#followed by the no one can give that much line like ……

[catbolt]

Sylus is attentive, extremely so. Nothing about you is secret from him, whether you wish it was or not. Since you've been together, you've found yourself a victim of his control-freak tendencies— the fact your location, step count, heart rate, and apartment security cameras had all become his personal business was something that took a while to get used to. He's respectful as he can be about it, regularly reminding you he does it only to make sure of your safety and always coming clean whenever he's been snooping. Over the months you've grown to find it endearing instead of creepy, because it makes crystal clear how he simply cares so damn much about you.

You can't hide from him, even when you want to the most. When you're holed up under the blankets in the dead of winter, the shitty weather and 4pm sunsets bringing out the worst of your depression, he texts: "Sweetheart, 150 steps? Am I reading this right?"

You cringe, wanting to disappear. "Stop tracking me," you respond back.

"Have you not gotten out of bed?" His follow up text comes in immediately, and then those three dots pop up on your screen again. He's not giving you a chance to respond with the "I'm fine" he already knows you've halfway typed out. "I'm coming over. No questions asked."

Before you know it he's at your door, making himself at home without asking, his care quiet and efficient. Mephisto keeps you company in bed, chirping and whirring on your nightstand as Sylus busies himself tidying the apartment. After a moment, Sylus brings you a glass of water, toothbrush and toothpaste from the bathroom, a hair tie— little things that make you feel a bit more like a person again.

He then slips into bed next to you, helping tie your hair back into a neat ponytail as you demolish the first glass of water you've had all day. You give him a wordless, grateful look.

"You know, I won't think you're weak if you ask me for help," he murmurs gently, his voice gravelly and tender. He squeezes your shoulder.

You want to tell him that you know, but that it's just really hard. He gives you a warm look that makes you feel like he's just read your insecurities like a book, his hand slipping into yours beneath the blankets. He intertwines his fingers with yours.

"This is why I keep tabs on you, sweetie. I need you to know that I'll always be here."

[A/N]: this a combination of some similar requests and an expansion on one of my sylus headcanons! if you sent a request along these lines hope you enjoy :)

[rainydayathogwarts]

hi, this is the first time I'm writing a request on tumblr but I really like your writing (and unfortunately I'm very picky about writing styles🫣) I have tons of ideas for one shots in the back of my head so I'm coming to you with this rather simple one: reader x remus

Remus & reader are sth like friends, they have a secret crush on each other; remus is the casanova of gryffindor tower and all the girls (and probably boys) are crushing on him, Remus isn't quiet aware of the impact he has, reader reveals it to him in a convo (maybe while studying?) they're having that everyone finds him attractive and he asks if reader does aswell and so onnnn...

honestly, do with it what you want, I'm sure you will slay it! in case you hate the idea pls just ignore my request haha!⭐️

What about you? - Remus Lupin

summary: despite having a whole fanbase of girls who want him as their boyfriend, remus is only interested in your opinion wc: 1k

The giggles you heard as you walked past a group of girls with Remus had you rolling your eyes, cutting off the middle of your conversation. You couldn’t even have a single trip back from the library without a group of Remus’ fangirls making a big deal over him, but the boy didn’t notice them, only taking note of your unusual reaction.

Remus brushed a hand to the back of your arm, his soft touch stealing your attention from the group of insolent girls. “You alright?” Remus asked, carefully watching your expression change from one of annoyance to empathy. “They don’t bother you?” Remus’s eyebrows furrowed, a crease forming between them “Who?” You glanced around the hallway, looking for another group of Remus’s fans. Finally, at the sight of some third year girls huddled around in the corner of the hallway, nervously glancing towards you both, you nodded your head in their direction, softly elbowing Remus in his side. “You know, your little fanbase of girls?” Remus stopped in his tracks, making you look back at his when you realised his disappearance. 

“My little what?” You laughed at the shock in his voice, repeating “Fanbase. Honestly Rem, it shocks me every time that you don’t have a new girl in your bed every day. You could have the entire school lined up to have a turn with you.” Remus stammered, finally picking up his pace, hooking his arm with yours to drag you back to the common room with him. “You need to start over, you’ve lost me.” He said, coming to a stop in front of the fat lady’s portrait to mumble the password.

“I’m surprised you don’t know.” “Sweetheart, just give it to me straight.” He begged, slumping down on the couch in front of the fireplace and patting the spot next to him. You didn’t fail to take notice of the jealous eyes following your figure as you sat close to Remus. You felt your chest swell with pride, and almost wanted to call out ‘Yes, I’m closer to him than you’ll ever be. Cry about it.’ But there were pros and cons to being Remus’s best friend. Pro: you were Remus Lupin’s best friend. Con: you were only Remus Lupin’s best friend. And you feared that with the discovery of all the girls who wanted to have him as their boyfriend, all you’d ever be was his best friend.

“There’s nothing much to it. You know, apart from the fact that every girl in the castle wants you as their boyfriend.” Remus was silent as he processed the information, blinking slowly. “You know, it’s just always been this way. I think people started realising that you’re more than just a pretty face.” “Pretty face?” He mumbled. “Wait. Every girl in the castle?” You shrugged, replying “More or less. I mean, I can assure you that Lily isn’t one of them.” You both laughed at the comment, an image of the infatuated couple displaying in your head. Remus slid his hand into yours, squeezing it softly. “Well, what about you?” You felt your face immediately heat up at his question, trying your hardest to maintain eye contact with the boy, but you couldn’t help the way your gaze dipped down to look at the way Remus held your hand.

You gulped. This was not the first time you and Remus held hands, not at all. But you’d never held hands in this context, with the boy asking if you wanted him to be your boyfriend. “What about me?” You echoed, returning your gaze to Remus’s eyes. The boy seemed to suddenly get nervous, his face flushing as he began to stumble over his words, voice quieting down significantly. “You said every girl in the castle wants me as their boyfriend. Does that apply to you?”

You were very aware that Remus could probably hear the fast thumping of your heart, and you could too. You only wished you had a trick to know how he was feeling too. “It’s fine if not!” He announced at the same time you said “Only if you want it to!” A painful silence settled between you. You cleared your throat, watching as Remus opened and shut his mouth. He didn’t make a move to say anything, forcing you to speak up. “It’s fine if not…” You started, “Does that mean you want it to apply to me?” 

“I mean, it would be pretty nice if the girl I like wants me to be her boyfriend. But if she doesn’t, I guess it’s…” Remus’s words trailed off as he saw a wide grin on your face. He swallowed thickly, forcing his face to cool down, but that wasn’t possible. Not when you were cupping his cheeks and leaning forward to press a bold kiss on his lips. Remus’s hand curled around the nape of your neck to keep your lips pressed against his, only pulling away when he deemed himself ready. “Let’s go out!” He announced the second your lips parted, standing up abruptly. 

You blinked quickly, looking up at the tall boy and asking “Now?” Remus nodded, holding his hands out for you to take. “Yeah, let’s go out now. On a date.” You took Remus’s hands, letting him pull you off the couch. He let go of one of your hands, the other one sneakily intertwining his fingers with yours, leading you out of the common room. Remus led you onto the Hogwarts grounds to spend time together, but it was impossible to have a conversation when neither of you could take your eyes off the other’s lips. Instead, your first date was spent chasing each other for kisses by the black lake, where watchful eyes allowed the news of your relationship to be spread all around hogwarts by the time you got to the great hall for dinner.

taglist:

@ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @superlegend216, @kitkatkl

[holyguardian]

That grin was contagious, one glance was all it took for Aerith to mirror the expression with a hint of pride. She wasn't ashamed of her weaknesses so much — perhaps it was a good thing for Somnus to be aware of such things, like her slow descent into chaotic actions when she grew bored of a task.

"... mh. That's a sweet thought." she conceded, gaze lowering to the bound parchment again. Some of the papers were warped from being painted heavily with water strokes. Perfectly imperfect, nothing neat or proper about her soul or true heart. That sounded right. "You are more than welcome to look through them, I'm not precious about guarding my paintings. Though I would rather you look at this one especially." she insisted, giving the bound pages a small wave before passing them to him for safe-keeping. "It's some of the most recent things I have painted, and I find I don't flinch away when I look back at them."

When Aerith lifted her gaze properly to the Prince again, she found herself humming a curious tone as she tilted her head. She followed his own gaze. Her mouth opened around a silent 'ah' of realisation, and for a moment she seemed to gentle in both her expression and her stance.

"This... is my birth father." she answered, captivated by her mother's painting so much so that she continued to look upon it. "He died when I was only a baby. Mum... she did her best. Tried to build a connection to him, I suppose, but... I was so little, I didn't understand that I was missing something, you know?"

Aerith sighed a little, her shoulders melting into a more relaxed posture. Finally she looked back to Somnus again. "I get it now that I'm older. I wish I had gotten the chance to know him in life, but I am blessed to have met his spirit. The one thing I will say is... don't be ashamed of noticing him. For pointing him out, some people are funny about death like that." Though Lucis seemed to honour their dead's memory with great care too.

Amidst their conversation came a gentle knock at the door. Her lady's maid must have heard their voices here. "Princess Aerith, the bath is prepared."

That small announcement made her perk up with a smile. "Thankyou!" she replied, bright-eyed as she looked back to Somnus. "Right. Let's show you how we do bath time here, you're going to need one thing first."

Aerith approached her wardrobe, easily pulling free a couple large robes, one she placed aside and the other she handed to Somnus. "You'll need that. We don't dress ourselves in the same room where we have a bath, the air is steamy, and you're begging for a mess. So, once we're clean, we dry ourselves down as good as we can then we put on that robe. Trust me. They're.. modest." she offered. "It's a little odd, maybe, but we walk like that from the bath, back to our room. It's very uncommon for anyone to just walk a royal wing without good reason, but because it's so obvious among the staff that a bath has been drawn up, I cannot stress enough that no one will see you."

It was her little promise to him.

"Follow me." Aerith offered. She gestured to their shared chamber door. "You will obviously come back and enter through that door. The bath is the first door on the right." She opened up the door and gestured him inside. Inside was a wooden tub, and inside that tub was lined with a white cloth. The water itself was a milky colour and it smelled of flowers, yet another difference from Lucis. "Alright. Sponge there. When you're stepping back out, stand on that folded cloth unless you like to live recklessly, the stone can sometimes be slippery if it's too wet." Then she rolled her wrist. "And enjoy." she offered, smiling as she pulled the door shut behind her, giving him his privacy.

A map of her childhood. And she had just handed him the key to reading it perfectly. Just like that. Somnus could appreciate this fact. His eyes wandering over all the various paintings, he could imagine a smaller Aerith sitting at her table. Probably propped up on her knees with paint all over hands and face already as she focused oh-so-hard on drawing her family.

She must be similar now. It was apparent that she never paused long in her drawings. The table was evidence enough. She still painted. A lot. And she bound her work – forced or not. That was a large part of her… and Somnus liked it.

Grinning at the difference in bindings, he let his fingers trail along the frayed and neat edged for a moment. He wanted to see all her works. But he did not dare to simply take and flip through all these parchments. This was highly… intimate somehow.

“I heard people say they put their souls and true heart in what they paint.”, he mused, looking at her bound artworks, “If you would allow me to see yours one day, I would be honoured.”

The small grin shifting into a smile, Somnus nodded towards the epicentre of it all. The drawing coming from Queen Ifalna. A man with brown hair and a moustache. He looked kind. Funny, a little. But it was no one that Somnus knew.

“Who is he?”

[leighsartworks216]

Claw Machines

Sylus x gn!Reader & MC

Raven deserves the world and more and I need to heal their inner child so so bad and who better to help than MC?

Warnings: fluff, silly, growing friendship, arcades, healing their inner child, kissing, swearing, banter

Word Count: 1,678

Main Masterlist

The Raven Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Third Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Sylus was 'busy', but you're dead certain that was just an excuse to nudge you into bonding with Miss Hunter. When she'd called to invite him out, you saw the smirk that curled his lips. You'd glared at him when he said you'd take his spot. You'd even been tempted to ditch her, but you couldn't in the end, knowing how much she means to him.

The claw moves around the box, following the movements of the little joystick. She looks as if she's facing down a Wanderer, not a stuffed koala with a teddy bear. Her tongue pokes out of her mouth, head swivels to the sides of the box to make sure she's lined up properly, fingers tapping impatiently on the machine before she hits the button. The claw descends. Closes. And as it rises, the koala is stuck in its grasp.

"Yes!" Miss Hunter laughs giddily as she bends down and grabs her prize from the chute. She squishes its face, eyes shining brilliantly with glee. Suddenly, she turns to you. "Have you ever played before?"

You shake your head, appearing quite bored with the whole thing.

"Do you want to try it? I can give you some pointers!"

A relentlessly stubborn part of you wants to refuse. Stand around like her own personal bodyguard while she travels from machine to machine with tokens purchased with Sylus's card and a bag full of toys.

But... you're also curious. You'd peered through shop windows and seen kids with toys your whole childhood, without any hope of having one to call your own. You'd made peace with that a long time ago, aided in the fact you now have plenty of money to live comfortably, though you keep that money close to your chest. Now Miss Hunter's barging through that peace, eyes shining and full of childish energy. And you give in.

You step up hesitantly to the controls. She squeals in glee and stands right beside you, nearly leaning on your arm. "Okay, this is the joystick! You use it to move the claw around. And then when you're lined up with something, you push this button and it'll try grabbing it."

You quirk an eyebrow at her. She smiles deviously. "It's a lot harder than it looks, trust me."

You should have listened to her. She makes it look so easy; you have to wonder if she's somehow using her Evol to cheat. No matter what target you went for, it always slipped through. Sometimes in the most ridiculous ways - bouncing off the edge of the plastic surrounding the chute or flipping off into an unreachable corner. You're not usually one to give up on a challenge, but this is getting ridiculous.

Miss Hunter smiles apologetically at you after your target falls over, just out of reach of the claw. "Maybe this machine isn't calibrated well," she suggests, but it's a half-baked excuse. "Let's try another one."

So you do.

And another.

... And another.

It's agony. She'll take over, pleading with big round eyes and a pout that works like a charm on Sylus to play a round, and get a plushie on her first try. Her bag is almost overflowing. She considers asking for a second one, but she looks sorry when she says so out loud.

Another machine catches her eye and she dashes over like a child. You watch her go.

It's... confusing, contradictory, to see someone like her be so carefree and childish. Her life has not been a cakewalk, and she's been through things normal people would never recover from. Yet here she is, squealing and giggling with delight, while you stand amid the flashing lights and chiming bells, arms crossed and frowning.

You hate to think you could ever possibly be jealous of her. Jealousy was unnecessary when you had all the means to get what you wanted so easily. Still, it's difficult not to envy in some ways the ease with which she enjoys such simple things.

You sigh. You damn Sylus for having you take his place on this little playdate with Miss Hunter. Damn the machines and their stupid claws. Damn all the plushies that seem to hate you.

The arcade is relatively small. When you begin walking around the various machines, it's easy to keep an eye on her. After all, if something happened to her here, it would be your fault. And you don't exactly want a repeat of last time.

It's by pure chance you happen to glance over. Pure random chance that your eyes slipped onto a series of miniature claw machines, stacked 3-on-3 in an alley between the bigger machines. You would not have stopped if you hadn't then done a double-take to make sure you saw what you thought you saw. And sure enough, as you step up to the small machines, you see in one a tiny keychain in the shape of a crow.

It's adorable. Big eyes that take up half its body stare longingly out at the arcade, half-closed with an air of disinterest. A little white ruff wraps all around its body. Two little feet with three toes each stick out the bottom.

You glance around to find Miss Hunter. She's moved on to the Balance machines, where her skilled fingers shift the two-pronged claw to nudge the box off the poles. An employee already stands there, waiting to re-setup the machine, as they chat with familiarity. She seems safe enough...

After a moment of watching to make sure the employee doesn't try anything, you reach into your pocket and pull out the tokens she gave you earlier. You insert one, and a small LED display counts down a timer.

The joystick is tiny in your hand - you can only imagine how it would fit in Sylus's. You shift it over top the crow. After spending however long failing on the other machines, you don't have much hope, especially when these are designed to give the impression of being easier so people will want to try them even more. You push the tiny button, and the claw lowers. The crow is picked up, shifting slightly in its loose hold. It's carried to the chute...

A tiny jingle plays, similar to the one that follows Miss Hunter around every machine.

You... you did it?

You hesitate before opening the little hatch, as though you just imagined all of that and you're going to be woefully out of luck when you reach in to find it empty. But no. You reach in and your fingers touch soft fur. You pull it out. There he is - your very own tiny crow plush.

The crow's big eyes seem to stare up at you, unimpressed. But your mind says he's happy, free from his cramped little prison.

Footsteps approach and you're immediately back on alert. You'd been smiling without even realizing it, but that is wiped away for neutrality. Miss Hunter doesn't seem to notice, gushing over the prize in your hand.

"Awe, you won that! It's so cute!" She pokes its cheek with her finger, giggling. "I've never been able to win anything from these machines. How many tries did it take you?"

Something flutters in your chest. A feeling you'd only felt when Sylus praised you - pride. You really managed to do something she couldn't? It sounded impossible after seeing her win over and over again without fail.

You hold up a finger. She gapes at you.

"What? It only took you one try?!" She looks at the machines, and all the cute mini plushies within. She frowns, considering something, before pulling out a handful of tokens. "Maybe they made these easier, somehow? Let me try."

-

"Have fun?"

You dangle the toy in front of Mephisto. He stands in your lap, playfully pecking and nipping at it. He's careful not to damage or tear it - he's always such a good bird.

Sylus wraps his arms around you from behind the couch. His chin rests on your shoulder, large hands massaging your sides. He kisses your cheek. "You're smiling."

Your first instinct is to turn away, but he stops you. Fingers grab your chin and turn you to face him instead. Crimson eyes, smug and teasing, meet yours.

You sigh. You have to admit that it was fun, even if you'd love to be stubborn and say it wasn't. Maybe if you hadn't won anything, you wouldn't have to pretend you hated it. Unfortunately, the toy that dangles from your finger is evidence to the contrary.

"She's a menace on those machines," you say, voice low, like it's a secret.

He chuckles. "How many did she get?"

"I lost count."

You glance back at Mephisto and shift the toy to rest in your palm. He grabs it in his beak, cawing around the object in his mouth, and flits off to go put it with his little hoard. Or, well, you thought he would. Instead, he flaps off to his perch and, using his foot and beak together, manages to hang it by its chain on the end of it. They look like a matching set as he fluffs up and settles down to rest

Sylus kisses the corner of your smiling mouth. You feel exposed. How is it possible for something so small to catch your emotions off guard?

"I'm glad you had fun," he whispers sincerely. "If you'd like, we can go together sometime."

"We wouldn't win anything," you tease. You rub your nose against his, drawing out a soft look of love from his eyes.

He shrugs. "Then we'll steal one."

"How criminal. This may be your most dastardly scheme yet."

"Mhm. And I'll need my best man on the job to help me pull it off." He closes the small gap to kiss you. His thumb rubs over the ball of your chin. Another kiss and his hand shifts to your jaw. Another, then to your neck. He draws you in, over and over, languidly savoring you, like you have all the time in the world.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one

[windser]

tw: caleb x reader x zayne, possessive caleb (isn't this just caleb?), exhibitionism-kinda a/n: sequel to this. giving zayne the opportunity to melt some of that ice.

zayne is disciplined.

always has been.

it’s what sets him apart, what’s always made him different.

he never needed much—not the forced friendships, not the social distractions, not the late-night calls or whispered confessions.

he’s always known his path. it’s clear, it’s clean, and there’s no room for error.

but lately, there’s been a hesitation. a hesitation that lingers in his fingers when he turns the page of his textbook. a hesitation in his breath when he almost steals a glance. a hesitation in his pulse—steady, rhythmic, only to spike in the moments he shouldn’t be paying attention.

this has been going on for weeks now.

at first, it was easy.

caleb was reckless, predictable in the way he tested boundaries, but zayne knew how to maintain the distance. he was just an extra body in the room, his presence a silent blessing that allowed josephine to sleep easier at night, to trust that things were as they should be.

and for a while, they were.

until the first time he looked. really looked.

it was an accident—at least, he told himself it was. a stray movement caught his eye, some peripheral flicker of motion, and before he could stop himself, his gaze followed.

and for a moment—just a breath of a moment—he saw everything.

he saw the way caleb moved, slow and purposeful. the way your breath caught and released in soft, broken exhales. the way your fingers curled into the fabric beneath you, holding on as if you were meant to be held.

caleb had you on the floor this time, both the position and his intensity sure to rub your knees raw. but you never complained, not like this. for all your spite and fire, when caleb had you like this, you were compliant and frankly—his gaze dipped just low enough, catching the way the peak of your breasts rubbed against the flooring—

zayne turned away so fast his vision blurred.

he forced himself back to his work, pen pressed hard enough against the page that the ink bled through.

he thought that would be it.

then it happened again.

this time, he lingered. just a second longer. long enough for his throat to go dry, for the heat to coil low and unbidden, for the sharp realization to sink in that caleb knew he was watching. that you knew.

but neither of you said a word.

and that silence? it ruined him.

it made it worse.

now, he swears he can feel it—them—even when he’s not looking. he can hear the quiet murmurs, the way the air shifts, the barely-there sounds of movement that he’s trained himself to ignore.

but it’s getting harder.

the tension is creeping in, slow and insidious. he catches himself reading the same line in his textbook over and over, unable to absorb a single word. he starts staying later than he needs to. he finds himself hesitating in doorways, taking a moment too long to pack his bag, fingers deliberate as he gathers his things.

he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

until one evening, when he arrives ready to slide into the same seat and soak in his own frustrations, caleb—calm, composed, knowing—finally speaks.

"why don’t you come over here?"

zayne’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.

caleb tilts his head slightly, watching him like a predator waiting for prey to realize. "no rush to the books, right?"

you don’t say anything, but the look in your eyes is unreadable. open. expectant.

and something cracks in zayne.

a slow, dawning realization that he’s been standing at the edge of something for weeks now—hovering at the precipice, toes curled over the ledge, waiting for an excuse.

caleb just gave him one.

he swallows, pulse threading high, but he doesn’t turn away.

for once, he lets himself want.

"yes," he hears himself say, voice steady but not quite. "i think i will."

zayne takes the first step.

that should be the most glaring sign that something is different. that something in him has shifted, tilted, realigned itself into a shape he no longer recognizes.

he’s not sure what he expected—maybe for caleb to laugh, to pull back, to say just kidding, you can get to work now. maybe for you to hesitate, for you to stiffen in the way people do when something unfamiliar enters sacred ground.

but neither of those things happen.

instead, caleb moves.

not toward zayne, but toward you.

and that’s when he understands.

caleb has no interest in handing anything over. he’s not stepping aside. he’s allowing.

this isn’t zayne’s to claim. this is something to be granted.

he watches caleb, his hands easy, familiar, claiming the territory zayne has never dared to touch. the weight of his presence alone is enough to make the atmosphere shift, a low thrum of tension that curls through the room like a slow-burning fuse.

zayne stays where he is, still standing, still waiting, his fingers curled loose around the strap of his bag. there’s an unspoken invitation in the way caleb’s eyes flick up to meet his. a silent dare.

but not permission.

not yet.

“come closer,” there it is. caleb finally says.

zayne takes a slow breath, his mind curiously blank as he sets his bag down and steps forward.

closer.

close enough to hear the way your breath stutters as caleb’s hands move, mapping out familiar places, as if reminding both of you—this is mine, this is mine, this is mine.

zayne swallows hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. he’s never been shy, never been unsure of himself, but this is different. this isn’t medicine, isn’t a test with the right or wrong answer.

this is trust.

and caleb doesn’t give that easily.

caleb’s hand slides up your thigh, slow and deliberate, before his gaze flicks to zayne, sharp and assessing. he nods once, a silent go on then.

zayne hesitates.

he’s always been a fast learner, but this is new territory.

so he starts small.

a touch, barely there, the backs of his fingers grazing along the curve of your knee. he half expects caleb to stop him immediately, but there’s no interruption.

encouraged, he moves higher to your waist.

caleb shifts then, pressing in, and for a split second, zayne wonders if he’s gone too far—if he’s crossed the invisible line that neither of them has laid out yet.

but instead of pulling him back, caleb’s mouth curves into something unreadable.

"hey now."

zayne stills.

caleb’s grip tightens just slightly, a possessive anchor.

“don't be so timid. you can use your mouth too,” he murmurs, voice low but firm, directive. “but only below the neck.”

and that—that—makes something tighten in zayne’s chest.

because this isn’t freedom.

this is control, measured out in careful allowances, in boundaries that exist not to exclude him, but to remind him exactly where he stands.

he lets out a slow breath, tilting his head just slightly, waiting—waiting—because now he understands that this, too, is a test.

he leans in.

lets himself learn.

a kiss to your shoulder, featherlight. a press of lips against your collarbone, reverent, exploratory.

and caleb allows it.

but never looks away.

zayne isn’t sure when his heartbeat started pounding in his ears. maybe it was when your fingers found his wrist, guiding his hand against the warmth of your skin. smaller hands cupping the curve of his knuckles until his palms reach your chest and you just press so. maybe it was when you let out that first, soft sound—a reaction to him, to something he did.

or maybe it was when caleb made his presence known again.

zayne had almost forgotten he was being watched. almost.

but caleb never really disappears, does he?

even now, his touch is there—ghosting along the back of zayne’s neck, the weight of his hand steady, instructive. not controlling exactly, but not absent either.

instructive.

because zayne is still learning.

and you—you—are encouraging him to misbehave.

it starts small, subtle. the way your breath hitches when his mouth skims a little lower. the way your fingers clutch at his sleeve, anchoring him instead of letting him hesitate.

then your hand slides over his, pressing his palm down, urging him on towards the apex of your thighs.

zayne barely has time to process the way heat pools low in his stomach before caleb’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and knowing.

“ah-ah.”

zayne freezes.

caleb doesn’t pull him away. not yet. but his grip tightens, just enough to be felt, his voice dropping into something smoother, quieter.

“you’re getting ahead of yourself, sweetheart.

there’s no irritation in his tone, no warning, just the firm, unwavering presence of someone who knows better. zayne hears it often when caleb speaks to you. it's often a consequence of a sharp cry from your lips. a sound so choked, so full as if you'd try to take on something more than your body would allow.

and zayne—still breathless, still so close to losing himself in this—listens.

he swallows hard, his breath shaking as he lifts his head, barely realizing how eager he’d been to follow your lead. how quickly he’d let himself forget who was really in control.

caleb shifts, adjusting his hold on you like a reminder.

“you don’t set the pace,” he murmurs, and though it isn’t directed at you, you shiver at the way he says it.

zayne’s stomach tightens.

but then, caleb exhales.

lets go of the back of his neck.

lets him try again.

so zayne does.

this time, he’s careful. not hesitant, not like before, but mindful. measured.

not moving unless caleb lets him. he's uninterrupted as his fingertips skirt your waistband, unhindered as they slip between to meet the frilly edge of your panties.

he watches for your reactions—how your breath shudders, how your fingers twitch against his wrist. how you still encourage him, still want him, but never try to take control again.

and for the first time, zayne realizes this isn’t just about learning.

this is about trust.

and caleb—possessive, patient, in control—is finally letting him earn it.

and he's oh sosososo careful now, every movement measured, every touch intentional—his fingers ghosting along your mound as your pretty thighs part further for him. he feels the way you respond beneath him, the subtle arch of your spine, the quiet invitation in the way you press into him.

you’re encouraging, but not leading this time.

zayne’s learning.

his lips trail lower, testing the boundaries caleb has set, but never crossing them. he follows the curve of your shoulder, the heat of your skin, the slow, deliberate pace that he knows he should maintain.

but there’s still a hesitance—still an uncertainty in the way his fingers press in, applying just enough friction to smear the wetness you give him, the mess he made.

and then caleb is there.

not stopping him, not pulling him away, but correcting.

a hand at the back of zayne’s neck again, firm but not forceful, fingers pressing just enough to make his pulse stutter.

"faster," caleb murmurs, his voice low, steady. "you can feel that she likes it. she can come like this, don't let her be stubborn."

zayne exhales shakily, twisting his wrist, letting himself listen—to you, to the way your breathing shifts, to the way you melt beneath him in places and tense in others.

he wants.

he’s never wanted like this before.

but more than that—he wants to do it right.

so he lingers, taking his time, making sure his touch is firm and intentional as his thumb strokes your throbbing clit. he’s still waiting, still seeking permission with every motion, and caleb—possessive, patient, watching—lets him have it.

for now.

not just physically, but intimately—close enough to feel the warmth of your breath ghosting across his skin, close enough that every shift of your body sends a slow, sinking weight through his chest. close enough that the heat between you and caleb curls around him, wrapping tight, pulling him deeper into something he doesn’t yet understand.

there’s an electricity in the air, a hum that zayne swears he can feel between his fingers when they brush over your skin. he barely has time to process the way your breath shudders at his touch before caleb’s voice cuts through the haze, low, measured.

"flick your thumb."

zayne obeys.

not because he’s afraid, but because something about caleb’s control, his quiet authority, makes it impossible not to.

so he lets his fingers follow the notes of caleb's commands, reverent strokes. he listens—to the way your body responds, the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers tighten around his forearm like you’re grounding yourself in him.

that alone sends a sharp, new kind of thrill through his chest.

he lets himself move with you, lets himself feel the weight of every breath, the way anticipation coils in your muscles. and you let him. you guide him without leading, letting him explore, letting him earn each reaction, each quiet sound, each shift in the way you press closer.

he wants to touch more. he wants to taste more.

but then your fingers slip over his, fingers intertwining as you raises his touch just high enough to curl against the elastic of your panties, urging him under—just a fraction, just enough to test.

you’ve always been the little trouble maker. wrapped so sinful and sweet in sugar ‘n spice.

then hand at his neck squeezes.

the moment is razor-thin, the tension between them stretched so tight that zayne can feel caleb’s control like a weight against his form.

"ah, ah. i didn’t say you could touch there."

zayne stops.

his body feels like a live wire, his pulse a frantic staccato against his ribs, his skin burning where caleb's fingers press into him.

there’s no irritation in caleb’s voice, no sharpness—just possession, thick and undeniable.

"you wait for me," caleb murmurs, almost amused, almost indulgent. "you don’t just take it."

zayne swallows hard. his breathing is unsteady. his body is tight with restraint, every nerve strung out from the weight of this.

so zayne exhales, shaking his hand away from yours and returning his touch to the cloth barrier. the wet spot is bigger this time, easier to finger as zayne grinds the heel of his palm into it. pressing and rubbing insistently until you squirm and quiver against him.

and when you respond in a way that makes it clear this is right, this is wanted—zayne understands exactly what he’s been missing.

caleb is forever a steady presence, lingering just enough to keep zayne tethered, to remind him not too fast, not too hard, not too much.

and Zayne listens, because there’s no other choice.

he measures every touch, every press of his lips, every movement—watching for your reactions, for the way your body shudders beneath him, for the moment when you finally break.

and then you do.

a soft, wrecked sound slips past your lips, and zayne feels it like a shock through his body. the sharp, unmistakable realization that he brought you to this—that he did this.

his breath stutters. his hands tighten on your waist, grounding himself, trying to push past the tightness coiling in his chest, the heat flooding through him.

it’s too much.

he’s never felt this way before, never been so wrapped up in someone else’s pleasure, in the way it makes his own body react, the way his pulse pounds beneath his skin.

and then—your hands are on him.

just a light touch, a brush of fingers over his belt—offering.

zayne jerks back like he’s been burned.

his breath hitches. his mind blanks.

his body is still thrumming with leftover tension, still tight with heat and want, but the sudden shift—the attention turned to him instead of you—sends a shock of panic through his system.

it’s too fast. too new.

he stumbles back, nearly tripping over himself as he gathers his things, movements frantic, hands shaking.

"i—" his voice is strained, breathless. "i should go."

caleb watches him, gaze unreadable, but doesn’t move to stop him.

you, on the other hand—your expression shatters.

"did i—?" your voice is small, hesitant, the weight of uncertainty creeping into your tone. "did i do something wrong?"

zayne should say something, should reassure you, should tell you that it’s not you, that it’s him—but his throat is too tight, his thoughts too scrambled.

so he doesn’t.

he just shakes his head in a poor excuse for reassurance, mutters a barely-there apology, and bolts.

the door clicks shut behind him, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence—his lingering heat in the air, the tension he couldn’t quite process, the heavy silence in his absence.

your breath stutters, heart hammering against your ribs as the weight of it sinks in.

he left.

and without thinking, you move to follow.

you barely make it to your knees before caleb is there, an arm looping around your waist, pulling you back—firm, unyielding.

"shhh."

his voice is a quiet command, but his hold is stronger than usual, not just guiding, but keeping you still.

you squirm against him, instinctual, the need to fix it clawing at you, but caleb doesn’t let you go. instead, his hand finds your hair, long fingers stroking slowly, deliberately, a steady rhythm meant to calm, to soothe.

"shhh, sweetheart," he murmurs again, voice dipping lower, rich and steady as it settles in your chest, pulling at something deep inside you. "he just needs some time. let him go."

your breath catches, muscles still tense, but caleb doesn’t let up—not until you stop struggling, until the tension in your limbs slowly melts under the slow, hypnotic drag of his fingers through your hair.

"there you go," he breathes, his mouth just at the shell of your ear. "that’s better."

only when he’s sure you’re still does he loosen his hold, his hands settling against you in something softer, no longer restraint but reassurance.

"you didn’t do anything wrong," caleb finally says, voice firm, certain. "zayne’s just… figuring it out."

you exhale shakily, still frowning, still feeling that knot of uncertainty tighten in your stomach. "i shouldn’t have—"

"you overthink," caleb interrupts, cutting you off before you can spiral further. his tone shifts, something teasing in the way his fingers drift to your cheek, warm and grounding as his thumb traces the heat still lingering there. "you used to be just like that. all anxious, all in your head."

his smile turns sharp as he tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. "and now look at you."

the way he says it—now look at you—sends something warm through you, makes your breath catch, because you remember.

you remember the struggle of those early days, of feeling lost in sensation, of thinking too much, hesitating too much, never just feeling.

you remember the way caleb had guided you—patient, unyielding, possessive in his teaching until you learned how to let go.

and now—now you are more receptive, more open, more in tune with the way caleb wants you to be.

the realization flutters in your chest, slow and lingering, as caleb watches it dawn across your face. his smile firms, something smug and knowing, his fingers squeezing lightly against your jaw.

but then—a flicker of something else.

his expression doesn’t change, but his eyes shift—just barely, just for a second—as he casts a glance toward the door.

the one zayne ran through.

the sharp edge of amusement fades into something more thoughtful, more pensive.

because caleb knows.

knows that zayne isn’t gone for good.

knows that running only lasts so long before something pulls you back.

until you draw him back in.

and when zayne comes back?

caleb will be waiting.

[luigifan1998]

Hey idk where u manifested from but i love ur blog and i love u. Ur writing for wife hc’s left me devastated, 1,000% agree with all of it. That man is a fucking mess who wants to crawl under ur skin and it’s so sexy.

Thought I’d love for you to entertain: College Lu pining over u, the prettiest girl in one of his lecture hall classes. Him being so pathetically down bad for you he’s stalking ur social media desperately to find out more about u as a person, trying to see what direction ur off to after class, looking for u all around campus. Not knowing ur going insane doing the exact same thing in regards to him, because i am also willing to die on the hill that this man NEEDS to feel intoxicated off a mysterious gorgeous deviant mentally ill girl he’s plotting to speak to any day now.

this is so sweeeeet smooches you

you get the vision. growing up in such a prestigious family, an italian one at that, has instilled a fatal flaw within him. hes a morbid longer. source: trust me

morbidly longing for something he cannot find, did not find in high school, failed to access in college, could not obtain in maryland, hawaii, japan. hes soooo "its not a metaphor, this ache". much of his life has been about perfection and following rigid societal practices. he wants something disgusting and consuming and nauseatingly complex. my sweet im your man by mitski boy

in regards to the second part, his infatuation for you is anything but cathartic. hes losing sleep, losing focus. he cannot string a coherent thought together, much less engage in banter with his social circle. he pulls back and into the recesses of his mind that allow the perverse nature of his adoration to overtake him. his friends are relieved, assuming hes finally succumbed to the exhaustion from making himself available to everyone. theyre happy he can find rest. they dont know that the nauseating and near animalistic drive to check your internet presence is something hes sodden with shame over. he feels like a fraud for writing about the importance of divorcing ones self from the modern cellular device. despite it, the practice of poised fingers as to not alert you of his invisible attendance is something his resilience in the protest of social media has become soft to. knowing its wrong, pathetic, inappropriate, he feels like he has to punish himself in some way. in the ever-rare moments he finds himself alone, he touches himself and he doesn't allow for completion. invites the pressure build within, increased sensitivity and a gnawing desperation for release. he doesnt let himself be reduced to the inability to control himself from spilling into his cupped hand and down his cotton briefs until hes seen you in real life. a gift to himself. walking to class, talking to a mutual friend, swaying back and forth as you wait in line in the dining hall. this reverence is not sustainable without more give, and he is wearing like loved linens

hiding the way you feel for him is, in many ways, easier. you escape into buildings for majors you have never heard of when you spot him walking in your direction. you cherish the blessing of being able to use your hair as a curtain in which to protect yourself from the prospect of being perceived when in close proximity to him through your mutual friends congregating sporadically throughout the campus. you blame various ailments for reasons as to why you cannot go to gatherings you had previously agreed to attending. its heavy, this curse of needing. you want to drop to your knees and crawl to him, taking his fingers into your mouth and letting the love-conditional curse break, but you dont. cant. wont let it. it feels too good to have this private affliction be something you own. darkness on a leash, locked into a tower only you have access to. when nobody knows how you feel, not even him, he can be yours

[shanefuckingscott]

Building a life for with you. 🦾

Sevika promises a better life for you, she'd fight in every battle in Zaun, but can she win the battle between herself? 🦾

Warning: Angst with comfort at the end, Sevika being a jerk, Reader addicted to shimmer, horrible writing, barely proofread

🚫Men and Minors DNI🚫

This all started when Silco died. Sevika was rarely at home, even when he was alive, but still, she made it up to you in ways she can. You understood her job, you were there with here since day one. When she was with Vander, fighting on the bridge, and till she met Silco, you were there to support her. Everytime she comes home late with cuts snd bruises, she reminds that she's doing this for you, to have a better future, for your freedom.

Lately, she's been coming home once every week. She probably slept in Silco's office again, and you know she's trying her hardest to keep things running, while still finding a resolve for the other Chem-baron's turf wars. When she came home, you greeted her with her her favourite food for dinner, but she barely looked at it, and just went to bed. You, of course, being concerned for her well being, you follow her, and rub her back. "Is everything all right?" You ask with a hint of worry in your tone. She scoffs "Yeah, never better" You hear the sarcasm in her voice, and you go to her face, and kiss her, "Babe, please, take a break. Just this once. I need you home, I miss you, and every time you get home lately, you barely notice me, you don't talk to me, so please, can you just, talk?" you plead, you were almost in tears, seeing your girlfriend like this, your situation, everything feels like it's falling apart.

"Look, please, cut me some slack. I'm busy everyday dealing with everyone, just please get off my back just this once." That hurt. That hurt more than it should have. Maybe it was because you're sensitive. You try to understand her line of work as best as you can, but even you were only human. "I understand..." And with that, you get off her, and she's already snoring. She doesn't know, but you slept on the couch that day.

You could feel a rift between you and Sevika's relationship getting bigger and bigger by the day. She comes home with a new arm, with someone's blood on her, and she just casually mentions Smeech and her got into a fight, and wanted no more questions. You try your best, your absolute best to keep you too from falling apart. You try to make Sevika's day a little better, cooking for her, giving her space, preparing her lunch that she never eats, she comes home with the food already spoiled, and just leaves it for you to clean. Every night, she doesn't know, but you're not next to her. Or maybe she does. Maybe she just doesn't care. She hasn't said 'I love you' to you in weeks, she hasn't smile, hugged, or even kissed you.

The last straw was when she came home drunk after some fight with a piltie, and her girlfriend. She had bruises everywhere, she even had bitemarks on her. She looked like shit. You rushed to ask her if she was okay, and what happened, but she just pushed you away when you tried to give her a hug, and she just walked passed you. That was your breaking point. With tears in your eyes, you ask "Do you still even love me at all?" You were trying to hold your tears in, and stop them from spilling, much to no avail. So you're just wiping your face, not looking at her. "I'm not in the mood for this." She just says, not caring. And that was it. You lost your Sevika. You even wondered if she even was yours in the first place. Maybe you're just someone that keeps her grounded once in awhile, but as much as you love her, you were wondering if she felt the same anymore. Or at all. Everytime she was in the house, it felt like you were talking to a brick wall. And that’s when it dawned on you, that maybe she doesn't care about you as much as she says she does. You saw her lunch spoiled again, and you cried. That was it.

While she was in the bathroom, you were already fixing your things as quickly as possible. She probably wouldn't care if you were doing it infront of her. You hide your things, and you pretend to read a book in your bed. She just looks at you, and then she proceeds on doing what she's doing, and she lays in bed, facin gaway from you. You could gear her sigh, and you were trying your best not to cry. You were both quiet for a bit, until you finally decide to break the silence, and the tension between you two. With a different tone of voice, you just calmly ask her, "Do you still love me?" she doesn't respond. "Do you still love me, Sevika?" your eyes starting to wet, but you were met with no response again. The tears are now running down your face, but you try your best to cry silently, as you put the book down, you finally lay in bed sniffling, and till you just say, "Goodnight, Sevika. I love you." And that was the last thing heard from that night.

When Sevika woke up, she was just about to make a quick trip to the bathroom, and then head to work. When she notices the lack of your presence. She tries looking for you in the kitchen, in the bedroom again, in the bathroom, the living room, and outside. You weren't there. Where were you? She went back to the kitchen, and saw a note on the refrigerator she failed to see earlier. It wrote,

"My love, I've been with you through everything, I was with you on your worst days, and I was with you on your best days. There's no doubt in my heart how much I loved you. And I still do, but lately, I've been feeling that maybe you don't love me too. I know you always say, 'Everything I do, I do for you' which I appreciated, truly, but lately, I feel like our relationship is only one sided now, and it hurts. I trycto give you th love you want, and now, I just realized that maybe the only way you'll love me too, is when I'm far away from you. I'll miss you very much, every single day. I'll miss the days we were happy together, the days that you were happy with me. I hope someday, you find someone that'll make you as happy, as you made me these last few years.

– Sincerely, yours Y/N"

Sevika didn't know she could feel this hurt. She can't. She knows she's been pushing you away, she knows it's her that didn't value your efforts, she knows it was her that made you feel like you weren't important. She knows how hard you tried to keep you both together. She knows she fucked up. And now, you're gone.

The whole morning, she couldn't think straight while she was working. All she kept thinking was you, where have you been? It was like you had planned to leave, that's what hurt her the most. The note was true, you stuck around, when everything was going bad, and supported her. You were there. And now things are resolved, it was like you were one of her problems that had goe on their own. But you weren't. You're the whole reason she fights every single day, even though she failed to show you. She wants you back, she needs you back.

For the past few weeks, she's been looking for you everywhere, asking around, but she's not hearing from you. All she does is drink, and go home. Every night, before she falls asleep, she silently cries, and misses you. She smells your pillows before she falls asleep, and she hugs them. It was the only thing left of you. It was as if you were never there. Although your smell still lingers. She misses your presence. She misses the homecook meals you make her, she misses when you would greet her from work. Your face, when she comes back. Your smile, just, you as a whole. She misses you.

She feels regret of the times she let you sleep alone, the times she didn't say 'I love you' to you. The times she was tired from work, and she couldn't see what you were making her, but she knows you're right behind her, cleaning her wounds. Kissing her back, and then getting up, to give her space. It gets so hard every day, where she doesn't see you on the couch, reading your favourite book. She doesn't see your face smiling at her everytime you see her. She knows she's not the perfect lover, but she still wondered why you stick around. All of the things she didn't appreciate when you were there, she longs for now. She'd kill to hear your voice, to smell your scent, and to see your smile again.

A month goes by, she had a haircut, because you weren't there to tie her hair up for her, she quit smoking, and she got a new piercing. She's still actively looking for you, though. Everytime there's a rally, she always looks around to find you, but you're never there. The house that used to be a home for her is just a place where she sleeps now. She spends most of her time, drinking, gambling, taking care of the chem-barons, and or looking for you.

Until one day, your friend came up to Sevika. She told her where you're staying, she told her that you got new apartment. But that wasn't the reason she came to her. She said she hasn't heard from you in awhile, and you weren't answering her calls, and opening the door when she knocked. She got worried, and she had a hunch of what was happening, so she immediately went to Sevika. When Sevika heard the news, it was like her stomach dropped. She stopped to process everything she learned about you. But then she snapped out of it. "Take me to her."

When she got to your new apartment, it was much smaller than your old house together. She knocked at your door, to get no answer. She knocked again harder, but you still weren't answering. At this point she's getting more worried than ever, more worried than she's ever been. You leaving was one thing, since she knows she'll find her ways to you. But she was worried you died. She's now panting, her heart was racing. She's calling out your name, while knocking loudly. She went to peak to the window to you room, her heart stopped.

You were right there, with empty vials of shimmer in your hand. Some were scattered on the floor. You were laying there, it was like you were just asleep. "Fuck" she days to herself. She knew that shimmer was bad, and she was also addicted to it once. But, she never expected to see you resorting this. She knew she was the only one you had left, since you had no family, but she didn't know you were suffering this much. It was all so heavy in her heart, as it was on yours. But she couldn't think of her self right now.

She bursts the door open, and pics you up. She listens to your heartbeat. It was faint. She couldn't keep herself from crying any longer, as she carries, and takes you to Silco's medics. "Please, help her, do anything just don't let her die!" She orders, she was worried about you. She typically wasnt the one to cry, but all she could think about was you getting back to her, and it hurts her to think that there was a chance that you might not. She clenched her heart, when the doctors took you away to pump all the drugs out of your body. When they took you away, and she was all alone, she had an outburst, and she didn't leave until they tell her she could see you again.

You were now stabilized, but you were left in a coma, due to you overdosing. Sevika cries, day and night, waiting for the day you wake up. She doesn't drink anymore, she doesn't smokke. She makes sure she's with you at times where she doesn't have work to do. She talks to you in your coma, hoping you can hear her pleading for you to wake up, and apologizing to you for not being a good lover. She tells you about her day. She often talks about Jinx, and Isha, while you're out. What she had for lunch, and she tells you how much she misses your cooking. She falls asleep on a chair and rests her head on your bed.

When you finally woke up, your head felt heavy. You blink for a moment, when u feel weight on your leg thighs. That's when you see her. You heart beats fast, and it can actually be seen and heard on the machine. Sevika woke up worried, when she saw your heartbeat spike up, and her eyes go to your face, and she freezes. You woke up. She goes to hug, and kiss you, she's telling you sorry a million times, but you don't have the energy to hug her back, so you just smile. And suddenly, tears start rolling down your face, and Sevika stops as she hears you sniffle. "B-Babe! I'm so sorry about everything, I shouldn't have done that to you, you have no idea how much I regret everything I did to you, I want to be better, for us, for you, I know I'm not a perfect—" You kiss her.

For the first time in a while, you both feel genuinely happy again. Together. The kiss lasted for a while, and admittedly it was one of the best kisses you had your whole relationship. You both pull back to catch your breaths, but she pulls your face closer to hers, and whispers "I love you." You guys cry together the whole night in the hospital, after the nurses give you a check up. She's right beside you, re-telling the stories she shared you in your coma. You saw her smiling again, and your face is filled with joy. She's happy to see your smile too, and admitting that it was the first thing she misses about you.

Who knew one of you and Sevika's best dates would be in a hospital, but you wouldn't change a thing about it. You wouldn't change a thing about her. You're happy as long as she's hapoy, and she's happy as long as you're happy. The whole night was an emotional roller coaster of laughing and crying together, but ever since that night, you felt tour relationship with Sevika get stronger, and you're now alot closer.

After a few months, you both swore off drinking, smoking, and taking shimmer all together. Except that time she finally became a council. You both share a drink together to toast her achievement. And you're right there by her side, like you said you would. It was one of the many things Sevika loves about you. You both kept your promises to each other. She may not be the perfect girlfriend, or the perfect person, but she knows she's gonna get married to one.

Sevika proposed to you on your anniversary, now that she's given you the thing you thought was impossible, but everythings possible with Sevika. The freedom, the better future, the world she said she'd build for you. But she just now realized, she was building it WITH you.

And you lived happily, ever, after.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Yes, it's all cheezy, I couldn't keep hurting myself, or you for too long. heh.

[saessenach]

Thinking many thoughts about Miss Andarateia Cantori tonight because what do you mean we get to be in her house for the entire game, in which she and her boyfriend/partner-in-crime run a gambling den, assassin guild ANd find the time to argue with the public administration while opposing a military occupation?? who does it like her??

Joke aside, I think she's an incredibly fun character, and I'm really happy that hers was the lens through which we saw the Crows this game. Whenever I see random posts and critiques commenting that the Crows were too "sanitised" or "found-family", I want to yell a bit, because DATV never claims that to be the case!! Obviously everyone is entitled to their own opinion, but what we see is anchored in a very specific context: not just Treviso under Antaam occupation, but also the Cantori Diamond, which falls under Teia's jurisdiction.

She's an elven orphan turned Guildmaster and Talon, who desperately wanted to find family in the Crows! While the other Talons resisted her attempts at every step (some more succesfully than others ksks), that implies 1) her approach towards her own House was probably not dissimilar and 2) it got her the Talon position in her 20s. Ergo, her modus operandi was probably fairly successful.

For all that she threatens to evict anyone who treats her like a landlord (lol), the Diamond is very much a reflection of her as a character. It's all completely in line with both her general characterisation in 8 Little Talons and with the point she reaches at the end of that story when confronting Emil. I don't think it's a coincidence that out of our two POVs in 8LT, she's the one discussing Crow ideology with their would-be-murderer:

and

and

Following this particular set-up, of course orphans like Jacobus are treated kindly; of course fledglings have time to gossip in quiet corners while training; of course she helps the Dellamortes however she can?? She decided these people are family to her, and she wants to do better by them than what she got. This is wildly compelling to me personally, because she's such a delightful mix of idealism and disillusionment, honesty and manipulation, compassion and retribution - and she's so fucking obstinate about it!!!

There's also the little connection with the Crows' beginnings, specifically in Treviso. Iirc, it's mentioned in 8LT that her base is Rialto (she's also got gardens there), so a part of me wonders whether the Diamond was an inherited property from a previous Cantori Talon, or whether she got it up and running between then and the events of the game. I think that between that little tibdbit and with Lucanis being named First Talon at the end of the game, it's pretty obvious that the theme of rebirth is very much the point in the Crows' plotline - a messy, hopeful and spiteful rebirth.

All of this is to say, what we get doesn't at all negate the other aspects we've seen from the Crows in previous games, but rather puts them into perspective. The game just goes on to ask - isn't there another way to do this? what else is there room for us to be? is there any chance we might find some kindness in this world? and one of the ways these answers are explored is through Teia's character (we start this series with Zevran's story within the Antivan Crows - an elven orphan bought from a brothel, who doesn't have the power to change this guild, and end with Lucanis, Viago and Teia, who is, specifically, an elven orphan picked up (?) from the streets, who remains one of the powerhouses of the organisation. I love a bit of narrative symmetry ✨)

And honestly, I find this entire thing delightful - it's cheeky and dramatic and a lot of fun, and it makes sense for these characters, if you only sit with it for a second and give it a bit of thought!

(PS the way she draws Viago into her orbit and the way their partnership works is another rant entirely, and they drive me absolutely insane nghhh)

[mr-hopkins]

You write so well,I'd love to read some of your works regarding jay.

Again,you write incredible ☹️❤️

Thank you so much 💕

Here's something for you :)

Hope everyone enjoys reading!

Cooking Up Trouble 🎀

! Jay Imagine !

Synopsis : Jay is the best cook in enhypen, everyone knows that. As you convince him to cook for you, he plans ways to get back at you for the favour. Be it in the kitchen or in the room at night.

You were curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow like it was your last line of defense against the cruel world. Period cramps were hitting hard, and you were craving something warm, comforting, and made with love.

And by love, you meant Jay’s cooking.

Jay, the culinary genius of your life (and, well, also of Enhypen), was lying on the other end of the couch, looking exhausted from dance practice. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, arms lazily draped over his torso. He looked like he was about to pass out.

But desperate times called for desperate measures.

You slowly sat up and poked his thigh. “Jaaay~” you whined.

He cracked one eye open. “No.”

You gasped dramatically. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

“You don’t have to,” he groaned. “I can hear the ‘Jay, please cook for me’ in your voice from a mile away.”

You pouted, resting your head against his shoulder. “But I’m dying.”

“You’re literally not.”

“My uterus is waging war against me.”

“I sympathize, but…” He gestured vaguely at himself. “I think my whole body is waging war against me after today’s practice.”

You sighed, looking up at him with your best puppy eyes. “Jay… I need your food. Only you can save me.”

He rolled his eyes but let out a defeated chuckle. “You’re really using the period card on me, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

With an exaggerated groan, he pushed himself up. “Fine. What do you want?”

You grinned triumphantly. “Something warm and delicious. And made with lots of love.”

“Ugh,” he grumbled, but the corners of his lips twitched up in amusement.

You followed him into the kitchen like an excited puppy, watching as he expertly started chopping vegetables. His movements were smooth and precise, like he could do this in his sleep. You leaned against the counter, admiring his back.

“God, you’re so hot when you cook,” you blurted.

Jay paused mid-chop and turned his head to give you a smirk. “Are you flirting with me while I’m handling a knife?”

You shrugged. “What can I say? Dangerous men are attractive.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

You grinned and moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back. He stiffened for a second before relaxing into your touch.

“This is bribery,” he murmured.

“I prefer the term ‘appreciation,’” you said, swaying side to side slightly, making him move with you.

He let out a soft chuckle, setting the knife down before turning around in your embrace. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You’re lucky I adore you,” he said, voice low and teasing.

You looked up at him through your lashes. “Oh? And how lucky am I?”

His fingers traced small circles on your waist. “Lucky enough that I’m cooking for you despite being exhausted.”

“Mmm, that’s true,” you hummed, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. “I’ll have to repay you somehow.”

Jay’s smirk deepened. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m keeping track of my favors.”

Your breath hitched slightly at the mischievous glint in his eyes. “And what exactly do you plan to do with this favor?”

He leaned down, lips brushing against your ear. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”

You swallowed. “Do they involve food?”

He pulled back, grinning. “Nope.”

Your face heated. “Jay!”

He laughed, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before turning back to the stove. “Now go sit down before you distract me and I burn your ‘warm and delicious’ meal that I am cooking with love.”

You pouted but did as he said, watching him with a goofy smile as he cooked. Maybe cramps weren’t that bad if they got you moments like this with Jay. As the room gets filled with the aroma of delicious food, you cannot stop imagining about how Jay intends to make you pay back for the favour. No matter what it would be you would be pleased to surrender to him.

____________________________________

Thank you for reading!

Please suggest what else I can write about 🌷

[v33n4-c4rn1s]

"Do I look like her?"

Remy Lebeau x fem!reader

A/N: Here's my first little one shot for the after party of our main event! you don't have to read/attend the main event but if you'd like to.. Here's your invitation to "May the cards be in our favour." Thank you for all the support on the main series! Here's a well deserved Angst/comfort tiny tale <3

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Things played out well for you.

Of course it did.

Sure, you lost everything..But you healed. You accepted a new life. Hell, you even got the guy.

So why is it so..numbing?

Why do you feel like you're walking on thin glass, prepared to shatter under the weight of your heavy heart, when you wake up next to him? He’s not a bad guy. Remy Lebeau is anything but bad.

He’s gentle. Despite your past, your fears, he’s never once doubted you..so why are you doubting him? He knows what it’s like to lose someone. He lost you. Well, a version of you. 

That’s what has your mind all twisted.

Her.

Well, you.

It was haunting, knowing that there once was a you that he loved so much. You wonder if maybe..just maybe. If she was still alive, would you stand in the same place? Would you wake up next to him? Would you share breakfast together? Take care of the cats? 

The worst thing was, you didn’t know.

She meant so much to him.

Could you even compare to her? 

- - - - - - -

You stand in the kitchen, the cats demand their breakfast. They circle you like you’re prey. Tiny predators pawing at your legs. They’re cute..demanding? But cute. Lucifer, the ginger cat, drags his claws down the food cabinet. You give him a look, something along the lines of, “seriously?” and in response..he does it again. Slower. He’s such a little shit. He really lives up to the name. Oliver, the grey cat, circles you. He nuzzles up to your legs. He's trying to use his affection to coax you into opening that damn cabinet. Finally, Figaro, the white cat, simply just sits there. Purring. He’s using his cute little face to try and win you over.

“Boys..five minutes, literally..just five.”

The door of the bedroom creaks open and there he is. Remy, He got out of the shower earlier, he’s dry and dressed now. Apart from his hair, which you can tell is a little damp still.

His scarlet gaze finds yours and he gives you a grin before turning his attention the his cats, who stare up at him expectantly.

“Boys..what’re you crowdin’ your momma for, aye? Where’s dem manners? You aint supposed to crowd a lady.”

He scolds them so gently, it's actually kinda funny. The best part? They listen.

Oh.

I should probably give context to your current situation.

After the near end of the universe, the destruction of your world and the pain and weight of it all..Wade wilson begged the TVA to let you stay right here. They obliged due to your..heroic acts and now you live across from Wade and Logan, who also agreed to stay. Wade retrieved Remy (and Laura) from the void, blah blah blah..you kissed, he moved in, you’re together and now you own three cats.

All caught up? Good.

Remy heads over to the cabinet, pulling out the cat food tin. The cats crowd him instead. A chorus of pleased meows follow him as he dishes up the food. Normally, you’d find a strange sense of joy watching him tend to his cats but today..you had this nagging feeling. It tugged at your heart, sending dull throbs of longing into your soul.

You were snapped from your trance by familiar hands placing themselves on your waist. The Cajun male presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. It tingles. You knew he was being sincere yet it all felt so..hollow.

“You've been frownin’ since ya got outta bed, chère. C’mon, Tell Gambit what’s got you all tied?..”

You meet his gaze. You always do. He finds your eyes all the time and the weight of his sentence. The affection, the care that’s laced into his words..

It cracks the wall you tried to build, the bricks crumble and you stand there..

Vulnerable.

Before you know it, tears begin to well up and it takes Remy no longer than a second to scoop you up. His strong arms encase your frame so gently, his hand runs up and down your back.

“Ma belle..what’s goin’ on? What’s all dem tears for, huh?”

He coo’s so sweetly, leading you to the couch. He takes a seat, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. One hand lays on your thigh, his skilled fingers tracing soft circles against the skin whereas his other hand works on wiping your tears and pushing the hair out of your face. He runs a hand over your hair before cupping your cheek. All his movements are with practised ease. He knows your body like he knows his cards.

He deserves an explanation. 

He’s been nothing but a picture perfect boyfriend and you’ve been cold to him. You have no idea how he put up with it.

You gather yourself, alongside your thoughts, and you allow some much needed air into your lungs, soothing your nerves.

“It’s– it’s ridiculous really– I think..I'm jealous? Envious? I don’t know but– it's her! Me! Whoever it is! You..you loved her so much! How..how can i even come close to what she had– who she was to you–”

He was confused for a moment before it clicked. You felt..less inferior to his past version of yourself. He felt sick. A rush of nausea overwhelmed him. He never meant for this to happen. Not like this.

He watched the tears slowly slide down your cheeks, his thumb stilled. For a second, you thought he might shove you off his lap, maybe even leave out the door but instead his palms rushed forward to cradle your face. 

“Oh..chère..mon amour–”

He brings you closer, taking your hand and placing it over his heart so you could feel the steady thump.

“She..she was a piece of me– a piece of my past but oh..chère..”

You could hear it in his voice, he’s getting choked up.

“She ain’t you..and you ain’t her. Even Gambit knows dat. Ya got de same face but not de same heart. Not de same soul..”

He brings his hands down to find yours. His own eyes betray him, they grow watery as he presses kiss after kiss to your knuckles.

“Gambit don’t want you feelin’ like a replacement cuz you ain’t. You’re his future. Dat’s what you are. Ain’t no second choice.”

He presses his forehead to your knuckles, it’s like he’s silently begging for forgiveness. He inhales with a shudder.

You can’t find that feeling anymore. The feeling of nagging, the pain, the anxiety.

It’s all gone. Thanks to him.

Now it’s your turn, you tilt his head up with shaky hands and bring him towards you. His nose gently bumps against yours. He holds your wrists like he’s scared that if he lets go..you’ll vanish.

He knows what’s coming yet his heart still flutters when you press your lips to his. It’s slow at first but then a string of desperation ties itself into the mix. His usual skilled hands scramble to grasp your hips while you tangle your fingers in his hair. It’s soft, still a tiny bit damp from his shower but it’s soft. He pulls back only to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, then your neck. He continues to travel till he reaches your collarbone. The whole way down he praises you, he worships you like you're an angel on earth..and to be honest? When you hold him like this he thinks you just might as well be.

He finally pulls away, taking in your flushed cheeks and the dots of red that linger on your skin from his heavy kisses. He gives you a grin. You get to see his jagged canine peek out from his lips. He doesn’t need to say anything because you already know.

He doesn't need to say anything. 

But he does.

“I love you..Gambit loves you so much..”

The cats all clamber onto the couch, trying to figure out what all the commotion is for. 

You return his words, watching him reach down to scratch lucifer behind the ear.

“I love you too..”

It’s four words that bring a man, and his cats, so much joy.

Perhaps you didn’t have the greatest start but that doesn’t mean you’ll be stuck in the unknown for good. Not when he’s here.

- - - - - - -

When you get into bed that night, your heart feels full. You crawl into waiting arms. Large hands run up and down your back. You can hear the soft purrs of your beloved felines and that's how you know things are going to be fine. 

Remy presses a kiss to your forehead, humming softly as he checks on you, watching you fight the well deserved sleep that creeps over you.

He chuckles softly, his chest rumbles at his laughter and it pulls a sleepy smile onto your lips. With a final kiss against your hair, you hear him.

“You got me, forever..and dere ain’t nothin’ you can do about it..”

He’s teasing. You know he is because why would you wanna do anything about it? He’s perfect.

And he’s yours.

────────────────⋆༺𓆩🂱𓆪༻⋆─────────────────

Taglist:

@techs-stitches

@kaidan-z

@tetra-stark

@aisling1985

@trinswhimsys

[everestgale]

"Drag me down into the deep end, leave me out to die"

[Drawing is very much inspired by this song, as you can see by the pose, and the quote is from it, too!]

This is my fan princess The Butterfly and her counterpart Voice of the Arrogant. I was going to share more of them once I actually finished writing their Chapter... but it's gonna be a while before then. So have this as a sort of preview :]

Chapter II: The Butterfly

The Butterfly is a no-knife counterpart to The Nightmare, where instead of choosing to lock her in the basement because you don't trust her or the Narrator, you do that because, instead, you believe that she is pathetic and weak and cannot possibly end the world. You can't possibly drench your hands in her blood, that would be beneath you! And so you leave her to languish alone in the basement...

...but you still watch over the basement door; light threads of suspicion seeping through. You doze off. And when you wake up, she somehow escapes her chains and the basement. She stands over you, blade in hand, raised directly over your chest. The cabin won't let her leave. Maybe if she kills you... maybe she will be free.

She kills you. Everything goes dark, and you die. And when you meet her again, she turns into someone fragile, someone who can be ruined at the lightest touch... when you meet her again...

"Please just kill me," she says.

She had tried to escape so desperately, but nothing she did seemed to work. She can't handle the hurt of trying to escape anymore, so now she sits in the basement and patiently awaits her death.

[The current draft of Chapter I that leads into The Butterfly is under the cut]

Full disclosure: I am not a writer by any means, so some lines from Hero/Narrator will likely be either awkward or out of character. Also, about half of the lines are just directly copied and slightly edited from the pre-Nightmare Chapter I. You've been warned :]

Chapter I: The Hero and the Princess

You can't seriously think she is going to end the world, right? I am not killing her. She is not worth the effort. [Leave her in the basement.]

Voice of the Hero

At least we aren’t going to kill her… maybe we could keep an eye on her instead?

The Narrator

Are you seriously just going to wash your hands of this? No one wins here if you do.

"Wait, where are you going? You can't just leave me here! NO!"

The Narrator

You turn your back to the Princess and make your way back to the stairs.

The Narrator

She rushes out to follow you, but the chain on her wrist keeps her just out of her reach.

“You'll… regret it. I swear you’ll regret it! I'll make you pay. You can't just leave me here… please...”

The Narrator

Her voice peters out as she gives the chain another tug.

Voice of the Hero

This feels... awful. Are you sure we shouldn’t… help her?

The Narrator

Help her? Didn't you hear her threaten you just now? No, we can’t have either of your nonsense. You were sent here to slay her. You can still grab the blade and get back down here…

(Explore) See? She can't even get out of these chains. How is she supposed to end the world? She couldn't even hurt a butterfly.

No, we are not doing either. She isn’t worth it.

Oh that's a relief! I was afraid I'd already committed to not slaying her.

…Maybe we should help her. [Turn back towards her.]

The Narrator

Just because she's in chains now, doesn't mean she will be forever. Eventually, she will escape and end the world.

No, we are not doing either. She isn’t worth it.

Oh that's a relief! I was afraid I'd already committed to not slaying her.

…Maybe we should help her. [Turn back towards her.]

The Narrator

You'll be the death of all of us, but fine. We'll do it your way.

The Narrator

You close the cabin door, locking it behind you.

Voice of the Hero

Okay. We can make this work.

The Narrator

You settle in against the far wall to watch the basement door.

The Narrator

It isn't long before you start to drift off, your eyelids heavy with fatigue. But sleep doesn't come. Instead, your rest is broken by a piercing, wailing voice calling out to you from the other side of the door.

“I know you’re there. Please let me out. I beg you. PLEASE.”

Voice of the Hero

That’s her… But how did she get out of her chains? Did she slip out of them?

The Narrator

I warned you about this, didn’t I? But of course, you didn’t listen.

Voice of the Hero

I feel so bad... Maybe we can just ignore her. Maybe the banging and wailing will stop if you just don't pay attention to it.

The Narrator

You put the Princess' cries out of your mind as best as you can and huddle up against the wall.

(Fade to black, background change)

The Narrator

You jolt awake in the middle of the night. The ruckus has stopped, and the door to the basement is ajar, its lock broken and the pristine blade is missing from the table.

Voice of the Hero

Where is she?

“...I hope this works. Please let it work.”

Voice of the Hero

…What does that mean?

The Narrator

Sigh. I can’t believe you let this happen.

The Narrator

The Princess kneels next to you on the cabin floor, the blade gleaming in her trembling hands right above your chest. She stares at you as her eyes twitch, and small tear droplets fall on your face.

The Narrator

Before you can react, she plunges it into your chest, ripping through your muscles and organs. As the steel tears through your flesh, you feel agonizing pain. But you aren’t dead yet.

“Damn it. DAMN IT.”

The Narrator

She raises the blade again, before repeatedly sinking it into your chest. It is torture. Every stab feels like it’s burning through your body. As she lifts the blade once more, she lets out a piercing, desperate cry.

“I JUST WANT TO LEAVE. LET ME OUT. PLEASE.”

The Narrator

The Princess gives you one final stab in the heart, as your lungs fill with blood. Her voice, once loud and desperate, peters out until it's barely a whisper.

“...I hope I can leave now. Please let me leave now.”

Voice of the Hero

Somehow being stabbed repeatedly isn’t even the worst part of this…

The Narrator

Are you serious right now? You are bleeding out on the cabin floor right now, and you say this isn’t the worst of it?

The Narrator

This was hopeless, wasn’t it? You two are absolutely delusional. I hope you are happy with your choices.

The Narrator

Everything goes dark, and you die.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

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

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

WC: 13.5K

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

Read on ao3!

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

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

--

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

Dean? He’s a menace.

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

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

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

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

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

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

--

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

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

You hesitate. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

And when he starts tattooing?

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

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

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

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

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

A challenge.

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

Of course, he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

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

He kisses you.

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

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

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

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

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

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

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

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

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

But you’re not.

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

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

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

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

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

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

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

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

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

And yet… you’re still here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

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

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

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

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

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

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

“You should be scared of me.”

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

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

It’s desperation.

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

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

You let him.

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

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

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

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

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

Possession.

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

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

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

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

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

The first sting.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

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

“Done,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

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

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

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

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

--

The night is quiet—too quiet.

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

Pop-pop-pop!

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

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

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

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

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

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

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

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m with you.”

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

More men are coming.

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

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

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

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

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

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

His control snaps.

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

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

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

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

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

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “No.”

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

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

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

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

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

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You don’t resist.

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

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

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

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

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

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

Dean’s son.

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

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

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

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

Because you are. To him, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.” You smile up at him.

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

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

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

You are his, and you always will be.

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

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

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

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

You are his. Completely.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

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

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The family business, he’d called it.

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

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

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

Dean would see to that.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Winchester name will live on.

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

But that peace shattered in an instant.

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

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

He answered the call.

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

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

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

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

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

“They’ve got our kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Dean never let messages slide.

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

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

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

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

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

The seconds felt like hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you believed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

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

[isiaiowin]

✨GOetry - Ineffable Elfje ✨

Welcome to the Netherlands! 

Our first stop on this ten week journey. I hope you have everything packed, got your bookmarks up, your pen licked and your digital paper at the ready. 

*Hands you a welcome package including a stroopwafel, a piece of Gouda and a GOetry Booklet. Inside you find the tour schedule and a list of links.*  

Useful links: Rhymezone - if you need a word.  Syllable Counter  Poetry Foundation  Academy of American Poets  Searchable bible 

Hop on a bike and follow me for a quick tour of this fascinating country, much of which lies below sea level. A land of windmills, tulips, cheese, and canals, the Netherlands is known for its breath taking (very flat) landscapes and innovative waterworks. 

Known for world-famous painters like Rembrandt and Vermeer, this small nation is rich in art and culture. But it’s also a powerhouse of engineering, with it's massive Delta Works protecting the land from the sea. And let’s not forget Rotterdam Harbour—the biggest port in Europe, buzzing with global trade and maritime activity. 

As we arrive at a cozy canal boat in the heart of Amsterdam, you settle down with a steaming hot beverage, letting the warmth chase away the chill from our bike ride through the cold; it's time to explore our first prompt. 

This week’s prompt:  

Form: Elfje 

Theme: Ineffable

What is an Elfje? 

The Elfje form originated in The Netherlands where it is used to teach young children to write poetry. The word Elfje means ‘Elven’ or ‘Fairy’ poem (from ‘Elf’ meaning ‘elven’ or ‘fairy’ and the sufix ‘-je’ meaning ‘little’). The form consists of 11 words spread over 5 lines. 

An ‘Elfje’ counts as five sentences. 

Line 1: One word. This word symbolizes a colour or feature. The word symbolizes the atmosphere. 

Line 2: Two words. These are something or someone with this colour or feature. 

Line 3: Three words. Giving more information about the person or the object. You describe where the person or the object is, who the person or what the object is, or what the person or object is doing. This sentence usually starts with the word ‘he’, ‘she’ or ‘it.’ 

Line 4: Four words. Here you are writing something about yourself in relation to the person or the object. This sentence is your conclusion. 

Line 5: One word. This word is called the ‘Bomb.’ It is the essence of the poem. 

Example: (this one is an Elfje Acrostic) 

Elegant 

Little verse 

Following simple rules 

Just eleven words long 

Elfje. 

Post you result on your blog and don't forget to tag me @isiaiowin and use the #GOetry so I can see your work. You can also add it to the GOetry collection on AO3

Have fun! ~Moon💚

@goodomensafterdark

[knight-a3]

Hazbin Masterpost

Heavenbound Masterpost

Sir Pentious

So the problems I had with the canon design is that he looked more like a slug than a snake and there were too many eyes. His design just needed to be streamlined. I guess I'm not a fan of the eye motif in general, but that's a personal preference. I altered the colors to add more variety to the hazbin cast, and to reference his early design, which had quite a bit of green.

More notes under the cut

I based his design off of the Indian monocled cobra, because the design of its hood was most similar to Pentious', and Hognose snakes. Hognose snakes also have a hood, although not near as impressive as cobras. If that doesn't help to ward off danger, they are will play dead. They are very insistent about playing dead too. It's honestly hilarious. I thought the behavior fit Pentious' overall pathetic demeanor.

Body:

I slimmed his lower body to match his upper body to get rid of the slug look. He also doesn't really have much in terms of shoulders, his suit jacket has padded shoulders to make it look like he has them.

Then I changed the vertical lines to horizontal, which can open to reveal eyes, I guess.

Head:

So a snake hood is literally just their neck. They flatten their neck to make themselves look bigger than they are. I don't have to strictly follow that, since he's a demon and not a real snake, but I felt the need to somewhat allude to the fact. I also liked the animation of his hair/hood as it went up or down and wanted that to stay. So I had the hood part attach to his neck before the collar of his shirt, and the hair is an extra part.

I adjusted the mouth shape to more accurately resemble a snake's, which has a space for the tongue to pass through. The teeth aren't always visible, because snake fangs only show when the mouth is open. I didn't really consider what it would look like for him to unhinge his jaw, but he can totally do that.

Clothes:

I wanted to give him a more clearly Victorian outfit. Specifically late Victorian, because he apparently died in 1888. Fashion was basically transitioning into Edwardian at that point. But the hard part is that men's fashion didn't change as dramatically as women's over time. In a simplified style, I had to make sure it didn't just look like a regular suit. Especially since he doesn't have pants to help complete the look.

I opened his suit jacket to show the waistcoat(vest), and include a chain for a pocket watch. I chose to give him a cravat because it has Victorian vibes, and helped me in my quest to reduce the number of bowties. The tie pin looks like an eye because I didn't see a reason not to.

Top hats were fairly popular in this era. Bowler hats were probably more popular, but the top hat has an older vibe and steampunk aesthetic.

Egg Bois:

I don't actually understand them. He created them, but I don't know how that works. Or why he made them eggs. But they're there. Frank is there. I think one should be named Egbert. Yolkshire(oh, with a Cockney accent too). Um... any other egg pun names?

Mannerisms:

His height is variable, based on his mood and if he's trying to be intimidating.

I didn't consciously decide this, but I kept drawing it and liked it, but he tends to stick his tongue out and hold his hands up. It's pretty autism-coded.

Human: Soooooo. I did see the S2 leaks. I incorporated some things, but changed some as well, so I don't think this will be significant spoilers or anything.

Really long hair was not Victorian style, but there wasn't exactly a strict standard either. So I gave him the longest that I found examples of. Facial hair would have been typical for men to have, but I guess he didn't get the memo. Maybe he was worried about it getting caught in the machinery.

His name is Mr. Pendleton. I don't know a first name, but I sorta like Simon. He was a socially reclusive weapons engineer. To be perfectly honest, I don't have all that much else to say. I'm not sure how deep canon will delve into his human life and I don't want to theorize much at this point. So I'm not sure how he died either. Maybe it was a weapons malfunction.

He might only be in hell because he felt guilty about something that might be spoilers to say. It was honestly a pretty mild sin on his part, and I wonder if he was redeemed because his sacrifice relieved him of that guilt. I'm sure the show will touch on that though.

Redeemed: So the direction I'm going is that angels are more human-like in appearance. Those in hell look different because the place corrupts their appearances. But that mean his redeemed design had to be very different than canon. But it was a chance to give him his iconic hairstyle without worrying about historical accuracy.

(edit notes will go here if necessary)

[yurislilygarden]

Hello~ Long time no see, ✨️Inspired Anon returns✨️

I said I had ideas for the 3Vees in the Self Aware Au, but kinda forgot that I never sent them. But~ I had an iron clad memory when it comes to these things so if you want them, here they are~

For starters, all the Vees are aware of the Reader, but I'll leave their reactions to finding out that they're in a show to you.

Starting with Valentino. Val both loves and hates Reader, he loves that this little butterfly spends time in his office and 'oversees' some of his filming but hates that he never gets any reaction that he wants and that frustrates him to no end. Val tries to show Reader his films, his scripts, he even tried getting his workers to put on a 'private show' for Reader but Reader only ever seemed interested in following Angel the majority of the time.

Like, Val gets it, Angels nice eye candy, but he has so much more to offer than just his star!

Why does Val want Readers approval so much? Because he's convinced that every time Readers little butterfly appears during him writing a new script or filming his latest movie, it becomes a massive success. If he can find a way to monopolise Readers attention, then maybe he could make them view even more of his work in progresses and they'd become successes too!

It's purely placebo on his part, and the other Vees tell him that and show him the statistics to prove that there is no real difference in profit between work Reader viewed and work they haven't, but he's too deep in this rabbit hole to get back out.

Yes, Val might think he can use Reader as an infinite success glitch.

He's also not opposed to banging their butterfly form and gets major butthurt when they 'turn down his advances'. He'll keep trying because 'they haven't said no'... bitch, of course they hate said no, THEY HAVEN'T SAID ANYTHING! He's trying to figure out the logistics of how it would work and the other Vee mysteriously always have important work to do when he tries to bounce ideas off of them

Velvette is indifferent to Reader. They don't respond to her both on and offline, so they're a bit of a non factor to her. She has tried getting more of their attention when they fluttered around the studio (mainly following Angel), by dropping hint at making clothing inspired by their butterfly form, but stormed off in a huff at the lack of response. So now she is #OverThem.

However, Vel isn't one to be ignored. She likes to keep tabs on Reader, even made it into a little game with the Voxigram tag #ButterflySpotted where people upload candid pics of Reader around town. If they are genuine pics of Reader, she pays the uploader... in exposure.

She also does still have that butterfly themed dress line tucked away, she tweaks the design ever now and then. It will be her most expensive dress line released once Reader finally acknowledges her, but she miiight give Reader something for free if they admit she's their favourite Vee, preferably in front of the other Vees.

Vox is obsessed with Reader, almost to the same extent as his obsession with Alastor but for different reasons. However, he's not as oblivious as the others when it comes to Reader.

Vox recognises that Reader is listening and not replying instead of blatantly ignoring him, which has led to Vox following Reader (off camera) and venting about everything and anything. This might lead to some form of unhealthy attachment to Reader, but at least he isn't trying to get in Readers butterfly's pants like Val... unless...

Vox also openly admits to designing new drones based on them and has definitely told Reader about them, too. Reader didn't reply, but he knows they're listening.

Vox is also aware of the Reader hanging around the Hotel crew. He doesn't like that. He had considered that Reader was originally a spy for them but concluded that that was unlikely, he also considered recruiting Reader as a spy themselves but won't until he figures out a way around their communication issues.

Currently, he's 'content' with Reader having 'friends' inside the hotel because he knows that he's their favourite. But they better stay away from Alastor. They better not be letting him talk at them. He means it! THAT'S YOUR THINGS WITH HIM NOT YOUR THING WITH AL!

omg I thought I answered this back then when I got it I'M SO SORRY ANON😭

Idk how to answer this honestly, it was worded so well ngl. Val would fr have that love-and-hate relationship with reader. He loves that he can sometimes say to the others about how the butterfly stays in his office/part of the building, but then comes the part that he gets little to no attention, which he obviously hates. And yes, no matter what he gets told, the things made with reader around are OBVIOUSLY better and make more money,, obviously bcs how else there's absolutely no difference😒As for the banging ideas... don't let anyone outside of The Vee's know, that's all I will say bcs Val may end up dead once again...

Velvette is the safest to be around ngl, she doesn't do anything crazy after getting no attention like Val, and the gram is so real, she would save all the real pics to her gallery for sure. I just know that while some guys got exposure, some ended up a little differently... she so would get jealous over pics taken from really up close, she doesn't want random idiots that close to reader. And the collection !! Yes!! The price would be so high that even someone with The Vee's paycheck would call it really expensive, after all, she can't let some complete random wear something like that !! If reader told her how something would look better, even a mere suggestion, she WOULD think abt it for long before most likely actually changing it.

"This might lead to some form of unhealthy attachment to Reader." Don't even get me started on that, if they were to meet, he would assume that reader was actually able to hear every single thing he has said, which reader would not as they hear only what's in the actual show, unless we're going into an Au of sorts.I feel like he wouldn't try to get into reader's pants, but he may listen to Val without being forced to do it from time to time... It's not that he dislikes the fact that the lil butterfly hangs out a lot at the hotel, he HATES it, he wants reader at The Vee's building more !!

[remxedmoon]

i hit 1k followers recently!!!! yipee!!!!!!! thank you all!!! so in celebration here’s all of my completed isat doodle pages, from oldest to newest. go nuts with them!! and maybe don’t look at the first doodle page too closely. it’s Old.

(no greyscale version below for once! just some mushy ramblings. you don’t have to read them don’t worry)

hhhhhha?? so many people. where did you come from. how did you all find me.

ok but seriously, thank you all so much for all the support. i never really. expected to make it this far? like, ever?? i’ve mentioned it a few times on here, but i’ve been a lurker for the past… 2 years, i think? and even before that, i never gained much traction outside of a couple posts. so this has been. very new to me!! in a nice way!! it’s weird to feel like an actual member of a community!! that people know about!

the idea of finally coming back to social media was Daunting (i literally got stress hives writing my first post lol) and the warm reception really. meant a lot?? i don’t think i would’ve ever gotten the courage to come back if i hadn’t been encouraged to by the people over at the isat discord!!

the fact that people actually care about my art still doesn’t feel real?? seeing people take inspiration from my art is just. surreal. just. auagssh. thank you all so so much for everything, i really do appreciate it!!! i’m really glad to be in this community. sorry if this all sounds sappy and long winded i’ve just got a lot of emotions about this whole thing!!

(also as a bonus for reading all this or whatever. here’s a concept page for isatscryption! it felt a little out of place next to my normal canvases so i’m putting it down here! yipee! sorry my notes here are so disjointed auauau…)