#anyways just finished watching the finale so

[flwrstqr]

【 備考 】 STUCK WITH U ⟡ GIRLFRIEND PRIVILEGES ───𝖣𝒾𝖠𝖱𝖨𝖤𝖲 ㅤ. . 𝗂 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇'𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝗈𝗎

SCR𝓲PT : enhypen and their girlfriend privileges 1OOOwc. ˊᯅˋ fluff head canon ❜ fem!centered && skinship, petnames . . ARCHiVE&CLICK

다니 : i love stuck with u.. it's been my top listened song for the past month. i think i'm addicted to ariana grande TT listening to ari's music & writing = my life

LEE HEESEUNG

"no." heeseung deadpans, effortlessly shutting down jake’s request to borrow one of his hoodies. sunghoon tries next, but heeseung doesn’t even let him finish his sentence before shaking his head. “absolutely not.” the boys groan, grumbling about how selfish he is, but then you come along, blinking up at him with those pretty eyes, and suddenly, he’s a goner. “baby,” he hums, already tugging off the hoodie he’s wearing, “you cold?” he drapes it over your shoulders before you can answer, hands lingering on your waist as he leans in, voice dropping. “looks better on you anyway.” “if you want more, just say the word, love. i’ll empty my whole closet for you.” heeseung smiles. then he smirks, tilting your chin up. “told you,” he muses, thumb brushing your bottom lip, “only my pretty girl gets this privilege.”

PARK JAY

jay doesn’t think twice about it—his card is already out before you can even reach for your wallet. “babe, i got it,” he says, tone final, as he taps to pay for your meal like it’s second nature. he barely ever does this for his members, maybe on their birthdays if they beg, but for you? every time. whether it’s coffee, late-night takeout, or a whole shopping spree, jay never lets you spend a single cent when he’s around. “but jay—” you start to protest, only for him to shoot you a look before casually slipping his arm around your waist, pulling you into him. “don’t ‘but jay’ me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “just let me take care of you, okay?” and how could you say no when he’s looking at you like that—like spoiling you is the easiest, most natural thing in the world?

SIM JAKE

jake's phone is always on do-not-disturb or muting conversations—except for you. no matter where he is, what he's doing, or who he's with, the moment your name flashes on his screen, he’s answering. even if it’s three in the morning, voice thick with sleep. “baby?” he murmurs, and you hear the rustling of sheets as he sits up, already alert. “what’s wrong? you okay?” his voice is laced with concern, but there’s something else—something soft, like he’d wait all night just to hear you breathe. you don’t even have to say much; the second you sigh, he’s whispering, “i got you, sweetheart. just talk to me.” his hand instinctively reaches for where you’d usually be beside him, but when he finds nothing, he groans, already pulling on a hoodie. “stay there. i’m coming.” because when it comes to you, nothing—not time, not sleep,—gets in the way.

PARK SUNGHOON

sunghoon never lets anyone touch his closet—not even his members. but you? you get free pass, standing in front of his neatly arranged wardrobe as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, amused smile. “baby, not the leather pants,” he groans, watching as you hold them up with a mischievous grin. “they look so good on you, though,” you tease, stepping closer, smoothing your hands over his shoulders, adjusting the collar of his shirt. he exhales, defeated, letting you fix his hair next, his sharp eyes softening under your touch. “you really like dressing me up, huh?” he mutters, but he’s already slipping into the fit you picked. when he turns to the mirror, he huffs a small laugh. “okay, fine. you have good taste.” then, quieter, as he tugs you against him, pressing a kiss to your forehead—“but only you get to do this, got it?”

KIM SUNOO

you’re the only one who gets to take sunoo's phone without asking, stretching out on his bed while you tap away at some game or fill his gallery with blurry selfies. “baby, at least make them cute if you’re stealing my storage,” he whines, but there’s no real complaint in his voice, just fond exasperation. when you glance at him, pouting, he sighs and moves closer, gently pulling you into his arms. “here, let me help,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your arm as he watches you play. and even though he’d usually never let anyone touch his screen, he doesn’t even blink when you scroll through his messages like it’s yours. because, well—so is he.

YANG JUNGWON

jungwon sits at his desk, brows furrowed, fingers flying over his keyboard, deep in concentration. anyone else would know better than to interrupt him, butyou have privileges. without hesitation, you step behind him, draping your arms over his shoulders before pressing a soft kiss to his temple. he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even pause, just hums in acknowledgment as you pepper kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the slope of his nose. “missed me today, didn't you?” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement, but he tilts his head ever so slightly, giving you more access. you giggle, cupping his face and pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. “hmm maybe,” you tease, and he finally turns his head, letting his lips brush against your cheek. “only because your my pretty princess,” he says.

NISHIMURA RIKI

riki never lets anyone touch his hair—never. he dodges, swats hands away, glares if someone even tries. but right now, he’s sitting on the floor in front of you, his head resting against your knees as you absentmindedly run your fingers through his soft strands, twisting and braiding as a tv show plays in the background. he doesn’t say a word, just hums lightly, his body relaxed like he was made to be here, like your hands in his hair are the most natural thing in the world. when he turns his head, his lips brush against your fingers in a lazy attempt at a kiss, and you gasp. “ack—stop moving, riki! i was trying to braid your hair!” you huff, tugging a little. he only grins, eyes half-lidded as he tilts his head back into your hands. “then don’t stop,” he murmurs, voice teasing. and god, he’s so down bad, because if it’s you, he’d let you do this forever.

[seitmai]

Omg finally making my way through my drafts and finishing the comments to all of the chapters so far, better late than never, I guess 😬🤦🏻‍♀️

Steve needed what Bucky had in his life. At first he thought he was jealous. His best friend had an extremely desirable woman who made him drop the player lifestyle the instant he saw her. It took Steve a minute, but he realized he wasn’t jealous of either Bucky or his girl; Steve was jealous of the feeling.

Of course he is

“Bucky, I get it. Believe me I do. But we’ve already tripled the rate of divestiture. Are we to quadruple it? Is it really worth the money we’ll lose?” “I don’t think you get it at all, Steve. But you will one day.“

Maybe soon 👀

“Billionaires shouldn’t exist anyway.” Steve sighed.

“Calm down. I will finance little Amina Rickard’s monthly tuition before you cuss me out. You know I love you. And you knew sending me that picture of her was gonna work. Making my ovaries explode.” You smiled, almost choked up.

That's a marketing strategy for sure 🤷🏻‍♀️

Steve was convinced that the strip of stomach showing between your hoodie and your sweats was more alluring than any stripper outfit could be, because at the sight of it he broke out in a sweat. Your body was calling him to touch, but he didn’t even know who you were.

🤭🤭🤭

“Did you see the new bartender? Just put him on stage, I’ll climb him like the pole.” "Dat azzz tho."

Some would say that it's America's ass 🤭🤷🏻‍♀️👀

Your skin glowed everywhere,and he noticed that you didn’t seem to have augmented anatomy, not that there was anything wrong with that. He just knew that if he had a handful of that ass, it would be real. He stepped behind the bar to watch you, a convenient barrier between you and Steve’s stiffening cock.

He probably was never happier to be mistaken for a bartender 😅

Next, you straightened up and walked around until the pole was nestled in between your asscheeks, widened your legs and undulated on it. Never in Steve’s life had he wanted to be an inanimate object until now.

🤭🤭🤭

His body was lithe, but muscular, and you sensed his power. You bet he could pick you up and hold you upside down as that beard scratched the inside of your thighs to lick your… Wait. Where did that thought come from? You were objectifying your new co-worker.

Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to get through a work day 🤷🏻‍♀️

‘Dont beg here,’ is what you wanted to say. You don’t know why the vision of this man on his knees for you flashed in your mind. Maybe it was his velvet baritone, or maybe it was the feel of his rough hand on yours that got you all bothered, as if his smile hadn’t already made you wet.

I get it 😮‍💨

“There’s a stack in here.” “Whoa! Cool.” Steve tried to look as if he didn’t know there were exactly 10 hundred dollar bills that he’d put in there.

He's like: "yeah totally no clue how much is in there " 👀

You turned and walked out of Regine, a certain warmth in your chest. Must the $1700 in your bag. Or the chicken wings. Nothing to do with the beautiful man you knew was watching until you got into your car.

How can you not feel great with the combination of all three things?

Peach, Part I

Summary: Steven Grant Rogers is Bucky Barnes' fest friend and business parter in crime. He has decided to get out of the life with Bucky, not for love, but because it's the right thing to do. You are a struggling dance teacher in Atlanta. And what is the quickest way for a dancer to make money in the A? When Steve meets you at one of his businesses and lies to you about a myriad of things, It becomes a sticky situation, especially since the attraction you feel for one another is so sweet.

Word count: 3.5 K

Pairing: Bartender/ Art Dealer (Mob Boss) Steve Rogers x Reader (Peach)

A/N: Okay. I can explain. Yes, I got carried away with this one too, but have you met me? It's what I do. I feel like we're gonna get a little more angsty with these two, but the payoff might be good. Idk, I just hope that you like it!

This fic is connected to the Bucky Barnes Knock You Down AU, and comes a couple of months before the Bucky Barnes fic You've Got me Thinking. I'm so done for with Steve and Peach. The next part is coming by the end of the week! ☺️

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Slow burn, cursing, mutual pining, angst, financial difficulties, cute tiny dancers, familial feelings, feelings about besties being in love (third wheel?), Steve the businessman, shady people, Steve lying, Steve using an alias, a lil bit of voyuerism (involving dancing) exotic dance life; pole dancing, wild thoughts, flirting, hand holding. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

———

Late October

Steve Rogers was frustrated.

His best friend Bucky had recently fallen in love, and instantly Steve’s life became an urgent race to divest their Art business of illegal ties so that Bucky could begin his life with her.

Together with Sam and Natasha, Bucky and Steve ran an art import business in New York which was extremely lucrative.

Except that it wasn’t really.

“Just wait until I see you tonight, Frumoasă….”

Steve glanced over at his bestie, who was turned away and whispering into the phone with a giant grin on his face. Steve shook his head and looked out of the window of the car that Nico was driving uptown to a meeting. He rolled his eyes.

More phone sex with Bucky and his girl. Great.

“Behave. Or I will make you…”

Steve cleared his throat as he listened to the suggestive chatter and shifted in his seat. Bucky and his girl were burning hot.

All of the time.

It seemed impossible.

“I love you too, Frumoasă.”

Steve needed what Bucky had in his life. At first he thought he was jealous. His best friend had an extremely desirable woman who made him drop the player lifestyle the instant he saw her. It took Steve a minute, but he realized he wasn’t jealous of either Bucky or his girl; Steve was jealous of the feeling.

When Bucky ended the call, Steve tried to continue the conversation they were having.

“Everything good?”

Bucky smirked, a look on his face that Steve hadn’t seen before his best friend met the love of his life just weeks earlier. It was an amazing transformation.

“Everything is great.”

Then Bucky frowned.

“Except this timeline. We need to get clean, Steve. Faster. We’re going to have to travel a little more before the end of the year.”

The blond raked his hand over his face.

“Bucky, I get it. Believe me I do. But we’ve already tripled the rate of divestiture. Are we to quadruple it? Is it really worth the money we’ll lose?”

“I don’t think you get it at all, Steve. But you will one day. “

Bucky gave Steve a look that made him roll his eyes again.

“I’ll take the losses, Steve. You and Sam and Nat will get the agreed upon cut.”

Bucky gazed out of the window.

“Billionaires shouldn’t exist anyway.”

Steve sighed.

“We all agreed to speed up, and we all agreed to an equal split of the profits. And losses.”

The two men shared a knowing look. Steve assented.

“Okay, Buck. Let’s get Sam and Nat on the phone; I just want it all to be square. You know they want this just as much as you and I do.”

Bucky smiled at his friend, the oldest he had in the world.

—--

Early November

You smiled at little Amina, who was trying her best on her pliés. Although she was only four years old she had a determination like no other. Her little tongue was poked out and there was a scowl on her adorable little face.

You came over and smooth her brow and took her tiny chin in your hand.

“Relax, Mina. If you’re not having any fun, it’s not worth it. Don’t force it, sweetie.”

Amina smiled back at you and began to giggle, relaxing into the poses.

“See there! It’s better already!”

You widened your smile and spoke to the entire class of 12 little 4-6 year olds. They were adorable in their uniform black leotards and pink tights.

“Remember dancers, hard work and lots of fun, that’s our motto. And one, two, three….”

Amina’s mom, Michelle, came up to you after class.

“Here’s what I have Ms. YLN.”

She deposited half of what monthly tuition was into your hand and held it for a beat. Her eyes were watery but she had a brave smile on as she glanced over at Amina giggling with her classmates. Then, she lowered her voice.

“I’m afraid this will have to be her last class. I just can’t come up with the funds… She loves it so much… We’ll miss seeing you every week.”

Your heart shredded. You made a knee jerk decision.

“It doesn’t have to be her last class. I will send you the paperwork for the scholarship. I’ll see you both next week.”

You smiled and gave both her and Amina a hug as she skipped over to you.

“Thank you, Ms. YLN. So much!”

You smiled and nodded as they left the dance studio that you rented for your weekly classes. The tuition you collected barely allowed you to pay the rent, much less compensate you for your time and preparation.

But you were determined to help these little ones with their dreams. And to see your own to fruition.

—--

“You can’t keep letting these people put dance classes on layaway, Cousin.”

Heat bloomed in your chest. Your favorite cousin, who had everything she ever wanted, whenever she wanted, growing up was joking about layaway. Even now, she had an insanely hot, wealthy guy eating her up. Literally.

“Okay, you know what…”

“Calm down. I will finance little Amina Rickard’s monthly tuition before you cuss me out. You know I love you. And you knew sending me that picture of her was gonna work. Making my ovaries explode.”

You smiled, almost choked up.This was your cousin’s second scholarship student and your family’s 8th overall. You were really blessed, even though things hadn’t come easy for you.

“I think the guy who is trying to breed you all over the place is making your ovaries explode, but okay.”

“Y/N, YLN! I am a demure, respectable–”

“You’re a whore for that man and we both know it.”

“Girl, you ain’t lyingggg! Shit, he’s calling me now…”

“Go get that nut video.”

Your cousin laughed at you.

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, and thanks, Sistercuz.”

“Bye Sweetie. Have a good night.”

Easy for her to say.

—---

The jet was delayed in New York because of snow and Steve was late getting started. After he landed and was sat in Atlanta traffic, he was reminded that he wanted to be in and out of the city, preferably in two days, and on to Kansas City as soon as possible.

Atlanta could be a fun time, with many many beautiful women, but he was on demon time. He needed to get rid of the criminal enterprises in the company. Quickly.

The holdings in Atlanta consisted of a handful of exotic dancing establishments. And the strip clubs in Atlanta were known to be dens of considerable iniquity. He was sure it would be easy to make a decision to offload the five clubs in the area.

On the second day, Steve had quickly turned a profit on the first four clubs, borderline dives with mid-level girls. The drugs and prostitution levels were off the charts and there were plenty of shady characters who wanted a chance at those businesses.

He’d saved ‘the best for last,’ a supposedly upscale club called Regine in midtown.

It was supposed to be a classy place, so Steve decided to just drop in to check it out before making a decision. He arrived a little over an hour before opening, stepping into the kitchen from the back alley where he parked his rental car.

“Hey, yo! You the new bartender? I told you to be here at 2, not 2:45.”

The salutation came from a huge guy with a large belly and lots of teeth. He’d be scary to anyone else. This must be Sully. Steve recognized him from the file. He decided to play along, glad that he’d dressed down in a flannel and jeans.

“Yeah, well. Traffic.”

Steve thought it best to say as little as possible. That way he would get the most information.

“Shit, you don’t have to tell me. I have to drive here from Alpharetta every day. The 400 is hell every morning.”

“We need someone with some experience. Someone willing to be paid in cash tips, nothing on the books. You look like you’d prefer that.

Steve stared Sully down, not debunking the myths the latter was making up in his mind. Sully kept talking.

“Also may need to do some security. We get into some… situations up in here.”

Sully took in Steve’s stature and unwavering stare.

“A man of few words I see, Looks like you’ll do. Can you start tonight?”

Steve couldn’t believe this joker, hiring someone off the street.

“Sure.”

This place was not looking like a keeper, Steve thought as he followed Sully for a tour. In daylight, it was passable; in the dark with the right lighting, he was sure it looked swank. Sully told him how to water down the liquor and where the firearms were kept. When his 30 minute orientation was over, Sully left Steve to set up the bar on his own.

“Cory just called in, but Mike will be in later. You should make a lot of tips, our girls are top notch.

Steve just nodded, his hands on his hips as he calculated how much Sully must be skimming off the liquor alone as the latter walked away. Sully came back to the bar and asked a pertinent question.

“Oh yeah. What's ya name?”

“Grant Stevens.”

A little white lie would never hurt anyone, especially if this situation got sticky.

“Aight. Nice to meet you Grant. Tips are not the only perks of this job, if you know what I mean.”

Steve shuddered as Sully lumbered away. He wanted no parts of perks.

—-

A couple of hours later, the girls started arriving, most of them greeting Steve with a polite hello, some skipping it with a grimace, some in their phones, and one, you, listening to music and vibing out. You were different than the weary women who’d passed by ahead of you.

Steve was struck at the serene look on your face as you entered the establishment, braids in a bun on top of your head, eyes closed and your mouth pursed as you hummed and bopped your head to the music, bag slung across your back.

Your skin was dewey, free of make up and those lips, well those lips was what made him do a double take. Your neck was graceful and the cropped hoodie you were wearing did not do a thing to hide your full curves, smooth skin, round tits, long legs, and all that ass. Steve’s palms began to itch.

Steve was convinced that the strip of stomach showing between your hoodie and your sweats was more alluring than any stripper outfit could be, because at the sight of it he broke out in a sweat. Your body was calling him to touch, but he didn’t even know who you were.

He was about to find out however.

Steve stepped to the edge of the bar, ready to give a greeting, but you just bopped on by, oblivious and making your way to the dressing room. It bruised his ego, but the sting was soothed by the sight of you walking away. He stood there for a full minute in shock, but then he shook his head and went behind the bar to drink some water.

“Get it together old man,” Steve grumbled to himself as he tried to cool down. He set about talking to the employees in the kitchen to get more intel on this establishment. The sooner he had enough info, the sooner he could put this one to bed and get away from distractions.

Like you.

—--

“Did you see the new bartender? Just put him on stage, I’ll climb him like the pole.”

"Dat azzz tho."

“Right? And did you see those eyes, those lips? Pretty fly for a…”

You frowned at the chatter around you. You really had to pay more attention to your surroundings. You didn’t notice any new bartender. But knowing these ladies’ taste in romantic partners, you’d bet he was overrated.

You sighed and put your earbuds back in; there was no time for nonsense. You had to warm up properly to protect your instrument: your body.

You looked down at your watch and saw that the doors would open in 45 minutes. You had 20 minutes to go and warm up and still have time to get changed. You sat down to trade your Jordans for your stilettos and make your way out to the pole.

—-

When Steve walked back to the bar from the kitchen, there you were on stage under the lights in a crop top and short shorts.

Again, you were oblivious to him.

Steve, on the other hand, was undone.

Your skin glowed everywhere,and he noticed that you didn’t seem to have augmented anatomy, not that there was anything wrong with that. He just knew that if he had a handful of that ass, it would be real. He stepped behind the bar to watch you, a convenient barrier between you and Steve’s stiffening cock.

As he watched, you moved slowly, the motion elegant and mesmerizing in the six-inch heels you were wearing which elongated your beautiful legs.

Lost in your own world under the lights, you looked ethereal, a goddess.

You approached the pole and held on with one hand, walking around and around it seductively, hopping a few times in the heels, making your ass shake with the impact. It was hypnotizing, watching your strong arms and legs, especially those legs, grip the pole as you worked your body around it.

Then, you let your hands slide down the pole, causing you to bend over and showcase your luscious ass and thighs. Steve imagined that they tasted delicious.

Next, you straightened up and walked around until the pole was nestled in between your asscheeks, widened your legs and undulated on it. Never in Steve’s life had he wanted to be an inanimate object until now.

When you turned around and body rolled on the pole was when Steve had to grip the bar. And when you slowly twirled down to the floor and went spread eagle, beautiful legs in the air, was when he felt like vaulting over the marble bar to get to you.

You rolled over onto your knees and started undulating, then started crawling toward the end of the stage closest to him.

Steve knew the exact moment you noticed him.

You froze, looking like a startled feline. Squinting, you moved your hand over your eyes so you could see beyond the lights, then pulled out your earbuds and got to your feet effortlessly.

—--

You thought you were alone with your music and your fantasy of dance that got you in the headspace to strip for strangers. You didn’t notice anyone out in the club until you were almost done with your warm up routine, when, as you looked up from the floor you saw a large figure behind the bar.

You froze, a moment of something like fear, but more like a thrill, passing through you.

As your eyes adjusted to the area beyond the lights, you saw a tall, muscular body and longish hair. This must be the new bartender. You got up and approached him, trying to analyze your feelings about the situation before you addressed the man.

As you got closer, your temperature seemed to rise. Must’ve been the workout.

His warm denim blue eyes were gorgeous and that dark blond hair and reddish beard were thick and lustrous. Although the beard was a bit wild and wooly, there was no hiding the pink, full lips under that straight, masculine nose.

His body was lithe, but muscular, and you sensed his power. You bet he could pick you up and hold you upside down as that beard scratched the inside of your thighs to lick your…

Wait. Where did that thought come from?

You were objectifying your new co-worker.

That would never, never do. You vowed to be professional.

—-

Steve straightened up as you came near. The look on your face was hard to read. Whatever it was you were feeling, Steve felt like an intruder.

Even though he had the deed to this building in his bag.

“Hi.”

It was all he could think of to say as you stood before him because his mind was empty. With you up close, the only thing he could do was stare. Your scent was like a drug and our eyes were…everything. He gazed into them, a myriad of colors that holding him captive.

Then that mouth started moving.

“Hello. You the new barback?”

“What?”

Steve leaned closer, pretending he couldn’t hear you, just to get closer. It wasn’t entirely game; he was quite distracted by you.

The side of your mouth curled up in a sardonic smile and a sudden, funny feeling spread throughout his stomach. He gave you a side grin in response to your side eye.

“Are… you… new… here?”

“Yes, I am working in the bar. I’m Steve…ns. Grant Stevens.”

You extended your hand to him.

“Nice to meet you Grant. I’m Peach.”

“Peach?”

The word gave Steve visions. He stared at your lips, thought of your ass, imagined your juices dripping down his chin.

“Yes,” You smirked. “Peach.”

Steve was speechless.

“It’s nice to meet you. Since you’re new here and probably haven’t gotten paid yet, I won’t charge you for the private dance.”

Steve’s mind was moving slowly. Like he was drugged.

“That’s a stage name, right?”

Peach. It had to be a stage name. Yet it suited you so perfectly. Suddenly he wanted a taste test.

Steve licked his lips and your eyes followed his movement as you proceeded to not answer him. He unconsciously started stroking the back of your hand with his thumb and gave you his full smile.

You grew even warmer, from the friction of course, and blinked at him as if you were facing sunlight as you pulled your hand from his.

“Forgive me. I’m sorry for eavesdropping? Spying? Watching you dance without you knowing? Don’t know what to call it. But beg your pardon.”

—--

“Don’t beg.”

‘Dont beg here,’ is what you wanted to say.

You don’t know why the vision of this man on his knees for you flashed in your mind. Maybe it was his velvet baritone, or maybe it was the feel of his rough hand on yours that got you all bothered, as if his smile hadn’t already made you wet.

He was tall, a good head taller than you, even in your heels, and a looming presence. In a good way. You wanted to be enveloped by him. But you didn’t even know him.

You had to get it together, but the scent of his cologne was making your mouth water to taste him. You were weak for this man.

You hated this feeling, didn’t have time for it, yet you weren’t ready to end the conversation just yet.

“I mean, I felt some kinda way when I first saw you here, but hell, I don’t own this place. And neither do you.”

For some reason, Grant’s face did a thing. A weird frowny sad thing, but you barrelled ahead.

“You’re a worker, just like me, and you were just getting your work station ready, just like me. Solidarity, man.”

“Yeah. Solidarity.”

Grant cleared his throat.

“Great moves up there.”

—---

You grinned, blinding him this time. Steve’s discomfort that his ‘little white lie’ was spreading to you dissipated when you smiled at him.

He just knew that your smile could heal any ailment, if he were allowed regular doses of it for the rest of his life.

“Thanks, friend. They make me a lot of money three nights a week.”

You pushed off the bar and started walking back to the locker room as Steve chuckled at your immediate friend zoning.

“And if you like that, stick around for the show.”

You threw a look over your shoulder that made him want to follow you anywhere.

As he watched you leave again, Steve Rogers knew that he needed a little more time to figure this place out.

—----

Steve was concluding that Regine wasn’t the worst, but nothing extraordinary. The women in makeup and costume looked good and the tips were flowing; he could see how this was a money maker.

He had his suspicions about Sully, but he still had little evidence about the quality of the place. He needed to see all of the dancers.

Steve wanted to see you dance. For research purposes.

He was busy at the bar all night, so much so that Sully had to come by and made four money drops. This place made much more profit than was being reported, that much was clear as Steve’s eyes followed Sully back to his office with the cash.

He was about to follow him when you brushed by him, ensconced all in white.

“Excuse me. Gotta get to the stage, Comrade.”

Your wink distracted him from the fact that you were wearing a ten gallon cowboy hat and boots.

Wait.

Were those spurs?

Mesmerized, Steve leaned on the bar to watch your show.

The stage went dark while the guitars started. There were whistles and stomps from the floor, cries of Yesss! Peach! Go Peach! Ride me Cowgirl, and Pour some liquor on me honey tooooo! reverberated in the room.

These were grown men and women.

And by the time the first line of the song played, “This ain’t Texas…”, the crowd was in a frenzy and in the palm of your hand.

Steve suddenly understood the customer’s enthusiasm.

The way you moved on the stage, your props, the way your body captivated everyone in the place was astounding.

You were brilliant.

You were what made Regine extra ordinary.

—---

You were bone tired by the time 3 am rolled around and the club closed after two full sets. You’d made $700 dollars in tips, not bad for a Tuesday, considering that you didn’t do any private dances. You were yawning as you passed the bar and Steve stopped you to say goodnight.

“Hey Peach. You were fantastic tonight.”

He shook his head.

“It was the first time I’ve seen that prop used on a dance club stage…”

Steve’s eyes glazed over as he replayed the image of you spinning on the pole with the stick of the hobby horse between your legs.

You spared the handsome blond an appreciative glance and a tired laugh.

“Thanks, Grant. I try to be original. Hope you did well tonight.”

“I did pretty good.”

Steve smiled as he would if $500 dollars would excite him.

“Hey, one of the customers at the bar told me to give you this. Said he was shy?”

You looked at him warily as you took the envelope. Inside was $1000.

“Holy Shit!”

You looked up and covered your mouth, your girlish piety endearing to Steve, who chuckled at you.

“There’s a stack in here.”

“Whoa! Cool.”

Steve tried to look as if he didn’t know there were exactly 10 hundred dollar bills that he’d put in there.

“Guy must really like you. Could it be a regular? A special friend? An ex perhaps?”

Steve was not being very subtle, but he didn’t have much time. You were smirking at him in that way again.

“My regulars are regular shmegular degular, and cannot afford to tip me one thousand dollars. Must be a high roller rolling through the A.”

You smiled, but decided you needed to be tough. You straightened and gave the most menacing glare you could manage.

Steve thought you were adorable.

“I don’t know who would have done this. I don’t have any special friends or exes in this city. I’m all work. NO play. In any way. Especially at work.”

You hoped your hard look worked. Grant was certainly watching your mouth as you spoke, so he must have caught what you meant, right? When his eyes flicked up to yours, your knees got weak so you decided you should go.

“‘Night, Grant.”

You turned and walked out of Regine, a certain warmth in your chest. Must the $1700 in your bag. Or the chicken wings. Nothing to do with the beautiful man you knew was watching until you got into your car.

Steve made sure that you drove off safely, and then followed you home as he thought about how efficiently you’d curved him.

Once you went into your apartment, Steve called Bucky and told him that he needed a little more time on this enterprise.

This one was a peach.

-----

Okay. I hope that you liked it! Let me know by reblogging please!

[henneseyhoe]

Childhood Friend!Terry-Drabble #1

Pairing: Childhood Friend!Terry x Reader.

Warnings:descriptions of sexual activity, cheating, drinking.

Childhood friend!Terry whose chest hurts just thinking about you. He’s known you since he was 16, your families being friends for generations and being a close knit community, you knew him very well after years of living besides each other. A crush developed innocently turned to something that wouldn’t go away no matter how many years passed or how many women Terry ran through, though it’s not like there had been many of them either.

Even when he was working out of state, there was something that was still at home for him to look forward to, you. He counted the days on a calendar for when he could go home, finally coming to the conclusion that liking you from afar was way too childish now. He was grown, it was time to do grown things. But, when he came back, you were engaged to his best friend; Joseph.

Hm…He had no business still thinking about you anyway, right? You haven’t seen him in nearly two years and he was too busy to dwell on a childhood crush…but damn, you got finer every year. How’d he let you slip by and get with his best friend of all people? Couldn’t it have been some guy three states over? Far away so he could forget about you? Nah.

Forgetting was gonna be one of the hardest things for him to do, he was in such close proximity to you all that time that if he thought of you, he could remember how your perfume smelled. Sweet and vanilla-y, like some kind of pastry he wanted to taste, mm.

Being the best man made it no easier on him and neither was the insistence from your mother that everyone in the wedding should be staying in one big house together leading up to the big day, girls on one end of the house, boys on the other.

He’d curse the decision every nightfall when everyone would come back to the house from their daily activities, cringing when he’d see you and his bestfriend together “canoodling”. He never knew he was such a hater till this week.

“Since when did he even become a relationship guy?”

He’d ask himself, recalling his friend bragging to him about quite a few escapades he’s had while seeing this “girl”, calling her gullible and all. Terry would turn his nose up and roll his eyes. Unbeknownst to Terry until he came home, that “girl” was you.

He didn’t deserve you. You were too gorgeous, too kind, too genuine and caring. But could he ruin his friendship for a love that might be rejected (something he knew he couldn’t bare) or sit back and watch the love of his life marry a fucking idiot for the sake of minding his business like usual?

He guessed his drunken mind answered that for him, the two of you finding each other in the empty kitchen in the middle of the night. His pick of poison was brown liquor he had to find a key to even get to since it was locked up, per your mothers request once again, and yours was wine you shouldn’t have been having because of your bridal diet. You nearly finished the bottle while thinking on if you really wanted to settle for a man you didn’t necessarily trust. Before you could tell him why, he was already confirming your trust issues, and before he could apologize for blurting it out, your lips were on his and his shirt was halfway off.

Was he really about to sleep with his best friend’s fiancé? Even if it’s just for her own revenge? Yes, he was. Didn’t feel bad either.

In fact, Terry felt a surge of confidence. You told him what happened would never happened again, and he knew it was a lie. It made him smile. He basked in the fact that he knew you didn’t stop thinking about him, even after the wedding. Similar to how he couldn’t stop thinking of you.

He chuckled at the fact that he fucked you into the couch in your bridal suite while your bridesmaids and groomsmen explored the rest of the venue, only to smile in his best friends face hours later, patting him on the back as he says,

“You did good, man. She’s a keeper”

And Terry would know. He’s known for years and Joseph also probably knew that he knew, but he didn’t know the other information. Information that’d have him hunched over in tears, thinking about how his bestfriend fucked his wife before his wedding day.

How he had her telling him that she loved him, that her fiancé wasn’t half the man he was. How he spat in her mouth and let her use him to get off, not the other way around. How easily she would slip off her ring like it was something he got out of a gum ball machine. How when he was about to cum she’d keep riding and tell him the only way she’d let him is if it was inside of her.

Terry smiled about all of that and how he wanted to just tell his best friend that he fucked his wife.

💌—ayyye new hashtag alert! 😛 i’ll be posting all my random thoughts(thots)/drabbles under this hashtag cause yeah not everything gotta be a full oneshot LMFAO

[channiesbakery]

cuffed —

prompt / request — “are these handcuffs?”

pairing — reader + actor!jun

word count — 1433

genre — smut [use of handcuffs, thigh riding, oral (both m and f receiving), overstimulation]

it was never easy whenever jun was away for filming. all the late night facetime calls and random check in texts throughout the day helped, sure. but it wasn’t the same as having your boyfriend right there at home with you.

so when you were finally able to take a few days off from work, you flew out to where jun was filming for his newest movie.

you arrive on set and stand off to the side, waiting for him to finish filming his scene.

the directors praise jun after they finish filming and he talks to a few of the crew before his eyes finally spot you.

“baby! what are you doing here?” he tugs you into tight embrace, pressing kisses to your face, not caring that there was people around.

“surprising you, obviously,” you giggle as he kisses your lips.

you hang around set, watching your boyfriend finish filming his scenes for the day. the minute he’s done and out of his costume and his makeup is all gone, he’s practically dragging you back to his place.

“i wish you’d given me a bit more notice. i had a present for you and everything but i haven’t wrapped it,” jun pouts a little, watching as you settled on his bed. “if i had given you a heads up, it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” you point out.

“fair enough. anyways, give me a second to freshen up. i have a gift for you by the way. which i was supposed to give you when i headed home this weekend to surprise you. it’s in the inner pocket of my duffel bag,” he tells you, pecking your lips before he steps into the bathroom.

you go over to his duffel bag laying on the ground, opening up the pocket to find your present. your fingers brush against a cool metal as you pull out the last thing you were expecting his present to be.

“find it baby?” jun asks as he comes back out. “handcuffs?” you turn around, smirking at him. “what?” he blinks at you, staring at the metal cuffs in your hand.

“why do you look so confused. didn’t you buy these?” you ask. “well no– i guess one of the props from shooting fell into my bag. if you haven’t realized yet, that’s definitely not your gift,” he chuckles, reaching out for the cuffs to set aside to return back to set.

but you pull back slightly, not letting him take away. “oh?” he gives you a smirk. “we’ve never tried handcuffs before… could be fun,” you smirk back, twirling them on your finger a little.

“i leave for a couple weeks and all of a sudden my girl is developing new kinks, hm?” he teases, reaching out to take the cuffs again but you stop him.

“i think these will look prettier on your wrists,” you say, watching the way his breath hitched. “cuff me up then, pretty girl,” jun smirks.

jun settles on the bed, keeping his hands up against the headboard as you loop the cuffs through the bed frame before cuffing his wrists, keeping him cuffed to the frame.

“really? you’re not gonna let me touch you? after I’ve been gone for weeks?” he pouts. “nope. this’ll be fun,” you giggle, settling on his lap. you shift over so you’re seated on his one of his thighs, grinding softly at first.

“c’mon baby, i could guide your hips better if you let my hands free,” he tries to convince you. “but you look so pretty when you’re cuffed,” you purr, your finger tips running along his restrained wrists.

jun groans when he feels your wetness seeping through his sweatpants. his hands tug at the handcuffs, instinctively wanting to reach down to hold your hips.

you lift your hips up just enough to tug his sweats down, revealing his hard cock, already leaking precum.

“being tied up is really turning you on hm?” you tease. “my bratty girlfriend grinding her needy pussy on my thigh is turning me on,” jun corrects.

but he quickly loses his smug attitude the minute you grind your bare pussy down on his cock. your wetness plus the precum leaking from his tip makes it easier for you to grind against him.

“need to be inside you, please,” he breathes you, looking up at you through his lashes. “patience baby,” you say, climbing off his lap.

you crawl down to lay between his legs, kissing up his thighs slowly, taking your time to get your mouth to where he really wants you.

jun tries to stay patient, knowing you’ll only tease him even more if he isn’t. he lets out a loud moan when your lips finally wrap around his cock.

you suckle on his sensitive tip, licking up his leaking precum. “almost forgot how big you are,” you hum, taking him deeper down your throat.

you slowly take more and more of him into your mouth until you’re able to deep throat him, your nose pressing against his abdomen.

you bob your head up and down, his moans and whimpers only fueling you on.

he can feel his orgasm building up quickly. you suddenly pull your mouth away, wrapping your hand around him as you slowly jerked him off.

“god you’re such a tease,” he groans, trying to buck his hips up to push his cock back into your mouth but you’d already moved away.

“but you sound so pretty when you’re whining and begging. i missed your pretty noises,” you tease, your tongue darting out to lick his tip, teasing his slit.

“been missing you for weeks and now that i see you, you decide to tease me? you’re cruel– fuck–” he groans as you start sucking on him again.

“can’t help it when you sound so cute all needy;” you tease, running your tongue along his length.

you feel his cock twitch in your mouth, a sign that he’s close to releasing. he thinks you’re about to edge him but you keep sucking until his cum fills your mouth as you swallow everything his has to give you.

you continue sucking softly on his sensitive cock, your tongue continuing to run over his tip, not releasing him from your mouth.

you suddenly feel his hand gripping your hair, pulling you off his cock. you gasp softly, looking at the bed frame to see that sure enough, the cuffs were off.

“how–” you start. “prop cuffs, baby. I’ve let you have your fun, now it’s my turn,” he grins, flipping you onto your back.

jun wraps one hand around both your wrists, keeping them pinned to the bed as he attaches his lips to your pussy.

unlike you, he doesn’t waste any time teasing. any other time he would’ve given you a taste of your own medicine and edge you all night. but not tonight, not when he’s been away from you for so long and he’s been craving you.

it doesn’t take you long to finish on his tongue and you expect him to pull away but he doesn’t. jun continues to suck on your clit, fucking his tongue into your hole, trying to work out a second orgasm from you.

“j-junnie-” you whimper, trying to pull your wrists out of his hold to grip his hair. “c’mon, give me another one. you can cum for me again, can’t you?” he mumbled against your cunt, the vibrations pushing you to the edge.

he sucks on your clit harshly, making you squirm against his face as you cum for the second time. he finally released your wrists as he crawled up to you, kissing you to let you taste yourself off his tongue.

“god I’ve missed you,” jun mumbles against your lips.

“so the handcuffs were a fun experiment,” you tease and he chuckles. “next time, I’m cuffing you up,” he says.

“so if the handcuffs weren’t my gift… what was?” you ask curiously and jun suddenly remembers what even led to your current position.

he climbs off of you, going over to his duffle bag. you hear him shuffling around for a second before he’s back in bed by your side.

“matching keychains!” he smiles happily, holding up the two magnetic, plushie cat keychains.

you sigh softly, leaning against his chest as you take one of the keychains in your hand.

“how do you go from making me cum until i see stars to being such a sweetheart?” you ask and he just laughs, swinging his little cat keychain against yours so their magnets attach to each other.

[statementlou]

ZAYN'S FIRST TOUR I can’t believe it’s over guys… like not only my shows, but also the WHOLE TOUR, it’s like a double punch, that was so fucking fun!! But also it’s just the fucking start, by the end he was having so much FUN, we’ve really got him hooked and cleansed of his demons now yall, it is ON and I’m so excited. It was weird having tickets first to the opening show of the whole tour, and then it got changed to somewhere in the middle, and then it got changed again to the LAST two shows of tour, a whole rollercoaster, and not getting the opening show after all was disappointing but in the end I loved getting to go to the end of it. I loved watching the lives- starting out saying, oh I’ll just watch the first one probably, but then it was so good and he ended up being so much fun that I just didn’t want to miss a thing, and the change from start to finish… honestly mind blowing. I went on the first SF night with fellow livestream gang girlie @justanothershadeofblue but also with @uhoh-but-yeah-alright and @homosociallyyours who had not been watching the lives or videos at all, didn’t know the setlist, etc, and seeing him up there just ON FIRE, yelling and bouncing and chatting, so outgoing and excited and comfortable laughing and teasing and playing off the crowd and hitting every mark… I could say to them, wow at the beginning he was so nervous and awkward and mumbly and would mess up and have to be like oh uh can we restart that song all the time and didn't interact with the crowd at all, this is really different, but how can anyone really believe that when he’s just owning the space and yelling FUUUUCK YEAH!! every couple minutes at the top of his lungs?? Incredible!! The BLOSSOMING we've witnessed these last few months has been a fucking gift, for real, I'm so proud and happy for him.

Anyway more specific show thoughts: I danced and waved my arms around like an absolute idiot the whole time it was great, he was SO FUNNY and fun, the energy feedback loop of him getting so excited by us being hype and it feeling so good to make him so happy and getting even more hype, SO FUN, I loved that he seemed to be genuinely excited by the idea of San Francisco for whatever reason even if he did call it San Fran about 8000 times like a giant nerd, like I’m very lucky to live somewhere where I get to see them at all but after how Harry and Louis for example play out in the outlying areas and plus treat Bay Area shows as an afterthought to deal with on their way to LA it felt really nice, and I also felt super blessed to get to go to the end of the zour because although throughout he had struggled some with learning to sing SO MUCH AT A TIME without losing his voice (Zayn HIRE HELENE) and had to be conscious of that, on that final night he didn’t have to worry and just went for it and it was EVERYTHING, and! Most important of all! Even though at least for me I think night one was superior on night two the most important thing of all happened, something I will treasure forever even though I didn’t get it on video and didn’t even realize what I was experiencing until right after it happened: I, bander, was in the room when Zayn Malik said my favorite Zayn Malikism of all time right there in front of my salad, I experienced the beloved WHOOPSEH DAISEH with my own two ears!! So grateful, so zlessed, life is good! He also said vas happening but idk what to tell you, I’m a whooseh daiseh girlie forever I loved every minute of this tour, and can’t wait for the shows coming up, and also the circumstances were so shit and it doesn’t make Liam’s death any less tragic nor have I forgotten: but I am really glad that as a fandom we got something nice and fun and happy during this time, we really needed that. Was thinking last night though about how when we got the tickets for this Megan and I were like holy shit we never thought Zayn would tour, now we really will get to see 5/5 playing solo shows together, we’ll just need to go see Liam sometime after this…. it’ll be 4/5 forever now. But not the 4 you would have guessed a year ago, and I am truly happy for Zayn that he's been able to feel the joy of performing again, and in a lot of ways probably for the first time it's been like this.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

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

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

WC: 13.5K

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

Read on ao3!

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

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

--

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

Dean? He’s a menace.

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

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

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

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

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

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

--

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

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

You hesitate. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

And when he starts tattooing?

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

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

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

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

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

A challenge.

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

Of course, he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

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

He kisses you.

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

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

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

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

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

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

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

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

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

But you’re not.

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

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

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

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

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

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

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

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

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

And yet… you’re still here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

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

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

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

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

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

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

“You should be scared of me.”

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

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

It’s desperation.

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

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

You let him.

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

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

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

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

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

Possession.

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

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

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

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

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

The first sting.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

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

“Done,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

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

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

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

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

--

The night is quiet—too quiet.

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

Pop-pop-pop!

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

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

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

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

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

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

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

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m with you.”

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

More men are coming.

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

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

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

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

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

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

His control snaps.

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

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

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

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

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

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “No.”

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

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

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

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

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

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You don’t resist.

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

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

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

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

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

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

Dean’s son.

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

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

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

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

Because you are. To him, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.” You smile up at him.

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

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

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

You are his, and you always will be.

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

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

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

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

You are his. Completely.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

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

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The family business, he’d called it.

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

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

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

Dean would see to that.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Winchester name will live on.

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

But that peace shattered in an instant.

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

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

He answered the call.

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

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

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

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

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

“They’ve got our kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Dean never let messages slide.

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

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

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

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

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

The seconds felt like hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you believed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

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

[lilimaginebean]

five days — 五日

synopsis: In which Kaiser fell in love with his tattoo artist, or in which Kaiser has only five appointments to convince you to go on a date with him.

note: hi :)

prev | masterlist

🥀 Day 5

"Well, at least I'm still alive, right?" you said, trying to comfort Kaiser, who was sitting next to you with the saddest aura ever.

The nurse finally came in, stared at you in confusion, and approached both of you.

"Again? In the emergency room?" she asked, you could do nothing but nod, "What now?"

"Allergic reaction. So crazy, who would have thought I could be allergic to a particular dried fruit that is only grown in one village in Greece? Right?" you said, trying to sound funny, but the sore throat made it sound more painful than anything else.

"OK, come with me, again," the nurse said as she took you to another room, giving Kaiser a dirty look.

How did this happen anyway?

After the last tattoo session, you finished one of your best masterpieces. The tattoo ended up being pretty amazing, and you weren't the only one who thought so, Kaiser couldn't stop complimenting you and your tattoo. Of course, that piece of art wasn't your only happiness, as you and Kaiser finally got to go on a date.

However, before the date began, Kaiser once again asked your uncle for permission to take you out. Maybe this time it was because he was no longer a customer, or because your uncle felt empathy for Kaiser, or maybe because of the expensive watch Kaiser had bought for your uncle; but he accepted. You both fled before your uncle could change his mind.

The two of you could finally be together. No exams, no work, just the two of you. What you didn't expect was that everything would go wrong.

First of all, the really luxurious limousine that Kaiser had hired broke down. That wasn't too bad, as Kaiser had only hired it to get to the place he wanted earlier. Finally, they arrived at the first place of the date, which was a really nice picnic with some of their favourite books. It would have been great if it hadn't started raining. At least you two were able to save the books.

But it didn't stop there. He took you to the next stop, which was ice skating. Unfortunately, when you got there and were teaching Kaiser how to do it, some hyperactive kid went too fast and hit you, causing you to hit your head on the ice. So basically you were knocked out for a few seconds, and that ended with you going to the emergency room to make sure you were okay without any side effects. Luckily, it wasn't anything serious, so they let you go and kept the date.

The cherry on top? For dinner, Kaiser took you to the most expensive restaurant you've ever been to. Everything was going well until you found out that you were somehow allergic to one of the weirdest things the chef used. So you were checked twice in less than 3 hours to see if you were physiologically OK.

When your second check routine was over without a hitch, you returned to the waiting room and approached Kaiser. He was slumped in his chair, but fortunately his cap hid his frustration.

"Shall we go?" you asked him in a gentle tone.

He got up, took your hand and left. The two of you walked in silence to your apartment, you didn't know what to say to make him feel better and he was too mad to even talk. Once outside of your home, you stared at Kaiser, who had a sad expression on his face, and suddenly his stomach growled and demanded food.

"Just kill me," Kaiser admitted, feeling defeated by everything.

You chuckled.

"Come with me, I'll see what you can eat," you opened the door of the building where your apartment was and followed you inside.

Once inside your small but cosy apartment, you made him sit down in the living room and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later you returned with a plate of veggie sandwiches. You sat down next to him.

"Don't be sad, I really had fun with everything you planned," you said, comforting him.

He just picked up the sandwich, took a bite and stared at you.

"It's not that bad." Kaiser admitted, "Your lame veggie sandwich, I mean, the date went horribly. I really expected the date to end differently, not with me eating this."

You approached him.

"Hey the date hasn't ended yet, we can still turn it into something wonderful" you said confidently.

Kaiser stared at you curiously, wondering what you could do to turn this awful moment into at least a decent one. You stroked his hair, leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead, then on the cheek and finally on the lips.

"Better?" you asked him, raising an eyebrow.

He left the sandwich on the plate and gave you all his attention.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this," Kaiser confessed in an enthusiastic tone, as if he were a fan who had just met his idol, "But… I bet you can do better, Liebling," he said in a cocky tone.

"Trust me, I can" you answered in the same tone

"Prove it."

[archangeldyke-all]

Oooo i have a cowboy sevika ask if you want it 🤲 okay so what if sevika is telling vi or jinx or both a story from one of her outlaw days and reader catches her and is like bro you can not be telling our rambunctious kids about those days bc they are crazy and will just turn around and do that shit…and sev is like but they think im cool now.

yk what i’m sayin? i hope that made sense anyways do whatever ya want I love cowboy sevika so so so much!!

this is so cute GOD

men and minors dni

this weekend, your kid-load has doubled.

caitlyn rode up to visit vi, and benzo asked you to watch after ekko while he takes care of some business a few towns over. it's been great fun. caitlyn and ekko, unlike your own children, have house-manners. ekko's been a huge help keeping the tavern tidy, and cait's been great help in the garden.

what's even better is watching your girls interact with their respective crushes. vi and cait have finally made it out of the awkward giggly phase, and now they're bickering like an old couple at only sixteen. jinx and ekko are still young enough to not quite understand why they like hanging out so much, but you think jinx is starting to get a hint. she's been blushing almost all weekend.

besides your future children-in-laws, you've only got one guest staying in the inn this weekend. you've just finished changing out the sheets and refreshing the water pitchers in their room when you march downstairs to the tavern; only to find your regular ran sneaking behind the bar to make themselves a drink.

"hey!" you shout. ran scurries away guiltily, and you chuckle. "just 'cause you're here most nights doesn't mean you're allowed behind the bar."

"you were taking too long!" they pout. you giggle.

"you couldn't just ask sev?"

ran chuckles and trades you a few coins for the glass you pour for them. "she's busy recounting the 'old days' to your kids." they say, gesturing to where your wife's tucked in a booth with all four of the kids. you groan.

"fuck. that's never good."

"wait! leave the bottle, and gimmie another glass! mel's meetin' me here and she'll need a drink."

you raise an eyebrow at ran, giggling as they blush. looks like your kids aren't the only ones hanging out with their crushes this weekend. "here." you slide a glass and bottle across the bar. you go to run over to your family's booth, before freezing and turning back around to ran. "which story is she telling?"

"something about a bank robbery?"

"oh, fuck!" you whine, sprinting over to the booth, flipping ran off as they cackle.

"...so i hop on shimmers back-- but i'd loaded her up with so many gold bars she almost collapsed when i got on top. she was in no shape to run, and somebody from inside the bank started shootin' at us, so i hop back off, tell shimmer to scram, and then i start running for my fuckin' life--"

"sevika!" you cut in.

five pairs of wide, excited eyes shoot up to look at you. you groan.

jinx is vibrating in excitement at sevika's words, vi's deep in contemplation, like she's trying to plan her own bank robbery, and ekko and cait are staring at sevika with stars in their eyes like they've just met santa claus.

"hey, darlin'." sevika grins up at you, her eyes glittering with fond memories.

you shake your head at her. "you remember that talk we had about family-friendly stories?" you ask.

jinx groans from her seat. "oh c'mon! sevika doesn't have family friendly stories!"

"and she's got so many good adult ones!" vi adds on.

you groan. "you realize you're actively incriminating yourself each time you recount these stories to someone?"

sevika cackles. "oh, c'mon, doll! ekko and cait won't rat on me, right kids?" she asks.

ekko crosses his heart, and caitlyn gasps. "no, never!"

"sevika's the coolest woman in the entire desert!" ekko shouts. you roll your eyes.

"okay, ekko, i take offense to that." you say. ekko laughs.

"me too." jinx huffs.

cait giggles. "you're not a woman yet, jinx."

"yeah, but only because i haven't pulled off a successful bank robbery yet. once i accomplish that i'll be a real grown up."

"no, see, this is what we're trying to avoid!" you whine, smacking sevika's shoulder. she giggles, pulling you down into her lap and peppering kisses on your neck as you rant. "jinx, womanhood has nothing to do with crime."

"not if you're boring." jinx mutters.

"wh-- y-you-- fuck off! tell 'em how the story ends, sev." you demand, smacking your wife's shoulder. she perks up.

"really?!" she asks. you nod, and all your kids grin in excitement. "okay, okay. so. i'm fuckin' bookin' it down mainstreet, there's at least six people shootin' at me, and i'm praying to everything holy that shimmer knows to meet me back at camp." sevika pauses to take a sip of her beer, and cait squeals.

"so, what happened?!"

you can't help but smile a bit.

sevika chuckles and takes a breath. "i got my ass outta dodge and spent the entire night hiking back to my campsite. by the time i got there, i was cold, hungry, and ready to sleep for two weeks."

"was shimmer there?" vi gasps.

sevika chuckles. "'course she was. shimmer's smarter than all of us combined."

"and the gold?" ekko asks. sevika grins.

"made almost a quarter of a million once i melted it down and distributed it."

"that's amazing!" vi shouts.

you elbow sevika. "tell them the real end."

sevika huffs. your kids blink in confusion.

"that wasn't the end?"

"no, that wasn't the end." you say. "what sevika conveniently forgot to mention was the fact that she had not one, not two, but three gunshot wounds. the only reason she lived to trade that gold in was 'cause she ditched it at camp and rode shimmer back here to me. she nearly fuckin' bled out. spent three days asleep upstairs."

you feel a little bad for the way all the fun is sucked out of the conversation. but, you don't regret it. it was the worst week of your life, nursing her back to health like that only for her to ride back out the moment she was healed.

"'s why my arm's so fucked. there's casings embedded all over my left shoulder." sevika says. "woulda died if my baby didn't know how to cauterize a wound."

"and do chest compressions."

sevika gulps behind you. "y-you did?" she asks. you nod.

"what, you didn't know?" you ask.

she shrugs, tears welling up in her eyes. "'s all a blur. i stopped breathing?"

"for the worst five minutes of my fucking life." you say with a nod.

sevika blinks up at you, her love and affection for you evident in her gaze. "you saved my life?" she asks. you're interrupted before you can speak.

"that. is so. fucking. cool!" ekko shouts. you burst into surprised laughter, blinking away from your wife to look at your kids.

their looks of awestruck wonder all shifted from sevika to you. you chuckle.

"what the hell is 'cauterize?' and how do you do it?!" jinx asks, an excited gleam in her eye.

"how much blood did you have to clean?" vi asks with a fascinated look.

"ooooh, yeah, how much blood was there?" cait asks.

sevika nudges her beer against your hand and you snort, kissing her cheek before taking a big gulp.

you let out a little burp, then speak. "alright, one question at a time. and you gotta remember: this was all the consequence of sevika's dumbass bank robbery."

"it was a flawless plan!" sevika whines.

"flawless if you're trying to get killed." ekko scoffs. the kids cackle.

"okay, start with the blood! how much blood was there" jinx demands, tugging at your hand.

you giggle and shrug. "i dunno. a shit ton?" you guess. your kids burst into excited giggles, and sevika presses her smile against your shoulder.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

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@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

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@blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion @dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3

[riqomi]

POPCORN ˖ 심재윤

제이크 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff est. relationship ──── BOOKSHELF ( 645 ) cw. skinship kissing ‎food ‎ ‎

you stood in the kitchen, struggling to open a pack of ramen, determined to make something for your boyfriend, jake, before he got home from practice.

after what felt like ages, you finally managed to tear the package open. as you poured water into the pot, you suddenly remembered you had forgotten to play some music.

"hey, alexa! play 'diorama' by yves, please."

just as you were finishing up the dish, you heard keys jingling—just in time, you thought. the front door creaked open, revealing an exhausted jake.

"babe, i'm home!" he called out, his voice soft but warm.

"i'm in the kitchen," you replied.

moments later, you felt his arms wrap around your waist, his chin resting lightly on top of your head.

"mmm, smells good," he murmured.

"good thing, because the food is almost ready," you grinned, turning your head slightly toward him. you gave him a quick peck on the lips before turning back to the stove.

"if you want, you can take a shower while i finish preparing the rest," you hummed.

"okay, i'll be quick," he chuckled.

soon, the two of you were seated at the table, eating the ramen you'd prepared.

"babe?" you mumbled, slurping up a mouthful of hot noodles.

"hmm?" he hummed in response.

"wanna have a movie night if you’re not too tired?" you asked, finishing your food.

"sure!" he replied excitedly.

after clearing the table, you carried the empty bowls to the kitchen sink and began rinsing them. suddenly, you felt jake poke your side, making you giggle.

"what’s wrong?" you asked playfully.

"what movie should we watch?" he asked quietly.

"hmm…" you hummed, thinking for a moment. "anything is fine, to be honest!" you smiled.

as you finished washing the dishes, you decided to prepare some popcorn and grab a few snacks for the movie. the microwave beeped, signaling that the popcorn was done. you grabbed two bowls from the cabinet, pouring the popcorn into one and snacks into the other.

suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the living room. alarmed, you quickly poured the rest of the snacks and rushed toward the sound.

"what was that?!" you called out.

when you entered the living room, you found jake sprawled on the floor, tangled in a mess of blankets and pillows.

"no! this was supposed to be a surprise," he whined dramatically.

"jake, you expect me not to worry when i hear a loud crash?" you replied, raising an eyebrow.

"aww, you care about me," he smirked.

you stood there, unimpressed, giving him a blank stare.

"anyway!" you huffed, shaking your head. "i’m bringing the snacks."

snuggled under a soft blanket, the two of you enjoyed your snacks while watching annie. surprisingly, it wasn’t a bad choice.

"oh no!" jake suddenly yelled, making you jump and spill some popcorn onto the blanket.

"what?!" you huffed, looking at him in alarm.

"i thought she was gonna get caught by that lady agatha!" he gasped, eyes glued to the screen.

you slowly turned your head to stare at him before snickering.

"seriously?" you teased.

later that night, you stood in the bathroom, finishing your nighttime routine. jake was already lying in bed, waiting for you.

"babe, are you done soon?" he called out sweetly.

"almost!" you replied.

before you could finish, jake suddenly entered the bathroom, his messy hair and puffed cheeks making him look irresistibly cute. he approached you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"jake, i told you i was almost done," you giggled.

"i know, but still…" he mumbled, nuzzling into your shoulder.

the two of you made your way to bed, slipping under the warm blankets and clinging to each other as if there were no tomorrow.

"goodnight, jake," you murmured.

"goodnight, babe," he giggled softly.

hii guyss, just wanted to tell you that my request are open so feel free to send some :)) please help spread my work by reblogging or liking!!!

[pipwritesoccasionally]

your loving family (two little lines pt. 5)

word count: 1592

toji x reader

warnings: pregnancy, birth written by someone who has never given birth

per usual I tried to make it as gender neutral as possible, if I missed something just let me know.

parts: 1 2 3 4

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hey hey! sorry it's been forever since I've written, and frankly this was kind of thrown together after months of a little progress here and there. I just happened to be inspired because I have been scrolling through the jjk tags and have found nothing but smut, which there is no shame to anyone who enjoys that, I just want to read some fluff. anyways, I felt like I would finish this now. also, this will be the end of this mini-series, so thank you to everyone who has engaged, liked and reblogged these parts!

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to be frank, you had no clue what you were looking at. you had just gotten out of bed, needing an afternoon snack, when you felt…pee? your gaze dropped to the floor, where a puddle now sat, and your pregnancy brain stopped you from connecting the dots. 

that is, until the first contraction hit. your hand came up to cup your mouth as you groaned in pain, body tensing with panic. 

‘toji. i have to get toji,’ this one thought cut through the rattling in your head, and you began to waddle to the door, bracing the wall with one hand. 

“toji!” you yelled, ever grateful that he had stopped taking jobs so frequently these last few weeks in preparation for the baby. 

“yes?” he yelled back, gruff voice echoing off the walls. 

“i think the baby’s coming!” a faint “shit!” came from your husband, followed the sound of feet hitting the stairs rapidly. toji appears in front of you, coming to cup your elbows. 

“okay doll, let’s get you to the hospital.” 

you nodded, shaking slightly. you’d never given birth before, and now that it was actually happening, all of your apprehension was hitting you at once. 

“you can do this, (y/n),” toji said, running his hands over your arms lovingly. he had known about your fears, and had been reassuring you throughout your entire pregnancy. 

you breathed slowly, giving him a soft smile. the two of you made your way to the door, and finally to your shared car. toji helped you get settled in the passenger seat, and you turned to him. 

“okay, we need the diaper bag, and then we need to find someone to pick up the kids from school and watch them, because who knows how long we will be in the hospital-”

“breathe, doll. i’m going to get the diaper bag and call shiu to get the kids.” toji turned away, but you grabbed his wrist. 

“shiu? we’re going to trust shiu with megumi and tsumiki?” 

“i’ve worked for him for a long time, and he doesn’t kill people if there’s no reason to. besides, i’m his best employee, so killing them wouldn’t benefit him.” you weren’t entirely convinced, but you didn’t have many options, so you had to relent. 

“fine, but please hurry?” he cups your face, then runs to grab the bag. another contraction hit, sending pain through your body, and you had to squeeze your hand into a fist just to distract yourself. 

the pain was like nothing you’ve ever had before. sure, period cramps were similar, but they could not compare to the pain of a human being trying to push its way out of your body. the car door slammed and you vaguely registered toji’s form in your peripheral vision, but it was hard for you to focus. 

toji rests his hand on your knee, and you intertwine yours with his. 

“squeeze, doll,” you shake your head, balling your other hand to distract from the pain. 

“what if i hurt you?” he gives a small chuckle.

“i love you and believe you’re strong, but you could never hurt me.” you roll your eyes, but when the next contraction hits, you squeeze his hand. 

the drive to the hospital is, thankfully, quick, and toji leaves to quickly grab you a wheelchair. you settle in, before making your way into the hospital. you somehow manage to check in and get into a room between contractions, and you’ve just managed to sit on the bed when the next one hits. toji’s there again, with his strong, reassuring hand in yours. doctors and nurses are running in and out, tucking an iv into one of your arms and bringing ice for you to chomp on. 

“alright! you’re about 4 centimeters dilated, so we have a bit of time. is there anything we can do to make you as comfortable as possible?” the doctor asked, smiling at you warmly. 

“um… some water would be nice, i think?” you respond, and she nods quickly before leaving. 

your husband squeezes your hand, and you turn to him. 

“how are you feeling?” he asks, worry striking across his features. 

“like a human being is trying to come out of my vagina?” 

“okay, besides the obvious,” he fake glares at you, making you laugh. 

“scared, but i’m ready to be not-pregnant.” 

the doctor brings a glass of water and places it on the side table. you’re at 5 centimeters now, but that it could take a few hours until you’re ready to actually start pushing. you shrink a bit, knowing that you’ll be in pain for potentially over 10 hours here, and start preparing yourself mentally for the long day ahead of you. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

when the doctor last checked about an hour ago, she said you were 7 centimeters dilated, and so you thought you’d have a few more hours to go before actually pushing the baby out, but apparently the world had other plans for you. 

a nurse came in, just to do a quick check, before her eyes went wide. she ran to the phone, dialing quickly, and let out a “they’re fully dilated” before immediately hanging up. 

you look at toji and he just wraps his hands around your right one. 

“i don’t care how hard you squeeze me. whatever you need,” he leans forward and places a kiss on your palm, and you smily lightly. it’s go time. the door swings open as the doctor runs in, pulling on new gloves, before sitting in front of you. 

“alright, it’s time to start pushing.” you nod, and push. nothing could have prepared you for the pain of childbirth. people always said it hurt, but now that you were here, you felt like they were downplaying it. 

“fuck!” you yell, exhaustion waving over you. your husband is leaning on your hands, whispering words of encouragement. you continue pushing, and pushing, and pushing, before the doctor yells “the head’s through!” 

while most people would think it would be encouraging that the baby is almost halfway out, the entire world has lost its focus, caving to the immense pain you feel throughout your entire body. your back hurts, your legs hurt, everything hurts. 

you just keep pushing, and pushing, until at last a shrill cry echoes in the room. tears are streaming down your face, both from all of the pain and the happiness of bringing a new life into the world. your body slumps against the mattress, and you turn slightly to face your husband. 

his large hands delicately hold your right one, and he leans in to plant a kiss on your temple. 

“you’re amazing, you know that?” his voice is lighter, almost awe-stricken. you smile at him, pulling your hand from his grasp in order to run it through his hair. 

“i did, but i don’t mind hearing it more often,” you grin, using what’s left of your (very depleted) energy to engage in your favorite hobby: bantering with toji. 

“i know you’re trying to be funny, but seriously, you’re amazing,” it wasn’t exactly uncharacteristic of toji to be so sweet (marriage had changed him slightly) but it still isn’t exactly something you’re used to. you sink back and avert your eyes, now slightly embarrassed at his compliments. 

“thank you, and thank you for always being so great to me,” you whisper in response, before cupping his face, and closing your eyes to rest a bit. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

your few days spent in the hospital had been filled with a lot of well-deserved naps, and, of course, spending time with your child. while it wasn’t a horrible experience, you really just missed your own home and your own bed. so, when the doctor finally cleared you for discharge, you happily made your way to the car with your husband and new son. 

the car ride home flew by, your heart filling with joy as the car turned onto the familiar street. once fully stopped, toji got out to grab the baby’s carrier and diaper bag, telling you to head inside. 

the house was dark and quiet, but before you could worry about the cause, the lights all flicked on at once, accompanied by a loud “welcome home!”

the source of the greeting was none other than your stepkids, and your eyes welled with tears. a large banner with fun colors and block letters spelling “welcome back!” was hanging on the wall. your stepkids ran up to you, hugging you tightly around the waist. 

“we missed you so much! we wanted to visit you, but shiu said you might want to rest. where is he?” tsumiki asks, clearly looking for her new baby brother. 

“he’s right here, you little brat,” toji’s gruff voice sounds through the house, and your stepkids give you one last squeeze before going to take a look. 

“he’s so tiny!” tsumiki squeals, giggling happily. you move to take a seat on the couch, your husband walking around and placing the baby carrier in front of you. of course, tsumiki and megumi followed behind, waving and smiling at their little brother. 

you had never felt such warmth, and watching your family all gathered around to welcome the new arrival, you realized that there was no better feeling than being here together. 

you leaned your head on toji’s shoulder, smiling widely. he put his arm around you, squeezing you lightly. 

“i love you doll,” he says softly, amplifying your warmth. 

“i love you too, toji,” and you both looked happily upon the family you had created together.

[mixelation]

and i finished!

the book does pick up significantly for the last ten or so chapters. i am not 100% sure the build up is worth the pay off though

spoilers ->

so, one of the through lines of the book is getting zetian and qin zheng up into space to kill "the gods." the gods are the "heavenly court"-- mysterious entities in a satellite orbiting the earth, who take the spirit metal formed by dead hunduns as "tribute"

it is not difficult to guess the mystery here. the gods are just other humans. the hundun spirit metal is their unobtanium, their spice, their vibranium. it is a magic precious resource they need to fuel space society

so zetian and qin zheng get up to the space station. yizhi is there, having fled at the end of part 2. oh yeah, i didn't mention that, because yizhi just spends all his time standing off to the side and then occasionally revealing he's done something. yizhi now has a nonbinary space buddy with blue and pink hair and pronouns, named helan. helan explains that the heavenly court is really just a trading station owned by a mining company who is the sole supplier of spirit metal. and then-- once again, i shit you not-- helan explains that their home planet where the company is based is going to have an election and explains there's a Bad Party and a Good Party, and helan is helping them to benefit the Good Party. this part is deeply stupid. i cannot believe the dedication to bland unnuanced and unexciting politics pervaded this far. this is like watching the end of hunter x hunter and discovering one of the key ongoing final plots in the anime about magic users fighting each other is a run-off election

anyway. the world building about the heavenly court is mostly derivative and bland and delivered with all the clunkiness of the every piece of politics so far. but then everything goes to completely to shit and zetian and qin zheng finally have their "so you fucked around, now time to find out!" moment

a lot of the actual dialogue and internal monologue inexplicably also gets better for decent chunks of the finale. at the end of iron widow, it felt like zhao was running out of steam and just wanted to get to the finish line. at the end of heavenly tyrant, i felt like i finally got to the part they'd been wanting to write all along. the parts about zetian wanting to kill the gods were definitely the strongest written through-line even if i didn't personally have much interest in it, so it makes sense that focusing the finale on that plot made for a decent payoff

so is the ending good enough to justify the slog that precedes it? meh. if you enjoyed iron widow and are the type of person who doesn't mind reading hundreds of pages that probably should have been cut, i think part 3 was pretty fun. i was genuinely considering just not finishing at the beginning of part 3, and i'm glad i pushed through a few more chapters to get to see the shit hit the fan.

so i guess... if you've already read through part 2, i would recommend pushing through the bizarre beginning of part 3. if you've just started and aren't sure you can make it through hundreds of pages of the bad writing and meh politics, i recommend..... well, like i said, if you really liked iron widow, it might be worth it. if you were just meh on iron widow.... eh, only if you're the type of person who enjoys sending excerpts of bad fanfiction to their friends

i've been reading heavenly tyrant (the sequel to iron widow by xiran jay zhao). thoughts after finishing the first part below the cut.

note my impression is mostly critical so far, and so clicking will reveal negativity. i assume most people have control over their own ability to gauge if they can handle this or not, but i've been proved wrong before

bullet points:

i feel the writing has improved on a structural level, but frequently veers into strange twitter-esque rants about the evils of capitalism? and often there are very first draft vibes to descriptions

there is a scene-- i shit you not-- where zetian accuses qin zheng (a legendary emperor who was frozen for 200 years that zetian woke up) of treating her like he owns her, and then makes a quip about how a guy who's against private property shouldn't be like that. qin zheng then replies-- i shit you not-- by explaining the difference between private and personal property. then he says something like "i have to go reform the education system" and leaves. i choose to believe this is a joke for my own sanity, but it is genuinely unclear

one of my complaints about iron widow is that the last 2/3-ish of the book seem to lack focus because zetian doesn't really have a specific goal, she's just doing stuff. in the first third of this installment, she spends 85% of her time confined to a single room. so now she doesn't seem to have much of a goal (she keeps talking about learning how qin zheng became powerful, taking that power, and killing him... but it's unclear why she wants to do this or what she thinks will happen if she succeeds) AND she's not even doing stuff.

i do like qin zheng more than shimin or yizhi. probably because he is the only one in this book making any sort of decisions. that being said, his ~toxic situationmance~ with zetian isn't... like... fun? they just don't like each other

if you liked yizhi or shimin then bad news!!!! they're barely here!!!! i didn't really care so i'm having fun with this new guy. how are you going to uplift the common man but live in a palace, new guy? hmm?

also zetian has gone from "ridiculous but fun to watch break things" to just like. unlikeable. it's to the point where it's hard to feel bad for her because some of her problems really do feel like they wouldn't exist if she was just, like, polite.

ANOTHER complaint i had about iron widow was that there was too much telling instead of showing. i felt this had improved a little with heavenly tyrant, as we see zetian actually attempting positive interactions with women (one of her repeatedly stated goals in the first book was wanting to help girls, and yet we barely saw her give a shit about any individual woman) and the narrative actually gives itself enough room to have zetian and qin zheng interact. however qin zheng keeps giving speeches about new policies he's going to use to fix society and folks, we have not been shown all these societal problems. like at all. there's medical debt? educational debt? no named character has these problems. i did not know these problems existed in this society before this speech.

also his big plans really do read like a 16 year old on tumblr making up an imaginary government based on some posts they read and 0 real world experience. slay

a lot of the reviews on storygraph complain it's too slow but honestly i read the first ten chapters really quickly because like. what is happening here. we'll see if anything manages to happen in the next part

[evedaser]

I've taken my tallies. The list has been updated.

As of December 25th, 2024, with tallies taken for 49/65 episodes of the series, the two episodes with the highest amount of spells in the entirety of BBC Merlin are 5.13: The Diamond of the Day Part II and 1.01: The Dragon's Call.

[bunnieswithknives]

Creepy old guy

[astralzeraphias]

are you going to shoot me, mulder? is that how much this means to you?

[ricky-mortis]

“You’re a caveman. And I’ve invented fire.”

Close-ups under the cut :)

[tunapesto]

let's fall down together