answer that you’d waited months to hear. But when he looked as though he might finally answer, no sound carried through to lay your suspense to rest. His mouth gaped and his lips moved, but they formed nonsensical words, and no matter how hard you tried to focus and decipher your most craved confession, it never came to you.

Then, the scene around you began to distort, the lights cutting out and the shapes of the room’s decor warping erratically. And when you blinked, Dean had disappeared entirely—his atoms scattered into the cosmos of your mind. You tried to call out to him, to summon him back to his rightful place beside you, but it seemed as though he were destined to be robbed from the palm of your hands—both in the waking world, and in the confines of your own mind.

And then you, in your entirety, were dissolved into a black abyss, the surroundings melting away like you’d imagined it all in a vivid episode of mania. For a moment, you floated around in a void, your mind slowly dissociating from the fantasies of its own creation. You heard nothing, saw nothing, but somehow, you felt a touch lingering upon your arm. It was warm, familiar, and even though no face materialised to claim it, you knew that it was Dean.

You prepared yourself to mourn the loss of it once you emerged into the waking world, but as your eyes fluttered open, your lids blinking frantically to clear your vision, the touch didn’t fade. If anything, it became more palpable, solid—real. And when you’d adjusted enough to the dawn haze shrouding your room, it wasn’t the image of the leather jacket that arrived first to taunt you.

It was Dean.

You blinked harder, more desperately, your heart rate skyrocketing as you attempted to rationalise whatever fucked up delusion your exhausted mind was currently displaying you. But his body didn’t vaporise into nothingness, and blinking didn’t seem to possess the same parlour trick of making the rabbit disappear, like it did in your dreams.

It was real.

There he sat, as stoic as a statue, at the edge of your mattress, and the hand you’d felt cupping your arm stroked up the curve of your shoulder to gently frame your neck. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, your lips falling open to expel a shaky breath.

It can’t be, you thought, your brows contracting in a puzzled frown. He’s dead—he’s in hell, he can’t be here.

Through the dawn gloom, you could make out the faintest stretch of his lips—an almost simper. “Good mornin’, Sunshine.” But you didn’t recognise the voice. It was low, gruff and abraded, like his vocal cords had been extracted and sent through the grinder before being forcibly shoved back into its compartment. And he sounded dull, the type of dull you’d come to embody in his absence. It was. . . anything but Dean Winchester.

Your lower lip began to quiver, your shoulder drawing into yourself as you shied away from his touch. “This isn’t real,” you choked out, hastily collecting yourself onto your elbows as you sought to put some distance between you two. “You’re not real!” You exclaimed in rising volume, which had the impersonator stretching out both his hands in a steadying motion.

“You’ll wake Sammy,” he whispered urgently—a harsh sound that came across as more of a scold.

You frowned as you inched yourself a fraction across the mattress, eager to reach the end opposite to where he sat. “Who are you?” You demanded in a tone more regulated, your hand subtly reaching behind you to grab ahold of the salt container you kept on the bedside table like a framed picture.

Dean’s eyes seemed to follow your not-so-subtle play with dry amusement. “It’s me,” he insisted gruffly, his hands coming to settle on his knees—and one of them bounced with unspoken thoughts. It was a habit you’d come to recognise since knowing him, and it did a fraction of a favour in vouching for his authenticity. “It’s Dean,” he continued, eyes straying from your hands to settle onto your face.

“No,” you refused, and behind you, your fingers grabbed ahold of the salt. “Dean Winchester died—four months ago,” you explained in a low, but no less stern voice. “So I’m going to ask you again—who are you?”

His nostrils seemed to flare with dwindling patience, his eyes flickering off to the side. “Man, paranoia’s one son o’a bitch,” he scoffed under his breath before turning to face you again. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna believe me. And I also know that you’re about to baptise me with a shit ton o’ salt to barbecue the livin’ crap outta whatever demon you think’s got his hand stuck up my ass.” He began reaching into his shirt pocket. “Now, as much as I’d love to swallow a mouthful of killer blood pressu—” his words were cut short as you tossed a handful of salt in his direction, the mound not shying away from taking a bold dip in his mouth.

The assault dealt no physical damage to his body, but it did earn a passionate look of annoyance from Dean, whose jaw slowly circumducted as his tongue began shovelling the salty hell from his mouth. You scrutinised him for a few seconds longer, not so eager to let down your guard because of one passed test.

“You’re not a demon?” You asked more than stated.

His jaw fell limp at your question, a slow blink accentuating his displeasure. “Clearly not,” he said lowly, the words slurred by his unwillingness to taste the salt with proper pronunciation.

He leaned forward, hand reaching for the box of tissues sitting atop the beside table, and yanked a few free. He brought it up to his lips, where he spat furiously to cleanse his mouth. After a rough clearing of his throat, he bundled up the tissues, tossed it onto the table and glanced over at you once more. “Listen, I’ve already been through all the tests back at Bobby’s. I was goin’ to pull out the phone and get him on the line to clear me before you decided I needed some seasonin’,” he said flatly.

You watched him suspiciously, your brow quirking in disbelief. “Fine,” you said tensely, but offered nothing further.

Dean frowned lightly, his eyes doing a brief and clueless sweep of the room as though he expected you to offer more clarity. He settled his attention back onto you, his chin lifting slightly as he uttered a cautious, “okay.” He began reaching into his pocket once more, the movement deliberately slowed. “Just gonna reach for the phone, alright? So hands off the fuckin’ salt,” he said, eyes flickering between you and the container. “Please,” he added gruffly, and then his had retracted with the phone.

You prowled after his every move like a predator, but despite your weariness, you still lowered the salt an inch. You watched as he flicked open the phone, thumb gliding across the keypad as he pulled up Bobby’s number. Then, he lifted the phone to his ear, eyes trained on you with equal caution as he waited for the line to connect him to the opposite end.

You heard the static click, and a voice blared through shortly after—Bobby’s voice. The sound soothed your heart by a slither.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, passing his tongue along his lower lip. “Listen, I, uh. . . I need ya to do that thing I told you I’d need—you know, vouchin’ for me and all.” On the other end of the line, Bobby uttered a few, incomprehensible words. “Yeah,” Dean laughed weakly. “Yeah. . . she threw me with the salt. Just like you said.” His eyes flickered to you with subtle amusement before Bobby said something else. Then, he was handing you the phone.

You narrowed your eyes in skepticism before your free hand reached for the phone, so careful not to graze his skin as you retrieved it from his fingers. Dean seemed to notice the rejection, and his mouth gaped slightly with the hurt it evoked. You pushed aside the image, but didn’t stray from his face as you brought the phone up to your ear.

“Hello?” You called into the line.

“Hey, kid, it’s me,” Bobby’s static voice answered. “Listen, I know you’re goin’ through one helluva mind-fuck right ‘bout now. . . but it’s ‘im, kid. It’s Dean.” He trailed into silence after those words, providing an interval he expected you’d fill with some sort of taken aback reaction. But all you could do was choke on your stunned silence, your heart beginning to ram at your chest harder than it’d ever managed before. “Kid? Y’still there?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed all-knowingly as he watched you in patient silence. His hand shifted from his lap an inch, like he yearned to reach out to you and offer some reassurance, but you both knew it’d do little to soothe you in this current predicament—the mental debate of whether or not the man you loved was really back.

Eventually, your body hosted a response, but it wasn’t one you’d preferred to have at this instant. A tear clotted along your one eye, bundling up until it was heavy enough to slip over the edge. Dean’s expression visibly softened, his jaw clenching with the knowledge that he couldn’t exactly pull you into a tight embrace—not just yet, anyway.

Your lips loosened, a rattled breath breaking through. “I saw his body, Bobby,” you pushed out in a quiver. Another tear lined the opposite cheek. “I watched you and Sam dig that fucking hole. . . and I watched you roll his lifeless, rotting corpse over the edge before cementing him under six fucking feet of dirt.”

The phone line hissed and crackled with the silent air on Bobby’s side. You almost thought he’d given up the ruse that you were so determined to believe you’d gotten caught up in, but then his voice blared through—the most tender and sympathetic you’ve ever heard it.

“I know you’re confused,” he began. “Hell, this shit had me believin’ that my family’s history of Alzheimer’s had finally kicked the bucket out from under me. But I did all the tests, and I interrogated him over and over again. I gave him hell, kid, but in the end, it’s really him. Y’know I wouldn’t have even thought ‘bout lettin’ him get close to ya if I weren’t certain o’ it. So if ya can’t trust ‘im just yet, then trust me. I give ya my word.”

Your fingers gripped the phone a little tighter, if only to still the trembling of your hand, and you gave a large sniff as you processed his words. Your eyes still bore into Dean, as though it would keep him pinned to the spot should he think about making a run for it.

You shifted the phone against your ear an inch, taking your lower lip into a tense bite before you spoke again. “Okay,” you breathed softly. “I trust you, Bobby.”

From Bobby’s end, shuffling noises chafed your ear like sand-paper. “Alright, kid, I’ll leave the two o’ ya to it. Good luck,” he said, and then the line terminated with a beep. The call’s ending tune reached Dean’s ear, where he shifted on the mattress almost anxiously while he waited for your decision.

“So, uh,” he began, his lips stuttering on the right words as his head buckled to face the hands he’d crossed in his lap. His palms rubbed tense lines—like the scheming motion of a fly—before he glanced back up at you. “We good?” He settled on. You saw the subtle desperation in the clench of his jaw. He craved the pardon only you could give him.

Slowly, you lowered the phone from your ear, flipping it closed as your chest rattled with another, shaky breath. Your eyes began to water once more, and this time, it didn’t hold back. In a second, you were hurling yourself across the mattress, arms flailing through the air to wrap around his neck with a desperation that could have body-slammed him to the floor.

“Woah,” he steadied in a laugh that sounded all too relieved.

Your chest crashed into Dean’s, and his hands were hasty to return your hug as he wrapped himself around your waist. There, he completed the embrace, pulling you against him so tightly that it started to pinch the meat of your skin through your shirt. But you didn’t care if his grip left behind a bruise—you’d consider it a physical reminder of just how real this all was.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, all the pent up emotions you’d come to harbour over these last few months finally liberated from your clutch. The tears began to roll without practiced regulation, and you found yourself yielding all control. Because being around Dean always had you feeling safe enough to do so, and your body had utilised its muscle-memory to re-establish that foundation. To rebuild the home that his death had wrecked.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whispered against the stubbled skin of his neck, the sound heavy and cracked.

His palm stroked slow, comforting circles across your lower back, his own face buried against the slope of your shoulder. You felt his warm breath waft over your skin as he spoke. “Me too,” he pushed out tensely. Shakily. There were very few moments that you’d ever heard that tone on him. “I didn’t think I was ever comin’ back,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you, or Sammy—hell, even Bobby, again. But I’m not complainin’,” he added hastily. “Shit, I’ll never complain ‘bout anythin’ e’er again. I got everythin’ I need right here.”

He shifted against you, torso pulling back as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to peer into your eyes. You leaned yourself back in rhythm, your cheeks blown red with your overwhelmed state and your eyes still glistening with fresh tears. You kept your hands looped around his neck, fingers still clutching his phone, and your heart was seized by a new fist of pain as you saw Dean’s bloodshot eyes pave way for his own, sparse—but undeniably real—tears.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers subconsciously squeezing at the meat as he did a mental walkthrough of his own emotions. “I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling now. “God, all I could think ‘bout down there, every second of every miserable day, was you—how much I needed you. How much I missed you.” His chest jolted with a forced, but much needed exhale to steady his next words. “And how much I love you.”

You choked on your breath at that final confession, words that—up until now—had never directly admitted. You couldn’t help but huff a slight breath of disbelief, a weak grin beaming through as your eyes softened with a warmth that made you feel whole again. Dean, himself, looked slightly stunned at his declaration, his eyes widening mildly as he drank in your reaction. But as you gazed at him, there was no undertone of regret or shame mingling with his features. There was only what looked like relief, if the slight quirking of his lips and the soft sigh that followed after was any indication.

Maybe, it was relief attributed to the fact that he’d finally started to unpack—and put words to—some of his more complex emotions. It made you feel so much closer to him.

Without sparing it another thought, you blurted your own reciprocation. “I love you too, Dean.”

He smiled tenderly at that, and neither one of you moved as you shared an intense stare that circulated all sorts of emotion—love, adoration, and desire. Then, as though some unspoken agreement had been exchanged, you dove down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss, the phone you’d been clutching dropping to some surface beyond your current care.

Dean’s hands trailed up the expanse of your back as he returned your kiss hungrily, his lips feuding with yours for an advantage of the play. He wasted no time sliding his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm palms massaging a determined, upward trajectory until he gained enough leverage to tug it over your head.

The kiss broke off momentarily as your arms flew up in an eager gesture to shed your layers, your chest heaving with the exertion. He managed to successfully tug the shirt over your head, the neckline the last to go and leaving behind an impression as it briefly snagged onto your hair. When he gave it one last freeing tug, your hair tie came loose amidst the commotion, your hair cascading across your bare torso in fresh, yet slightly damp strands.

Dean came forward to press two distinct kisses against your lips—hasty, but a bold statement in itself—before he leaned back to roll his shoulders and discard his own clothing. Your hands flew to his chest in aid, fingers sliding beneath the isles of his unbuttoned shirt to push it over the slopes of his shoulders. His hands twisted behind himself to pluck each sleeve from his arms with practiced speed, discarding it some place behind him before he was tugging his snugly-fitting tee over his head.

Instantly, your attention lowered down his toned torso, the glorified sight of him causing your core to pulse with desire. You didn’t get to exploit his image for long before he hogged your view with another, fierce tumble of the lips, his hands grabbing at your waist like he’d needed to remember what you felt like. Your tongues found one another with an ease that felt like its fates were tied, swirling about in a seductive dance to the death. Your hands settled at his neck, gently rubbing and kneading the skin as you allowed yourself to melt into his devouring.

When your palms wandered further down the contoured muscle of his broad shoulders, you felt the skin of his left bicep raise in a questionable pattern. The contact over that area made Dean wince into your mouth, and then he withdrew from the kiss with a feral pant, eyes shifting from an insatiable hunger to a more vulnerable uncertainty. It was enough of a reaction to tear your gaze away from him and steal a glance at the mood-killing discovery. But you almost wished you hadn’t stumbled upon it because the sight of a raised, red handprint seared into the flesh of his forearm made your eyes widen in horror.

“Dean—” you breathed, overcome with the instinctive need to trace your hand over the anomaly, but his shoulder withdrew from your curious touch, which called your attention back to him. “What happened?” You asked softly.

He shook his head lightly, taking a moment to acknowledge the marking with a newfound solemness. His chin dipped down for a second, a broken, incomplete noise dangling from his lips. You knew then, that whatever grim reminder had been imbued into this branding was something too fresh to confront at this time, so you made the silent decision not to probe him about it any further.

You moved to cradle his face, tilting it up to you. His expression looked defeated, his eyes sagging with a heavy fatigue. You didn’t doubt that hell had had its tolls—if anything, you were surprised that he’d come out of it in one piece. Physically, at least. Whatever mental deconstruction he’d undergone during his time there was knowledge beyond your grasp, and a conversation for another time. Hell had already taken enough from the both of you; you wouldn’t let it have this moment, too.

“If you want to stop, just say the word,” you told him gently, offering a hearty smile. “We can just lay here and cud—“

“No,” he answered, the hands at your waist tightening with new resolve. “We’re gonna cuddle, alright, but after we’ve had our overdue fun,” he said, a newfound smirk creeping through his evident exhaustion. “I’ve waited too damn long for this day—hell if I pass it up in a blink.”

You loved it when he took charge this way. Your teeth peered through your lips in an exhilarated grin, and then, you let out a yelp of excitement as he pushed you back onto the mattress, his frame following closely in a controlled hover as he positioned himself on top of you. His lips came crashing down onto yours, the heated dynamic between the two of you returning full-forced, as though it’d never been interrupted in the first place.

Your hands wandered messy lines up and down his neck, occasionally dipping down to glide over the curve of his pecks. The heat in your core began to build with every second you spent tumbled within the skilled warmth of his lips, his hands adding fuel to the fire with the way they staggered along your exposed torso to grace any and every inch of your skin.

He pulled away to drag his moist lower lip up your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple before he whispered into your ear. “I need to feel you. I need to have all o’ you,” he breathed, and then he pulled away as quickly as he’d arrived, leaning back onto his knees as his fingers found firm grip at your shorts.

He tugged the material down mercilessly, pulling your underwear along with it, and you lifted your legs with a giddy laugh to allow him all the access he needed to yank it free. He tossed it to the other end of the room, his hands flying to undo his belt and jeans while his fixated you with focused eyes—like he was silently entertaining all the things he’d like to do to you.

He shed his boots at the foot of the bed to terminate his undressing, and your eyes immediately lowered to the bowing length of his manhood. It felt cheap—ogling him this way, but something about the sight felt so validating that you couldn’t help but stare. Maybe it was knowing that the mere sight of you was enough to spur him on in this manner, and god, you needed him just as much as he evidently needed you.

Your core throbbed more impatiently now, your built-up arousal taking the first of its leave through the slit of your folds. You were tempted to call out to him, to utter the first, desperate words of beckoning, but Dean seemed to clock your needs almost instantly. He leaned back down to you with a charming smirk, one hand propping himself up at the side of your waist while his other took ahold of his manhood.

“Ready, sunshine?” He murmured—low and rough and slightly dazed with his own suffocating arousal.

Your core seemed to answer before you did, the area beaming hot at the mere sound of his voice. You pushed out a needy hum, and Dean wasted no time in sliding his tip between your folds. He breached through your slicked entrance with ease, his head tilting back an inch and his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed out a gruff moan. He sank himself further into you, his length conforming to your walls in perfect unity. Instinctively, your legs propped to give him better access, and the action drew him in even further.

“Fuck,” he murmured lowly, his head then tilting forward as he gathered himself and fully leaned himself down to you. He placed a kiss onto your lips for good measure, both arms scooping beneath yours in a sure grip. His fists balled at either side of your head, and you wrapped your own arms around his neck.

“I need you, Dean,” you cooed into his ear, and he left slip a breathy sound of acknowledgment before he drilled the first thrust into you.

You both harmonised with noises of pleasure, your nails digging into the nape of his neck as his hips began swaying at a faster pace. He leaned his forehead down against yours, lips parted as he fought to steady the feral breaths of pleasure heaving his chest.

Your eyes stuttered closed as his thrusts deepened and deepened, curving against your walls and gliding to meet your sweet spot at just the right angle. Your head burrowed back into your pillow, your lips gaping with a loud moan. It made Dean lower himself onto your lips, taking them between his in a soft, chiding nibble. You breathed into him erratically, releasing noises that gradually became more and more slurred until you became a hot, panting mess.

His own control seemed to slip from his grasp as he began to grunt and whimper against your cheek, his head eventually falling past yours to graze your ear with just the right verbal performance to add to the contractions of that growing ache within.

His thrusts became firmer—but not brutal. They were passionate and needy all at once, but still laced with a sort of caution that only deep admiration could warrant. He gave a few more firm thirsts, both of you heaving against one another with the approach of your climax. Then, with a final jerk of his hips, the knot that had tethered you to one another came undone in a cascading warmth.

You felt it seep from your entrance, and for a second, Dean didn’t stir from atop you. He remained hovered over you, the point of his nose brushing your cheek methodically as he attempted to replenish his lungs and recover from his own bliss.

“Jesus,” he remarked, an impressed chuckle tickling your ear. “All this time apart, and still it doesn’t feel like I ever slipped your spell.”

You released your own breathless chuckle. “I’m usually opposed to captivity of any sort, but in this case, thank god for that.”

Finally, Dean withdrew from inside of you, collapsing to side of the mattress nearest to the door—his space. Rightfully occupied at last. He reached over to pluck some tissues from the nightstand before turning back to you, fumbling the tissue between his fingers before he began dabbing at the moisture along your forehead.

He gazed at you through loving eyes, so soft and vast that it made your heart throb—like you were falling in love all over again. Dean seemed to notice the lovesick look on your face because he smiled with an expression to match. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, and you puckered your own to receive it eagerly. And then he shifted momentarily to clean you down below.

When he came back up to you, he flicked the used tissues off to the side, and then instantly, you were pulled against his chest in a tight embrace. The skin-on-skin contact soothed you, your body relaxing almost instantly within his firm hold—a type of pressure therapy that only worked because it was him. It felt so safe and natural, so you melted further into him, and the hand he’d cupped around the back of your hair began to massage a soothing pattern into your scalp.

Everything about this moment was enough to lull you into a much needed state of relaxation, your body finally unwinding after months of being held together at the threads. Your eyes drifted close, your breathing deepening with the newfound peace.

“You know,” Dean said suddenly, beckoning to your senses. Your eyes remained closed, but you hummed softly to acknowledge him. “Down there, time works differently.” That piqued your interest enough to part you eyes in narrow slits. “You said I’ve been gone for four months? Well, for me, it’s been forty years.”

Your eyes widened fully now, your lips split with some bewildered gasp. “Dean,” you sympathised softly, hand moving from its place at his chest to stroke along his cheek. “I’m so sorry—that sounds awful.”

He shifted to place a kiss on the first part of your palm he could reach. “It ain’t your fault,” he assured you thinly, his eyes bowing under his own exhaustion—as if the mere recollection drained him. “If anythin’, you got me through it. I don’t have to tell you just how shitty things are down in Satan’s basement,” he laughed, but you knew there was no real humour behind it, only pain. “But you. . . just thinkin’ o’ you. . . rememberin’ what I’ve gotta fight for, it kept me sane. Strong.”

You smiled weakly, his words evoking a mixture of warmth and guilt all at once. You appreciated that you’d been able offer him some sort of comfort in your mere memory, but at the same time, you wished he hadn’t needed it to begin with.

Hell was no place for a good man like him.

“Well, you’re back now,” you offered softly, your hands shifting to wrap around his torso in a hug. His own arms wrapped around your upper back, pulling you so tightly against him that you thought your beings might finally form a physical union to mirror the spiritual tying of your souls.

“And I’m here to stay,” he finished in a faint murmur, the words—the promise—hot against the crown of your head.

Those words lingered in your mind as you eventually drifted into a sleep, the steady sound of his breathing the last thing you needed to loosen your grip on reality. Darkness came to claim you, and this time, you welcomed it eagerly.

When you roused into the waking world, your room was fully lit with the tell of noon. The finding was indication enough that you’d stolen the sleep of a lifetime, and there was no lingering heaviness perched on your lids this time around. It filled you with a sense of satisfaction, and you blinked a few times to ground your bleary senses.

When you stirred against the sheets, you heaved a deep breath, your lungs expanding around a newfound sense of inner peace. Instinctively, your arm reached across the mattress to claim the touch of man you loved, but where you expected to feel the warmth of his skin, you felt nothing but the cool, empty space of the comforters.

With a jolt, you sat yourself up, head swivelling about the room with a sense of panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. Your mind instantly began reeling with endless possibilities, your breathing elevating with a growing sense of panic—had you imagined it all? Had he ever been here to begin with? Had you finally snapped and gone insane?

But when you took a moment to lower your head and drink in your frame, you found yourself to be as bare as when you’d fallen asleep. You shifted to the edge of the mattress, feeling some slither of relief that your clothes were where you’d left them—discarded about the room in ruthless bundles. And then, out of instinct, your eyes wandered over to your desk chair, where you expected to greet the leather jacket that had become a pivotal part of your morning routine.

Only, your heart lurched when the chair glared back at you with a bare rim—the jacket nowhere in sight.

Beyond the walls, mingled laughter brightened the atmosphere. The sound made you slip from the mattress almost instantly, where you darted about the room to gather your scattered pyjamas in a hurry before slipping it over your frame. You dashed toward the bedroom door, twisting the handle with anticipation before you practically hurled yourself into the hallway.

When you entered into the open-plan living room, you found that Dean and Sam were weaving rather chaotic ant trails around the kitchen’s floor, each brother tending to steaming dishes that you were too far away to appreciate in detail. But you weren’t paying much attention to it, anyway. You were far too focused on watching Dean, as though you’d had to solidify the mental image of his presence—to believe that he was really here, and here to stay. And the best part of it all is that he was wearing the leather jacket you’d thought would never come to crown another set of shoulders again. It was the last image you needed to place the final puzzle piece in your heart—no, you felt truly fulfilled.

Some part of you had thought—just for a second—that your reunion had been a figment of your imagination. But now, you could breathe a little easier knowing that Dean had truly returned, rooted in flesh as he drifted about the kitchen with an extra skip in his step.

Just then, he spun on his heels to nick something off the counter, his head lifting in your direction as he finally noticed your loitering figure. “Second g’mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he called to you, birthing a cheeky smirk. He flashed a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “In case you were wonderin’, Sammy here’s all caught up,” he said. “So let’s skip the big, mushy family reunion and get movin’ on those damn tacos. I’m starvin’”.

“Tacos?” You echoed with a light laugh.

Sam appeared at his big brother’s side, beaming so brightly, it was almost blinding. “We’re having tacos for lunch. Everything’s basically finished,” he piped in, casting a pleading glance in your direction. “Would you mind helping me plate it?”

Your heart settled as you drank the both of them in. This was the life you’d come to miss so dearly, and you couldn’t help but smile appreciatively. You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “Why don’t you make him do it?” You teased, padding your way over to the kitchen island.

“Call it a family discount,” Dean chuckled smugly, rounding the counter to draw up at your side. “Or, y’know, the breakin’ free from hell card.”

You shook your head lightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Isn’t it a little too soon?” You scoffed.

“You let me worry ‘bout my own shit,” he replied, gracing you with a charming wink.

You didn’t offer anything further as you turned your attention down to the prepped toppings spread out across the counter—mince, lettuce, guacamole, chilli sauce, salsa, cheese and the taco shells themselves. You reached for the empty plates and began topping each one with the hollow taco shells, moving to fill the first one with the toppings.

Dean snuck up behind you, his hands finding grip at your waist while his chin came to rest atop your shoulder. His lips grazed your ear. “Thank you for lookin’ after my jacket,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ this old thing again.”

You smile at his words, hands shifting to stuff the taco with the next pick of toppings. “My reason for keeping it was more selfish than that,” you admitted. “I just couldn’t bear to move it. It would’ve felt too final.”

He hummed a noise of understanding, a soft kiss gracing the side of your neck. “The only thing that’s final is that I’m back,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore, alright?”

“I know,” you murmured, and Dean squeezed you in a light hug, but continued to keep you tucked within his hold as you finished stuffing the taco. You lifted it over your shoulder, carefully guiding it toward his lips.

He released an approving noise before leaning forward to accept your offering in a gluttonous chomp, his lips practically smothering your fingers as though it were deemed part of the meal. You giggled at the feeling, taco fragments scattering across your shoulder as he chewed the food intently.

“How does it taste?” You asked him, turning your head to get a better view of his expression.

His eyes did a roll of appreciation, his cheeks swelled with the large bite. He hummed a string of approval, coupled with a content, repeating nod. Once he gave a hearty swallow, he cleared his throat in satisfaction.

“Tastes like sunshine.”

──────────────────────

a/n ─ can you tell i had the time of my life writing this?? can you tell?? anon i love your mind so so much please never stop your special creativity. i will be tending to my other requests soon, and i encourage you all to keep on sending them through. i appreciate you ALL and your lovely ideas, as well as the support and trust you have in me to flesh out your fantasies 🫶 now, it’s literally almost 4 am as i publish this so nighty night beautiful people!

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented

comment/message me to be added to/removed from the taglist for any future jensen ackles works!

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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emacrow · 2 days ago

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Raven and Tim were the next one to know as Babs brought them in a room with a powerpoint about the fairy boy in Alfred's garden.

Raven because she knows most all mythical creatures in her personal library books and hopefully has a solution to how to capture and relocate the fairy..

Tim for the strategy and backup plans, but his mouth was currently being duct taped shut because Babs will kill him if he say those words.

"Alright, do you have any questions, and what are your solutions plan for capture misplaced Fairy?" Babs said after finishing the powerpoint.

"How exactly did Alfred acquire this flower that the winged fae resided in?"Raven said, looking through her books of Fae history and homes.

"Alfred saw it was the only thing left on the sale, and discount flowers stand at his favorite grocery store, but he got it for free since the tag for it was gone and the manager did had a crush on him. I believe it is a bit far too coincidental." Babs continues to explain.

"I checked the groceries camera footages and it seem to just appear out of nowhere, like some type of glitch in the system."

"... It sounds like a misplaced infinite realm random natural portal incident.." Raven mumbled a bit, flipping a book's pages with her telekinesis to the correct page with the number at the very end chapter of fae and infinite realms.

"Infinite realm..?" Tim voice a bit after tearing off the double duct tape off his mouth, rubbing his stinging lips.

"Yes, seem the little fae was judge as an offering that was rejected to a Higher being of the Infinite realm or offended due to a defect such as his wings are missing." Raven thought about it after several examinations.

"The fae still has sparkling dust on his clothes that was likely fae powder-

"-Pixie dust" babs said a bit too excitedly

"Scars all over his body and on his back look to been recently that he was tortured and his wings were Intently torn off to make sure he didn't had a chance to escape back to fae realm, along with being placed back into his home flower stuck in hibernation phase while contaminated with the infinite realm energy.

Seem the nature portal randomly was this fae saving grace, as it instinctly went straight for sugar cube, a blueberry and gem that didn't have silver coating along with its body pushing itself hard to fly with the remaining residue of fae powder that the buzzing sound was likely a former lightning since Fae noises can not be heard by the human ear even with boasting of magic unless you had step into the fae rings." Raven explained as she read the chapter.

"Do fairies tend to die if you say that.." Babs trying to say by pointing at to emphasize the words on the powerpoint that typed words theory of fairies dying if humans say they don't exist??

"Unfortunately, it seemed so as thousand years or so began to humans lost interests, offerings or belief to Fae-

"Fairies-

-Azarath Metrion Zinthos, they tend to lose power and seemingly fade away into a painfully slow death is very rare, which was counter by them cutting off the entrances of their own fairy rings to the world to sace their immortalized skin." Raven said after getting interrupt for the second time, using the shadows to cover Babs mouth so she can finished explaining.

Previous post part 3 link Here <-

#dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp prompt #teen titans #Rarob #danny the little fairy boi #dropping lore like it hot #babs is going a bit stir crazy realizing fairies are real

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bonus-links · 12 hours ago

Note

Ahem, if I may impose.... Directors commentary?? 😁😁

YEAHHH lots to say abt this one

i know rule number one is don't point out the flaws in ur own work but i have to confess. i forgot to add hair highlights to this entire update. i didn't realize until i had already queued up the posts and i could not bear re-exporting and color correcting every page again. so i just let it be. it only kills me a little bit. they rlly add something y'know

i haven't seen a whole lot of comments about this to the point i worry i didn't do a good job of conveying it so: Loft's dream at the beginning is about ganondorf.

Loft has, in fact, chewed his nails to bits.

i'm gonna be so real, part of the delay for this update was bc my brain got so stuck on the logistics of where that damn bookshelf would go

korok bookends :D

i like to think the story of the hero of time is actually mostly an oral tradition on Outset, or at least that's how Gran Gran first told Link and Aryll the stories when they were children.

i worry a little bit about these 'lore recap" updates, bc like. I'm assuming you've played the games, or at least know the gist. but I feel like there's a few stories it's important for us to see Loft's direct reactions to, and the conclusions he draws from them, because it'll be important to his actions later. I try to make up for it by at least making these sections visually interesting HAHA i think this is the last major one though

on that note: I hope this comes across on its own, but Loft finishes Gran Gran's story himself because he's just realized the flood was sent by the gods, and not some external force of evil. he's also realizing that this is not the first time the gods have been willing to wipe the slate clean in the absence of a hero, and that it's actually something of a pattern. it runs up against his idea of how Demise's curse is meant to work. this is one such mystery mouseketool we'll use later.

also on that note: regardless of ganondorf's actions, i find it significant that the gods chose to destroy a man whose people suffered in a droughted desert with,,,,a flood. that thought was the conceit for this update

Loft has seen this play out in his dreams, but obviously doesn't fully know the context. also I'm gonna refer to this version of zelda as Sheik. he uses he/him pronouns thank you :-)

just wanted to show some closeups of the stained glass bc. i worked hard on them HAHA + the grayscale wip

i was really hoping this chapter would be done. last year. it was meant to be a chance to slow down for a second before the plot speeds up 😅 but we're nearing the last few updates!! thank you all for bearing with me <3 life has been kind of insane and extremely discouraging irl, so getting to post these updates and seeing you all enjoy them has been a real bright spot <333 special thank you to my patreon supporters bc. seriously it has helped more than you know.

i think that's all ive got for now! see you next time, hopefully sooner than 4-5 business months

#directors commentary #ask

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bpdedwardcullen · 3 days ago

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As somebody who grew out of Harry Potter "naturally" around the start of the 2010s when I entered high school after being really into it for most of the 2000s as a kid, watching people yell and scream about how JKR bad once a week is ironically one of the only reasons I've thought for more than thirty seconds at a time about the series in nearly a decade.

I looked at the notes and comments out of curiosity, and the way people talk about how you shouldn't even pirate things related to the universe because that fuels discussion about it is funny because... is fueling discussion about it not what you're doing by whining about it once a week (at minimum)? There are YouTubers who flipped switch from being Harry Potter super fans to super haters the second they heard the word "terf" whose online platform seems dedicated to dissecting the works for every little bit of bigotry that may be there (or that they may be able to stretch the work enough to say exists; instances of both exist). I've followed people for years who were Harry Potter super fans until they heard the word "terf" and posted every criticism they could find on page one of Google search. I can go to their blog archives and pinpoint the exact point in which they heard this for the first time.

Many of you people are still obsessed with Harry Potter just like you were before, what, 2018? You're just now obsessed with hating it instead of wanting to go to the Wizarding World theme park. So many people obsessing over this shit were the ones being told to "read another book" in like 2017, and most of the others are just riding the high of having hipster vindication moments ("I disliked it before it was cool to") over it whether that's true or not.

This isn't even to mention I have not seen one fraction of the energy against Neil Gaiman works (despite his very credible accusations of sexual assault), Stephen King (with the creepy, pedophilic way he often writes and describes young girls), or the FNAF guy (who still very much profits from your tickets to see the movies, purchases of the games and merch, etc all while donating to anti-LGBT causes and being a Trump supporter).

I haven't cared about Harry Potter as a story in years and years (since before people did a 180 and started hate obsessing instead of fan obsessing), but good lord you people are obnoxious. Makes me want to play the dumb game or whatever just to spite you all, but fortunately for you I guess I have other things to do.

Before anyone says anything though, I just have to say that I belong to multiple groups that people claim JKR as bigoted against so I don't want to hear any "oh white cishet able-bodied neurotypical etc etc etc" because lol.

I haven't purchased a HP item in close to a decade - I use the books I already had as doorstops or to prop a laptop up for meetings nowadays.

There is NO "death of the author" with JK Rowling - she controls and continues to profit from her IP, and uses that money to fund hate groups.

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tpwk-formula1 · 12 hours ago

Note

Could you please write a story where lando x reader have basically 'adopted' keegan (even tho he's like 3 yrs younger than them) and she hates whenever they make him do dangerous stuff

AN: SPECIAL EXTRA FLUFF POST!!!! (I know I said I wasn't gonna post a fluff this week but this came in and I got too excited so I quickly wrote it before work! NOT proof read!

OMG stop I absolutely love this idea!! I stopped writing a fic to get this one started! I did switch timelines just a big to make the story work so pretend the video on Quadrant where Keegan tried Karting for the first time happened after summer break!

TW: NONE

WC: 1.1K

Y/N POV

"Keegs, have you eaten anything today?" I ask walking up to him with the sandwich I had made for him before we had left for the yacht day.

"I had breakfast," he says softly knowing we had eaten over 6 hours ago and he had been outside all day in the sun.

"Keegan, you're an athlete stop being stupid," I laugh while tossing him the sandwich which he great fully took and started eating it.

"He's a grown man, love. Let him live," Lando tells me softly while approaching me from behind and taking me into his hold.

"You too Norris, sit down and eat," I say while passing him the second sandwich which has him groaning but instantly sitting next to Keegan and starts eating his sandwich.

"Whipped," I hear Max Fewtrell say from somewhere else on the yacht making me shake my head and threaten him with the last sandwich in hand.

"You and P are such moms," Max rolls his eyes while taking the food from me and sitting next to his best friend.

Over the last year or so the friendship between Lando and Keegan had grown from more than just a sponsored athlete to a truth friendship. When the younger boy started coming around it was almost instant that my motherly instincts kicked in with him.

I mean hell when he called us after winning gold at the Paris Olympics I hadn't stopped crying from podium. He still laughs about it and even pokes fun but he has also on multiple occasions expressed how thankful he to have Lando and I in his life.

Once the yacht day has come to an end we make our way back to the house we had rented for the week.

"We're going cliff jumping tomorrow, do you guys want to come?" Martin's friends asked the rest of us when we had made it back to the house.

"No," I instantly say a long with P while all the boys instantly say "yes" making me look directly at them.

"Have you all lost your damn mind? 1 of you is in contract for racing which mind you comes back in just a few weeks and the other just came off of Olympic gold, you need to be fucking careful," I start ranting while Martin starts laughing at the group dynamic not expecting anything less from us.

"It's fine, we'll be fine," Lando reassures me making me me shake my head.

"Get Zak's approval and then it's fine," I say with a smirk and a little shoulder shrug knowing his boss would lose his ever living mind if he found out his young driver is trying to do something so dangerous.

"Please! I promise we wont get hurt," Lando begs giving me his puppy dog eyes I have never been able to say no to, a long with Keegan behind him giving me the same look.

"Okay fine, but I swear to God if you get hurt," I say while pointing a finger before the two boys.

With that the broke out in bright smiles and Lando instantly took me into his arms and places a few kisses on my lips.

We're now coming to the end of our trip when Lando and I are relaxing in bed having some much needed downtime when a knock rings out through our room.

"Come in," I call out grabbing my bookmark and putting the book I was reading to the side.

When Keegan walks in he has a nervous expression written all over his face.

"What's wrong?" I ask sitting up a bit taller making Lando sit up a bit more noticing the serious expression written across the younger man's face.

"Can I ask for some advice?" Keegan says while walking into the room and closing the door behind him.

"Of course, you can sit on the bed," I say laughing a little when I noticed him awkwardly standing near the end of the bed.

"So I've been talking to this girl," Keegan starts while sitting on the bed.

"Aye! My man," Lando says excitedly while dapping Keegan up making his cheeks grow even redder.

"Well anyways, her name is Ella and we've been talking for awhile and I want to make it official but I'm nervous she might say no and I also need ideas on how to plan the perfect date to ask," Keegan admits making me smile. While it might have been Lando's first time hearing about about Ella, Keegan had already come to me about her and from what I had gathered he really liked her and she seemed really sweet.

After about an hour of planning the most perfect date for Keegan to take Ella on he thanked up both before leaving the room with a bright smile on his face.

"That's my son for real," Lando says laughing making me shake my head with a laugh falling from my lips.

"He's such an awesome kid," I reply back before cuddling closer into Lando's side.

"Did you pull the same move on Carlos when you where asking me out," I tease with a smirk on my face.

"Maybe," Lando admits with his cheeks reddening.

It's been a few weeks since summer break and we already have a week off from racing which means it's time to film for Quadrant and as we pull up to the track both Lando and Max have been suspiciously quiet about what we will be filming.

When we pull up to the track I see Keegan almost instantly making everything click for me.

"No! He is not about to hope in a kart without any training!" I say sternly making Max laugh and Lando turn and give me a reassuring smile.

"He's fine, he can drive a car, he can drive in a few circles on a kart," Lando says but it just makes me groan and throw my head back.

Lando did end up giving Keegan a small run down before filming and once he was in the first Kart I could already feel my stomach drop. He was going as fast as his car will allow him to go but you can see the difference between Lando's control of the Kart and his control but after the first lap he was able to adjust and already looked more comfortable.

As the karts got faster the more I go stressed. Keegan was clearly having an amazing time in the karts but my anxiety is going through the roof.

By the end of the video it is clear to all of us that Keegan loved every moment of it and even asked the next time he could drive one.

When the video was posted fan instantly clung to the fact that I was like a mom to Keegan. I mean an entire compilation was made where it was every moment I made a comment, face, or gasp throughout the short video making fans across F1 laugh at the endearing moments between friends.

------

Sorry it feels a bit rushed I just loved the idea and might even circle back around in the future and add to the story

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carmenberzattosgf · 1 day ago

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backseat

Summary: Carmy can’t wait until he gets home to have you

Warnings: general filth. Semi public sex? piv with no protection

Word count: 1.6k

A/N this is all inspired by this lovely ask that I’ll link here. Not proof read at all if you’re reading this the day of posting 💀

Carmy is the definition of a pent up ball of frustration as he scrubs the floor of the kitchen.

It's practically spotless in the first place, but he's determined to wipe down every square inch of the room. He's already taken off his chef whites, wearing his white shirt underneath. The one that hugs his muscles with his every moment.

Service was an absolute mess, and his tedious cleaning of the kitchen is evidence of it. He always stays late after a shift like that, needing some way to release all of his energy so he stands a chance sleeping when finally gets home.

You're leaning on the counter watching Carmy clean. You've already cleaned the stoves twice, and checked all the dates on the food in the walk-in—twice. Carmy finally rises to his feet, but not to leave.

It seems he somehow spots something worthy of wiping down the countertops yet again. That's your last straw.

"Carmy—look at the clock,” you say, pointing to the digital clock on the wall. “It's already midnight. Everything in this kitchen has been cleaned a dozen times. Can we go home, now?"

His arms flex as he takes a rag and begins to wipe the surface. " it’s not good enough," he mumbles, not taking the time to look up at you.

You resort to the only thing you can do that'll distract him immediately. Your hand reaches to squeeze his arm, making him face you. His eyebrows are already scrunched up in a frown like he was about to protest. Your other hand goes up to his cheek as you lean in to kiss him, and every ounce of protest he has in him melts away. He drops the rag on the counter and grabs your waist. You deepen the kiss—or at least try to before Carmy pulls away.

He’s beginning to walk towards the back door before you can even react. “C’mon,”

He says quickly, nodding his head towards the door. “Not going to make out with you here—just cleaned the whole place.” Carmy’s already pulled his keys out of his pocket, ready to lock up as soon as you’re out the door.

You think he’s about to start the car and drive you both home, so you head towards the passenger side door while Carmy locks up. “No. Backseat.” He mumbles, walking up behind you and opening the door for you to get in first. He follows, hopping in and closing the door.

He’s the one to act first this time. His hand grabs you by the jaw and pulls you to his lips. You moan into the kiss, grabbing onto his arms for support. His muscles flex underneath your palms, a subtle reminder of just how strong he is compared to you.

The way Carmy kisses you is intoxicating, licking into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you.

His free hand tugs at your waist, urging you to get on top of him.

You straddle his hips as you fall deeper into the kiss. Your hands touch him everywhere. You squeeze at the muscles of his arms, thread your fingers through his hair, and push down against the tense muscles of his stomach.

You cradle his face in your hands and pull back for a moment. His pupils are blown wide, and his mouth is shiny with a mix of your saliva and his. Your eyes trail down to his lips, focusing on them. They’re flushed and swollen from the kisses.

Your thumb reaches out to trace his bottom lip, pressing lightly on the skin. “You’re so pretty, Carm,” you whisper gaze transfixed on his mouth. He groans the second the words leave your lips.

“Fuckin’ hell—you know you can’t just say things like that, baby.

“But it’s true, and I don’t say it enough.” You finally remove your hand from his face, moving it to his arm instead. Your finger traces the lines of his tattoos. “Every part of you is pretty.”

His hands trace up your spine at that, pushing your shirt up. His fingers are gentle against your skin, but push the fabric up hastily.

“Want this off—wanna see you.” You giggle at Carmy’s eagerness, but nod quickly at his statement. You help him take your shirt off, trying not to hit your head on the roof of the car in the process.

His bright blue eyes take in the newly exposed skin. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but he always traces his eyes over your body like he’s seeing it for the first time.

Naturally, your hands reach back to unclasp your bra, but Carmy stops you before you can undo the clasp. “No, no—keep it on. I love this one on you,” he mutters. The bra you have on is his favorite; he picked it out himself a few months ago.

Carmy leans in to start pressing kisses onto your neck. His hands multitask while he sucks at your pulse, first getting your pants button undone before tackling his belt. You already know at this point that you’ll have quite a few marks above your shirt collar to conceal in the morning.

You crawl off of him to pull down your pants and underwear, discarding them on the car floor before he tugs you by the arm to straddle him again.

Carmy can’t help his wandering hands. The second your back on top of him, his hand travels up your thigh to your center. He lets out a rough groan at the feeling of your wetness on his fingertips.

“Holy shit you’re wet—thinking about me all service?” Yeah? That why you were so eager to leave the kitchen?”When you don’t reply immediately, two of his fingers press against your clit, making you gasp.

He lifts up his hips to push his jeans and underwear down far enough to free his cock. He doesn’t care enough to remove anymore clothing.

Carmy holds his length, and traces the head through your folds, thoroughly slicking up his dick. You whine at the sensation of him at your entrance, so close to where you need him.

“Please. Don’t wanna be teased—need you Carm,” you beg.

“Go ahead then, baby. Sit on my cock.”

Wasting no time, you sink down onto his length slowly, burying your face into his shoulder as you whimper at the stretch. He grabs your hips more firmly than before, not letting you take too much at once.

“Shh—I know, baby. Feels really deep like this, yeah?”

“Mm—“

“Doing so good. Just keep taking it nice and easy—almost there.” He gives your hips a squeeze of assurance as he guides you to sink down further onto him.

You both moan loudly when you finally bottom out on his cock. Your hips are completely flush with his as you take a moment to catch your breath. Carmy removes one of his hands from your waist to tug your head out of the crook of his neck.

“There, now I can see my pretty girl,” he whispers.

You move your hips in slow deep grinds first, stimulating your clit at the same time. Carmy’s looking up at you like you’re an angel in his presence. His mouth is dropped open trying to take a breath while he watches you ride him. Carmy let’s you go at your own pace for awhile, but he grows restless.

His hands grasp onto your hips and push them down on him, nudging his cock even deeper inside of you. His moves a hand to the small of your back and urges you to rock against him. “That’s it—J’st like that—good girl.”

“Carmy—Carmy, Carmy, Carmy,” you whimper, voice full of need. “Please, I can’t—“

“Need me to help?”

Your legs have grown tired, the leather of the seat digging into your knees. “Mhm, please.”

In the next moment, he’s wrapping both of his arms tightly around your body. With his strong arms, he lifts you up and starts slamming his hips into yours.

You hide your face in his neck again, clinging to his body as he thrusts into you at a rapid pace. The angle makes his cock hit right up against that spongy spot deep inside you.

You can’t hold back the whines you’re releasing; Carmy knows every spot to hit to bring you to orgasm.

“Fuck—“ he groans. “Look, look at the windows,” he says. His voice is rough, like he’s barely holding on from falling over the edge. You lift your head to listen to him. The windows are covered in a dense layer of fog from all the heavy breathing.

“See that? Look at what we did—just couldn’t wait to have me could you?” He’s not expecting an answer. He knows you’re too close to form a coherent sentence, so he keeps up the pace of his hips.

He continues to hold you up with his right arm, but lets his left hand slide between your bodies so he can circle your clit with this thumb. That’s all it takes for your peak to wash over you as your legs shake from the high.

The pulsing of your cunt around his dick brings Carmy quickly to orgasm, spilling deep inside of you.

You rest in Carmy’s arms, trying to finally catch your breath. His head leans back against the headrest as he groans. “Fuck—now I really don’t feel like driving home.”

“Well maybe next time we can try to leave the restaurant at a normal time and this wouldn’t happen.”

You don’t miss the look in Carmy’s eye before he speaks. “What if I want it to happen again,” he says with a boyish grin.

#carmen berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #the bear #the bear fanfiction #carmy smut #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy bear #the bear smut #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #carmy x reader #carmy x you

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stxrslutrestored · 3 days ago

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love him back 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

starring; gg!rafe cameron x gossipsweetheart!reader

synopsis; being caught by gossip girl forces you and rafe to have a very hard conversation about what you actually are, and when talking doesn’t work, there’s really only one other option

content; fighting, oral (f receiving)

authors note; first gg blurb! super exited to debut this au

you can’t believe it. you can’t believe gossip girl caught you. you’d been so careful to make sure nobody else knew that you and rafe were back together again. but all it had took was one stupid stupid drunk night out and a quickie in the car to reveal everything.

rafe is on his way, he’d told you as much in a rushed text message fifteen minutes ago which means he’s here any second.

anxiety rises in your chest. because as well as the embarrassment and humiliation the post that this godforsaken website has made is going to force you and rafe to face the question that both of you have been avoiding for the past few weeks of meaningless sex.

do you love each other again?

you hear him walking through the house and up to your room. he doesn’t bother to knock before entering your room.

his face is hard and angry, in contrast to yours which is streaked with tears and snot. he sighs when he sees you, coming up and standing over you where you’re sitting on your bed.

you look up to him, “why are you so angry,” you ask sadly, “It’s not like I sent the tip.”

he looks up, “I’m not angry at you.” he shakes his head, “I’m angry at this… this whole thing.” he throws his phone to the bed where it’s open on gossip girls page.

you sniffle, “if you hadn’t insisted on having sex in the car—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“no. no don’t you fuckin’ pin this on me.” he points to his chest, “I only insisted on fucking you because you were.. were leaning me on all night.”

you scoff through tears, hands falling to your lap, “leading you on? you think I’m leading you on?” you shake your head, “you’re unbelievable rafe!”

you stand up, coming a little closer to him, he takes one step back. “am I? am I unbelievable?” he raises his voice “because this whole fucking time I’m here trying to guess what the fuck you’re thinking I— I mean do you actually wanna be with me? huh? or is this just… just some sex to you?”

you shake your head, “like you care,” you shake your head, “like you’ve ever put any effort into our relationship!”

he grasps your arms and pulls you close, “you were the one who broke up with me. I had nothing to do with that.”

“ever stopped to think about why I broke up with you? rafe you’re crazy.” you gesture to him as you make the accusation and he scoffs.

“crazy. yeah maybe i am crazy.” he looks up and sighs, “maybe it’s you that makes me crazy.” he looks back at you, and there’s something else in his eyes now. it’s small, just an inkling of sadness, pleading. so barely noticeable, but you know rafe well enough to see it crystal clear.

you look down, and then back up at him, your own gaze changing. there’s a moment of tangible silence but then rafe steps forwards, gripping your hips and pulling you up, immediately locking lips with you in a kiss. a kiss full of passion that you think you’ve never felt from him.

you kiss back, hands coming to wrap around his neck. you let out a small moan and he returns one. you’re stumbling backwards towards the bed, feelings of anger and aggression suddenly replaced with intense erotic passion.

the backs of your legs hit the bed and you fall onto your back, rafe bends over with you, not breaking the kiss. his hands start to run down your body, first your chest, then your torso, and then his hands are on your hips, pushing up the skirt of your nightdress.

his fingers hook your panites, pulling them down so that your pussy is bare and ready for him and whatever he plans to do. he pulls away finally, breathing heavily, “c’mon,” he breathes, whispering your name, “say it.” he tells you, “tell me you love me. love me back.”

you look up to him, eyes wide and full of that infatuation that you’ve been trying so hard to deny. in this moment you just can’t say no, and so you say those three words instead. “I love you rafe.” it feels like the most natural sentence you’ve ever said, yet it surprises both you and rafe when it actually comes out your mouth.

the shock only lasts for a second though, before you know it, rafe’s head is dipping back down and kissing on your neck, big, open mouthed kisses that leave you breathless. with learned skill he begins to lower down your body.

first he spends minutes on your chest, skilling and licking and sucking marks into and in between your boobs. then he goes down even more. hands running down over your night dress as he kneels down beside the bed, making his head level with your pussy in between your now spread legs.

“fuck youre soaked,” he brehates out. you’re looking up to the ceiling but you can tell exactly what expression is on his face. cheeks flushed and lips parted, hair all messy in that way that makes him ten times hotter.

first he starts to touch your pussy, his hands pushing through your folds like it’s the first time he’s ever touched you. it’s slow and gentle and careful, in such contrast to the way that rafe normally treats you.

then he’s leaning forward and he’s eating you out, licking through your folds with an open mouth and sucking on your clit. rafe doesn’t eat you out much, barely ever actually, but when he does it feels so good!

you moan, hands coming down to tangle in his hair while he pleasures you. you moan out, “oh rafe!” you cry, “I love you! I love you so much!” you throw your head back as you experience this. even though he doesn’t say the words, you know that rafe has the same sentiment. that this is his way of telling you that he loves you.

he loves you and you love him. there’s no doubt about it. despite the rocky road that you and rafe have been on and the complete denial of any feelings for months, it’s all come to a front now that that silly little internet post has forced you to face your feelings. this is it, you can love him back.

#lily writes 𝜗𝜚 #rafe ꨄ︎#gossipgirl!au #gg!rafe #gossipsweetheart!reader #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron concept #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron drabble #rafe cameron

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gean-grey-blog · 3 days ago

Photo

I reblogged a clean version for the OG post. But I just wanna point out that Moana was *not* normal when it came out. It was a big deal, and it was the first introduction for some people to the fact there was a whole Polynesian culture and society and languages before colonization, or that they exist and thrive today.

I was living in a rural, red area, with gutted schools and violently white culture. I was driving my friend's daughter to school. I put on the Moana soundtrack hoping it would distract her for the ten minute ride bc I had a migraine.

The song starts in what google says is a mix of three Indigenous Polynesian languages, but I didn't know exactly at the time.

Kid: what are they singing?

Me: a Hawaiian language

Kid: why are they speaking that? Don't they speak English?

Me: yeah they speak English. They spoke this for a long time before they spoke English. This language is important to their culture, and it's equally a language. So they speak both now.

Kid: then why did they start speaking English?

Me:

Me: this was supposed to make this car ride easier

Me: so you know how we live near a big Reservation where white people shoved multiple tribes together off their lands and starved them and exploited them and all they really got in return is a casino...yeah that happened a lot of times in a lot of places

Kid: in Hawaii??? Did they get it back???

Me: *frantically googling in the drop off line* "appropriate ways to talk about colonization age six"

Me: no they did not

My friend called me later bc her kid's teacher called being like "hi I don't know shit about the colonization of Polynesia, I had to look it up today for the first time, can I punt these questions to be answered at home?" So my friend punted them to me but was also curious 😂

Ten seconds of that movie's opening song, and a kid's curiosity, ended up informing three people for the first time.

Spirit: Stallion of The Cimarron & the Indian Boarding Schools/Residential Schools allegory

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probablyn0thuman · 2 days ago

Text

Scars and Acceptance

Pairing | Jason Todd x FemReader

Summary | Jason just needs some time to realize is scars aren't that scary.

Warnings | NSFW, smut, size k!nk (if you squint), P in V, Unprotected sex (wrap it up kids), Oral sex (Fem!Receiving), Fingering, Fluff, Aftercare, Scars and a smidgen of angst.

Words | ??

Notes | This is my first time ever posting a fic, please be patient if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes, english isn’t my first language.

(I wrote most of this at 3am while listening to the Hamilton soundtrack).

You’d been dating Jason for a while. You knew about his… nighttime activities, they didn’t scare you much. You’d dated your fair share of criminals and scumbags, it was inevitable living in Gotham, a standard of the crime-ridden city. But when you got with Jason, you didn’t expect him to be so… polite and well-read for a crime-alley street kid.

It had been six months since you made it official, but you were yet to actually see him without a shirt on. He always made excuses like, “Babe, I have some nasty scars on my chest, I don’t wanna freak you out,” and “C’mon, it’s way too cold to sleep without a shirt on,” But of course you respected it, it was his body, you weren’t going to force him to do anything he didn’t want to.

Until one night, at his apartment, during an unusually heavy make-out session, he took his shirt off and threw it across the room before pulling you down on top of him before he could realise what he’d done, you pulled back and saw his chest. The ‘Nasty scar’ he’d told you about in full view. It looked like an autopsy scar, like someone had cut him open and stitched him back up purposely.

Jason pulled away, scrambling to get his shirt back on, “Shit, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean for you to see those.” But before he could get his shirt back on he felt your hand on his chest, over the scar. “Why are you apologising? You made it out like your scars were all mangled and horrid, that’s a surgical scar, Jay.” you point out, looking up at him with kind eyes. “But they’re… I don’t like them, they’re ugly.” he says, slightly flustered by your hand on his chest. “You don’t have to like them, Jay. Just know that I won’t hate you for having them.”

Jason pulled you into a tight hug, “Thanks, babe…” That night you two just went to bed instead of carrying on. He cuddled you to his chest and listened to your soft breathing as it lulled him to sleep.

A few months pass since that night and Jason decided he was finally ready.

It was a weekend you both had off, a saturday night to be specific. You were both cuddled up on his couch watching some cheesy romance movie Dick recommended Jason for ‘Date night.’ You were sat in his lap, softly making out and he ran his hands up your sides and through your hair. His tongue was in your mouth, exploring it and tangling with your own, enjoying your sweet taste. His hands start to wander as one of them cups your asscheek and squeezes, making you let out a whimper that sent blood straight to his crotch.

He could feel himself getting hard, and he knew you could feel it too as you straddled his lap, the movie now completely forgotten. He broke the kiss, looking up at you with hungry eyes, he wanted you. “Jay?..” you ask softly. “Baby, wanna move this to the bedroom?” he murmurs, giving you a wink. Your cheeks flush, was tonight the night? You nod and he picks you up and carries you bridal style to the bedroom.

He places you down on the bed softly and takes his shirt off, revealing his scars again. You could tell he was still a little insecure of them, but you decided against commenting on it. He looks down at you, his hands reaching for your own t-shirt, “Can I?” he whispers as you respond in a nod. His hands slide under the fabric and gently pull it off, exposing your breasts and stomach to the cold air. Your skin covers in goosebumps. He can’t help but gawk for a second before moving to touch you and cup your breasts.

He moves to straddle you on the bed, “Gods, you’re beautiful..” he mumbles as he ducks down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. In response you let out a soft moan, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud, his other hand paying attention to your other breast. Your hand comes down to card through his hair as he switches his attention to your other breast and you let out another moan, louder this time.

He sits up from his worship on your breasts and toys with the waistband of your pants and you nod, mumbling a quick “yes” as you capture his lips in a fiery kiss. He unbuttons your pants and you lift your hips to help him slide them down your legs. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he mumbles, running his large hands down your sides, making you shiver.

He slides your panties down your legs, revealing yourself to him. “You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he groans, ducking his down between your thighs. Your hand resumes its place in his hair as he licks a long stripe up your pussy. He continues his feast between your legs, he slides one finger inside of you, curling it to hit the right spot, making you let out a loud gasped moan.

His tongue circles your clit, the feeling was amazing, he ate pussy like an expert, and you were glad for it. He slides another finger in, curling it to match the other. You could feel the coil in your stomach tightening, that familiar feeling of euphoria close. “Jay, I’m gonna-” you moan as he speeds up. “Come on, sweetheart, give it to me,” he groans against your pussy. You came pretty soon afterwards, him catching every drop with his mouth like it was his life source.

He crawled up from his spot between your legs, caging you in with his huge arms. You pull him down for a messy kiss full of teeth and tongue, tasting your sweet juices on his mouth. Your own hands reach down this time to unbutton his pants eagerly. He helps you slide them off and then moves you to straddle him. You grind against him through his boxers, “Gods, sweetheart,” he growled, hastily taking his boxers off and discarding them. His cock was big, bigger than any you’d seen before. It was long and girthy and veiny. You weren’t really sure if it would fit.

“Jay, is it gonna fit?” You ask timidly, taking it into your hands and stroking him. “Yeah, we just need to go slow, sweetheart.” He murmurs reassuringly, moving you to position over his cock. He slowly slides into your hole, inch by inch. “Ah- Jay, it's too big-” you gasp, he stops halfway to let you get used to it. After a few seconds the sting starts to fade and you give him a nod to keep going. He slides the rest inside, bottoming out quickly. “Ugh, sweetheart, you’re so tight,” he groans, gripping your waist to keep you steady on top of him. About a minute later he starts to move, slowly thrusting in and out of you. A cacophony of moans and whimpers leaves your mouth, mingling with the sound of his groans. You loved that he trusted you enough to do this with you, but most of all, you loved him. Every part of him, even the scars he hated so much.

“Ugh, babe, I’m- Oh my god, I’m so close, babe-” you whimper, the pleasure overtaking you as he hits that sweet spot over and over again. “Its ok, come for me, sweetheart, I’m close too.” He groans as he continues his movements, faster. It didn’t take long for you to come over his cock, him colouring your walls a sticky white soon after.

You don’t notice when he pulls out, coming too when you hear the sound of the tap from the bathroom sink running and when he comes back into the bedroom with a damp cloth and a glass of water. “Are you ok, sweetheart? I didn’t go too hard, did I?” he says, handing you the glass of water and watching you take a sip. “I’m ok, babe.” you answer, you notice he put his boxers back on at some point, did you really black out for a moment? You wouldn’t really doubt it if you did.

You’re snapped out of your internal monologue when he presses the damp cloth to your sticky thighs and between your legs, cleaning you up. “Thanks, jay,” you mumble, feeling extremely tired after your activities. “It’s the least I can do, I gotta make sure you’re ok, sweetheart.” He flashes you a smile, one that made him look kind of prince charming-esque. You smile back as he climbs into bed with you, surrounding you with his strong arms in a big hug.

“I love you, babe..” you mutter against his shoulder as you drift off to sleep. “I love you too, Sweetheart.” He says, playing with your soft hair as he watches you sleep, settling in soon after and being lulled to sleep aswell, the movie in the other room completely forgotten about. He’d have to tell Dick they’d watch it another time, he couldn’t remember what it was even about by now.

Ahhhh, that was my first fic! I hope you liked it! Please, if you have any, give me some things I could add to make my writing better and send me requests on my account!! ❤️

Also if anyone wants to be a beta reader, hit me up!

#dc red hood #dc comics #red hood x reader #red hood #jason todd smut #jason todd x reader #jason todd #smut #x reader

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scurvyboy · 9 hours ago

Note

Not to beat a dead horse or whatever, but you don’t see fiddlestan being healthy at any point? I feel like your version of them would have most of their issues figured out by the time they’re old and stuff. Can you talk about their dynamic a bit more pretty please? (I know you just had an ask about this so sorry to keep bringing it up aha 🤪. I’m obsessed with them, and I love your art/au and want to understand them.)

the basis of why i like the fiddlestan ship is strictly because it doesn't work and is doomed to fail. it's a relationship between two extremely damaged people that are only together for transactional reasons.

the way i see it starting: fiddleford comes back to gravity falls after being kicked out by emma may in hopes that he can patch things up with ford. he finds stan there instead and decides to help him fix the portal despite his crushing anxiety about it because he has nowhere else to go. they're both stuck alone in this situation and urges become apparent. things are awkward for a while before they start banging fuck nasty brokeback mountain style.

fiddleford wants stan because he's delusional and still in love with ford. sure he grows to appreciate differences between them and has a separate chemistry with stan, but he is also completely out of touch with reality and rebounding off of his failed marriage with a man who looks just like the one he cheated on his wife with. working on the portal triggers intense panic attacks, which makes him use the memory gun more, which makes him less and less stable.

stan is working himself to death trying to get ford back and just needs affection. the sexual aspect of their relationship helps him blow off steam, but fiddleford also treats him like a person with a brain and allows him to be emotionally vulnerable for the first time in a long while. having someone finally break down his walls is equal parts frightening and addictive for him; he wants to be loved so badly but knows deep down that fiddleford doesn't actually love him, just the person he represents. he's just second best again.

things start to fall apart when it becomes clear that fixing the portal will be impossible without the other journals. fiddleford basically gives up trying to do the work in earnest and just lives in a domestic fantasy world. stan starts to get more and more impatient about the lack of work getting done and the stress makes him a lot more irritated and volatile. the two enter a vicious cycle of violent fights and honeymoon phases until things boil over: stan confronts fiddleford about the memory gun and kicks him out after he tries to use it on him.

post break up fiddleford, now with his cult and savior complex, murder suicides the portal and their affair from both of their memories. however, stan gets his portal memories back being at the shack and goes on to do what he does in canon.

the whole relationship takes place over the course of a few weeks and is as canon compliant as i could manage. i think it's a really fun concept and i think about it all the time.

to be real, i really dislike the idea that all relationships in media have to be healthy and resolved in order to be compelling. the idea that characters NEED to end the story happy and together is just plain unrealistic. i prefer when stories go outside of the limits of "and then they got together and everything was great after that", especially if being in a relationship isn't necessary to a characters arc.

i do think that them getting together when they're older could work and be very nice. however, i also don't think it's entirely necessary, especially since i did make their relationship rotted gutted awful bad. it is cute though, they can kiss and watch tv and marry for taxt purposes i guess.

#i love you fiddlestan #i love how fucked up you can be #but yeah they're not in love #they're out of love and i'm going to shout it from the rooftops #i couldn't write my tumblr essay #also this took me all day to write #i was at a museum #gravity falls #fiddlestan

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moonlight-prose · 3 days ago

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the spilling of seeds & the eating of hearts

a/n: so this was posted to patreon in december and well i haven't done any writing as of late. so this is me just shoving an old fic into the open. there really isn't any explanation other than i watched saltburn and churned this out. did it take a year to finish? yes. ignore that. it gave me such a hard fucking reset. the movie is so horny i had no choice but to write din as a professor on his knees. the image literally wouldn't leave my head. but anyways thanks barry i guess for resetting my brain so hard i blacked out and wrote professor porn.

summary: if he could crack open his ribs and let you eat the seeds of his heart he would. he'd bend to your will without question, without hesitation, because it was you. the person he hungered for. the love he craved. you were the pomegranate forbidden to him for so long, and finally he was given a taste.

word count: 4.2k+

pairing: din djarin x f!reader (professor au)

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, professor au, cannibalistic description of love, hades and persephone, the personification of hunger, p in v sex, oral (f receiving), hair pulling, wanting to drown in the pussy, din being tortured in the best way, they fuck nasty in this one people.

“I’m voracious for you.”

You could hear his voice even now, sitting in the middle of a room waiting for the accompanying professors in your department to deign you with their presence. The gruff rasp of his voice. The heaviness behind his words. They stuck cloyingly to the back of your throat as if he’d pressed them there with his tongue, smearing their meaning along your taste buds in the hopes that you’d understand his need.

The clock on the wall ticked away. Seconds, minutes, until you were ready to rip apart the mechanical springs and gears with your hands. Maybe then you’d be able to sit in silence. Process his words as they rolled around in your mind, pinging back and forth—dragging your attention to them each time.

“It never stops.”

Your teeth scraped against your bottom lip, tongue peeking out to wet the dry skin.

“This need.”

A trickle of heat spread between your thighs, spilling into your already soaked panties. You could practically picture him standing in front of you. His hands balled into fists so tight the skin of his knuckles turned pale; eyes darker than their normal chocolate brown. He looked like he was in pain, suffering from an agony you had caused—anguish that only you could get rid of.

A five minute conversation. That’s all he asked of you before you were due for your meeting. You figured he wanted to discuss the lecture he planned, the one you helped him with. Only for him to stand on the opposite side of the office, leaned against a desk, his hands gripping the edge. You were afraid it would break at one point. That is before he shared with you the thoughts that plagued his mind, the feeling he couldn’t claw out of his chest.

A quick glance at the clock told you waiting for them was pointless and that you’d be better off heading back to your office. Or at least attempt to stand without completely embarrassing yourself in the skirt you were wearing. His words continued to ring clear as a bell and you were addicted to their melody. You craved the essence of their cadence, how he looked unraveled at the thought of you.

“I feel like I’m going mad.”

The echo of your heels against the floor reverberated through you. Each step a different gunshot, inflicting a different wound. They reminded you of why the both of you stayed away from this temptation, why you chose to remain friendly all the while your insides were stained red. How long until everyone else saw that you were bleeding? How long until they noticed you were choking on it?

Your eyes snapped to the silver placard of his name at the front of his door. You almost laughed at the irony of them placing your offices across the hall from one another. As if you were meant to be tied together the moment you met. It didn’t help that you were completely taken by his grin that only pulled up half of his lips, the shine of his eyes as they caught sight of you for the first time.

The first time you stood in this spot you were nervous. For no other reason than it being your first day and you were one hundred percent sure the students would eat you for fucking breakfast. Having stage fright didn’t help.

Which led to him giving you tips, listening to your lessons when you needed help. Ultimately followed by dinners late at night, wine shared over jazz and blues and movies so old you could barely make out the picture at times. All of it was a recipe for disaster. A path that led nowhere else but here. But you had never laughed so hard, never felt so fucking alive before.

He’d woken up a part of you that hadn’t seen the light of day since you were in highschool. A bright light that still held an infinite amount of hopes and dreams and wondered if the world was actually scary…or if adults were just fucking with you.

Yet there you stood, hand raised to knock on his door, chest heaving with labored nervous breaths, and the realization that life was…terrifying.

But then the door swung open, his frazzled appearance showing before you, and suddenly life began to glow again. Just as it did before.

“I didn’t…” You dropped your hand, smoothing it against your skirt.

His eyes went wide, body straightening within seconds. “I was just coming to…”

“I’m sorry for leaving earlier. I didn’t mean–”

He stopped, allowing you to take a moment to gather your thoughts. It gave you a chance to finally see him like this. His hair was mussed, clothing in disarray. If you hadn’t been standing in this very office forty minutes ago you would have thought he’d been with someone. But the look in his eyes told you that was an impossibility; you’d driven him to the edge of breaking and he’d gladly go there again.

He stepped aside, holding the door open to let you pass by. A small shy grin appeared on his lips, prompting you forward—all in the hopes that you would take him up on his offer. The proximity of his warmth as you drew closer in order to enter nearly singed the hair off your arms. It was palpable enough to slice through, a burning flame that couldn’t be extinguished by mere words.

“Coffee?” he asked, running a hand through his hair to straighten himself up.

You found that you liked him better when he was messy.

“No thank you.” Unknowingly, you took the same spot as before, leaning against the edge of the table across from his desk. “I just came to sort out…what happened.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“We’re faculty and it wouldn’t exactly be breaking the rules, but I don’t want to make this a difficult space to be in.” You felt his eyes on you, could practically see them darken as you continued to speak—the words stuttered and fragmented.

“Why would it be difficult?”

The question was layered with longing. A feeling that strained against your heart, threatening to rip you apart if you chose to keep going down this path. You wanted to tell him that it wouldn’t be, that you had no intentions of letting him go, but the thought of losing him—even as a friend—broke you in two.

It made you a promise of heartache, a contract of grief and you had no choice but to sign.

You unknowingly signed the second he began the conversation earlier.

“You know why–”

He took a step forward, prompting you to squeeze yourself back against the table. Even as he remained so far away.

“I’d like you to explain it to me.”

That flare of heat broke free again, a wild spirit out in the open and you were terrified of what it would do. What harm it would cause. He however seemed curious to see how far you’d go to reign in a feeling that was so right. A longing that had a cure. He’d been burning for you for so long, begging for you to quench his need, but now that he stood before you…it was clear that he’d been wrong. He wasn’t the one to burn; he wasn’t the one who would be begging.

“Professor–”

“Don’t.” He startled you with how fast he reached you in a few steps. His hand reached out, fingers curling around your chin to tilt your head up, to make you look at him. “Don’t lock me out.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you wouldn’t keep pushing.”

He huffed. “Didn’t you hear me earlier?” His hand slid to curve around the back of your neck, the other coming up to hold your cheek. “I’ve lost all my power. I lost it the second you smiled at me. You’re fucking eating me alive and I like it.”

Sucking in a breath, you watched with wide eyes as he slid down your body, until his knees connected with the floor. Brown eyes overflowing with a pained yearning looked up at you, hands filled with reverence now pressed to your hips as he prostrated himself for you. To him…you were the altar he would pray at. The goddess he’d offer himself to. If he could crack his ribs open and let you eat the seeds of his heart he would. He’d bend to your will without question, without hesitation.

“Devour me whole,” he murmured, eyes pleading to give him something to live for. “You’ve eaten my heart baby…” You gasped when he maneuvered your hand to his hair, prompting you to curl your fingers around the soft locks. “Do you like how it tastes?”

You felt like you were in a dream state, unable to wake up. Yet you weren’t sure you ever wanted to. He looked at you like you were the human embodiment of light, the thing that would satiate his ravenous hunger. With a soft grunt, his forehead fell to your stomach, fingers gripping your hips tight enough to leave the skin tender. And you tugged on his hair to hear that sound again, giving into his need because you had a hunger of your own.

“Yes,” you breathed, too afraid that you’d wake up from whatever this was. “I do.”

A pained sound was muffled into your stomach, his body shuddering as your words washed over him. Nothing could have prepared him for your admission, for the truth to finally be set free after holding it in for so long. Pressing a kiss to your waist, he felt your body shift, legs widening in stance to give him space to kneel—to prompt him forward. A silent plea for more. A need he was more than happy to appease.

Another kiss was pressed to your thigh as his hands slid down to grasp at the fabric of your skirt. Pulling it up inch by inch, dragging it out until your nails were scraping along his scalp. He kissed every part he could see, every new piece of skin that was revealed in the hopes of permanently etching the touch of his lips against the bare skin of your thigh. He wanted you to remember him.

“Beautiful,” he said softly, mouth parting when he finally revealed the black lace of your panties. A dark stain was prominent on the fabric and he felt his stomach drop.

“You’re so wet.”

Heat flushed through your cheeks at the raw depravity in his voice. The way he stared at you felt borderline obscene, but a flicker of power seeped through, blinding you. Your hand dug into his hair, nails scraping along his scalp until you saw the shiver go down his spine; his eyes fluttered shut, a soft moan breaking through the haze of lust he was under. And you wanted to hear more.

You wanted to watch him break at your feet. Watch as his lips formed around the prayer of your name—the promise of more than just this. There remained an unspoken bond between the two of you. A force that could have rivaled the power of Zeus's lightning and Poseidon's tidal waves. You were burned into his skin like a brand and he wore it with conviction.

"Din," you murmured, watching as his eyes slid up to yours, dark with lust. "Break me."

He growled a punched out fuck, his hands quickly ripping your underwear down your legs until they pooled at your ankles. Part of you expected him to rush through this. Make you finish as fast as he could. But his eyes were trained on the sight before him—how the lips of your cunt practically glistened in the lamplight of his office. How you dripped down your thighs from a simple conversation that happened earlier.

A conversation where he never got to touch you.

"That's for me." He didn't say it as a question, or even an insinuation. He spoke as if he'd always known this. A truth that was acknowledged long before you ended up in this situation.

You were his.

Through the haze of lust and depravity that swept through you, you heard yourself agree. The word yes slipping off your tongue, sweeter than honey and just as sticky. He could taste it in the air. The ache that ate at him with a hunger he’d never felt before. You made his body scream, his cock a mess in the suit pants pressed so neatly before seeing you like this—spread out and panting for his touch to continue past your thighs.

“Din,” you whimpered it softly, eyes fluttering at the feel of his mouth on your skin, and he felt desire burn through the nerves and tendons of each limb.

Yanking the skirt higher, he latched his teeth onto the tender flesh of your thigh, grinning like a wolf with a mouth coated in blood at your cry. Your body curled inwards, legs involuntarily spreading at the soft caress of his tongue. He could see the indent of his teeth. Ridged and deep and a bruising grip of starvation that would stick for days.

“Let me,” he muttered. “I need to.”

You gasped, eyes wrenching open to see his gaze latched onto the slick that coated your thighs with a sticky cream that made his mouth water. Nodding frantically, you felt the pull of his very essence drag you in. Molding you to take whatever form he craved. You were the clay he dipped his fingers into, the water he used to shape your body around his.

The hot slide of his tongue through your folds caused your knees to buckle—body leaning against the table with a heady wet sob of his name. He moaned into you, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers dug into your thighs—spreading you wide enough to encompass the width of his shoulders. Pleasure stung each nerve, slicing down your spine with a desperation that had your hips grinding down along his open mouth.

An insatiable need for more grasping onto the reigns of sense and reason.

“F-Fuck,” you moaned, unashamedly dragging your cunt across his wet and waiting mouth.

A cracked groan was all he offered in return. His lips sealing around your pulsing clit hard enough for your back to arch—nails digging into his scalp hard enough to rip out the soft curls you gripped. Spit smeared along your thighs, your slick pouring along the length of his throat. You wanted to lick it off, to push it back into his plush mouth and taste it off his tongue. Another harsh suck dragged a sharp cry of his name past your parted lips.

“Fuck I’m gonna–” Your eyes rolled back as he pressed a thick finger past your entrance, the pad of it curling along the tight grip of your walls. “Baby please.”

The shudder that ran down his spine at the ragged wailing plea nearly threw you over the edge. Brown eyes glazed with an unhinged fervor of a man starved met your half lidded ones. His gaze pierced right through your psyche—reading your thoughts as if they were tangible enough to flip through. And you let him.

You gave into the darkened glint that beckoned you towards bliss.

Another finger fit snugly beside his first, pressing up against the spongy patch you could barely reach on your own. Your mouth dropped open, a panting echo of his name spilling out into the air. It felt too much. A depth of sensations you’d never reached before. But you still held him close, fucking yourself against the mouth that promised you more—the tongue that traced your clit in letters forming a single three letter word.

Din.

The scrape of his teeth sent you over with a muffled shout—your hand slapping over your mouth to keep yourself quiet. Having a professor barge in to see if anything was awry would be too much for either of you to handle. It would ruin your reputation—dragging him down right along with you. You knew the consequences, knew the forbidden nature of this tantalizing fruit. Yet you bit into it anyways.

Din buried himself in you, eyes sliding shut as you soaked his awaiting mouth that sucked at your entrance with a throaty moan. A sound that wrapped tight around your spine—gripping where he couldn’t reach.

“Can’t fucking get enough,” he grunted, rising to his full height—fingers curling around your throat gently. “You taste good.”

His pupils were blown wide, devouring molton brown with a feral hunger you felt settle in your own veins. He wanted to consume you. Bind your soul to his without a single thought about the consequences this relationship would incur. The university would frown on their favorite professor entertaining the young new staff member who would happily fall to their knees for him.

The pink swipe of your tongue caught his attention, his eyes zeroing in on the wet slide of saliva you left behind. Gripping you tighter, he pulled you close with a rough groan—lips catching yours in a blistering kiss. It didn’t build slowly, unraveling months of tension, moments of unfathomable longing you could barely handle on your own. It scorched you to your very core. Laying waste to the stability you clung to, the sanity you relied on.

“I need you,” the words spilled into his open mouth—digging deep enough to rattle his bones. “Inside. I-I need–”

He shushed you gently, licking hotly along your bottom lip—his hands dropping to the brown leather belt you eyed earlier. The clink of the buckle destroyed you, a needy whine crawling up and out of your throat. This was your damning moment, the path split down the center and building something new. Smiling into the kiss, he shucked his pants down—cock straining against the boxers sporting a wet patch of precum.

“Up,” he demanded, tapping your thigh.

You clambered onto the table with his hands on your hips—legs spreading to accommodate his size. Pleading words lay on the tip of your tongue, but his mouth was quick to silence them. A kiss of reverence stole your breath while he freed himself with a gasp—pumping his leaking cock and sliding through your dripping folds. Coating his length with what already stained his chin.

With eyes closed and fingers lost in his curls, you gave yourself over to the sensory deprivation of the situation. Your hips canted up, clit catching on the prominent vein that throbbed with need. He pushed a moan along the back of your teeth, stretching your walls slow enough to draw you to the edge of madness.

“There’s no part of me–” The words were carried with a sharp breath and teeth scraping your ear. “That isn’t yours.”

Your walls fluttered at his words—in utter ruin from the sound of his soft rasp echoing sweetly in your ear. The pomegranate seeds lay delicately on your tongue, enticing you to close your jaws around their tart flavor. A permanent agreement of devotion stuck at the back of your throat as he pummeled into your cunt with broken grunts and soft moans. You swallowed them without a second thought, clinging to his back and muffling what sounds he drew out into his neck.

The thrust of him plunging into you felt exquisite. Each one sharp and hungry. He was a man uninhibited by the doubts that swirled in your mind. Possessed by need, held captive by your scent—your taste that still plagued his senses. You were inside his bones. A spell bound into the tendons and ligaments of his broad body to keep him tied to you permanently.

Forever bound by far more than you could comprehend at this moment.

“Yours,” you whimpered, feeling a tight grip on the back of your neck pull your head back slightly—lips finding yours as he pounded up into you. “‘S all yours Din. I’m yours.”

The muffled moan he pressed into your mouth echoed in your own chest. It said all that would go unsaid for now. The emotions you kept hidden in the casket of your heart, ready to die with them before revealing how much you longed for him. All the innocent glances, lingering touches, each time he showed up in your office for lunch or simply to walk you home.

You thought you buried it.

Never to be revived.

Until he poured himself into your lungs without mercy—consumed you with a smile coated in the thick shine of your release. He destroyed himself at your altar, pledged himself on his knees. Your lover, the other half of your misshapen heart.

“You want to cum?” he growled, grinding into you hard enough to have white flashing behind your tightly shut eyes. “Can feel you soaking me baby.”

Fighting for a lungful of air, you dared to meet his burning gaze. “Uh-huh.”

A smile curled along swollen and bruised lips. “She’s begging for it. My pretty girl’s all wet for me.”

Through the bliss you could hear it, the push and pull of his body against yours, his cock coated in your slick. It echoed loud enough to make your ears burn—your skin already hot to the touch as he dug his fingers wherever he could reach. You were dripping for him, making a mess on his slacks that would later stain, but he didn’t care. That was the last thing on his mind when he had you in his arms, mewling into his ear with pleading words of more.

The words were drowned out by the echo of skin against skin—a soft breath that punctured his chest. “I-I want to.”

“I know,” he cooed, thumb digging into your bottom lip. “C’mon then baby. Soak me yeah? Give me a mess to clean up.”

Your mouth dropped, eyes rolling back into the mind he emptied with each punch to your walls—rubbing against heaven. Eventually in your life you knew you would break. Shatter like glass against concrete, but this felt as if every bone was fractured. Every nerve cauterized and muscle torn to shreds. You were left to float along the River Styx, the soul he stripped from your body now held in his grasp—kept as a memory of his emotions.

Sobbing a splintered version of his name, you trembled in his hold, his cock ramming into you with harsh bitten out grunts he muffled into the crook of your neck. Your walls clamped down, a splatter of your release coating the sticky skin of your inner thighs. He cried out as if you burned right down to his core—his fingers a bruising hold on your hips, teeth hooking into the tender flesh of your shoulder.

��Fuck,” he gasped, spilling into you with a rumbling noise that sprouted from his chest.

“I didn’t–” Fighting the haze in your severed mind you felt his hand slide along your stomach, dropping low enough to slide through the mixture of your cum. “I’ve never…”

The audible echo of him sucking his fingers into his mouth with a moan cut off anything else you planned to say. Whatever explanation you hoped to conjure in a mind still coming back down vanished at the sight of him feasting on the mess he longed for. An offering of more to come now cooling on your shaky thighs.

“Delicious,” he murmured, scooping more and spreading it along the twitching clit still begging for attention. You gasped as he brought it to your tongue, letting you suckle it off with a whine. “I’ll never get enough of you.”

Catching his gaze through your lashes, you let his fingers slip from the hot cavern of your mouth—the taste of him a craving you needed again. “In a bed next time.”

His cock stirred, large hands grasping your hips. “Next time huh?”

“I could be persuaded.”

Lips sought yours with a throaty call of your name. You dragged him closer—pressing your knees into his sides—and he came willingly. As if the tie that held you together knotted tighter the longer you basked in each other’s silent promises of more. Whether or not it would last was of no concern to you. His touch was gentle along your skin, tongue hot and coveted tangled with yours.

“Let me persuade you,” he breathed.

Catching his bottom lip with your teeth, you curled an arm around his neck. “You already have.”

“Interesting.” His grin felt electric against your cheek, a piece of him come back to life with the prospect of more. “I must have a gift.”

“Mm yes.” You met his smile with one of your own. “Your tongue is a skillful asset.”

“Just my tongue?”

“Well…”

Laughter shouldn’t have stolen your breath the way his did—deep and filled with a rasp you felt rocket down your spine. “Tonight?”

Suddenly what should have been a one off moment of sporadic lust grew to be much more. You knew coming here would result in something neither of you could take back. A vow unspoken between two people who shouldn’t want more, yet were unable to ask for anything less. He was tied to you from that first day—a brief greeting between two passing ships. It was only a matter of time until eventually…you collided.

“I’d really like that,” you admitted, sealing your fate in hot wax carved with his initials.

He kissed you slowly, drinking down the soft breathy moan that clawed up your throat—a future clasped between hearts that finally beat in tune. “I would too.”

#din djarin x f!reader #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #din djarin smut #din djarin #my writing #pedrostories

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