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ramp-it-up · 15 days ago

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Peach, Part IV

Peach III | Peach V

Summary: Steven Grant Rogers is Bucky Barnes' best friend and business parter in crime. He has decided to get out of the life with Bucky because it's the right thing to do. And now he is in love. With you. He wants to move forward with you and now he's got you on his turf.

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

A/N: I love these two with my whole heart. This is turning into the slowest of burns, sorry not sorry. This fic is connected to the Bucky Barnes Knock You Down AU, and DIRECTLY AFTER the events in the Bucky Barnes fic Worth the Fall and the Steve Rogers fic Peach III. We're at the second week of December, there is still so much in my head to say. Your interaction keeps me writing, so let me know if you like it by commenting and reblogging.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT. Read at your own risk. Angst. Slow burn, Mutual pining, idiots in love, drinking, body parts tingling, wild wild thoughts of breeding, taking each other down in various ways, and cock riding. Not Beta'd. All errors my own.

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

--------

On one of your many walks along the beach, you teased your cousin about being the future Mrs. Bucky Barnes, and she tried to get you to talk about Steve, explaining some of the backstory to what happened in Atlanta.

But you were intransigent.

“Look. I know how stubborn you are. And how tough you are, because you’ve had to be. But I also know how big your heart is and how worthy you are of love. You are passing up on the chance to find your one true love.”

You scoffed.

“Love? Everyone can’t be all starry eyed and head over heels like you and Bunny boy.”

She laughed and shook her head at your nickname for Bucky, who you’d grown to like a lot over the weekend.

“And Steven, disguised at Grant, just wanted to get in my panties, which he achieved.”

You looked toward the waves as you thought about how Grant got you to see fireworks that night in your apartment, and the things Steve said that he wanted to do to you the other night.

“I have no doubt that Steve Rogers wants to fuck you girl. Look at you. You are fine as fuck.”

You laughed at your cousin dressing you down and gassing you up at the same time.

“But let’s be clear. You wanted to fuck him too. You still do. I see the way you look at him.”

“Hey! I didn’t lie–”

“Ah-ah!”

She silenced you with a finger.

“I know he lied about who he was, but were you completely honest with him? Totally?”

You side eyed your cousin as you imagined strangling her. But you weren’t eleven years old anymore.

And she wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, Steve lied, but he wants to make amends. He has feelings for you.”

You gave your cousin a side eye.

“Did he tell you that? And you trust him?”

“With my life.”

She put her arm around you and pulled you close as you walked.

“Listen, I know you are guarding your heart, but I know Steve. He’s got this exterior that seems one way, but he will surprise you. He’s a really, really good guy.”

You sighed, still not there yet.

“I’m good on that, cousin.”

“Okay. I’ll tell him that you have a heart of stone and that he should move on. It’s not like there aren’t bitches lined up to suck his dick every day in the city…”

A jolt of jealousy zipped through you, but you pushed it down. You just took a deep breath and gave her an overly bright smile.

“I don’t care who slobs on his lil’ knob.”

She rolled her eyes at you.

“Riiggght, cousin. Anyway. You are still taking the endowment money right?”

You raised your eyebrow at her and nodded.

“Nothing is going to get in the way of this dream, cousin.”

She grinned back at you, almost as bright as the sun.

“That’s my girl! We gon’ have a time in New York City…”

—

Sunday morning before you drove back to Atlanta, you went to the kitchen just as Steve came back in from a run on the beach. The rest of the family was going to Church and then he, Bucky and your cousin were going to fly back to New York on the private jet.

“Hey.”

He chucked his chin up at you like you were one of his bros.

The audacity.

“Hello.”

You kept it cute as he moved around you to grab a glass to get some water from the tap. The scent of sweat, ocean air, and him wrapped around you and you inhaled deeply, closing your eyes to savor it. It was like you were lost.

You opened your eyes to find him watching you as he downed the glass in one gulp, a drop of water escaping and rolling down his chin to his neck and disappearing into the already wet collar of his tight t-shirt.

You cleared your throat as he maintained eye contact with you and wiped his lips with his thumb, and some unseen force made you watch those thick fingers that felt you up not a month before, your nipples tight and panties wet.

Damn, this man and his effect on you.

You stared as his eyes swept down your body as if he knew what you looked like naked. He had seen you dance, and felt you up over and under your clothes, but that wasn��t what the look of possession was about.

This man wanted you.

—-

Steve almost ran back outside when he saw you in the kitchen as he came in. He’s taken a run to calm the erection he had when he woke up because of you, and now, here you were, dressed almost exactly the same as when he had the opportunity to kiss you and make you cum in his arms exactly 29 days earlier.

Yes, he was keeping count.

Steve was practically speechless, yet he managed to get out a crude, ‘Hey’ and a head motion as a greeting. What was that?

He wanted close to you, to feel your skin against his lips again, to check and see if you were wet, which you were judging from your slightly open lips and blown pupils. He didn’t go near you as he got a drink however, because no matter how much he was into knife and gun play, he wasn’t going there.

Steve wanted in your heart, not just your pants.

When you closed your eyes and visibly inhaled (probably to calm your anger, he imagined), he used the opportunity to watch your chest rise and watch the sunlight play on your skin. Those beautiful eyes caused his heart to clench when you opened them and he couldn’t tear his away as he drank his water.

Which he needed at the moment. Desperately.

Unconsciously, he wiped his lips with his thumb, remembering the texture of you as he did so. You cleared your throat, snapping him out of it.

“Peach…”

He stopped, waiting for your retort. You just stood there, expectant and although he was shocked as shit, he continued.

“I want to apologize for lying to you and for allowing things to get…physical while you believed a lie.”

You watched him for what seemed like a long time, but was really only seconds.

“I accept your apology, Steve, and I believe in forgiveness, if only for myself being able to move on, but I’m not ready to forget or fully trust you.” Steve nodded.

“I get it. I’m really sorry.”

You shrugged.

“I know you were trying to help Bucky get clean for my cousin, and I love her big, so, I can’t stay mad. And it’s clear that you are ride or die for those you love.”

And then you cocked your head at him in that adorable way and his heart crumbled into the sparkly bits of honey in your eyes.

“I feel like you love my cousin. Like family. So I guess that makes us family too.”

When you gave him a small smile, he smiled back dreamily. He was a teenage boy in your presence.

“I guess you’re right.”

Steve thought of family and a vision of you as a mother had him in a chokehold. You had him raging hard and wanting to bend you over the kitchen island and breed you until his seed dripped down your legs. Instead, he moved behind it to hide his condition.

“We will have to be in contact because of the endowment, which I am taking because of my students and the fact that it’s been my dream since I was 12 years old. It was then that I started being told that I was all wrong. My ass was too big. My breasts were too bouncy. I didn’t have a ‘desirable dance body.’”

Steve’s eyes openly scanned you. He looked angry, then scoffed.

“That's ridiculous.”

“Of course it is.”

“Don't change a thing. That would be criminal.”

You paused and then gave him a slightly larger smile then.

“Believe me, I'm not planning to change myself. I’m planning on changing the world.”

Steve stared at you, astounded at your fierce courage. No one else could compare.

“I’m serious. I know that sounds grandiose, but I want to leave my mark. I started a dance company so that any body with talent can get on a stage and have a career, regardless of their shape and size. That’s why I’m accepting the endowment. We can be business partners if it means those dreams can come true.”

You were a force. Damn, that only made Steve love you more.

“Brava, Peach.”

You stared back into those baby blues and coughed, trying to clear your throat from the lump that had formed there. Your goals and dreams always made you get intense.

“Need some water?”

Steve was already reaching for another glass. His eyes went wide as you reached for his and finished off what was left in it. He almost came at the thought of your lips where his had been. Holy mother of god.

“That hit the spot, thanks.”

You licked your lips and he nearly fainted, and as you turned toward the stairs, giving him a view of your backside, and looked back at him, he almost ethered to the sky.

“See you next week, Mr. Rogers. Have a safe flight.”

—-

Steve felt frantic the entire seven days leading up to the day he’d see you again. He and Sam and Nat and Bucky had lots of work to do, but he felt like a bumbling idiot, because his perfectionism was getting in the way.

Bucky saw the barriers Steve’s mind was putting in his way and spent extra time helping him. That’s why Bucky was his brother, Steve’s only family since his mother died when he was a kid.

They worked day and night, it seemed, to be ready for the summit.

Steve managed to take a few minutes to himself each night, sketching before he slept. The images of you that came from the lead of his pencil soothing his spirit and filling his dreams. They also caused him to wake up with a stiff reminder of your feel and smell in his nostrils.

Steve Rogers couldn’t wait to see his Peach again.

—--

You kept checking the emailed itinerary on the phone as you tried to relax in business class. All of the endowment recipients were arriving in New York around the same time period in the afternoon, and you were being picked up and chauffeured to your hotel, then three hours later, to a reception at a club in the Rebirth Building.

Then, you would be left to your own devices for dinner and to turn in or turn up. Turning up with your cousin was the only option.

You decided to try and catch some zzzz’s on the plane so you wouldn’t be too tired later. You also wanted to calm your nerves. This was a big deal for your dance school, you told yourself. You weren’t nervous about seeing Steve Rogers again on his turf.

Not at all.

—---

The driver that picked you up from the airport, complete with your name on a placard, Nico, was super nice. You were surprised that your cousin was in the car. You two squealed and talked and laughed on the way, and you were in such a good mood that you didn’t pay much attention when she addressed him by his first name very familiarly. He must be a very friendly guy.

Your check-in at the 1 Hotel Brooklyn was a breeze. The concierge let you know that you checked in at the right time; you happened to be upgraded to a one bedroom suite with a view of the New York skyline and the Statue of Liberty. The king sized bed looked like a dream, so you took a nap before you got ready for the evening. You wanted to be at your best amongst the other five Endowment awardees.

—-

You walked into the bar, Bea, and you were struck at how gorgeous it was, and how masculine.

There was rich mahogany wood everywhere, and the bartop material was a dark black honed marble. There were luxurious upholstered leather chairs and booths throughout and floor to ceiling wine coolers.

You were looking around in awe as a young woman came up and handed you a name tag.

“You must be Ms. YLN. Welcome.”

You greeted her as your cousin smirked at you. She grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing wait staff.

“How…”

You gaped at her.

“All staff have been briefed on all of you. Nothing but the best this week.”

“Oh. Okay…” She giggled as you continued your inspection of the place. Steve and ‘nem had more money than you thought. A lot more. A thought crossed your mind.

“Wait. Do you work for them?”

You narrowed your eyes at your cousin as she rolled hers.

“Well, tangentially. Bucky funded our Howard Benson exhibit at the Center and so I’ve worked with Rebirth on some Harlem Renaissance initiatives around Brooklyn and the other boroughs. I’ve also een helping Bucky and the crew prepare for this week.”

“Ah. Okay.”

You took a sip of your drink and continued your perusal.

It was your cousin’s turn now.

“Listen, bitch.You’ve got to chill. No one is out to get you, especially me.”

Your cousin looked halfway angry. But she was still adorable.

“You’re so fucking cute. Love looks good on you.”

You smiled at her serenely and she shook her head at you, knowing you too well.

“Don’t give me your shit, Peach. I was there in Hilton Head. You will act like you have some sense.”

“I’m civilized, cousin. Steve and I had a talk before I left. I’m chilling.”

“You better.”

She pointed to the gathering crowd in the room.

“Now go network.”

—--

Your laugh. It gave Steve goosebumps.

He hadn’t heard your full laugh much in Atlanta, just some low, sexy chuckles, because you two hadn’t talked much. And you certainly weren’t happy when he showed up at your family’s house. But you seemed much more relaxed this evening and Steve decided that it was his favorite thing in the world.

He spotted you as soon as you walked in with your cousin and she was beautiful as always.

But you.

When you finally noticed him, you seemed surprised, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, but not angry at all. He gained hope, and stood up straight, wondering if he looked good to you because you were certainly a vision to his eyes.

The outfit you were wearing was classy, yet could not hide that body from the eyes that studied it every chance he got. Which was every time he saw you.

As you mingled, and he shmoozed, he consistently had to force his eyes away from your tempting curves, your gorgeous face, the sound of your voice. And that fucking laugh. It wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed, seeped into his soul and spread warmth.

Not to mention the effect you had on his cock.

You were a fucking vision in black wide-legged leather pants and a plain white tee that hugged your mouthwatering tits, accessorized with red pointy heels a red clutch and an off white wool trench coat. The edgy outfit was very appropriate for the art world and although you were all covered up, your body wasn’t hidden from him, only accentuated. To top it off, your normally coily hair was straightened and loosely curled, calling for his fingers to slide through the thick strands.

It’s your eyes that got to him, though, those fucking beautiful eyes that he longed to see hazy with the pleasure he was giving you. He maintained eye contact with you as he thought his lurid thoughts, and raised his drink in a salute. You smiled at him and raised your drink in response and his heart soared.

Although he wanted to be near you immediately, he decided to give you some space. He didn’t want to force anything. Well, maybe he wanted to force his thick cock into your tiny cunt.

He licked his lips, then shook his head and scowled at Bucky as he noticed Steve staring at you. But he didn’t stop.

Careful now, Steve told himself. Take it slow.

—--

You mingled and met some of your fellow recipients. They were a diverse group of people from all over the country, but most seemed type cool. There was one who latched on to you, Sharon Carter. She was a photographer from Memphis and was very chatty. She was glued to your side as you made the rounds and you weren’t too mad. She just didn’t shut up.

“How do you like your room? A double with a view of the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. And after a three hour coach flight. Fancy.”

You sipped your drink and Sharon’s sarcasm. Your mind started whirling.

“Get a load of those beautiful people right there. Those are our benefactors.”

You looked to where she was indicating and were surprised to see Steve standing with Bucky, another tall handsome man with a low cut fade, and a petite fit redhead woman. They all looked to belong on a movie poster.

But Steve.

He was leaned against the bar, arms crossed over his broad chest, perfectly tailored dark green sport coat and black wool sweater, hugging his broad shoulders and trim waist like nobody’s business. His dark slacks were hanging on for dear life to those massive thighs, and his thick dark blond hair was tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it all day. You liked his hair cut short in the back with the length on top. There was still something to grab on to.

Damn him. It should be illegal for a man to look that fucking good, especially at this hour, with you already having had two glasses of champagne.…

You caught eye contact with Steve and your world spun for a second as you connected across the room. His eyes… God, his eyes.

Those steely blues were blazing with a heat that you could feel in your pussy, somehow containing a hunger that threatened to consume you. He stood up straight, and if you didn’ know any better, you would have thought that he flexed a little as he stared at you. Your pussy thought so, but your brain thought he wouldn’t try to hurt you like that.

He did, however, raise his glass to you and you couldn’t help but respond in kind.

You turned your attention to Bucky as he started to speak, and grabbed a bottle of water from a waiter, thinking you needed a clear head when you had to actually talk to Steve and not just acknowledge him from across the room.

"Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the Rebirth Art Foundation’s annual celebration of creativity and innovation in the arts. This is a gathering to honor six extraordinary artists whose talent, vision, and hard work have earned them a place among the most promising creators of our time….”

You watched your cousin who was totally enraptured by what Bucky was saying. You got a warm feeling as you saw what true love looked like. You smirked as you saw her make her way over to him as Nat stepped up to speak. You were so happy for your fam.

“Now Bucky Barnes is a snack. Wonder if he’s taken?”

You side eyed the hussy and then pointed at your cousin, who hadn’t made it to Bucky yet.

“I think that’s his wife or something right there.”

Sharon took a sip of her drink and wrinkled her nose.

“Ha! Nice joke. But I don’t think they go together, meaning they don’t match. Get it?”

You stared daggers at her. This bitch. Then you glanced at your cousin and her man again.

“You might want to tell him that, because he looks like he’s about to take her tonsils out with his tongue.”

Sharon’s mouth dropped open to see them making out in a corner. You couldn’t help but laugh as she shrugged, then brightened when Steve gained the mic.

“Never mind him. Steve Rogers is the entire meal. I have it on good authority that his dick is big.”

You looked from her to Steve, a sinking feeling in your stomach. Were you going to catch a case in New York City over a man that was not your man?

Or was he your man?

“Good evening, and welcome. It’s an honor to have you all here as we celebrate six incredible artists who are pushing the boundaries of what’s possible in the art world and are poised to change the entire world.”

Steve looked straight at you then, and you held his gaze for that fraction of a second as he raised his eyebrow as electricity zapped between you before his eyes continued around the room.

Sharon was forgotten momentarily and you bit your lip. Whew. You had to refrain from fanning yourself as he continued.

“At Rebirth, we believe that art is more than just a medium—it’s a force that connects us, challenges us, and shapes our future. This week, I encourage you to not only take in everything around you but also to share your unique perspectives. Creation, art, and collaboration are the soul of this foundation, and I’m excited to see what bonds form this week. Congratulations once again, and let’s make something amazing together!”

“Come on, now is the time to meet them. Maybe I can make something amazing with Steve Rogers tonight.”

You let yourself be dragged over to where the four were standing as Sam was finishing his welcome and you introduced yourself to each as you tried to listen to Sharon simping.

Each person smiled warmly at you, and Bucky pulled you in for a hug, which made Sharon side eye you both, but only for a moment as her attention turned to Steve.

“Mr. Rogers, I’m Sharon Carter. You know my Aunt Peggy.”

Steve blanched.

“Peggy? Your… Aunt?”

Sharon laughed, a little shrilly to your ears.

“Yes. She’s my mother’s half sister. Born to the second wife, 18 years younger than my mom. They weren’t that close. But Peggy and I are just like sisters.”

“Oh.”

Steve looked a little trapped.

“Didn’t know that. It’s a small world.”

Peggy leaned closer to him, but you heard her stage whisper.

“Don’t worry, I won’t share the secrets she told me…”

Steve looked at her like she was crazy and then looked at you, almost in panic. You could see the anxiety in his eyes, so you decided to rescue him.

“Mr. Rogers. Hi. ”

The huskiness of your voice, the way his name sounded on your tongue. It calmed him and sent a lightning bolt of desire through him. Steve wanted to hear you call him that in a very different context.

Steve’s face changed when he looked at you. He shifted toward you, much to Sharon’s chagrin.

“My name is Y/N Y/LN, and it’s so good to finally meet you. I hope that this is the start of a great partnership.”

Steve cocked his eyebrow at you and smiled as you took his hand. You initiating touch with him was the start of his wet dreams of late. His thumb stroked your hand as he held it.

“I hope so too, Ms. Y/LN. I’ve been meaning to talk to you…”

“Please, call me Peach, Mr. Rogers.”

Nat came around and distracted Sharon as Steve put his hand on the small of your back to guide you to the side of the bar to talk. His smell enveloped you and his touch had you walking carefully, because your knees were weak.

“What did you want to talk about Mr. Rogers?”

He shook his head, his eyes dark now.

“Call me Steve, Peach, please.”

His voice was rougher, and impossibly deeper as he begged, and it sent chills straight to your pussy. You cocked your head and he in turn licked his lips.

“Why?”

“Because if you keep calling me Mr. Rogers, I–”

He stopped and your lust-addled brain filled in the gaps. Your lips parted on a soft inhale. Steve, on the other hand, inhaled sharply.

And then exhaled slowly.

“How was your flight?”

Steve thought it best to talk of the mundane, because he was half a second from bending you over the bar in front of all these people.

“It was… great. I appreciated the business class seat.”

His eyebrow shot up.

“You got upgraded? How fortunate.”

“Ummmmhmmm. So you didn’t know?”

“Promise.”

Steve’s mouth quirked up in a half smile, because he knew you didn’t trust him, but you were so cute when you were grilling him.

“And you didn’t know about the upgrade at the hotel?”

“No…”

“I have a king suite with a killer view of the city.”

Steve grinned now and you almost shielded your eyes.

“Seems you’re lucky.”

You stared into his eyes to see if he was lying, but you didn’t see anything there but feelings you didn’t want to name. But because of your history, you still didn’t trust what he said. Nevertheless, you decided to let it go. There was something else you needed to know.

“So, who’s Peggy?”

Steve grimaced.

“She’s someone I knew a long time ago. We were close. Once. But not anymore.”

You just kept looking at him.

“She’s moved on, married to a rich guy on the west coast. And I’ve moved on as well.”

You straightened up as he gazed down at you. You didn’t know why you cared so much. And you didn’t want to analyze his last sentence.

“Oh.”

Now, Steve was smiling down at you like he thought you were jealous.

Which was absurd.

And he looked as if he was happy about that ridiculous idea.

You were right.

Steve was jumping for joy on the inside at the way you reacted to hearing about Peggy. He didn’t expect to think about her, much less have to explain her to you tonight, but if it led to you realizing you had feelings for him, he was glad of Sharon’s connection. And the way she ran her mouth, although it was annoying.

“You good, Peach?”

You weren’t good. You found yourself wanting to show Steve your suite, especially the ceiling, as you rode his cock on the king sized bed so as to make him forget about any other pussy ever existing. But you must have been tweaking.

You needed to get out of there.

You turned around and went to find your cousin.

“I’m great Mr. Rogers. You have a good night.”

And Steve was left watching you walk away again.

——

Please comment, reblog and like to feed the writer! 😜

Read Peach V

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devildomwriter · 6 months ago

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Obey Me As Tumblr #27

Mammon: How many swords do you have?

Diavolo: Sword of a lot

Raphael: Blocked

Diavolo: Parried

•

Mammon: My pockets jingle with stolen buttons from hot topic

Mammon: I literally can’t stop stealing those buttons from the Button Vats like I don’t feel like paying 3 dollars for a piece of tin with Pusheen on it but I do feel like doing a heist

Mammon: Call the cops bitch I’ll have sex with them

Simeon: This feels like the kind of thing you overhear when the person next to you on the bus is having a heated phone call

•

Belphegor: Wasn’t ICarly that guy with wax wings who flew into the sun and fucking got rest because same

Belphegor: I just realized my phone corrected Icarus to ICarly because I type ICarly more than Icarus okay thanks

Mammon: I thought this was just a god tier shit post

•

Thirteen: Bro pick up your eboy he’s curled up in the corner of my living room quivering, speaking in tongues, and surrounded by an impenetrable wall of writhing lamb’s entrails

MC: That’s not my eboy that’s my malewife they’re supposed to do that

Thirteen: Stop being funnier than me or I’ll do something about

•

Belphegor: People like to claim you can’t be funny without being offensive but my twin once looked at a packet of tesco’s chicken and said “60% chicken? I like those odds.” And I’m still laughing sixteen years later

•

Mammon: How fucked up would it be if you jumped into a ball pit and it was just tomatoes painted different colors

Beelzebub: Depends

Mammon: …On what?

•

Satan: Amazing how a colon can completely change the meaning of a sentence. For example:

— Jane ate her friend’s Sandwich

— Jane ate her friend’s Colon

Leviathan: This is the hardest I’ve ever snorted. My nose/throat actually hurts a little now

•

Mephistopheles: There are breasts on my roof. Scampering about. Wretched.

Diavolo: Th—There are what

Mephistopheles: BEASTS BEASTS BEASTS BEASTS BEASTS BEASTS

•

MC: A knife block that screams when you put knives in it

Lucifer: A human

Barbatos: So a human

Solomon: Caesar

•

Solomon: Diamonds are carbon. People are carbon. I wonder how big a Diamond I could make out of one

Simeon: I think about your tumblr blog a lot. I think about the fact anyone can say anything on the open internet and I’m glad you are able to voice whatever is in your head

Solomon: Thanks

•

MC: Weatherboy (derogatory)

Diavolo: Op what does this mean

MC: Wouldn’t you like to know weatherboy

•

Asmodeus: Everyone wants me. Especially this guy chasing me with a knife

•

Mephistopheles: Fill your body with cranberries so the horse that kills you gets a sensual surprise

Barbatos: I will give the horse that kills me no such luxury

•

Mammon: *gets home*

*breaks knuckles* time to shit myself to sleep again boys

Mammon: Wait no it’s cracks knuckles

Mammon: Wait no it’s cry myself to sleep

Mammon: Don’t reblog this stop it

•

Asmodeus: Fun new blog title: “welcome to my twisted pussy”

Solomon: Ducks be like

Asmodeus: This is no longer a fun new blog title

•

Leviathan: I hope everyone is having a fucking day

Lucifer: Easily one of the days I’ve had this week

Last • Next

#obey me shall we date #obey me incorrect quotes #obey me as tumblr #funny obey me #obey me asmodeus #obey me lucifer #obey me leviathan #obey me solomon #obey me mammon #obey me barbatos #obey me mephistopheles #obey me diavolo #obey me simeon #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me raphael #obey me thirteen

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batmanlovesnirvana · 29 days ago

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SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT THE DC FANDOM (please read)

I’m making this post even though she (@/hyunnjiin) blocked me, since she REFUSES to take accountability after being called out. This is also for the DC FANDOM because it needs to be addressed.

(I hate doing this—honestly, I’ve never done it before—but I can’t just sit back and let her have the last word.)

I saw her post, and yes, I’m calling it out because it’s not only unnecessary but incredibly immature. She’s a 24-year-old woman wasting her time stirring up drama on Tumblr of all places over something that could’ve easily been avoided.

For reference, here’s the post in question:

I’m making this to set the record straight because I’m beyond tired of the nonsense she’s been pulling.

Instead of taking accountability, she’s been blocking anyone calling her out, deleting replies, and only keeping the ones kissing up to her. So, here it is.

Let me be clear: I don’t mind criticism—it comes with the territory when you’re a writer—but this? This felt personal. It was personal.

First off, she’s been playing games. She reblogged her own post like 20 times, replied to people, and pinned it to her blog.

Then she changed her bio, and started deleting replies—including mine—and even changed the name to "Aurora." Her excuse? Oh, it wasn’t about my fic, just the first name that came to mind (sure, Jan 🙄). Then she wiped everything again, switched back to "Maryam," and only replied to comments that agreed with her.

"It's best to ignore it,"��she says, then reblogs it 20 times.

Then she went nuclear—deleting all replies AGAIN, including hers and mine, and apparently even my reblogs where I was trying to explain myself (didn’t even know that was possible, but here we are). The post was suddenly full of new replies, and guess what? She’s only responding to those who are hyping her up. Now she blocked me and a mutual—because, apparently, accountability isn’t her thing. Deleted our comments again, only left the ones agreeing with her, and turned off the comments entirely.

It’s SO weird.

What’s even crazier is that more people are jumping on this train, leaving comments hyping her up like she didn’t just twist everything and censor anyone who disagreed. The whole situation is so idiotic to fight over, but for a 23 year old woman, she’s acting ridiculously immature. Why she’s been switching things up this much, I’ll never know.

And yes, I wish I had taken more screenshots of the original mess because it was absolutely bizarre, but thankfully, some lovely mutuals saw it all go down.

Now some context to everyone who agreed and interacted with her: My fic was originally a x reader in my drafts, but I changed it to feature Maryam because I wanted to introduce more North African/Middle Eastern representation into the fandom.

I wanted to inspire others to do the same, especially considering the Islamophobia and anti-Arab/Muslim hate that’s so often present in this space.

So, I thought, why not?

Maryam means a lot to me—both as an immigrant and as a woman of color. Especially to Arabs/Middle Eastern or Muslims in general, given the current climate where they’re constantly facing prejudice, stereotypes, and discrimination. I live in a country where they’re not exactly welcomed.

There’s so much negativity surrounding us/them—both in the real world and online.

It’s hard to feel seen or understood, especially when you’re already carrying so much weight.

Seeing that post and watching it get reblogged so many times—now with over 100 people agreeing with her—reallyupset me. Honestly, it hurt. A lot.

I write as a way to escape, but more importantly, to raise awareness about issues that have affected me and the world around us. It’s my way of shedding light on things that matter—things that have impacted me and others—and it really hurts when it feels like that’s being dismissed.

Maryam is kind of a love letter to anyone who sees pieces of themselves in her because that’s the whole point—she’s meant to be you.

Fandoms were supposed to be a refuge—a place to connect with others who share your passion, to feel safe and accepted. But too often, they become spaces where that sense of belonging is challenged. It’s heartbreaking when something meant to bring joy and solidarity only seems to amplify the hurt.

I'm an amateur writer sharing my fanfiction for free because I love writing, enjoy seeing others enjoy it, and yes, I want to be noticed—not for the attention, but for the feedback.

I thrive on seeing others engage with my work. If I don't promote it, nobody will see it, and then I'll lose my motivation.

And if you don’t like it, you’re free to block me or, even better, filter your tags—something I do most of the time, because I’m mature enough not to make a whole post about it to draw attention to myself or, most importantly, spread hate to a writer.

The amount of times I’ve seen ships in the Batman x reader tags, Batman x OC tags, or just the Battinson or Batman tags that I don’t like, and yet I’ve never made a whole post dragging someone’s fic down just to prove some point or gain attention.

Now, I’m honestly unsure whether I should just unpublish the fic, delete it, or whatever. The hate was/is a bit overwhelming.

Like I said, I wrote this story as a way to escape... AGAIN, maybe I’m being too sensitive, but seeing so many people agreeing with her really felt like a punch in the gut. I was planning to publish it yesterday—I had the whole week off and was so excited to write since I had time on my hands—but now? I’m not so sure anymore.

I do want to thank the people who defended me and sent me messages. It means more than you know.

Thanks to anyone who took the time to read the whole post.

I’m tagging everyone who’s been interacting with her post so they can finally see the full picture—especially since my last reblog keeps mysteriously disappearing : @mouthfullobats @hwasflower @fangxout @cynniee @crying-inside-lol @obamasbababoy @kiit-ty @himesuedi @lkanggie @navs-bhat @verfuz @wispywisteria-blog @v5b5

I’m sure there’s a lot more but these are the only ones I took screenshots of.

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choco-bite · 10 months ago

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First of all this is nsfw blog so i do not want any minors lurking around here. Shooo! You don’t belong here. This blog is not for you.

And people over 18 please put your age in your bio or I’ll block you. I need your age visible when i stalk your blog from reblogs

Hello, myself J (picky for telling my name) 26yo switch leaning soft dominant. Lately I’ve been enjoying posting about being a sub so there’s that. My pronouns are he/him and I’m straight. Do not ask for personal details if we get comfortable I’ll tell you. I’m very much flirtatious so i like to flirt with everyone when i get the chance and the right opportunity. Also I’m a writer. A true hopeless romantic by heart. Sometimes im clingy, get obsessive and pretty possessive. I’m here to have fun and explore my kinks and meet similar minded people.

Spamming is a love language for me. If i like your blog, I’ll spam you, like your posts a lot and may drop a cute ask.

I may or may not follow you. I would like to follow those who posts their own thoughts here. I’m tired of seeing the same posts over and over through reblogs. So if you’re blog with just reblogs I won’t follow you.

– My kink includes:

Breeding, praise kink, degradation kink, humiliation kink, somno kink, ddlg, mdlb, pregnancy, piss kink, dirty talk, spanking, anal, rimming, orgasm control, orgasm denial, total power exchange, roleplay, adult nursing relationship & more

– my limit includes:

Scat, gore, vomit, sharing, threesomes, foursomes, hardcore stuff, balls kicking, licking shoes, licking floor, toilet stuff will include more later

Title/honorifics I prefer: daddy/dad (when domming)

Title/honorifics i want to call you by: mommy, princess, queen (when subbing)

Petnames i adore: baby, my babyboy, cute boy, little boy, sweetheart, darling, my love, my little prince

Dm is open for anyone right now. I maybe closing or opening as i see fit. I work and sometimes it gets hectic for me to reply. It’s not you just my stupid work. I’m always down to make friends tho. Hit me up anytime <3

My telegram:- homesickforyou

However I’m not much of a conversation starter. If you want to talk just hit me up. I don’t mind 💋

Aftercare is everything

Consent is everything

do not kink shame or I’ll block you on site

my posts under tag: choco typing

My asks under tag: choco spilling

few tags I adore: oh mommy & me and who

reblog if my posts made you cum, twitchy, leaky, creamy

If you’ve cummed to my posts you’re obligated to tell me [and give me something as a gift 🫢🎀]

stay safe, stay healthy and be kinky

l love you 3000

Divider credits goes to: @saradika-graphics @steddiecameraroll-graphics @anitalenia

#choco typing #choco spilling #choco pics #want mommy 🥺🎀❤️#me and who 🥺🎀🩷#send asks

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risestarkiss · 7 months ago

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Huge changes are coming to my Rise Ramblings…

Hey yooo!

So as the title suggests, there will be some major changes to the RiseStarKiss blog going forward.

The full explanation is below but I also included a TLDR version at the end of the post.

○○○○

Instead of continuing to post my long form “Rise Ramblings” on Tumblr, I’ll be taking them to the small screen…In other words, my larger Rise Ramblings will be in video format from now on. I also want to go back and adapt my older/more popular Rise Ramblings to video as well.

And for that reason, I’m starting a YouTube Channel!

As a more detailed explanation, I’ve found that creating the long form posts on Tumblr just doesn’t allow for the freedom and flexibility that I need to fully express myself. Even in my older posts I had to leave so much content on the chopping block in order to facilitate readability.

But not anymore!

So, what is the plan?

Well for starters, my channel, RiseStarKissStudios, is now live.

Also, I plan on creating ONLY Rise of the TMNT content on this channel.

Why? Mainly because from what I’ve seen, usually when Rise is addressed by large channels it’s generally looked down upon. Other than that, Rise is ignored completely!

*tsk* So I’m going to give ROTTMNT the spotlight it deserves.

😒💅

But I can’t do it alone…

That’s where you come in.

All I ask is for your support and patience.

Support comes in the form of:

• Heart and Reblog this post • Subscribe to the channel and Hit the Bell to be alerted to when videos drop • Spread the word about my channel and the amazing ROTTMNT content I’ll be creating there

And lastly, if you are so inclined, you can support my Kofi.

I’ve added better payment methods and monthly contribution options.

As thanks, the username of every monthly contributor will appear at the end of my YouTube videos as a part of the “Mad Dogs!”

It’s the least I can do. 😣😌💜

Also, the reason I ask for your patience is because I’ll be writing, editing, and creating the content all on my own, as well as continuing my “Don the Fashionista” comics in tandem. I also am writing/composing the music for the Rise Rambling series, of which is all Rise inspired.

I know it will be a lot of work, nonetheless, I’m excited for this new frontier, and if things go even slightly to plan, my best ROTTMNT content is yet to come…

So, let’s have some fun, shall we?

❤️🧡💙💜

○○○○

Here’s the TLDR!

This is my brand new YouTube Channel, RiseStarKissStudios, that will be Rise Content Exclusive!

Subscribe & Hit the Bell so you don’t miss a video!

Reblog this post to show support and spread the word!

Support my Kofi if you are so inclined.

Let’s have some fun with Rise, shall we?

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onlyswan · 5 months ago

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hello everyone <3 i didn’t want to disappear out of nowhere so i’m letting y’all know that i’m taking an indefinite break from writing. the internet in general has just been very bad for my mental health. and i know you’ve heard this a lot haha but this app just isn’t the same anymore and the weird anons are throwing me off and i’m. exhausted. thank you for all the love and support for the past three years :] i hope i never lacked in showing my appreciation for that. each reblog, comment, and ask give me butterflies. i genuinely love all of you and i’m so lucky that my blog attracted such kind souls. i hope my works are something you still want to come back to every now and then. i hope atleast one cheered you up when you were sad. i hope atleast one made life seem a little better. i hope atleast one made you feel something in your heart, your gut.

i told myself i wanted to finish dreamboat atleast before i do this. i didn’t expect it to be sort of timely. if you could read it with a wider perspective i think that would be nice.

i will still check in every now and then ^_^ feel free to interact, send an ask, and dm me still. i just won’t be as active as before. i’ll try to hop back into writing when i feel better :) i love you all. please take care of yourself always and think of me sometimes <3 art is everywhere, no? :P

#art rambles

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kingofthering-two · 2 months ago

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Hi guys, Maïna / kingofthering here. You might have heard or noticed that I got my account terminated yesterday (and had the joy to discover you don’t just lose your sideblog but all the blogs associated with your account).

What happened? As I mentioned last week, I received my 2nd strike for copyright infringement on the 11th of December and I protested it (sent a DMCA counter notice) on the 12th. Tumblr forwarded the counter notice to the claimant on the 16th, leaving them 10 business days to answer before I could get the strike taken away and the content restored. Unfortunately, yesterday, on the 19th, I received my third strike and it came with the termination of my account.

How is it fair that tumblr lets you receive a new strike so soon after the precedent one, when you couldn’t even have the time to finish fighting the first one? I legitimately don’t know. I’ve tried to contact them about this but they don’t treat the messages since it’s coming from a terminated account. I think I need to send the message with another email address, which I might do later.

Could my account come back? In theory, from what I’ve read online, yes, but that remains to be seen from my end for me to be completely sure of that. My only current hope is for the blog to reappear when I get my first and second strikes removed (the first is from January but I never thought of fighting it before because it was videos so I thought they didn’t stand a chance but now I genuinely believe the type of content doesn’t matter).

In September, there were 14 days between the counter notice being sent and me getting my content back (10 business days + weekends) and I suppose we might have to take into account Christmas here. I think that in the best case scenario, I might hear from tumblr on the 30th of December, maybe the 31st.

What now? I briefly considered using this as a (forced) break from tumblr. I tried to have one earlier this year and failed miserably. I think that the older I get, the less patience and tolerance I have for things that annoy me (and get past the filtering system) (but also things outside of tumblr, seeing my gifs get reposted to twitter, something that happened again recently, really annoys the fuck out of me). But, at the end of the day, the good outweighs the bad (annoying) far much, when it comes to this website and this community. If I check my tumblr app screentime on my phone, I might cry at how bad it is. I do want to finish the projects I have ongoing (the RPF survey answers will be studied and treated and shared) and keep in touch with everything happening on here.

I’m going to use this current account to browse tumblr at least until the end of the year. I’ve already seen glimpses of stories that I need to catch up on and I’ve seen you guys being very supportive already (thank you) so I felt like making myself reachable here was better. Posting wise, I’ll probably post about things that I know are safe i.e. things of my own (stats, my progress on the 2025 journals) and gifs of things not coming from Dorna (e.g. reels/tiktoks, podcast videos).

What then? The only thing I can tell you for sure is that no matter what happens next, I’m going to create an archive blog on a separate account (with a dedicated email address). This blog will not have posts of its own but only reblogs of content I originally posted on kingofthering. If I can have my old account back, the job will be made much easier (and will obviously be more complete). If not, I’ll have to rely on a lot of research to get things back as best as I can. Don’t worry about this for now, I’m going to wait until I know for sure about my old account to start the process (since the method will be very different depending on the answer on that).

For 2025, we will see. The thing is, even if I get my account back, I know that I will keep getting strikes (even if I’m not posting anything because old posts of mine have been targeted as well) and honestly, even if fighting them works, it’s both stressful and exhausting. Also, people have been winning the battles against the strikes for now but who knows how long that will last.

And like I mentioned, it’s a sideblog connected to all my other blogs which also depend on kingofthering’s faith. That includes my main blog that I’ve had since 2011 (I don’t use it much but I use it to keep all the useful stuff like the photoshop tutorials, writing prompts, etc), my hockey sideblog (not been using it much either lately but it does have some history I’d like to keep) and a bunch of others.

A solution to keep those other accounts safe would probably be to move everything motorsports related to a new account (maybe this one if I can get my main back) and delete the original kingofthering. It would pain me because of the history of this blog and what I would lose in the process (mostly the asks I haven’t gotten to answer and obviously the following that I had grown but I suppose that I can grow back little by little). It would also mean I couldn’t see anymore the posts in my notes and the tags people add to their reblogs (which is like half the purpose of posting in the first place) and that’s annoying as well but I suppose I could grieve that too, in theory.

If I don’t even get the account back, well. I talk about creating a new dedicated account but if it also gets striked (which I suppose will happen), it will be equally exhausting to fight fo it so, I don’t even know if I want to do that.

At this point, I know which content is safe for sure (or what has been safe so far for me) and there are still a lot of stuff that I enjoy sharing with you and getting your opinion on but giffing race weekends was the major part of my blog and I don’t know how I feel about giving that up. Anyway, much thoughts to have still.

Can you do something to help? I don’t think so. Or, well, not with recuperating my account. In regards with the copyright issue as a whole, though? I don’t know what to say because I don’t know what’s the best course of action there. I’ve seen some discussions around about emails and a petition and involving other social media and bigger people but I genuinely don’t know what’s the best thing to do. I’ve personally always considered tumblr as this little (safe for everything) bubble and I don’t exactly feel comfortable “exposing” some of my content here to the rest of the world (some people on tumblr are already mean enough about RPF, I don’t need to see what people not on here have to say about it). That’s obviously just me and I’m not going to keep anyone from doing what they think is right. Part of me wants to believe that things will fix themselves once Liberty Media take over but that’s not a sure thing and the frequency of strikes lately has been quite worrying so I understand the need to do something. Some thinking over to do there too.

Where can you find me? For tumblr, on here for now. I’m going to post this on the motogp tag and I’ll try to follow my mutuals (from memory so, going to miss a lot of people for sure, sorry in advance). I might appreciate a reblog of this post to spread the word. I still have my twitter (mostly talking stats), the blog and my tiktok (barely being used but still in existence).

If I do the set ups correctly I’ll have my DMs open here and askbox open to anons. I am still bad at answering those, though, so apologies in advance there as well.

(Also, I just got home for the holidays and literally learned about the news when I was in the train yesterday afternoon, so, worst timing ever.)

#motogp #tried to not be dramatic about this and wrote 1.4k words about the situation #anyway #on the dmca issues

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caplanbuckybarnes · 4 days ago

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

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

WC: 13.5K

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

Read on ao3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean just chuckles, low and knowing.

“Night, sweetheart.”

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

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

Dean? He’s a menace.

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

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

"You look good behind my desk, sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

And when he starts tattooing?

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

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

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

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

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

A challenge.

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

Of course, he does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t say it.

You can’t.

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

He kisses you.

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

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

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

Dean’s eyes are dark—dangerous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like maybe he’s not done with you yet.

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

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

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

You snort, shaking your head. “Right.”

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

But you’re not.

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

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

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

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

But nothing could have prepared you for the truth.

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

He’s not just a tattoo artist.

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

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

And yet… you’re still here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists. “Dean…”

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

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

And yet, he told you.

He let you in.

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

“I’m still here,” you say softly.

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

“You should be scared of me.”

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

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

It’s desperation.

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

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

You let him.

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean grins against your mouth before he does exactly that.

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

But it’s there.

And neither of you is letting go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

You smile against his shoulder. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the way he kisses you after?

It’s a promise.

And you’re not going anywhere.

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

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

Possession.

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

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

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

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

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

The first sting.

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches, but you don’t argue.

You wouldn’t want it any other way.

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

“Done,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the truth?

You don’t want to belong to anyone else.

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

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

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

You don’t need a reminder.

You were his from the start.

The night is quiet—too quiet.

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

Pop-pop-pop!

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

Then—heavy footsteps. A voice shouting your name.

“Sweetheart!”

Dean.

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

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

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

Another round of gunfire cuts you off.

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

“They’re here for you,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m with you.”

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

More men are coming.

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

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

Dean Winchester isn’t just dangerous.

He’s deadly.

And you just walked willingly into his world.

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

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

You should be scared.

But you’re not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

His brow furrows. “Do you?”

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

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

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

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

His control snaps.

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

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a battleground.

And you?

You’re standing right next to the king.

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

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

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

He looks dangerous.

He is dangerous.

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

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

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

You raise a brow. “No.”

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

You shrug. “You keep saying that.”

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

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

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

Dean says nothing, his silence heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

You don’t resist.

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

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

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

You don’t doubt him.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

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

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

Dean’s son.

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

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

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

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

Because you are. To him, anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.” You smile up at him.

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

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

You raise an eyebrow, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

You are his, and you always will be.

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

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

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

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

You are his. Completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re not prepared for what comes next.

The door bursts open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s terrifying.

But it’s also comforting.

Because you know one thing, without a doubt:

Dean Winchester doesn’t lose. Not anymore.

And neither do you.

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

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, processing the words. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The family business, he’d called it.

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

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

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

Dean would see to that.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But here you are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’d fight for him, too.

Forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Winchester name will live on.

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

But that peace shattered in an instant.

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

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

He answered the call.

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

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

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

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

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

“They’ve got our kid.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, wait, let’s just—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Dean never let messages slide.

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

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

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

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

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

The seconds felt like hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you believed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No threats. No gunfire. No fear.

Just family. Just home. Just forever.

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

#supernatural #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x sister!reader #dean winchester x ofc #dean winchester smut #dean winchetser angst #spn #spn fanart #spnedit #spnfandom #spn rp #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanart #angst with a happy ending

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boreal-sea · 8 days ago

Note

okay sorry you don’t like the word Zionist I’ll come up with a new word and it’s weirdassbitch btw and guess whatZzz ummm yeah you fit the bill. I don’t know man 😭😭😭😭 the fact you’re only posting about gofundmes when it’s about Israeli hostages or only ever being like “okay yeah what’s happening to Palestinians is bad” in conjunction with “so about this anti semitism we’ve been having…” means you’re obviously biased you’re just biased and hey… hey holds your hand it’s okay ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ We can work through this… together *looks away shyly* also I’m like Jewish like by blood. I didn’t even have to convert sorry I’m laughing converts you’re valid but boreal I guess I’m just like…. Better than you at being Jewish? Idk btw and hey maybe the reason why antisemitism is rising is because you guys are all like yeah so we deserve Israel because we lived there 1000000 years ago and if you hate Israel you’re anti Jewish soooo yeah…. Yep maybe having being Jewish synonymous with a genocidal state isn’t smart idk just my thoughts. I think having Jews live all across the world is so beautiful it brings a tear to my eye… I think shoving us all in one place is gay as hell to be frank. Whwtagevrr. I was born in USA born and raised and my family came from Ukraine. I have zero claim to a plot of land 6000 miles away just because I wanna have a sick ass vacation home. maybe that’s why you converted I’m just joshing around it would be funny though if you went through all that just to build a cute little Resort on stolen land. I don’t know boreal. I think I’d just rather have my BLEGH :P, not a :•]

I have not posted a single gofundme for Israeli victims. I’m not sure why you’d make up that lie? Please feel free to look back in my blog as far as you’d like, you won’t find one. It’s even in my blog description that I do not reblog gofundme posts.

I do post links to organizations that directly help Palestinians in Gaza. I have done so fairly often. I don’t recall ever posting a link to aid organizations that only benefit Israelis.

Do I often talk about antisemitism and Gaza at the same time? Yes. These two things are inextricably linked. What is happening in Gaza right now wouldn’t be happening without antisemitism.

Am I biased? No more than the average human being on Earth. I personally consider the folks screaming “Death to Israel!” to be a lot more biased than myself, as I am simply calling for peace between Israel and Hamas. I wanted a peaceful solution from the beginning. You can even find posts on my blog right after Oct 7th where I compare Israel to the USA after 9/11 and state my fears that Israel will have a disproportionate reaction. I loathe the political posturing of both Netanyahu and Hamas and I hate that they both dragged this out so long. Netanyahu wanted this to look like Trump’s victory, which disgusts me. And Hamas allowed their people to suffer for over a year! They’re disgusting, too. Every leader involved in this conflict failed their people.

Our personal feelings about whether or not native people like the Jews “deserve” to live in their homeland is irrelevant — Israel as a country exists here and now. Though it does bring up the interesting question: do you think if the USA just waits long enough, native Americans will also lose their landback rights? How long will that take?

Jews don’t really live “all over the world”. Nearly half live in the USA, and the other half in Israel. This is because all the other countries were so violently antisemitic to the Jews living there the Jews had to flee. In fact, after Israel was founded, a lot of countries literally forced their Jews out under threat of death.

Jews still suffer from antisemitism all around the world, and did so even before Oct 7th. The increase in antisemitism since Oct 7th hasn’t exactly made diaspora Jews feel safe. “A country you’re not even a citizen of did a bad thing, so now I’m going to firebomb your elementary school” isn’t fertile ground for cooperation, is it?

I don’t agree with everything Israel has done. I don’t have to. I think it is a country in crisis that needs major reforms, much like the USA. But I don’t scream “death to America!” either. I live here. I want to make it a better place. I want them both to be better, to live up to the ideals they espouse. To be free, and safe, and prosperous.

I want Gazans to be able to go home. I want them free from the cruelty of Hamas, which has allowed its people to die and suffer since it took power in 2005 and refused to hold any more free elections. They are tyrants. I want Palestinians in the diaspora to come home, too. I want them to have a safe, prosperous country where their culture and children can flourish!

I want peace. If that makes me a “weirdassbitch”, then so be it. I’ve been weird my whole life, anon!

#antisemitism #Israel #Gaza #Palestine #free palestine #free gaza

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maximoffcarter · 9 months ago

Text

Is it over?

Pairings: Emily Prentiss x reader.

Summary: Set on 6x18: Lauren. If the team noticed Emily acting weird, they didn’t say anything about it. For the last two weeks, Emily had been acting strange, kind of off which was weird about Emily. Reader was the lucky person who could say that she knew Emily more than anyone else in the team, but this time...she was not sure about it anymore.

A/n: So...just like when I asked when I posted my first Calex fic; is my blog gonna turn into Marvel, SVU and Criminal Minds? Maybe so🫢 I'm obsessed with criminal minds right now (yes, a bit late, I've seen some of it before but I've always been an svu girly) and I am deeply in love with Emily (not new that I found Paget Brewster gorgeous😮‍💨). Anywayyyy, first Emily fic✨ Yes…I’ll be taking requests🫢 I dunno if some things are accurate or not so bear with me but hope you enjoy this, leave comments, hearts, whatever you like and reblog so this gets some love🫶🏻

Part 2.

*not my gif*

If the team noticed Emily acting weird, they didn’t say anything about it. For the last two weeks, Emily had been acting strange, kind of off which was weird about Emily. Every once in a while, she’d crack a joke or even make fun of Morgan or Reid or anyone on the team, but nothing had been done. The cases they’ve had had been a bit of a pain, which could possibly be the reason why Emily had been acting so weird. Garcia was the first one to really say something to Emily, she had been teasing and trying to get information in case she had a secret boyfriend for the times she had been late to work, but Emily had stopped her from keep going and they just forgot about it for that moment. Reid then had asked her if she was okay and Emily had said that she was, even if she had started picking on her nails again and it was something that Reid had noticed she did when she was stressed, but again, Emily brushed it off.

The only person who could truly see Emily off work was Agent Y/n Carter, the one person that was the closest to Emily, who had always been there with Emily and for Emily, the one person that could really say that she knew more about Emily than anyone in the BAU. What they didn’t know is that y/n was not only the closest person to Emily in a friendly way, but they had been dating for the last year. No, it’s not that they didn’t trust the team, they loved them, they would do anything for them, but if they said anything about their relationship, which meant that there was a chance that they could be used against each other in case they got threatened or were hostages -which of course they hoped it never happened-. But they still wanted to keep the secret to themselves for as long as possible, and either way, they were able to enjoy it and have a relationship for them and only them.

“Hey, P! Leaving now, you need a ride?” Y/n walked to Penelope’s room and offered a smile.

“Ah, no sweet cheeks. Car is fixed, I’m driving myself now.” Penelope smiled as she grabbed her things.

Y/n nodded. “See you tomorrow then.” She was about to leave before she was stopped by Penelope’s voice.

“Hey honey?” Penelope asked softly.

Y/n turned to look at her and smiled. “Yeah?”

“Have you uh…have you talked to Emily?”

Y/n furrowed her brows as she stared at Penelope. “Uh…I mean…she was mostly with Morgan in the case so…not really. Why? Something wrong?” She tilted her head as she walked back to Penelope.

“I just…I’ve noticed that she’s been acting a bit odd.” Penelope shrugged. “I even asked her if she was preggo.” She chuckled.

Y/n chuckled softly as she shook her head. “Do we even know if she’s got a boyfriend?”

“Well, she brushed it off when I mentioned it, but…you know…she’s been late these past few days and that’s not common of her.”

Y/n nodded softly and offered a smile. “I’ll try to talk to her tomorrow when I see her. But I’m sure she’s okay, P. Just…maybe stressed.”

Penelope nodded and smiled. “She trusts you more than she trusts anyone here, honey. I’m sure she’ll let you know if somethings going on.”

“I know.” Y/n smiled. “Night love.”

“Goodnight pretty girl!”

Y/n walked to the elevator and sighed softly as the doors closed. They had been busy with the last few cases that she hadn’t really paid any attention to Emily’s attitude or behaviour, which now that she thought about it, was really wrong of her, and she felt bad about it. As she got in her car, she decided to make a few stops before she stopped by Emily’s apartment. The whole ride, she thought of what exactly she was going to tell Emily, because she knew better than to get to her and be all like ‘oh you’ve been acting weird so I thought I could come and figure out what’s wrong with you’. As much as Emily loved y/n, Emily was not exactly an open book. She finally got to Emily’s apartment and decided it was better to use her key instead of knocking on the door. She walked inside the apartment and was greeted by Sergio, she closed the door softly and as she turned, she found Emily walking out of her room with her gun in hand.

“Woah, Em! It’s me!” Y/n raised her hands as she looked at Emily.

Emily sighed heavily as she put her fun on the back of her jeans and walked to y/n. “What are you doing here?”

Y/n cleared her throat. “Uh…” she looked down at her hands and had a bag of desserts and in the other hand, she had flowers. “I uh…well…I’ve noticed that you haven’t been yourself, I thought you were tired and exhausted, so I decided to…bring something.” She offered a shy smile as she looked at Emily.

Emily’s heart warmed as she stared at y/n, smiling softly as she walked to her, grabbing the flowers, and smelling them. “They smell wonderful.” She looked up at y/n and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.” Y/n leaned in and pecked her lips softly. “I also brought your favorite.” She smiled.

Emily chuckled softly as she nodded. “Thank you.” She walked to the kitchen and took a deep breath. She grabbed a vase to put the flowers in and filled it with water. She hated that she had to tell y/n that she couldn’t stay, all she wanted was to be held and to have y/n with her, but she couldn’t put her at risk.

The thing was her nemesis was in the city. Just a few hours ago, she had met with the person she never thought she’d ever see again, the person that she had left in her past and that had been nothing but another case for her. Ian Doyle was looking for her, and she had now put everyone at risk, and the last thing she needed, was for Ian to find out that y/n was more than just a friend and a colleague, he had no idea about her, he thought that the most important thing for Emily was her life, and the team was her family, so in a way, y/n was still very much at risk, but at least he had no idea that she was more than just a friend.

Emily walked back to the dining room and smiled at y/n. “I’m sorry…I hate to do this but I just…” she sighed. “I think I’m getting that flu that Garcia’s been talking about.” She huffed a chuckle as she stared at y/n.

Y/n tilted her head as she pouted. “So you want me to go?”

Emily smiled sadly. “I’m afraid you’ll catch it, and it’ll be a fun thing to explain to the rest of the team why we both have it.” She grinned.

Y/n rolled her eyes playfully and nodded. “I guess you’re right.” She sighed as she stared at Emily, walking to her. “Em…are you okay?”

“I am.” Emily smiled.

Y/n squinted her eyes and raised her brow. “You’re not getting tired of me, are you?”

Emily felt her heart sinking as she stared at her girlfriend. She smiled softly and walked to her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, and resting her forehead against hers. “I love you too much to do that.” She whispered softly as she smiled.

Y/n smiled widely as she wrapped her arms around her waist. “I love you too.” She furrowed her brows. “You’re really getting sick, Prentiss. You’d have joked about it.”

Emily shrugged. “I also like to tell you that I love you, because I really do.” She smiled softly, leaning in, and kissing her lips softly.

Y/n smiled against her lips and held her as close as possible. “Thought you didn’t want to give me the flu.” She whispered against her lips once they pulled away.

“A kiss won’t hurt.” Emily chuckled softly as she looked at y/n. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Y/n nodded. “Sure will.” She smiled. “Save me my dessert, I’ll come eat it when you feel better.” She grinned as she walked to the door, she petted Sergio before she finally left.

Emily sighed again and felt her eyes getting watery. She hated that she had to do this, she hated that she was pushing the one person she trusted with her whole heart…but again…that sounded pretty hypocrite since y/n had no idea about her past with Ian Doyle. No one could know. She preferred to lie about it than put them more at risk.

********************

Y/n stretched as she got up from bed and yawned. After the exhausting days that they’ve had at the BAU, she had returned home and gotten herself in bed, trying to get herself to get some rest before whatever event was going to happen the next day. But right at two am, there had been a knock on her door, which woke her from her beauty sleep. She walked to the door and looked into the small hole, furrowing her brows as she noticed Emily standing right in front of the door. She opened the door and smiled sleepily.

“You lost your key again?” Y/n raised her brows as she stared at Emily.

Emily smiled softly. “I forgot it at home.”

Y/n nodded. “And you forgot your keys too?”

“I just wanted to see you.” Emily said softly.

Y/n furrowed her brows but said nothing, grabbing Emily’s hand and pulling her inside the apartment, closing the door behind her. “What’s going on, Em?” She said softly.

Emily took a deep breath as she shook her head. “I’ve just been having a hard time sleeping.”

“Then stay here with me.”

“I can’t.” Emily sighed softly. “Sergio…he’s been a pain in the ass. He hates that I leave him alone.”

Y/n grinned softly. “I’m gonna start to be jealous of him, getting all your attention.”

Emily rolled her eyes playfully. She then cupped y/n’s face in her hands, bringing their lips into a sweet and tender kiss. Emily could feel her eyes getting teary, but she stayed close to y/n and kept kissing her softly. Y/n wrapped her arms around Emily, her hands going up and down her back, her fingertips delicately touching her as she kissed Emily back. Even if Emily had this tough, bad girl persona, everyone knew that Emily had a soft spot because she was also a complete nerd, and y/n was lucky enough to say that she was able to experience it. They both pulled away slowly, resting their foreheads against each other’s, smiling softly.

“You know I love you, right?” Emily said softly, smiling at y/n.

“I know.” Y/n pulled away to look into her beautiful brown eyes as she nodded. “And I love you. A lot.” She whispered softly as she kissed her nose softly.

Emily smiled as she ran her fingers through her hair. “This whole stress will end soon.”

Y/n furrowed her brows slightly but nodded. “It will. Maybe you should consider what Rossi said about taking a vacation.” She grinned softly.

Emily chuckled softly as she nodded. “Go somewhere far away from here, no cellphones or technology…just us.”

“Well, he meant only for you.” Y/n teased.

“But I’d take you with me.” Emily smiled lovingly as her other hand stroked her cheek. “I want you with me.”

“And I’ll always be here, Em.” Y/n smiled as she leaned in to kiss her lips again. “Always.”

Emily nodded softly as she kissed her lips again, smiling sadly. “Hey uh…” she reached on her pocket and smiled softly down at her hands. “I got you something.” She looked back at y/n.

Y/n furrowed her brows and tried to look at what Emily had in her hands. “What is it?” She grinned softly.

Emily smiled softly and then opened her hand to show y/n what she had in hands, raising her brow softly. “You always mention you like it.”

Y/n’s lips parted and soon after turned into a smile, looking back up at Emily. “Em…you…you wear this necklace more than anything.”

Emily chuckled softly as she grabbed the heraldic rose pendant and moved behind y/n. She moved y/n’s hair to the side and placed the necklace delicately. “You always mentioned how you liked it…loved it, actually. And I thought maybe you should have it.” She smiled softly as she leaned down to kiss her shoulder. “It’ll look better on you anyway.” She then moved back to face y/n.

Y/n looked down at it and smiled softly. “I do love it.” She looked back at Emily as she held it. “Em-“

“Consider it an early birthday gift.” Emily grinned.

“Still two months to go, though.” Y/n raised her brow as she grinned.

“I like spoiling you, and you know it.” Emily smiled as she wrapped her arms around her and kissed her lips softly. “I gotta go, it’s late.” She whispered softly as she stared at her.

“And Sergio is gonna kill you.” Y/n grinned playfully.

Emily chuckled as she nodded. “Yes.” She looked into y/n’s eyes and smiled, leaning in to kiss her forehead softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” Y/n smiled.

Y/n stared at her until Emily closed the door and then she was gone, her hands still in the necklace. She sighed softly as she locked the door, her mind spinning as thoughts started to cloud her whole mind. There was something going on, but y/n couldn’t figure out what it was. Emily was definitely not herself, but if she pushed, Emily would only brush it off and she’d say nothing was going on, but the more she focused on Emily, the more worried she was about her. But she was right, this would soon end, and they would be able to go back to their lives.

********************

The whole time they were at the BAU, y/n kept an eye on Emily, trying to focus on what Hotch and the rest of the team was saying about this whole case, but she couldn’t help but see every move that Emily made. She was quieter than usual, which was not normal of her, she always had so much to say about the cases, y/n always found Emily being the best profiler in the team, of course they had their own thing, and she didn’t just think about it because she was her girlfriend, but she truly admired Emily so much, it surprised her when Emily gave her attention and actually wanted to be with her, even with the slight age difference, Emily still had her eyes on y/n. So yes, y/n knew Emily better than anyone in that room, but lately, it seemed like what she knew meant nothing.

Once Emily and Derek were back, y/n couldn’t help but keep her eyes on Emily, but this time, her full attention was on her. Every reaction, every movement, every facial expression, she was trying to get anything she could. As they continued to talk about the case, y/n noticed the way Emily became more tense about it and the way she kept fidgeting with her hands. Before anything else could happen, once the team was a bit more distracted, y/n pulled Emily with her and pulled them inside the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

“What are you doing?” Emily asked, brows furrowed as she stared at y/n.

Y/n crossed her arms as she looked at Emily. “What is going on, Emily?”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t-“

“You do know.” Y/n said, trying not to sound upset or worried. “Emily, I can see the way you’re acting. You never get to work late, even when we have spent the night together. You have barely eaten anything, you’ve barely been sleeping, I can notice. You haven’t been yourself, Em.”

“Baby…I don’t really wanna talk about it.” Emily rubbed her hand on her face as she looked down at the floor.

Y/n shook her head. “I know you don’t. But Emily…you’re not okay. I can tell. I’m here, why won’t you talk to me?” She walked close to Emily and placed her hands on her shoulders, sliding them down to grab her hands. “Please. I’m worried about you, Em.” She whispered softly.

Emily shook her head. “I just…” she sighed as she looked back at y/n. “…I’ve been having these nightmares, I’m exhausted. I want this to end. I need it to end.” She felt her eyes getting teary as her hands landed on y/n’s cheeks, stroking them softly. “I’ll be okay.”

Y/n shook her head as she sighed, wrapping her arms around Emily’s waist. “I’ll stop pushing…but Em, seriously…I’m here.” She looked into her eyes as she smiled. “Come to me. Talk to me.” She whispered softly.

Emily nodded as she leaned down to kiss her lips. “I love you.” She whispered softly against her lips.

Y/n smiled softly. “I love you too.” She kissed her nose softly and then her lips again.

Emily sighed as she pulled away and smiled softly. “We should get back.”

Y/n only nodded and then walked out of the bathroom with Emily, making sure that no one had seen them. As they went back with the rest, y/n still had her attention on Emily but said nothing more. As for Emily, she knew that sooner or later, y/n would figure out what was going on, the whole team would figure it out and there was nothing that would stop them, so she had to act fast. Things were only getting worse, more people were dying, and it was on Emily, and the thought of it was eating her alive. If she didn’t do anything now, he’d soon get to all of them. He’d get to y/n.

********************

Y/n furrowed her brows as she walked around the halls, looking around. After they had mentioned the profile of Ian Doyle, they had gathered around to make a plan and see where they could go next and that’s when she noticed that Emily was nowhere to be found. She saw her once she arrived back with Morgan, she had a worried look, her face had entirely changed and y/n was sure this had something to do with this whole thing, but if she pushed, she knew that she wouldn’t get anything anyway. Once Hotch dismissed everyone, that’s when she noticed she was gone. What was she doing?

“Guys, I cannot find Emily anywhere.” Y/n walked to them and stared at all of them. ��What?”

Rossi sighed. “We believe Emily is involved with this case.”

Y/n furrowed her brows. “What?” She shook her head. “No…she would’ve said something. What do you mean involved?”

“Years ago, she was undercover. Weeks ago, she mentioned a name, Lauren Reynolds. Saying she was gone. I believe that was her undercover name.”

Y/n felt dizzy for a moment as she stared at them, not sure what was going on. Emily would’ve told her the truth, as much as she had wanted to protect them, she wouldn’t have lied to her. But she did…that’s why she had been acting weird, she had been pushing her away, she didn’t even let her stay at her apartment. That visit at two a.m., the necklace, Emily repeatedly telling her that she loved her…Emily was hiding it so y/n wouldn’t find out. Emily was a hopeless romantic, that was not a secret, but the way she had been acting, the way she had spoken to y/n…it all made sense now. She was trying to protect her, Ian was after them, and Emily was going to deal with this alone.

It was like her body was acting on its own once they moved to review the information JJ had. She didn’t even know when JJ had arrived, but she was there, she was there to help with the case. Y/n only sat there and tried to focus on everything about which they were talking. Emily had been undercover…she had been one of Ian’s lovers…his lover. She had been involved with him and she was one of the reasons he had ended up behind bars. She had never actually asked much about Emily’s past jobs, Emily always told her about her life, she knew the nerd she was, the silly movies she loved to watch, the books she read, she knew her routine in the morning and at night, what annoyed her and what she liked. She knew Emily. Right? She knew her, she just…didn’t know this part. Emily trusted her. Or maybe not.

“Carter…did you know about this?” Derek snapped as he looked back at y/n, making her snap out of her trance.

Y/n furrowed her brows as she stared at him. “W-What?”

“You’re the closest to Emily. You spend more time with her than with any of us. Did she tell you any of this?” Derek stood up and kept his eyes fixated on y/n.

“Derek…no. I had no idea…I-“

“Please.” Derek scoffed. “You always say it, you know more about Emily than any of us. Why should I believe that you didn’t know any of this?”

“Morgan.” Hotch warned as he stared at him.

“No!” Derek looked at everyone and then went back to y/n. “You and Emily have been hiding this from us for days. She’s now on the run and we have no idea where she could be. So enlighten us, Carter. Tell us where she is so this ends now.”

Y/n stood up from her seat, feeling anger growing in the pit of her stomach. “I have no idea…where she is, Morgan.” She felt her eyes getting teary as she stared at him. “I didn’t know anything about this. She never told me. Trust me, I’m not stupid. If I knew where she was, I wouldn’t be sitting here listening to your crap. I wouldn’t have let her leave. You were the last one with her, what did she tell you?”

“She said nothing. Because she doesn’t trust us. Apparently, you included.” Derek snapped.

“That’s enough.” Rossi said as he stared at both of them.

“Why should I believe you? Why should I believe that you’re not covering for Emily? You’re best friends. You two are literally glued to each other, and you want me to believe that you’re not hiding anything from us? Emily put you up to this, but this has to end now, Carter!” Derek yelled as he walked to Carter. “You’re the person she trusted the most, huh? If she’s your best friend, then you’ll tell us whe-“

“She was more than my best friend! I love her!” Y/n snapped as tears rolled down her cheeks as she stared at Derek. She sobbed softly as she took a step back, feeling everyone’s eyes on her. She looked down at the floor as she shook her head. “We’ve…we’ve been dating for a whole year…we didn’t say anything because…we didn’t want anyone to use us against each other in case something went south on a case.” She said between sobs. “She didn’t tell me anything, Morgan.” She looked back up at him. “You’re right. Maybe she didn’t trust me. Maybe she just wanted to protect me. I don’t even know what to think. I don’t know what’s going on. So please…back off, and let’s focus on finding Emily.”

Everyone in the room said nothing more about the subject, Rossi and Morgan decided to go to Emily’s apartment and y/n went over her bag and handed them the key, staring at Morgan as she did and then leaving the room. She could’ve offered to go with them, she could’ve said that she would be the one going, but she knew that if she did, she wouldn’t want to leave, and she was now a bit afraid of what she might find there. She wasn’t upset…she wasn’t mad…at least not at the moment, she was just…confused.

********************

Y/n felt like she was numb at that point, only focusing on what they had to say about the case and following them around, barely saying anything. She was hoping that she’d wake up from this nightmare, that maybe, just maybe, everything was in her head, that she was actually asleep, and this would end soon. For a moment, she tried to go and clear her mind for a bit, deciding that Penelope could help at least a little bit, but as she walked to her office, she heard her talking and then she figured out what she was doing. She tried to swallow back her tears as she walked to her, offering a small as she turned on her chair.

“Hey, sweet girl.” Penelope said softly as she offered a small smile.

“Hi.” Y/n smiled softly and crossed her arms. “So…we figured out if Emily had a boyfriend, huh?” She chuckled softly.

Penelope nodded as she smiled. “I always thought you guys looked cute. I’m happy you’re actually a couple.”

Y/n smiled softly as she nodded. “Thanks.” She cleared her throat. “Any luck with the phone numbers?”

Penelope shook her head. “No…I’ve left a message in all of them.”

Y/n nodded as she sighed. “Do you think I could uh…could you…give me at least one to try it out?”

Penelope smiled as she turned her chair and wrote down one of the phone numbers, and then turned to look at y/n, handing her the post it. “I just tried this one, is the last one I found.”

Y/n grabbed it and stared at it for a moment, smiling softly as she looked back at Penelope. “Thanks, P.” She nodded before she left.

Y/n looked around the hallway and noticed no one was there, so she for her phone out and dialed the number. She bit her lip softly as she waited, part of her hoping that she’d answer and the other part just waiting to be sent to voicemail. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath as she heard the voicemail tone. “Hey Em…it’s me, y/n. Uh…Penelope gave me this number, we’re not even sure if you have it anymore or not…” she huffed a chuckle. “…I don’t even know what to say. I just want you to know that…I love you. I won’t ever stop doing that.” She sniffled, biting her lip softly as she tried to swallow back her sobs. “Just come back, Emily…please. We can fix this together. I just need you back with me.” She let out sobs as she looked shook her head. “Come back to me.” She sighed as she ended the voicemail and closed her phone, putting it back in her pocket.

Emily sighed as she closed her eyes for a moment. She was exhausted, she was tired, she wanted this whole thing to end, and the worst thing about this, was that she had no idea how this would end. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream, she felt helpless but she knew she had a reason and purpose, she needed to put an end to this; he wasn’t going to win, not as long as Emily could stop him. She looked down at her phone and furrowed her brows as she noticed two voicemails. Her heart stopped for a second as she heard Penelope’s voice, her eyes getting teary. She hated so much that she was doing this to them, she knew maybe they’d hate her, but she was doing this for them.

She opened the last voicemail and she felt her heart sank, for a moment, her whole world had stopped. It was y/n. She was sure Penelope had given her the phone number. She closed her eyes as she felt l tears rolling down her cheeks. She never meant to hurt y/n like this, she never wanted to lie to her, she never meant to hide this from them, but she thought she’d be able to live with it and that nothing would ever happen, he’d stay in jail forever and no one in her life would know about it. But she was wrong. And she hated it. She wanted to drive back to her lover, hold her and kiss her, but she had to protect her, she had to protect her family.

“I love you…I’m sorry.” Emily whispered softly before she turned off her phone and took a deep breath.

********************

The whole ride to the Warehouse, y/n tried to keep her head clear, thinking that they would be able to find Emily and that this whole thing would finally end, that she’d be able to bring her home and both of them would work on this together. For a moment, as she heard more and more about Emily’s undercover and Ian, she felt herself getting angry at the whole situation. It was clear everyone was upset at the thought of Emily getting involved with someone like him, and she was not gonna lie, it upset her too, but then all she could think about was Emily; was she okay? Was she safe? Y/n knew Emily was a fighter, she could protect herself, but what if Ian had hurt her badly? She couldn’t help the negative thoughts that filled her mind. She grabbed onto her necklace and kissed it, trying to swallow back her tears. She flinched a bit as she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to look at Derek, who offered a small smile.

Y/n decided she’d go in with Derek, she followed them around and her heart started racing as she walked through the warehouse. For a moment, she tried to think that this was just another victim, she wanted to try to concentrate the best she could and not lose her posture. She could almost hear Strauss yelling at her for getting involved even though she knew she should’ve stayed behind. When the lights went out, she felt like she was in a nightmare, following Derek as she kept looking around us, making sure to not miss any door or room. At some point, Derek told y/n to go first to have her back, and just as she walked into the very end of the warehouse, her heart dropped at the sight of Emily on the floor…bleeding.

“Emily!” Y/n dropped to her knees and placed her gun on the floor. “Derek, call an ambulance!” She placed her hand on Emily’s and looked at her, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Emily? Em…please answer me. I’m here.” She said almost in a whisper.

Emily opened her eyes weakly and stared back at y/n. “Y/n?” She whispered weakly.

Y/n nodded and smiled through her tears. “Yes. It’s me. I’m here.” She placed her hand on Emily’s cheek, stroking it softly. “C’mon, baby. I need you to stay with me, help is coming.”

Emily’s breathing was weak, she tried to keep her eyes opened to look at her lover, but it was becoming harder. “Love…I’m…msorry.”

“Help! Please!” Y/n turned to look at Derek with tears in her eyes and then went back to Emily. “No, Em. I know why you did this. I love you, okay? I’m not mad, I’m not upset. I’m here. Just please, please stay with me. I need you, my love. Please.” She cried out as she leaned down to kiss her forehead. “Please, Em…”

“I…love you.” Emily breathed out and closed her eyes.

“Emily! Please! Hurry up!” Y/n looked down at her and sobbed. “Emily!”

The time stopped as y/n kept yelling Emily’s name, and as she felt Derek’s hands on her trying to pull her back, y/n kept yelling and trying to get away from Derek. The paramedics arrived and were all over Emily, y/n could only feel Derek’s arms wrapped around her trying to stop her from moving, and y/n could not do anything else than let herself cry and scream in Derek’s arms. This was not happening. This was not supposed to happen. At some point she felt Derek picking her up and helping her walk so they could follow the ambulance, y/n was sobbing uncontrollably so they didn’t let her go in the ambulance with her.

The whole way to the hospital seemed like a movie, y/n felt like she was not there, she was just numb, and she had gone completely quiet. She could feel JJ and Derek holding her, but she only sat there, her eyes glued to the ambulance in front of them. And then, as if she had transported, she was in the visitors lounge with the whole team. She didn’t know when or how they had all arrived there, even Penelope. She had sat down alone, only staring down at her hands as she fidgeted with her fingers. She thought that she had ran out of tears because none were coming out of her eyes, she could feel her head throbbing, her eyes were swollen and her whole body was trembling. If this is a nightmare, just wake up. Wake up now. She kept repeating in her head over and over again. In the corner of her eye, she saw a figure moving, making her turn her face to find JJ and she stood up rapidly to walk to JJ.

“JJ?” Y/n asked in a whisper as she walked to her. She furrowed her brows when she didn’t say anything. “JJ…say something.” She made a pause and shook her head as there was still silence coming from JJ.

“No…” Penelope whispered softly, her voice breaking.

“Say something!” Y/n’s bottom lip trembled as she sobbed quietly. “Please…”

“She never made it off the table.” JJ said softly, but rapidly, as if she had pushed herself from saying those words.

Y/n felt her like time stopped once again as JJ’s words kept replying in her mind. She could hear Penelope and Spencer crying, she could hear them in the background, but all she could do was sit back down, just staring into nothing as her mind processed JJ’s words. She felt someone touching her shoulder, but she couldn’t make up the words that were coming out of their mouth, her mind had shut down entirely and her body couldn’t react. At some point she felt something wet on her face and she processed in her mind that she was crying and then her mind registered where she was. She looked up and found Penelope by her side, wrapping her arms around her and that’s when she felt her whole body giving up and she started sobbing again, screaming loudly as Penelope tightened her grip on her. She was living in the nightmare.

********************

“I really wish you would’ve told me, Em…I could’ve probably helped you.” Y/n whispered softly, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I miss you terribly.” She sobbed quietly.

“Y/n?” Derek asked softly as she stood beside her.

Y/n cleared her throat as she smiled sadly. “She gave me her necklace. The day before, she came to my apartment at two a.m. I guess she thought that…maybe if she went that late, maybe they wouldn’t be watching her or something.” She shrugged softly as she looked down at the grave. “She seemed so…worried but she was reassuring me that she was okay.” She huffed a chuckle. “I knew she was not, but I didn’t push. I let her have control. She kissed me and left.” She shook her head as more tears rolled down her cheeks. “I should’ve pushed.”

“We know she wouldn’t have told you anything anyway.” Derek sighed. “She wanted to protect us. Protect you.”

Y/n nodded. “I hate her for that.” She shook her head. “I should be upset that she didn’t tell me anything, that she got involved with him.” She sighed. “But I’m upset that she let this happen and I couldn’t be there to save her.”

Derek nodded. “We did what we could.”

Y/n looked up at Derek as she cried. “Did we?” She cried out.

Derek stared at her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him and kissing her forehead softly. “I’m sorry for how I spoke to you.”

“I forgive you.” Y/n whispered softly as she rested her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry too.”

Derek shook his head. “We’re good, princess. And I’m here.”

Y/n nodded. “I know. I’m here too.” She sighed as she let more tears roll down her cheeks.

“So…wanna tell me how it all began?” Derek grinned as he looked down at y/n.

Y/n huffed a chuckle as she wiped her tears. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I do too.”

Y/n turned to look at Penelope and smiled softly. “You’re still here.”

Penelope smiled through her tears. “I didn’t want to leave you, sweet cheeks.”

Y/n smiled as she extended her hand for Penelope to take it. She then looked back at the grave and smiled. “I think Emily would love for me to tell you guys about how it all started.” She nodded softly as she knelt down and sat on the grass, followed by Penelope and Derek.

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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ramp-it-up · 10 months ago

Text

II Most Wanted Pt.I: And I don't know what you're doin' tonight…

Pairing: Syverson x OFC Reader "Buttercup"

Summary: The feeling and flashbacks you get when you saw your high school boyfriend Jake Syverson at your 20 year reunion was quite the unexpected twist in your orderly life.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. RPF. S MUT, Angst, pining, body image issues, flashbacks, horny teenagers doing horny things (over 18 tho) heavy petting, fingering, mentions of teen pregnancy, mentions of breakups, teenage mean girl behavior, the Powerpuff Girls, old automobiles, mentions of drug abuse and difficult childhoods, 20 year high school reunion, drinking, swearing. Explicit description of sex acts. Read at your own risk. Not Beta’d. All errors my own.

A/N: This is the first installment of II Most Wanted. This is also my first fic in nearly half a year. If you like it, please reblog and comment.

I don't have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

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

-------

June 2024

The visceral reactions started as soon as you entered the parking lot. There it was, Sy’s 1978 white Ford Bronco. Not thinking, you pulled into the space right in front of it, wanting to look inside. You almost lost it when you saw the old charm hanging from the rear view mirror. You couldn’t believe he still had that.

Especially with everything that happened since you put it there.

April 2004

“I claim this ancient truck as my throne!”

You were lit and in love, parked with Sy at the lookout. You were also silly and giggly from smoke and hormones.

“Mmmmm, careful Buttercup.”

Your boyfriend growled in your ear, making you shiver against him. His attempt at menace was thwarted by the smile you felt against your neck, where he was busy marking you up, a sure sign later for everyone to know who you belonged to.

Sy was known for making bloody the face of those who expressed hate for his beloved Betty Bronco. But you had him whipped.

“It’s a classic, but I’ll let that slide...”

He wished that you would let him slide, but you were adamant that you weren’t ready to be a parent. He was adamant that that didn’t have to be the outcome, but beneath the red blooded country boy was a gentleman. Sy would never do anything you didn’t want to, not that it stopped him from trying to convince you to admit that you in fact, wanted it as much as he did.

He wasn’t wrong.

You sighed as you placed the Powerpuff Girl necklace you got from Hot Topic on Sy’s rearview as you sat on his lap, giving him a treat. He had you in his grip by the hips and he was subtly moving you against his boner. The attraction between you two was heady, and he almost got what he wanted plenty of times. But you were a romantic and wanted it to be special. You promised him prom night, and Sy couldn’t wait.

“..Driving me crazy, Baby. You can put anything on my rear view as long as you let me get your rear view in the back seat….”

You giggled.

“You’re so corny, Sy.”

You whispered as you turned your head and kissed him over your shoulder.

“Hmmmm. And you’re so sweet.”

Sy’s sea blue eyes gazed at you as he licked his lips.

He was crazy for you. And you were for him. You felt it. And you just knew you’d be together forever. You grinned as you climbed over him into the back seat. Didn’t hurt to fool around a little, even if you weren’t gonna give him the p that night.

——————

You shook out of the memory as a warm June breeze whipped your short skirt around your thighs. You pulled on the yellow and white designer dress as you contemplated driving back to your hotel and changing. This dress was not a good idea. The triumphant feeling of serving looks when you appraised yourself in the mirror was replaced with anxiety. The dress was too short and you were not the same size you were in high school. Thighs you considered pretty and thick in the mirror just an hour ago seemed massive and you tugged at the deep plunge of the neckline without a bra.

You sighed as you tried to center yourself. You told yourself that you were growing out of negative self talk, especially in the last seven years since your divorce. You were reminded of your promise to never care about the, male gaze again. It just wasn’t worth it.

But you hadn’t been under Jacob Syverson’s gaze in 20 years.

——

Sy posted up at the bar, blue eyes taking in the scene of his former classmates reuniting. He downed his two fingers of Maker’s Mark and asked for another. His heart rate was up as he scanned the room, eyes going back to the door again and again. He was waiting for you. No use in denying it to himself. He wanted to see you again, and more. It was his one objective. An objective he was unsure of attaining.

He was more nervous about being in a hotel ballroom tonight than in Afghanistan.

Christ, he felt like that 17 year old kid again who first laid eyes on you.

——-

August, 2003

Sy knew what he wanted the moment he saw your face.

You stopped the world when you first stepped into his British Literature class the first day of senior year. He was seated and talking with his best friend and wide receiver, Jeremy Atkins, when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He let the conversation about which route they should run at the scrimmage that afternoon slip as his eyes lighted on your face. You were anxious, but trying not to let it show. Those eyes held fire, and your lips…

…well your lips besides being everything he dreamt of, he just knew the words that came out of your lips would light someone up as well. He could tell you had spirit by the way you carried yourself.

Your hair was wild and shoulder length, bangs swept aside for vision, and you couldn’t hide that body under your baggy clothes. He lasered in on the fact that you weren’t wearing a bra underneath your graphic tee, and power that the strip of skin between your shirt and your baggy jeans was not lost on him. He was a 17 year old male, after all.

Sy shifted in his seat as he leaned back and grinned to himself when you scanned the room, glaring at anyone who looked askance. He tapped his pencil on the desk to try to get your attention but you just ignored him as the group of seatless students surrounding you dwindled. You were left alone under the scrutiny of soulless cretins, otherwise known as teenagers.

You gave each one brazen enough to stare at you a side eye, but you stopped when you finally noticed Sy smirking at you. You stuck your tongue out at him, causing him to choke on a chuckle.

Becca Ferguson, Sy’s girlfriend, kicked him in the leg after noticing that not only Sy, but Jeremy were openly staring at you. Shit, he’d forgotten about her. He caught the way her eyes cut over to you, and he knew what came next. He tried to distract her with a flip of the shelf of his blown out curls and a smile, something that had worked many times before.

But you were a threat to Becca now; she had to do something about you.

You raised your head high as you walked to the seat that Mrs.Beatty pointed out. You passed down the aisle between Sy and Becca, who scrunched up her face as if she smelled something bad. Sy got a whiff of you and you smelled divine, like that Sweet Pea bath gel stuff that he played off sniffing when he went to the mall with Becca.

His head turned.

Becca glared at him and he turned toward the front of the room, where the teacher had started to pass out the syllabus.

—--

June 2024

Just like lunch on the first day of school at Central High all those years ago, Carla and Tiffani engulfed you and took you under their wings when you walked into the Marriott, the venue for your reunion. They crowed over you; your hair, your dress, your glow. You forgot any anxiety that you were feeling about how you looked. These were your best friends. Your Bubbles and Blossom.

These women filled the gaping place in your heart torn open from attending 10 different schools from K-12, following your mother’s loves and whims when she didn’t take her meds, or when she self-medicated. They were your soul sisters. And you still kept in touch even though distance separated you.

Carla had that grin on her face while Tiffani expressed her excitement that you were in town.

“Girl! I am so glad that you made it!”

Tiffani was the gentle one.

“Yeah, I owe Tiff a c-note, because I was sure you’d chicken out.”

Carla laughed at you while you scowled at her.

Tiffani tskd at her bestie, and took your arm while Carla took the other and they ushered you through the doors of the ballroom.

“Well, she has a new job in town and everything, she had to come.”

“Yeah, she had to come to town, but coming tonight is a wholeeee different story.”

You laughed.

“I don’t have the job yet, Tiff. Interview is Monday. And why wouldn’t I come tonight?”

The familiar banter was back, as if 20 years was no matter at all between you and your girls.

You heard someone clear their throat behind you and Carla peered over her shoulder and then smirked at you. She jerked her head back.

“Because of that.”

You looked over your shoulder, smiling right before your stomach dropped.

There was Jake Syverson, all grown up, and staring at you as if all this time hadn’t happened.

—-

Sy saw you enter the ballroom and he almost wanted to run away. Being in country on a dangerous mission was nothing compared to the thought of actually facing you again.

At least he was trained for war.

Love was another thing entirely.

He took a deep breath as he focused on you. You had always been beautiful, but now, as a grown woman, you were absolutely gorgeous. Your hair was sleek and your face was perfectly beat with makeup that accentuated your natural beauty. You were glowing and that smile was…everything.

As he leaned on the bar and scanned the rest of your body in that dress, he took another drink. Sy indeed felt 18 again, because his body was reacting as if he were a randy teenager. Your body was everything he remembered, and more. More of everything he remembered loving and lusting over 20 years ago.

“Damn.”

He said it out loud and the bartender replied.

“Agreed, Brother.”

Sy looked at the young man admiring you who couldn’t be over 25, and threw down some money.

“Watch it, kid.”

That little bit of jealousy fueled Sy’s bravado, and he found the courage to step to you.

—--

You froze like a deer in headlights.

Over the years, you imagined seeing him again, in all different kinds of scenario, and you thought you could handle it, but the reality of the situation just about knocked you on your ass. Time stopped as you stared at him.

Sy was more handsome with age, if that was possible. His eyes, his shoulders, his hair! His gorgeous curls were short and a shock of hair was growing from his chin. Your body reacted as your traitorous brain instantly thought of how his beard would feel on certain parts of your body. He looked good in a suit, but he was massive. You had on heels, but Sy seemed bigger than you remembered. He wasn’t the lithe high school quarterback you remembered.

You unconsciously walked closer.

He was taller.

But he was also huge: bigger muscles, thicker limbs; his body seemed more powerful all the way around.

Heaven help you.

And the way he was looking at you as if he still owned you, as if all everything that happened hadn’t happened. As if all these years…

Your arms went out to Carla and Tiff beside you for some support, but they were gone, and you stumbled a bit. Sy grabbed your arm quickly as you laughed to play it off.

“Hey Buttercup. You good?”

Goodness, his voice!

How could that damn drawl be deeper and sexier than you remembered? And his touch on your skin felt familiar, yet strange, like a touch from a dream. What was happening to you?

“I need a drink.”

Sy was silent for a bit as you got your drink and had a sip. The way you licked your lips made him want to fall to his knees and beg.

—--

May 2004

“Please, please, please Buttercup. Just let me put the tip in. I promise I won’t move. It wouldn’t really be doing it…”

Sy was whispering in your ear and you were mute, waiting to hear more as your pussy pulsed in your jeans, the grind against his crotch delicious torture.

“I dream about it, Buttercup. I feel you, Baby. So fucking wet for me. I just know that it would feel so, so so good. I’d slip right in.”

It was midnight on your 18th birthday and you were in the Bronco, letting Sy feel you up under your panties for the first time. Your head was thrown back and your eyes rolled at how good it felt. You didn’t know how you would hold out. But it was just three weeks until Prom.

You were sat on his lap and he had one hand down your jeans and one up your shirt.

He pistoned his hips up, causing your back to arch against his chest. You could feel his heart beating a mile a minute.. Sy’s voice lowered to a whisper.

“‘M Gonna taste my fingers, Buttercup. Watch.”

You opened your eyes as Sy pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth. You whined when he closed his eyes and moaned. You throbbed. It had never been like this before.

“You are so delicious… Need more…”

Sy pushed his hand back down into your pants to get you to do that arch again. It sent him feral to see that for some reason.

His fingers found the source and circled it, causing your body to tense up and your fingers to grab his arms.

“Oh my god! Sy!”

You’d come close to this feeling before just grinding with him on the back seat, but this was incomparable.

Your fingernails sunk into his forearms, creating marks for sure. This fueled him even more as he continued his ministrations at your core. He toyed beneath your bra and your mouth opened to seek oxygen as the feeling in your belly continued to tune you to a fever pitch.

“Yes…. Baby….. fuck… You gonna cum on my lap?”

“Hunnnh, hunnh, hunnnh!”

“You’re so fucking hot… I’m about to jizz in my pants… cum for me, Baby…”

Sy grinded against your bottom, and you stiffened while the world’s most wonderful feeling washed over you. You cried out as Sy pinched your nipple and you came, feeling as if the Bronco was caught up in the Wizard of Oz Twister. The world was certainly now in color when you could open your eyes.

Sy held you, watching your beautiful face as you pouted and came back to earth. When you did, your smile was worth all the gold in the world to him. He kissed your temple and slipped his hand out of your pants, sucking your juices off of them again.

You were about to jump him, but Sy interrupted your thought.

“Now that you’ve got a preview of Prom night, let’s get you home, Buttercup. Gotta get your beauty sleep for the festivities later on tonight.”

—-

Sy cleared his throat after staring at you silently for a solid three minutes. The way you licked your lips clean and focused on him was some powerful magic.

“So. How have you been, Sy? How is the family?”

You tried to keep any bitterness out of your voice. The fact that Becca Spurgeon ruined your prom (and your relationship with Sy) by announcing that she was pregnant with Sy’s baby after she was crowned Prom Queen and he Prom King was something you’d tried to get over for 20 years.

Sy straightened up and looked over your shoulder. You glanced in that direction to see Carla and Tiffani hovering protectively.

“Well, now Buttercup, that’s a long story. I know you want to hang with your friends. And I don’t know what you’re doin’ later tonight, but I would like to go somewhere quiet and talk about it.”

——

If you like it, hit Reblog!

Next part here.

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