#because the shit i ACTUALLY care about gets fuck all
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holiday spirit | jason todd
Summary: Stuck at a shitty office party for your shitty job on Christmas Eve Eve, you’re at your wit’s end. The last thing you expect is to play vigilante for a night with the Red Hood.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 7.2k
Warnings/tags: panic attacks, reader has anxiety, creepy coworkers, office party shenanigans, canon-typical violence, jason being both a menace and a sweetheart, attempts at humor, fake relationship, silliness!
the divider
You’re grateful for a reason to escape. Someone announces that the lights on the obnoxious eleven-foot Christmas tree are burned out and you’re already on the elevator, volunteering to find spare lights.
You hate these office parties. They’re just a way to play politics, show off fiancés, and reaffirm cliques. You wanted to skip it all together. But Mr. Emerson, your boss, had insisted that attending tonight’s party was mandatory.
Alma had told you about a hundred times to skip tonight, but Alma’s worked here since the Reagan administration and has too much pull to be fired. You, conversely, have been here eight months, and if you get fired, your next job is going to be as a henchman for a B-list Gotham villain.
Being painfully ordinary and anxious is a toxic mix. Your doctor still thinks all your worrying is because of your menstrual cycle. He doesn’t believe in work-related stress.
So anyway. You’re just trying to get through tonight. And find some tree lights that work.
You unlock the spare office where all the holiday junk is stored and turn on the light.
The motherfucking Red Hood looks at you, one leg dangling outside of the window and one leg inside the office. He unclicks his harness.
"Oh my God,” you say, hand frozen on the light switch.
Red Hood pulls his leg in from the window and steps into the office. He puts the harness in a duffel bag and roughly zips it, then tosses it unceremoniously onto the floor.
"Oh my God.”
He glances at you, helmet eyes glowing. "No God here, just me.”
"Oh my God," you say again, near hysterics. "Oh my God, Red Hood."
"Always nice to meet a fan," he says irritably, brushing snow off of his jacket, flashing his holsters. Oh, fuck. That's a lot of guns.
"What, um—" You close your eyes, lick your lips, try to find your sanity. "To what do I—why—are you gonna kill me?”
"The fuck? You think I'd sneak into an office and kill someone in cold blood? What kinda operation you think I'm running?"
Your mouth opens and closes in horror. "Wh–I... I don't—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Hood."
"Please, Mr. Hood was my father."
He laughs. You taste bile in your throat.
Hood sobers. "Damn. Tough crowd. Look, sorry to freak you out, but I got shit to do. If you'll just point me to Hershel Emerson's office, I'll be on my merry way."
"That's m-my boss. Are you gonna kill him?" You can’t handle murder tonight. You’ll have a breakdown for sure.
"Literally, what did I just say?" Hood throws his hands up. "Not one minute ago. I'm not killing anyone!"
"Yet?" you ask weakly, mind inundated with too many mob movies to watch your manners. You know what the Red Hood is all about. Everyone does.
"No. I'm not killing Emerson. But he is a bad dude, so I gotta take care of business. Actually, I should kill him. He deserves it."
You squeak in horror. He raises a hand.
"But I'm not!" he says gruffly. "Respectfully, get a grip. You live in Gotham."
You swallow. "What're you gonna do to my boss if not kill him?"
Hood shrugs. "Eh, maybe scare him a bit. Mostly get intel to take him down. He's currently sitting on five million dollars of stolen life savings from clients."
You blink. "What?"
"Yup. What I really wanna know is which of his employees are in on it. He didn't do this alone."
Hood takes out a small roll-up pouch of what looks like lockpicking tools. You release your sweaty death grip on the doorknob, causing it to squeak. Hood doesn't look up.
five million dollars is ringing in your head. That happened here. Where you work. Your boss is even scummier than you thought.
“Is that a lockpicking kit?” you ask.
“Yup. Good eye.”
"This seems... illegal.”
"Well, I won't lie to you, most of what I do is. You won't be implicated though.”
He looks at you. You flinch. Even with the lights on, the Red Hood is scary as shit.
"Yeah..." he says, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t do well in prison. I can tell."
Your chest hurts. "I don't think anyone does well in prison," you say, eyebrows scrunching. "Have... you been to prison?"
"Only to break out a friend. You ask a lot of questions."
"Sorry. Um, Mr. Red Hood—"
"Ah-ah. Call me Red. Or Hood. No Mister-ing."
"Okay.” You lick your lips, hoping he doesn't go back on his temporary no-kill policy. “Hood, do you think you could come later? After the Christmas party?”
He tilts his head at you. You keep talking.
“Not that I don't admire what you're doing! Because I think taking down my boss for stealing money is great, eat the rich and all that, but, um, I came up here to get lights to replace the ones that burned out downstairs because that's a normal thing that happens and now you're here, at my job, and I'm freaking out. Oh God, oh my God—”
You grab the wall for stability, feeling like you've been rocking on a boat for hours. Sweat beads on your forehead. This time, you really do feel like you’ll throw up. Throwing up in front of the Red Hood would be humiliating.
“Look, I got shit to do, okay? I'm sorry you're freaking out but your boss is gonna cash out in a few days and then I lose him and that five million. It's now or never."
You should've just stayed home and baked cookies. Fuck being social! This is what happens when you're social: you meet morally gray vigilantes who force you to be complicit with their crimes.
Your cheeks feel wet. Are you crying? Maybe it’s sweat.
Hood points to the hallway. "Is there a camera outside?"
"Y-yeah.” Your voice is weak. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Can you call security on your way out?"
“Does your left arm hurt?”
“No, but—”
“Are your limbs stiffening?”
“No, but—”
“You’re not having a heart attack. Your speech is fine.”
Hood takes out a few more things from the duffel, then kicks it under a desk with his foot. You wheeze and grab onto the doorknob again.
It’s quiet for a second. Then—
“Shit. You're having a panic attack,” Hood says.
"Mm, probably," you say, hunched over like an armadillo. Fuck your stupid doctor.
There's silence as you wheeze quietly. Then something small hits your head. You flinch and squeal.
"You don't need to throw things at me!" you say, beyond defeated, near tears.
"No, I wasn't—sorry. It's a Warhead. I have one when I'm feeling… not my best. They're s’posed to help occupy your other senses so the panic disappears."
You stare at the candy, confused and suspicious at once. "Is it spiked?"
"Again, what sorta operation do you think I'm running? It's not drugs. Look." Hood unwraps a Warhead and sticks it in his mouth underneath his helmet. You hear him suck on it. "Eesh, that's sour. Okay? No drugs."
So you take the candy from the floor, unwrap it, and pop it into your mouth. The sour taste immediately overwhelms you. It's like your brain resets. You pant through the sour.
"Ough," you say, face scrunching from the taste.
"Yeah, right? Life changing hack."
You suck on the candy desperately and close your eyes, trying to find your breath.
“It’s okay,” Hood says, stilted and awkward. “Just, uh, focus on your breathing. Exhale longer than you inhale. Breathe through your nose.”
It takes another few minutes, but the feeling passes. Your chest lightens. It’s the quickest you’ve ever recovered from a panic attack.
“I was just kidding about the prison thing,” Hood says. “You’re not gonna go to jail ‘cause of this, I promise.”
Yeah, but what if you lose your job?
You spit the Warhead into a trash can and smack your tongue a bit. “Are you sure you can’t come back tomorrow night?”
“No can do,” Hood says. “Your boss will be gone by then.”
“It's just that I'm really bad with keeping secrets and according to Google, that's how ulcers form and I really can't afford any sick days off, so—"
You yelp as the door suddenly swings open, hitting your shoulder. You spin around.
"Hey," Bill says, squinting at you. "Where have you been?”
"No!" you yell, and turn off the light.
Bill stares at you, illuminated by the hallway light. “Uh…”
You clear your throat. "Ahem. I'm fine. It's just taking me a moment to sift through all these decorations. Please return to the party.”
You hate Bill. He’s a sleaze and doesn’t do any work. More than once, he’s trapped you by the water cooler in a conversation about his “smokin’” imaginary lawyer girlfriend.
“If you wanted me to come help you, you could've just said so," he says, reaching for the light, way too close. You don’t like his tone either.
"No!" you yell, blocking the light switch with your hands.
"What the hell? Why not?"
"Because—"
There's a creak from the back. You wince.
Bill immediately whips his head toward the sound. "Is someone here? Hello?"
He reaches for the light. Again, you block him, swatting his hands away.
"Would you stop—is someone here?"
"My boyfriend!" you blurt.
Bill stops, looking at you. "Your boyfriend? You've never mentioned a boyfriend."
"Well, I have one and he's here."
"Okay. Why can't I turn on the light and see him?"
"Because he's... um..."
You spot the red Santa suit out of the corner of your eye.
Oh, this is a terrible idea.
"He's changing! He's our Santa for the party. Surprise!" You make weak jazz hands.
Bill looks into the dark where you're pretty sure Hood is hiding. You hope, anyway. Otherwise Bill is going to tell everyone that you're making up boyfriends. "Really?"
"Yeah, really," comes Hood's unmodulated, deadpan reply, and you jump. "Don't turn on the light. I'm naked."
"Oh..." Bill looks queasy for a moment. "Uh—" He looks at you and suddenly grins. "Oh, I get it. You two were having fun before going to the party, huh? Didn't know you were such a wildcat."
"That’s disgusting,” you say. “I would never do that in the office.”
Bill wiggles his eyebrows. "Me-ow. Does the Santa thing turn you on?"
"I'm right here, Bill, and naked or not, I'll kick your ass," Hood says.
Bill pales and quickly backs out of the room. "Right. Sorry. Uh, carry on."
He closes the door. You push your back against it and exhale, heart racing.
"Bill is a shithead," Hood says.
“How… do you know his name?”
“Employee background check,” Hood says mildly.
"Oh… yeah, he's been written up a bunch of times for inappropriate behavior, but he's close with Emerson, so he never gets fired."
"Want me to kill him for you? Free of charge."
"What? No! Hood—"
"Oh, relax. I was kidding."
"Uh-huh." You turn on the light. Hood has his helmet on, and his voice is modulated again. "What're we gonna do?"
"Well, I'm gonna go make sure Hershel doesn’t fuck off to Bermuda. The lights you wanted are here, by the way."
Hood tosses you a box of multi-colored tree lights. Then he walks toward you. You plaster yourself across the door.
"Wait! You can't leave. I said that my boyfriend is going to be Santa. Bill will tell everyone. They’ll expect you.”
"I appreciate your quick thinking, but that's a hard pass,” Hood says.
"You can't leave now! Bill's gonna tell everyone I'm a liar and they'll think I was up to something worse in here, like snorting coke."
"I mean this gently: I think you should look into anti-anxiety meds. My brother swears by Xanax.”
“My doctor won’t prescribe it to me,” you say glumly. “He thinks my anxiety is made up.”
“Huh. Want me to kill him? I know a better doctor.”
"Well…” You hesitate, then shake your head. “No! No. Hood, please. They’re all gonna expect a Santa. And when I don’t show up with Santa, they’ll remember that I didn’t participate in White Elephant or any of that other office nonsense that I don’t want to waste my money on. I need this job!”
“They’re not gonna fire you for not doing White Elephant,” Hood says.
“You don’t know them! It’s a popularity contest.”
But Hood is indeed disinterested in the fact that you'll be the office pariah. Probably because he’s never worked in an office.
Instead, he ushers you aside without a struggle. Then he turns the doorknob.
"Wait! Wait, listen. If you dress as Santa, you'll have access to the party and offices. You won't have to sneak around. And people get really drunk at these. They'll talk. You can figure out who's helping Emerson steal money."
His hand pauses. He looks at you. You look back, wringing your hands.
"You're pretty crafty," he says.
"...Thanks?”
Hood releases the doorknob. "Alright, fine. I'll do the Santa shtick.”
“You will?”
He tilts his head. “Should I not?”
“No! No, you should. It’ll be a good disguise.”
He hums. “Sure. But we're in this together now, got it? You blow my cover and we both go down."
"Y-yeah, got it."
Hood heaves a gusty sigh. "Next time, I'm sending Roy in to do this shit."
"Who's Roy?"
"Ah." He holds up a finger. "Too many questions."
He makes a beeline for the Santa costume and then looks at you expectantly.
"Yo. Boyfriend or not, you're not watching me change. Guard the door, Mrs. Claus."
"Oh, right. Sorry."
You turn off the light and go into the hall, shutting the door behind you. It's empty, luckily. You rap your fingers on the box of lights, leg jiggling.
This is insane. You should just tell Hood you can't do this and let him figure out his own plan.
But then... this would make it easier to find Emerson's crime partner. And you're really sick of Bill being a jerk. You don’t want to be called a liar, or get iced out for the rest of your time here because you didn’t bring Santa. Maybe having Hood be your Santa-boyfriend would make people leave you alone. Which is a crazy reason to stick to this plan, but still. You're trying to find the bright side.
And all those people that Emerson stole from... surely, you have a responsibility to help get their money back and bring him to justice, don't you?
The door swings open. You turn around.
“You wear a mask under your helmet?”
“As a precaution.” He sounds defensive. “Lots of people in my profession do it.”
You doubt that. “Don’t you think it’ll be weird if Santa has a mask on?”
He hesitates, evidently debating between protecting his identity and arousing suspicion.
“Fine.” He carefully peels off the mask and tucks it into his pocket. The surrounding skin is slightly pink from irritation. His nose and cheeks are dotted with freckles.
And wow. The Red Hood has beautiful eyes. So vibrant and clear, like seafoam. And young! How old is he, anyway? He doesn’t look much older than you, if at all.
His eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes, and it makes sense, Hood being a brunet.
“What?” he snaps, glaring.
“Nice eyes,” you blurt.
His brows furrow. You remember the guns.
“Um, anyway. Should we go?” you squeak out, backing away.
Hood huffs through the beard. It flutters. "We need to have some ground rules."
"Okay."
"First, you should know that I will shoot if there's a physical threat at this party. Two, you're gonna call me Todd at the party. Three, if you try to tell anyone that I'm Red Hood or that I'm taking down Emerson, I will make your life hell. And if you're his partner, you'd better tell me now or I'm gonna be a lot less jolly."
"I'm not!" you say. "I would never do that. And I won't tell anyone you're Red Hood."
"Good. Let's go. Keep your ears open for hints about Emerson's partner."
He takes off in long strides. You hurry to keep up. The Santa costume doesn't slow him down.
"So how did you find out that Emerson's stealing?" you ask.
"Got a tip. You really didn't know he was stealing?"
“I don’t have access to the finances. I work in user interface. Website design.”
"Yeah? That's pretty cool. I got a brother who's into that stuff," Hood says.
"The same one who takes Xanax?”
“Would you believe it?”
You try to picture Red Hood with a regular family. With a brother or a sister or a father. It's hard to imagine.
“How come you don’t take anti-anxiety medication?” you ask.
“I have Pit Madness Syndrome, and it has a weird chemical reaction with that stuff.”
“Oh.” Subject change. Quickly! "Do you celebrate Christmas?"
"Not really. I'm not a believer or celebrator of much. You can see what my plans are two days before Christmas."
"Your family doesn't celebrate?"
Hood just grunts, eyes suddenly stormy. You take the hint and stop talking.
The room where the party is isn't particularly special. It's big enough to fit about a hundred people. For all the money the company makes, you'd thought that they could afford to splurge a little and rent an actual hall. Now you know what the profits have been going toward. But the decorations are decently lavish.
"Oh, wait." Hood leans in to speak in your ear. Lightning shoots down your spine. "I don't know your name."
You give it. He repeats it, and you shiver, like your boyfriend just said your name.
"'Kay. Stay in this room. We don't know how much Emerson or his partner knows, but assume they’re willing to do anything to get away with the money."
You nod. “Got it.”
“Hey, it’s Santa!” Bill shouts from across the room. “He made it!”
You smile tightly. “As promised.”
A few people wave. Others cheer.
“These people really like Christmas, huh?” Hood asks.
“You have no idea,” you say, hyperaware of his hand brushing your back.
“Don’t think I got your name, man,” Bill says as he approaches. He sticks a hand out. “Bill.”
“Todd,” Hood says, taking his hand and shaking. Bill winces at the handshake. You hide a smile.
“Ah, Todd. Right.” Bill looks at you, trying to subtly soothe his hand. “You’ve never mentioned him.”
You shrug. “Never came up.”
“I’m pretty private,” Hood says, putting an arm around your shoulders. “But we’re very much in love. Ain’t that right, baby?”
“Th-that’s right… honey,” you say, face going hot.
“So what do you do for work?” Bill asks. “My girlfriend’s a lawyer.”
You roll your eyes. Hood snorts.
“There’s no way you’re dating anyone. You look like you got dressed in the dark, Billy.”
You cough your laugh into your arm. Bill’s eye twitches.
“Enjoy the party,” he says icily. He glares at you, then stomps away.
“That was amazing, but I think Bill might retaliate,” you say.
“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Hood says. “I’ll take care of it.”
You look at him with big eyes. “Hood—”
“Not like that. Just… it’ll be handled. Okay?”
You nod. Maybe it’s insane, but you trust him. “Okay. Want some punch?”
Hood hums. “No alcohol. Thanks.”
You go to the punch bowl, a little relieved to escape Hood’s piercing ocean-eyed stare. He’s intense. Whoever dates him for real is in for a ride.
Then again, you can’t imagine Hood meeting someone for coffee or dinner. You giggle at the image of him showing up with his guns and helmet.
“Hey, IT.” A woman in a white sweater you’ve seen maybe once waves at you. “Cool idea, bringing a Santa.”
“Yeah, Emerson’s too cheap to,” the man next to her says. They laugh.
You smile. “Glad you like it.”
You serve yourself two cups of the alcohol-free punch. Then you turn.
Your smile falls. Across the room is Hood and Tanya Donaldson, resident shit-stirrer. She’s trying to cozy up to him. You sigh and walk over, bracing yourself.
“Hey, baby,” Hood says, practically dragging you into his side. He takes a cup of punch. “Just met Tanya.”
You can guess exactly how he feels about that.
"Oh, is he your boyfriend?" Tanya asks, eyeing Hood like he's a slab of steak. “I had no idea!”
"Uh-huh," you say. "This is Todd."
She wiggles her fingers, grinning. “So how often do you go to the gym, Todd?” She rests a hand on Hood's arm. "I didn't know Santa was so big and broad."
Your gaze drifts to where you're pretty sure Hood has a gun strapped to his ankle, and the temptation does appear, you won't deny.
But you need this job and it's going to be really hard to explain why Santa's armed and dangerous, so you just grit your teeth. Tanya's the worst for this kind of behavior and she doesn't respect you, so bringing your hunky boyfriend is like dangling a bunch of carrots in her face.
And it’s not like Todd is actually your boyfriend.
"Are you flirting with me in front of my girlfriend?" Hood asks, prying her hand off of his arm.
"Flirting?" She claps a hand over her mouth, the movement slightly delayed from all the wine. "No, oh my God! I was just saying—"
"That's really pathetic," Hood says. "Don't do that."
He walks away and you follow, leaving a wobbly Tanya on her own. You smile to yourself.
"Thank you for that," you say.
Hood gives you a thumbs up. "I can plant evidence on her and get her fired if you want."
"No, I don't want to feel damned for eternity. Thanks anyway."
"You have a lot of assholes at your job," Hood says. "But you're not one. I admire that.”
You sigh. "They're not all bad. Alma is cool. She keeps me from quitting.”
"And where is she?"
"At home. She's a sixty-two year old accountant who doesn't care about these parties. Her hip aches when it's cold."
"Mm. Maybe you should follow her lead," Hood says.
"But then who would help you with your spycraft, Hood?"
He allows himself a tiny laugh at that. You wonder how often he laughs. If ever.
“Well, suffering Tanya wasn’t in vain. She said this whole party cost twenty grand.”
“So?”
He gestures grandly. “Does this look like it cost twenty grand to put this together?”
It's true. The alcohol is the most expensive thing here. No food, except for some people that participated in the potluck, but you don't trust anybody's food here. The decorations are old. Not to mention the Red Hood as your Santa. Your boss might have spared a thousand for tonight. No more.
“So where did all that money go?” you ask.
Hood snaps his fingers. “Bingo.”
“That is so shitty. I got a chocolate-covered pretzel as my Christmas bonus,” you say.
“A bag of ‘em?” He shakes his head. “Pretty cheap.”
“Ha, no. No, I got one big pretzel. In a box. The box cost more than the pretzel, I think.”
His eyes widen. “Jesus. Even I give more than that to my guys.”
“Got any openings?” you ask, half-joking.
Hood snorts. “Don't think you'd like what we do. Why d’you stay?”
You shrug. “Nowhere else to go. I have to eat somehow.”
“Crappy boss, crappy coworkers, no Christmas bonus. Hell, I feel sorry for ya.”
The Red Hood feels sorry for you. Perhaps you've reached a new low.
He drinks the punch and coughs. “Ahem, wow. Did you make the punch?”
“No, some people mixed it here.”
“Oh, then I'll be honest. Tastes like a flavor that's not found in nature.” He throws his cup away. You trust him and set your still-full cup on a table.
“I won't even mention the potluck,” you say.
“Yeesh. Can't eat at everyone's house.”
“That's what I say!”
He winks at you. You look away, flustered.
The crazy thing is, you could get used to this. Well, not specifically Red Hood, but having a boyfriend to bring to these functions, who’ll warn you against gross punch and defend you against Tanya.
And Hood is surprisingly good at this. If you forget the past hour, you can almost pretend that this is just another office party that you happen to be spending with your new boyfriend.
"Hey, look! It's Santa! Dude, check me out with Santa!"
One of the finance guys who's very drunk—you want to say that his name is Matt—bounds up to you and Hood. Hood tenses, reaching for his hip (gun!) and you touch his elbow, reminding him to relax. He drops his arm.
Matt reeks of alcohol, the front of his shirt stained with bourbon. He laughs, forehead shiny with sweat.
"Santaaa, hey, Saint Nick, take a pic with me, man!"
Matt throws his arms around Hood. Hood does not like that and shoves him off accordingly. But Matt doesn't seem to notice and holds up his phone, camera facing front. Hood slaps the phone out of his hand.
"No pictures," he says.
You wince. The guy stares and blinks, taking three to five business days to process what just happened.
"What the fuck, man? That was my phone!"
"Sorry. I'm drunk." Hood sighs like he's physically in pain, then leans back and makes drinking motions with his fingers. "Fuckin' wasted! Did you try those rum shots? Lit, dude!"
The guy cheers up, forgetting all about the phone. "Oh, yeah, for sure! I'm gonna go get one right now! Thanks, Santa!"
"You do that!" Hood says cheerily.
As soon as the guy leaves, Hood returns to his resting scary face.
"Wow," you say.
"I know. I threw up in my mouth a little."
You laugh. Hood grins. Then it fades.
"Damn it. We're getting no closer to finding Emerson's partner. I should just interrogate Emerson until he tells me."
Interrogate makes you feel woozy. You're pretty sure you know what Hood's idea of an interrogation is.
"Wait! We just need to lure them out. If they think their money might be in jeopardy, they'll sneak out of the party to go check on it, right?" you ask.
"Potentially, yes. But how do we lure 'em?"
"There's an alert if someone withdraws more than ten thousand dollars from the company. But I don't have access to the accounts," you say.
Hood smiles slowly. "You don't need it. Remember I mentioned my computer whiz brother?"
"Yeah…” You grimace. “This sounds illegal again.”
"Hell yeah it is. He owes me a favor too. Lemme call him."
You two go off to the side while Hood dials.
"Yeah?" comes a voice on the other end. He doesn’t sound at all like Hood, more like a one percenter from the Diamond District. This is Hood’s brother?
"Aliases only. I need you to withdraw fifty grand from Emerson Corp,” Hood says.
"Why?”
“‘Cause you owe me a favor. Just do it.”
“Zombie breath.”
“Shortass,” Hood says, voice taking on a distinct older brother tone.
“You’re such an asshole,” the voice says. He yawns. “B’s wondering if you’re coming tomorrow.”
“I’d rather die again,” Hood says. “And you can tell him I said that.”
“The broody emo bullshit is getting old, dude,” the voice says.
You giggle. Hood looks at you sharply. You press your lips together, properly chastened. Sorry, you mouth.
"Who's that?" the voice asks.
"No one," Hood says. "Did you do it?"
"Chill out. I'm getting past their firewall. So who is that?”
“It’s the TV,” Hood says.
“No, it’s not. That was a lady's laugh, IRL. And you wouldn’t lie if it was someone we know…”
“Mind your damn—”
“I’m helping him with a case,” you blurt.
Hood throws his hand up, glaring at you. It’s silent on the other end of the phone for a solid ten seconds. Then…
“Holy shit,” Hood’s brother says. “You do have a girlfriend. Wait. Hold on. This is wild. You don’t even have a social security number.”
“I do not have a girlfriend!” Hood snaps, drawing the attention of some coworkers. You nudge him. He exhales through his nose.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, you little fucker,” he says, quieter. “She’s telling the truth.”
“Can I ask your girlfriend a question? Respectfully, what were you thinking? You can do so much b—”
“Text me when it’s done,” Hood growls and hangs up.
You look at each other for a moment.
“You didn't hear any of that,” Hood says. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Good. Let's see who gets scared. He should do it right about…”
His phone beeps. You look around the room.
Soon, your culprit reveals himself. Matt!
Holy shit.
"He didn't want a picture," Hood says slowly. "He was frisking me! Motherfucker."
"But isn't he drunk?" you ask.
"No." Hood sighs in disgust. "How did I miss that? Br—someone I know does that all the time, spilling alcohol on himself so he smells like he's been drinking. God. Oldest trick in the book!"
"Do you think he knows you're the Red Hood?"
"No. But he might suspect something. Let's go.”
You follow Matt out of the party. He's walking fast. Yeah. Definitely your guy.
Down the hallway, Matt turns around and makes direct eye contact with you. You panic.
“Hood!” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “Follow my lead.”
Loudly, he laughs and puts an arm around your waist. “C’mon, baby, no one’ll know.”
And then you're being herded into a janitor’s closet.
You stumble in, confused and reeling from how easily Hood plays the affectionate boyfriend role. He follows you in, shuts the door, and pulls the chain dangling from the ceiling. The single light bulb turns on.
You take care to not knock over any cleaning supplies. You don't see the mop on the floor, however, and you trip backwards on the handle.
Hood's reaction time is impeccable. He jerks forward to catch you, tugging you back on your feet with his hands on your arms.
“Y’alright?” he asks.
“Uh-huh,” you say, mildly mortified. “Thanks.”
He lets go. You shift on your feet.
“How long are we gonna stay here?” you ask.
Hood checks his phone. “Well, he should've moved on by now. Let's—”
The doorknob jiggles. You look at Hood in fear. His expression is similar.
“Pretend!” you whisper, and that's all he needs to understand and move.
You're expecting your arms around Hood, maybe exaggeratedly feeling him up. You are not expecting Hood to hoist you up by the backs of your thighs and press you against the wall. You squeal, arms shooting out to hold onto his neck. Hood's beard ends up in your mouth and you spit it out.
The door swings open, revealing a very tipsy couple.
“Oops!” the woman says, grinning. “Sorry. Carry on.”
The guy gives a thumbs-up. “True love.”
You smile awkwardly. Something is pressing into your hip.
“True love,” Hood deadpans. “Rock on.”
As soon as the door closes, you're squirming.
“What is that?” you hiss.
“My gun! Oh my God, it's my gun,” Hood says, quickly setting you down. “It's not…”
He trails off and backs away. You stand there, processing what just happened.
“That wasn’t—”
“I didn’t—”
You both stop. Hood adjusts his beard.
“You're really strong,” you say, wringing your hands.
Hood nods. “Sorry about the, uh…”
“Yeah, let's just not talk about this.”
“Yup. Find Matt?”
“Absolutely.”
You open the door and peek out. The hallway is empty. Glory be.
“All clear,” you say, and Hood is on your heels as you sneak out.
“Any ideas on where he'd go?” Hood asks.
“Matt works in a cubicle like the rest of us. Emerson’s office is on the twelfth floor.”
“Fine. We'll hit Emerson's office first. More privacy, and maybe they'll both be there. Two birds.”
“Emerson's office is protected by a password lock. He changes it every night,” you say, scurrying to keep up with Hood.
“That's fine. I got a key right here,” he says, patting his holster.
“Wait! If the lock is tampered with, it sets off an alarm and security will come. You can't shoot it, Hood.”
He stops and sighs. “Why is everything so goddamn complicated? Alright, new plan. I'm gonna get my stuff from where we were and I'll break in the old-fashioned way.”
Fifteen Minutes Later.
“This seems really unsafe!” you say, watching Hood dangle outside a three story window on a wire. He's attached to a grappling hook but still. Still!
“Eh, I died once. Didn't stick. Hold the hook.”
“I am!” As if you'd do anything but. You don't want the Red Hood to become Red Goo.
Chilly December wind makes your eyes water and your nose cold. Still, you hold on.
“Almost there!” he says.
“Hey! What're you doing?”
You whirl around and close your eyes due to the flashlight shining at them. Even though the lights are on.
An elderly security guard glares at you. It's a good thing you're not an actual criminal… though after tonight, you're not so sure.
“Um.” You try to hold onto the hook while hiding it behind your back. “Bird watching?”
The guard turns off the flashlight and tucks it into his belt. He slowly walks to you.
“If you're doing something illegal, Miss, you're in big trouble.”
Well, this is fantastic. Of course it would be you that gets caught.
The guard is getting closer. Your grip is sweaty. He peers over your shoulder. You let go of the hook, praying to every spirit out there that Hood is as good as everyone says he is.
The guard looks around and scratches his head. You shrug, heart in your throat.
“See?” you say. “Bird watching.”
He frowns at you. “I've got my eye on you.”
“And I commend you for that.”
“Are you sassing me?”
Are you? You might be. You've been spending too much time with Hood.
Hood! You turn and look out the window. You don't see any red goo below, but it's also cold and foggy. Shit. You hurry to the elevators.
“Okay, happy holidays, bye!”
The elevator doors open. You press twelve and close the door before the guard can consider getting on with you and shooting you a hairy eyeball all the way down.
You hurry out and run down to Emerson's office. The door has been left ajar, which is good, right?
Bang!
You throw yourself against the wall. Shit. Maybe not.
Ugh, you told Hood no shooting! Son of a bitch.
“We're doing this tonight!” That's Emerson's voice. “I don't care if I have to shoot my way out.”
Shoot? Oh no.
You carefully peek through the crack. Hood is standing with his hands behind his head. His beard has blood in it. Emerson is in front of him, gun to his head.
Hood catches your eye. He gives you the tiniest head shake. You swallow.
You can't just leave him there.
Okay. Think. Emerson's back is to you. You can't see Matt, but you figure he's far enough away to not immediately shoot you. Hopefully.
Anyway, what's your other option? The feisty relic upstairs? You can't risk any civilians getting hurt.
Technically you're also a civilian but not tonight. Tonight you might as well be Batman.
You slowly pull the door open further. You sneak in, then hide behind the secretary's desk.
“Is it done?” Emerson snaps.
That's when you see Matt in the corner on a laptop.
“It takes time,” Matt says, obviously stressed too.
“Well, hurry up!” Emerson looks at Hood. “Then we'll dispose of Santa here.”
Hood shrugs. “You can certainly try. Many have. ‘M still here.”
“Lots of bravado for a man in a costume,” Emerson sneers. “What are you, police?”
Hood groans. “As fucking if! I'm not a cop.”
He hums. “Perhaps not. Otherwise this place would be crawling with them already. But you're alone.”
“How d'you know I'm alone?” Hood asks.
You're glad he's calm because you're feeling the beginnings of another panic attack. But you can't panic, not now. The adrenaline pulsing through you is the only thing keeping you from going catatonic.
You have no weapon, no plan. How the hell are you supposed to help Hood?
“You're bluffing,” Emerson says.
“He has a girlfriend,” Matt says. “Some IT girl. She might come looking for him.”
“Then we'll take care of her too.”
Matt looks uncomfortable but he doesn't say anything. Hood is still cool as a cucumber.
“She won't look for me. We had a fight. I forgot to buy the candy she likes.”
Candy? Why would—oh!
On the secretary's desk is a glass bowl filled with mini candy canes. You wrap your hands around it.
“She knows my favorite,” Hood says, locking eyes with you.
You throw the bowl with all your might. Emerson is too slow—Hood grabs the bowl one-handed and swings it, knocking the gun from Emerson's hand. The candy explodes into pieces. Hood swings again, this time into Emerson's head. The bowl cracks. Emerson crumples to the floor.
“Are you o—”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
In a blink, Hood wraps one arm around your waist and yanks you to the floor, covering your body. You curl into him on instinct.
“I got you, I got you,” he says, patting your shoulder. “You okay?”
You nod, words not coming right now. You squeeze his hand. Hood seems to understand and he scoots you both behind Emerson’s desk. Then he loads his gun and cocks it.
“Stay here,” he says, then fires six shots.
“Goddamnit!” Matt yells across the room. “This wasn't the plan! You're not supposed to be here!”
Hood laughs, which is absolutely terrifying. “Don't talk to me about ruined plans, buddy. I've been waiting all night for an excuse to shoot somebody. Please make my night.”
Matt fires four more shots.
“Fuck you, cop!”
“What the fuck? Fuck you more! I'm not a fucking cop!”
“Maybe it's the way you stand,” you say, teeth chattering from anxiety.
Hood squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “I stand like a cop? Gross. I gotta work on that.”
“You're somebody!” Matt yells. “You're not just some guy, Todd, don't lie to me. You and that chick from IT are in cahoots.”
You huff. “He knows your name but not mine?”
“I’d take it as a compliment.”
Matt fires again. Hood tucks you behind him.
“He won’t kill anybody,” he says, with way too much confidence, in your opinion.
“Oh, is that why he's peacefully shooting at us?”
“He's scared, sure. But he can’t kill. Trust me, I know. Hey, Matt!”
“What?”
Hood stands up. Your eyes bug out of your head.
“Hood!” you hiss. “Hood!”
He ignores you, of course.
“You won’t hurt anyone,” Hood says. He starts walking toward Matt. “You're not a killer, Matt.”
And all this time you thought Hood was sort of sane. Nope.
“I will shoot you!” Matt warns.
“Aw. You wouldn't shoot Santy Claus, would you?”
Matt pulls the trigger. You gasp. It clicks. The magazine is empty.
Hood closes the distance between them and grabs the gun, then elbows Matt in the face. Matt sprawls onto the floor.
“Yeah, I don't risk my life on human emotion,” Hood says, loud enough so you can hear. “People can be so unpredictable. I will take a chance on a gun that only fires seven rounds, though. For a guy in finance, you're not very good with numbers, Matty.”
You sigh in relief, slumping against the desk. After tonight, you're retiring.
“Y'okay over there?” Hood asks.
“Yeah.”
It's quiet for a bit. Then Hood returns and offers you a hand to help you stand. You do so on shaky limbs.
He's got a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise on his cheek. You frown.
“I'm sorry I let go of the hook. I thought—”
“You let go of the hook?”
You stop. “Um. No?”
Hood squints at you. “Choosing to forgive you for that.”
“I knew you were inside the office!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I'm not the only one taking risks,” you say. “Matt still fired at you.”
“Eh.” Hood shrugs. “He’s a crap shot. And I counted the rounds. I maintain my point. Factually, he could not shoot me.”
“You could've told me the gun was empty,” you say.
“I wanted you to think I was cool and brave.”
You laugh. “I already think that.”
Hood looks at you for a moment, like he’s trying to see right down into your soul. Intense. You cross your arms.
“So, um, ready to ditch this party?” you ask.
“With pleasure.”
“What about them?” you ask, pointing to Matt.
“I have backup arriving soon. Let's get your coat.”
You get your things while Hood changes back into his usual garb. He meets you at the back exit, the one that leads to an alleyway, Santa suit gone. The party's winding down and most are getting into their cars. You're grateful no one stops to ask where you disappeared to.
There's police outside, but they're not here for Emerson. It's Bill that's being questioned by Commissioner Gordon. You stop short at the sight.
“Hood… what did you do?”
“Hm? Oh! There might have been some discrepancies in Bill's finances and he might have committed fraud to pay off his gambling debts. All circumstantial, though.”
“Please don't tell me you framed my coworker because he's a jerk,” you say.
“No, but I'm not above that, for the record. I recognized Bill from when I was casing the Iceberg Lounge. That's where he racked up all that debt.”
You nod slowly. “That's how you knew his name.”
“Yup. He was a nobody, so I didn't bother with him. Had I known he was such a menace at work, well…”
You grin. “It's okay. I appreciate it now.”
Hood nods. The silence is awkward for a few seconds.
“So—”
“You don't have to keep working here,” he says. “You can leave if you wanna.”
“Hood…”
He puts up a hand. “Hear me out. I have a contact at Wayne Enterprises. I can get you an interview. Hell, I can get you the job.”
“And what would I owe you?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Think of it as a thank you for tonight. You didn't have to help me but you did.”
You open and close your mouth. “I don't… I don't know what to say.”
“Don't gotta say a thing,” Hood says quietly. “If anyone deserves a new year, it's you.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels tight suddenly. “Oh, Hood, that's really—that's nice of you.”
“It's been known to happen. Don't spread it around though.”
“But I don't want the job without interviewing!” you say. “I want to get it on my own.”
Hood nods. “Deal.”
You want to hug him but that seems like too much, even with all you’ve done tonight. So you take out a candy cane instead.
“I salvaged one from the bowl,” you say. “Merry Christmas, Hood.”
He takes it, tucking it into his pocket. “Merry Christmas. Need a ride?”
You shake your head. “I'm fine. See you around?”
“Maybe, maybe not. Stay safe, alright?”
“Oh, I will. Will you?”
He laughs. “No promises.”
Then you blink and he's gone. You shove your hands into your coat pockets.
In each pocket, there's a handful of Warheads. You smile.
#Jason Todd x reader#Jason Todd x you#Jason Todd fanfiction#Jason Todd imagine#Jason Todd x fem reader#red Hood x you#red Hood x reader#red Hood fanfiction#red Hood imagine#red Hood x yn#red Hood x fem reader
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i seriously don’t understand what bucktommy shippers see in tommy though. genuinely. he starts the show as a racist misogynist and is reintroduced as somebody who has literally 0 defining character traits. he treated buck like a child. he didn’t know or care about the people in buck’s life or buck’s interests. you all claim that he’s had character growth since s2 but we never saw any evidence of that so why should we believe he’s changed? like i’m not even trying to hate here and i really don’t gaf about buddie, but seriously why are you guys so obsessed with tommy 😭
What I don't understand is why some people, like you, anon, put the entire "racist and misogynistic" atmosphere of the 118 under Gerrard completely on Tommy.
Yeah. He makes a racist joke towards Chim when he firsts comes into the 118 but no one stands up against it. In fact, people smirk at it. Even Eli. Eli explains the reason the 118 keeps Chim at arms length. I really wish people would actually watch the episode.
And if you want to get technical, we do see growth in Hen begins (time wise, Chim begins is first. Not Hen's) and when Hen shows up, Tommy is much more accepting of new people. In fact, he's interested in Hen until Gerrard opens his mouth, each time ultimately using his authority to intimidate and I know people hate this accusation but Chim never stands up for Hen in front of Gerrard or the others either.
And that's because they all know how difficult it is working under Gerrard.
By Bobby begins, it's clear that Tommy, Sal, Hen, and Chim all get along. And honestly by saying he's had no growth is an insult to both Hen and Chim's judge of character. Do you think they would willingly hang out with someone outside of work who they felt was actually racist and misogynistic?? Hell no. Didn't you watch the stuff with Jonah?? Hen hated him.
As for having no defining character traits, you're very wrong. Tommy shows up. For friends, for the wedding date, for coffee after the disaster date. He includes Eddie in a lot of his interests. He showed up at the hospital for Buck when he got hurt. He never told Buck he was stupid for believing in the curse and he wasn't embarrassed to be in public with Buck covered in boils. He stayed the night with Buck, sleeping on a tiny ass couch just to be near him. He also attended a funeral for a mummified cowboy and even dressed up.
All those things cover the shit you've said that Tommy doesn't do.
He does care for Buck's interests. He does care for the people in Buck's life. He went to a fucking zoom birthday party for Christopher ffs.
Not to mention, Tommy has acknowledged multiple times that he wasn't a good person back then. He even broke up with Buck even though he was clearly falling for Buck (and I believe already has).
Saying you don't care about buddie doesn't give you the right to say you don't see something that others do.
I don't see buddie happening. Never have. But people can still ship them. That's not a problem, and honestly, I'd never ask someone in fandom WHY they like a character or a ship or even a trope.
The issue is when people are obsessed with a character they don't like. That is where we are in the 911 fandom and it's why there's so much hate.
So. Perhaps. You should send this ask to a buddie bnf and ask them why they're so obsessed with Tommy. Especially now that he's broken up with Buck.
#nquesu wanna block#911 abc#anonymous#911 discourse#911 show#bucktommy#nquesu want receipts#tommy kinard
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Ayyy, there seems to be a lot of older people among the regular commenters of this blog so I'm gonna shoot my shot and ask for advice.
Idk if it's just the clinical depression but I can't help but feel like I'm never gonna find love as a straight girl. I don't hate men at all -- I've been very lucky to be surrounded by decent dudes growing up but shit. Lookin at the state of the world rn... Gen Z dudes chugging misogynist bullshit at alarming rates, women like Gisele Pelicot going through unspeakable shit from their own husbands... it's hard not to feel cynical. On top of that the decent dudes I know irl are all taken, I don't wanna go on dating apps, and as much as I wanna fuck an older man no decent one is gonna settle for a depressed young woman who's a 4 at best...
It's not that i don't have fulfilling friendships or that I don't value them, I just want to love and care for (and get dicked down by) a decent guy who feels the same way. I've always wanted that and I don't think it's changing anytime soon. Feels impossible though. I'm not sure if I'm the problem (I'm plain faced at best, no fashion sense or charm to speak of, though I do my best to be polite and kind) or there's just shit going on I've no control over.
--
People will give you a lot of placating nonsense, but the reality is that the supply of reasonably okay straight women is much higher than the supply of reasonably okay straight men. Finding a fulfilling long-term relationship is always hard anyway, but man... straight guys really need to step it up.
That said, a lot of people in general and straight guys in particular learn a lot from the breakdown of their first marriage/long-term relationship. Just because a guy is listening to godawful manosphere podcasts today doesn't mean he's never going to be dateable later.
Research on dating apps suggests that your average guy responds to pics where women have a lot of makeup on by looking for a hookup, passes by the ones with no makeup, and finds the ones with a little lipstick or something but not heavy makeup the most dateable.
While it would be nice if appearance didn't matter, if you're really worried about this, there are some basic things you can do where you'll get a lot of bang for your buck: Find one lipstick you can stand and learn to apply it. I like Bésame Cosmetics because I am a nerd and they sponsored a local film noir festival. Peggy Carter's lipstick was from them. They have the advantage of being intensely pigmented, so a quick swipe gives full coverage. I hate having shit on my face in general, so that's helpful. If eye stuff is less bleurgghhhh than lip stuff, learn to apply eyeliner instead. There are some liquid ones I really like even if it takes some practice to get decent at painting them on. You don't need a full face of makeup or really much of anything to read as Hot Girl™ to people who don't know anything about makeup and aren't paying much attention. Yes, even if you're a 4 and it's not just the depression talking.
Charm is hard. Some things can be taught, but a lot of that's innate. Fashion, however, is not. You don't need to be a fashionista to look better than a lot of the people around you. Save your money for fewer, better outfits. Buy things that fit well and get things tailored. Don't settle for ill-fitting clothes that don't make you feel good. Look for natural fibers and clothing that will last a long time. (And if you think you have sensitive skin that cannot handle natural fibers, you need to go up several price points on your cotton. Just saying.)
You can also increase your chances by doing activities where you meet more people who might be a good match. This means finding hobbies that actually have straight guys in them and going to in-person things where you meet new people. (This sounds obvious and pedantic, but I cannot tell you how many women I know who want a boyfriend but only do social things that are 95% women and 5% gay men.)
But the biggest thing you can do to stand out is... well... work on that depression. Self confidence and obviously being in a good place in your life are very attractive. Also, the good catches who haven't been snapped up tend to be the quiet, shy people. If you have your own shit together enough to detect and pursue them, you have a better chance of finding someone great.
I get that ~fix your depression~ is not helpful advice, but working on yourself in both important and relatively superficial ways is something you can control. Meeting the right person is not.
It might help to look at this as a 5-10-year goal and/or a lifetime goal, not a "Oh my god, my life sucks this year" problem. Yes, there's shit going on that you have no control over, but if that's your career and mental health and so on, you can work on that and be in a different place in a few years.
Frankly, I think a certain amount of cynicism is warranted, but that doesn't mean there are no decent guys or that you'll never find one.
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Fuck you for pulling that bait and switch with the comic on the second to last chapter of the apocalypse shit. Genuinely pissed me off. Give me hope that this’ll be a fanfic that takes a different route than just bashing on cipher because it’s funny and then pulling it away because haha why not right? Let’s just blame the guy literally actually suffering and act as if he’s in he’s in his right mind at all. Oh well who cares. Loved your fic until you pulled that shit
My dude, you're well within your rights to hate the bait and switch. It was a dirty trick, I'll admit that.
But if you think that I was bashing on Bill, that I wrote his grief as funny, or that I'm not fully aware that he was acting irrationally out of pain and despair—then you didn't read the fic I wrote.
You're supposed to be upset he turned down the help he needs. It's not a joke. I want it to hurt that help is so close, but Bill can't accept it because he's grieving too hard to let go of his people. I want you to be furious that nobody but the Ax thinks Bill deserves help, and the Ax alone isn't enough to reach him. I want you to want him to heal.
But we already know he didn't heal then. Because if he had, he never would have done anything he did in canon. Nevertheless, this is a fic about offering Bill a second chance, no matter what, as many times as it takes for him to accept it, even if it takes a trillion years—because, canonically, we know it will.
You can hate the fic if you wanted to read a fix-it AU and didn't get it, that's fine—but do me a favor and hate it for the canon-compatible backstory tragedy it actually is, rather than the bizarre Bill-bashing comedy you projected on top of it after the plot took a twist you didn't expect.
#(usually I don't post dissatisfied reader mail; but this is a FASCINATING example of somebody—)#(—who's CORRECTLY identified that a character is suffering; and doesn't get help; and that's infuriating—)#(—but INCORRECTLY concluded that it's because I think he deserves to suffer—)#(—rather than because I'm writing a story about A WORLD that thinks he deserves to suffer & I'm trying to tell you that world is wrong.)#(this is a rare case where like. i think if you shift your paradigm two inches to the left you'll realize we're actually in agreement here)#(the clickbait comic WAS low tho lmao my intent was for people to go 'that seems too good to be true' then go 'it WAS too good to be true.'#anonymous#ask#(edit: I'm disabling reblogs because why do y'all want a stranger's anon hate on your blogs anyway??)
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Hold You Tight In My Mind
Main Masterlist
Read on A03!
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, blowjobs, kinda fingering), soft angst, injury, hurt/comfort, demon possession, friends-with-benefits to lovers.
Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have an agreement. Best friends who have sex, no strings attached. But when a case goes south, you learn a few things about Dean, specifically his thoughts on the arrangement.
Maybe you won't have to love him in silence after all.
Author's Note: Kinda request from @brtodd on tumblr!! Nothing I love more than a good old love confession, enjoy!
Title from Terrance Loves You by Lana Del Ray
Word Count: 8.5k
That’s a lot of blood. You’ve spent nights in motels stitching wounds and lost yourself on the side of the highway shouting for help, your guts half spilled on the pavement, but you’ve never seen that much blood.
“Son of a bitch, that’s a lot of blood.”
Dean, apparently, hasn’t seen this much blood either.
“Should we, um,” you scan over the tile floor, your nose slightly scrunched. “Should we take a picture for Sam?”
“Yeah, he should see this shit too-“
“No, Dean,” you give him a flat look. “For the case. To help him figure out what the hell this thing is.”
Dean gives you a bright, boyish grin and nod of approval. “Good thinkin’, in case he gets mad at us-“
“Gets mad at you,” you correct, moving to stand at Dean’s shoulder as he takes the photo. “I’m not a part of this. I just wanna go home.”
Dean shrugs. “We all wanna go home, Sweetheart. Hell, I’ve got a wife and kids- Shit-“
He doubles over slightly from your elbow in his ribs, and you roll your eyes.
“You have a fake wife and kids. And your fake wife,” you jab your thumb at your own chest. “Doesn’t want her fake brother-in-law to kill her.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Dean’s never allowed to have fun.” He mutters, rubbing his side. “And Sammy wouldn’t kill ya’-“
“He’d kill my fake husband.” You pout at Dean, placing a hand over your heart. “And that would kill me.”
Dean chuckles, rising back to his full height. “I love it when you pretend that you care about me. Makes me warm and fuzzy.”
You roll your eyes, hoping he can’t see the low flush on your face. “You’re an asshole.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “You’re into it, though. C’mon, we gotta see if there’s actually a body in here, or Sam’ll kill both of us.”
Dean trudges off through the lake of blood, and you have to shake your head slightly to clear it. This case is going to kill you. This is so fucking gross, and the longer you’re here—in this room, in this town, on this case—the sicker you feel.
And it’s not just the blood. It’s all of this. It’s the haughty country club patrons who are downright impossible to properly interrogate, it’s the extra fancy clothing you have to wear for the investigations, and the shitty little tea cakes that the club serves. Tea cakes that you can feel your stomach growling for, because you haven’t had a chance to eat all day, and that only makes you feel worse. As every hour passes, you only feel more and more sick. You only spiral into starving mess that needs either food or Dean.
And that just makes you ill. Every time you look at Dean and hear him say wife, you want to strangle him then kiss him and it’s exhausting. Because you’d walked into this stupid fucking country club with a plan that would’ve worked fine—Sam’s your driver because he drew the short stick, Dean’s your bodyguard, you’re some fancy heiress looking to spend some money—and everything went sideways the moment the front desk asked how many household members, and Dean said four. Dean said that he was your husband, and you have kids, and that he knows he’s punchin’ above his weight class, but damn him, he can’t feel bad about it.
You want to hate him for that. You want to throttle him for how he’s treating this like it’s casual and easy, like every time he says wife it’s not so quietly cruel to your heart. How it flutters and glows before withering, because you’ll never have that. Dean always says wife with a teasing voice and nudge of your shoulder, and you can only grin at him like it’s not killing you, reminding you of what you can’t have.
But you can’t hate Dean. You don’t really know how to hate Dean. And he doesn’t know that this is like torture, because he really thinks you’re happy with this. Not just the fake wife thing—because you are playing into it, trading the same taunts and jokes and grins—but the very real, no-strings-attached fuck-buddies arrangement you have. Have had for fucking years. The one where you’ll follow him to the ends of the earth and never, ever look back to see what you’d left behind, but all he’s asking is that you stay in his bed and let him fuck you when he asks.
It’s not a bad arrangement. He’s a sex god, he gives as good as he gets, and you’re technically exclusive, but it’s still not what you want. Crave. Desire more than you’ve ever desired anything.
Because you really just want all of Dean. Something he’s never offered anyone‚ will certainly never offer you, and you’re going to chase until it kills you. You’ll warm Dean’s bed and touch his body for as long as you’re allowed, and cling to these small deaths of maybe this could be real until they all finally catch up to your heart. You’ll gather small offerings he drops in your lap without knowing—you’re the only person he looks at, and his eyes don’t seem to stray, and he’s the one who decided you should be fake married—and build a shrine to him along your ribs he’ll never be allowed to see.
But his voice still haunts your dreams with words you feel over your skin where he’s touched you before. Words you’ve heard a million times—so pretty, sweetheart, good girl—and words you’ll never hear. Words that circle your brain and bang on your skull all the fucking time, even in this disgusting, haunting mess of blood. Words that make some small part of you spark whenever you hear Dean’s deep, strong voice say your name, because you’re a little pathetic and you can’t stop praying that he’ll say them. He won’t. He never does.
He calls your name, and that spark kicks up your spine, and he still doesn’t say them.
“I got it!” He sounds so proud, and you hate that it makes you smile. “We’re looking at a demon!”
You turn, pushing through the blood to join Dean at where he’s standing at a fireplace, running his finger over the mantle with a twisted expression of disgust.
“Sulfur?” You ask, stopping as close to his side as he can manage, and he shoots you a grin, holding up a bloodied—but blackened—finger.
“Bingo, Sweetheart.” He winks, obviously missing your open, wanting gape at him as he looks back to the mantle. “Nasty son of bitch, though, I’ve never seen one of those douchebags do this.”
Dean gestures around the room, and you hum an agreement.
“So we’re good?” You ask, standing slightly on your toes to survey the sulfur buildup. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call my wife, tell her I’ll be home for dinner-“
You whack his arm, and he laughs like a handsome, cocky fucking asshole you still can’t figure out how to hate.
“Your wife is starving, and tired of standing in blood.” You kick your foot through the mess, wrinkling your nose. “Can we please go?”
“I dunno, I think this is kinda romantic.” Dean gives you a shit-eating grin, and you swallow. “I mean, this is freakin’ gross, but it’s just us and all these guts, I think we could waste some time-“
“Shut up.” You shove him, and he doesn’t stop grinning at you. “Haul ass, Winchester, or you’ll be in the fake doghouse.”
He chuckles, rebalancing in a second. “You’re being a little dramatic, kid-“
“Don’t kid me, Dean Winchester, I’m your fake wife. I gave birth to your fake kids-“
“You’ve got some good points,“ Dean drawls your name, pulling you right against his chest, and suddenly the smell of metallic blood is nothing compared to the leather and whiskey and gunpowder of Dean. The sticky heat of the room is overtaken by the heat in your core, the heat of Dean’s breath as he lowers down to kiss right behind your ear, his voice dropping to a deep, teasing growl. “And I’m gonna real fuck you when we get back to the motel. But I gotta call Sam and catch him up, can you-“
You nod, reaching into his pocket to grab the keys, and force yourself not to look back as you leave. You wince slightly as you lean into the Impala—starting the car before rising back up and leaning against the door—but it’s not like she’s never been covered in blood before. This just… a lot more blood than usual.
Dean takes a year to join you, and when he walks out of the building he’s smirking, spreading his arms in a wide aren’t you happy to see me? gesture.
“Sam’s workin’ it.” He stops right in front of you, too close and never close enough. “Can I buy a pretty lady a beer?”
“You can buy her some food.” You cross your arms, grinning up at him. “I saw a drive-thru down the road, we shouldn’t go inside looking like this.”
“Smart.” He places his hand on your lower back, guiding you around the car and into the passenger’s seat, and just being so fucking impossible as he opens the door and helps you inside. “Greasy fast-food for me and my girl, comin’ right up.”
You have to learn how to hate him. You have to learn how to flip Dean off and mean it, how to not flush and giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush under his attention. He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t know how to mean it, but it still makes your lower gut warm and your face split into a wide, stupid grin when he calls you my girl, drawls your name in the car, and rests his hand on your knee as you pull through the ordering window. When he parks in the lot and you laugh together, his eyes rarely leaving yours and his smile never falling from his face.
Even when he gets out to use the bathroom—promising he’ll be fast and try, somehow, not to draw attention to how he’s soaked in blood—Dean still grins and winks at you, and you can’t figure out how to shove his chest and shout that this is mean. That he’s mocking you and stringing your heart up on wires to play with, and he can’t be expected to know that but this is so fucking mean. He needs to stop smiling at you, and stop saying wife all the time like it’s real when it’s not. It won’t be, it can’t be, and now that’s going to haunt you forever.
You sit there for long, lonely minutes while Dean’s gone, trying get as little blood as you can on the upholstery, because Dean had already started grumbling about how much work this is gonna be to clean up and you can’t bring yourself to make anything harder for him. You spiral through the sound of Dean calling you my girl and promising to fuck you, sit in the ghost of his big, warm hand on your body and his chest pressed right against your breasts. The gleam in his eyes that was full of promises, and the fantasy of all the plans he might have for that aforementioned fucking.
Then you hear his phone ring, and you frown. Dean almost never forgets his phone in the car, even if he’s just getting beer or paying for gas. It’s a hazard, to not have it. To not be able to reach you or Sam if he needs to, for you and Sam to not be able to reach him.
And he’s been gone a while. Long enough that your throat starts to form a small lump, and—when you pick up the call—your voice is a little unsteady, your attention on where Dean had disappeared into the building.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, hey.” Sam says your name through the speaker, his tone a little surprised. “Where’s Dean?”
“Bathroom.” You frown at the building, desperate for Dean to just appear, and soothe this horrible twisting in your gut. “What’s up?”
“I figured out what we’re looking at.” You can hear some papers shuffling on Sam’s end, his words slow and careful. “Special kind of demon that feeds off of lustful blood, which explains why he’s been going after all those rich people. Like, ten ladies and five dudes have tried to sleep with me this week, and I know you and Dean got that, uh, offer-“
“Sam.” You mutter, your eyes still on the building. “Can we exercise it?”
“Kind of. We can’t use the normal one, because it’s not a normal demon, but there is a way. And these guys seem to be capable of being injured, more dependent on their vessels or something. So-“
“If we find him we can knock him down,” you mutter. “Hold him until we figure out how to flush him out.”
“Exactly. And I’m trying to work on the flushing part,” Sam sighs, and you can picture his sheepish expression. “But I don’t have it yet. Are you-“
“We’re coming back soon. Do you want us gone a little while longer, so you can focus-“
“No, Dean told me about all the blood. Sounded gross.”
You nod, even though he can’t see you. “It was. But-“
“I’ll take the car, need to stop at the library anyway.” Sam says your name through the phone, and there’s a sound of pity in it that makes you curl slightly into yourself. “You and Dean can shower, relax, do, uh, whatever you do-“
You sigh. “Please don’t give me permission to fuck your brother, dude. It’s weird.”
“Yeah.” Sam chuckles through the static. “Sorry. I just know he’s been trying to get you alone-“
“He’s always trying to get me alone.” A dumb smile takes over your face as Dean reappears, and he’s fine. Still covered in blood, but grinning at you with a dizzying joy and gleam in his eyes. “I’ll tell him what we’ve got, and text us when you’ve got the exorcism.”
“Will do. Call me if you need anything, or if, uh, I should stay away longer-“
“Suck my dick.”
You end the call as Sam laughs, and look up to find Dean tapping on your window with a smirk. You blink at him, because he might be covered in more blood than before. There’s a bruise on his forehead that wasn’t there a second ago, his shirt is on backwards, and his jacket is drenched, but he’s look at you like he won the lottery, and you’re not sure what the hell is going on.
“Dean,” you frown at him as you roll the window down, your brow furrowed as he braces an arm on the roof of Baby. “Are you-“
He cuts off your words by ducking down, grabbing your chin, and pulling you into a long, mind-numbing, sloppy kiss that leaves you gaping and dumb. Your fingers curling in his shirt, his low chuckle rolling through your body as he pushes his tongue down your throat, the taste of Dean—lingering burger and sweet soda and salt for your food, plus something innately Dean that’s heady and always leaves a perfect aftertaste on your tongue whenever he kisses you—overtaking the taste of blood just enough override your sense of this is kinda gross, and make you pull him closer.
When Dean pulls back—leaving you starting at him, your breathing ragged and heart trying to escape your chest as he grins at you—he grins at you, his voice a gravely promise.
“You ready to head back, darlin’?”
You blink at him. He’s never called you darling. Darling doesn’t sound like a Dean word. “Uh, yeah, but are you feeling okay? You were in there a while-“
“Food didn’t sit right,” he shrugs, drawing back up with a last wink. “Trust me, Sweetheart, it ain’t gonna be an issue anymore. I’m all flushed out.”
He rounds the car, and you watch him move with a frown. That’s the Dean swagger-walk, but it’s longer, with almost no urgency. Dean always walks with a least a little urgency, and he calls you Sweetheart but not darlin’, and something is still squeezing around your throat and telling you something’s wrong, when Dean’s right here. He’s winking at you from the driver’s seat, driving with the same cool ease Dean always has behind the wheel, and talking to you like he always does. Like your every word is fascinating and amusing, and you could say the grossest thing in the world but he’d still call you adorable.
You hate that he does that. It’s perfect and painful, feeding that shrine over your ribs, and almost enough to distract you from how weird he’s being. How he doesn’t seem at all interested to hear about the blood demon, how his first clarification is so Sam’s gonna leave us in the motel, and how he’s growing bolder with his hand on your leg. Trailing fingers lazily up your thigh and grinning when he brushes over the apex of your thighs, chuckling at your small gasp.
“Think we’re ready for that fuckin’, Sweetheart?” He drawls, pulling into the motel lot. “You sure seem real needy-“
“We’re not having sex, Dean, there’s a demon on the loose-“
“A demon Sammy’s handlin’.” He shrugs. “And I’ve been tryin’ to get you alone all freakin’ week. C’mon, we deserve some time together.“ Dean leans forward, smirking at you. “And I know you want it, babygirl. I bet you’re real fuckin’ wet for me.” He reaches up to your face, running his thumb over your lower lip. “So pretty, darlin’-“
There it is again. Darling. Darling, and the excessive drawling, and the slow walk, and the glint in his eyes you’re only now noticing. It’s colder than how Dean ever looks at you. It’s shallow and crude, like he can’t see anything past a pretty face and body, when Dean is—above all else—your friend. When there’s always a shining light when he looks at you that—both amazingly and awfully—reminds you that you’re more than just a body, and he mostly sees you as the best friend he’s ever had. The one he can do this with, because you care about each other too much to complicate things, and who he’ll always respect.
And this doesn’t feel respectful. It doesn’t feel like Dean. His hands are touching you, but there’s something off about them. Dean would be tracing his fingers over your inner thigh, not moving any further until your either grabbed his hand and moved it for him, or downright pleaded for him to touch you. He’d be disgusted by keeping your bloodied clothing in Baby for even a second more, and choose to back you against the motel wall instead of whatever this is. He’d let you get a word in, for your mock sparring and teasing that he always seems to win.
He would’ve worked in a joke about wanting to fuck his wife, because she can be a real brat when he neglects her. And you’d have smacked his chest, and he’d have laughed, raising his brows and saying see? She gets all bitchy and dramatic when I don’t fuck her right.
But Dean’s not doing that right now. And when you reach over the seat, trailing your hand up his chest in a pretend gesture of need, you feel it.
Warm, sticky blood that’s fresh, and seeping through his shirt. Pouring from a wound you can feel the dip of, that somehow doesn’t make him flinch when you press slightly on it.
A wound right over his anti-possession tattoo.
You move before the demon—not Dean, this isn’t Dean, and you feel fucking ill—can register what’s happening. You pull one of the Impala’s random guns out from the glove compartment, thank a God who’s obviously not listening that it’s weighed and heavy, and ram the butt of it into Dean’s temple. Not hard enough to kill him—you do want your Dean back after this— but hard enough to knock him out. To buy you enough time to grab his by the neck of his jacket and drag him out of the impala. You kick open the motel room door, scream to Sam for help, and haul him into a chair. Sam ties him down, while you take long, deep breathes, and your words are soft and short when you finally manage to speak.
“He’s possessed.” You whisper, starting at the floor. “They carved through the tattoo.”
“Shit,” Sam starts to pace, and there’s a ringing in your ears that makes it hard to hear him. “It’s-“
You nod. “The blood demon.”
“Are you good to stay here?” Sam marches over to the table and shoving his laptop into his bag. “I’ll go to the library, find what we’re looking for, and call you when I’ve got it. Okay?”
You nod, trying not flinch at Sam’s sympathetic pat of your shoulder, and stare at Dean as Sam leaves. You feel vile. That’s not Dean, but it’s Dean’s body. Dean will still be injured when you get this piece of shit out of his body. He’ll still be covered in bloody, disgusting clothing, and he’ll remember you knocking him out. He’ll ask questions that you’ll have to answer, about how you knew. And you’ll have to tell him that you just did. You’ll leave out the part about how you have every piece of him memorized to worship, so that even if the demon had tried a little harder to pretend to be Dean, you probably still would have caught on. You’d recognizes Dean’s bones in the grave. You’d recognize his voice in space. You’d recognize him just fucking near you if you were being waterboarded and flayed alive. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes and say the painfully basic and obscuring answer of I just did, and that will hurt.
But you have time to practice. The demon’s still knocked out in Dean’s body, and Sam’s taking too long to figure this out, but you don’t have anywhere to be. You can tug Dean’s jacket off his body with a mumbled apology he can’t hear, and busy yourself trying to clean it. You can’t stop looking at him—battered, vulnerable, his face so painfully slack—and the warm, soap-covered cloth isn’t enough to keep you from spiraling. From flinching as the blood, Dean’s blood, becomes red bubbles, and trying to convince yourself that this isn’t going to be so impossibly horrible. That, maybe, the demon just won’t wake up, and you won’t have to do anything but clean Dean’s jacket until Sam gets back
But you’re not that lucky.
Pretty, green eyes that are but don’t look like Dean’s flutter open, the demon drops any pretense of playing pretend, and your skin begins to crawl as it speaks.
“Good mornin’,” it leers at you from the chair, pulling slightly on the bonds. “Aren’t you a pretty sight to see after some forced shut eye.”
You start to scrub on the leather to a degree that can’t be helpful, your knuckles white.
“Knockin’ us out wasn’t very nice to your friend in here, Sweetheart. He’s awfully torn up about it. Feelin’ like he failed you, beggin’ me not to hurt you, hates that I was able to get the up on him and touch you at all. But can I tell you a secret,” the demon says your name, and your blood curls in your body. “He really wants to touch you himself. You’ve got a real dirty minded fellow on your hands. Who woulda thought the great Dean Winchester’s weakness would be a smart-mouthed bitch-“
The demon seems to choke on that last word, and when your gaze shoots up Dean’s body looks like it’s in pain. He’s curving into himself—his eyes screwed shut and sweat forming on his brow—and you’re moving before you know what’s happening. Jumping out of your seat and grabbing his face between your hands, your voice high and frantic over the blood pounding in your ears.
“Dean?” You run your thumb over his cheek, and he twitches, like he can’t figure out if he wants to flinch away or lean into your touch. “Shit, Dean, I need you to talk to me-“
Dean’s eyes snap open—that foul glint still rooted deep into them—and he laughs as you jerk away like he’d burned you.
“I’ll give ‘im this.” The demon says, the words still slightly strained. “He ain’t an easy ride. Keeps tryin’ to break out and talk to you, tell you not to listen to me and go find Sammy.” The demon laughs again, and it might be the worst sound you’ve ever heard. It’s Dean’s laugh, but inverted. Cold and hateful and wrong. This is so fucking wrong.
“Shut up.” You mutter, taking an unsteady step back, and the demon raises Dean’s brows.
“Well, darlin’, you’re just breakin’ poor Dean’s heart. Hurtin’ him, tellin’ him to shut up, tyin’ him up-“ The demon cuts himself off, twisting Dean’s face into a smirk. “Well, that one’s a funny little case, ain’t it. He’s too much of a pathetic little bitch to admit it-“
You scowl, standing a little taller. “Dean’s notpathetic-“
The demon pushes on as if you’d said nothing at all. “But he’s kinda into this. Likes the idea of you havin’ some fun with him however you want, pleasin’ you however you like, or,” the Demon’s grin grows mocking and crude. “Switchin’ places. Keepin’ you down to find out if he can make you scream louder than when he does that thing with his tongue, see if he can get you beggin’ all pretty. Nothin’ gets him goin’ more than when you beg-“
“Shut up.“ You hiss, grabbing your phone off your bed. “I don’t know what your fucking angle is, but I’d recommend you get out of my-“ you catch yourself, taking a short breath before plowing on. “Out of Dean-“
The demon caught it, though, and his smirk grows. “Your what? He ain’t your boyfriend, darlin’. But Jesus, he hates that too. I don’t think you’d keep indulgin’ this asshole if you could spend a second in here with ‘im like I am. He’s fuckin’ obsessed with you, it’s goddamn pathetic-“
You clench your jaw so hard you might break teeth, your movements rough as you scroll for Sam’s contact. “I said shut up-“
“He thinks he’s fuckin’ poison.” The demon sneers, and you can’t look at Dean’s face—can’t see it cruel and filled with hate—or you might start crying. “And shit, darlin’, he’d like to poison you. He’d like to do everythin’ to you. Fuck ya’ and buy you flowers and marry ya’,” the demon cackles, and you feel a little dizzy. “’S why he’s been doin’ this stupid fuckin’ charade all week. He wants to bruise ya’ and bite ya’, then whine and bitch about how he’s so disgustingly in love with you-“ The demon hacks a slight cough, and shakes his head with a mocking grimace. “Makes me fuckin’ sick, how needy and weak this piece of shit is-“
“I said,” you cross back to the chair, fisting Dean’s blood-covered shirt in your hand and yanking him up with cold words and words you hate on your tongue. “Shut the fuck up. And get out of him, before I fucking kill you.”
The demon just laughs at you, spit covering your face. “You ain’t gonna kill me, Sweetheart. Not while I’m in your precious Dean’s body. Not while you got me here, tellin’ you all the nasty things he’d like to do to ya’, how he worships the ground your fuckin’ walk on and dreams about you sayin’ you love a pile of trash like him-“
You tear off your own jacket, bundle up the sleeve, and stuff it the demons mouth. You don’t fucking care if it’s trapped in Dean’s body until Sam gets back, you can’t keep listening to it. Listening to it fucking lie and rip you apart with only words, watch it eyes gleam as it puppets Dean’s mouth to torture you. Why the fuck would it say things like that. It can’t be to hurt Dean, because all he’ll have to do is tell you when this is over that he’s sorry about what the demon said, and that it’s all just lies. And the demon doesn’t know—can’t know—that it just ripped your heart out of your chest and ran it through a meat-grinder. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, and you feel like your skin is trying to fly off your body, and Dean’s still covered in blood and it’s horrible-
Your phone buzzes on the floor—slightly cracked from being suddenly dropped—and it’s Sam. When you pick up he doesn’t wait to hear you before he launches into frantic words, practically shouting into the speaker.
“Found it!” He sounds a little out of breath, and you wouldn’t doubt that he’s been running back to the car. “Can you put me on-“
“Yep.” You press speaker, ripping your jacket out the demons mouth and turning the volume all the way up. “Go.”
Sam starts to recite a long, fancy string of Latin words, and you can’t bear to see Dean’s body thrash and roar and fold in pain, but you need to make sure the demon goes. That when Sam finishes and Dean’s eyes start to flutter, it’s safe to thank Sam, hang up the phone, and fall to your knees at Dean’s side.
“Dean,” you cup his jaw, angling his head slightly back. “Shit, Dean, please say something-“
He moans your name, and you almost start crying in relief, dropping your head carefully onto his leg.
“I, shit-“ Dean’s voice is hoarse as he pulls slightly at the bonds around him. “I’m happy to see you too, Sweetheart, but I kinda need you do untie me-“
“Fuck, sorry-“ You scramble with the ropes, scanning over his body as you do. “I’m gonna go get Sam’s medkit, can you take your shirt off-“
“Well, I’d usually make you but me some dinner- shit-“ He’d already started to pull his shirt off, his whole body shuddering as his arms tried to raise up.
“Dean-“
“Gimme three, I’ve got it-“
“No, you don’t. I’m cutting your shirt off, just-“ You move to your feet, pointing a stern finger at him. “Stay.”
He raises his hands, flinching slightly at the movement. “Yes, ma’am.”
Neither of you speak for a long while. You throw yourself entirely into his stitches, tossing the bloodied rags of his shirt into the trash and stealing small at Dean’s handsome, exhausted features. He’s watching you the whole time, his mouth opening and closing like he wants to say something but it’s sure where to start. When he finally clears his throat, you hum, keeping your hands steady on the stitches.
“This fucking sucks.” He grumbles, and you huff a dry laugh.
“Yeah. It really does.” You pull another stitch through the gash, and Dean winces. “Shit, I’m sorry-“
“Don’t apologize.” He mutters. “I should be apologizing to you.”
You frown up at him, your hands coming to a still. “Why?”
“I let that asshole get one up on me.” He grunts, refusing to meet your eyes. “Couldn’t get a hold over him, either. Let him say all that shit to you-“
Something cracks in your heart, but you just shrug. “That’s not on you, Dean. Demon’s lie, you don’t have to explain it-“
Now Dean’s frowning at you. “What?”
“The demon,” you mumble, your face flushing slightly. “What he said. I get it, it’s what they do, you don’t need to-“
“The demon didn’t,” Dean coughs, his face redder than you’ve ever seen it, his voice almost nervous. “It didn’t lie. He was a dick about how he said it, but he didn’t lie.”
“I, um, I don’t-“ You gape at him for a long second, trying to figure out if he’s joking. This isn’t something Dean would joke about, but that just means you must have heard him wrong. The demon said Dean loved you, and Dean didn’t love you—you haven’t even allowed yourself to entertain the thought outside of secret fantasies and feverish dreams—so the demon lied. The demon lied. The demon had to have lied, but why would Dean-
He says your name, tone cautious and features soft when you blink at him. “Lost you for a second, Sweetheart, are you-“
“I’m okay.” You mumble, refocusing on the stiches. “I’m probably just tired, I thought I heard you say-“
“That I love you?”
You swallow. There it is again. “I-“
He says your name again, careful fingers brushing hair from your face. “Look at me.”
You can’t. You don’t know what’s going on, and there’s still so much blood.
Dean hand moving under your chin and guides your gaze up, you lips parting slightly as your eyes meet his. He’s scanning over you, a slight furrow to his brow, and you can’t stop your hand from moving up and wiping a little blood off his cheek.
“Dean-“
“Never mind.” He mutters, shaking his head slightly. “Thought that we, uh, never mind.”
When you finish the stitches—your hands shaking slightly, your head spinning with confusion—you force him to shower first. It gives you time to spiral down, down, down, your brain turning desperately to figure out what that was. Why Dean would say that, why he’s acting so strange, why the demon would say that, why Sam’s being such a dick and insisting that he’s getting a second room, because Dean would—allegedly—rather have you here as the three of you had already been rotating through the floor, couch, and bed.
Which means you’re stuck with alone Dean for the night. And he’s not fully looking at you when he exits the shower, and you’re mostly just mumbling to each other, and he doesn’t love you but he looks like a kicked puppy. He picks up your own blood-covered jacket, helps you carefully out of your seat, takes the soapy rag from your hands, and flat out refuses to sit until you move to the shower.
And the water doesn’t help. You feel cleaner, but the steam makes your head spin all the more, and you can’t stop picturing Dean’s fallen, almost pained features, and playing the demons words over in your mind.
Dean’s disgustingly in love with you. He worships the ground you walk on and dreams about you saying you love him. And you do love him, but he doesn’t love you, and it’s dangerous to hope that he’d love you, and-
And he still looks so beaten down when you exit the shower. He barely looks at you as you cross the room, his attention wholly on your jacket, and when you drop on the bed and clear your throat, you could sworn he pales.
“Are you,” you swallow, forcing your voice to be stronger. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yep” He mutters, still not looking up. “Stitches are fine, Sweetheart. Good work.”
You flush slightly, but push on. “And your head?”
“Pounding like a bitch, but I’ve gotten through worse.” He shrugs, and words start to creep like vomit up your throat. “We’ll grab Sam in the morning and get goin’-“
“What did you mean?” You blurt, and Dean freezes. “When you said the demon wasn’t lying?”
Dean sighs, and drops the rag, running his hands over his face before turning to you, his voice low and elbows braced on his knees. “What I said.” He grunts, his eyes now refusing to leave yours. “He didn’t lie.”
“About-“
“All of it.”
Your breathing is shallow, your voice barely a whisper, but you have to ask. It will ruin everything, but you need to ask.
But you’re a coward, and you ask the wrong thing.
“Why did you tell the country club we were married?”
Dean lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Because I thought it would be fun. I’d get to call you my wife and see you blush all freakin’ week, and this case was gonna be shit so I thought what the hell.”
“Oh.” You whisper, unsure what to make of that. “Okay.”
Dean still doesn’t look away. If anything his eyes sear into you as his voice drops lower, his expression darkness and unreadable. “How’d you figure out I was possessed?”
You’d practiced this. You just did. You just knew it wasn’t him. That’s all you have to say, and you can’t. Something grabs your tongue and all you can say is the truth.
“Because I know you.” You mumble, unable to break his gaze. “And that wasn’t my Dean.”
“Your Dean,” He chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you. “Wasn’t sure I was your anything, kid-“
“Well, I didn’t think you loved me.”
You say the words before you can actually think them through, and time freezes. Dust seems to the hanging static in the air, red water still and motionless on the table, the hum of the bathroom fan stuck on one long note, and you and Dean both trapped in place. Neither of you strong enough to speak, but not weak enough to run, and why did you say that, Dean doesn’t love you-
“I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.” He’s searching over your face, words low and whole body tensed. “And I’d try to take it back for you, but-“
“Don’t take it back!” You almost yelp, and Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I don’t want you to take it back, I just- I don’t-“
“You don’t believe me.”
You nod weakly, wishing he would look away. Wishing Dean would just let you curl into yourself and hide for a million years, until this ends. Until this sore heat of shame over your skin and blooming warmth of hope that Dean might, maybe, really, possibly love you both die a quiet, easy death.
But he doesn’t look away. Dean pushes himself out of the chair with a grunt, walks on unsteady legs to stand before you, and takes your face between his hand, his words deep and firm.
“I love you,” he says your name, lowering his face to yours. “And I know it’s not what you want, but I do. I won’t apologize for it, but if you’re done messing around with me because of that, I’m never gonna make you pretend you love me back-“
You’d been sent into a daze of Dean loves you, he’s saying it himself and it’s the truth and he loves you, and that snaps you out of it. You close the last breath of space between your lips without effort, and this is a long, lazy, peaceful kiss that people without blood and demons would have. It’s cementing, steeling it fully into you that Dean loves you. You’ll never have to try and force yourself to hate him, because it’s shit work to hate Dean Winchester and there’s no point it anymore. He loves you, and it’s impossible to doubt that he loves you when he’s kissing you like this—not invasive but deep, not demanding but still dragging small moans and happy sighs from your throat, holding your cheek with one hand and cupping the back of your head with the other—so it’s not a war with yourself push him back a little and finally say words that have been stuck in your throat for years.
“I love you too.” You smile at him, and his eyes flash. “I don’t have to pretend, and this is what I want, so please,” you take a shaking breath, moving your hand to hold his against you. “Please don’t apologize for this. And please,” you lean a little further forward, bumping your nose with his as he continues to stare. “Keep messing around with me, Dean. I love you, so I’d-“
You cut yourself off with a squeak as Dean pulls you back into a kiss, this one heavier and sloppier, leaving you with ragged breath and puffed lips. Your hands curl into his shirt as he drops onto the bed at your side, hauls you over him with only a low, slightly pained grunt, and looks up at you with a slight frown on his face.
“That son of a bitch kissed you.”
“I thought it was you,” you mumble, tracing a small patten on his chest with one finger. “Sorry-“
“I’m not mad at you,” Dean gives you an amused look, pressing another, smaller kiss to your lips. “I’m mad at that douchebag, for trying to get with my girl.”
His words are mumbled against your lips, settling deep and warm in your stomach, and you can barely manage a hum of, “Oh. Okay.”
He chuckles, his hand moving under your shirt to run up the skin of your waist, your body shivering with pleasure at the touch. “I’d like to fuck you,” he mutters your name, his eyes on yours so attentive and dark that you might agree to jump off a cliff if he asks. “But my doctor said I need to take it easy-“
“I’m your doctor,” you gasp, dropping your brow to Dean’s as he brushes the underside of your breast. “And I think that- shit, Dean-“ He’s adjusted you in his arms, settling your core right over the obvious, proud bulge in his jeans. “If we take it easy, and you promise to let me stay on top-“
Dean shakes his head, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. “That’s gonna be a real hard,” he ruts up into you, and you whimper. “Promise to keep, babygirl-“
“Well it’s that,” you lean back, giving him a stern glare. “Or nothing, Winchester. Your choice.”
He gives you a look of mock disbelief. “I can’t believe I fake married someone so freakin’ mean to me-“
“I can.” You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, your own lips curling up slightly. “What’s it gonna be.”
Dean narrows his eyes at you, his hand trailing down your stomach to cup you right over your pussy as he drawls. “I think you should make that choice, Sweetheart. Tell me exactly how you want me to fuck you.”
“I-“ You lean forwards, burying your face in his neck to try and stifle your moans. “I already-“
“You said you stay on top, but that can mean a million things,” he mutters your name, kissing right under your ear. “I can fuck up into you, or you can ride me, or,” Dean starts to rub you through your pants, his thumb drawing rough, taunting circle over your clit. “I can finger fuck this pretty pussy until you cum all over my fuckin’ hand.”
“Dean,” you moan against his skin, your nails digging into his back. “Fuck, I-“
“This,” he moves his free hand up, playing with the waistband of your pants. “Seems to be getting in our way. Take it off for me.”
He doesn’t have to ask twice. You almost scramble to pull off your clothing—still manage to shoot Dean a glare for his low, teasing wolf-whistle when you’re fully bare before him—and almost throw yourself back onto him before you freeze. He’s still dressed—you can see the outline of where his pants must be becoming painful—and he’s still hurt. That’s why you had to stay on top in the first place. Dean won’t say it, but he’s in pain, and that’s more important than sex. You’re aching for him between your legs, you whole body whining to be pressed to his, but you can’t let him injure himself.
So you drop to your knees, help him out of his pants and boxers—feeling Dean track your every movement, remaining silent as you work—and swallow as his cock springs into view. You’ll never get tired of the sight of it. Big and meant to fit so well inside of you, pretty because it’s Dean’s, and he’s not really capable of being ugly.
Dean grunts your name as you take him in your hand, your fingers trailing over his strong thighs as you start to pump him slowly.
You smile up at him, raising your brows. “Do you like that?”
“Of course I fucking like that-“
“Do you love me?”
You say the words innocently, squeezing your hand lightly, and he blushes slightly, throwing his head back as he groans. “Shit, Sweetheart, you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me-“
“I do,” you whisper, pressing an open mouth kissed to the broad, red tip of his cock. “You do it to me too.”
“’S not-“ You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and letting him bump against your throat, and he cuts himself off with another groan. “Fuck, ’s not the same-“
You pop off of him with a frown. “It is. I love you too.”
“I know, pretty girl.” He mutters, moving hold your cheek, his cock twitching in your hands as you lean into the touch. “But you don’t gotta do this for me just cause you love me-“
“I like doing it.” You shrug, licking a long stripe up his shaft to prove your point, savoring the grunt it draws from his chest, the way his hand moves to fist in your hair. “I might love you, Dean Winchester,” you grin at him, replacing your mouth with your hand as you speak. “But I also really just like sucking your cock.”
“Son of a-“ Dean’s voice is a growl, his eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “You’re- fuck it.”
You squeak as he pulls you up, back to his lap, and impales you on his cock in one smooth motion.
“Dean!” You try to gain a little power over your mouth, your fingers running over his fresh stitches. “Your doctor did not, fuck-“ He rolls his hips, and you bite your tongue to stop your moan. “Winchester, your doctor did not approve picking heavy things up-“
“You’re not that heavy.” He shrugs, kissing your shoulder as his arm braces you against this chest, his words teasing and low. “And lucky me, my fake doctor is also my fake wife, and they’re both,” he moves his mouth back over yours, muttering against your lips. “Begging me to fuck them all pretty.” His other arm wraps around you, starting to guide the rolls of your hips, his eyes on yours so soft for how he’s splitting you open and bumping against the deepest places inside of you. “And get them to cum all over my fuckin’ cock.”
You moan, throwing your head back as you start to grind down on him, and you’ve done this a million times before, but it feels different. You’ve fucked Dean enough that you must have covered every base—rough and fast and soft and slow and teasing and desperate and angry and blissful—and it’s the same to your body, but different to your mind. Dean’s hands still ignite fire on your skin as he holds you as close as he can manage, but you’re not worried about how they might drop away. He’s still kissing you everywhere he can reach, but there’s nothing turning in your head about how he might not like what he tastes. He’s doing it all right—he always does it right—but it’s so much more.
You squeeze around his cock and he moans your name, almost pinning you into his laps as he latches his mouth to your upper chest. Sucking and nipping you where people can see. He’s always kept his small habit of marking you to where it won’t be visible, where people won’t jokingly ask you who got messy. But people will see this, and he knows that, and it seems to spur him on. His mouth crashes back into yours, his hands keeping your rhythm on him steady as his mouth and cock unravel you above him.
“You gonna cum, Sweetheart?” Dean growls down your throat, and you just nod frantically, swiveling your hips around him.
“So close,” you whine, trying to find just a little more friction. “Please, Dean-“
He starts to slam up into you, holding you steady with one arm as he leans back, bracing himself on the bed. His stitches are somehow still closed, he’s looking at you like you’re all the world gathered for him to hold, and his mouth is lowering to pull your nipple between his teeth. Keeping you right on the edge as his thrusts grow uneven, his hands bruising on your skin in the best way.
“Fuck, you wanna cum with me, babygirl?” He groans, flicking your nipple with his tongue before pulling you down to him, dragging you into a kiss of spit and need and pure fucking desire. “Think you can ask me real pretty-“
“Please. Please, Dean, please.” You gasp, your clit starting to rub against his abdomen, your whole body so close to bursting into flames. “So fucking close, need it so bad-“
He bites on your lower lip, smirking at your high whine. “Good girl.” He jerks up into you one last time, the movement rough and uncontrolled, and groans into your ear. “Cum.”
You might have screamed, but everything goes blinding and loud and holy like a hymn you only know in the language of Dean, and you never want to stop singing for the rest of your life. You can hear him shouting your name as he spills up into you, but you’re so high on your pleasure— on the smell of Dean everywhere around you and his lingering taste on your tongue—that it’s distant and only a rush of good. Dean feels good, and he’s muttering in your ear that he loves you, so you think everything might be really good.
And it is. This isn’t blood or work. This is Dean’s cock still buried inside you, his hot, warm cum running down your thighs, and your hands tracing over his warm skin to check that his stitches are still together. This is your face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck, his hands combing through your hair, and a priceless sense of peace. It’s always lingered before, but it would wash away as you both left the bed, and drift into nothing as you wandered back into the real world. It feels more certain now. It feels more set into your bones, and you know you’ll see more blood and stitch more wounds, but this is going to stay. Dean is going to stay, and you have all of him. And that’s welcoming this sense of peace that’s so finite and rare, you’d have to be insane to let it go.
So you won’t. And you won’t have to cling to him, because Dean isn’t foolish enough to let you go either. You’ll keep all of Dean, he’ll do the same for you, and he’ll keep igniting a spark in your gut by saying my girl that you won’t ever allow to go out.
End Note: Look! A Rare Dean Winchester dealing with his own emotions! Spotted in the wild! And I am physically incapable of writing a short one-shot, and I'm very sorry about that.
If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3
Taglist
@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature
#x reader#reader insert#romance#canon typical violence#jensen ackles#jensen ackles characters#godmadeaterribleerror#dean winchester x you#dean winchester fanfiction#dean winchester#dean winchester x reader#supernatural#supernatural fanfiction#sam winchester#dean x reader#dean x you#dean fanfiction#dean if you want a hug I'm free saturday#love confessions#smut#p in v sex#injury#request#tw blood
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There are a lot of things I don't like about "modern retellings" of (usually Greek) myths - a fundamental misunderstanding of mythology, having little to actually do with the mythological figures and gods, using it as an excuse to shit on pagans like me, et cetera - but one of the most frustrating ones is that none of them are actually modern. Instead, they take the Walmart TERF approach to feminism and go "#girlboss!" without actually looking into the history of women during the time of those myths or understanding what it's supposed to do at all. They also don't even take place in the modern day - they're set in some sort of pseudo-Ancient Greece.
Like, okay, here. Let me outline what I'd consider a modern retelling of a myth, using the Perseus myth as an example.
Perseus is a college-aged young man still living with his mom, Danae, in the "big city" (fuck it, let's say Springfield, MO) and trying to make ends meet because they're both working two part-time jobs because none of the jobs actually want to pay for insurance or retirement or whatever. Danae sometimes meets with her best friend and coworker Clymene and Clymene's husband Dictys, who live out in the country and go fishing and hunting during various times of year. Dictys has a brother named Polydectes who is the grown-man version of a Silicon Valley tech bro who's, I don't know, into crypto and shit.
While Polydectes is living on Dictys's couch and ranting about how he's totally gonna be a rich Wall Street executive some day, he sees Danae talking with Clymene while they gut fish and is like "hot chick, gonna stalk her" and is all creepy about it. Perseus is not about that shit, so he starts trying to find a way to get Dictys to back off.
At this point, any number of things could happen. If you want a girlboss Medusa story, she could be, I don't know, a deep web or black market assassin-for-hire and Perseus scrounges up money for it. If you want something more lighthearted and silly, maybe this is taking place in what is essentially a Yugioh-style world where the fate of things lands on card games and Perseus uses a Medusa-esque card to kick Dictys's ass. Medusa could even just be a coworker of Danae and Clymene and overhear them bitching at work about Dictys so she goes to Perseus like "Dude, do you want me to help take care of that guy messing with your mom?" Literally anything could happen at this point.
You don't even have to erase Andromeda! She could be anything from a classmate of Perseus's that he helps out to his coworker that he protects from creeps to...well, again, literally anything! It's a modern world, she's got all kinds of possibilities!
See? A modern retelling would actually be cool as shit if people paid attention to the "modern" part!
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Putting Wade through it again cause I said so
Accurate representation->
Thinking about how Wade just... dies..
And I mean this in the most sweetest way possible- It's fucking terrifying.
Imagine your husband just has these episodes of "ded" -ness that causes him to silently have heart palpitations and collapses cassully by laying down somewhere himself so he dosn't bust his head open by falling when the time finally comes.
Most times, Logan can smell it. That encroaching scent of death and failure in his organ. But there's nothing he can do about it. Nothing at all.
So when he comes to find Wade already laid out on the floor, he asks him whats wrong, what can he do to help, but Wade just keeps smiling at him and giggling, caressing his face and tells him he's just sleepy. "You're so cute when you're worried.." He mumbles nonsense and then just.. passes out. But not the aggressive type, no.
It's almost sweet how camly he's taken.
Like someone coming home to their lover, crawling into their arms for a bit and just.. resting.. falling into a deep sleep
Sometimes, before he lays down, he mentions his head hurting. Mentions how his body is hot and he feels heavy. Like the weight of the earth was dragging him down to lay in those fresh fields of green, waiting to be taken by the decomposers and candid scavengers. (What? He could be poetic sometimes)
Internally, Logan is panicking. He's at his side, sniffing Wade and grunting cause for a split moment, he had died. His heart stopped. His brain activity still going but his vital organ did not. It freaks him out to this day, especially if they were not in battle or was an obvious explanation for the need to go into a mini coma.
This, of course, is an exaggeration, seeing as in reality Wade simply lays here, breaths so shallow that only Logan can hear them. Any other person on earth would think Wade has stopped breathing, called an ambulance and told them that he was dead.
Though this is untrue. Because Wade was not dead, simply on the brink, arguing with the archangel in charge of Heaven's gates to let him in. Metaphorically, of course, because realistically, Wade would never want to go to Heaven. Does it look like his friends and family would be there? No.
In truth, Wade's little visits with Death herself lasted on average for 30 minutes, to 2 hours, and sometimes extending to 4.
The only shitty thing about this is that Wade would wake up feeling worse at first. Waking in a hot feverish sweat as if too many blankets were on him during summer. His head would hurt. His body would feel like lead, dragging and stiff.
Sometimes, during his deep slumbers, someone would try to wake him, but he'd feel otherwise very... well.. unconscious. At times yes he may roll over or grumble something about how ceos who dont care about peoples pain in a company made to ease it deserve to be shot. "Free my boy Luigi, Mario needs him." He'd mutter this like a mad man then pass out on his face, again dying, hesrt clentching with distress before starting up again.
"What??" Logan would ask and stick by him like a loyal dog at a mans death bed. Sometimes, he would get him a pillow. Sometimes, he'd hold him, cuddling him close in hopes he didn't die on him permanently.
It was probably his one and only fear. He's had plenty of lovers die on him. Plenty who were not Wade though. Wade was bassically immortal, as was he. He wouldn't be suprised if Wade lived longer then him actually, but he feels a tight pain in his heart when he thinks about Hope taking him from him without even a kiss goodbye. Or even a "See ya later, Alligator." Just... gone..
When Wade does wake up, he feels wonderful once the initial pains of being revived are over, once the drowsyness is gone and his head is clear. His body hurt less, he felt well rested, and he very much enjoyed waking up to Logan next to him, worrying over him.
With a light, half full lunged gasp, he lifts his head up, groaning. "Shit... ow... did I hit my head?"
"Wade! Uhm.. no.. a-Are you okay? You were out for a while."
"I'm good just.. gimme a second.." as he sits up, cracking his joints and streaching with a large yawn. "Haahh- anyway. What are you thinkin' for dinner?"
"What??"
"Im kinda hungry."
"..You just... Wade you were just dead for 4 hours. I even shook you and you didnt wake up."
"Yeah well.. what can you do about it? Im thinking spaghetti. Oooh or maybe that rabbit stew you made?"
Logan blinks, watching as he cassually gets up, walking to the kitchen and peeked inside the fridge. How did he... why did he...
At the end of the day Logan just has to sigh and roll with it. Because honestly, what was he too do about it? Perhaps this was a side effect of his mutation... or cancer. Yeah.. Cancer seemed like a reasonable examination..
The worst part is, Wade barely remembers what happens before it hits at all. Or during. He doesn't remember saying anything. Dosn't remember laying down in the first place, and Dosn't remember being held.
#:) hehe#chronic illness#deadpool and wolverine#poolverine#logan howlett#wade wilson#deadpool#wolverine#deadpool 3#deadclaws#lady death#mistress death#deathpool
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MAY THEY CONTINUE TO DESTROY EACH OTHER
#You gonna let his immigrant ass talk to you MAGA like that?#You put him there and he talks like this about you.#I'd want him to pay for this shit. I'm laughing but damm.... don't let him talk to you like that because without you he's nothing.#Elon Musk needs to be humbled and reminded that he isn't president and just because he owns Republicans he doesn't own every real American.#Make him and his shitty (Illegal family. Because yes they went here I L LE G A L L Y) get deported.#This is the kind of illegal/immigrants that deserve deportation.#He is the Real Enemy From Within and he's mocking y'all but people like me are “evil shitlibs that studied in fancy liberal schools”.#Y'all hate if its a non-white WOMAN that is actually qualified and are quick to call us DEI and accuse us of selling our looks and bodies.#This is the only olive branch I'll extend.... Be better and prove him to him you're better than him because you are.#Only reason he's there is because of the circumstances of his birth. He bought his socalled intentions. He pays people to run his shit.#Getting it. His success is built on others and is a lie. He used you and I joke to not tear my hair out because its so obvious he did this.#Here's to hoping only its billionaires vs republican politicians but I know they'll try to drag the rest of us in with a nothing burger.#Leopards be eating good as long as people keep voting for this crap.#They only have this power because of highly une#They want you uneducated and weak minded so they can easily pull a fast one on you when they truly attack.#They also demonize the other side warning you about their intentions.#This is what happens when you're thoroughly brainwashed by the elite and think they actually care for you...... They don't.#Anyhow..... Making 🍿 This doesn't hurt me emotionally because I never trusted any of these fucks. Only MAGA voters are feeling betrayal 😅.#Mostly mad because ALL of us will be thrust into another Great Depression because of these these fuckers being voted in.#Its also embarrassing as fuck to say you're American because people think the whole country is stupid for giving him a second term.#Fuck Elon Musk#I hate him.#I saw him as more dangerous than Trump for reasons.#Elon Muskrat#By second term I meant Trump. This was a collectively failed IQ test on our country but it showed Republicans that they “own” us
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i think i have the unpopular opinion that airplane is an egotist lol
i do enjoy reading fics where he's like "i dont deserve good things, this guy is way out of my league" and i do totally get where people are coming from when they characterize him that way but more and more lately im just like
"what about the comments?"
like i dont think that airplane has a SUPER high opinion of himself, but i think he's just kinda... confident? like when he reads fucking essays online about how his writing sucks he's able to laugh his ass off over it and even join in the fray. so i keep thinking rather than him being like "i dont deserve this nice thing", he'd more have a "SCORE! nice thing for me!! WHOO!" reaction. and when a bad thing happened, instead of being super "this is the saddest day of my life, someone was mean to me", he'd be more "omfg did you like fr waste your time being mean to me? thats actually pretty embarrassing for you lmfao, r u oki bro?"
like kinda that terminally online asshole internet troll of a person who just doesnt take shit seriously and has enough self esteem to just legitimately not give a fuck when someone is shitty
ofc it's different with demons who can literally skin him alive, theres a huge difference between someone saying "youre ugly" and someone breaking every bone in his body, so its not like he doesn't cower when necessary
but also inwardly he just has the confidence to not be effected much by cowering. like "lol imma hug this thigh bc i aint stupid but the fact that this asshole needs me to hug his thigh says a looottttt more about him than it says about me"
idk im just kinda wanting to see more unapologetically confident airplane who just does not give a fuck about anyones opinion so long as the opinion is coming from someone who cant actually fuck him over in a significant way. like sha hualing? obvs care about her opinion, she can gut him. some rando disciple? "lmfao out of my way loser, im gay"
also i kinda wanna see that confidence stripped away until he's a mewling mess but thats just my desire to break down confident characters and make them cry pfff
its so much funnier to me if airplane was actually a pretty impervious sort of person, it's only the extreme nature of his current situation that turned him into a crybaby lmfao
idk if im making sense, i just kinda think of airplane as being a hilarious mixture of "the most self assured guy you've ever met, to an obnoxious extent" and "wait does he have any self esteem at all?!? is he okay?!?" in a fun contradictory way, cuz thats the impression i got of him from canon
also modern au mobei jun getting Very upset bc it feels absolutely impossible to get under airplane's skin. like he's sitting here trying his best to get a reaction and airplane is just "lmfao yea but idgaf abt your opinion sooooooooo"
look, i also think it'd just be awesome if mobei jun is actually most attracted to the egotistical side of shang qinghua. like sure, he thinks that cowering sobbing pathetic hamster shang qinghua is delicious, but give him shang qinghua cackling arrogantly at his detractors with the air of an emperor? mobei jun might actually faint with desire
so like, mobei jun visiting an ding peak so much initially because shang qinghua is sus as fuck and all that jazz, but eventually he's sneaking in as often as possible so that he gets to peak that side of shang qinghua.
like he first notices it when shang qinghua is too absorbed in his paperwork to remember there's a demon lord casually napping on his bed and starts making fun of the lousy penmanship, his fellow disciples, other peak lords, no one is except from his sharp mocking tongue and laughing criticism. but he notices it more and more
someone comes to qinghua's door to throw their weight around? sure, qinghua acts all small and harmless with them there but when they leave, he's cackling about "annndd that pathetic loser thinks that no one knows abt his porn stache, pssshhh, get on my level pleb. especially with your frankly boring as fuck tastes" and qinghua has a dirty sense of humor too and it's sort of driving mobei jun insane
so maybe sometimes he shows up at the peak without announcing his presence, trying to peak what sort of shit that shang qinghua might say about him behind his back and mmaaaayyybbe mobei jun is a bit excited at the prospect and disappointed when it's difficult to hear his name on shang qinghua's tongue
until one glorious day when his timing is just right and shang qinghua is neck deep in the middle of northern desert paperwork and he lets loose and mobei jun isnt sure whats worse: the things that shang qinghua's biting insults are doing to him or how, in stark comparison to the way that shang qinghua insults to others, all of shang qinghua's insults are accompanied by dirty commentary about mobei jun's body and potential sexual prowess in a quite positive light. normally shang qinghua is all "lmfao mr. never-gonna-get-fucked qi-ge is gonna tell me what to do? tough shit my lil bitch, i might be your daddy but i know the full depth of malicious compliance! go back to your brat-kink with jiu-whatever. you might as well be dickless for all the success you've had, mr. virgin mcbitch" but with mobei jun it's a lot more like "oh so mr. sexier than the fucking literal god of this world could have imagined in his dirtiest dreams wants this paperwork by next week? unreasonable brat, so spoiled, i should spoil him, he'd look reeeeaallly hot when spoiled absolutely rotten beneath me hehehh wait above me? hm, anyway, he's being a little bitch but i'll forgive it for that face but also man i wanna just pinch those fucking cheeks sometimes and then--man i bet he'd be really fucking wild in the sack to and--"
absolutely charmed by the display, mobei jun immediately reveals himself and beats shang qinghua senseless as a very clear indication of his intentions. to his absolute dismay, he never hears shang qinghua insulting him again and he doubles the beatings in desperation to somehow get shang qinghua's attention
(shang qinghua does not, in fact, have any actual bad blood against his zhangmen-shixiong, he just has a bad habit of going for the throat when he's in the middle of a tirade bc he was once an internet troll who shamelessly thrived on the anonymity of being able to say anything to anyone. he just really likes to talk shit and if he was in a position of power, would absolutely abuse it to talk shit alllll the time lmfao)
anyway i got pretty off topic bUT MY POINT IS that shang qinghua is best (imho) when he is a shameless egotistical shit-talker who's more or less impervious to the criticism of others
((man just fucking IMAGINE mobei jun's reaction when the ascension ceremony happens? like he FINALLY gets shang qinghua to talk shit to his face no less and then IMMEDIATELY gets abandoned. and like, it was kinda Really Bad Timing and also mobei jun never really wanted to just be a passive participant! he wanted to retort back! he wanted a back and forth! he wanted to refute shang qinghua's claims that he was spoiled just as much as he wanted to hear those claims! he wants the push and pull!!!! SO WHY IS SHANG QINGHUA RUNNING AWAY THAT FUCKING TEASE?!?!))
also as a general note i do think that shang qinghua's whole impervious thing is prolly routed in a lot of the trauma of being unwanted by family and all of that stuff, there was no one around to build his ego up so he built it up all on his own and he's really fucking good at building things up
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i dont know how you could play veilguard and genuinely think the dalish elves are represented well in that game. you can't even play a dalish rook (except somehow they kinda are dalish, but also you can make them andrastian too, because actually you're not dalish but you do know elven and call them "our gods" repeatedly for some reason but your faith is completely unshaken by all of this regardless), there are no dalish clans in the entire game, the only one we do interact with is massacred off-screen but it's fine this time i guess because at least it's not our fault, and the two dalish companions are treated like shit by the writers and the narrative and the playerbase. the veil jumpers are not the dalish, these are separate groups, there are humans and qunari and dwarves all within the veil jumpers. the dalish are separate, irelin and strife and bellara all left their clans to join the veil jumpers. the actual dalish clan in arlathan is killed after the gods escape, there's literally a whole quest where you have to run around and find their dead bodies.
bellara is punished not once but twice with her brother's death for daring to pursue elven history, just like merrill is punished for restoring the eluvian before her. and then rook is the one that gets to choose whether or not to destroy the archive, despite not even being dalish. yes, bellara is smart and strong and brave but she also is belittled for her beliefs; her struggle at the start is played as a joke, her comments are all punchlines, and when you do get to talk to her she blames herself and feels guilty, and the game gives you no real option to comfort her. it takes the game killing her brother a second time for us to finally get to see her practice her culture without feeling guilty and without being mocked for it at his funeral, because now she's learned her lesson (but also they make sure to throw in a comment about how Weird it is, and also that all the other dalish clans have been doing the Wrong funeral rites, just to make sure we know how silly they are)
outside of davrin and bellara, the dalish are absent. strife and irelin both immediately accept the sudden revelation that their gods are evil with no pushback (and i don't care if this is because they know harding and varric, this is not communicated in the game). and apparently every other dalish elf just accepts it, too. how is this not depicting them as a monolith? did we play different games? dalish clans have their own traditions and cultures and would absolutely have different opinions about their own gods; the only way you get to see something even remotely close to this is if you take bellara and davrin out together and listen for their banters-- which are never mentioned or relevant anywhere else in game.
and no, i don't want the dalish to blindly follow the gods in veilguard, i want the entire narrative to just not be so fucking racist. the oppressed people's gods being revealed to be evil all along is just racist. nothing else can be "fixed" while this is the core plot, and we knew this since trespasser came out, since it was first revealed over 10 years ago. people have been criticizing this choice and the depiction of the dalish for over a decade. and they still continued with this storyline, despite the various other lore bits they did end up changing for better or worse... instead they just wrote out the dalish completely while still managing to perpetuate harmful anti-indigenous tropes that they've been criticized for repeatedly in the past-- that are made even worse with the total absence of any other dalish characters to counteract them.
#like. what?#you guys are playing a different game than me i swear#sorry this post is kind of bitchy but im Tired of people being so purposefully obtuse about this subject#and just making shit up. its just racist! why are you trying so hard to defend it#why are you calling the people pointing out the racism... racist? and purposefully misconstruing the discussion?#why are you pretending like this stuff isn't literally in every game. this has been talked about so thoroughly at this point#if you arent seeing the issues with it i dont know how else to explain it anymore#da posting#critical#sorry i dont want to put this in the actual tag this is just a bitchy vent lmao
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and one more prompt bc i love to torment you....Dando and denial *eyebrow wiggle*
this is, and i really can't emphasize this enough, so rancid. set at zandvoort 2022 right after daniel was dropped my mclaren. tw: dubious consent and undernegotiated kinks (for the kink prompt asks)
The problem, Daniel thinks, is that Lando watches too much porn.
It’s the only explanation for Lando turning up to Daniel’s hotel room after Zandvoort to announce that he currently has a pussy—the newest victim of the sex swap curse that keeps hitting various members of the grid—and that he wants Daniel to fuck him in the arse.
When Daniel asks why Lando wouldn’t just want Daniel to fuck his newly-acquired pussy, Lando shrugs and says, “Seems like the girls in the videos always, like, really like it up the arse.”
“Huh,” Daniel says, because he’s not really sure what else to say when Lando’s standing in the middle of Daniel’s hotel room, asking to be fucked in the arse because he’s seen it in porn while clutching a frankly comically enormous bottle of lube.
Lando’s face scrunches. “It’s not, like, weird—”
“It’s pretty weird, mate,” Daniel says, forcing a laugh.
“—like, I have a pussy, it’s not, like, gay—”
Daniel’s fucked trans guys. He knows Lando having a pussy doesn’t have anything to do with whether this is gay or not.
“—and Max told me about the shit you and he used to do at Red Bull. Reckoned you wouldn’t really care even if it was sort of gay.”
“Don’t,” Daniel says, hating the way his voice cracks.
Lando blinks at him, eyes wide, as if to say, What’d I do?
“Just, like”—Daniel brings a hand up, rubs the back of his neck—“not in the mood to chat about Max, yeah?”
Daniel sees understanding dawn in Lando’s eyes, something awfully close to pity flashing across Lando’s face. Like Lando’s worked out that the reason Daniel never talks about what he and Max were to each other. Like Lando’s realized that Daniel was the idiot who thought the thing between him and Max actually meant something.
“Interesting,” Lando says, drawing out the word, looking like the cat that got the fucking cream.
It makes Daniel want to tell Lando to get the fuck out of his room. Makes him want to remind Lando that McLaren only loves him because of whatever shit Lando does in Zak’s office. Makes him want to shove Lando’s face in the fact that Lando’s never won a race while Daniel won fucking Monaco, won Monza in 2021, McLaren’s first win in a decade. And where was fucking Lando?
Daniel knows none of it changes anything. Lando has a seat for next year and Daniel doesn’t.
But right now, Lando’s standing in Daniel’s hotel room, too porn-brained to realize that people with pussies don’t even have fucking prostates, asking Daniel to fuck him in the arse.
Daniel hates himself when he starts picturing it. Picturing Lando struggling to take his cock, his pussy dripping and empty and untouched, aching for it. Lando slowly realizing that being fucked in the arse isn’t enough to come, that he’ll need to have his pussy played with to get anywhere. Daniel just coming inside him, leaving Lando sobbing to come.
And, like, it’s fucked but Daniel can admit it’s also hot. And Daniel knows it’s not winning but as he stares at Lando, thinks about how Lando’s been looking at him all year, like Daniel’s a dog that needs to be put down, Daniel starts to convince himself it sort of is.
“Still want me to fuck your arse?” Daniel asks shortly.
“Yeah,” Lando says with a shrug, clearly trying to act casual, like he didn’t turn up to Daniel’s hotel room practically begging for it.
“Fine,” Daniel says. “Then take your clothes off and get on the bed.”
Lando hesitates for a moment but he listens, sheds his clothes and clambers onto the bed, Daniel catching little teasing glimpses of Lando’s pussy on the way. Daniel can see enough to tell that Lando’s wet. He tries to ignore the way his mouth goes a bit dry at the sight.
Lando flops back against the pillows, watching Daniel expectantly. Like there’s any way in hell Daniel’s gonna fuck him like that, sprawled out on his back. Nah, Daniel doesn’t have any interest in seeing Lando’s face during this.
“Turn over,” Daniel snaps.
Daniel thinks that might be enough to have Lando climbing off the bed and pulling on his clothes, telling Daniel to fuck off.
But Lando’s breath hitches, cheeks flushing. Like maybe a part of him likes when Daniel’s cruel. Daniel’s not doing it for Lando, doesn’t give a shit whether Lando likes it or not, but it makes things easier when Lando rolls over onto his stomach, spreading his thighs a bit, putting his pussy and hole on display.
Daniel tugs his shirt off over his head, unbuckling his belt. Lando turns his head to look at him, but Daniel just says, “Face forward.”
Daniel thinks he hears a little whimper from Lando, watches a wet spot form on the fabric of the hotel sheets underneath Lando’s cunt. God, he really is dripping for it, his pussy flushed and dark. A part of Daniel thinks it’s a shame it won’t be getting fucked.
Daniel knees his way onto the bed, grabs Lando’s arsecheeks in his hands and pulls, spreading Lando open.
Lando whimpers into the pillow but he stays where he is, shaking under Daniel’s hands. Daniel can’t tell whether it’s desire or fear. Both, maybe. Daniel lets some saliva pool in his mouth and spits onto Lando’s hole, watching it slide over the tight furl. Lando lets out a humiliated sob into the pillow, twisting like he’s about to turn back and snap at Daniel.
But Daniel shoots a hand up to Lando’s hair, shoving Lando’s face against the pillow, holding him there until Lando goes lax.
“Good,” Daniel says. “Stay there.”
Another shiver runs through Lando but he stays still, lets Daniel squirt lube onto his fingers and drag them over Lando’s hole, pushing one in and then two before Lando’s really ready for it. Lando moans into the pillow, rim going tighter.
“Relax,” Daniel says, landing a smack against Lando’s arsecheek, listening to Lando’s outraged little squeak, watching the muscle bounce. But Lando loosens enough for Daniel to slip his entire fingers in, stretching him quickly, perfunctorily.
Daniel doesn’t really care about making this good for Lando. Sort of wants to see Lando squirm as Daniel pushes in. Lando can tell him to stop if he really hates it. He’s strong, stronger, maybe, than Daniel is at the moment, what with the starvation diet Michael’s put him on and the anxiety making it hard to find the motivation to eat. Daniel doesn’t have any doubt that Lando could shove him off if he wanted to.
“Condom?” Daniel asks.
Lando doesn’t say anything, and Daniel lands another smack on his arse, harder this time.
“Answer when I’m asking you a question,” Daniel says shortly.
Lando says something inaudible into the pillow.
Daniel tugs his fingers out of Lando’s arse, groaning at the sight of Lando’s rim struggling to close, and digs his lubed fingers into Lando’s hair, pulling Lando’s head back.
“What was that?” Daniel asks.
“I said,” Lando says, still a little edge of petulance, “do whatever you want. I don’t give a shit.”
A part of Daniel can't help but wonder if Lando came to him because he wanted it like this. If Lando's letting Daniel think he has all the power when really Lando chose him, chose Daniel because he already knew Daniel would fuck him exactly like this, rude and harsh.
But Daniel doesn't let himself think about it for too long, just lets Lando’s head drop back against the pillow and grabs the lube, squirting a bit more onto his hand, getting his dick nice and wet. He drags his dick over Lando’s hole, slaps it a few times with the tip, barking out a shocked laugh when Lando whimpers, arse shoving back toward Daniel like he’s begging for Daniel’s cock.
“God,” Daniel murmurs, lining himself up, “should’ve known you’d be such a fucking slut.”
Lando says something high and whiny, something Daniel can’t hear because he’s sliding inside of Lando’s absurdly tight hole, his walls clenching around Daniel like he’s trying to pull him in and shove him out all at once. It feels outrageously, maddeningly good, so good that Daniel’s immediately worried he’s fucked up, that he might never get over how good Lando feels around him. That he’ll just have to wander around for the rest of his life knowing that his annoying as shit twenty-two-year-old ex-teammate has the tightest arse he’s ever fucked.
“Jesus, Lando,” Daniel groans, shoving in deeper. “S’like no one’s ever fucked you here.”
Lando lets out an anguished sob into the pillow and Daniel’s stomach flips as he realizes maybe no one has. It shouldn’t have Daniel’s stomach flipping, shouldn’t have him grabbing Lando’s hips, tight, and tugging Lando back onto his cock, eyes locked on where Lando’s struggling to take him with each pass of Daniel’s hips.
“God,” Daniel moans, fucking hard, fast, solely focused on chasing his own pleasure. “Feel so fucking good, Lando.”
Lando’s making wet noises into the pillow like maybe he’s crying and Daniel wonders whether maybe Lando’s crying. Daniel thinks about checking, but he notices Lando snaking a hand underneath himself, like maybe Lando’s thinking about touching himself, like maybe Lando likes this.
Daniel grabs Lando’s wrist, tugging his arm behind his back, ignoring Lando’s outraged noise. He grabs Lando’s other arm for good measure and tugs both of Lando’s wrists against the small of Lando’s back, holding them there, using the grip on Lando’s wrists to tug Lando back onto his cock.
Lando’s sobbing something Daniel can’t make out and Daniel decides to ignore it until Lando’s twisting his face against the pillow, freeing his mouth, and gasping, “Need t’come.”
Daniel snorts. Lando should’ve thought of that when he barged into Daniel’s hotel room demanding that Daniel fuck his arse. Daniel doesn’t do anything, just keeps Lando’s hands pressed against the small of his back and fucks him hard and fast.
“Please,” Lando sobs, and Daniel can see how red his face is, tears on his cheeks. “Please, Daniel, want to come.”
It tickles something awful in Daniel’s brain, hearing Lando beg. It’s even worse realizing that he has no intention of giving in.
“Yeah, well”—Daniel fucks in deep, grinding against where Lando’s prostate would normally be—“should’ve thought of that earlier.”
“No,” Lando gasps, fingers splaying out, wrists tugging against Daniel’s hold. “No, Daniel, please—”
“Bet your little pussy feels so fucking empty,” Daniel says, dragging himself closer to his own orgasm. “Bet your clit’s fucking begging for it.”
“Yeah,” Lando pants, squeezing his eyes shut, lip quivering. “Want you to—fuck my pussy, Daniel, please.”
Daniel’s quiet for a minute, lets Lando think he might give in. But Daniel says, “Nah.” He tugs Lando back on his cock. “This is what you asked for, mate. This is what you wanted.”
Lando shoves his face against the pillow and gasps, “I didn’t—I didn’t know.”
Daniel groans at that, moments away from coming.
Lando seems to realize his window of opportunity’s closing because he twists around as far as he can, eyes desperate, and pleads, “Daniel, please, please. Fuck, please.”
“What?” Daniel asks, feeling half-crazed, half-delirious at the sight of Lando strung out and begging on his cock. “What do you want?”
“Fuck my pussy,” Lando whimpers, eyes pleading. “Please, Dan, please fuck my pussy.”
“Yeah?” Daniel asks, voice ragged. “Want me to fuck your pussy?”
Lando nods frantically, fucking himself back on Daniel’s cock. “Please,” Lando whines. “Want you to fuck my pussy, want it so fucking bad.”
Daniel comes with a groan, filling Lando’s arse, fingers digging into Lando’s wrists.
“No,” Lando gasps. He lets out an anguished sob and shoves his face into the pillows, body shaking in Daniel’s grip, wrists still caught behind his back.
Daniel pulls out of him slowly, moaning at the sight of Lando’s fucked-open hole, his pussy flushed a dusky pink, glistening with arousal.
“Fuck,” Daniel murmurs, getting his hands under Lando’s hips, tugging him up so Daniel can see his untouched pussy, see his clit, swollen and huge with need.
Lando doesn't say anything, just squirms and sobs into the pillow, pussy twitching under Daniel's gaze.
Daniel stays there for a few moments, until he watches his come start to drip out of Lando. As he slips off the bed, Lando slumping against the mattress, he tries desperately to convince himself that he's finally won.
But Lando rolls over and gives Daniel a lazy grin despite the tears sliding down his cheeks. "Fuck," Lando says, looking sated, content. "Reckon I really needed that."
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@lamentationsofalonelypotato
Merry Christmas, my friend!! ❤️💚 First of all, I'm so honored that 'Twas the Night gave you some inspiration! 🥹 I'm excited to dive into this special Christmas edition of Take a Chance.
Aww poor Ben. I love how we start with shading in his past Christmases compared to what he's starting to experience now with the reader. We come at it from the same angle of headcanon, that Ben's mom was the only person who truly loved him in his family. So it was such a good detail that after she died, Christmases became just more of the same toxic/apathetic atmosphere with his father, compounded by the impact of his mom's death.
Of course he's having a hard time choosing a proper Christmas gift for her, because when was the last time he gave someone a gift because he genuinely loved them? I feel like Countess wouldn't be a good example lol. So what's going to be a reflection of the relationship he has now? Especially because she's not one for flashiness, or more materialistic gifts.
And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.
Yup. 😂😂
"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-" "It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.
Lmfao come on, Ben. Let's not take this out on others. 🤣
"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.
Okay, Ben. You do you. 🤣🤣
Ben had no intention of setting foot inside, but you were curious and even though it made Ben's throat tight to walk down the dusty cobwebbed halls, the wonder on your face as you walked through made the cold memories of the world he knew before he was a supe fade into the background. And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.
Wow, that's so interesting. Taking a trip literally through Memory Lane and walking through his family's mansion. I've never thought about that before, but I imagine it would be one of those things that Ben, for the longest time, couldn't bring himself to sell, but also couldn't visit. Like a mausoleum of his old life.
When Ben opens the trunk, he catches the smell of the floral perfume his mother used to wear and after all these years it makes him remember the tight hugs she'd give him the moment she sent him off to bed and the tight hugs she'd given him when he rushed down the stairs on Christmas morning.
You're killin' me, friend!! 😭😭
Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben. But you liked annoying him.
Lmaooo deeply relatable. I feel like it would be oh so funny to intentionally getting on his nerves (knowing he wouldn't hurt you). 😂
He might not have been big on sharing, but your boyfriend was good at listening. Not just pretending to listen, but actually being quiet and wanting to learn more about what you're saying. You'd thought it was odd when you became roommates and you realized just how much Ben listened and remembered what you told him, but now it was one of the reasons that made you love your boyfriend more.
Oh, it's because he actually cares. 💗
In all honesty, you didn't hate how old fashioned Ben was, if anything it was a relief, a reprieve from the way the modern boys treated women. It was nice to finally be with a man who actually gave a shit about you and cared what you wanted.
People want to think there aren't any good aspects to "traditional/old-fashioned" men, but for the men who are actually good men, traditional doesn't necessarily mean outdated or toxic, so thank you for including this tidbit.
Her gift to him was so very sweet!! Of course she made him something heartfelt, and he appreciated it because it was a genuine "first" for him, having someone give him a hand-made gift from the heart. 💚💚💚
And his gift to her was absolutely perfect. 🥹 A keepsake from his mother? Him basically saying he wishes she could've met his girl? I'm dying of happiness from the sheer fluff. 😭💗
This was a beautiful addition to the Take a Chance story, and kind of feels like an epilogue in a way, even though I know you're working on that one too. I loved this, friend!!
Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV and Reader POV
Summary: All Soldier Boy wants for Christmas is to find the perfect gift for you and all you want is for your boyfriend to have the best Christmas he has in forty years. Reader is a supe with plant powers. (Takes place in my Take A Chance On Me Series- 4 months after they get together, but can be read as stand alone!)
Tropes: Established Relationship, First Christmas, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy, Protective Ben/Soldier Boy
Word Count: 8.5K
Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Illusions to Sex, Fluff, Soft Soldier Boy, A little bit of self-deprecating thoughts, Soldier Boy is Mean to Hughie, Mention of drinking/drugs, Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.
Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!
Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.
Take A Chance On Me Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Song Inspiration: Little Things By ABBA
A/N: I know I should be working on the epilogue of "Take a Chance on Me," but @zepskies wrote a lovely Christmas fic called 'Twas the Night for Dean Winchester, and it really just got me in a mood to write some Christmas Fluff! 🥰
Soldier Boy POV
Ben frowned at the delicate necklace laid on the black velvet cloth in front of him, the 10 carat diamonds catching in the brilliant lights that lined the ceiling of the jewelry store. It was the eleventh piece of jewelry that he'd asked the woman behind the counter to remove from the display case, and it still wasn't right.
Ben had waited until the last possible moment to go Christmas shopping. It wasn't because he'd forgotten or because he'd been so busy he hadn't had time to shop or because he'd been called away on a mission, but rather Ben kept putting it off because he didn't want to think about it.
It was his first Christmas back in the U.S, and it was already proving to be one so different than the ones he'd known before.
Christmas for him in his youth when his mother was alive was filled with light and joy. Each room of his family's mansion strung with tinsel, adorned with holly and festive wreaths, and a Christmas tree so large that it put all others to shame and sent the smell of pine wafting thorough the large home. He remembered the lavish parties his mother threw with women in gorgeous gowns and men dressed in suits taking crystal glasses from silver trays, remembered the warmth in the kitchen as his mother baked and rolled fresh pastry, remembered the taste of the hot chocolate on the tip of his tongue that his mother made him before she sent him to bed on Christmas Eve, and remembered her tight embrace and the smell of her floral perfume on Christmas morning when he'd run down the stairs into the living room.
Ben's jaw tightened.
Christmas without her was different, the large mansion where he lived with his father was cold and dark. The hallways desolate and frozen in the winter months that lead into spring, the kitchen no longer heated by the warmth of the oven or infused with the smell of gingerbread, the parlor no longer tinkling with the sounds of glasses and the laughter of guests, the living room no longer housed a Christmas tree so tall that it made the Eiffel tower look like a trinket, and there were no longer Christmas parties where people danced into the wee hours of the morning and poured themselves into bed smelling of champagne and eggnog.
All that was left was the drunken stupor of his father, the harsh words that echoed down the long hallways, and the urge for Ben to find the nearest bottle and drown himself in it.
Ben spent most of his years as a supe trying to forget the years that followed his mother's death and also his Christmases as a supe washing away the memory of the ones that seemed to be infused with the magic of Christmas in his youth.
Ben spent them at Legend's Christmas party with his woman of the hour clinging to his arm, making painful small talk and waiting until the party turned into a hedonistic thrall of sweat and skin as so many others had. And the next morning when he woke up from the fog, he turned back to the little white line that promised to make him forget and the amber bottle that did little to ease the reality that started to sink in.
But this year was different, because he had you.
You who loved Christmas more than anyone he'd ever met, you who was slowly reminding him how much he used to love Christmas as a child, you who'd dragged him to go Christmas tree shopping before Thanksgiving, you who had encouraged him to help decorate the small apartment the two of you shared with so many Christmas lights it was blinding, and you who had planned something Christmas themed every week for the past month whether it be baking Christmas cookies or watching Christmas movies while drinking hot chocolate on the couch. And in each moment, you'd found some way to include him in it.
Ben wasn't used to that.
He wasn't used to someone wanting him there with them and someone like you going out of your way to include him in everything you did.
If a person had tried to tell him in the past that he'd ended up with someone like you, someone who smiled easily, someone who always put other people first, someone who actually gave a shit about him, someone who was always so damn warm and welcoming, someone who included in him everything you did in a way that didn't make Ben feel like an old grump, and someone who tried their best to make sure that Ben remembered every day that you wanted him around, he would have laughed in that person's face.
And yet there you were.
Truth be told Ben knew that the old version of him probably wouldn't have let someone like you close to him, let alone fall in love with them.
Ben hadn't met anyone else like you in the numerous years he'd been alive and he really didn't want to fuck it up. He'd fucked up so many other things in his life and he hadn't cared, but if it involved you, he wouldn't dare.
Hence, the current dilemma of him standing in the crowded Tiffany store at 8 pm two days before Christmas with you waiting at home for him to exchange gifts. Ben wanted to pick the perfect gift for you, but nothing felt right.
He'd never given much thought to what to buy someone for Christmas. In the past usually an expensive piece of jewelry, a handbag, a dress, or a car would have made any of Ben's many escapades swoon, but not you. Ben had tried to give you jewelry before, expensive jewelry that would have made any of those other women drop to their knees, but you were different.
And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.
The one time that he'd tried to give you a gift outright, a beautiful diamond and emerald drop pendant with earrings to match, you hadn't been impressed. Sure, you'd thought that it was beautiful, but you'd told him that you liked gifts that "meant something."
Whatever the fuck that meant.
And he knew for a fact that the 10 carat diamond necklace on the velvet pillow in front of him would mean nothing to you.
"Fuck." Ben murmured under his breath, and the saleswoman stiffened.
"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-"
"It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.
He was running late. He knew that you were waiting at home for him to bring back dinner and to give him his present, the one that he was sure would be thoughtful and perfect for him because you were always so damn caring.
The other shoppers were pushing and shoving their way to the counters where other salespeople stood in identical navy blazers and white button down shirts, the tension and buzz of two days to Christmas electrifying the air, while Christmas music that Ben couldn't recognize played in the background.
His supe hearing made it worse. Sometimes it was a bit overwhelming and as much as Ben pretended that he didn't have PTSD, he did. Being surrounded by this many people was not helping. It was in moments like this when you were there, would hold entwine your fingertips with his and brush your thumb gently over the back of his hand to ground him as if you could sense his discomfort.
Ben hadn't ever had someone care enough to notice things like that. Another reason why he wanted to find you the perfect gift, because you put up with all his shit and didn't ask for anything in return.
"Ben?" He hears a familiar voice ask, hesitant, and he turns to see Annie standing a few feet inside the open doorway. S
he's wearing a black puffer jacket and her hair is hidden under a red stocking cap, while Hughie holds the door for her. Hughie's arms were laden down with bags while Annie's remained bare. The winter wind blew in through the space, flecking bits of snow onto the rugs that had been laid out to avoid the customers sliding through the sludge.
"Hey." Ben grunts, not quite smiling.
He wasn't good at talking to your best friend or her boyfriend. Personally he thought that Hughie was a fucking pussy and that he didn't have the balls to tell Annie no, but the one time Ben had told you that, you'd only rolled your eyes and told him that Hughie "loved Annie."
Ben loved you and he did have the balls to tell you no, but Ben thought that sometimes it was better to keep his mouth shut and do what you asked. Not to mention Ben hated saying no to you when it was something that could make you happy. Ben liked making you as happy as you made him.
He flinched at the thought. The self-deprecating monologue was beginning to seep in, the one that told him you were turning him into a "pussy" and that he should cut and run. The same monologue that made him make a mistake and run back to Vought a few months ago when he should have run to you.
Ben shakes it off.
"What are you doing here? I thought you two were going to leave this morning for Illinois?" Annie asks in surprise used to Ben's grouchy demeanor.
Your grandmother turned Christmas into a two day extravaganza, complete with a Christmas Eve and a Christmas Day party. And although Ben and you were supposed to begin the 14 hour drive to Illinois this morning, your grandmother had insisted the two of you catch a flight first thing tomorrow.
"Decided to catch a flight tomorrow." Ben replies.
Ben was secretly happy, because flying meant that he wasn't going to have to drive 14 hours in the snow. The two of you had driven to Illinois once before, and Ben hadn't minded it. You’d been more upset with him for not letting you drive, but Ben liked driving. Driving meant that he was in control and in an emergency situation he wouldn't have to reach over the console and yank the wheel to save the two of you and driving meant that you could relax in the passenger seat and work on whatever it was you were crocheting.
"Like us!" Hughie flashes Ben a wide smile that Ben doesn't feel the need to return. “You should have told us. We could have all traveled together!”
Ben's frown deepens at the thought at being stuck in a metal tube for hours with Hughie and he knew that if you were here you would probably elbow him in the side and tell him to "be nice." If anyone had ever tried to do that to him in the past, he would have ripped their arm off, but not you.
"Last minute shopping?" Hughie asks trying again.
Ben dragged his eyes over the numerous bags hanging from Hughie's arms. "Yeah. You too?"
"Mhmm. We just finished." Annie replies. Her gaze drops to the diamond necklace on top of the display case that the saleswoman is fiddling with. "Is that for-"
"No. Of course not!" Ben says sharper than he means to, shoulders tensing. But him standing in this store when he knew that you were waiting at home for him to celebrate Christmas made him feel like Annie and Hughie had caught him red-handed. "She doesn't like jewelry." He adds referring to you as he takes a step back from the counter and the sales associate who looks confused.
“But sir-“ The woman begins to say, but Ben waves a hand to shut her up.
"Why do you think that?" Annie asks interrupting the woman.
"Because she yelled at me when I bought her that diamond and emerald necklace!" He shouts so loud that some of the other customers turn to stare at him. "This was a fucking mistake, I have to go-" Ben starts to stomp out the door and past Annie not sure where he's going, but she shifts to stand in his way. His eyes narrow in annoyance, thinking about all the ways that he could move her.
He only put up with Annie because she was your best friend and he knew that if he did anything to her then it would upset you, and Ben didn't like upsetting you.
Well, he did think that it was cute when you got angry with him. Your eyebrows scrunched together, your cheeks turned a cute shade of pink, and your eyes seemed to glow with the force of your anger. There were few people who had the courage to tell him off, but the more you did it, the more he started to like it.
But this was different, and now thinking about you only reminded him of his current dilemma.
"Ben, wait a minute." Annie says.
"What?" He snaps
He could practically feel the seconds ticking away until he had to go back to the apartment. It was the first time that he'd ever dreaded going home and seeing you and fuck he hated every single moment of it.
"She does like jewelry." Annie's mouth drops into a sympathetic smile.
Ben tried not to get more angry when he saw the pitying look in her eye. He didn't need her pity, didn't need anyone's pity! He was still Soldier Boy damnit!
"Then why the fuck did she-"
"She doesn't like this kind of jewelry." Annie clarifies. "She like vintage stuff, simple, refined. Hell, I have to practically drag her away from the display cases at Atomic Archives."
"Atomic Archives?" Ben asks hesitantly. He had no idea what Annie was talking about. You'd never mentioned that place before.
"Yeah, it's our favorite antique store. It’s about two blocks over from where the plant shop used to be.”
"Can you show me where it is?" Ben says it before he can stop himself, his heart surging with hope at the possibility of finding the perfect gift for you.
"I mean I-" Annie begins to say, but Hughie interrupts.
"Babe, didn’t you say that the owner was closed this week because she went out of town?" Hughie asks her, throwing a sympathetic look in Ben's direction that made him bristle.
"Oh, right." Annie sighs.
Ben felt the hope inside pop and deflate like a pricked balloon, but the longer he stood there in the crowded shop, with the ostentatious jewelry twinkling under the lights, the buzz of the chatter of other shoppers, and the ridiculous new-age Christmas music that grated on his ears, he began to have an idea.
"Come on." Ben might have said it as a suggestion, but it wasn’t open for debate. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed Annie and unfortunately that meant that Hughie was going to tag along.
"What?" Annie sputtered.
"Come the fuck on. I don’t have time for this." Ben snaps back and stomps out the doorway past Annie and Hughie into the snow.
"But what about-" Hughie begins to say and Ben whirls around to glare at him, eyes narrowing. "Okay you got it. Lead the way buddy." Hughie nods his head in agreement.
"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.
Soldier Boy POV
"This place is really murdery." Ben hears Hughie whisper to Annie from somewhere behind him. "Do you think Ben is going to try to kill us? Should I call Butc-"
"I'm not going to fucking kill you!" Ben snaps, pulling out his keys, the jingle of the metal echoing down the long hallway. "And I guess you really can't make a decision without that British fuck can you?”
The storage unit warehouse was desolate, but that was to be expected, it was after all two days to Christmas and most were more focused on buying things to put in their storage units than moving things out. The lights along the roof of the steel gray hallway flicker and throw long shadows over the navy blue doors of the units doing little to alleviate the creepy aura.
In hindsight Ben did agree that this particular storage space was "murdery," but it was the only one that he could get close to the apartment last minute. The same apartment that Ben has been trying to convince you to move out of.
It wasn't the safest neighborhood, and Ben hated the thought that you'd lived there as long as you had, walking home at night alone before he moved in. Now it wasn't a problem because Ben never let you walk by yourself. And as hard as you'd fought him not to live in a "big fancy apartment" all Ben wanted was to live somewhere where he could imagine staying permanently. Not in a small one bedroom apartment where he had to stoop in the shower, the bed barely fit in the bedroom, and seemed too small for one person let alone two.
He knew that he was wearing you down, but he still had a long way to go.
"Why are we here then?" Hughie asks.
"You're here because your girlfriend wouldn’t come without you.” Ben rolls his eyes as he fits the key into the thick padlock.
He was getting tired of listening to Hughie’s whining. He heard enough of that when he was stuck on missions with him, but he was tolerating him, for the moment at least. He had to, because if he didn't then he was never going to be able to find the perfect gift for you.
The interior of the storage unit isn't anything special. Ben didn't have much that he wanted to keep from his old life, as a supe or from his childhood. The things inside this storage unit were the only things that Ben had left that didn't cause him to be reminded of how his father chastised him or the drafty home that Ben returned to each time he got kicked out of another boarding school.
The mansion that had been in his family for decades had sat abandoned and locked up, hidden from the main roads so it was undisturbed after Ben's father died. Ben had gone to Philadelphia a few months ago to get things in order with the bank and prepare it for sale, but had been surprised when you told him you wanted to come.
He didn't think that you'd want to be involved in something so tedious, but it was almost as if you could sense how hard it was going to be for him, and you'd insisted.
Ben had no intention of setting foot inside, but you were curious and even though it made Ben's throat tight to walk down the dusty cobwebbed halls, the wonder on your face as you walked through made the cold memories of the world he knew before he was a supe fade into the background.
And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.
Ben located the old steamer trunk with ease. It was a faded gray now, but Ben remembered the day his father bought it for his mother. When the grayed sides were a soft supple black, the metal lock and edging were a polished gold, and the rose patterned fabric that lined the inside was soft and covered in bright pink flowers.
When Ben opens the trunk, he catches the smell of the floral perfume his mother used to wear and after all these years it makes him remember the tight hugs she'd give him the moment she sent him off to bed and the tight hugs she'd given him when he rushed down the stairs on Christmas morning.
He didn't like thinking about her or talking about her, but sometimes he would think of her when he was with you. Whenever you did something caring without being asked or whenever you took the time to check in to see how he was doing. Not that you were motherly, just that Ben hadn't had anyone in a long time care about little things like that.
The only other "relationship" he'd tried to have was with Crimson Countess and she didn't do any of the things for him that you did. There wasn't any comparison between the two of you as far as Ben was concerned.
He shakes off the memory the way he always does and moves some of his mother's clothes for the cherry wood carved box that he knows is in the bottom.
He opens it slowly, extracting a small velvet box from within, one of many inside that Ben probably should have taken to the bank ages ago for safe keeping. Ben's father had a tendency to buy things for his mother whenever he "messed up" and the small velvet boxes inside were proof of that.
Ben turns back to where Annie and Hughie are watching with curiosity at the door of the storage unit. "Here."
"Here?" Annie says hesitantly looking at the velvet box in Ben's hand.
"You brought us out here for a box?" Hughie huffs.
Ben narrows his eyes. "No. And if you tell anyone about this I'll turn you inside out, ass-wipe."
"Why do you always have to be so-" Hughie begins to say, but Annie nudges him in the side.
Ben wondered briefly if Annie and Hughie also tried to tolerate him the same way that he tolerated them for you.
"Wow." Annie says, her voice hushed and reverent when she opens the box with strands of her blonde hair falling out around the hat.
"You think she'll like it?" Ben clears his throat, trying not to wince at the question.
He hated that he was relying on Annie for this or relying on anyone in general. Ben would have rather taken a long walk off a short pier than anyone for help, but he was just so desperate to make sure that the first Christmas the two of you spent together was perfect.
You deserved that and Ben wanted to give it to you.
"She will."
"Good." Ben takes the box back, but decides to bring the wooden box with him back to the apartment just in case. His eyes narrow as he looks over at Hughie. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll shove your head up Butcher's ass. Then again, you two would probably enjoy something like that."
"You're welcome." Annie raises an eyebrow.
"Whatever." Ben mutters.
Reader POV
Ben was late and you were starting to worry.
Not that Ben was always punctual. The man was about as punctual as the White Rabbit, but rather Ben was sure to let you know when he was running late. Not to mention Ben was rarely late to things that he knew were important to you.
And tonight was special or at least you wanted it to be.
You look at your phone again to check the time, noting that it was nearing nine and Ben had told you he was going to be back at eight. You were trying not to think too much about it, busying yourself with other little things, like packing for your trip to your grandmother's home in Illinois. Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben.
But you liked annoying him.
Ben's nostrils would flare, his jaw would flex, and the green of his eyes would darken in a way that sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine, but tonight you were too anxiety ridden at how late he was to care about making him annoyed.
Ben and you were supposed to leave this morning to drive the 14 hours to your hometown in Illinois, but you'd called your grandmother a few days ago and asked her if Ben and you could fly in instead.
You wanted the two of you have a Christmas alone before you dragged him back home and made him sit through the two holiday parties your grandmother threw. So you'd planned a quiet Christmas at home where the two of you could drink eggnog, watch some holiday movies, and exchange gifts before Ben was subjected to every single person you'd known since you were six.
But Ben didn’t seem to mind any of that.
Regardless, you were going all out this Christmas. It was Ben's first since he'd come back to the States and you wanted it to be perfect and it was the first Christmas the two of you were spending together as a couple.
The anxious energy that thrummed through your veins reached out into the numerous plants in your apartment, that shifted and stirred as your powers coaxed them forward. The vines that crept along the walls shook with an unnatural breeze, the Christmas tree grew an inch taller, the mistletoe hanging above the front door grew another few shimmering berries, the blackberry and raspberry vines that hung over your refrigerator fidgeted and wove together into a curtain while the tomato plant in the garden box above your sink dropped bright red fruit onto the counter, and the orange/lemon tree that sat behind your kitchen table blocking the view of the alley beyond shook it's branches for a moment. You could feel everything alive in your apartment leaning towards you as if waiting for your silent command.
Rex, the creature you'd created from broken vines and trampled leaves four months ago, flicks his eyes over to you sensing the same disturbance the rest of the plants inside could.
You bite the inside of your cheek fighting your urge to check your phone even though you know that less than a minute has passed since you'd last checked. Instead you fiddle with the ribbon on the lumpy wrapped gift that is perched on your lap.
Shopping for Ben had been difficult to say the least.
You weren't sure what to get your 104 boyfriend who'd lived as a hedonistic playboy for most of his life and you didn't like giving gift cards (you didn't think Ben would understand the concept) or giving people meaningless trinkets that they used once and then threw away (the Grinch was right about some things). You liked giving gifts that you put time and effort into that you were sure the recipient was going to love.
And you were sure that the package on your lap contained the perfect gift and you were excited to see the look on Ben's face when he unwrapped it.
Your cat Bean purrs where he sits beside you on the couch and Rex your, for lack of a better word, Dragon was watching the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree in the corner blink on and off.
It was bigger for your apartment than it should be, but Ben had insisted on getting it and you couldn't complain. Not when he genuinely seemed to be happy to stand there in the snow picking out a tree with you.
And after when no Uber driver agreed to pick the two of you up because of the tree, Ben had carried it on his shoulder fifteen blocks while you begged him to let you help. When you'd tried to take some of the tree, Ben had shifted it to his other shoulder and taken your hand instead, which wasn't what you meant when you reached out towards him, but you didn't let go, not when it was cold and Ben's hand was warm.
The one jammed into the corner of your small living room didn't have a leaf out of place or any signs of decay. You'd fixed that with a flick of a finger.
You'd gone all out with decorations.
Every plant in your apartment had lights of their own and ornaments that swung just out of reach from your pets. Christmas lights were strung down the hallway and there was a wreath on your bedroom door. Strands of mistletoe hung over every doorway in your apartment and there was one taped to the wall above your bed. That one was Ben's doing, but you couldn't complain, not when it felt so damn good to kiss him.
Ben hadn't spoken about the Christmases he spent in the past, but he'd listened to you talk about your Christmases growing up when the two of you decorated the tree with ornaments you'd collected over the years.
He might not have been big on sharing, but your boyfriend was good at listening. Not just pretending to listen, but actually being quiet and wanting to learn more about what you're saying. You'd thought it was odd when you became roommates and you realized just how much Ben listened and remembered what you told him, but now it was one of the reasons that made you love your boyfriend more.
You sighed, a happy smile on your face. You didn't think that you could feel this way about anyone, let alone someone you hated for so long, but you did. Ben was changing the belief you had about what relationships should look like, and you were sure that you were doing the same for him.
You hear the jingle of keys and the fumble of the doorknob as Ben slowly opens the front door and you leap from the couch.
"You're home!" You exclaim as your body hits his full speed, but he doesn't move. It was difficult for you to produce enough force to move him, difficult for anyone really.
Ben chuckles "Miss me Petals?"
He moves the plastic bag of Chinese food to his left hand so he can hug you back, his right hand fitting comfortably over the small of your back to hold you tighter against him.
You could remember the first time you hugged him, when all he did was stand there with his hands at his sides awkwardly while you held on to him as tight as you could. This was better. Ben's embrace is warm and strong, unyielding, but full of the love that he’d had such a hard time admitting.
"Yes." You squeeze him hard, smiling into his jacket that's flecked with melting snow, cold against your skin, but the warmth of his body soaks through the chill and into you. You sigh, nuzzling further into him. "I was worried-"
"Why?" Ben's voice rumbles through his chest, against your cheek.
"Because you weren't home yet." You pull back to stare up at him. His brilliant green eyes catch in the multicolored strands of Christmas lights, strung through your apartment. There's snow caught in his dark hair, turning to water and dripping down into his face in the warmth of the apartment.
Ben frowns. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You're here now." You smile arching up to kiss him. Ben groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening as he deepens the kiss, pressing the hand on the small of your back just a little more to secure you against his chest.
You sigh softly, content in living in this moment with him for another few precious seconds. The heat of his body transferring into you the longer you stand pressed against him, soaking through your sweatpants and chunky sweater in the best way.
You'd never felt this way about anyone in the past. There hadn't been another boyfriend who'd treated you the way Ben did, no other boyfriend who'd cared about the little things, and no other boyfriend who you were so in love with. Even your first love so long ago faded into the background, the one you thought you'd never get over, and all that was left was Ben.
You're too excited about giving Ben his gift to eat. You sit cross-legged on the plush gray couch so close to him that your knees are touching the outside of his thigh as Ben places the boxes of food onto your coffee table. The anxious energy tingling in the pit of your stomach and buzzing in your chest so much that it's difficult to sit still.
And before Ben can give you your chopsticks, you thrust the lumpy wrapped package onto his lap with a wide smile.
"You first!" You say.
Ben shakes his head. "It should be ladies first."
“I’m not a lady Ben. We both know that-“
“Sorry sweetheart that’s the way it goes.”
“Don't be so old fashioned Gramps. It's 2024.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing at the cute frown that pulls at his lips when you use the nickname. Ben never liked it, but when you'd first met, Ben hadn't told you his real name, and you'd assigned him the nickname and it had stuck when you realized how much it annoyed him.
That was when he did everything in his power to annoy you as well, so it seemed like a good fit.
In all honesty, you didn't hate how old fashioned Ben was, if anything it was a relief, a reprieve from the way the modern boys treated women. It was nice to finally be with a man who actually gave a shit about you and cared what you wanted.
"And I really want you to open yours first." You plead as you lean towards him. "Oh, and this goes with it."
You reach down behind the couch to grab the small golden barrel cactus, avoiding the sharp yellow spines, and place it on the minimal space left on the coffee table. You'd crocheted a dark green sleeve to go around the terra cotta pot.
"You got me a cactus?" Ben snorts.
"I mean, I have so many plants in here and I thought that you'd want one that was yours. Plus, you'll never have to water it." You gesture with one hand to the numerous plants around the room, the ones bathed in the multicolored lights from the Christmas Tree, the ones with bright green leaves that unfurled towards the light, the others with hanging vines that trailed to the ground so thick that you couldn't remember the color of the wall, the apple tree with ripe red fruit, and the numerous herbs in the garden box that hung over your kitchen sink. "And I gave it a sweater."
"Why did you give it a sweater?"
"It’s used to a warm climate and because I had some yarn left over."
"From?"
"You're just going to have to open your gift and find out." You shrug, but can barely contain your excitement.
Ben shakes his head at you, but a smile twitches on the corner of his lips. You knew that your boyfriend loved you because you were different than anyone he'd ever met, and you reveled in that. You liked that even though Ben was older than you, that no matter how many other experiences he'd had in his life, you were a first for him just as Ben was a first for you.
He rips through the paper carefully, trying hard not to ruin what was inside, the sound of crinkling and tearing blocking out the Christmas playlist for a moment that you'd put on before Ben had come home, but you can hear the ABBA song clear as day.
For a moment he stares down at the gift not quite comprehending what the lumpy mass in his lap is, but then he picks it up.
It had taken a month for you to pick out the perfect dark green yarn that was soft but not too soft, green but not too green, and another two months for you to finish it when Ben wasn't home, but you were proud of the sweater that you'd made your boyfriend.
He stares at it for another few beats, holding it up to the light, and it makes you worry that maybe you should have bought him something at the mall instead.
"You made me a sweater?" He asks, there's something on the edge of his voice that you can't place, some traces of emotion that you're not able to identify.
"Yeah. I wanted to make you something." You clear your throat, worried. "I mean- you don't have any and I know that you keep saying you run a little warm, but I figured we're going to Illinois for Christmas and it might be cold."
Ben doesn't say anything and you start to feel the self-doubt come roaring in.
Why did I make him a sweater? I should have bought him some cologne or something.
"And you complained when Butcher sent you on that mission to Alaska last month and I just thought that-“ You press your lips into a tight line, shoulders drooping. “If you don't like it I can keep it for me-" You fumble, but before you can finish, Ben yanks you into his lap.
His hands cup your cheeks as he kisses you so fiercely that it wipes any doubts from your mind. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, but sink into the kiss. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Ben mutters against your lips.
Your blush burns against your face. “You like it?”
He nods. “ No one’s ever made me anything before.” His voice comes out a little bit gruff, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it, but it makes you smile.
“I figured and I wanted to change that.” Your fingertips dance over his forehead, brushing away the hair that’s fallen forward before your hand drops to cup his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against the palm of your hand. “But you’re sure you like it?”
Ben kisses you again, his large hands settling on your hips with an encouraging squeeze. “I do.”
“Good. Merry Christmas.” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck to hug him for a minute, sinking into his embrace with a happy smile.
"Merry Christmas doll." Ben murmurs into your hair, affection lacing his words.
Again, you send a mental thank you to your grandmother for understanding that Ben and you needed a day to be together and celebrate the way you wanted to before coming to stay. Not that you didn't like the Christmas Eve party or the Christmas day party, but you wanted to give Ben this. You noticed that Ben still had a hard time being in places with a lot of people when the PTSD came roaring back, and you wanted to show him what Christmas meant to you and hopefully show what Christmas would look like between the two of you as long as you were together.
“Sweetheart you gotta open yours now.” Ben’s voice rumbles, the warmth of his breath on your ear. It makes a pleasurable shiver thrill skate down your spine when you think of all the other times the two of you have been this close.
“It’s okay I can wait.” You hum into his throat, content, but Ben won't give in.
He pushes you back gently from his chest shaking his head. “Too bad. It's your turn."
"Fine." You start to move back to the space beside him, but Ben's hands catch on your hips to stop you.
"I didn't say I wanted you to move did I?" His smile turns more smirk.
"I-"
"How many times do I have to tell you that I like having you on top of me?" Ben purrs, kissing under your jaw, his beard scratching in a way that makes your throat tight.
"Keep doing that and the only thing I'm going to unwrap is you." You sigh in a half-moan, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck.
"After." Ben leans back to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box that fits in the palm of your hand.
You hesitate to open it.
It wasn't that you didn't want jewelry for Christmas, it was that Ben and you had done this song and dance before after he tried to make you wear a diamond and emerald necklace with jewels bigger than your index, middle, and third finger put together. The whole time you wore it the only thing you could think about is how many groceries you could have bought with the necklace, how much you were afraid that it was going to break, and how much you feared that you were going to lose it or someone was going to try and steal it.
Maybe that was ridiculous, but extravagant gifts never appealed to you. You liked gifts that meant something, gifts that were heartfelt and thoughtful, gifts like the bookshelf Ben had gotten you months ago before you were dating because he noticed you needed one. Not to mention you loved just spending time with Ben. If he hadn't gotten you anything you would have been content with just sitting with him on the couch and watching a Christmas movie.
But you smile, because you don't want to hurt his feelings and because it's his first Christmas in forty years and you wanted it to be special.
It's Christmas and I will be thankful and happy with whatever he got me, because Ben was thinking of me when he bought it.
You think to yourself as you open the box.
The first thing you notice is that the box isn't as new as you thought, the inside of the lid is printed in ancient script that's a little faded, worn against the aged white silk that lines it. Your eyes drift to the piece of jewelry nestled on the pillow. It's a silver locket, hexagon shaped, and about the size of your thumb. The face is printed with weaving ivy leaves and roses that reach to a simple plain border.
Simple, stately, and completely you.
Ben is uncharacteristically quiet, but he breaks the silence first. "Do you-" He clears his throat, "Do you like it?"
He asks it hesitantly, as if he's afraid to hear your answer. It was unusual for Ben to look so nervous.
You can only nod, any words you had stuck in the back of your throat. Your fingernail finds the seam between the two pieces of metal and you gently unlatch the locket to see the picture inside. There's a piece of glass protecting a yellowed photo of a little boy who looks no more than five standing in a small black suit. You didn't think that they made suits for kids that small. He's smiling and one of his teeth are missing, but he looks oddly familiar.
"Who is this?" You ask. The more you look at the photo the more you think that you've seen him before.
"It's me." He says it quiet, almost a whisper.
"You? But-"
"It was my mother's." He clarifies and you inhale sharply in surprise.
"Really?"
He nods once, looking uncomfortable. By now you knew that moments like this usually made your boyfriend uncomfortable no matter how many times that you'd told him that he didn't have to be uncomfortable about being vulnerable. He was getting a little better, slowly, very slowly.
"Oh Ben I don't know if I should-" You shake your head, afraid to touch something so old.
Ben didn't often speak about his mother, but when he did, it was always reverent and respectful. You could see in his eyes how much he had loved her and how much he had cared about her. His father, Ben also didn't like talking about, but Ben never spoke of his father with the kindness that he'd spoke about his mother.
And you didn't want to take something like this away from him, something that meant so much to him, because of how much he loved his mother.
"No. I-" He clears his throat and Ben's hand tightens on your waist. "I want you to have it."
"But-" You stutter.
"What else am I going to do with it Petals? Can't exactly wear it myself." Ben chuckles, but the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes.
“Yeah, but it’s your mom’s and I-“ You trail off still looking at the photo of Ben as a little boy. He had the same mischievous twinkle in his eyes that you loved, the same unruly dark hair, but there was something different about him. He looked happier. It was the same look that Ben had when it was just the two of you together, the happiness that you wanted Ben to feel the rest of his life when he understood what it was like to be loved and cherished.
And it made you understand that the last time Ben must have felt loved and cherished was when his mother was still alive. It broke your heart to know that Ben had lived all these years without her and missed that in his life.
The locket was beautiful and the fact that Ben remembered what you said about liking gifts that “meant something” made your heart flutter.
Because this meant something. Ben taking the time to go through his mother’s jewelry and pick something out just for you that was special to him that he wanted to share with you, meant more than the emerald and diamond necklace he had tried to give you months ago.
There were tears burning behind your eyes the more you look at the photo of the little boy.
Ben is watching you. “Well-“ He shrugs. “I'm an only child. Which means I don't have any siblings who have wives to fight over this stuff so, I figured that if anyone was going to get it, it should be you. If you don't take it, it'll sit in that fucking storage unit. Seems like a shame."
You don't answer.
"And-" He hesitates, "I think my mom would have wanted you to have it. Hell, she might have given it to you, if I'd brought you home to meet her."
Your cheeks flush.
Ben studies you for another minute, before you watch his smile twitch into a frown. "Fuck, I knew I shouldn't have gotten you jewelry. Annie said that you liked jewelry, but I told her you didn't and now the bitch is probably having a good laugh with that pussy of a boyfriend! Forget about it sweetheart, I'll go get you something else right now-" Ben tries to take the box from you, but you swat his hand away.
“Don't you fucking dare!” You shout, using the same words that he said to you when you tried to take his sweater away.
"But you don't like it-"
"I do! And knowing how much this means to you, makes it better."
"Really?"
You nod, a wide smile wiping away any uncertainty in his gaze. "Will you help me put it on?"
"Sure." Ben says gruffly. His voice has lowered a little, and you know that it's a mixture of pride and love mingling in the tone. It made something break open deep inside and flood your ribcage with love.
You turn your neck to the side, pulling your hair away from the skin as Ben hooks the chain together at the nape of your neck. The cool metal of the necklace against your skin and the weight are unfamiliar, but you already knew that you wouldn’t be taking it off anytime soon. "It's perfect!" You pull Ben in for a kiss, threading your fingers into his dark hair.
Ben smiles into your mouth, holding you tight against him as if he never wants to let you go and you don't want him to.
It was odd to think that you'd only been together for four months, but you couldn't imagine your life without him. It seemed ridiculous for you to think that Ben was it after such a short time, but he was. You'd never rushed into anything in your entire life, but then Ben was there shattering every expectation that you had, enough to make you throw your inhibitions to the wind and jump feet first into the unknown if it meant he was with you.
The kiss is softer than the one the two of you shared at your front door, filled with more emotion than Ben usually let the world see, but he was opening up bit by bit, learning that you wouldn't judge him for that and it made you feel sky high.
This was the relationship you'd always wanted, and you never thought that you'd have it with Ben, but now that you were here you wouldn't change a thing, because it wouldn’t have put you in his arms.
"You can change the picture." Ben murmurs into your lips.
"No way. I don't have any kid photos of you. And I'm pretty sure you'll see all of mine this week.”
“I bet you were cute.” Ben smiles, raising one of the hands from your hip to push your hair from your face. “Hard to imagine you being any other way sweetheart.”
"Debatable." You sigh, nipping at his bottom lip in a way that makes Ben pull you back to him.
And when the kiss turns hungry, with you gripping his hair so tight you'd be sure that it would hurt anyone else, and with his fingers pushing up the bottom of your t-shirt to feel the warmth of your skin against his hands and find the dips and curves of your body that make you moan into his mouth, you can't help but think that this is the best Christmas you'd ever had.
"I do think it's later sweetheart." Ben's eyes shine with mischief, mouth pulling into the familiar smirk that makes your knees weak.
"Good. Because I have one other gift for you." You moan as Ben's mouth trails down to your jaw, his beard prickling against the sensitive skin, in a way that drives you mad.
"It's not another plant is it?" He bites just under your jaw and you tighten your hands in his hair, gasping softly. "Fuck, I love those sounds you make baby." Ben murmurs.
"No." You've lost all ability to form sentences, not when he's so perfectly warm and the trail of his hands working up your abdomen consumes you.
"Give it to me later." Ben's eyes flash a startling green. "I want to unwrap my favorite gift right now."
"Keep going the way you are, and you're gonna find it."
Ben hesitates, before he raises his hand to feel the end of the brand new lingerie that you'd bought special for tonight, his eyes darkening with the realization. "Well then, Merry Christmas to me."
Ben's mouth falls against yours, but before he goes further, he pulls back just for a moment, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise.
"Ben?" You question.
"Merry Christmas Petals." He whispers, dragging his thumb over your cheek, and nudges his nose against yours in a gesture that warms your heart. He didn’t do things like that often, but whenever he did it always stood out to you, because it added on another layer to the man you loved with all your heart.
"Merry Christmas Ben."
A/N: I thought that they deserved a little Christmas fluff. I'm hoping that I have time to drop a follow up to this before Christmas, because I kinda want to write what happens when they go back to Illinois, but we'll see what happens! ❤️
As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think 🥰
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#lovely mutuals#soldier boy x reader#soldier boy x you#soldier boy#soldier boy x female reader#soldier boy fanfiction#soldier boy/ben#soldier boy fic#the boys fanfiction#the boys tv#christmas fluff#annie january#hughie campbell#zepskies reads
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Bad Buddy Ep 6
My thoughts on Ep 1 | Ep 2 | Ep 3 | Ep 4 | Ep 5
Me, at the end of this episode:
Something about the way Pran buttoned his shirt all the way up to the collar, like it's suffocating for him to share space with Pat for the first time since their rooftop kiss, is making me unwell.
Why is Pat's father on my screen? I do not like that man. He makes Pran uncomfortable and I can't allow that. Why does Pran make himself look small when interacting with Pat's dad? Is it just his way of showing respect for an elder or is there something more?
"We know how it's going to end; isn't it better not to start at all?" Pran, bestie, are we still talking about music here? It hasn't escaped me that Pran is leaving the guitar with Wai after Pat kept it with him for 3 years before returning it to Pran. I just hope Pat doesn't find out about this.
Now, What is Pran's mom deal? You're on a timeout along with Pat's dad. Go sit in the corner for a while.
Pa is a child of (PatPran's) divorce at this point. She has to put up with Pat wreaking havoc in his room with the drums.
Pa out her assuming that everyone likes Ink because she likes her. Understandable, bestie, but you're way off in this case.
Pat following Pran to the architecture faculty volunteer camp strengthens my belief that Pat is just a lost puppy following Pran around.
The irony of Pran ignoring Pat by using the earphones that Pat gave him isn't lost on me.
Pran hasn't counted on Pat's pesky persistence. I'm cheering you on, Pat; make Pran go off-kilter.
Now, let's all thank Uncle Tong for coming up with these activities at a volunteer camp and divine intervention for actually pairing them together.
PAT USED HIS HAND TO PROTECT PRAN'S HEAD FROM THE FALL.
Wai is officially on my shit list. Why is he being so damn possessive of Pran? Pran can make his own choices, and if he weren't comfortable with Pat lying on him, I can't imagine why he wouldn't be, he can take care of himself.
Pat, bestie, I love how brazen you are, and I appreciate it.
Pran saying, "Someone like him will quit bothering us when he has had enough," in relation to Pat, and Pat coming with a chair to settle between Pran and Wai is just too fucking funny.
Now, Pran is being the physical embodiment of "My having feelings for you has nothing to do with you. Don't talk to me."
Pat is using the child, Junior, as their unofficial couple's counselor.
So, the trip to the market counts as a date, right? Glad we agree on that. Even the vendor thinks that they look cute together.
PLAYING IN THE WATER TOGETHER!!! This episode is a gift that keeps on giving. The conversation by the beach.
Okay, but what did Pat do to have Pran transferred from the school? I get his anger at his mom, but what did Pat do other than be a part of the band?
I love how, although there isn't any direct mention of homophobia (yet) in the show, their (familial & faculty) rivalry, that they didn't ask for but was imposed on them, feels like an allegory for it.
Without people around, I can sit next to you just fine. But when there's other people, talking to you feels like amatter of life and death. What can we do? We were just born this way.
OMG. Their hands touched, and Pran didn't pull away!!!!
I'm not even mad about the product placements, and that's how you know the show got me hooked.
Wai and Pat sharing a room will be interesting for sure. I don't trust him, though; he looks like he's planning to hurt my boy.
I love how Pat has zero chill, just bulldozing his way to Pran.
Wai, you fucking asshole, who do you think you are?? Pran, save your man!!!
And he does. Pran's on-the-spot lore cooking skills need to be taught in school. It's a survival skill if I'm being honest. He wasn't lying, though. His first love did fall in love. WITH HIM.
Pat CAUGHT Pran's hand and stopped him from leaving. ASFFGHDGJ—
Oh, nothing to see here, just a pair of lying liars sitting by the beach and lying to each other.
Pat's face lit up like a Christmas tree when he heard Pran say It is so obvious that you like me.
Gotta love Pat's tenacity and how he maneuvered Pran into being the recipient of his flirting.
Everything's gotta be a competition with these two. However, in this scenario, both of them are going to win and have fun along the way.
Let the (flirting) games begin!!!
Pran's definition of flirting is licking Pat's finger. SIT WITH THAT INFORMATION!! Pran, my beloved, you are a fucking menace for pulling the big guns out this early in the game!!
Tagging the usual suspects: @shortpplfedup, @incandescentflower, @starryalpacasstuff, @7nessasaryevils, @greenteadumplings, @grapejuicegay, @madworld-bbs, @usodeshou. If anyone wishes to be tagged in the future, let me know.
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It's Kinda Nice to Help People Find Their Precious Thing : The timeless journey of love, regret, trust, death and hope through Shiguang's life in Link Click Yingdu Episode 1
part -1
It's a very personal rambling actually, not a very critically sound one, if you still wanna read, just letting you know, you are not alone, I went through a lifetime of emotions while watching this.
What’s wrong with the timeline? : Before discussing this, I want to talk about Lu Guang’s age. I have this formula,
Lg’s age : X + 3n, X= his original age, n= the number of times he has dived back in the past to reach the situation of our timeline where Cheng Xiaoshi survived season 1 and made it to the end of the season 2. I am presuming that ‘n times Cheng Xiaoshi dies’ stopped in our timeline, so let us denote our timeline as ‘n*’, which has successfully changed Cheng Xiaoshi’s fate. (For people thinking, where did I get that ‘3’ in my formula, the episode of the lost child in season 1 says that the kidnapping of that little boy happened three years ago, when Shiguang were supposed to be in Yingdu. Basically Shiguang first met and went to Yingdu in 2018.)
The first four minutes of the episode 1 (Successfully made me cry like a wounded hyena left in the middle of a cold desert): What timeline is it? It is one of those timelines of ‘n’ where Cheng Xiaoshi died. Cheng Xiaoshi dies in every nth timeline, except n*. The first time he dies, let us call that timeline ‘n0’. And the first four minutes, let’s suppose it is nEp-1. Is n0 = nEp-1? If yes, then why Vein is punishing Lu Guang for changing the past? It implies that Lu Guang attempted (and succeeded kind of? since he is accused of changing the past) to change the past before? Why would he? For what reason? I have an answer to this convoluted question – Vein is punishing a past Lu Guang (‘innocent’ Lu Guang who didn’t dive and do shit) for the deeds a future Lu Guang committed. Eh? Every theory I suggest contradict with the thing I say next.
Still what I feel is that the narrator Lu Guang who gives the ‘butterfly effect’ speech is not the one who dives in the given visual. The hesitation in the visual suggests that Lu Guang is diving for the first time. I don’t have galaxy brains to understand the timeline theory anyways. And it is probably too early to start guessing.
Basketball symbolism: Life, death, trust, partnership.
I think now we all understand that the basketball motif really stands for a deeper philosophy of life and companionship. And Haoling actually puts that theme in big fat words in case someone missed, “It is so precious to have a trustworthy partner in life”. It is not about basketball. The exposition of first 1 minute 25 seconds deals with it.
1:26 – I howled. That’s not the point. The point is that Vein is actually interested in shooting Lu Guang, he wants his life, not Cheng Xiaoshi’s, he just physically defeats him. (My poor kitty, what the fuck did you do to deserve this, if my theory is right then…). Cheng Xiaoshi fucking dives to take the bullet.
Now, um. Why am I re-watching this? Cheng Xiaoshi dies and transfers his diving power to Lu Guang, the basketball symbolism recurs. Qiao Ling is dead and captain Xiao is dead too. Good. Cheng Xiaoshi says sorry for some reason and asks Lu Guang to save ‘them’, it’s his death wish. So, I am presuming that Lu Guang started diving because it was Cheng Xiaoshi’s last wish to Lu Guang (I need ibuprofen). From my perspective, Lu Guang when he dives, he is not sure what he is able to achieve. He probably goes back to the past just to relive those moments, those three years again. If everything goes well (LMAO my audacity) and Cheng Xiaoshi survives in this Yingdu arc, I am presuming that is our story then will be directly continuing in the two seasons.
Now let us heal a bit. First of all, congratulations to all, Lu Guang is gay. I don’t care what anyone opines, he is gay. He is the owner of that freaking Shakespearean sonnet book and he is the literal tsundere, come on, guys, it should be canon now.
Lu Guang holds his hand as if trying to say, “Please, don’t go”.
You are in acute denial if you say the visuals are not romantic. The white butterfly sits on the basketball he is holding.
That visual is so pretty! The butterflies remind me of tgcf ngl.
Bro, what kind of house does he live in. He is damn rich.
Cheng Xiaoshi : Partner, lets play basketball together again tomorrow. And the content smile Cheng Xiaoshi gives.
Still, somehow, The Eye is the most moving piece of animation I have ever seen, it feels like life with all heartaches and smiles present. I will carry this song with me till the end of time.
Oh, also. How are Vein fans doing? Just checking :D
This song is causing me physical angst.
I wish I can cosplay in my uni’s anime club’s event one day.
Okay so, a friend of mine pointed out that Lu Guang cosplayed as the hero of that RanXi chronicles when there was an attempt to dress Xiaoshi as the heroine. Ok.
Lu Guang checking that damn watch once in a while breaks my heart.
Parallel narrative, foil characters again – metanarrative, two-folded narrative embedded within the narrative (that girl’s story about perseverance, hope, regret, passion, taking the damn risk and further hope, story of RanXi chronicles and Lu Guang explicitly saying how he relates to the story of RanXi’s heroine)
Now I am saying again, I am Sapphic and Qiao Ling, that is Sapphic behaviour, my love, me and my Sapphic friends approve. “That girl is so lovely” the way she says it. AND YES QUEEN! Link Click never forgets to address social issues. Btw, I personally related to that girl when she was rebuked vehemently for voicing her career choice. My acceptance of what I really wanted to do in my life and pursuing it changed the trajectory of my life too. Life is not a flower path but “there are no regrets in dedicating your life to something you care about” – again it echoes the central theme of link click.
Also, (with a shiver) I am realising how the interpretation of the first and second season is rapidly changing (and I like it).
Cheng Xiaoshi, are you jealous?
The chibi shifts are so cute!
Lu Guang has this deep sense of lack of agency, understandable because it arises from the agony of the death of a loved one and this depressive existentialist mood makes him conform to the ‘power’, even though he can be rebellious but that threshold is only initiated with Cheng Xiaoshi’s active intervention.
Again saying, idk what kind of concept of queerness people (most of them who are not queer at all, how do they know what queerness is? How are you dictating?) have, but your friend’s image reflecting in your eyes when he brings a moral and ideological change to your mind and shatters your conformity, that surely is. This continuously happens in season 1 and 2, but we don’t get to know, you know why? Lu Guang’s pov was silenced deliberately. Without him soliloquizing, it’s impossible to know what his real emotional undercurrent is. The way Haoling crafted Lu Guang as a complex and delicate character, man. Man, I would die for him.
Btw, I too agree that putting a hand over his mouth is the second best option to silence him.
Ik it's bittersweet, but princess Guang-guang, don't run away from your fated prince! ( HOW THE FUCK AM I CRYING AGAIN)
this roughly wraps up to 34:30. I can't do more pain today, maybe tomorrow.
#Yingdu episode 1#link click#shiguang daili ren#shiguang#lu guang#cheng xiaoshi#yingdu chapter#donghua#时光代理人#bridon arc#guangshi#queer#gay#tumblr meta#review
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the old hound - atropos
with 2025 coming up to butt fuck me in ways i didn't even know was plausible till i morph into anus georg, i finally got around to drawing one of my touchstarved ocs :'( this isn't even the final concept i just have to put this out there
they're of the hound backstory... no duh. their story is rather canon divergent so i won't get too into it here, but for starters; they're a hunter from old lovent prior to the fogfall, and somewhat the reason the apocalypse happens at all. at 65 years old, this old dog refuses to unlearn their tricks, and inevitably chases their tail into damnation. maybe in another life.
their armor is meant to depict the face of the allmother, but considering we know jack shit about her... yea. they're blind and they're missing a lower jaw, so beneath that chain mail (yes it's chainmail i couldn't care to texture it) veil is a metal maw that no one has ever seen - lest, of course, you are their prey. their regular attire is also just a linen robe. think a dementor that serves cunt.
hmmm. what else. (checks smudged ink on my hand) their flower is the belladonna, because who wouldn't assign their oc inspired by the crone the atropa belladonna, they're on the kuras route - oh, and they're also the freakiest grandpa to ever live. if catholic persecution and guilt complex met kinky sadomasochism. the whole reason why kuras believes suffering will pardon his sins - because in atropos' eyes, how else will one transcend their base form as beasts and monsters if not through such... enlightenment?
stick around and maybe ill draw them more. maybe. i actually lamented giving them a veil because i love drawing old bitches but whatever lol fuck my stupid baka life...
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PLEASE, could we have Barry seeing precious genuinely upset or something, (you can make up why she’s upset) and he like tries to be sweet because yes!…n like he can maybe coax her to use his dick as a pacifier to shut her up before he gets annoyed…
PRECIOUS ‘ND BARRY
yes this is cute n actually it happens all the time , also can we ignore how short this is thx
barry didn’t wanna be dealin’ with this shit. he just got off work, and the last shit he wanted to hear was precious rambling on about how her daddy never loved her— he wasn’t gonna last long.
he sat there, rubbin the nape of her neck as she sat her head in his lap, cryin away like always. he slapped her cheek a lil bit, softly patting the area. “precious, just fuckin’ relax a lil, stop.”
she looked up at him, her eyes glazed over with tears. she looked like she hated him. she probably did, somewhere deep down. just a little. she simply put her head back down on his tummy, makin the material wet and snotty once again.
he did care about precious, really. but he didn’t like seein her so upset about something that wasn’t him. he should be the only one she has a complaint about. it was irritating, how worked up she could get.
she silently lifted up the hem of his shirt, pressing her cheek against his warm tummy. she just wanted to be soothed. comforted. but he didn’t wanna do all that. he felt her chin nudge the tip of his sleeping dick , nd he was done.
he held her by the back of her head, pushing her head down to rub his cock with her cheek. she whined, mumbling a ‘quit’ nd ‘stop’. he laughed, continuing his movements.
she whined, her eyes swelling with tears again. he always did this. wanted to distract her. nd maybe it worked— temporarily. but in the end , she’d always be found crying again anyway. she didn’t even wanna suck his dick. she wasn’t in the mood.
he probably knew that. but she knew it wouldn’t ever stop him. she felt his dick get hard against her cheek. he pulled down the waistband of his shorts , his dick springing out against her face, nudging her upper lip.
she frowned, staring up at him. “this’ll shut you up real nice, precious. i know it.” he tapped his cock against her lips, before forcing her mouth open to put the tip in. her lips wrapped around the tip, shamefully.
“no more tears, aight? gotta focus on this. he ain’t ever gonna help you, precious. always gonna be me. he don’t matter.” she nodded, his dick still resting in her mouth. he flashed her a grin, patting her cheek.
she slowly began moving her head up n down, her eyes filling with tears for different reasons when he pushed her head down. she gagged around him, his cock hittin the back of her throat.
she drew out multiple groans from him, continuing her movements. he ran his hands down her hair, smoothing it back— before pushing her head down and keeping it there. she looked up at him, her mouth full. he subtly moved his hand to pinch her nose shut, cutting off her breathing.
he laughed as her eyes fell confused n teary, before fucking into the back of her throat, cumming in her mouth. he moved both his hands, watching as she pulled off and coughed, choking on his cum.
he grinned, tucking himself back into his pants as she swallowed thickly. it fell silent, her quick breathing filling the room. “that shut you up real quick, huh? told you.”
she looked away embarrassingly, shutting her rambling up from earlier n laying back down on his tummy. he ran his hands down her hair, silently. maybe now, she would finally be satisfied.
#pintrestgrl#obx au#obx#barry coded#obx barry#outer banks barry#barry prompt#barry smut#barry#barry obx#barry outer banks#talk to jae#anon ask#precious 🦢
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