#i just wanted to DRAW and WRITE you know?

[froggibus]

— Like Real People Do - Sentry

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x gn! reader

Genre: hurt/comfort & fluff

Word Count: 1.2k

Summary: Bob seeks you out following a bad dream

CW: nightmares, insomnia, self doubt, reader is part of Thunderbolts* and was there for the final fight, knives, mostly cozy comfort vibes

some short n sweet comfort for a sunday ^.^ thunderbolts has singlehandedly brought back a love for marvel that i have not felt for years :,) gonna be writing some bucky next i think B)

This post contains spoilers for Thunderbolts*. Read at your own discretion :)

You’re awake before you even hear the knock on the door. 

Stirring in your sheets, you wipe the sleep from your eyes and risk a glance at your phone. 3am. The soft knocking has you shoving your blankets aside and reaching for the knife magnetted to the back of your nightstand. 

You rise to your feet, the cold floors of what used to be Stark tower sending a chill up your spine. You squint into the darkness and listen for a sound—any sound—from the other side of the door. You tighten your grip on the knife. 

Though you trust everyone that lives in the tower, you aren’t a stranger to their quirks. You know better than anyone that night terrors (Bucky) or drunken fights (Walker) can devolve quickly. 

Better to be safe than sorry. 

You brace your hand on the doorknob, shifting your clammy palms on the handle of the knife. Just as there’s another quiet knock, you tug the door open and brace yourself. 

Bob stands on the other side, dark hair tousled with restless sleep. His stormy eyes glance towards the knife in your hand and stay on you while you tuck it into the waistband of your pyjamas. 

You keep your voice quiet. “Hey, everything alright?”

He swallows hard, running a hand through his messy hair. You don’t miss the way his hand shakes or the red strewn throughout his eyes. 

“I—“ his voice cracks, eyelids closing in frustration. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You shuffle to the side, swinging the door open to allow him more room. “Do you want to talk about it?”

For a second, you think he’s going to say no. But then he nods, just once, and crosses the threshold into your room.

You settle in your bed first, Bob padding after you in the darkness of the room. He flinches and your hand flies to your knife. 

You scan the room for threats—but all you see are the shadows cast across the walls from the moonlight filtering through your window. Shadows. You glance at Bob and then you’re reaching for the lamp, flicking the light on. 

He lets out a sigh, his shoulders falling from his ears. He settles in at the edge of your bed, gripping your sheets. 

“So, what did you—“

He furrows his brows at the lamp on your nightstand. “You don’t—you don’t use the smart lights.” 

You shrug awkwardly, pyjama top slipping down your shoulder. “Force of habit, I guess.”

He glances at your bare shoulder and the room falls silent once again. His mouth moves but no sound comes out and his stormy eyes stay transfixed on the glow of your bare skin.

You soften your gaze, making a big show of discarding your knife back on the magnet. You open your mouth to speak but Bob beats you to it.

“I don’t remember,” he murmurs and suddenly his eyes are on his lap, a gnawed fingernail tracing the pattern of his pyjamas. “The Void, I mean. I don’t remember.”

You blink and glimpses of the rooms, of your worst moments, come back to you. You manage to force your face into a mask of calm and extend a hand to rest on Bob’s knee.

“I only know things from what you guys told me, or from what we…what we saw on the news reports. But sometimes,” he swallows hard, “sometimes it all comes back when I’m sleeping.”

Your blood runs cold. Suddenly the bags beneath his eyes and his disheveled appearance make sense. You squeeze his knee gently in what you hope can be seen as reassurance.

He shivers, drawing his arms up around his shoulders. “I see him. And me. And—and you guys. I see what you guys went through and I just—”

His eyes flutter closed and he swallows as though he’s going to be sick. Before you can think, you’re pulling the throw blanket off the corner of your bed and wrapping it around him.

A soft breath leaves him at the touch of the fabric, his hand catching yours when you go to pull away. A shock of electricity runs up your spine, the flutter of something familiar in your stomach.

You keep an arm wrapped around him, sitting next to him on the edge of the bed so that your legs are touching. He reaches for your free hand and squeezes it in his clammy palm.

“I hurt people, I hurt you guys and I hate it. I hate seeing it, I hate seeing him—me, fuck, I hate it so much.”

You rub circles along the back of his hand. “The Void hurt people,” you correct softly. “We know that wasn’t you, we know that wasn’t what you were trying to do.”

“But I—”

“No buts. I was in there with you, Bob. We all were. I—we know that wasn’t your intention.”  

You tilt your head to look at him, really look at him. Thin strands of his dark hair glow gold in the lamplight, his thick lashes catching the light and reflecting on his irises—in this lighting, he’s ethereal. Beautiful.

Your voice is almost a whisper when you speak next. “I know your heart, and I know the kindness in it. You’re not him. Bob.”

He looks at you and you swear you can see the storm clouds fading away. There’s a sudden softness in his gaze, the slight shaking of his wrists finally stilling.

He whispers your name, a hand reaching up to cup your jaw. Your eyes flick up to his only to find a comforting kind of darkness within them. 

“Bob.”

He leans in, tentatively brushing his lips against yours. He stills against you, hovering less than a millimeter away. A puff of air ghosts across your lips.

He mumbles your name and his lips catch yours once more. 

You can feel the desperation radiating off of him, feel the need coursing through him. He’s so close to you—close in a way you’ve never been before.

Your fingers trail their way up his back, tangling in the messy hair at the base of his neck. The two of you rest there, touching but not touching enough. It feels like a century that you sit there, tangled together.

His mouth falls open when he pulls away, and he’s all red tipped ears and breathless mumbles. “I—”

It’s your turn to cup his face. Your hand brushes the skin of his cheek, feeling the stubble that’s starting to come in. You lean backwards, falling into the sheets and guiding him along with you.

Bob falls into your mattress, the blanket you wrapped around his shoulders spreading out, making it look like he has wings.

You smile at him. “Why don’t you stay a while, hm? Maybe we can chase those nightmares away.”

He nods slowly and relaxes into your touch. 

Bob falls asleep quickly but you stay awake the whole night, holding him, ready for if he needs you again. You watch him until the sun starts to peek over the horizon.

The rising sun casts the whole room in gold, Bob glowing in the sunlight. Watching him now, sleeping in your bed and snoring softly, he’s not Sentry. He’s not the Void. He’s Bob, just Bob—and Bob is all you need.

thanks for reading <3 have a fantastic day!

masterlist | marvel masterlist

[luna-azzurra]

✨ 10 chaotic writer facts you didn’t ask for but are getting anyway ✨

I write 1,000–3,000 words a day. Not because I’m disciplined, but because I have no social life and mild control issues. It’s fine. I’m fine.

Before I ever touched a keyboard, I was an artist. Like, sketchbook-at-recess, drew-my-own-manga-level obsessed. I’ve been drawing since I was five. Now I use those powers to procrastinate writing.

I talk to my characters like they’re real people. I once argued with one out loud in a grocery store. We’re not on speaking terms anymore.

I name all my WIPs things like “pain_project” or “he cries again.docx” because I enjoy foreshadowing my own breakdowns.

I collect empty notebooks like a Victorian ghost who died tragically in a stationary store.

I have cried because a character forgave someone. That’s it. That’s the fact.

Sometimes I start new projects just to avoid editing old ones. This is not a healthy system but it is a personality.

I finish a gut-wrenching scene and then go eat cereal like nothing happened. Cold emotional whiplash is my brand.

I regularly forget what my characters are supposed to know, and when it happens, I just give them sudden intuition or full-blown memory loss.

I’ve rage-deleted whole chapters because a side character took over and made the main one look bland. And yes, I made the side character the lead.

Okay, now your turn—drop your own ✨10 chaotic writer facts✨. I know you’ve got them. Don’t leave me screaming into the void alone. Reblog this with your chaos, I want to see the beautiful mess.

Love u all!

[wheeloffortune-design]

Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel

a novel by Talhí Briones

1865, United States— It took thirty years and a dislocated arm for Victoria to leave her abusive husband. Heartbroken, she has to choose her own life over the hope of ever seeing her son again. She escapes the manor in the dead of night, only bringing with her a white wedding dress.

She ends up in Swainsburg, a minuscule town in Wyoming, where she’s adopted by the local prostitutes. To save them from expulsion, she buys the building and learns that in these parts, entertainment is worth more than gold. It’s almost easy, even fun, to organize piano recitals and cancan shows for the cowboys of the area, but being a Madam comes with responsibilities and dangers she isn’t ready to face. Her husband, after all, has contacts everywhere.

It’s hard to navigate the delicate tensions between respectable ladies and whores, between white society and the ‘others.’ Her new friends are women who carved their place in this merciless life; people who, like her, ended up in Swainsburg when they got tired of running.

Victoria doesn’t notice, can’t even imagine the possibility; but she falls in love. The townfolk say the widow Díaz is strange, but Natane is actually incredibly awkward, kind, and very lonely. Victoria has no name for this burning friendship, but the feeling grows and demands to be acknowledged.

This is a story about women who age, gossip, drink, love... and help you hide the body of your dead husband.

---

Launch: May 20th, 2025

Here are some places you can order the book:

Barnes and Noble

Indigo Canada

Amazon.com

Renaud-Bray

FNAC

Get the e-book directly from the publisher, helping me get a bigger portion of the royalties.

You can also ask for it at any local bookstore or library :)

---

Kickstarter news

The kickstarter for Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel managed to reach more than 350 backers! All the reach goals were unlocked in 48h!

If you bought a physical copy of the novel on kickstarter, it's on its way!

The e-books will be sent to kickstarter backers during the week of May 5th, 2025.

Tales of Swainsburg, a series of short-stories set in the universe of Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel, will be sent in August 2025.

An audiobook will be produced and sent to kickstarted backers, date to be determined.

All those books on their way to their future readers ❤️

---

Discord channel

Want to read along with everyone else? We have chatrooms specifically tailored to share your reactions with other readers without spoiling the rest of the story.

Link to the discord channel

---

FAQ

- Is this book in English of French?

English :) My previous books were in French, but this kne was written directly in English.

- Is this an illustrated book?

There are chapter headers drawn by me, and illustrated maps. All the other illustrations you see online are not included in the book, I just like to draw my girls.

- Is this self-published?

No, it's traditionally published by Renaissance Press, who focus on printing diverse Canadian voices.

- What is Tales of Swainsburg?

A collection of short-stories I am currently writing, set in the universe of Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel, centering various characters with interesting backgrounds. Tales of Swainsburg will be sent as an e-book to all corresponding kickstarter backers, and as a printed paperback to everyone who backed the higher tiers. After, Tales of Swainsburg will be available to buy as an e-book. I do not yet know if a printed paperback version will be available to the general public.

- Will there be an audiobook?

Yes! The kickstarter reached enough money to let us produce a professional audiobook. We have no planned release date for the moment, but I will announce it. Corresponding kickstarter backers who receive it automatically.

- Can I get a hardcover?

A number of hardcovers were produced exclusively for the kickstarter, backers will be receiving them. There's a number of them left, but we still don't know where/how we're going to sell them. Bookstores will only sell the paperback version.

- Can I buy your art?

Not for the moment, but I do want to reopen my online store. Any updates will be posted here.

---

Launch party

If you're in Montréal on June 4th, 2025, you're invited to the official launch party, at Librairie Paragraphe, 5pm!

---

You loved the book? You think other people will love it? You want to promote queer stories and bipoc authors? Don't hesitate to talk about this book with your people!

❤️

[mahajio]

Hey, I remember this comic! I am beyond happy to see this absolute gem polished to perfection and packed with so much beautiful detail! At first I began typing out a comment on Bluesky, but then I realized you also uploaded it to Tumblr, so I can just ramble to my heart's content without having to divide it into several smaller comments. This is especially nice since there's three whole pages of beautiful artwork I want to gush about!

First of all, the dire wolves look EXCELLENT! Supremely intimidating fellows, alright. You've drawn their fur immaculately with so many little individual tufts of hair, and the way you drew their maws ups their intimidation factor significantly. It's a killer panel to open up with, if I do say so myself. Neither Marcille nor Falin look particularly impressed by their display though, which makes perfect sense considering they're both experienced adventurers and one of them is perfectly capable of blowing their heads off with very little effort. I will say that it makes the whole scene look very funny!

Every single panel is a delight to look at. You really did go all out with this, and I couldn't possibly be happier! One fun thing about writing comments like this is that I get to look at every panel for an extended period of time, and it just never gets old, I tell ya! Marcille looks so tired and fed up with everything, which is very funny, but I also absolutely ADORE the way Falin gestures at Marcille to stand back. That genuinely adorable face, followed up with her confident, sparkling smile and a big ole thumbs up, is just perfect. Seeing the back of Marcille's head with the black lines and little sweat droplets had me in shambles for some reason. I honestly don't know why I spent a full minute laughing at that, but I think it's probably because it contrasts Falin's confidence so insanely well.

The shot of Falin hyping herself up and preparing to deal with the dire wolves just as Laios instructed her is epic! I've said this many times before, but HOLY MOLY, your art style is EPIC! It suits Dungeon Meshi perfectly, and man oh man you draw the red dragon like no other! Falin looks confident, and the fact she feels as though she's backed by the most powerful creature in existence just hyped me up, even despite the fact I know exactly what happens next. I also love the line "No dogs will push me around anymore!" Because she was always dead last in the dog hierarchy back home. She'll make her brother proud, she'll show Marcille she makes for a great mate, and she'll show these dire wolves she is not to be messed with! Even though the red dragon is such a small, borderline negligible part of her being, I like the idea of Falin entertaining little urges here and there and feeling empowered by the idea of having a little goober inside of her. Falin's expression in the last panel of the first page looks freakin' INTENSE, which makes Marcille's tiredness and confusion even better, hahaha! I absolutely love what you did with the two in this comic!

When I saw the small critter you drew to show how Falin's bark sounded, I nearly died. I was drinking a cup of tea with honey and a cloud of milk, and all of that shot directly into my lungs! I'm surprised my desk and keyboard remained completely clean, because I was coughing for a solid minute or two just laughing at Marcille's expression with delicious, smoking hot tea on my face and clothes AND THAT SILLY LOOKING CHIHUAHUA IS SO FRICKIN' AAAAAAAAHHH!! FALIN LOOKS SO INTIMIDATING WITH THE WAY SHE BARKS BUT IT'S JUST A YAP LIKE HOLY MOLY I CAAAAAAAAN'T!!!! The dire wolves look so confused, too! That little doodle of two looking at each other and just wondering what the hell this random feathered fleshbag they encountered is trying to accomplish before going right back to their initial plan of tearing her throat out is incredible. Again, they look incredibly intimidating, and that makes their confusion all the more funny!

Falin's enthusiastic yapping turning into a single, confused yap as the dire wolves close in on her was drawn very nicely, and that shot of Marcille's disappointed face is PERFECT! PER-FECT! That grimace was drawn SUPREMELY, chief! The way Falin recoils in surprise from the sudden explosion that completely deletes the head of a dire wolf, with little tufts of fur getting flung around together with a healthy helping of blood was also drawn wonderfully! This entire comic is incredibly expressive, and I haven't even gotten to my favourite expression yet! As an aside, the cave backgrounds in the first and last panel of the second page look nifty. Me likey.

The third page has an absolutely wonderful background in each panel, which I think deserves some special praise, because it makes it all look even more beautiful than it already did! I really need to find myself a better job so I can afford to commission you. Your artwork is incredible! Ha, Marcille's tiredness is very apparent throughout this comic, so her deciding it's about time to call it quits makes perfect sense, and those black lines descending on Falin as she's buried her head in her arms gives me the idea she's ready to call it a day too after that horrible humiliation. The two panels of Marcille sighing and asking Falin if she's okay are very sweet, and I think the sheer tiredness of her expression adds to it.

Now, THIS is my favourite expression in this entire comic! Falin looks surprisingly composed and neutral when she tells Marcille she's okay, but just beneath the surface both she and the little red dragon are utterly devastated. That face right there, THAT FACE OF FALIN! IT IS PERFECT. I CANNOT ADD ANYTHING. IT IS SIMPLY PERFECT, hahaha ooooohhh man! Ooooooh I am cropping that for posterity's sake! PGIsiagduysdgluyllHEEEERR NOOOOOOOOOOSE AND THE WAY HER MOUTHOHAIUGIUASIUGDIUAGUDAGDUI IT'S SO GOOOOOOOOOOD!!!!

Gosh, that last panel cracked me up, too. What an exquisite comic! You never fail to impress, chief!

🐲Dragon vs Wolves🐺

(Read right to left)

[shefollowedthestars]

dating ava starr headcanons ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

warnings: thunderbolts spoilers!! and some unedited thoughts

notes: MY GIRL SINCE ANT MAN AND THE WASP <33 i love her sm and needed to write something for her. this is just an accumulation of thoughts i've had about dating her since i watched the movie! hope you enjoy <3

you do her hair all the time! braids, pigtails, half up-half down, any hairstyle in the book is one you'll do for her. she loves the feeling of your hands in her hair and it relaxes her more than anything else after a tough or long mission.

sometimes when you're holding hands, she'll phase in and out through your hands and it can be a comfort and something soothing for you, but sometimes it's a funny way for her to tease you. it's her version of a 'tickle attack'!

alexei is the BIGGEST supporter of your relationship with ava. when ava said that she wanted the team to meet her new girlfriend, he was ecstatic, saying how great it was that someone on the team finally had a partner and he was even more ecstatic when he got to know you. think of him as you and ava's honorary dad who loves you embarrassingly lol. he would definitely think of adding the ally flag to the 'avengerz' merch and be so excited about it.

ava is such a witty and sassy person and so when you two first met there was a lot of back and forth play insults and banter - there definitely still is now, just some of those moments have been replaced with softer, gentler ones.

she's insecure about her laugh, but you think it's the most beautiful thing to ever grace your years. whenever she laughs at your jokes or at a situation, you can't help but admire her the sound, it brings you more joy than she could ever imagine.

she always asks for your opinion on a new suit before she chooses. she brings all the options home and shows them all to you. you sit on the bed, eating a box of thunderbolts wheaties, rating them and picking your favorites.

you keep a box full of magazine clippings, printed out comments and drawings of ava that you found on news outlets. all of them are complimenting her and some comments and art pieces were written and made by little girls that look up to her. the first time she broke down, post 'new avenger' status, you brought the box out to comfort her and show her that she's capable of being an amazing person - a hero, that people can look up to.

[technically-human]

You're so good at writing Robotnik! Whenever I read your comics I can hear it in his voice 😂 how do you do it? 💕💕💕 (Sorry if I've asked this already)

After how much I struggled to write that Robotnik fic, to see people think I'm good at writing him is a relief, so thank you.

I do have a few rules I try to follow when writing him specifically, but sometimes I draw a comic simply because my brain keeps repeating a specific dialogue in his voice and I need to get rid of it before it drives me to madness.

Basically!

1) this man is not constantly angry. I know it's easy to fall for this trap but you must fight it. He actually doesn't spend a lot of canon time being angry, even when he should. This is a kid's franchise after all, and angry adults are pretty scary. As much as he's the villain, Robotnik is not meant to be scary. He's still very EXPLOSIVE. He will shout a lot, and he's always frowning and he seems to always be one step away from anger, but he doesn't cross that line very often. I can't even say he's grumpy, because

2) Robotnik is basically a kid with a very extensive vocabulary. I'm not trying to disrespect Eggman here, but he throws tantrums, he insults people just because, his mood changes from one moment to the other, his emotions are BIG. I look at my 4 year old niece and I wonder if she's being possessed by the ghost of Ivo or if she's just being a normal kid.

3) he's not very self aware. He thinks he's the smartest, coolest, most impressive kid in this playground, and that results in him saying and doing very weird and ridiculous stuff with full confidence. If other people look at him funny, well, that's just because they don't understand his brilliance.

4) think of this as a game. If you want to present Robotnik with a Serious and Complicated thing and you don't know how he'd react, assume that this man is roleplaying his way out of it. He doesn't fully grasp that other people could have any value whatsoever, so he can treat it all like a game. Oh, millions are going to die? This will be good for the plot, fun. This is one of the funniest rules to break, nothing like forcing a character who Doesn't Care to suddenly care very much.

5) Robotnik's one weakness is humans. Oh he can mostly understand them, on a surface level, we see this mostly in the deleted scenes when he praises Stone to manipulate him or when he makes the fundraiser. Or even back in the first movie, when he pretends to work for the power company. He's not good at it but he THINKS he can play the part of a normal, well adjusted individual. This is very funny to me, but it's also important to remember because it means he's not above playing nice to get what he wants.

6) Robotnik doesn't say what he means, he implies it. I make him say "that's not how this works anymore" instead of "I won't leave you behind again" I make him say "no dying!" instead of "I don't want you to leave me" and I make him say "what's my full name?" Instead of "you're the only person I would ever want to hear my name from" and because I'm a bit of a romantic, most of the time, Stone gets it. But Robotnik doesn't expect him to, which is the only reason he dares to say it.

All of that is very nice, but sometimes it means I'm over here like "Come on, Rob, just say this one thing so the story can progress. Just one thing" and he replies "nu-uh, OOC + cringe + you suck, try something else" and I suffer

[din-skywalker]

The Maid and the Dragon

Tags: Sylus, MC, Sylus/MC, Fiend Sylus, Dragon Sylus, Smut, Double Penitration, Maid MC, Commission for a friend, Sylus/Reader, Second POV

Rating: Mature

Summary:

You've been working the dragon Sylus for a short amount of time, and you're already over it.

But damn- why does he have to be so hot?

AO3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63259903

A/N:

this was a commission for a friend........ so it's her fault not mine lol. first time writing sylus but everyone says i did a good job so i'll believe them

in this it is WILLING- NOT dubious consent. sylus can see mc's desires and wouldnt have pushed her into this if she didnt want it. PLEASE DO NOT reblog this as anything but wiling.

DO NOT INTERACT IF YOURE A MINOR.

thanks

You haven't been his maid for long, but you're already sick of it.

You've never worked for someone that is as much of an ass as he is. You can't tell if it's because of the fact he's a dragon, or if that's just his personality. Maybe if he'd been born human, he would show a modicum of empathy or compassion.

You just wanted a safe place to live, with an easy job. Most of the time, being a maid is an easy job. You've worked for two other people in the past- both of which have died since then- and it has been incredibly easy. Then, this ass had to literally swoop in and whisk you away to his cave that's at the top of the mountain.

Ordinarily, you'd be rather upset that you were kidnapped, but at the moment, you can't really bring yourself to care. Sylus is a dragon… a handsome one at that. Living with a dragon is the epitome of safety, especially since you work with him. So your wish for someplace safe to live has been met… it's just that your contractor is not easy to work with.

He's extremely picky with how you clean his ridiculous amount of treasure, and where you place said treasure when you're done with it. He expects you to shine and polish every piece of it, in fact, which is an almost impossible task to complete! He has miles of the stuff, if that were possible, which it must be, because that's the case here!

After you're done cleaning his treasure, he expects you to clean him. And once more, he's extremely picky with how it's done. You have to clean him in one of two forms, in fact. Once in his annoyingly handsome human form, or his much larger, much more annoying dragon form. At least in the human form, you have something nice to look at.

You've never been made to clean your employer before, but he's insistent that you clean him. You have to make sure to do it properly- thoroughly. In his dragon form, you have to crawl all over his giant form, weaving between his limbs and wings and sliding along his tail. He’ll lean his massive head down for you to reach his scaly lips, and then open his jaws, allowing you to brush each of his pointy teeth. It doesn’t feel as intimate because he’s a giant dragon- he’s always naked in this form. It’s nothing different.

In his human form, however, it’s… a lot. A lot more.

The only thing that makes up for living and working with him is the copious amounts of treasure. Piles of gold, bundles of gems, mountains of precious metals. Many times, you can’t help but to pluck up a crystal or pretty necklace and stash it between your breasts. You’re sure he won’t notice a couple of things missing.

You look outside of the cave entrance, cursing when you see the position of the sun. Bath time. You sniff at the air, and when you don’t catch the heavy scent of sulfur, you know he’s in his human form. Great, you have to draw a bath.

By the time you’ve set everything up in the small bathing nook you’d set up- many candles and supplies lining the floor and walls, he’s already stripping behind a thin, cloth wall, moving painfully slowly. While you draw the bath to ensure the water is warm enough for his desires, you watch the silhouette of his form move. You swear he’s going so slow for you to watch, to entice you with the greatest treasure you can’t have; you’re his maid, after all. Sometimes, you think you see the shadow of a.. Second… dick? But no. That’s ridiculous. It’s most likely his tail.

Once he’s undressed, you turn and wait patiently for him to step into the steaming water, sinking into the bubble filled liquid. “You can look now, kitten,” he says. You can hear the amusement in his deep voice.

“Of course, master,” you say, cringing at the last word. He insists on you calling him that, and him calling you kitten. You’re not the biggest fan, but he seems to like watching you squirm whenever you say or hear those two words. You twirl on your feet, the high held skirt of your small maid dress brushing against the tops of your thighs.

This isn’t your first time cleaning him, but… your eyes travel down towards the bubbles, where you know his-

You inwardly shake yourself, and then step towards the edge of the bath. Grabbing a nearby rag and a bar of soap, you lather the damp fabric until bubbles cover its surface. Sylus watches you closely, his long tail draped over one edge of the tub, the tip brushing against the stone ground. His head is leaned back, the steam from the water is already turning his face damp.

Carefully, slowly, lightly- the way he likes it- you begin to drag the rag along his exposed arms. You sit on the edge of the tub, crossing one ankle over the other. You begin to sing softly, since you know how much he likes music, no matter how pathetic it sounds coming from between your lips.

He continues to watch you closely, eyes half lidded as you start on his legs, and finish on his feet. You grab another damp rag and drip a few droplets of lavender oil onto it, shaking it in front of his face so he can draw in a deep breath of the soothing scent. You then wrap it around his eyes, pressing the sides to his temples. You make sure to keep it in place by wrapping one end of it to the other, and then begin to rub soap into his pure white hair, lightly scraping your nails along his scalp.

His head leans back further as you work, fingers tangling in his white strands. Once you’ve finished your ministrations, you tap the side of his neck to let him know you’ve finished. With that signal, he sinks into the water, dunking his head under the surface.

You catch your breath while he’s under, your heart pounding in your chest. You toy with a ring on your finger, looking to the side as he reemerges. Now that you’ve finished, you step aside and keep your back to him as he steps out of the tub. He grabs a nearby towel, quickly drying himself off.

You hear him pulling his pants on, and let out a small sigh. Okay, time to return to your cleaning duties-

You let out a yelp when his tail suddenly wraps around your waist, tugging you back to him. Your back hits his chest with a small thump, and you grunt, the skirt of your dress brushing against your thighs lightly. He leans in closer, his hot breath tickling the side of your neck.

“I didn’t say you were finished cleaning, did I?” he asks, his voice a rough timber in your ear. You shudder, heat gathering in the pit of your stomach. His earlier teasing comes back to you; the feeling of his tail tip tickling your pussy lips through the bottom of your undergarments, his clawed hand grabbing your ass tightly, and the sight of how hard he is through his tight, leather pants. “You still have two more things to clean, little maid.”

You feel your eyes widen, and your cheeks flushing a bright red. “Pardon me, master?” you ask aloud. He chuckles, all buttery smooth. You hate how even his laughter is extremely sexy. It’s entirely not fair to your prospects.

Suddenly, Sylus twists you around so you’re facing him. His tail remains wrapped tightly around your waist, but you can feel the tip of it traveling further up your legs, just like it had before. You bite down on your tongue, and allow him to move your hand as he pleases. He guides it to the bulge in his pants, and your eyes screw shut tightly when you feel not one, but two hard ons. He has two dicks?

You swallow heavily, your heart racing in the back of your throat as he uses his other hand to lightly grasp your chin, tilting your head backwards. “I want to see your pretty eyes, kitten," Sylus murmurs, breath mingling with yours. You slowly peel your eyes open, and your gaze locks with his. He smirks, thumb brushing against the side of your chin gently. “There are those pretty emeralds…”

The sound of his scales rubbing together reaches your ears as he constricts it around you tighter, almost squeezing the air from your lungs. “I know you’ve been stealing from me,” he whispers, voice dropping several octaves. Your heart skips a beat, and you feel your palms start to sweat, one on top of his dicks, the other hanging uselessly at your side. He smirks at you, the firelight nearby reflecting off of his bright eyes. He tilts his head to the side, an eyebrow quirked. “Did you really think a dragon wouldn’t notice his own hoard missing treasures?”

You open and close your mouth several times, “I can explain-”

“I don’t want you to,” he says, shaking his head, eyelids drooping. He leans in closer, lips hovering just an inch or two from your own. “I just want you to be a good girl and accept your punishment… now take my pants off, and clean the rest of me.”

Had he seriously put his pants on after a bath just so you could strip him yourself? You almost scoff at the absurdity of it. But when you catch him watching you expectantly, your breath catches, and your stomach fills with butterflies. You should have known you’d eventually be caught taking more and more of his treasures. You’d gotten too greedy- not that he minds, most likely. Human greed is a delectable flavor on top of his sharp tongue. “I’m being punished?” you ask meekly, your voice a high pitched squeak. He grins down at you, all sharp teeth and malicious glee.

“You are,” he rumbles out, tail squeezing ever tighter. “Now get to work.”

Taking steadying breaths, you begin to move. Sylus slowly releases your chin, but he doesn’t unravel his tail from your waist. Instead, he loosens it, allowing you to have better ability to move. You kneel downwards, reaching up to grab the hem of his pants. He stares down at you, watching you closely with his head tilted. This isn’t going to be your first time seeing him naked, not even close- but this will certainly be your first time seeing his cock- ahem, cocks. You wet your lip and begin to pull his pants downwards, hearing how it rubs against his skin. You can see some of his draconic scales covering the sides of his thighs the further down you go.

You glance up midway down, feeling the blood drain from your face when you see them.

His two cocks- both huge and long. They’re not yet fully erect, but they’re not shyly hanging, either. You can see the veins pulsing on both, and the same shade of red on their tips. You swallow once more, your heart rate picking up. They’re thicker than a rod, but not so terribly thick you couldn’t wrap your hands around them. They look as if they’re the perfect size for you to hold onto and stroke.

Dear god, you may just faint then and there. You’ve seen another client’s dick in the past, but they never looked like this, nevermind the fact there are two, and that they have ridges on their shafts. They look like small, edged bumps, and you could just imagine how they’d feel rubbing against your walls. You feel dizzy, and close your eyes to urge those thoughts away. You need to clean.

Wetting your lips, you take the pants off the rest of the way, waiting for him to step out of them before you toss it aside. Then, you reach for the nearby bucket of water, dipping a rag into the warm liquid. You can feel him staring down at you, watching you. He’s probably trying to get some kind of rise out of you. If this had happened just a few days ago when you had first begun working for him, it would have for sure. But now that you’ve grown more used to his shenanigans, and seeing him naked, you aren’t as shocked.

Reaching up, you grasp the top dick first, feeling the way his tail subtly tightens around your waist at your touch. You draw in a deep breath and try not to think too hard about what you’re currently holding- because if you did, you’d probably end up melting into a puddle. You’ve seen this man naked, and now you’re seeing his dicks. Touching his dicks. Cleaning his dicks.

You feel lightheaded. You’d dreamed of something like this, but you never thought it would actually happen. Your heart is racing, your mouth going dry.

With your other hand, you bring up the soaked rag. He’s still watching you, his hands propped on his hips, claws very slightly digging into his skin as you begin to carefully clean the shaft of his first cock.

You move the long length with your other hand as you need to, your fingers curling around it, rubbing against it with each movement. You feel him tense under your touch. You’re lightheaded at the point you move onto his second dick, holding the first one up for better access. Water trickles down the sides of both, dripping onto the floor with audible plops. It’s gotten so quiet you can hear each one hit the stone floor, and the way Sylus’ breath has started to pick up speed. His dick is slowly hardening in your hand, and you close your eyes for a moment, and finally finish cleaning it.

“I’m finished, master,” you say with relief, tossing the rag back into the bucket. You move to stand, but Sylus’ tail tightens further, holding you in place. You look up at him with confusion, breath catching when you see the lust gleaming in his red eyes.

“You’re not finished,” he says, voice sharp, breathing heavy. His chest heaves as he reaches down, grabbing your cheeks with one hand. He presses inwards, against your jaws. Your eyes widen as he forces your mouth to open wide, the grip bruising. He then gestures at both of his dicks with his free hand, an expectant smirk on his face. “Use your tongue.”

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

You feel your own breathing becoming fast, and before you know it, you’re leaning forward, unable to resist any longer. You’ve thought about this for days since he’d first hired you. You’d wondered how he’d feel in your mouth, how hard he could become, what he’d taste like.

You open your mouth wider, your tongue sliding out. You place your face next to his first dick and drag your tongue along its side. He tenses further, and as you lick up the length of it, all the way to its tip, his hand lands on your head, fingers tangling in your hair, claws scraping across your scalp. You close your eyes at the sharp pain from those claws, but you don’t mind a bit. In fact, it eggs you on. You swirl your tongue along the tip, one of your hands coming up to the second. You cup his lower shaft, grabbing onto it tightly. He gasps sharply, and when you glance up at his face, you can see that his eyes have closed. His tail curls tighter around you, his scales grinding, your ribs creaking. You draw in a sharp breath and press your lips against the tip, your fingers tracing the tip of the lower one.

You can see his eyelashes fluttering, and you can almost see the steam puffing out from his lips. It makes your pussy throb, and it gives you further confidence to go further.

You open your mouth wider, and obediently take his upper cock into your mouth. You start at the very tip, closing your eyes so you can focus on all of the sensations. You begin to inch forward, opening your jaws more and more as you take more and more of him in. He grunts, claws biting into your scalp as his hips jerk, trying to keep himself from thrusting yet. You wouldn’t mind if he did; you could handle it. You need to let him know that. You want him to know that. You’re his maid, after all.

Without warning, you press forward further, causing him to moan. You move your tongue along the bottom of his dick, and make sure to press harder against his lower tip; the combined sensations cause him to finally thrust, further jamming his upper shaft into your mouth. You feel the tip of it brush against the entrance to your throat, and you swallow instinctively, making sure to not bite down or gag. When you swallow around him, he lets out a grunt, his other hand tangling into your hair, tugging your hair as he pushes you closer to his pelvis. You continue to suck on it, only pausing when he thrusts, when you have to open your mouth and pull back just a little to breathe, before he tugs your head back into place.

You close your eyes tighter, swallowing as best you can. Your stomach is full of heat, turned on by his demanding touch. Using your hand, you manage to tease the tip of his lower dick, tracing the sides with your fingertips. It’s growing harder under your light touch, and so you grip on it tighter, giving it a light tug as you swallow around his upper shaft once more.

Sylus lets out a low growl and thrusts harder, this time making you choke just a little with surprise. He does so again, and you lean back on instinct, until he holds your head still and in place once more. He continues thrusting, his first dick growing with the hardness, further filling your mouth until you can’t even move your tongue against its bottom anymore. Your eyes sting with the pain of his thrusts, but you can’t help but crave the feeling. Your free hand reaches up, blindly grasping at his hip, nails dragging against his skin, digging in. You feel your nails strain from how hard you grip on, feel the heat and liquidity of his blood wetting your fingertips. He groans once more, and his claws scrape against the hard curve of your scalp and skull.

You wince slightly at the pain, but honestly, it actually feels rather… nice. Grounding, really, while you’re touching all of his two penises.

Suddenly, he seems to lose his balance, because he stumbles forward. You grunt, forced backwards until your back hits the stone bench behind you. Your spine digs into the hard, cold edge of it until you’re arching. Sylus follows your descent, one of his hands reaching out to catch himself on the surface of the bench. He pants heavily, his body shuddering. He looks down at you, his eyes shadowed as he stares at your face, your mouth stuffed full of his upper cock. He groans at the sight, shaking his head, closing his eyes, the image of it burned into his retinas and mind. You smirk as best you can with your current mouthful, despite the pain running up and down your spine from the impact.

Taking you by surprise, Sylus pulls both of his cocks away from you. They’re both standing at full attention now, throbbing and pulsing. You begin to pant as well, your cheeks and lips wet with your own saliva. In the next second, you’re yanked off of the bench by the dragon’s tail. He grabs your hips and turns you around in one motion, bending you forward until your chest and face are on the bench’s surface. You gasp with surprise when you feel his claws on your bare thighs, tracing into them sharply, leaving thin, red trails on your skin. You shudder, letting out a small, pleased noise.

He pushes the skirt of your maid’s dress up, and then grabs your underwear. Your eyes widen at the sudden actions, and you shift under his hands, your cheeks hot like molten lava. He yanks the skirt downwards, and you know he can see how wet you already are. You’re throbbing, needing some kind of stimulation, some kind of attention. You want his dicks inside of you. You hear him chuckle, one of his hands tracing up the side of your waist and ribs, cupping your breast through the fabric as he leans forward. Your breaths stutter, eyes closing as goosebumps raise along your skin. His touch is so gentle, so light, it’s almost addictive. His teeth sink into the side of your neck, causing you to choke on air. His other hand cups the curve of your bare ass, gripping the plumpness tightly.

“You’re already so wet, kitten,” he whispers into your ear, dragging his tongue along your neck. You whine softly, and he nips at the shell of your ear. “You’ve been good and cleaned me rather well… I suppose now you deserve a reward. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Before you can muster an answer, his hand moves from your ass and in between your thighs. You breathe heavily, nodding jerkily as his fingers slide between your wet folds, slipping along the smooth insides. Your skin tingles as he finds your clit and begins to rub it teasingly, his two dicks brushing against the side of your thigh. You pant as his rubbing presses down harder, up and down, up and down, side to side, round and round. You moan, legs shaking as he bites down on your neck once more with a small growl. That familiar, pleasant heat courses throughout your stomach and legs, tingling as it goes. You choke on butterflies, eyelashes fluttering.

As you begin to tremble, his warm fingers taking you higher and higher, he shifts against your ass, the hand on your breast disappearing. It finds itself on one of your ass cheeks, tracing the hole. It sends goosebumps up your arms, down your back. It’s almost too much at once when his other hand moves backwards, finding your opening. His claws never cut you once, but the cool smoothness of their surfaces add to the sensations you’re feeling all. His tail uncurls just enough to tease the tip of it along your clit, taking his fingers’ place.

Said fingers tease your two entrances, exploring both, causing both to quiver. Your vagina throbs as he sticks one finger inside, using your own cum to wet it. It slides in with ease, and you can feel it inside, shifting around, feeling your walls. You tremble, crying out as his other finger enters your ass, stretching it out at the same time as your vagina. Is he trying to overwhelm you? Trying to make you pass out? With the added sensation of his tail rubbing against your clit, and his teeth digging into your neck, you’re starting to think he is.

You shout out with the overstimulation of it all, hands flying forward. You grab at the opposite edge of the bench, the coldness of it biting into your hot, sweaty palms as he slides a second finger inside of you. He’s still circling your anus, slowly stretching it, as it needs a bit more convincing than your vagina. But eventually, he plunges a finger into it, using it to stretch it out further. You claw at the bench, resting your forehead against the stone, your heavy breaths fogging the reflective surface.

And then finally, finally, after an eternity of fingering you, he finally removes his fingers with wet squelches. You use the opportunity to catch your breath, before you’re crying out once more; he’s stuck one of his dicks into your wet pussy, instantly stretching it out further than before. You gasp for air, nails cracking on the stone bench, fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. He presses to the side of your neck, carefully sliding in, not going too fast to keep from hurting you, but also not going necessarily slow. He’s hungry for this- you can tell by the pace he’s taking. You have that same hunger, and the way your walls stretch begins to feed that hunger.

Once he’s halfway into your vagina, he slides his second dick into your anus. Your eyes snap open, and your groan, legs trembling under you as you’re stretched wide open in two areas at once. You choke on air, lungs drawing in shaky breaths. You feel so stuffed- so full, and he hasn’t even cummed yet. You already have once, and you can feel it dripping down the insides of your thighs, hot and slick.

“Excellent,” Sylus whispers into your ear, grinding against you with a low groan. He pants heavily, rapid breaths filling your ears. He shifts himself, letting you feel both of his dicks in both of your holes. You whine sharply, your hands turning white from how hard you’re clinging to the bench. He’s not thrusting yet- he’s trying to get you used to the feeling before he really starts. You grunt, biting down on your tongue before you begin to move your hips, helping him grind. His breath catches, and he lets out a strained laugh. “You’re taking me so well, kitten. Let’s go a bit faster, hm?”

And faster he goes. Your vision goes white for a moment, and all you can do is cling onto the edge of the bench, eyes rolling into the back of your head as pleasure fills you.

You choke as he pulls out only to thrust back in, his pelvis hitting your rear end. You feel both of his dicks deep inside of you, stretching you to the brim. You feel the one in your vagina hitting your vaginal walls, finding that perfect spot. Your head tosses back, and you press your toes against the ground for extra support as you clench around him. He grunts, his hands finding your waist, holding you in place when he thrusts once more, harder this time. He hits that g-spot once more, and the one in your ass rips further in, touching areas that have never been touched by another before. You push at the ground with your feet, trying to move, but he holds you in place, claws digging into your skin once more.

It’s all so much. You squirm and whimper, and he bites at the top of your shoulder, shaking his head a little to further deepen it. He thrusts a third time, and then picks up the pace, staying at that angle to continue hitting your perfect spot. Tears pour down your cheeks, and sweat dampens your skin. Your stomach heaves, your heart racing almost painfully in your chest.

You’re floating as he pounds against you, coming in and out, in and out in a smooth motion. Your mouth hangs open, your forehead pressed hard against the bench, trying to find some kind of lifeline in the overstimulation. You’re tightening up, a familiar, tingling heat spreading through your thighs and gut and chest. He grunts, readjusts himself, and plunges in once more, making you see stars.

You cry out, and you release all at once. As you do, you tighten beautifully around both of his cocks. He growls, eyes rolling into the back of his head, and he feels himself burst shortly after you, following behind your pleased cry.

He fills you to bursting, and some of his cum leaks from your asshole, trailing over your folds and his lower dick, before dripping onto the backs of your feet. You’re trembling, and you can feel him shaking, as you both try and catch your breaths. He doesn’t pull out from either of your holes yet, remaining in place. He leans his forehead against the back of your shoulder, drawing in a deep whiff of your arousal. It’s delicious.

Your cunt is throbbing at this point, your vaginal walls and anus quivering around both of his lengths. You feel limp, drawn out, overused. He presses soft kisses up the side of your neck a second later, lips glancing over the side of your temple. He hums deeply, nose tracing over the curve of your jaw.

“Did you enjoy your gift, kitten?” Sylus asks in a low, rumbling voice. He kisses your cheek, lips warm against your skin. Mustering up your strength, you turn your head enough to catch his lips with your own, brushing them together lightly. He hums into it, eyes closing momentarily. As you kiss, he slowly and carefully pulls out of your holes, both popping out with wet “squelches”. “I’m going to take that as a yes. Now, don’t move. I’m going to clean you up.”

Catching your breath, you look over your shoulder, seeing him grab the water bucket from before and a fresh rag. “I thought that was my job, master,” you murmur, your mouth dry after gasping for air, after moaning and crying out. He chuckles, shaking his head as he crouches beside you. With gentle hands, he grabs your hips once more and turns you around, resting your back against the bench you’d just been fucked on. Dipping the rag into the water, he brings it up to your sides, wiping the blood from your skin.

“This is part of your gift,” he replies. “Don’t take it for granted, or I’ll stop.”

You close your mouth, allowing him to open your legs as he desires. He carefully wipes up the cum from your inner thighs, the water still warm from earlier, somehow. You watch him through half lidded eyes, head tilting to the side as he drags the rag up the top of your folds carefully; not pressing down hard enough to irritate your throbbing clit.

He moves slowly, leisurely, humming an off key version of a song you’d sang the day before. It’s spo off key, you almost don’t recognize the song. You bite down on your tongue once more to keep yourself from giggling; he can be adorable for a terrifying dragon.

“How do you feel?” he asks suddenly, glancing up at you, red eyes sparkling. “Are you okay?”

You can’t help but stare into his eyes, entranced for a moment. You hum lightly in response, closing your legs once he’s finished cleaning you up. He hums as well, and stands back up. He bends over for a moment to scoop you into his arms, holding you close to his broad chest. “I feel… nice,” you reply after a moment, resting your head against his shoulder, allowing your eyes to close. “That was nice.”

“Only nice?” he asks, a small huff escaping his lips. “Come now, it was better than nice.”

You chuckle, running your fingers along the curve of his deltoid. “Okay… it was great, master,” you say with a wistful sigh.

“Call me Sylus, kitten,” he says, steps even. “I think you’ve earned the right.”

Maybe you’re no longer sick of being his maid.

[zepskies]

@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Omg yay!! Thank you so much, friend! I'm excited for you loll ❤️❤️

Again, I really love the soft reader in this fic. She's lovely and kind and there's just something about her that's so endearing that it makes me want to give her a big hug. 💚

She's a real sweetheart, right? Writing someone who wants to work with little kids, I wanted to write a young woman who isn't without her flaws, but really embodied that kind, nurturing nature that makes for great elementary school teachers. 💗 (And the kind of inner goodness that I think Dean would find endearing too.)

I'm melting over her reassurance to Dean that she doesn't regret a single second! And the kiss had me screaming!

Aww that was one of my favorite scenes for this doozy of a chapter lol. 🥹 But it kind of makes you wish that you could knock Dean's head in like a coconut and get him to see what's right in front of his face! 😂

As someone who loves to bake I felt this in my soul. Also I love that you've given us another reader like the reader in Midnight Espresso who likes to take care of other people, because again it's so warm and welcoming and fantastic!

Girl same! haha drawing on my own love of baking for this part. But omg I love you for referencing Midnight Espresso lol. She's definitely a kind of version of that reader who's a giver/nurturer. 💞

Dean, Dean, Dean... you know why. We all know why.

Again, he's being a big dummy!! 🙄

I'm so happy at this point, but I just know that Lisa is probably gonna ruin it. Dang it, I love that you included her to cause some friction and some angst, but I'm just living life on the edge of my emotions each time she comes in.

Now I feel bad because I read the next sentence about Lisa being nice. Lisa I'm so sorry. Please accept this potato as my humble apology. 🥔

loll you may want to hang onto your potato for a while. Lisa is...complicated in this story. But you'll see why! loll

Okay... before I dive into the five years later, I just want to say that I feel so bad for Dean, but at the same time you GO Benny! Because he's being so sweet and kind and isn't playing with her emotions, and he's literally there for her even though she's having someone else's kid. Like what a man. 👏🏻

Yes, Benny really stepped up, didn't he? He is being more straightforward than Dean, and the reader knows where she stands with Benny. But as the lovely Wayne (waynes-multiverse) pointed out, he also steps in where Dean really should be. We can see Benny's a good man with good intentions, and he so clearly likes the reader and wants to be there for her, right?

Buuuuut maybe he should've asked Dean if it was really ok if he pursued the reader before he stepped in. Maybe as his friend, he should've asked Dean what the hell he was doing with Lisa when the reader really needed him right now lol. Maybe that would've been the wake-up call Dean needed to get his shit together and realize he didn't really truly love Lisa. 🤔

Literally screaming yes! I'm so happy for them. And also I love the Robert Plant reference.

ehehe yes! Reader and Benny are making strides forward, but mean while Dean did win the debate for the kid's name 🤣

Oh buddy... and just like that the happy feeling is starting to ebb away. I mean I'm happy that she has someone, but I hate that she feels like she can't be herself there. It turns into feeling trapped really quick.

Ah, exactlyyy. It's good with Benny, sure, but it's not perfect. No relationship is, but at the same time, this is a key moment that you can see where reader/Benny might not be the best fit...

Side Note: Love the Jurassic Park reference. I know that you're as big a Jurassic Park girlie as I am!! 🦖 But it's also terrible that he let a four year old watch that 😬

Ahaha yes!! I knew you would catch that! Oh yeah, but that's the kind of mistake a man not used to little kids would make, I feel like 🤣

Baby, he wants to be the good man who treats her right. And don't think I don't see the subtle hinting that you've got going on Lisa. I'm about to take back my potato.

lol oh yeah, she's starting to get the hint that Dean is in love with the reader, even if she doesn't want it to be true. 😅 (Hold your potato until further notice - it's about to get worse before it gets better with Lisa 😂)

Dang it. Now I feel bad for Lisa. It's true though. It's literally five years of on and off and where is it going? I see what she's getting at and I do feel for her.

Yep, her timing to discuss this might not have been great, but her points are totally valid. Dean should NOT have been stringing her along for this long. And yet, she's been willingly a part of this 5-year rollercoaster with Dean, so she's kind of at fault too 😅

Ah yes, the classic Dean Winchester get mad at other things because he's too afraid to say the one big thing that he's held close to his heart for the past 5 years. *sigh* 😒 It's sad to me because Dean could have done this five years ago and it would have been less complicated. Now he's been with Lisa for 5 years, and the reader has been with Benny for 2. And yes maybe the reader isn't happy, happy, but in the end there are four people involved in this rather than the two it could have been at the beginning (or maybe 3?).

BIG YEP. That's where we're at - Dean letting his anger spill into other things instead of talking about the thing he should get off his chest. 🥲🥲 He's just not ready to admit that the idea of her and Benny getting married means he's lost his chance forever, because that would mean actually acknowledging he has feelings for her when he's meant to be with Lisa.

And you make a really good point there with Dean and how he should've broken things off with Lisa sooner and talked to the reader about where each of them stands emotionally -- all of which will be explored in the epilogue too.

Oh my word he's such a good dad to Robbie even when he's hurt and I can't take the feelings! 😭

I knowwww I'm sorry I almost killed Dean, but this is the first of many wake-up calls for both Dean and reader. 😭😭

And the fact that Benny calls Dean "brother" is just making the feelings even worse, because I know what's coming and oh man, it's gonna hurt Benny so much.

Oh yeah, we're going full heartbreak in the future for poor Benny, but at the same time, he did peep the way the reader held Dean's hand. He might be shouldering some Lisa-like denial himself where the reader is concerned. 😅

Oh boy... this is... this is really... I have no words because both of them have points. But I would still like my potato back, thank you very much.

LOL girl I told you! But thank you because I too thought both Lisa and reader had valid points in this argument, even if it was hard for both of them to hear. 😭💔

This is KILLING ME ALEX! They just need to communicate with one another instead of shutting each other out! DANG IT! SPEAK! DEAN STOP DOING THE SUFFER IN SILENCE BIT! We all know you can look super hot while you're brooding, but COME ON! I just want to hit him with a frying pan!

hahaaa yes the frying pan would come in handy right about now!! Communication (or lack thereof) is their biggest weakness in this story, but it just goes to show that no one means to do anyone wrong here.

I tried to do something different with this story and make it feel more realistic, with no real "villain," except that we can hurt the people we love the most unintentionally with our actions and inaction. What we say, and sometimes more importantly, what we don't say.

Like an end table. Because that's what every woman wants from her significant other 🤣 Also I'm literally cackling over the fact that Dean and Benny chose the same night to ask their ladies to marry them. Their brains are so in sync LOL.

Hahahaa right? Really seeing what might just hold the reader up from accepting this impending proposal. Dean did get one final warning on what he's about to lose, and it ain't Lisa 😭

She can have a whole truck full of potatoes. She did the right thing and the "Go fight for it," is just so lovely.

Better late than never, right? 😅 She finally realized she had to let Dean go. 💔 And I love that you liked the "Go fight for it," line, because that was one of my favorites too. It's time for Dean to get off his ass!

I especially love this little bit, because you describe what the reader wants in love (what we all want LOL) and then you add the difference when Dean touches her. But I also completely understand her hesitancy to go to Dean even though it's what her heart is telling her. She's trying not to get her heart broken and yet Dean is the person she's held there for so long.

Ahh thank you! 🥹 Girl wants that Godfather Thunderbolt lol, and she has it with Dean, she's just afraid of being hurt again, or just being "sex and a good time" for Dean. But he of course makes it clear that she's the Thunderbolt for him too. 💗💗

Can I ask how long it's been since they got back together? I love the time skip, but I'm just curious to see how long Dean waited to pop the question. 😊

Ooh so you'll find out the answer to that question in the epilogue! There will be some key scenes that fill in the in between -- from this moment, to the engagement, to the wedding (and more). 😘❤️❤️

Also the stuff about Benny is so sad- I'm beyond happy for the reader and Dean (their love makes me so happy)- but dang he was Dean's best friend. And the stuff about Dean saying that this wasn't how he wanted to be promoted, I'm having so many feelings AHHHHH! But I wish Benny happiness. Who knows? Maybe he and Lisa will meet up in a few years and bond 🤪

Oh it's sooo very bittersweet and messy, isn't it? Dean and reader certainly weren't perfect, and Benny really tried his best, but you'll see more of his side of the story in the epilogue, which a lot of what I wrote was to do just that for Benny. 🥲 He deserves his happy ending! (And there's closure for Lisa too. ❤️)

(I also felt the need to add the next paragraph because I read the comments)

Oh you saw that, huh? 😂 Yeah, I think you remember that turned into a fun "anonymous" ask in my inbox asking why I was so "defensive" when people criticized my work. I typically have thick skin and was ready to forget the comments entirely, but when that "ask" came in it really annoyed me, not gonna lie. lol

I probably should've just ignored the inbox message and deleted it, rather than spend more time and energy on replying to someone whose mind likely isn't going to be changed on how they talk to writers, regardless. 😂

I get that this AU story was "different," and messy with these relationships, but that was kind of the point.

Bless you though for your thoughtful and heartwarming feedback regarding the Lisa and Benny storylines! 💗💗💗

And I think that Dean's character makes sense because yes at the beginning he was a playboy, but then he started to feel the stability of the reader, started to crave something more than what he had in his life- and instead of going with her, he clung to Lisa.

Exactly! I never outright said Dean's age at the beginning of Part 1, though heavily implied that he was young (mid-20s) and the reader was even younger, fresh out of college. They made mistakes and had to figure out how to level up in their maturity to handle the situation of a surprise pregnancy, all while trying to build their careers.

For example, Dean tried to take Sam's advice to heart about trying to have "real relationships," but he didn't mean with just anyone, Dean. 😂

Just as the reader wanted something more and started to date Benny, but missed the electricity of what the reader thought love should feel like. Dean and the reader both felt the need to push down their feelings and search in the wrong places for what they wanted from each other. At least that's how I took it and I loved every single second of this fic and how you wrapped everything up!

Yes exactly! I really wanted to make people think on this one, and you got where I was going with this. 👌🏽

When you have so much going on around you and things you have to deal with (like a full on child you weren't prepared for), it can be hard to figure out what you really want, whether that's relationships, your career, or your own sense of identity. I'm so glad you enjoyed the angsty ride, even though it wasn't easy!! And again, I really appreciate your thoughts here. 🥹💕💕

ALEX, this fic was amazing! It had me feeling all the feels on this wonderful, beautifully written emotional rollercoaster. I can't wait to read the epilogue!

Thank you so very much, Lee!! I felt all the things while writing this one lol, so I really hope you enjoy the epilogue too. It's going to answer some of those questions for you and give these characters even more closure. ❤️❤️❤️

IF I STAY - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized!Reader

Summary: Your dream is to work with kids as an elementary school teacher. Dean is well on his way to becoming a firefighter, keeping things light and “strings unattached” as he goes. After a one-night stand you never saw coming, you and Dean are forced to deal with the consequences…and figure out if the connection between you is worth fighting for.

AN: Deep breaths Are you ready for a rollercoaster of emotions? 😘❤️

Song Inspo: “I Can’t Help Falling in Love” and “It’s Now or Never” by Elvis

Word Count: 13.1K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, pregnancy feels, hurt/comfort, fluff, time jumps and flashbacks, sexual tension, mutual pining, spice~, and an ending…

❤️‍🔥 If I Stay Masterlist

Part 2: It’s Now or Never

At the doctor’s office, Dean goes in with you for the first trimester ultrasound. There you learn that you’re going to have a boy. Tears well up in your eyes and slip down your cheeks.

Dean wears a look of amazement as he sits on the edge of your bed. He takes up your hand and squeezes gently. He tries to be a strong support, even though he also tries to hide the fear that begins to churn in his gut.

For one of the first times in his life since Sam was born, he feels the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. In a good way. In a fucking scary way.

He looks at you and sees the wonder written across your face while you watch the tiny shape of your baby on the screen. His heartbeat thwaps fast and loud in the speakers.

Dean realizes something else then; the decision you're making is changing the course of your whole damn life…and it’s his fault.

With his weekly hookup rate, in the very back shelves of his mind he knew something like this could happen, even though he thought he'd been careful. (Apparently, condoms are fragile little shits.) But here, in this white wall-to-wall room that smells like hospital antiseptic, that thwap thwap thwap of a heartbeat reverberating in his ears, the reality of this is crashing hard on his shoulders and rattling down to the base of his spine.

Despite his earlier happiness, those thoughts stay with him when you two eventually get back into his car. You have the pictures of the sonogram in your hands. You smile down at them before you put them back in your purse for safekeeping.

However, you notice Dean’s sudden melancholy as he stares out at the road. He’s started the car, but he hasn’t moved to pull out of the parking lot yet.

“Hey, you okay?” you say, resting a gentle hand on his arm.

Dean shakes his head. “Look…I’m sorry for tossing a giant friggin’ monkey wrench into your life. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

If possible, your heart softens even more. You slide your hand down to grasp his.

“Dean, this baby wasn’t planned, but he’s not a mistake,” you say. “I don’t regret anything.”

Dean stares back at you, incredulously. He can’t believe you could really say that to him. He doesn’t know what to say. He only knows what’s in his mind, and what he feels compelled to do in that moment.

He leans over and kisses you. It’s a firm meeting of his lips to yours and achingly familiar. But ultimately, it’s chaste. He pulls away and settles back in his seat.

When you blink your eyes back open, your expression is slack in shock.

“I’m sorry,” he says, seeming sheepish, and guilty. “I meant to say thank you. Just didn’t know any other way to say it.”

After a moment, you smile at him. It’s warm and almost shy.

Dean clears his throat, trying to ignore the way his face is heating up. He doesn’t say anything more. He just takes the wheel and shifts gears, pulling the car out of the parking lot. 

You don’t know what possesses you to bake cookies. Dozens and dozens of them, all the chocolate chip cookie recipes you can find. You’re in search of the perfect one. This will be the recipe your son will grow up on, and every time he eats them, he’ll remember how much you loved him.

And then, he’ll be ruined for any other chocolate chip cookies that try to grab his taste buds. He’ll say, Blech. Chips Ahoy? These aren’t as good as Mom makes!

…Or something like that.

Yes, these cookies have to be perfect. You’ll even write the ingredients down on a notecard and hide it away, and it’ll become your family secret recipe.

Once you feel like your cookie game is strong enough, you decide to test these babies out. You bring two dozen painstakingly baked confections to Firehouse 83, where Dean works. The man is a bottomless pit, to be sure, but you also want other people’s unbiased opinions. For science.

You park your car on the side of the road, making sure you’re not blocking the driveway where two huge fire trucks are parked. You head inside the firehouse with your big container under your arm and your purse on the other. Now at seven months into your pregnancy, you’ve gotten to the embarrassing “waddle” stage.

You’re still determined to be active though! You plan to keep working until you have the baby. Your parents live a few hours away, but you’re grateful that they want to help out as much as possible.

Even though they weren’t happy to hear about how you got pregnant, by now they've met Dean and begrudgingly admitted to liking him. He's really stepped up to the responsibility of a future father, insisting on baby-proofing your apartment, helping you shop for the essentials, and going with you to as many doctor’s appointments as he can. He’s even agreed to giving you child support payments, even though you hadn’t wanted to ask for it.

You look for him now as you enter the firehouse, trying to push the heavy glass door open with one hand.

“Here, I got you,” says a familiar baritone voice.

You’re pleasantly surprised at the man who helps you inside.

“Benny! It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah, been…a while,” he chuckles, glancing down at the swell of your belly, but he squeezes your shoulder and leans in to hug you gently.

“Dean filled you in?” you ask. You hope so. Having to explain the story to one of his own friends would be embarrassing, especially since this is the man you walked in Sam’s wedding with. It reminds you of that day, and the way you told Dean that news in a glorified closet, with shaking hands and the wrong kind of butterflies.

Thankfully, Benny nods. “That he did…but come on, I’ll show you around. And I see you’ve brought somethin’ special for us?”

He gestures at the container you're holding and offers to take it off your hands. You give it to him, grateful for the help.

“Yeah, and I want you guys to give me your honest opinion.”

Benny tosses you a wink and a smile. “That I can do.”

Your cheeks begin to warm in a blush, but the way he helps you to a comfy couch in the common room earns your smile. There are still good men left in this world, and you’re glad to know that Dean works so well with one.

“You want some coffee, or water? Think we might have some lemonade,” Benny says.

“Water would be great, thank you,” you reply, as you rub your belly. The little man has decided to kick at your liver today. “I stopped drinking coffee for the baby. ”

It's your biggest challenge, to be honest. Try wrangling a group of fifteen to twenty six-year-olds while running on green tea, the fumes of sleep deprivation, reduced bladder control, and as much vim as you can muster.

“Ah, right,” Benny nods. “My sister has two kids. She cut out coffee, pain meds, some dairy stuff. But she claimed cheesecake was all right, ‘cause it’s got cake in the name.”

You giggle. “I see no flaw in her logic.”

Down the hall of the firehouse, Dean is just coming back in from going through a set of drills. He’s still the Candidate—the freshest blood in the house—so they’ve been putting him through his paces for the past several months. He’s eager to learn and to prove himself.

His ears perk up in confusion though. Did he just hear your voice?

Why does it smell like a bakery in here?

When he rounds the corner, he sees you in the common room, smiling and giggling like a teenager at something Benny said to you while he eats a soft baked cookie right out of a Tupperware container. You must’ve brought it for the firehouse.

This cozy little scene kind of annoys Dean somehow, though he doesn’t know why. He does know that it shouldn’t.

“Hey, look who’s here,” Dean says, forcing himself to smile. It becomes easier when you look his way, your eyes brightening at his arrival.

“There you are! Come ‘ere and try these,” you say, pointing at the box Benny holds. “Tell me if our son’s going to have the best PTA mom ever.”

Dean can’t help but grin after trying a big bite of one of your cookies.

“Oh, mah Gah,” he says, holding a hand under his mouth so nothing comes crumbling out.

“Good?” you ask.

“Good friggin’ cookie,” he confirms, after he swallows. “You’re gonna have the other parents frothing at the mouth. Who’s gonna be able to compete with this?”

Benny nods in agreement. When Dean squeezes your shoulder, your sweet, happy smile makes him smile too.

She’s going to be a good mom, he thinks. He can only hope against hope that he can be the man his son needs.

Two months later, the time has finally come. Your water breaks when you’re in the middle of teaching your second graders how to spell exaggerate—and no, Joey, it’s not e-g-g-zagerate.

However, the embarrassment of him pointing out the fluid beginning to stain your slacks is swiftly cut off by your shock. Your first call is to the principal, to have her send someone to cover your class. Your next call is to Dean, telling him to meet you at the hospital.

“Why the hell did he have to bring her,” you mutter to yourself, wiping sweat from your brow. Here you are, gritting your teeth through contraction after contraction in this damn hospital bed, and Dean is outside the room talking to Lisa.

You know you have no real reason to be upset. She’s been trying her best to be your friend in recent months. Hell, she helped Eileen and your mom plan your baby shower. She even brought you flowers when she got to the hospital, but you notice how less than five minutes after she got here, she and Dean became embroiled in yet another argument. It seems to you that all they do is argue, break up for a week or two, and then get back together again.

The sex must be explosive, like the fireworks at goddamn Disney World.

But Dean eventually does come back into the room alone. His support grounds you over the next few hours. He lets you basically break his hand, all while he gives you encouragement (and stands by your shoulder, so he doesn’t see anything you’d rather him not see).

And then, your son is born. Every muscle, every cell in your body is exhausted, but the pain meds have kicked in, and you’re in that blissed out state between abject reality and being entirely entranced by the bundle in your arms. His perfect face is just there, sleeping for the moment after the nurses taught you how to breastfeed.

Dean returns to sit in the chair beside you. He gives you some water and a piece of a protein bar. You’re not that hungry, but he pointed out that you haven’t eaten since before your water broke.

“Sam and Eileen are on their way up,” he says.

You nod in reply. You’re too into your son right now to think of anything else.

Dean shakes his head in wonder as he reaches out with a tentative hand, brushing his fingers over the baby’s downy head. He was born with a little tuft of brown hair.

“Okay, down to business,” Dean says, shooting you a playful look. “I vote for Zeppelin.”

You groan. “Dean, no. Veto. I’m not naming my son after a rock band.”

“Aw, come on. It’s a badass name!”

“What about Aiden?” you suggest.

“Veto,” he snorts. You two agreed to getting five “vetos” each, but this discussion has been more like a battle of wills over the last several months.

“Okay, what about Daniel? That’s strong, classic,” you pose.

Dean considers it with a tilt of his head. “All right, that one’s a maybe.”

Again, he strokes the baby’s soft cheek. You look over at Dean with a small smile.

“You’re going to be a good dad, you know,” you tell him. It earns his gaze. Although he’s trying to stay strong, you read the hidden insecurity there, the worry and fear. You rest a hand on his arm. “You are, Dean. You’re a good man, and you’ve really stepped up these past few months. This obviously isn’t how either of us thought our lives would go, but if this had to happen with someone, I’m glad it’s you.”

Dean’s expression softens. He hesitates, but he lays a hand over yours and squeezes gently.

“Thanks,” he says.

Your eyes meet, and it’s a moment charged with something you can’t even name. It’s not the first time you’ve felt this feeling with him. It both fills your heart with warmth, and makes you ache.

Then the door opens. It’s Lisa, Sam, and Eileen. Dean’s hand slips away from yours as they all pour in to congratulate you and Dean, and of course, meet the baby. There’s a lot of soft cooing and playful shushing.

In that small chaos, your parents call to tell you that they’re finally almost here. It really sucked not having your mom with you, but your parents live far enough away that they were going to take a train and stay with you for at least a week. Their train unfortunately got delayed due to mechanical failure.

It's okay though. Getting through the past several hours has made you realize that you’re stronger and more capable than you think, and even though part of you is still scared to death, you don’t need a husband to be a good mom. You’re going to give this your all, no matter who’s beside you…

And that's no more apparent than when Dean soon has to step out again, leading Lisa out of the room. He saw how her “helpful” suggestion to have a get-together at their apartment to celebrate the baby’s birth was setting you on edge. Really, you just want to sleep for the next 24-hours and not have any more pictures of you taken.

It gets loud enough outside your hospital room that Sam and Eileen feel they have to intervene. Lisa is Eileen’s best friend, and she’s the best equipped to try and deescalate the argument from that end, while Sam deals with Dean. It’s messy, it’s irritating, and it means that even today, you can’t just have a little bit of peace.

You sigh and cradle your still nameless baby close to your chest. He’s all that matters. Already, your heart is so damn full just taking him in.

“What’s your name, my little love?” you whisper. “What am I going to write on your certificate, besides Winchester?”

“How about Benjamin,” comes a Louisiana drawl.

You perk up and smile in surprise. “Benny, hey.”

He greets you with a slightly hesitant kiss on the cheek. He’s brought the baby an adorable teddy bear, and you a beautiful bouquet of white and blue roses, along with a box of chocolates.

“It’s the assorted kind, but they’ve got plenty of the caramel ones you like,” he says, then gazes down at the baby. “Aw, he’s a little charmer. Already got more of you than Dean, that’s for sure.”

You laugh lightly at his teasing. “I don’t know about that.” You hope your son inherits Dean’s strong jaw, and his green eyes.

Benny scratches the back of his head. “Also…sorry if I’m crossing some kind of boundary here. Looks like it’s a bit of a circus outside.”

You shake your head and smile through burgeoning tears. You set the chocolates on the end table where he’s placed the flowers and the teddy bear.

“No, it’s very sweet. Thank you,” you say. You glance out the window of your room to the hallway, where the arguing between Dean, Lisa, Sam, and Eileen seems to finally be calming down. You’re so damn tired, you don’t give a crap about whatever they’re hashing out now.

You look down at your son, and despite your strong thoughts earlier, insecurity begins to creep back into your mind like inky claws.  

“How are you holding up?” Benny asks. His face is kind and concerned when he notes the change in you.

You meet him with a wobbly smile. “Honestly? I’m afraid. I know I have a lot of people who want to support me, and I’m grateful, but…I just have this terrible feeling that we’re going to end up alone, him and me.”

You look down at your son, and you have to wipe away a tear from your eye before it falls on his face.

A large, warm hand rests over yours. Your gaze raises slowly, and Benny smiles at you. He’s serious though.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he says. “You’re not gonna be alone.”

FIVE YEARS LATER... 

For all that changes, there are some things that stay the same.

Dean and Lisa are still the world’s most “off again, on again” couple you’ve ever met. Sam and Eileen are still going strong as the hardworking, driven career couple. Your son is growing more and more every day and just started kindergarten this year.

(You ultimately caved on Dean’s idea to name him Robert, as in Robert Plant, lead singer of Led Zeppelin.)

Oh, yeah, and the “you and Benny” thing? That’s been going well for two years now.

What can you say? The man is persistent, but respectfully so. He’s considerate, reliable, and always calls you when work at the firehouse has him running late.

You haven’t yet invited him to move in with you. That part you’re still hesitant on, mostly because of your son, but Benny helps you drop off Robbie at school and makes breakfast for you all whenever he stays over your apartment. Benny takes an interest in your son’s life and keeps up with all his energy, taking him to the park to run himself ragged before dinner, and helping you tuck him in at night.

Benny is a bit closed off though, the strong stoic type. He’s hard for you to get a read on, and sometimes you wonder if he’s just indulging you when you ramble on about your day or make silly jokes. Even now, sometimes you withhold the first thought that comes to your mind, hoping he doesn’t think you immature or…too much.

But Benny shows his caring in all those little things he does for you. They add up into the big things, and he makes you feel supported. He makes you feel safe.

He even helps you plan your son’s fifth birthday. Robbie wanted to go all out on a dinosaur theme; he’s been hooked on Jurassic Park ever since Benny “accidentally” let him watch it with him on one of your rare nights out with your friends.

So you set up a little party at the park by your apartment. You managed to reserve the biggest gazebo, where there are three picnic tables covered with dinosaur plates, and tablecloths, streamers in different shades of green. You even bought a big dinosaur cake—also in a radioactive green color that you hadn’t been sure about, but your son talked you into. Robbie thinks it’s awesome.

He’s running around on the playground with a few of his friends from school. Their parents (along with Sam, Eileen, and Lisa) are talking amongst themselves at one of the picnic tables while you try to figure out how to get the Bluetooth speaker to connect with your phone.

“Haha! Got it. If you're so smart, Alexa, why don't you connect on the first try?” You fist-pump the air triumphantly, just as Benny comes to your side. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your cheek, making you smile.

“How’s it going out there?” you ask, nodding at the kids. Plus Dean, who’s gamely been the one to keep them entertained with different games. Right now, it’s a thrilling game of Cowboys and Outlaws, where Robbie and his friends are the cowboys, and Dean is the outlaw. He’s been hiding under the slide, behind trees and other playground fixtures, while the kids have little squirt guns to pelt him with water every time they find him.

It's pretty damn cute, and you’ve been taking pictures. You smile at the sight of Dean leaping out at Robbie and the kids, catching them off guard.

“You’ll never take me alive, Sheriff!” Dean declares.

“Oh, it’s goin’,” Benny remarks with an amused shake of his head. “Still hard to believe that guy’s about to make it to Lieutenant.”

“Hahaaa, gotcha!!” Dean cackles. He’s grabbed up Robbie and yanked him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Robbie screeches with laughter while his dad runs around the playground, being chased by a bunch of five-year-olds with squirt guns.

Your smile threatens to make your cheeks hurt. You know your life is…unconventional, to say the least, but Dean is a good father to your son. He’s also been working hard at his job. He just took the Lieutenant’s test, and even though Benny already occupies that position at Firehouse 83, a spot at another firehouse might open up for Dean to transfer.

“Part of me doesn’t want to,” Dean admitted to you last week, while he was working on fixing your stubborn, leaky sink. “All the guys there, they’re like family, you know?” “I understand,” you nodded. “You have to do what feels best for you, whether that’s staying where you feel comfortable, or moving up in your career somewhere else. If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.” He took in your advice with a slow nod. “Yeah, thanks. Guess I have to time to think about it. Lisa had other ideas.” “Of course,” you said with a smile, but it soon dropped. “Why, what did she say?” “Do what I can to move up,” he sighed. “She’s got a point. That title comes with a pay bump, one I could really use right now.” “I get that. Totally valid,” you said. “But I just think it’s important for you to be happy with it too. Especially with what you do, helping people, saving people…I’d imagine being in the right mindset for all that is important, right? Who you work with can be just as important as the money stuff.” Dean considered you with a smile. “Yeah, exactly.”

As you think about it now, you have to admit that he’s grown up a lot.

Dean has to lean against a tree to catch his breath. Am I already getting too old for this crap?

Feels kind of young to have a stitch in his side after a few rounds with these kids, but even he has his limits. Lisa comes to bring him a bottle of ice-cold water, which he appreciates. He’s tempted to dump it over his head like he does after successfully neutralizing a fire. It gets literally hot as hell under that helmet and mask and all his gear underneath.

“Need an iron lung?” Lisa teases.

“Toss in a new pair of knees, thanks,” he wheezes. He downs half the water bottle in one go, but he smiles at seeing his son keep running around with his friends. He’s just got that manic kid energy that goes on for days. But Robbie’s also smart; like Dean, he likes taking things apart and putting them back together in new and ingenious ways.

Dean hopes his son likes the new model car set that’s waiting for him on the picnic table full of presents. In fact, he’s still surprised that you didn’t go with the race car theme he suggested for the party, but apparently, Robbie’s more into dinosaurs now. Dean wishes he knew that before he bought the model car set.

He looks over and catches sight of you and Benny wrapped up in each other. He has his arm around your waist while you fiddle with something, but the way you lean over and whisper near his ear elicits a smile on Benny’s face.

Dean’s good mood diminishes.

“Well, don’t they seem cozy,” he mutters.

Lisa arches a manicured brow. “Yeah, pretty sure he’s getting ready to propose.”

That earns Dean’s attention, his head swiveling back to her in surprise.

“Really?” he asks. “Who told you that?”

“His sister,” she replies. “Meg’s in my intermediate class, remember?”

Dean nods, sipping at his water, even though he’s a bit absent in the eyes. Lisa watches him shrewdly.

“Why do you seem upset about it?” she asks. “Benny’s your friend.”

“I know,” Dean says. He doesn’t need that reminder, or the guilty twinge. It’s not like he’s done anything wrong.

“And she seems happy,” Lisa points out. “Don’t you want the mother of your kid to be with a good man who treats her right?”

He nods, trying to hide his growing annoyance. “‘Course I do. I just…I don’t know. I still don’t see them together, I guess.”

“Well, they’ve been together for like, two years.”

Again, Dean nods his acknowledgement. It’s hard for him to believe that so much time has passed already. He honestly didn’t think you and Benny would be together this long. He’d always felt a little uncomfortable with one of his best friends dating you, but you’d seemed happy about it, so he didn’t discourage it. But he’d never been very supportive, either. At least, not about your relationship.

Lisa sighs and grabs his arm, pulling him aside before he can rejoin the party.

“Listen, we need to talk about something,” she says.

Dean restrains a tired groan. “Can this wait ‘til later?”

“I think we should do this now,” she says. A hallmark Lisa-ism. She’s opinionated and strong-willed, something Dean’s always respected about her. Sometimes though, the timing is damn irritating. He doesn’t want to get into another argument with his girlfriend in public, especially not at his son’s birthday party.

“Speaking of commitment,” she says with a sigh. “I think it’s fair to say that we’ve been on a five-year rollercoaster, you and I. You know why that is?”

“I’m sure you’re gonna tell me,” Dean says, crossing his arms.

“It’s because you’re spread too thin,” she says. “Between the firehouse, construction jobs on the side…not to mention other things.”

“What? What’re you talking about?”

Lisa’s lips purse, before she pointedly gestures over at you with her eyes. “Well, for example. You’re still going to her place after your next shift to fix her fridge, right?”

“Yeah, I mean, should be pretty simple. I’ve just gotta swing by the hardware store and grab this specialty tool I ordered—”

“Dean,” Lisa deadpans. “That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

She heaves a deep breath, running her fingers through her long brown hair.

“I get that navigating this situation hasn’t been easy for you,” she says. “It hasn’t exactly been easy for me either, but look.”

Lisa takes his hands in hers, uncrossing his arms. “I want to get married someday. I want kids too. And I want that kind of life with you…I’m just not sure you want it with me.”

Dean expels a heavy sigh. “Lis—”

“Don’t answer me right now,” she says, but she levels him with a serious look. “You need to decide though, Dean. Five years is long enough. You should know by now if you want to be with me.”

After letting go of his hands, she softens the edges of her words with a gentle kiss on his cheek. Then she turns to join the group now gathered around the picnic table where the food is, all the kids cheering for pizza and cake.

After the party, Sam, Eileen, Lisa, and Benny pack up their cars and yours with the leftover food, party supplies, and presents. Dean helps you clean up the trash, all while keeping an eye on Robbie getting out the last of his sugar-high on the playground swing.

You shake your head tiredly, if with a fond smile. “That kid’s gonna be up all night hype on that radioactive cake.”

Dean chuckles. “You want me to take him tonight?”

“It’s okay. I think he’s going to want to play with his toys,” you reply.

“Well, he could just as easily do that at my place,” he reasons.

You consider it, but you shake your head. “Yeah, but we got him the bike. He’s probably gonna want to try it out for a few minutes before we get him cleaned up.”

“By ‘we,’ you mean you and Benny,” Dean says, his tone becoming surly. “And about that. Don’t you think a bike is something you should run by me? That’s typically a ‘dad’ kind of gift.”

You pause what you’re doing at the sound of his tone. Your brows knit together.

“Sorry, but I feel like a bike isn’t exclusively a dad thing,” you say.

“My dad got me my first bike,” Dean replies. “Spent a whole three days teaching me how to ride.”

You take a minute to think about it. You understand where Dean’s coming from, so you nod.

“Okay, I get it. You want to be there to help teach Robbie? I’m sure he’d love that.” 

Dean tosses a wadded-up ball of frosting-covered napkins and stops, letting his hands fall to his sides in frustration. He draws closer and helps you untie the balloons from the picnic table.

“Yeah, I do, but that’s not the point,” he says. “Why can’t I take him home tonight?”

You blink up at him in confusion. “Well, like I said. The bike—”

“That I should’ve gotten for him,” he snaps. “Which, let me guess, Benny picked out. Right?”

You frown at him in earnest now. “Dean, why are you getting so upset about it? It’s just a bike.”

“Well you know what, it’s not! And it’s not just the damn bike either.” He swipes a hand over his face in annoyance, a telltale sign you’ve come to read well on the man. “Look, I’m missing too much shit, all right? Like, like the dinosaur thing! And the fact that I only get him on the weekends.”

You turn toward him, trying to put a cap on your own annoyance. This isn’t the first time you two have had a conversation like this. 

“We’ve gone over this before, Dean. Your schedule at the firehouse is just too unpredictable,” you say. “Robbie needs as much stability as possible between us. But…okay, if you want to take him tonight, that’s fine. We can bring the bike over to your place and show it to him there.”

You’re trying to be as reasonable as possible, and Dean knows that. Still, anger prickles just under his skin, and he can’t help but push his luck.

“You still should’ve asked be before you got the bike in the first place,” he argues.

Your brows raise high. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Look, it’s not like we bought him a Honda Civic. Honestly, Dean, why are you picking a fight with me right now?” you ask. “Did you and Lisa get into it again or something?”

Dean looks away and crosses his arms, giving you all the confirmation you need.

“Yeah, that’s right,” you nod. “I saw you two over there on the playground, looked pretty heated. But do me a favor. Don’t come at me with that energy, because I’m too damn tired of it!”

When you walk away from him, Dean can’t help but stare after you. He knows he fucked that up, just as he knows that you don’t deserve him snapping at you. He’s just too irritated to admit it.

For the entire week that follows, Dean finds himself distracted. He sticks to his word and helps Benny teach his son how to ride a bike in between their shifts at the firehouse, but Dean comes home each night feeling even more frustrated and drained than before. It’s too much, knowing Benny’s slowly but surely carving out a father-figure role in Robbie’s life.

These thoughts follow Dean to work, even while he climbs up the firetruck ladder in the rain. It’s parallel to a busted utility pole that still sparks with electricity, even in this torrential downpour. His task is to get up to the top and grab a large branch that’s tangled in the lines.

Rung after rung, he climbs. His safety mask protects his eyes from the rain, but he wishes they had some mini windshield wipers to keep his vision clear of the droplets pelting him in the face.

He also can’t help thinking of you. If Lisa’s right, then Benny’s about to become a more permanent fixture in Robbie’s life, and yours. 

Okay fine. It’s not like Dean expected you to be single forever, but did you really have to get with one of his best friends? Does it really have to be Benny, who seems so natural with Robbie, and more patient than Dean, and more of a support to you and Robbie than Dean can ever be?

And then there’s Lisa’s little ultimatum. He understands why she’s frustrated with him. Honestly, he’s surprised she’s stuck around this long. He knows she’s not going to wait too much longer for him to get his act together. For him to decide, as she put it.

It’s not that he’s not sure about her, it’s just that…

Just that what? he wonders.

He manages to grab the wily tree branch and maneuver it out of the power lines. 

He just doesn’t realize that his glove doesn’t have quite enough friction on the metal side panel of the ladder. Not only does his hand slip, but he’s forced to let go of the branch while he loses his balance. The branch falls to the sidewalk, far, far down below.

“Dean!” Benny shouts in alarm.

Luckily, the truck itself breaks Dean's fall.

Holding Robbie’s hand tightly in yours is the only thing keeping you steady as you lead him through the hospital. After the receptionist had checked you both in and gave you the room number, you hastened down the hall and up to the right floor. 2005.

Robbie breaks into tears when he finally gets to see his dad, laid up though he is in his hospital bed. Your throat tightens at the sight of Dean hooked up to all those monitors. He has his arm wrapped up and fitted into a sling. He has a thick piece of gauze taped to the side of his face, covering a wide, angry abrasion, but he seems to be resting easy on his back. The bed is at an incline, with most of the overhead lights turned off.

Robbie rushes to the bed before you can stop him. He hesitantly touches Dean’s non-injured right hand. “Daddy?”

“Robbie, wait,” you say, keeping your voice quiet. You quickly go over to the bedside and grab ahold of Robbie’s shoulders, but Dean takes a deep breath. His eyelids crack open.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, attempting a smile. His voice is rough and weak, but at least he’s awake.

Robbie’s lower lip wobbles as tears fill his eyes again.

“Come ‘ere,” Dean says, a little stronger. When he reaches out to his son, the kid hops up onto the bed and buries his face into his father’s chest. Dean holds him as securely as he can, soothing his hand over the boy’s hair and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s okay, little man. ‘M okay,” he promises. Robbie nods, but he still continues to cry.

You can’t help but do the same. Tears slip down your cheeks without your consent. Dean beckons you over too, gesturing with his chin and a slight smile. You’re more tentative in the way you sit down at the edge of his bed. You run your fingers through Robbie’s light brown hair to help reassure him. Then, you meet Dean’s gaze and lay a hand on his good shoulder. You don’t know whether you’re steadying him, or yourself.

“How do you feel?” you ask. “The hospital called me. Benny told me what happened.”

The thought reminds you to text your boyfriend. You hadn’t had a chance to tell him you made it here yet. He must be downstairs grabbing a bite to eat, because he’s the one who rode with Dean in the ambulance and has been with him for a while.

“The hospital called you?” Dean notes in slight confusion.

“Eileen told me that Sam is in court right now, so I must’ve been next on the list,” you say. He also must have taken Lisa off his emergency list the last time they broke up for almost a month. He probably forgot to update it again.

You reach out a hand to almost touch the bandage by his temple. Instead, you hesitantly hold the side of his face to see the area better. Dean closes his eyes for a moment. You can see he’s in pain. Your hand lingers on his cheek, but you know, deep down, that it shouldn’t.

Dean doesn’t stop you though. He lets out a deep breath, savoring how nice the gentle touch feels when the rest of his body feels battered to hell.

“Fell off the ladder. Was a stupid rookie move,” he explains, but when he sees that look on your face, he tries to inject a little more joking into a smile. “S’ not so bad.”

“You could’ve broken your head as well as your arm,” you say, more sharply than you mean to.

Robbie whimpers and clings tighter to Dean. You cover your mouth, as if you can trap the words back inside. You don’t want to upset your son more than he already is, so you fall silent. Another tear works its way down your cheek, but you brush it away. Dean shakes his head.

“Hey, I’m okay,” he reassures you too. He manages to smile as he pats Robbie’s back. “Right, buddy?”

The boy’s head perks up. His eyes are still shiny, but he smiles too. He’s not one to speak when he’s upset though, so he just curls up against Dean’s chest and hangs onto him. Dean rests his good arm snugly around him.

You smile and stroke Robbie’s back. Though your hand lowers, resting on Dean’s hand. You take in a deep breath to calm yourself down. Dean’s fingers curl around yours, prompting you to glance up into his eyes. The way he’s watching you is soft, grateful.

Until the door creaks open. Benny steps in with a subtle clearing of his throat. You jolt internally, and you slip your hand away from Dean’s. You offer your boyfriend a wan smile.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey, baby.” He comes over and greets you with a kiss to the side of your head. He smiles at your son gently. “The gang’s all here.”

“Oh! Let me call Sam, and Lisa too. They still don’t know what’s going on,” you say. You get up from the bed to grab your phone out of your purse. Dean nods in agreement and thanks you, while Robbie plays with his dad's long fingers.

“How you holdin’ up, brother?” Benny asks, after you step out of the room. He settles into the chair near the foot of the bed.

“Ah, you know me. I’m like a cat. Always stick the landing,” Dean says, smiling lazily. The morphine is starting to kick in again.

Benny smirks. “Maybe you do got nine lives, the amount of close calls you like gettin’ yourself into.”

Dean’s good humor fades. He considers his son in his arms, and he shakes his head.

“Yeah, well, no more,” he says. He got a taste of what it would be like to leave his boy behind, and he’s not fucking doing it. He’s not leaving you to raise Robbie by yourself. The mere idea tears a new hole in his heart.

His eyes sting just enough that he has to blink a bit harder, swallowing past a thick well of emotion in his throat. He presses another kiss to the top of Robbie’s head. Then, Dean meets Benny’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

Benny nods.

“You got it, brother.”

When Lisa steps off the hospital elevator on the second floor, you happen to be coming out of the bathroom to fix your racoon eyes. You’ve been crying way too much. You attempt to greet Lisa with something reassuring, but she cuts you off. 

“What happened, and why didn’t the hospital call me directly?” she asks.

Her tone is cutting, and it takes you aback.

“Well, Sam and I were listed as his emergency contacts—”

“Why?” she snaps. “You’re not his wife or his girlfriend. I should’ve been listed.”

Jesus Christ. At this point, you can’t help it. You’re too tired and emotionally drained to lasso in your temper with this woman.

“Maybe if you and Dean stayed together longer than five minutes at a time, he’d put you back on the short list,” you sling back. “But the truth is, you’ve never just…been there for Dean. Not without demanding something from him.”

Lisa scoffs incredulously. “Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you. You’re the reason he can’t commit to anything. You think your little world is the only one that matters, and you call Dean for any little thing! What, don’t you have a boyfriend to help fix your goddamn sink?” 

You open your mouth to retort, but you pause as her words seep into your mind. She might actually have a small point about that one. You realize then just how often you’ve been asking Dean for his help, not just with your apartment, but with your car, and other logistical things that usually have to with Robbie. Dean’s just such a good handyman, and you thought he genuinely liked being able to help…even though Benny did mention once or twice that he’d be just as happy to help you.

“Lisa, this is a lot more than a leaky sink. I just wanted to get here with Robbie and make sure Dean was okay,” you try to explain.

“Good. I’m glad his son was the first person Dean got to see when he woke up,” Lisa says. “But I should’ve been the second.”

She brushes past you before you can even think of what to say. You’re in a state of shock, feeling guilty, incensed, and on the verge of tears all at once.

A familiar voice calls your name, and you turn to Benny just as those tears begin to fall. He gathers you up into his arms and holds you there in the middle of the hallway.

“She shouldn’t talk to you like that, no matter how high tensions are today. I’ll talk to Dean,” Benny says. You shake your head and bury your face in his chest, clenching your fingers in his red flannel shirt. 

“No, it’s okay,” you reply, despite the sob that shudders through you. You’ve lost the will to fight.

Benny shakes his head and presses a kiss to your forehead. “It ain’t okay, baby.”

“Please, don’t bother Dean with this. Especially not right now,” you say. You take a moment to wipe your eyes and get ahold of yourself. “I’m gonna go get Robbie so Dean can rest.”

You can’t shake the feeling that Lisa is right. You do rely on Dean too much. You just don’t want to think about why that is.

Dean makes a full recovery after a few months. He never does hear about what happened in that hallway, but he knows that things need to change. 

He decides to dig out his mom’s engagement ring from a locked box of his parents’ keepsakes, though he’s still waiting on the right time for it. He and Lisa start looking at houses though, for real this time. She hires a realtor and everything. 

He’s making a firm decision, and he thinks it’s the right one. He wants to be there for his son, but he doesn’t want to keep “spreading himself too thin.” He has to figure out how to set some roots, and some boundaries with you while he’s at it. He’ll just have to come to terms with the idea that he won’t get to be there for everything. 

He has to be okay with the fact that you’ll probably marry Benny. You’ll keep making him cookies and cakes, giving him your smile and your time and your body. And Robbie will probably think of Benny as more of a father than his own Weekend Dad. 

Meanwhile, you’ve spent the past few months keeping yourself in check as well. You’ve stopped calling Dean for help whenever something breaks down in your old-ass apartment. You try to keep your conversations less about life and troubles and whatever funny thing your students did that day in class, and more focused on Robbie–strictly about his schedule and his needs.

It’s kind of painful, if you’re honest with yourself. Sam will always be one of your closest friends from college, but in the past five years, Dean has truly become your best friend. Because you’ve told him things. The things that come from sharing a child with someone, like Sunday dinners with your parents, flipping through old yearbooks and childhood pictures—and the details of day-to-day schedules and little stupid things that happen in moments between moments.

Dean also knows the deep cuts. Like being pregnant and scared and breaking down crying on the side of the road. Like sharing the deepest well of your insecurities with someone who knows your body intimately, even if just for one amazing night...a night you’ve never quite been able to put out of your mind.

However, you know that things can’t stay the same. From now on, he just needs to be your son’s father. Nothing more, nothing less. 

So today, on a crisp April 24th, you’re getting ready for a highly anticipated evening with your boyfriend. Robbie is sleeping over your parents’ house, and Benny has been planning something special for your third-year anniversary. 

You slip into your new dress, a deep emerald green, with a pair of black heels you’ve rarely worn since before you got pregnant. Come to think of it, you were wearing these the night of Sam and Eileen’s bachelor-bachelorette party. The night you…well, the night Robbie was conceived. 

You shake your head to rid yourself of those thoughts. You even consider changing. 

You’re being silly, you shake your head. They’re just shoes. 

And yet. Thinking of that time so long ago, it reminds you of a recent Sunday dinner at your parents’ house.

Two Months Ago...

Your parents live modestly, but comfortably in rural Kansas. Their ranch-style home boasts a creek in the backyard, where your dad is teaching your son how to catch minnows. Your mom is inside working on an apple pie, knowing it’s both Dean’s and Robbie’s favorite.

You and Dean have kept close to the house under the shade, sitting on a bench made more comfortable by a pair of old polyester cushions with red, faded flowers.

“How much longer do you have to wear that?” you ask Dean. He glances down at his cast-covered left arm.

“Doc says it’s about ready to come off,” he says.

You nod, allowing yourself a certain smile. “How bad are you itching to grab my mom’s garden shears and cut it off right here?”

“Woman, don’t tempt me,” he says, his lips twitching at a grin. “I’ve been eying those overgrown scissors for the past half hour.”

You laugh and take another sip of your glass. Yours holds sweet tea, while Dean’s has some of your dad’s favorite whiskey. You both raise your heads when Robbie yells across the backyard.

“I caught a minnow!”

“Good job, buddy,” Dean grins. “See if you can catch a marlin!”

“A marlin?” Robbie questions.

“Yeah, like that orange guy in Finding Nemo,” Dean calls back.

Your dad gives Dean the same wry look you do, though yours is tinged with more amusement.

“Dean, that’s a clown fish,” you say. “He’s not gonna find that in the creek.”

“Aw, shit,” he tries to quiet his laugh. “Ah well, should keep him occupied for another twenty minutes.”

You bite your lip to stifle your laughter as well. Though something else occurs to you the longer you watch your son play and explore in the creek. Your dad has the patience of a saint as he puts yet another bait worm on the hook for the kid.

“He’s starting to ask questions, you know,” you tell Dean, in a quieter voice. “‘Why aren’t you and Daddy married? Why can’t we all live together?’”

Dean's brows raise. His good humor dims when he looks over at you.

“What do you tell him?” he asks.

You take in a deep breath, considering your words now as carefully as you did with your son.

“That we care about each other a lot, as friends,” you say, meeting Dean’s eyes. “And we love Robbie very much. Nothing’s going to change that, even if you and I aren’t together like a normal mom and dad.”

Saying it like that makes your heart twinge, for more than one reason. The way Dean’s mouth twitches into a rueful smile just makes it worse, but you try your best to ignore it.

“I never thought about having to explain it to him,” he says, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

It’s that anxious tell of his again. You notice every time he does it.

“I have,” you admit. “I just didn’t know for sure what I was going to say until it was coming out of my mouth.”

Dean smirks a little. “Yeah, that sounds like you.”

You roll your eyes and sip your drink, crossing your arms as well. Dean considers you then, looking at you in a way that makes you raise a brow in question.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing, it’s just…” He sits back against the bench and rubs his hands down his jean-clad thighs. “For the record, I did try to ask you out once.”

“What?” you scoff incredulously. “No, you’ve been with Lisa since the beginning.”

“Before Lisa,” Dean says.

He isn’t joking. He isn’t teasing. He’s serious as he stares back at you with those green eyes of his. Your brows furrow as you wrack your brain. Did he drunkenly leave you a voicemail on one of those “off again” episodes between him and Lisa? No. You know you’d remember something like that.

“It was a few weeks after the bachelor party,” Dean says. “I called you up, remember?”

Your eyes widen. Finally, that jogs your memory.

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.” And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition.

You have to laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Dean, you did not ask me out,” you say. “You wanted to hook up. There’s a distinct difference.”

Dean frowns at you. “No, I was. I invited you over—”

“For essentially some Netflix and chill,” you retort.

“Hey, I offered to make you dinner,” he argues. “I didn’t say anything about hooking up.”

You pause at that. His earnest denial makes you actually think back to what you remember about that conversation on the phone.

“So I just thought maybe you and I could do something again. Maybe you wanna come over my place this time.” And there it is. You deflate at his words, shoulders sagging. The "convenient booty call" proposition. “I could make us some burgers, toss in a couple of beers and a movie night,” he adds.

You cover your lips with your fingers as you begin to realize…

“That was you asking me out?” you ask incredulously.

Dean’s brows furrow and he throws his hands up. “What? Who doesn’t like a little movie night?”

“Dean,” you huff another laugh. “You could’ve made it sound more like a date.”

“Well, ‘scuse me. Sorry I couldn’t afford the Ritz at the time,” he grumbles.

You sigh. “That’s not what I meant.”

The more you think about it, the more you just shake your head at yourself. Why did you have to overthink it, like you do everything?

“Wow,” you say, softer and more contrite. “I honestly never thought…”

“Yeah,” he says. He shifts his gaze out ahead.

You glance over at him, now more unsure of yourself. He wouldn’t have any regrets, you think. He has Lisa. As much as they go at it, they always inevitably get back together. And now you know they hired a realtor. They’re about to start making solid steps forward.

But Dean surprises you with another question.

“Do you think if…”

He doesn’t finish it, but you think you know what he’s asking. You hesitate, your fingers flexing around your glass that beads with condensation. You set the glass down beside you. 

Just as you open your mouth to reply—

“All right, pie is cooling and dinner is served!” your mom calls out. Her head pokes out of the sliding glass door to the backyard. You offer a smile, trying to hide how you jolted in your seat.

“Okay, thanks, Mom,” you nod.

You turn back to Dean, who also hesitates. His eyes meet yours, but all too soon, he locks the moment away.

Bracing his hands on his knees, he rocks to his feet and goes out to get Robbie and help your dad bring in the fishing gear.

You grab Dean’s whiskey along with your tea on your way back inside the house. You consider the amber liquid disturbed in his glass, and you down the rest yourself. The burn down your throat is a good distraction. If he asks about it, you’ll say you got the glasses confused.

You know you’ll have to leave that conversation unfinished at the foot of the bench.

Now...

Benny comes by your apartment and helps you into the passenger side of his pickup truck, like the gentleman he is. He takes you to a nice restaurant in downtown, much nicer than the usual sports bar or kid-friendly restaurant. You're very much looking forward to eating at a restaurant that doesn't feature chicken fingers or "kiddie" corn dogs.

“This is gonna be really expensive,” you whisper to him, after he hands his keys over to the valet. 

Benny squeezes your hand in his, leaning over to kiss your temple. 

“Don’t you worry about that. We both deserve a night out.” His blue eyes gleam with amusement. However, his gaze gentles, becoming more sincere. “You work hard, carin’ for everybody around you. How about you let me take care of you for once.”

Your eyes begin to water, your throat constricting with emotion. You rub his arm gratefully.

“Thank you,” you say. “You don’t know how much I appreciate that.” 

It’s always easy with Benny. Nice and simple and easy. Nice, supportive, and considerate.

Nice and safe.

That thought follows you while you and Benny walk into to the restaurant. He’s reserved great seats in the back corner, overlooking a beautiful courtyard. It’s decorated with hydrangeas and light wood dining tables, all framed with a rod iron archway as the sun begins to set just so. After holding your chair out for you before he sits himself, Benny orders a bottle of champagne to kick things off.

He turns to you with a somewhat nervous look in his eyes, like he's steeling himself. It’s uncharacteristic of Benny, who’s always so calm and charming and sure of himself. It makes a zing of anticipation run down your spine, and…a dash of fear. You don’t know why, and you don’t know how to beat the feeling down as you fidget in your seat.

He subtly clears his throat, then takes your hand. “Sweetheart, I know I’m not all that good at the words you’re supposed to say. But I can say that the past three years with you and Robbie, it’s come to mean the world to me.”

Your smile softens. He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, encouraged by your reaction.

“So I think it’s time I made it clear where I stand, and how much I want to be the man in your life,” he says.

Your eyes begin to widen in shock, but not for the reason he thinks.

“Dean,” you gasp.

Benny’s expression slackens. “What?”

You point over his shoulder, and Benny turns to follow your line of vision. Dean and Lisa have just walked into the restaurant. They notice you pointing their way, and they both pause in surprise as well. Lisa is beautiful as usual in a slinky black dress, completely backless (something you feel you could never pull off, unless you had an invisible bra to keep the girls perked up).

Dean is…well, you’ve very rarely seen him in a suit, but charcoal gray works for him. The open collar and white buttoned-down works for him, as do the three top buttons he’s left undone, showing a tantalizing strip of tanned skin. He stares back at you like he forgot you live in the same time zone, let alone the same zip code.

“Uh, hey!” he casts out an awkward wave, before he makes his way over to you and Benny. Lisa is less than enthused.

“We shouldn’t interrupt their night,” you catch her whisper to him, but Dean doesn’t seem to hear her.

“What’s up, party people! Of all the gin joints in all the world, huh?” Dean says, a little too loudly when he thumps Benny on the back. Benny grunts, giving a bit of a forced chuckle.

“Dean,” he greets. “I think I told you about this particular gin joint. Good to see you can actually clean up once in a while.”

“Ah, you know what, this monkey suit ain’t too bad,” Dean says, pulling at his collar.

You smirk in amusement. “Yeah, I remember how much you complained about wearing a simple tie for Robbie’s Christmas pageant.”

He smirks down at you. “Hey, ties still might not be my thing, but nothing wrong with a sharp collar.”

He pops his for emphasis. You don’t know why it makes you laugh, but it does. Maybe it’s just his face and the silly, endearing expression he makes when he pouts his lips in a “blue steel.”

“So, is this just a night out, or you guys celebrating something special?” Dean asks, gesturing at the champagne bottle and your full glasses of bubbly.

Benny gives his friend a certain look. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. Today’s three years.”

He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles. You smile back at him, though you’re a bit self-conscious at the way both he and Dean, and even Lisa have their attention on you.

“We should let you guys get back to it then,” Lisa says.

Honestly, it’s a relief. You and Benny nod, wishing them a goodnight.

For some reason, you notice how Dean’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But he goes with Lisa, laying a hand on the small of her back. You force yourself to tear your eyes away from them and refocus on Benny. You take up your champagne glass and raise it in offering.

“All right, where were we?” you ask, if with a nervous trill in your belly.

Benny smiles. He takes up his glass and clinks it with yours.

Lisa nearly sighs. She and Dean are back in line at the front of the restaurant, waiting to be seated. The second time she catches Dean glancing over at the table where you and Benny sit, she shakes her head and digs into her purse for the valet card. She’s done with this.

“I think maybe we should go to a different restaurant,” she says.

That finally earns Dean’s attention, mostly confused. “What, why?”

She just gives him a long look.

He realizes that whatever her reasons are, it’s easier to just give in than to fight her on it. He’s learning when to pick his battles. Or is he just giving up?

Also, if tonight’s “the night” he thinks it is for you and Benny, maybe he doesn’t want to stick around after all. Three years, huh?

“All right, fine. Let’s go,” he agrees.

Dean and Lisa wait for the valet to bring the Impala around. The minute he gets behind the wheel and turns the key into the ignition, she changes her mind.

“Look, let’s just go home,” she says. “I don’t really feel like eating out anymore.”

Dean’s brows raise. “What? Aw, come on. We’re already dressed and everything. You look great, Lis. Just tell me where you wanna eat.”

Lisa remains firm, with a small shake of her head. “Please, Dean, just take me home.”

After a moment of indecision, Dean sighs. He revs the ignition and does as she says.

It’s only a fifteen-minute drive back to their apartment, but in that stifling silence, it seems to drag on for a small eternity. He glances at her a couple of times. Lisa has her arms crossed as she stares out the window, watching the other restaurants and mom-and-pops shops and forest trees and old houses of Lebanon, Kansas go by.

Dean counts it a blessing when they’re finally home. He walks up the few short steps up to their ground-floor apartment and unlocks the door. He flicks on the lights inside, and she breezes past him to toss her purse onto the couch.

Dean takes off his blazer and begins to undo the buttons on his cuffs. He watches her all the while, knowing that a storm is brewing. She shucks off her heels and slowly paces the living room on bare feet, like her whirling thoughts are fueling every step.

“All right, I give. What’s going on?” Dean asks. “What’d I do this time?”

She pauses, with her back turned to him.

Shit, he thinks. He shouldn’t have said it like that.

He prepares for the inevitable blow up, but it never comes. Lisa just heaves a sigh. Slowly she turns, and Dean’s shocked and dismayed to see the tears welling up in her deep brown eyes. He makes quick strides toward her, but she raises a hand to keep him at bay.

“Dean, when you picture yourself happy, truly happy,” she says. “Is it with me? Can you imagine yourself marrying me? Buying the house, having kids, growing old together?”

If Dean was thrown for a loop before, he’s even more stunned by her question. “Lis…”

“Just be honest, for once,” she pleads. Her tears begin to brim over, but she blinks, somehow keeping them at bay.

It’s a bit too long before Dean realizes that he can’t give her an answer. At least, not the one he knows she wants to hear.

When he thinks of that picture in his mind, of course he sees his son. But the only other person Dean can imagine there beside him is…

“I…” He wills his mouth to work, but nothing else comes out.

The only face he can conjure is yours. Your eyes are warm and welcoming, your smile as bright and contagious as your laugh.

The only voice he can hear is yours, gentle and strong at the same time.

The only one he can see is you.

He knows the shampoo you use and the perfume you like to wear, how the sweet and floral scents mix together and linger in your hair and on your skin.

Even now he remembers the contours of your body, and how it could fit so well against his. He knows that you used to try and hide your shape under loose, baggy shirts and cargo pants that did nothing for you. He knows how much courage it took you to wear that red dress to his brother’s party, because you told him once, at one of those Sunday dinners at your parents’ house.

Come to think of it, there’s not a whole lot that Dean doesn’t know about you, except maybe what you see when you look at him.

“You love her,” Lisa finishes for him. “I think you always have.”

Dean’s throat tightens. Somehow he swallows anyway, and he shakes his head. 

“Lisa, I loved you.”

“Maybe you did, in your own way,” she says, laughing a little through her tears as she wipes them away. “But you already have a family, Dean. Go fight for it.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he can do.

He goes to her and kisses her cheek. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

Lisa merely nods, wiping her face dry. She watches Dean Winchester walk out of her apartment, and out of her life for good this time. 

Dean calls your cell, but it goes to voicemail. He drives all the way back to the restaurant and doesn’t find you or Benny there. 

Dean realizes that what he’s doing, what he plans to do, is not fucking cool. He wouldn’t blame you or even Benny for being severely pissed when Dean shows up. He also knows that he can’t let another day pass where he keeps lying to you, and himself. 

He eventually finds you at home. What’s weird is that Benny’s truck isn’t in the driveway—just your car. He knocks on your door, and he waits.

He unconsciously holds his breath while he waits in that terrible existence of limbo. However, his heart thrums back to life when he hears your footsteps drawing closer to the door. Anticipation, excitement, dread, it all roils together inside him like a bad cocktail as the door swings open.

And he’s once again rendered a bit breathless at the sight of you in that dress. The color alone appeals to him, let alone the way it accentuates your every curve, from full breasts to the swell of your hips, the softer slope of your thighs, and bare toes painted. You’re fucking delectable, every curve, and a temptation without you even meaning to be. 

You’re just…you’re still so goddamn beautiful, like the night he first saw you. Even now, he can almost feel the give of your thighs under his hands, his fingers pressed to supple flesh. 

But then he’s drawn to your face, and your wide eyes full of surprise. Your mascara is a bit smudged though. Your eyes are red too, like you’ve been crying. His brows furrow in concern.

“Dean, what’re you doing here?” you ask.

“I need to talk to you, but uh…did something happen?” he asks. “You okay?”

You’re reluctant to tell him. Did Benny say something to upset you? Or was it something he did?

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you say.

Instinctively, Dean knows it’s a lie.

“This isn’t a good time though,” you say, after clearing your throat. “Can we do this tomorrow, maybe?”

Dean leans a hand on the doorframe.

“Please, it’s important,” he says. His eyes implore you harder than his words. Please.

That does it. A sigh passes through your lips, but you let him in. He knows Robbie is with your parents for the night, which actually makes this easier.

Once he steps inside the apartment, Dean does notice that your bedroom door is open. Half the drawers to your dresser are open too, and empty. Certain frames that used to be on your coffee table are no longer there, like the one of you, Benny, and Robbie on a camping trip. 

“You want some coffee, or soda?” you ask. 

Dean declines and grasps your arm before you can busy yourself into “hostess” mode. He leads you to the couch, where you both sit down together.

“What happened tonight?” he asks. “Where’s Benny?”

Your lower lip wobbles, the beginning of your telltale cry face. Dean knows his son gets it from you, and it always breaks his heart. He squeezes your arm gently, trying to ground you.

“Benny proposed to me tonight,” you confess, taking in a sharp breath. “He proposed, and I couldn’t give him an answer.” 

You shake your head as the tears sting hot in your eyes. 

“He got so upset, he just—he left!” You throw your hands up. “But honestly, I don’t blame him.”

Dean tries to comfort you as you try and fail to wipe at your face. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, cupping your cheek to brush the tears away himself. 

“Why couldn’t you answer him?” he asks. 

You look up at Dean, and you finally notice the shine of hope in his eyes. Dean touches your cheek more tenderly. 

“Does it mean I have a chance here?” he asks.

Despite what your eyes tell you, you still gape at him in shock. “What? But…what about Lisa?”

“It’s over. For good this time,” Dean shakes his head. “I realized what I wanted for my life, and where my heart is…”

And he chuckles weakly. “Truth is, you’ve had it the whole time, sweetheart.”

You begin to crumble all over again. You pull away from him and his touch, because you can’t believe it. You cover your face with your hands, sniffling as you try to make sense of his words, his touch, and the warm flutter threatening to brim happiness in your heart.

“God, Dean. You can't just..."

"I mean it," he insists.

You're still reluctant to take him seriously...no matter how much you want to. It's a conflicting realization that hurts, and makes you feel stupid for taking so long to figure it out, and makes you hate yourself for hoping his words are true.

"Come the morning, you’re going to change your mind,” you reason, without looking at him. “Like you’ve done with Lisa a thousand times.”

“No,” Dean says firmly. He shifts closer and prompts you to look at him, really look at him.

“Not about this, and you know it,” he says, catching and holding your gaze. “That’s why you couldn’t say yes to Benny. Because you know what we’ve got. It’s the real deal.”

You still look uncertain, even though you can’t bring yourself to pull away this time. Dean has always had this way of looking into the very depths of you, like he can actually see every thought as it passes through your mind.  

“I should’ve said yes,” you say. “I can rely on Benny. I know he would stay by my side, and…and I know he won’t hurt me.”

Not like I’ve just hurt him, you think. Guilt still pricks at your heart. The last thing you ever wanted to do was lead him on, and yet, that’s what you’d done, wasn’t it? You thought you had loved him. You’re sure that you did, but maybe it just wasn’t the kind of love that could reach down deep and grab you, set your blood on fire, and make you ache when the burn was gone.

That spark licks across your skin when Dean takes your hands.  

“What if I want to be that guy for you,” he says.

You allow yourself to look at him. Really look at him.

You know Dean. When he gets an idea in his head, it inhabits every bone and shred of muscle in his body. There’s no mistaking his resolve, or the steady grip of his hands over yours.

“If you let me, I’ll stay. I won’t leave you,” he says. In his eyes, there’s a firm promise. “I can be the guy you rely on. The man you can trust. The man who’s gonna love you, come whatever. Because now I know what it means. I know how it feels.”

You bite your lower lip against the smile that wants to surface.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

Dean smiles for you. “If you wanna know the truth, I’m pretty sure I’ve been loving you since the day I heard Robbie’s heartbeat for the first time.” 

Your tears flow harder at that. A shaky breath escapes you, though it does nothing to steady you. Dean strokes your cheek gently with his thumb. 

“Please, just give me this one chance,” he asks. Begs, really. 

He doesn’t have to though. You nod, just a little. 

“Okay,” you agree. “Let’s try.”

Dean's smile spreads slow, but warm across his face. It’s your favorite kind, the kind that crinkles his eyes. 

He leans in and claims your lips with his own. The passion of it is familiar, but you don't think it’s the same as five years ago. Now, there’s an underlying note of tenderness in his touch and each new way he tastes you deeper. He holds nothing back this time, and neither do you. 

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, and then in his hair as you moan into his mouth. “Dean.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he answers against your lips, though he doesn’t give you much room to keep talking.

You haven’t heard him call you sweetheart in a long time. You feel your heart knitting back together, stitch by stitch. Tears sting in your eyes anew, but you squeeze your eyes shut against them.

“I…”

You can’t even continue the breathless thought. You hold his face desperately between your hands, pressing your forehead to his for a moment as you both catch your breath. But this man is like the sweetest, most seductive vice. Now that you’ve gotten another hit, you can’t resist. You no longer want to.

His arms wrap around you more securely, and he leans in to lure you back into his kiss. His tongue breaches past your lips to curl along yours with tantalizing strokes. His hands slowly move down your back and along your waist.

“Mmm, missed the hell outta this,” he groans into your mouth. Your heart flutters again at the way he holds you, the way his big hands squeeze you and feel you.

You let him guide you down onto the sofa cushions. He slots himself between your bare thighs and runs his hand up familiar smooth skin, bunching the skirt of your dress higher as he goes. He aims to get himself reacquainted with every soft part of you that welcomes him back.

For once, the gates around your hearts swing free. 

Dean never imagined that his own son would hand him the ring he gives to his wife, but today, it just feels like symmetry. He grins and winks at Robbie.

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean says.

His son’s beaming grin is wide and toothy, but the boy takes his job very seriously and delivers the other ring to you. You smile brightly and caress his cheek after you take the shining, white gold band from him. It matches the thinner band that Dean has for you; it'll soon join the engagement ring that once belonged to his mother.

Robbie had liked Benny a lot, but he loves his dad. He’s probably the happiest person in the room to see his parents take each other’s hands in front of the minister. 

Benny is understandably absent in the chapel today. You had met with him after that night of your botched anniversary to apologize to him, and so had Dean. Benny understood. He’d admitted that in the back of his mind, he feared this might happen.

“I wouldn’t blame you for being angry with me,” you said to him. “You can even hate me if you want.” Benny gave you a wry, melancholy sort of smile. “Part of me’s still mad at you, I won’t lie…but there’s no use in it. Not even hating you.”

Even though Benny bowed out, carrying his hurt and his grief on those broad shoulders, letting you go meant letting go of a friend too. He put in his paperwork to transfer out of Firehouse 83.

As he’d told Dean himself that day, and in fact, the last words Benny said to him…

“There you go, Lieutenant. A spot’s just opened up.”

Dean didn’t want to get promoted this way. He felt guilty enough as it was, and not just for Benny leaving the firehouse. Benny recommended Dean to the Chief himself though, saying that if they were going to give someone a Lieutenant’s badge, it may as well be the guy who got a perfect score on his test, and had the natural leadership skills to boot.

To the end, Benny was a gentleman.

Now, Sam beckons his nephew over. Robbie quickly goes to his uncle’s side and puffs his little chest out as he stands proud behind his dad. 

Dean is able to take you in, your beautiful white dress, and everything about you that makes him smile…including the way you smile back at him.

Man and wife is all he hears. It’s all he needs to hear, before he’s pulling you closer by your newly anointed hand. He dips you for a thorough kiss in front of all your family and friends. 

You squeal in surprise, making Dean smile hard enough for his cheeks to hurt. Giggling hard enough to make you tremble, you raise a hand to caress his cheek. But you give him another real kiss after he guides you back up to your feet.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. The words are just for him to hear. Dean pulls back enough to see the truth shining in your eyes. Beautiful.

“Can’t help it, right?” he teases. 

You smile in amusement, but you grab his chin and shake it. 

“You got me,” you reply. “I really, really can’t.”

Your beaming smile softens. Even though the entire room is clapping and hooting and hollering in celebration, in that moment, all you really see is Dean. 

Here in his arms, you know that this is where you were meant to end up. From now on, it’s where you’re meant to be.

AN: From Lisa and Benny to Robbie and everything in between. Dean and the reader certainly aren't perfect in this, but what do you think about how their story unfolded? I truly hope you guys enjoy this one, because I've had so much fun with it. 🥰❤️❤️‍🔥

So please let me know what you thought! 😘

⋆˙⟡ Keep Reading: The Epilogue

"Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can't help falling in love with you?"

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[ffrostedfflakies]

Back to you - Nanami Kento

Summary: You and your ex husband nanami reunite after your divorce.

Pairing: Nanami kento x fem!Reader

Cw: MDNI!!! Afab reader, exhusband!Nanami, makeup sex, cunniligus hes a bit possesive but thats bc he missed you, kinda angsty idk, mating press, pet names

Word Count: 2k

A/N. I got my flatmate to help me out with this one (esp the smut since this was my first time writing)

Enjoy! If there are any mistakes PLEASE lmk

Being a divorcee before thirty was never on your list of life plans. It was just something you never really seemed to consider. You though you would have your average happily ever after – a good husband, white picket fence house and maybe some children.

But sitting in your lawyer’s office preparing to sign the divorce agreement alongside your (now) ex-husband, you start to feel this pressure in your chest.

It hurts.

You don’t even fully understand why that is- YOU were the one who asked for the damn divorce in the first place!

 You distinctly remember the day – You and Kento were just sitting, opposite one another in silence, your eyes glued to the Tv, and Nanami engrossed in a book he recently started, not interacting with one another whatsoever. You had just finished eating dinner, with Kento uttering a quiet ‘thank you’ when he was done.

You hated it.

So, with no forewarning whatsoever you blurted out: “I want a divorce.”

Kento’s head shoots up, his eyes showing a flicker of confusion before fading away.

“…. okay.”  He muttered.

Snapping out of the memory you refocus to your current situation, your hand slightly trembling and you reach for the pen to sign the papers. 

‘A clean break.’  you think ‘This is what we need. A clean break from all of this. It’s for the best.’

But you don’t even believe that. You haven’t believed that since the day you asked for a divorce. Your heart wants him, so, SO badly. But for once, you need to follow the rational part of yourself. You weren’t happy. Not for a long time. Ad you couldn’t stay in that “partnership” anymore.

You finally sign the papers, after what felt like forever, signing away the last few years of your life as if they meant nothing, the pen feeling 200 times heavier than usual.  You take one last look at your (now) ex-husband, only to see him with his head facing downwards, staring into nothing.

Almost as if he refused to look at you.

You hear Nanami scribble his signature before the lawyer allows you to leave. Walking out (or at least you think you were, everything and everyone in the office was a blur) everything seems muffled; you can’t hear anything.

You have to get outside.

Stepping out into the bustling street you relish in the noise of cars honking, people commuting to wherever they need to go.

You locate your car parked right near the entrance and wrench the door open, haphazardly throwing your belongings in the back seat. Strapping yourself in you drive off.

You can finally breathe.

And you refuse to acknowledge the figure of your ex-husband in the rearview mirror, staring.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Several months later.

You had been wallowing in your sorrow for several months when your friends decided that enough was enough and something had to change.

So, here you were at 10pm on a Friday night, suck in a dress that is seemingly two sizes too small, stuck at a shitty, seedy bar, nursing a Manhattan while your friends chatter away right next to you. (It had been a while since you went out like this considering you were, you know, married.) It was overwhelming, tiring even.

You really weren’t cut out for this.

Looking around the bar you see numerous people seeming to enjoy their Friday night, either nursing a drink, or chatting with friends or colleagues.

That’s when you saw him.

Your ex-husband.

Sitting all alone seemingly nursing his Jack Daniels. He looked the same, still amazing. Slightly dishevelled and tired but that looked so good on him. You feel the pull, that invisible string that always used to draw you to him.

You feel your feet moving almost as if you were possessed, pulling you towards him. You couldn’t explain this feeling. This need to be near him, close to him.  Perching yourself at the bar you smell a trace of sandalwood. The same perfume you gifted him all those years ago, as an anniversary gift.

‘He still uses it?’

You even remember the day you gave it to him.

Nanami had just came home from work, stepping into the foyer sighing with exhaustion when he notices the dimly lit lounge, with fake candles scattered all around the room. You stumbled in, oven mitts still on and an apron that said ‘kiss the cook’ wrapped your waist. You gasped in surprise at your husband’s appearance, and you run to greet him. You wrap yourself around his firm waist inhaling his musky scent mixed in with the smell of the outside world.

“Babe! I didn’t know you would be home so early!”

“Darling, its 10 o’clock.” He responded dryly with a smile.

“Oh really?” You peer at the hallway clock, “Time must’ve flown by whilst I was cooking.” You responded.

“What’s the big occasion for you to be cooking up a storm like this?” he asked.

“Theres no way you’ve forgotten.” You move to look up at him “It’s our anniversary obviously!” you point to the small calendar handing nearby. The current date circled multiple time in red sharpie with the words ‘anniversary’ scribbled below.

Your husbands face blanches, going slightly pale in the process.

“There’s no way I could’ve forgotten…I literally had it marked on my calendar and set a notification to remind me!” he mutters to himself.

You chuckle a little, “Babe it’s okay. I know you would never forget about something like this, I know you. Work has been making you quite overwhelmed recently, you mentioned that recently remember?”

Nanami rubs his head slightly, looking like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. He sighed, nodding slightly in response.

You unwrap your arms from his waist before taking his hands in yours and guiding him to the lounge before pushing him to sit on the couch.

You jog slightly to the kitchen to grab your dinner, a large tray of lasagna with some garlic bread and salad on the side, placing on the main table before grabbing the plates and cutlery as well as a bottle of wine and some glasses. Leaving your apron in the kitchen.

You begin to try and serve Nanami before he takes the spatula from your hands glaring slightly at you, but with no malice in those amber eyes of his.  Letting him take over you watch as he deftly serves you and himself.

.

.

.

.

Having enjoyed the meal you prepared, you and Nanami were sitting on the couch in each other’s embrace when you move back slightly, reaching behind the pillows.

“I have one more gift for you. Close your eyes and put out your hands.” You whisper.

Your husband obeys your instructions when you place a cool glass bottle in his hands.

He pries his eyes open to find a small bottle of Guerlain l’homme men’s perfume.  

“Darling this…this is..”

“…Do you like it?”

He turns to look at you, “I absolutely love it, thank you so much.” Giving you the warmest smile you’ve ever seen, he places a kiss on your forehead.

“I’m glad.” You respond.

Let’s just say, Nanami definitely made up for forgetting about your anniversary that night.

.

.

.

Snapping back to the present you realise that the two of you were looking at each other intently, both just analysing the others features.  You both felt it, that pull, that desire-

That lust.

 You don’t even know how you both ended up in this situation. In some rundown motel, not too far from the bar, alone with your ex-husband trailing kisses down your chest.  His rough hands touching every part of you, you couldn’t believe you were here, with him. Under him.

Leaning his chest onto yours leans into your ear. “Do you like that?”  he grunts out, “you missed me darling?” he grips you harder, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, even when you left me like that, all alone.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” You sob.

“It’s okay, its okay sweetheart. We’re together again, that’s what matters. I can’t let you leave again; I won’t let you leave again.” He pants out.

He buries his face in your neck leaving sloppy wet kisses all over. His blond tresses tickling your neck as he lifts himself off you-moving down your body, kissing down in a straight line as he goes, worshiping you.

You arch your hips into him as he leaves a sloppy kiss on your pussy.

“You’re so wet darling; it seems like you missed me really badly. It was wrong of you to run away from me, to hide this from me.” He slaps your mound, sending shockwaves all throughout your body, dragging a moan out of you. “It’s okay, I’m here now,” he places a kiss on your soaked folds, “I’ll always be here to take care of you.” He dives into your folds like a man dying of thirst, seeking any sort of nourishment, releasing deep moans in the process. Your voice cracks with every lick, suck and kiss he leaves on your pussy.

“Let go for me sweetheart, hm? Cum for me, for your husband.” He whispers against your folds.

So you do, unwinding completely as you cum, your husband slurping up every last drop he can.

As the waves of pleasure finally finish washing over you twitching and trembling in the process, your husband stands up, his eyes glossy, and his face covered in your liquids, palming his dick has he licks the remaining juices off his face.

“You ready for me baby?” he breathes out gripping his cock harder.

You nod your head vigorously, your throat practically hoarse from all the moaning you’d done previously.

Nanami lines himself up to your pussy before entering slowly, releasing a long groan in the process.  He gives you a few moments, waiting for you to adjust. It’s been a long time, and he knows you aren’t used to him.

“Ken…it’s-it’s okay, you can move, its alright.” You pant out.

Kento grunts, showing his acknowledgement.

His rough hands then reach your thighs, gripping them, your legs hanging over his broad shoulders, putting you in a mating press as he then pounds into you relentlessly. You can feel every inch of him inside you, messing up your insides. Kento’s balls slap against your ass in a rhythmic fashion, adding to your pleasure.

He abruptly pulls out making you release a light whimper in the process. Nanami grabs your hips before turning you over with your ass facing him and pulling you inwards. He pushes himself into once more, letting out a load moan in the process.  He leans

“Never leave me again baby please, I’ll do anything, anything you want I’ll do it – it doesn’t matter just...come back to me.” He’s completely lost in you, babbling away.

But so are you, “Yes-yes, I’ll do it, I’ll come back Ken I’m so sorry, leaving you was a mistake!”

Nanami pounds harder into you somehow, wrapping his arms around your upper chest you can feel everything: his breath in your ear, his erratic heartbeat on your back and his cock relentlessly pounding you, it almost hurts, in a way, but that makes it so much better.

“Marry me baby, marry me again, let me be your husband again, we’ll have a massive wedding yeah? invite all your friends and family -but you’re never leaving me again. I wont let you.” He’s rambling. You love it, the rumble of his voice in your ear, almost whiny.

His thrusts become erratic, sloppy almost. Its clear he’s at his limit – and so are you.

“Come on baby, cum, cum with your husband. Be a good girl for me, let go for me.”  He begs.

You follow his ask, letting go completely, your eyes rolling back in pure euphoria, seeing nothing but stars. Your husband follows suit, remaining still for a few moments leaving his mark deep in your body. He pulls out slowly, before he collapses onto the bed beside you.

Nanami rolls off you after he was done but not wanting to completely let go of you, he drags you close to him, cuddling your sore body.  You both stay there, relishing in each other’s embrace. Nanami gently rubs your back, comforting you relaxing you completely.

As much as you weren’t sure where to go from here, Nanami was here with you.

And maybe that’s all that mattered.

[smajor-skin-bracket]

WELCOME TO THE SCOTT SMAJOR1995 SKIN BRACKET!!!

*cheers and applause*

I’m @canaryy15 and with a lot of brackets going around i thought, hey, i like seeing people fight to the death over silly block people so ill make one! And who to do other than my favorite gay man of the century??

AND WE’RE GETTING STRAIGHT TO IT!!!

How i made the bracket was half bias but not over which were going against eachother! I chose the skins that i think were some of scott’s best (going all the way back to but not including his old skin from like xlife i think?? i can do a smaller bracket if you guys wanna see one for the older skins but im sticking to his newest ones)

I didnt include ALL of them, since there’s a LOT, plus since i was just on Namemc some like lore ones (like Zornoth and Chromia scott with normal eyes) were included and i just wanted to do the ones that were clearly Scott! And then for the bracket i just put all the skins in wheel of names and then spun it for that

And now… What we’ve been waiting for…

THE BRACKET!!!!

Im gonna have to look up what some of these skins are bc i know MOST of them but again it just got it off name mc so like some of the MCC ones i can make a good guess for the team but the only one i know the specific event is endercup LMAO

The polls will be posted gradually at 5PM CST TONIGHT!!! Because im impatient!

Under the cut will include how Propaganda will work!

HAVE FUN FIGHTING FOR THE WINNING SKIN!!!!

Reblogs are appreciated!

OKAY SO PROPAGANDA!!!

WRITTEN PROPAGANDA:

Written propaganda is like explaining why so and so skin is the one people should vote for!! You can make propaganda like this as soon as NOW! As in you dont have to wait for the poll to be published!

This can be done in a lot of ways:

- Reblogging this post and stating your propaganda

- Submitting propaganda in the ask box (your ask will not be answered it’s just a way of getting it to me)

- Messaging THIS account your propaganda (not my main one)

Your propaganda will be added to the post with the skin’s poll, and you can make as much propaganda as you want for more than one skin! Written propaganda can also be submitted after the poll is uploaded, and i will edit the poll to have your propaganda.

Now, the more common form of propaganda,

ART PROPAGANDA!!!

Drawing propaganda is very simple!! It will not be something i add to the poll post itself, but here’s how you submit drawing propaganda:

- Reblog the corresponding poll and state the skin your making propaganda for

- If people vote for the skin you made propaganda for, you can state what you’ll make for them if they send proof in your askbox! This is not limited to drawing, it can be anything! Writing is allowed as well! All propaganda must be PG though, i am in fact a minor.

When you reblog, i’ll reblog it back to here as well so people can see your propaganda!

If you have any questions on this feel free to message this blog!

[havenshereagain]

Guys, someone made art of my latest JayTim fic!! I'm losing my mind over how great this art is, and that my fic inspired you so much, thank you 🩵🩵🩵🩵

@havenshereagain's fic As You Wish has been on the tumble dry setting in my brain all day, i HAD to draw something from it...

(took a little artistic license with this scene in having Cass announce her movie choice more pointedly)

[fatesundress]

⭑ lessons in wanting. tom riddle x reader

summary. “you try so hard to be in control, and yet in this one thing, you can’t.” “can you?” of course you can; your will has been steel as long as you’ve had it. you could walk away now if you wanted. but you step forward. and tom understands.

tags. 18+ MDNI, explicitly fem afab reader, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, academic rivals, pureblood reader, she is WEIRD okay i can’t do y/n stuff anymore she’s just got some issues, poor parental relationship, she probably needs a therapist but so does tom so it’s like pedmas basically, students have individual dorms for the sake of smut you're just gonna have to suspend your disbelief ok. tom has a bursary i don't know, fingering, cunnilingus, first times, freak4freak

note. HAPPY TWO YEARS OF FATESUNDRESS! i think the time between when i last wrote smut + the knowledge that i now have moots who are aware of this account and that it is me (GO AWAY!!!!) have worked in agonizing synchrony to give me the worst writer’s block of my life. every word typed felt like it was being spoken directly into a confessional booth. i may never write smut again. we move.

word count. 7k

It started as a natural pastime. Your name rose above his, his rose about yours, bouts of envy crossed bouts of pride and fizzled into renewed initiative. The goal in all of it was the same as it had been since you were a child: to do your best, and be sure your best was better than everyone else’s. Your parents endeavoured to see you to live up to your station and you made it your job to do just that. The fear was instilled in you young — that an ancestral name could draw as much scrutiny as glory if it wasn’t tended well.

So you tend to it. You just have no idea when doing your best morphed specifically into doing better than him.

At some point, though, the importance of the latter supplanted that of the first, and now you wade through your academic achievements drenched in bitterness and lumbering under their weight. A wet, sulking cat, Annette would call you. Congratulatory confetti has become an itch, and ovation a headache. No prize compares to the instantaneous stiffness of Tom Riddle’s shoulders at the call of your name on the top of some comparatively irrelevant list. Nothing is quite so sweet as your smile when you watch the muscles roll negligibly back into place, a little crack of his neck as his perfect posture is resumed, and, God — is he ever not performing?

Inspiration is inspiration. Your good grades don’t care why they’re good.

“Apprenticeships will open in the spring,” you say in a needless hurry, foot tapping under the table, two books open on either side of your breakfast, “which means I need to start planning which ones to try for.”

“I assumed you were trying for them all,” says Annette, her brow raised curiously. She drizzles an impressive amount of syrup over her plate.

“Of course I’m trying for them all. But I have to decide which one I actually want.”

“That should be an issue for when you’re sorting through acceptance letters, shouldn’t it? You’ll pass every test they give you, you don’t have to decide right now.”

“My parents will want an answer. Besides —” Your gaze zeroes in on his figure at the Slytherin table — “I want to know which one will bother Riddle the most.”

Annette blinks, dumbfounded. “I always wonder if I missed the part where he maimed you in first year or something. You know you don’t need to prove yourself to him, right? He’s intimidated enough as is, even if it doesn’t show.”

But you want it to show. What prize is worth more than that? What better proof of your prowess than to beat him in a way that visibly hurts?

You shrug, but it’s tense. “I’m not above admitting the maiming’s been done to my ego. To you, anyway — don’t tell anyone I said that.”

She continues to stare incredulously at you while the tines of her fork stab a pancake. You should know better than to think she would.

“It was somewhat motivational at first,” you sigh, relenting somewhat, “And sometimes it’s still fun, but I mean, he’s just so… Merlin, he’s so…”

“Good.”

Your agreement is a face plant and groan into your textbook.

It’s Defense Against the Dark Arts then.

Two months later, with eyes sunken by the sleeplessness of a winter holiday with your extended family and a new year rampant with work, you prepare. DADA is Hogwarts’ entry into several Ministry fields — auror, DMAC agent, virtually anything in the Department of Mysteries — but you know the position Riddle is vying for is within the castle walls. Everyone knows that. You have no interest in it, but if a poxy little office at Hogwarts is his heart’s desire, far be it for you not to make him sweat for it.

So you let him take notice. Your notes are sprawling with counter-curses, your textbooks with addendums, even your wrists — when parchment is sparse — are bleeding with the ink of cursory reminders: advanced concealment charms, manticore trails, sustained langlock. You have no idea what knowledge is expected on the test, so you reassert your knowledge of all of it.

The day Tom realises your intention, there’s all but a tic in his jaw to prove it. Good enough for you.

He’s returning a bottle to the potions cabinet while you’re feeling proud of yourself, when he stops behind you, barely clicks his tongue at your open notebook, and remarks tonelessly, “Manticore skin isn’t resistant to freezing spells.”

You tilt your head, mouth agape. He’s already gone.

“I think I might actually aim for DADA professor now,” you tell Annette that night, scowling, stomach-down on your four-poster with your head in your hands. “I mean genuinely, out of spite. I don’t want him to have it.”

Her reflection glares at you as she puts her hair into curlers.  “You’ve officially lost it.”

“You didn’t see him, Nettie! He was so smug about it —”

“Which you are not.”

“Ugh.” You’re almost shaking. It’s objectively embarrassing. “The galleons I would give to see him fail at something, just once…”

She flops onto her bed and waves off the light. “Best of luck with that, darling.”

Luck is not what you need.

You’re certain he’s sped up his studies in some regard for the fact that your name remains firmly below his in DADA for the next three weeks. It’s always been his best subject, yes, but there should be some degree of fluctuation. That’s the game. You cross him only for him to push harder and find his way back, and vice versa. But ever since your stint in Potions, he’s immovable. And yet, if his efforts have indeed doubled, he doesn’t show it at all.

Tom Riddle is impervious. You’re starting to think he’s not entirely human.

There’s something exhilarating, typically, about competing with him — about even being entertained as contest. You won’t deny you’re impressed by him as much as you’re frustrated; that he’s managed to climb so high from the strange, quiet boy you remember in your early years, a muggle-born with nothing to his name — he’s still completely amiss, wrong inside in a way you can’t quite deduce, and you do vow to best him, but that isn’t nothing.

The usual exhilaration is lost in his refusal to give you so much as an inch. There’s no fight. You’re in the library day in and day out, your parents have been made aware of your newfound interest in DADA which means the course is set, and Tom doesn’t even have the decency to seem annoyed.

You avert his stolen glance when he enters that evening after dinner, in the slim hours before curfew when most would rather study in their common rooms. Minutely straighter, you cross your legs and jot something down in your notes.

He chooses to sit at a table directly in your line of sight. The prick.

It takes fifteen minutes and profound effort to fully re-immerse yourself in your work, and then your knee taps the edge of the table in rapid focus rather than frustrated distraction. In the last free hours of the night, you write five thoughtful pages assessing the many theories on Patronus forms and causality. The moonlight is soft on your cheek, your hand clamps down on a yawn, and you feel almost sated. Riddle aside, the research is good. You almost understand his interest. You almost don’t glance at him at all (except when he rummages through his bag for new ink, or another student departs and your eyes are pulled to him by no fault of your own but the tug toward movement) or wonder with your head stubbornly down whether he’s glanced at you at all.

He clears his throat. He’s standing at your table (since when?), a brow raised in scrutiny at your notes. On instinct you tuck them into your book. “Did you need something?”

His mouth tugs at the corner. “The library is closing.”

Oh. Lips pursed, you nod, slightly ruffled, but you'll be damned if he knows that. “Right. Thanks."

He waits for something more, but you only start to tidy your work. 

“Were you working on the Patronus Charm?” he asks. 

Catch.

“No," you say obviously, because it's an insult for him to think you'd need to. “I was studying theories on the Patronus Charm."

 “I fail to see the distinction.” 

Bite.

“A reflection of your cursory judgement," you say through a tight smile, yanking your bag over your shoulder and standing up.

There’s a hint of dryness in his tone, a flicker of his brows going up at your reaction. You offered too much. Still, he answers with a smile either more honest than your own, or more believable in its deception. “Allow me to walk you back.” 

Reel.

Or do the muggles call it hook, line, sinker?

Oh, but how soft his voice is when he’s caught. He would be so good at being kind if he could mean it.

“I’m quite fine on my own,” you answer stiffly, striding past him.

“Shall I pace myself ten steps behind you as we walk in the same direction, then? That’s rather inconvenient for us both."

You don’t appreciate how even his derision is masked in charisma, like it’s lighthearted, like you’re friends. It’s starting to feel somewhat manipulative — that he plays the part so well you might have begun to doubt yourself were you a few cells lighter in the head. Fortunately, you are not. You scowl away the imprint of doubt like the most bitter of women, ironically antithetical to your parents’ desires for you (which are, of course, still a factor in why you’re doing all of this): that you be a wise, accomplished, pretty pureblood heir sans disposition of an ired spinster. 

It’s not your fault, really. It’s just Tom.

“Do as you like,” you tell him, and he would like, apparently with great interest, to walk with you.

His shoes click smoothly on the stone, so much sleeker and finer than the ones you remember he wore once, and he doesn’t allow you the reprieve of silence.

“You’re markedly more interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts this term.”

How does a sentence so innocuous feel so much like winning? Because he cares. He noticed — he cares. God, you’re pathetic, but it sparks to life two realizations and a question.

There is a game at play here.

He’s playing it too.

How long has it been going?

It doesn’t matter. You bury your glee, admittedly overeager and underlaid with exhaustion.

“Apprenticeships will be filling soon,” you hum noncommittally, “I realized I overlooked the subject.”

“I wasn’t aware you overlooked anything.”

You raise a brow. “Apparently so, unless you’ve been looking too much.”

“My apologies,” he says unapologetically, “I only meant to say you’re otherwise astute. I’ve a tendency to find my compliments lost in my presumptions, but then most people don’t notice that either, so perhaps I was right.”

“Or perhaps you presume as excessively as you look.”

He smiles. There’s nothing kind in it. “Do you resent the observation itself or that I’m the one making it?”

“Are you arguing with me?” you ask dumbly, but if a bullet-point list of Things Tom Riddle Does Not Do is in the making, and he’s already offered you self-deprecation, self-awareness, and addressing the unspoken, then arguing plainly should be next. There are far dumber things to ask.

He doesn’t look to agree, and he’s still smiling insufferably. “Not at present. Best of luck with the apprenticeship.”

The door to your common room sighs open with his muttered passphrase. You hadn’t even realized you’d arrived. He doesn’t glance back at you once as he enters, disappearing into the men’s dormitories before you have half a response conjured. Of course, you dwell on it all night, considering a hundred worthy rebuttals to be better prepared next time.

Next time is not for another two months.

Exam season is approaching with a pace rapid enough to stir even the more careless academics among your peers. Quidditch has taken pause, the library is full each night, and a few professors have opened their offices an extra hour or two for additional assistance. You take them up on it often. If you weren’t sleeping before, you certainly aren’t now. Your eyes are bloodshot as a teething vampire’s — a creature for which you now know more than you’d ever cared to before — and your hands jittery with an age beyond your own. You are, effectively, destroying yourself. It makes your parents incredibly proud.

Their letters urge you through the season, stern reminders of potential arrangements to marry and social events dotting every weekend of the summer, that a witch who’s devoted so much of herself to her studies must finish with something to show for it. It’s support in the loosest definition, but it’s what you know. Annette, fortunately, has also come around to your chosen field (though she continues to remind you your reasons are ridiculous), and so you persevere, entangled with the Dark Arts in a way that you never imagined you’d actually enjoy. The predicament is horrible, of course; you would have done well to retain the information from the past near-decade of studies instead of cramming it for a quick runner-up mark.

Is there a way to blame this on Tom? You’ll find one.

He’s an efficient puppeteer, you’ll give him that. The wane and wax of his interest stirs at a nascent hunger in you. He knows exactly how much to offer before rescinding it. His approval, and better yet his ire, are somehow more desirable than that of your pureblood competitors. They were always going to be a challenge. Tom was owed nothing, and had taken it anyway.

If Annette could hear your thoughts she’d urge you to write a love letter and get it over with. Internally, you argue with this imaginary accusation.

This time it’s the common room, half-empty as moonlight spills into the lake, and he takes the seat opposite yours without greeting. He settles softly. You stiffen, finger at the corner of your current page. You hover over a chapter on Ekrizdis until the letters blur.

“You weren’t at dinner,” he finally says.

“Am I your charge?” you respond without looking up. 

You’re giddy. You cannot let it show on your face. His observation alone is an admission of defeat that you will not mar by feeding into it.

“Technically the entirety of Slytherin house are my charges.”

“Then you should at least pretend to remain impartial.”

“Perhaps you could teach me so that I might improve, beginning with pretending to read to appear indifferent.”

You glare at him over the edge of your book and set it down quite forcefully on the table. You cross your legs. You cross your arms for good measure. The huff of air is not for display — he’s just incredibly annoying.

And he smiles. Barely.

“I don’t think I need to teach Tom Riddle the art of pretending,” you say coolly, “Nor do I need his lecture.”

“Meaning?”

“Ah, see? Now you’re pretending to be stupid. I think you understand exactly what I mean.”

“And you’re pretending to have enough interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts to pursue a career in it.”

“You obviously have some assumption you’d like to share, so by all means, do.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get my attention.”

You scoff up a laugh. “If I were, I’m sure I’d be thrilled. You’re here. I evidently have it.”

“And what do you intend to do with it?”

He’s serious. Serenely, slow-blinkingly serious. 

It’s a preposterous question, for one, and you’re momentarily stunned by the urge to interrogate what answer he wants, rather than consider the truth. And you think maybe that is the answer: to make him want what only you can give him. The evidence of it is sitting in front of you. You’ve pushed beyond curiosity and into fixation. He wants to understand and you want him to be driven mad by it. There is nothing else to ‘do with his attention.’ This is it.

Your lack of response only spurs him on. “How far are you going to take this?”

You don’t know. Merlin, you have no fucking idea, because you don’t know what you want. A petty contest should not induce an identity crisis, but — how far are you going to take this? The outline of your life is all but preordained: you’ll graduate, you’ll attend the obligatory summer social rituals, you’ll sit through idle conversation with potential marriage matches like the muggle women of last century, and you’ll work in any field you like because you’re good at everything and not particularly interested in anything. 

DADA is… different. You’re not too fussed about the performance of it in the way most aurors are, waving their wands with the most impressive spells they can think of. It’s the subtleties not taught in your curriculum that have been fascinating. The history of how these spells came to be, the origins of the monsters and by extension the necessity of new protections, the mastery of invention, of bestial capture, of strenuous research compiled over millennia; the core of the subject is phenomenally understated, and for that reason understandably overlooked. 

And maybe professor at Hogwarts is not your highest aspiration — that’s still the game — but you’ve craned your neck over too many tomes in the past few months to dismiss the entirety of your study as summer refuse.

“How far can I take it before you stop me?” you ask instead.

He smiles. “I don’t intend to stop you.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“What? Watching you struggle, for once, to keep your place beside mine? No.”

He says it with such certainty that your cheeks go hot. Like it’s so absurd to imagine you could ever get to him.

“Say what you like,” you press, defensive, “but you’ve come to me twice now, and I know your intrigue is never without suspicion. Do you vanish from the library merely to study more frantically alone? Do you go there only to sit in my line of sight?”

“Do you watch me?”

Embarrassment has a habit of making you angry. Some might say it stems from entitlement. You don’t really care. With all of the etiquette you’ve spent your lifetime absorbing swiftly discarded, you rise from your seat, grab your book, and tell him with the words a bit uncanny to fuck off.

Admittedly, a few more seconds and you might have come up with something less inarticulate and more befitting your station.

Barely halfway across the carpet, you stop, laugh, turn on your heel and laugh again, because how dare he? “You came here just to inform me of my absence at dinner, you absolute — you watch me!”

You stomp off again, passing by his chair when he speaks.

“I do.”

Your heel snags on the tassels of the carpet. The book is comically heavy. There’s a gust of wind, underground, in a room with no open windows, for the first time in the thousand years since its construction. These are the reasons you stumble. There is no correlation between those two words and your feet slipping out from under you.

And yet, you don’t fall. Only in the most blatant sense is crisis averted.

When his fingers balance you by the hip, it is well and truly not because it’s Tom that you react. You’d swear the same thing under Veritaserum and hear the words spill out true: touch is touch. Human beings who have long gone without it will respond when they finally get it, no matter the person. A shudder. A reflex. An instinct to lean in or out, and yes, this time it’s in. That’s all it is; Tom’s instinct — uncharacteristically kind, perhaps — to wrap his hand around whatever will steady you, with fingers long and pressure firm. 

You suck in a breath, goosebumps darting across the sliver of skin exposed by your raised jumper. It’s not because it’s Tom that you react. It is absolutely because it’s Tom that you react like this.

This, to be clear, is not much. For a woman accused of obsession, you’d hold up decently under Annette’s scrutiny now. It is the aforementioned shudder and horripilation at his sudden touch, a fleeting little gasp like opening a door and finding it a few degrees colder than expected, but you hardly tremble in his hold like a vestal damsel. And you are technically exactly that, so what does it matter? Tom Riddle certainly hasn’t been busying himself between anyone’s legs with all the time he doesn’t have, and if he had you would have known, because everyone would have known, and all things considered it’s a bit strange to wonder with such defensiveness at someone’s hypothetical virginity, but describing Tom’s as hypothetical at all is honestly a testament to your generosity.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t need to be much. All it takes is the moment of hesitation before pulling away to become aware of the point of contact. Not that it’s owed or wanted or reviled in any way, but that it had not existed before and now it does. And this, in every tangible way, changes nothing, but in his eyes, slipping away with apology, you understand quite ridiculously that it might change everything. Now it exists, and that means it could exist again.

The thought doesn’t take long to ruin your life.

In fairness, you’ve done a great job of ruining your life all on your own, and this is really a footnote in a very long list, but the ink bleeds through the rest. You are stained by awareness, itching through spring allergies and schoolwork and preparations for graduation. It’s there under everything: the knowing. Some irrational anticipation for a thing you can’t name. Tom hands you a beaker in Potions and you’re actively avoiding the brush of his pinky like you’re five years old and newly horrified at the prospect of cooties. The knowledge goes both ways, of course — Tom is too perceptive not to have noticed the change began with his fingers on your skin — but you’re not so egotistical to imagine it’s as ruinous for him as it is for you.

God, you hope it is.

May comes. Sun bursts through Scottish rain, pulling you (by Annette’s hand) to study in the courtyards for the final stretch of your final term. Your mother sends flowers and well-wishes wrapped in delicate warnings. The message is in her letter as delicately as it wafts through your dormitory in a bouquet of anemone and cosmos: anticipation and order: this is it. Her reminder resides in a charmed vase on your windowsill, red as a blister. 

The tests for the various apprenticeships offered to graduating students are not so dissimilar from the ones you took in your earlier schooling, and Annette wasn’t wrong in assuring you you’d pass them easily. Of course, you won’t be told until the summer that you’ve passed them, but you know. You don’t falter for a moment. Not for the Ministry’s trials or the Alchemist’s League or St. Mungo’s Healer’s Apprenticeship. It’s half an effort to surpass their expectations; the worst consequence at the end of each day is a sore wrist. 

At night, you lie in bed and wonder if it’s the lack of competition. There’s no board to track your name on, and no one you respect who wants the positions you’re seeking anyway, and you’re hardly seeking them yourself, and — is it respect? Is that what you feel for Tom? 

You don’t know. The more you succeed, the less you seem to feel at all.

By June, you’ve exhausted every trial but the undesirables, and the charm on your mother’s flowers has begun to falter. Red petals wilt to brown on your windowsill.

So when a hollow morning rises where you decide to do something you want, with no one else to tell you to want it, you do it quietly, because you’re not sure you know how to do it any other way.

It’s a Sunday. The halls are quieter, dispersed now that there’s light outside to relish in, and there’s no need to tiptoe like you’re out past dark, but you may as well. The post was pinned outside Tomes and Scrolls. The vellum was fittingly thin and ecru, with no flourishments or golden frame. And there you went, and here you are, and it feels like a belated teenage rebellion to even entertain something so simple.

The test is half spoken and half defensive. None of the spells are extraordinary displays of magic, but practical — examples of what you might need to know should you ever encounter the odd danger in a field study. The recruiter is old. His skin is sun-spotted and honey. He wears fabrics of great texture and colour, with seams worn from years of use, and in his eyes you see the glint of everything he has seen. There’s so much of it. He isn’t a paid lackey of some magical superior, reading from a script designed to buy you too. He is a living extension of his study. There’s no contest, and so there’s no prize, and for once, absolutely fucking nonsensically, you want. You feel something.

In the courtyard, with your textbook open beside you, Annette picks wildflowers in hues of yellow. You empty your mother’s vase and fill it with them instead.

“It’s an archivist position,” you tell her quietly, like it’s a secret, “or — it’s a bit complicated. There are archives in the shop, but the job is field archaeology? He studies the birthplaces of magic, old battlefields and castles and — I don’t know. I liked it.”

Annette laughs, shaking her head.

You sulk. “You think it’s ridiculous.”

“Stop,” she scolds, but her smile is still there. “I think it’s fucking brilliant, actually.”

“What?”

“You’re doing something just because you like it. It’s been a long time since you’ve done that.”

You bite your cheek. “So I should take it, if I get it?”

Annette deadpans, your name flat and accusatory when she speaks. “If you don’t take this job, I’m going to kill you.”

Ear-to-ear, you grin.

In the last weeks of school, you write only a brief letter to your parents and await a howler each morning at breakfast. You receive none. There’s only a slip of parchment too small to fill an envelope, falling over your first meal of June.

We’ll discuss it when you’re home, your mother says. Sincerely is how the message ends, but you wouldn’t call it that.

Shoved swiftly into your pocket, you find you care less than you probably should.

The repetitive ritual of saying goodbyes and see-you-laters becomes tedious when you’re unsure who falls into which category. You gift your favourite professors small tokens of gratitude and wish them well. Courses dwindle to the summer-steady pace of a curriculum at its bittersweet end, with nothing but a week’s worth of exams to keep you here. It’s nice. To sit in the sun over shared notes and reminisce, to wonder whose faces you’ll know long enough to see age, and who will filter to this moment in time.

Tom is under one of the trees, shaded from the sun and kissed by the breeze. You can’t place which one he’ll be to you.

It’s harder to decide this than the archivist post. Annette, like she’s been waiting for you to come to a conclusion she had years ago, is the one to push you. There are no threats of murder this time, but her glare instills fear enough. Now you’re here, pacing a corridor you had to charm to get to, which feels ridiculous already, but — you can want more than once, can’t you? You can have more than one thing, for no selfless reason, or selfish reward, and with great risk to your pride.

So you knock. A moment passes. You think your heart is going to burst from your chest.

The door to Tom’s dormitory opens and he looks exactly how you imagined he would, late at night, alone and still half-performing. He’s taken off his blazer, at least, folded over the back of his chair, quill propped on an ink pot and candles softly dancing. His tie is absent. You try not to let your eyes drift too far down from his undone buttons, but — so is his belt. He’s as dishevelled as you’ve ever seen him, and the surprise that flickers across his face is still gone too soon.

You swallow. Sense would inform you that this is where a greeting goes; you don’t provide him with one.

“I’m not going for your post.”

Tom straightens somewhat. “You’re not.”

“No.”

“Just like that?”

“It wasn’t quite that simple, but yes, I suppose.”

“So that’s the answer, then? To how far you’d go?” he asks, chin raised, “Right to the end only to not follow through — It’s unlike you.”

“It’s not like that,” you protest, because it isn’t, you’re not giving up or handing him anything. “I didn’t know if I wanted it or not. Now I know I don’t.”

“And what did you want?”

“I wanted it to bother you.”

“Why?”

You sigh. “Does it matter now?”

“Well, for once you came to me. I’m assuming it was for more than to tell me the job is mine.”

“The job isn’t yours yet, Riddle. Some other poor sop might still take it out from under you.”

“I’d curse them for it. Why did you come here?”

“Would you have cursed me?”

He says your name, softly, a warning to steer you back in place. He’s smiling, so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you hadn’t trained yourself to notice everything about him. “Why did you come here?”

You know he won’t ask again.

“Because I didn’t know what I wanted, and now I do, and for a while it was bothering you, and then it became bigger than you. I don’t know when that happened.” You shake your head, aware of the insanity of your confession. “I like the work. It was unnerving at first; I’ve almost forgotten how to like anything without some greater reason, and now the reason is just me, and somehow I — I still wanted to tell you. In the spirit of learning to want things properly, I suppose. I was looking for your name under mine all week. ”

“Your overconfidence is characteristic enough to rule out possession.”

“Please, I was one assignment away from taking your spot and you know it.”

“You still haven’t told me why.”

“Because I like it when your jaw clenches,” you say miserably, if everything is to come out now, “or your shoulders go taut. I like when you try to pretend I don’t get to you, and fail.”

“Why?” he breathes. It’s different from the last.

“Because it’s involuntary. You try so hard to be in control, and yet in this one thing, you can’t.”

“Can you?”

Of course you can; your will has been steel as long as you’ve had it. You could walk away now if you wanted. 

But you step forward, and Tom understands.

“Tell me you want to keep it, and I’ll let you," you whisper, and it comes out a bit jagged, like the line you're both treading. “But I’ll give you mine if you don’t.” 

He clenches his jaw. There's a second. An inch. His breath on your skin, still guarded, but with eyes flitting down to your lips.

“What do you want, Tom?”

There is a literal threshold now, your feet at the line of his doorway, and his hand slips from the frame as if by accident. You know better than that. The space is open to slink beside him, to cross the threshold, to take his silent offer. 

“Oh,” you inhale, mouth twitching not to smile, and his body is close enough now to relish the warmth of his hitching breath.  “I think I know.”

You hear it again when he kisses you.

The technicalities of a kiss are lost to it,  like he’s breathing life into you, and you’d think of it clinically because you’ve known it no other way — to succumb to a wave and wake up to new air blown from mouth to lung, the practiced rhythm of resuscitation — only this isn’t that. There’s no purpose to it but the feeling, sprawled under him and still standing, the door slammed shut, the clumsy brush of noses. You’re surrounded, solid at all sides. 

It's a good thing he's already dishevelled and in no position to complain if he wasn’t, because your fingers wind through the gaps between his buttons, the eager jumping of his pulse where you find his heart. That does nothing to save you, however — you entered this room pristine. Any mess made of you will inarguably be by his hands.

And a mess of you he does make.

“Tom," you sigh between kisses, and you feel his smile on your lips before you see it.

Tom. Not Riddle.

“What was that?”

“Shut up," you hiss, fingers (very deftly, you must say, for the way his hands are travelling down your back) prodding at the uppermost buttons to pop it free. It seems to be resisting. Fucking nuisance. You yank it clean off.

“You're a mess,” he tuts. 

He’s a mess. He's wild, half-unbuttoned and reckless, all of his careful restraint broken to splinters, and you’re kissing him like you’re starving, damn the whole thing.

But when have you felt like this? When have you been kissed like this? When have you wanted, simply, and had? Never.

“What are we doing?” you ask with a disbelieving laugh, like it’s only dawning on you now that you were raised not to do precisely this with men like him.

His answer is low in his throat, warm where his mouth drags down yours. “Don’t you know?”

“You always answer a question with a question.”

“You ask too many.” He glances up at you, and the look in his eyes is devastating. “Let me.”

It’s a request even if it isn’t spoken like one, so earnestly not Tom in its honesty that any reason urging you to deny him is lost to the satisfaction of a thing like that. Neither of you, who seem to know everything, know this.

You barely breathe a yes but he’s so close that it doesn’t matter. He hears you, he knows, and he’s mouthing along your collar while his fingers work on your buttons.

“You’ll have to tell me what you like,” he says at your chest, pressing kisses lower and lower. His teeth drag where he finds your leaping pulse. One of his hands slips your blouse off your shoulder.

“Will I?” you murmur dizzily, clasping a hand in his hair.

Goosebumps trail after his fingers, drifting along the swell of your breast. His smile presses against newly exposed skin. “Another question?”

The bra slips down and you’re half-bare before him, strangely uninhibited, warm with anticipation at what you’ve been taught to find terrifying, because Tom is too. Because he’s studying every inch of you as it’s revealed, as if you are something new to be learned as he wills himself to learn all else. This, you’ll let him best you in. This you will not argue.

He inches down, one knee on the floor before the other, and you can’t imagine that’s the way these things usually go — the positioning seems strange for what you know is meant to be done — but you keep your word. You card your fingers through his hair and watch as his gaze raises higher with every inch he sinks lower.

“You’re insatiable.”

He kisses your stomach. “For you.”

“For everything.”

“Mm.” He lifts your skirt around your waist. He nips your stockinged thigh. “For you.”

The intimacy of his gaze wracks through you, and you shudder, careening over him, hastily gripping his shoulder for purchase. Instinct bids you follow him down, but he stops you. Holds you still. And his hands trace the shape of your thighs to your hips, the elasticity of the stocking band tested when he hooks a finger beneath it and pulls. 

“Tom,” you say, as equally a warning as it is a demand.

You expect his chastisement, but he’s preoccupied, gazing at every stretch of you revealed as he tugs your stockings down. He’s half-knelt now like he’s posed to propose, and he abandons his pursuit momentarily for the buckle of your heels. Guides your foot to rest on his knee. Softly, slowly, slips the rest of your stocking free. Discarded, he kisses the bare skin of your ankle with his eyes still on you.

Context fills in the gaps of your inexperience as his lips trail higher. You pull gently at his hair, coaxing a little noise from him that makes you stutter. “What are you doing?”

Tom tilts his head. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I — No, I — it just isn’t what I… Where did you learn about this?”

His hands snake up the backs of your thighs, finding the last remnant of silk that separates you. “I didn’t.”

The implication is overwhelming. There’s no cause to draw, no attempt to master something read once but never tried, no game. He just wants you.

You nod at an unasked question, and the silk falls. Tom’s breath quickens. Flustered, heart pounding, you look up and away at anything but him — his stack of texts, an engraved chest, the emerald canopy of a bed far more appropriate for this. He digs into your hips for your attention. A breath of your name nearly sighed. You meet his waiting gaze.

“Look at me,” he says.

He leaves no time for you to flush and hide away from him. His fingers slide between your legs. There was a word you imagine meant to come out of your mouth but you can’t remember it. His name is all that you find.

And that he is unpractised in this doesn’t mean he doesn’t endeavour to learn, with every quickened breath, shudder, grasp of his hair, what you like. And you suppose he asked you to tell him, but he didn’t ask you how. He hears you well enough, a moan when he finally presses into you. There’s a moment to adjust, an overwhelm at the newness of it, and then you’re sighing like you could melt, held up by the desk behind you and his hand pressing into your hip.

His mouth follows quickly. You understand without any pretext that this is exactly what he wanted. 

“Tom, I —”

He does nothing but shush against you, his finger curling, his lips sinfully wet. You arch back, fumbling at the desk. It’s an effort you’re losing to remember to look at him, but his grip tightens when you stop, and he hasn’t stopped once — every time your head lulls back to him, he’s already looking. His eyes are half-lidded, blocked from all light but the warm silhouette of the candles behind him, and it chokes a gasp out of you. You think, in the haze of your desire, that you want to make him feel like this too.

And then the thought is gone with all your others. Another finger slides against you, works its way inside so softly, curls right beside the next one. He pulls away from you for a moment, teething the skin of your thigh, licking the mess he’s made. You’re shaking. You can’t look at him. You can’t, you can’t —

His breath fans over you for a second, tongue dragging, and you’re arched halfway onto the desk now, so he relents, pushes you up by the hips so you can sit, spreads you wider to accommodate him. It’s different. He’s deeper somehow. You whine into nothing, bucking against him. He throws one leg over his shoulders and you copy with the other.

“Please, I need —”

“I know.”

His voice is hoarse — you feel it as much as hear it — and faintly, impossibly, you catch a tone of restraint in it. There’s no restraint in what he’s doing to you. You can’t imagine what more he could possibly be withholding. But you slip a trembling leg from his shoulder and understand, hard between his legs where your foot just briefly brushes against him. You gasp as his motions stutter and you’re shoved back in place.

“Tom, you can — ah —”

Apparently not. He repositions you again and that’s all the answer you get, thighs wedged apart, fingers pulled free and digging wet into your hips to pin you there. You make a sound of protest at the emptiness, but it provides his mouth new access. It’s like he’s trying to consume every part of you he couldn’t already, and you want him to. You’ll let him. You understand with his tongue, drinking greedily from you: here’s the restraint gone. All of it. 

It breaks you. The crash gleams like a kaleidoscope, so dizzying to every sense that you can only hold onto him and pray. And you might be sighing brokenly through it, but your voice is gone to the feeling. Tom doesn’t stop for a second; if anything it spurs him on, and you are limp to all sensations, his notes spilled across the floor where you’ve been splayed on the desk for him.

You’re panting as you come down, and he’s suckling softly at the skin of your inner thighs again, hands rubbing soothing shapes above your knees. You look down at him. He still hasn’t looked away. 

“You’re…” You don’t have words for him. You fall back against the desk again.

“Mhm.” You’d mistake his patient mumble for something sweet if you didn’t know him any better.

“Maybe you should be a teacher.”

Tom breathes out a laugh, lips still trailing down, his reverence overwhelming. He doesn’t seem ready to part from this. You think you can convince him.

“All right, fine,” you say breathlessly, “help me up.”

He raises a brow.

“What? It’s my turn.”

[g1rld1ary]

who's your friend? - james potter x reader

wc: 745 summary: james tries a pick up line on you at a party me: this is tiny but i wanted to just write something after such a long time not touching anything bc of uni!!

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the party you were at was kind of lame. the drinks were gone, the music was lame, and your friend was draped over some guy’s lap. you knew you weren’t going to get her back anytime soon, and you didn’t know that you even minded — it only meant you’d have to plaster on a fake smile for another hour.

you thought about finding your own man to throw yourself at, but honestly no one you’d seen yet was giving you much inspiration, but maybe that was just because of your sour mood.

you rummaged around in your bag, searching for something to occupy your time, settling on redoing your lip combo in the tiny compact you brought along everywhere. that could only keep you busy for so long though, and you were once again looking around the party for something to occupy your attention.

unbeknownst to you, someone else had set their eyes on you, keenly observing you carefully, pencil lining your lips.

“who’s that?” james asked, lounging coolly against the party host’s kitchen island, drink in hand. his eyes were locked on your figure, dabbing lip gloss onto your lips, eyebrows slightly furrowed in focus.

“dunno, must be a friend of a friend. fit though,” sirius replied, hardly moving from his position sprawled across remus.

“don’t be crude. she’s gorgeous.” james looked remarkably like a puppy, unable to stop looking at you.

“go talk to her then, prongs. she’s just a girl,” remus suggested, hand subconsciously rubbing circles on sirius’ skin, the other hand lazily holding the neck of a beer bottle.

james nodded, bouncing on his heels to hype himself up, breathing in and out a few times to gather the nerve. sirius and remus exchanged a look, unused to seeing james nervous to approach a girl.

“hi,” james said, drawing your attention.

“hey,” you replied, sliding your makeup back into your little purse.

“enjoying the party?” he asked, and you quirked an eyebrow, trying to assess his intentions. you thought he might’ve been hitting on you, but he wasn’t getting as close or as sleazy as most of the twenty-something party guys you usually met.

“i suppose so,” you replied, “but i’ve been ditched, so… what about you?”

“oh! yeah, it’s fine. not cool you got ditched though.” your lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile, somehow charmed by the boy.

james eventually did remember to introduce himself, engaging you in smalltalk for another minute, which was longer than you anticipated.

“so…” he trailed off, suddenly growing nervous. “my friend thinks you’re cute.”

you raised your eyebrows, surprised it took him this long to get to his mission.

“which friend would that be?” you glanced behind him to the group of three boys, very unsubtly watching your interaction.

“me.” your eyes snapped back to james, not the answer you were expecting. you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, lighthearted surprise at his terrible pickup line.

james smiled at your smile, the two of you creating a moment in the middle of the chaos of the party.

“would my friend be able to get your number?” he asked, and you subconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“i mean, yeah why not,” you laughed, writing your number on his (attractively big) hand, “you can tell him i think he’s kinda cute.”

“awesome!” he laughed, the other hand going to rub the back of his neck. “well, i should probably get back to my friends, but it was really nice to meet you.”

“yeah, you too, james. you can tell your friend it’s nice to meet him as well.” james flushed a brilliant shade of red, nodding and stuttering as he stumbled his way back to his friends, who were all eagerly awaiting a full report of the conversation.

you’d finally found your friend, who’d been turned off of her man for one reason or another, pulling her aside to point out james.

“he’s cute!” she cried, squealing until you had to slap your hand over her mouth. you’d obviously drawn the attention of his dark-haired friend, who was laughing at both of you. you dragged her out of the room before he could draw james’ attention and embarrass you further, but a smile was blooming on your lips as you remembered james’ ridiculous pickup line.

[scariusaquarius]

rehab. 37.

Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Winter Soldier! Fem! Reader

Summary: While on a mission to find any more possible super soldiers that were a part of the Winter Soldier program, Steve and Bucky make a discovery in an abandoned HYDRA base that was cleared out a few years prior to their mission. They discover the Reader, a long-forgotten soldier that was still asleep within a functioning cryostasis pod; still awaiting orders. While Bucky isn't happy about it, he is put up to the challenge of helping to rehabilitate the soldier in Wakanda where she may be able to become a person again.

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A/n: I'm very sorry that this took so long to write. A lot of things are happening irl that need my attention, and my sleep has been prioritized because of how little I actually sleep. And i have a massive headache today, so that's why there is no story summary ;-; I'm sorry yall Also, if you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee! If you would prefer to read Rehab on Archive, you may do so right HERE!

This is an au where Bucky joined the avengers but still rehabilitated in Wakanda (sometime before Infinity War [canon divergent cause NOPE]). I am NOT fluent in Russian, so I did use google translate cause I couldn't find a good translator that I trusted. If anything is wrong, PLEASE let me know!! Also, I tried to list as many warnings as possible so you know what the story will contain as chapters are posted. Stay safe!

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Genre: Slowburn, Enemies to Lovers/Friends to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Humor, Drama, Dark Content Rated: Explicit Warning: Angst, Dark Content: Graphic Depictions of Sexual Assault, Blood and Gore, Mentions of Manipulation, Kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Body Horror, Nonconsensual Body Modification/Scarring, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts/Ideation, Graphic Depictions of Human Remains, Mentions of Sexual Coercion/Manipulation, Death, Misuse of Drugs/Forced Drugging, Self-Harm (Graphic Depictions and Mentions), Nightmares

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Author: ScariusAquarius

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rehab masterlist. / rehab masterlist 2. chapter 34 / chapter 35 / chapter 36

Knock, Knock, Knock

In the sleeping quarters of the Wakandan Citadel, Steve Rogers had been drawing in his temporary quarters when the knocks came at his door. The second he opened the door, Bucky came in with a frown, pushing past Steve and turning.

"We really need to talk."

Steve's eyebrows shot up slightly, but not at Bucky's words. It was (Y/n), who was looking small, cheeks wet and eyes puffy from crying. She was following closely after Bucky, looking nervous and distant as she glanced around the room, and Steve glanced at Bucky with a look of confusion before shutting the door.

Wordlessly, (Y/n) sat down where Steve had been drawing, her eyes drawn to his notebook, and though Steve didn't mind, his ears still turned a little red from the self-consciousness that tickled at his mind.

"What's going on?"

Bucky looked over at (Y/n) before looking at Steve with a stressed look on his face.

"I'm really doubting having Raynor here. I know she just wants to help, but I don't think her methods are going to be helpful. She's too pushy."

Steve immediately sighed, his shoulders falling slightly, and he sat down on his bed as Bucky paced slightly, Steve watching him closely. Steve mulled over his words for a moment before he settled on asking.

"Alright, why do you think that?"

Bucky stopped pacing, looking at Steve with a frown and talking quietly despite being aware that (Y/n)'s enhanced hearing was going to pick up his words either way.

"Raynor sent her into a panic attack. It was so bad, (Y/n) practically launched me across the room with a single punch. One."

"She hit you?"

Steve glanced at (Y/n), watching the way her fingers ghosted over his artwork; her eyes staring sadly at the page as her ears pricked to listen. Bucky immediately said, raising a hand to gesture at Steve.

"She didn't do it intentionally. She had a flashback, and I fucked up."

At the sound of (Y/n) sniffling, Steve glanced at her, his shoulders falling slightly.

"I-I didn't mean to...I just...I..."

Her voice trailed off, and Bucky sat down next to her, the woman looking up at him with the saddest look he had ever seen her wear. Steve watched quietly as Bucky comforted her softly, his voice just above a whisper as he spoke.

"It's okay, I promise. I'm not mad. If anything, I'm the one who should be apologizing for touching you without warning."

(Y/n) then shook her head as she looked down at Steve's artwork again, a doubtful look within her eyes as she murmured.

"I don't belong here...I...I should've...went back."

Her words made Steve and Bucky's blood run cold, and Steve finally sat down across from (Y/n), who refused to look the man in the eyes as he spoke.

"You were scared and had a trauma response. That's not a crime...but what would be a crime is to go back where they would make you feel the way that you did in the moment over and over again."

(Y/n) was quiet, blinking silent tears out of her eyes, and she whispered brokenly.

"I remember them...I remember all of them...all the people I...I had to hurt..."

Blood on her hands, the taste of flesh in her mouth, the sound of a man screaming as she tore his throat out with her bare hands.

"I don't...want to do that to anyone again...but...I don't know how to complete this mission...I...I don't know how to proceed."

She sniffled and gently thumbed the artwork again, and Steve shared a look with Bucky. They weren't sure what to say at first, silently communicating with each other before Bucky sighed.

"I remember them all too."

(Y/n) glanced up at him, staying quiet for a moment as his words struck a chord in her, and Bucky continued, looking down at his hands as he messed with his vibranium fingers.

"I dream about them, think about them...sometimes, I'll even hear them too...see them...feel them."

Bucky then glanced up at (Y/n), stating earnestly.

"But we owe it to them...to make amends for what we've done. To try, even if it's hard. We might not know how to complete this mission, but as long as we do, that's what matters."

"But what if I fail? What if I never...make things right?"

Steve then gently spoke up, his voice gentle as he looked at (Y/n) the way a brother would their younger sibling.

"You can, and you're going to. Everyone here believes in you and wants to help you achieve that. It's not going to be easy, but even if it's hard, we're going to make it."

(Y/n) as quiet for a moment before she asked quietly.

"Do I even deserve it?"

Steve sighed slightly before he offered carefully.

"I think that's a matter of opinion, not fact. And if you ask me or Bucky? I think the answer will always be yes."

(Y/n)'s eyebrows furrowed a bit before she looked down at her hands, whispering shakily as tears filled her eyes.

"I remember...a target...HYDRA effectuates no witnesses...but...the witness that was with my target...they were just a child."

Her breathing became shallow as she stared down at Steve's artbook, her sketched eyes looking back at her.

"He begged me not to kill her...used her as his shield, but if she had lived and told someone...HYDRA would be at risk. So...I wrapped my hands around her skull, and I squeezed and squeezed until her head cracked and her blood gushed around my hands...they tried to erase me...but no matter how much they tried, I couldn't stop seeing her."

(Y/n) then looked up at Steve, her face contorting into a serious expression as the tears fell down her cheeks.

"Can you still say yes now?"

The room was silent; so quiet that if a pin had dropped, it would sound like an explosion. (Y/n) was still looking Steve in the eyes, but her lips were quivering; hands trembling, and she had to look away. She didn't understand why she felt so angry, but there was a part of her that was furious.

Her fists were clenched, the fear and confusion coursing through her veins like an intrusion, and (Y/n) clenched her jaw as her heart began to pound within her chest. It was quiet for another moment, the only sound of that of the blood rushing through her ears, and suddenly, Steve spoke firmly.

"I can't forgive what HYDRA made you do, but I can forgive you."

Her eyes flicked to his for a second before her lip trembled. The tears hit her like a freight train; the emotions that were trying to spill through finally breaking through the wall, and she began to cry quietly. Her fists clenched again, and Bucky shared a look with Steve before he gradually placed his hand on her shoulder.

(Y/n) didn't flinch. Instead, she allowed Bucky to comfort her through his touch; the warmth of his hand contrasting greatly with the cold that was permeating through her flesh and bones. Steve felt horrible for making her cry, but Steve couldn't lie. It wasn't in his nature to be anything but honest.

But honesty always came with a price.

Bucky spoke softly, his tone twinged with sadness and regret that haunted his words like an unforgiving ghost.

"We can't change what we've done...we can't take back our actions...but we have to take responsibility and be accountable."

(Y/n) glanced down at her lap then, her face blanking slightly, and although both Steve and Bucky became confused by the way she seemed to completely shut down, they were both patient; simply sitting with her in silence as she slowly processed both of their words collectively.

Sighing, Bucky then sat back and took his hand off of (Y/n)'s shoulder, glancing at Steve, and Steve slowly gestured to the door with a nod of his head. Standing up, both men stepped out of Steve's temporary sleeping quarters to talk quietly. Steve's shoulders were tensed, his blonde brows furrowed, and he placed his hands on his hips as he turned to Bucky.

"Bucky, I really think you should let Dr. Raynor take over on this."

Bucky sighed heavily, staring at the door that was separating the men from (Y/n), and Bucky said quietly.

"I don't know, Steve."

Steve shook his head, his eyes gentle but his words firm.

"Listen, I know that you care about her, Bucky, but it's starting to get dangerous. We're too close to this-to her. If we push too hard, we're going to push her away."

"So, what, you want me to just not care?"

Steve gave Bucky an annoyed look, retorting.

"That's now what I am saying, and you know it."

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head as he quipped.

"Sounds a lot like you just said that."

Steve sighed, giving the man a moment to relax before he stated.

"Bucky, I know that this means a lot to you. I'm not saying to walk away, but I am telling you to be careful. You can't pull (Y/n) out of therapy just because you might not like Raynor's methods."

As much as Bucky didn't want to agree, as protective as he was becoming, Bucky knew that Steve was right. He wasn't properly equipped for this; to be helping like this, and he sure as hell wasn't in a position to give advice on how to feel. The only thing that he could do was be there for her.

But Bucky didn't know how to do that without being, well, him.

Steve then clasped Bucky on the shoulder, breaking the man out of his thoughts as Steve encouraged him softly.

"Be there for her, but let Raynor do her job, Bucky. Your job right now is to just be there, alright? She trusts you more than anybody else right now, and that is a really big deal."

Bucky slowly nodded before he glanced at the door again and murmured.

"Alright."

When the men went back into Steve's temporary sleeping quarters, (Y/n) was staring out the window, her eyes distant, and Bucky gently sat down next to her with a sigh. (Y/n) glanced at him through the corner of her eye, and Bucky asked her gently.

"(Y/n), do you want to try again with Raynor? I know it was difficult earlier, and you don't have to if you don't want to, but I think...maybe trying again would be good."

"What if I hurt you...or Raynor?"

Her voice was soft, anxious and small, and Bucky shook his head comfortingly.

"You don't have to worry about that."

He didn't add anything else to his words, but there was no need to. (Y/n) could pick up on the weight of his words; of the promises he was silently offering, and (Y/n) nodded after a moment. Bucky smiled slightly, and he glanced back at Steve, who nodded to him encouragingly. Bucky turned back to (Y/n) when she asked him softly.

"Why did this happen to me?"

Bucky wasn't expecting the question, and he pursed his lips after a moment of thinking. Glancing down at the table, Bucky wasn't exactly sure how to answer.

"Bad things happen to good people for no good reason...it's just the way that life is."

(Y/n) bit her lip then, saying softly.

"I want it to stop hurting."

Bucky was quiet, mitigating his thoughts before he settled and agreed gently.

"I know. Me too. We're going to get there though, okay? One day, things won't seem as heavy or confusing...and you won't feel so lost."

(Y/n) stared at him for a moment, her (e/c) eyes seeming to glow within the sunlight that was filtering through the window, and Bucky's heartbeat began to quicken for a second. His jaw slackened just the slightest, and (Y/n) turned away from him then, her facial expression almost sad.

"I don't...know what is real and what isn't. All the things that I remember...from before HYDRA...I can't make sense of them."

In her mind, (Y/n) knew that the memories had to mean something, but how could she connect to those memories when the main part of her mind was certain these things had never happened? (Y/n)'s existence came about when she was introduced as a Winter Soldier. That's who she had always been...so how was it possible that she had lived a life before it?

These were the thoughts that were starting to get to her; this unknowing and confusion and uncertainty of what is real and what wasn't. It was leaving her mind jumbled, panicking her every time she started to remember because what if it wasn't real? What if these memories were just things that her scrambled mind were putting together?

What if they were implanted memories?

What if they were a part of her programming?

What if they were never hers to begin with?

The woman took a deep and shaky breath, and she finally nodded, whispering softly.

"I would...like to try again."

Bucky nodded before he stood, informing (Y/n).

"I'll go get Raynor then. In the mean time, why don't you get something to eat with Steve?"

(Y/n)'s eyes flicked over to the named man, Steve's kind eyes glancing to her, and he smiled softly as he teased slightly.

"I hear lunch is supposed to be pretty good today."

(Y/n) nodded slowly and stood, glancing back down at the sketchbook, and she asked Steve slowly.

"Did you do that?"

Steve's ears reddened slightly, and he grabbed the sketchbook with a shy gait to his movements.

"Yes. I like to draw when I have the time."

(Y/n) was surprised by the notion, and she bit her lip before the curiosity ate at her enough for her to ask softly.

"Can I...see more?"

Steve was stupefied before he shrugged, Bucky smirking at Steve's shy demeanor as the man agreed.

"Sure, I don't mind."

(Y/n) grabbed the purple crochet bag, murmuring.

"I can...show you the journal too."

Steve's eyes lit up, and he nodded.

"I would enjoy that. Come on, let's get something to eat before you meet with Raynor. A full stomach is always best."

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STORY NOTES:

TRANSLATIONS:

None

TAGLIST: @softpia @thebl00dwyrm @buckvoidsyy @chonkybonky @seemsxsketchy @tilldeathripsusapart @vicmc624 @mgchaser @aash3 @samfunko @seventeen-x @valckenaux @babybeeelle @sc4rrc @cjand10 @bane-y-zane @notsostrangerthing @thenameswinter99 @bumblebeebutter @torntaltos

[aphrosheir]

>>> Red Hair, Red Wine, Red Handed Pt. 1 <<<

[A/N: Like, omg. I've been gone for so long. Anyways, enjoy this Melissa fic. I've been cooking up for the last week. I don't know if it makes sense? I hope it does. Melissa and (Y/N) are idiots. Barb is tired of it. Ava wants drama. I hope I did the amazing storytelling of Abbott Elementary justice—everyone say thank you to Quinta! This has like, a lot of Easter eggs. Have fun finding them. I really had a lot of fun writing this.

ITALICS ARE CONFESSIONALS!!!

For the sake of... fitting the word count, this "oneshot" is going to be split into 3 parts.

If y'all enjoy this, I have an idea—completely unrelated to the plot of this one, but set in the same universe—but I'm not too good at keeping those promises. Depends!]

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

"So, like I said, Melissa should be the one hosting the party!" Jacob announces to the rest of the faculty with finality and glee.

"Calm down, Hill," she warned, giving the man a side glare. "Just 'cause the rest of youses cooking ain't shit, doesn't mean that I'm gonna turn my house into your personal hotel for Christmas."

"I love Christmas. I do. But you think I’m cleaning up Jacob’s Pinterest Turkey Disaster 2.0? Fuggedaboutit."

"Melissa," Barbara clutched her pearls, a look of betrayal crossing her face as she turned to her work wife. "I'll have you know that I make a darn good prime rib and sweet potato pie for my homeboy, J. Christ!"

Janine stares at her work mother with concern, wondering how much pop culture has Ava and (Y/N) been able to slip into her morning coffee today. Her boyfriend, Gregory, on the other hand, just stares at the camera, pointed at them with eyes that pretty much sums up his exasperation.

Meanwhile, (Y/N) is off giggling at the other side of the faculty lounge, enjoying the seed she had planted. She was, after all, a kindergarten teacher. She knew how to have fun.

You see, Christmas was about a week away. (Y/N), ever the one to die without drama, has thought of a most brilliant plan to fuel her desires: A Christmas dinner for the faculty. Chaos at every corner, burnt food, terrible presents, and even worse karaoke. It was perfect.

"What are you giggling at, shortstack?" Melissa's eyes snapped to the girl, her glasses now perched on top of her head and phone on the table. Her enchanting hazel eyes are now on (Y/N).

Well, shit.

(Y/N) loved the Abbott crew. She loved the drama, chaos, and the occasional camera crew that came with them. She loved them like her own family. But she loved one of them a little more than the others.

Oh, how the raging fire draws in the naive moth.

"Me? Well, Melissa, I know that you love me, but what do I have to do with this?"

(Y/N) ignored the burning of her cheeks and sent a wink to the redhead's way, playing down her insanely noticeable crush; flirting shamelessly and fighting like an old married couple—or two immature children, depending on the day.

But the crew was used to it by now, especially Barbara, who raised a perfectly plucked brow, seeing how far the two would take it before finally realising.

"Melissa and (Y/N) are two extremely smart and capable women." Barbara states with the passion and theatrics that the kindergarten teacher usually carries, but her smile drops at the end of the statement. "But God knows that those two are about as oblivious as the walnuts in Ava's oats."

Melissa responded as eagerly as (Y/N) had started, pursing her lips. "Don't play dumb with me, dolcezza. I've shared lunch with you a lot of times. I need someone who isn't gonna burn down the kitchen with water."

"Melissa Ann Caterina Schemmenti asking for help?" Ava's voice cut through the thick, unyielding tension in the air, clearly looking to stir the pot.

"I am so tired of them dancing around each other. And not to mention that (Y/N) basically treats me as her personal diary! She doesn't even pay me. I cannot take this anymore."

"(Y/N), you are quite literally a little miracle."

"Shut it, Coleman." (Y/N) bites back at Ava, hopping off the table where she was seated, before waltzing towards Melissa. She got up right on the redhead's face with a sickly smile, "But then again, how could I ever resist you, mi amore?"

Pretending to roll her eyes, Melissa returned to her already cold macchiato with a scoff. "I still can't host, though. I don't want to be cleanin' up after y'allses drunk asses."

"Oh, well, I can host! Just as long as Janine helps me with the decorations," (Y/N) volunteers, and she swears she could hear Melissa's thick accent muttering about her being a suck-up or something.

"What?" Melissa exclaims at the camera, her glare piercing through the lenses.

Janine squeals, sending a shock through the spines of the faculty. "Of course, I'll join (Y/N)! It'll be an honour."

"I can plan!" Jacob announces, standing with the two girls.

"Okay, so I already have a Pinterest board ready, a playlist we can listen to, and matching outfits!"

"It's like if the sun and Redbull had a baby and them babies were triplets." Ava chimed in, staring at the three youngest members of the faculty exchanging ideas at a hundred miles per hour.

As the clock ticks its last tocks to the end of their break, Jacob stands in the middle of the room, "So, (Y/N) is hosting. She'll be cooking alongside Melissa, and the rest of us will bring a dish of our own—Gregory did you put this in here?"

"I had to."

"Put what where?"

"Open parenthesis, asterisk, caps, underlined, "EDIBLE", exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark, close parenthesis."

The glances exchanged in the room ranged from eye rolls, knowing, mischievous, and downright evil. Later on, Gregory would come to regret his choice of words like a monkey's paw.

"Alright... Well, let's continue. I'm in charge of overall planning, Ava and Barbara running Secret Santa, Gregory, and Janine on décor, O'shon gets the karaoke machine—goodluck, and Mr. Johnson with the clean up. Be there before 4. Any questions?"

A unanimous chorus of "no" from the crew—and a helpless "I ain't cleanin' up no love juice, y'all hear me?" from Mr. Johnson—signalled the end of their meeting. But before Melissa could walk out of the break room, (Y/N)'s fingers danced lightly on her waist.

"You can come a little early if you want to have a bit of fun." (Y/N) 'whispered' theatrically with her signature wink, letting the message ring through the lounge. Emerald-green eyes shoot her a dangerous glare—equal parts mischief and warning.

Barb offers a sign of the cross while Janine is mentally cursing herself for agreeing to come early, too.

"Get a damn room." Ava groans, walking between the two with a force that separated them before stopping at the door frame. "Let me know which one, though."

The crew stares at the cameras.

"Stop it." Gregory states, devoid of emotion, as he just so happens to be beside Ava and spit out the freshly brewed joe he attempted to gulp down back into his "#3 Best Teacher" mug. "STOP IT."

"I think you just broke my man," Janine declares with concern as Gregory's stiff speedwalk carried him into the safety of his classroom.

The day could not have come any sooner for (Y/N), as Melissa actually took up her offer of coming early, claiming that she needed as much prep time as she could have.

"Ava, I don't know what to wear," she muttered on the phone, feeling herself slipping from reality. "I mean, yes—these dresses are absolutely gorgeous, but I don't think they're it, y'know."

The complaints turned into a grumble, making Ava roll her eyes at her friend's antics. "Baby girl, what do you mean 'it'. You don't wanna be lookin' like no clown there."

"Ava Eva Coleman."

"I know, I know. But, girl. Trust me when I say, Red will be all over you anyways! I mean, come on, have you seen the way she looks at you? I swear I could've seen her drooling that one time you were sick and stuck in hoodies for a week."

It was now (Y/N)'s turn to roll her eyes. As much as she was grateful to find an older sister in Ava, she knew that her boss exaggerates... Well, everything.

"Seriously, don't you have any dresses I could borrow?"

"I love you, (Y/N), but these dresses were made for Ava Coleman—and Ava Coleman does not cook."

"Then what am I supposed to wear?"

"Wear the red dress."

"But, Ava, that's too—"

Before she could protest, the hang-up tone beeped through her bedroom and made way to the brain-crushing silence that followed.

Just as she had put down the brown Mac lipstick that Ava had given her, the doorbell had rang, and her heart dropped to her ass. Curses flew around her as she almost burned herself on the iron she had left on her vanity.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

The rings became even more impatient, and (Y/N) could already feel the scalding remarks that the redhead had in-store for her.

"I'm coming, jeez," (Y/N) yelled, padding down the stairs. "Really, Schemmenti, you could've just said that you missed me."

"As if, shortstack. I could say the same for—"

Melissa's quip hung in the air as she took you in, surprise flooding her. But as quick as she was shot down, Melissa was as quick to regain her composure. Of course she did. She was used to the game that you two had played, ever since the first day you've stepped foot into Abbott.

"Well, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you got all dressed up for me, huh, dolcezza?"

That damned nickname always got butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

Stepping back, she let her into the quiant home with a smirk. "You don't look all that bad either; a Philly 11 indeed."

"Yeah, yeah. I still need to fix all of this after we cook, though."

"Hm..." Melissa hummed, raking her eyes over the house. "A house at your age? I'm surprised (Y/N)."

"Okay, I have like... The faintest idea of how old she is. Like, she barely looks 11!"

"It's my father's. One of his properties that he so graciously lent to me. But, I am paying it off. I insisted." (Y/N) looks at the bags hanging on Melissa's fingers, spotting a perfectly wrapped gift in a bag amongst all the cooking supplies she hauled in. A very welcome distraction from whatever the conversation was leading to.

Without another word, she reached down to grab them and set them out on the counter.

"(Y/N), what the hell do you think you're doing," she exclaims in her classic Schemmenti fashion. "Gimme those back."

"Calm down, mi amore." (Y/N) deadpanned, unknowingly letting the nickname slip. She walked over to the massive tree, standing in the middle of her living room and gently placing the gift down. "This is probably the only time you'll see me actually be helpful, and I'm honestly wondering who you got for Secret Santa."

"It's for her. Of course, it's for her."

Melissa looked away from the camera with annoyance. "I don't even know the first thing about the girl."

"I just—she wouldn't shut up about this corny little jawn she found online. Had to call in a favour from a guy I know. Cost me a good chunk'a beer. And gas. And my morals—but hey, who's got 'em in this day and age?"

"Don't even think about peeking, shortie." Melissa fires at her, something triggering her flight of fight mode as her usual quips didn't have the edge thay she had to her voice now. "I could ask you the same thing, seeing as your gift is as huge as Ava's ego."

"It's for someone real special, Red." (Y/N) said in an almost dreamy sigh, Melissa's face contorting into something of a blend between confusion, disgust, and something else that (Y/N) couldn't quite place. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it, hm?"

Melissa pursed her lips again, thoughts running through her head like Sweet Cheeks in his wheel, yet thought better than to push it. The classic Schemmenti move to push away genuine feelings and to opt for:

"Well, just don't expect me to cry for anything less than a thousand buckaroos, hon."

"You're assuming it's for you? Wow, Schemmenti. You wish."

"It's for her. Of course, it's for her." (Y/N) let out a laugh that one could only call deranged. "It's always been Melissa."

"Got her this top of the line, custom-made knife set. My friend, Gordon, recommended it to me. It's heavy for all the chopping that Melissa does and with ornate wood handles with her initials because Italians like the pizzazz."

Clang.

"Shit."

"Mel, you okay back there?"

"M'fine." Melissa replied gruffly.

"But see, that's the thing! That's why I stick to flirting. Melissa is not ready for a relationship. She barely even handles non-romantic emotion properly!"

The camera cuts to Melissa raging a war on the automatic stove—hitting it with a frying pan with a war cry, pushing the buttons relentlessly, staring at it and hoping it'll catch on fire and disintegrate; cursing (Y/N) for having techy gabortz in her kitchen that is crushing her damn pride. "(Y/N), your thingamajig is shit! Stoves are supposed to have knobs, not opinions!"

"And besides, I doubt she even likes me."

[divagrace]

Spoiling Her Pt. 2

Soft!Rafe x Sweet!Pogue!Princess

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Summary: pt. 2 where Rafe spoils reader because he just can’t stop !

Warnings: none! If you can’t tell by now I don’t write MDNI! Lol

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ───

Rafe was excited.

An emotion that he rarely felt past the age of ten. But now he is finally feeling it again. The warmth that spreads through his chest, and the giddy feeling he gets in his stomach.

All because of you.

So he’s decided to spoil you today.

He loves to spoil you every day. Giving you random little gifts and trinkets, sending you some money every time you even hint that you like or want something.

I mean, he literally bought you a brand new phone and iPad when he barely even knew you.

But today isn’t like any other day. Because it finally clicked in Rafe’s head that you are fully turning him into a new person. A better person.

So he wants to thank you for it.

You first wake up to breakfast in bed. A whole assortment of breakfast foods that could feed a family of five.

Pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, fruit. The best for his girl.

“Rafe this is amazing!” You tell him once you finally rub away the sleepiness from your eyes.

“Always for you baby.” He opens his mouth as you go to shove a forkful of pancakes into it.

How chef did a fantastic job that’s for sure.

But the festivities didn’t stop there.

“Get ready baby. I’m taking you shopping.” Rafe whispers in your ear with his arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

“Really?” You ask with excitement.

“Really.”

You run over to the draw of clothes you keep in Rafe’s room. You pick out your favorite pair of jean shorts, a white tank top, and a cutie little brown sweater to put over it.

You head to the bathroom to change and to complete your daily routine.

You’re just putting the finishing touches on your makeup when a knock sounds from the door. You open it to find Rafe typing something on his phone, but one he hears the sound of the door his head shoots up.

“You look gorgeous baby.” Rafe tells you. As always, a blush creeps up on your cheeks, pink and flushed.

“Thank you.” You say shyly.

“You ready?” He asks.

“Yeah. I just need to grab my purse.” You say while brushing past him to grab your purse that’s hanging on the door handle of Rafe’s room.

“Okay now I’m ready!” You say excitedly.

“Alright let’s go hun.” Rafe says while reaching out to grab your hand. He leads you through the winding hallways of Tanny Hill and out the door to his truck parked in the driveway.

He drives the two of you through Outer Banks to the big shopping mall about 20 minutes away.

You bounce in your seat, so excited to go shopping while Rafe walks around to your door. He opens it up and offers a hand to help you out of his truck. He keeps holding onto it while you guys walk to the entrance of the mall.

“Where do you want to go first baby?” Rafe asks you. You think about it, and remember the card you got in the mail at your house a few days ago.

“Sephora! They are having a sale right now.” You say.

You didn’t want Rafe spending too much money on you. Even though you know that you can’t stop him. If you so as much glance at something he’ll try to buy it.

Rafe nods and leads you to the makeup store. Once inside, you’re like a kid in a candy shop, looking at everything with so much excitement.

You never had the luxury of shopping at Sephora until you started dating Rafe. You just could simply never afford it. You always stuck to drugstore products, because they were cheap. And honestly, really freaking good anyways.

That hasn’t stopped you from window shopping at Sephora in the past. So now that you are basically able to buy whatever you want,

You stop to look at a blush you’ve been wanting for ages. You stop and scan all of the different colors, your eyes lingering on a berry shade. Rafe of course notices and throws the blush into the little basket he’s carrying.

You look over at him with a sheepish smile.

“Don’t even think about it baby. Just get it.” He says.

You don’t think Rafe will ever fully understand how most pogues have to do a lot of thinking before they can just buy something. Especially a 25$ blush.

The two of you continue to walk around the store together, and by the time you’re done, the basket in Rafe’s hand is full.

“Rafe I really don’t need all of this. My old products are fine.”

Rafe looks at you, just quietly shaking his head. He walks you guys up to the counter and hands the cashier his card with no hesitation.

“I want to baby. Don’t worry about it.” He says while bringing your intertwined hands together.

Because he can see the look of happiness in your face when you put a lipgloss in the bag. And you being happy, makes Rafe happy.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀

AN: nobody has said anything, but I just want to say really quickly that there is not a certain look to any of my readers. I have noticed in my work that a lot of the pictures I put at the start are skinny white girls with blonde hair, but the reader can look however you desire! And I get all of my inspo from Pinterest and thought this outfit was darling!

Luv yall!

Also I think I made a tag list? It’s below so just let me know if you want to be on it! 💛

Tag list: @jjasmiineee @artbymin