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urfavhecate · 2 days ago

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I’ve been waiting for too long | drunk!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: After your breakup with Wanda, Natasha takes care of you… good care…

Warnings: oneshot, drunk Natasha, SMUT, +18, MDNI ! drunk sex, breakup mention, short one, oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), multiple orgasm, kinda overstimulation.

Note: Hey guy, it has been long time since last post. As always… English isn’t my first language sp im sorry for all mistakes. This year I have my finals so it’s hard to find time for hobbies but I hope I’ll find more time to write some stuff. If you have any ideas for next shots or stories m requests are open, or if you want to yapp a little I’m also here. <3

No one is allowed to copy, translate or pubish my work as their own!

The life of an Avengers was never easy. As soon as you started your relationship with Wanda, you felt like you had found everything you needed, almost like you had grabbed God by the legs. However, as it quickly turned out, nothing lasts forever, because a few months later Wanda broke up with you.

It was one of those evenings when the Avengers tower seemed empty. While everyone else was busy with their own things, Natasha was sitting in the living room drinking her beer. When she saw you enter the room, she handed you a bottle so you could rest a bit.

„Have a drink and relax” she simply said. You thanked her and fell down on the couch next to Natasha. She just looked at you, knowing something was wrong. "Rough day?" she asked with a stoic face.

“Wanda broke up with me,” you replied quietly, your voice breaking at the thought of what had happened. “She chose that fucking toaster on legs over me.”

Natasha couldn’t help but giggle softly at the comment. “Vision you mean?”

“i don’t get it… what did i do wrong?”

Natasha’s smirk disappeared from her face. She leaned back on the couch, and she sighed before she could muster up a response. “Maybe you didn’t do anything… Sometimes its about what people want or don’t want”

“But him?! Really?! What did he have what i don’t?” You were irritated just thinking about him. He was a robot, he wasn’t even human.

"Beats me... He can fly and shoot lasers from his head" Natasha laughed again "You know... not everyone has good taste"

You laughed softly as you started to question whether or not he had a metal dick. You started to joke as Natasha smiled knowing that she cheered you up a bit, she didn't like seeing you down. Your relationship had always been weird. It wasn't just friendly flirting, but you never talked about what was between you, pretending that you were just friends and worked together.

“I think we should find you a new hobby because I don’t want to picture his metal dick again” The redhead laughed.

“I have one idea… We could always go to a bar”

It wasn’t long before you ended up at one of the nearby bars, drinking and dancing. A few shots and drinks later, you both were visibly tipsy, the alcohol was taking effect. Natasha’s usual composure loosened as her inhibitions lowered, her gaze more carefree and lighthearted. She leaned back against the barstool, studying you with a lazy smirk on her face.

“What?” you giggled noticing she was staring at you.

“Nothing… You just a lot more fun when youre drunk” she answered letting inner thoughts threaten to spill out.

When you finished on the dance floor, your bodies moved together in perfect harmony, you danced and your bodies rubbed against each other. She let her hand drift to your hip, pulling you even closer to her. Her eyes met yours, dark with mix of intoxication and desire.

“You're beautiful you know that?” you mumbled moving closer to her, your lips were now just inches apart.

“Am I?” she murmured softly, her voice a low seductive purr “Or is that just the alcohol talking”

“you are hot as fuck” Natasha's smirk turned cocky as her eyes burned with desire. She gently pushed you backwards until your back hit the wall, trapping you against it with the weight of her body. Her hand moved from your hip to your chin, tipping your face up to meet her gaze. Natasha chuckled, her body pressing against yours, her hand still holding your chin, her gaze boring into yours. She leaned in, her lips brushing against your earlobe, her voice a heady whisper in your ear.

"You don't know what you're asking for," she muttered huskily, her free hand roaming over the fabric of your clothes. "I can make you feel things you've never felt before." Wanda wasn’t really dominant so this was new and exiting at the same time.

Natasha dragged you into a taxi and you headed back to the tower. Throughout the whole way, you couldn't keep your hands to yourselves, wandering over the other woman's body.

Natasha's patience had reached its limit. The moment the elevator doors closed behind you, she punted. She slammed you against the wall, her body trapping yours, her gaze smoldering with desire.

"I can't wait anymore," she panted, her hands roaming all over your body, touching you with a desperate need. Her lips found your neck, kissing and nipping, leaving a trail of heated affection “I’ve been waiting for too long”

You moaned when her lips touched your neck and your fingers tangled with her hair. Natasha hummed against your neck, the sound a mixture of approval and desire. Your moan sent a jolt of arousal through her body, fueling her need to feel your skin against hers. Her hands roamed freely over your body, slipping under your clothes, seeking more contact, more flesh. Her kisses moved up until her lips found yours, capturing them in a passionate, demanding kiss.

When you got out of the elevator, Natasha immediately pushed you against the wall. Natasha groaned when you wrapped your leg around her waist, the action bringing your bodies even closer together. She ground her hips against you, the movement hard and desperate, her need for you becoming almost primal. She broke the kiss just long enough to let out a ragged exhale, her breath mingling with yours. "I want you. Now."

“Say it again... please….” You moaned. Natasha's hand gripped your hip, her fingers digging into your flesh as she pushed you harder against the wall. She leaned in, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice a low, sinful whisper.

"I want you. I need you. Now." Her hand slid up the length of your thigh, hooking your leg over her hip, the movement more possessive than ever before. "You understand?"

At that moment, you didn't care about the breakup or that anyone could see you two. Natasha's sloppy kisses were driving you crazy, so you dragged her to your room. Natasha pushed you onto the bed, climbing on top of you and pinning your hands above your head.

"Wanda never dominated you huh?" Natasha smiled knowing it was true. "Baby with me you'll feel things you could only dream of with Wanda"

A moment later they ended up naked in your bed. Natasha moved lower kissing your chest, your stomach and finally ending between those legs. She couldn't help herself and ran her tongue through your wet folds. She moaned loudly at the taste of you on her tongue.

"oh god... you taste so good"

Your fingers tangled in her hair holding her where you needed her the most. Her tongue moved faster and faster, and you squirmed beneath her. Natasha grabbed your thighs to keep you in place. She continued to eat your pussy like it was her last meal. She was hungry for your taste. It wasn't long before she added her fingers, pushing two of them roughly into your pussy. You moaned with pleasure, wanting more. You tugged at her hair, holding her between your shaking legs. Her movements were still sloppy from the alcohol. She mumbled something under her breath as she gently sucked on your clit.

"I’m… I’m gonna... cum... Natasha please… can I cum?" you moaned. Your body trembled as you ere closer to the pleasure, as Natasha’s fingers curled inside you, finding that sweet spot.

"Good girl, asking for permission... such a submissive good girl." Natasha mumbled, pushing another finger into your pussy "Cum for me baby"

It wasn't long before you came on Natasha's face. The redhead lapped up your juices, not wanting to waste a single drop. Her face was covered in your orgasm and her eyes still held a hunger. Her pupils were much larger and her irises were a darker shade of green.

“Nat… Natasha… oh god… fuck…!”

“Good girl, scream my name… my good girl” she kept mumbling.

As you came down from your high, you thought Natasha would pull away to kiss you, but she continued eating your pussy. She couldn't hold back, it only took a moment for her to become addicted to your taste. Natara's free hand pressed gently against your lower abdomen.

"Natasha...tooo sensitve..." you tried to pull away but Natasha held you in place.

"Don't you dare move. Just one more"

Natasha continued fucking you not paying attention to the overwhelming pleasure that was spreading throughout your body. Life mattered to your cheeks. Your legs shook as Natasha's fingers moved in and out at a rapid pace. You squirmed, moaning her name like a prayer.

"I can't...I can't…" You kept screaming.

"You can do it baby....You'll feel so good..."

“Tell me when you belong to… Tell me you’re mine…” She softly bit your clit.

“I’m yours… only yours…”

As you came a second time Natasha smiled and kissed your forehead. Her hands moved to your breasts. “I’m not done with you yet”

#wlw #natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #scarlett johansson x y/n #scarlett johansson #blackwidow #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff smut #oneshot #the avengers #smut #fanfiction #natasha smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #marvel #nat x reader #lesbian

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iatrophilosophos · 2 days ago

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I think a thing that i find deeply frustrating from every political & philosophical perspective is a deep lack of engagement with medicine. I think at the very root of it is a sense of professional/expertise/authoritative domain. Most people do not talk about how to make medicine happen, they talk about creating conditions conducive to producing an effective medical class +/- production appartus. Anarchists are just as guilty of this as communists as reformerists: you can't tell me that most of the people who gesture at projects like four thieves, open insulin, boobs not bombs (don't get me started), and various street medicine projects aren't also just invoking the image of a detached force of competent agents.

I'll be a hater until the end of time but sometimes it is kinda hard to blame ur average disabled civvie's knee-jerk "what about my meds" because the question is conspicuously absent or relegated to ignorant grandstanding so, so often. Anyone actually critically examining the projects we often cite as easy, publicly available examples will quickly note that they *do* have deep flaws and vulnerabilities. Medicine is conspicuously absent from the texts we cite, pearlman doesnt talk about it, postciv! doesnt talk about it...because these works, no matter how much love I have for them, are really not actually concerned with disabled people all that much.

Most anticiv ppl i know are disabled/medication dependent ourselves & working on it, it's just like really fucking hard, and really hard to generate Texts(tm) while also doing the thing. It's a weird, long, slow process that I'm getting progressively better at & have been for years, but it's also something that happens in conversations and relationships and it's hard to iron out and commit to paper when honestly, synthesizing an effective, sustainable, bioregionally feasible medical MO in current times IS a field in its infancy AND one that looks radically different for every cohort because we are located in different places and starting from a point of different needs/conditions of priority.

Acting like the people who prioritize this just Have It on lock and will get it figured is doing everyone a disservice--it's a paper thin posture that disabled ppl are gonna see through, and it's reinforcing the idea that the average person in the imperial core doesn't need to have any concept of what they'd do with, idk, kidney stones or conjuctivitis or Whatever because they can Just See A Professional About It, even though we ***know*** that that idea doesn't hold up for tons of people NOW, let alone as collapse continues.

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deerlysacred · 17 hours ago

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↬ cedar closets ⧼ young!dean winchester x witch fem!reader ⧽

𐂂 𝄢 { the day after your dad's funeral, someone knocks at your door... }

𖣂 𝄢 angsty, reader's dad was emotionally absent, reader has daddy issues, some insensitive dark jokes between dean and reader with the shock and the awkwardness of the situation. dean and reader are at least 18 years old.

♪ inspired by the song 'peter' by taylor swift.

‼️ 𝄢 i do not own supernatural or any of its characters; all rights belong to their respective creators. this is purely a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, with no intention of profit.

The warm water ran scalding hot, but you didn't flinch. It poured over your hands like punishment, reddening skin already raw from too much scrubbing, too much soap, too much cold in the middle of the freezing February, too much time spent trying to wash away thoughts that wouldn't rinse clean, now stuck to you like a birth mark. The sink was filled with cloudy water and bubbles, tiny remains of vegetables and meat flushing away, some of them sticking to your fingers, finishing the last of the dishes from the funeral luncheon yesterday. The gray daylight were lightening your palms where you were gripping the sponge too tightly. If you pressed any harder, you could have break the plate between your fingers.

You wished you would. At least that would break the sickening silence.

The funeral ended yesterday, but the house still smelled like wilted flowers and too-sweet perfume scent lingering from the guests. The whole place smelled and looked like a hospital basically, soulless and unsettling. It felt like a hospital room too. You looked at the pale white lilies that sat on the kitchen counter, their scent thick enough to choke on. You didn't remember who brought them. You didn't remember much about the service, actually— just the tightness in your throat, the ache in your chest (that still lingered), the weight of eyes on you, and the priest's hollow words, the words you were pretty sure he recycled from the last funeral he went to.

"Good man. Brave. Family meant everything to him."

Family.

Your grip tightened around the chipped plate in your hands, and for a moment, you thought about hurling it against the wall just to hear something shatter. But you didn't. You never do, actually. Instead, you scrubbed harder, scraping at the dried remnants of some casserole an aunt or cousin left behind, making the cracks on your knuckles bleed ever so slightly.

He was a good man. And that was the worst part, right? He meant well. Loved you, in his own way. But love doesn't hold much meaning when it mostly involves never-kept-promises and just a kiss on the forehead, does it?

"We'll go fishing this summer, kid. Just you and me." Never happened. "I'll be there for your graduation this time." Missed it again. "I love you more than anything, sweetheart." Maybe true, but love was a quiet thing with him, stretched thin like old elastic— ready to snap if you pulled too hard.

The plate slipped from your numb fingers and hit the floor with a sharp crack. You flinched, your heart thudding like you've been caught doing something wrong. But there was no one here to notice. No one ever really was, was there?

Well, Dad. Guess I learned how to clean up the messes all by myself.

You dropped the shards into the trash and turned back to the sink. There was still a little more dishes.

You were just about to open the faucet back when the sudden knock knock knock at the door made you jump. Your heart stuttered, you weren't expecting anyone. Your family knew you'd come by later, it couldn't be any of the relatives since they were all at your aunt's house right now. Your mom had nearly collapsed this morning, grief catching up to her all at once, and all of the relatives took her with them to your aunt's house. You had stayed there too until your mother was stable, then slipped back home with the excuse of tidying up. But really, you just needed the quiet.

You eventually moved towards the front door, Dear God, please— don't let it be another person coming to say how sorry they are. You hesitated just long enough for another knock to come, firmer this time. You pulled it open, and the first thing you saw was a brown leather jacket.

Then green eyes.

Then flowers?

Your brain took an extra second to catch up, cataloging the details— the boy in front of you had a little dishevelled yet charmingly styled dirty blond hair, his jawline was sharp, the brown leather jacket on him (though it looked a little oversized) suited him, there were freckles dusting under his eyes and on his nose, he held himself there like he wasn't used to standing still for too long. He was around your age, maybe a little older, and something about his face was… guarded. Like he wasn't sure how to do this either.

"Uh, hey. Y/N, I suppose?" His voice came rough, then he cleared his throat, shifting on his boots. "I'm Dean. My dad —John Winchester— he, uh, couldn't make it. Sent me instead. Hope that's alright."

Your fingers curled into the doorframe, grounding yourself against the swirl of emotions in your chest. Winchester. John Winchester. You knew the name. You'd heard your father say it before, in passing, in stories about hunts and after-hunt celebrations they drank and hung out. You knew about his sons, how John basically drags them all over the country trying to find the demon that killed his wife and the mother of Dean and Sam.

Your gaze flickered to the white roses he held, then back to him.

He was fidgeting now a little, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, like the silence between you was stretching a little too long for his liking, where it just became awkward at some point. His expression shifted to something more shy, something uncertain pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Oh God, say something.

Your throat felt tight when you finally spoke quietly. "I… um. Yeah. That's fine."

You cleared your throat, stepping back just enough to let him in. "You —uh, you can come in, if you want." Your voice was still quieter than you wanted it to be. You should sound normal. Like a person who knows how to talk to other people.

Dean hesitated, then stepped inside. He glanced around, taking in the neatness, the dim yellow glow of the lamps against the cold gray light from the window. He didn't say anything about the smell of lemon cleaner or the way everything looked like someone had been moving just to keep from thinking. But it was the nose thing you notice. He barely crossed the threshold before his face pinched, and he wiped at his nose with the side of his hand, trying to be subtle about it.

Oh my God. Did I actually clean so hard I fumigated the house?

Your cheeks heated up. You'd been too focused on cleaning non-stop to not think about your dad to realize the lemon cleaner was practically radiating off the walls. It was not just 'clean' in here; it was chemical warfare.

He held out the bouquet, a little stiffly. "Uh, these are for you. Or your mom. Or— y'know. Whoever needs 'em."

You blinked at the flowers, then up at him.

For a guy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, he was trying. Really trying.

Your fingers brushed against his when you took them, the touch brief, but enough to send a tiny jolt of awareness through you. You ignored it. Not the time, brain. Not the time.

"Thanks," you murmured, voice softer now. The weight of the moment pressed in again, the reminder of why he was here, why any of this was happening at all. You swallowed, hugging the bouquet against your chest for a second before nodding towards the living room. "You can, um. Sit in there. If you want. My mom's not home."

Dean hesitated again, then followed your lead, stepping carefully into the quiet space you had just been cleaning. And there it was again— that almost imperceptible twitch of his nose. He rubbed at it with the side of his hand, trying to be cool about it.

You bit your bottom lip, fighting the urge to shrink into yourself, embarassed. "Uh," you blurted, shifting the bouquet awkwardly in your arms. "Sorry if it smells like a citrus crime scene in here. Got a little… carried away earlier."

Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he hadn't meant to find that funny. "Yeah, I was startin' to wonder if someone died from lemon poisoning."

You blinked when you heard that. He froze, looking like he mentally slapped himself.

"Shit, I didn't mean—" he muttered, eyes widening like he wanted to take the words back and swallow them whole.

"No, no, it's fine." You cut him off quickly, you laughed weakly to not make it weird (which made it even weirder now that you actually laughed at his kinda dark joke), your voice cracking a little. "Accidentally making insensitive jokes at wrong times, happens to best of us. I actually even came to the brink of laughing during the funeral — not that any of it was funny… It just feels annoying and absurd when you see your cousins fighting for the last meatball on the plate while you try not to throw up thinking about your dad's death."

Well, that definitely didn't make it any weirder. Good job.

The (even darker) joke hung awkwardly for a second, both of you standing there like badly programmed NPCs who glitched mid-conversation. Dean nodded and tried to smile, shifting his weight.

"Right, still. Sorry."

You nodded, looking down at the roses— too perfect, too bright against the dull ache of the house. You moved towards the side table near the hallway, where an old ceramic pitcher sat empty, setting the bouquet down. "Umm… I'll just… put these here." you mumbled.

The silence crept back in, thick and suffocating. Dean settled awkwardly onto the couch, his fingers tapping against his knee. You could tell he wasn't sure what to do with himself, just sitting there with all the heavy silence pressing in, eyes flicking from the flowers to you and back again. The awkwardness made you fidget and stall a little.

"Okay," you said, this time too loud, too sudden. "Window. Gonna open a window. Before you suffocate and add another funeral to the roster."

Dean huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Appreciate that. Didn't really plan on goin' out via lemon-scented asphyxiation."

God, it's a contest for who makes more insensitive and unfunny jokes at this point.

You darted towards the nearest window, flipping the latch with more force than necessary. The cold air hit you like a sharp slap, slowly clearing out the smell. You cleared your throat as you turned to him, glancing down at your hands, then back at him. "Uh, do you want something? To drink, I mean. Water? Tea? Coffee?"

Dean perked up a little, nodding, he spoke with a gentle tpne. "Coffee'd be great, actually."

You nodded back and turned towards the near kitchen, grateful for the excuse to move. The whole situation felt surreal— this random boy sitting on your couch, his presence both unfamiliar yet strangely comforting in a way you couldn't quite place. Handling grown adults were fine, there was supposed to be a respectful and distant dynamic naturally. But people your age? And to top it all, a boy? That was a whole other deal, you hated this. You absolutely hated having to keep conversation while there was no one else, especially when you were grieving like now.

As you poured the coffee, you could hear him shifting on the couch, clearing his throat like he was gearing up to say something. "So, uh… you're a witch, huh?"

Your hands paused over the cups for half a second before you forced yourself to keep moving. Of course, he'd bring that up.

"Yeah," glancing at him over your shoulder. "My mom's the witch, my mom's bloodline. My dad wasn't."

Dean nodded slowly, like he was treading carefully. "Right. Gotcha." He hesitated, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not gonna lie, that's… kinda new for me. Usually, when I hear 'witch,' it's not in a good way."

You smirked a little, walking back to the living room and setting his cup down on the coffe table in front of him. "Well, I promise I didn't put any weird potions in it."

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, and the tension in the room lightened just a little. He took the coffee with a murmured thanks, blowing on it before taking a sip. Then, after a moment, he set it back down and cleared his throat again.

"You need help with anything?" he asked, glancing around the too-clean house.

You shook your head quickly, you said "No." quickly. Too quickly. Too defensive. Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His green eyes sizing you up as he tilted his head like a confused puppy.

"C'mon, there’s gotta be something. I mean, you've been running around cleaning for so long, obviously. I'm sure there's lots of work to be done, I can't just sit here."

You hesitated, gripping your own cup a little tighter as you spoke quietly, admitting. "I… I was gonna sort through some of my dad's stuff. In the attic. But I can do it later."

Dean nodded, thoughtful. "Or, we could do it now. Y'know… together."

You bit your lip, looking down at the steam curling from your cup. You wanted to say no. You should've said no. But the idea of going up there alone, of shifting through your dad's things with nothing but silence around— it felt unbearable.

"…Okay," you finally said, barely above a whisper. "Yeah. Alright."

Dean stood up with a small, relaxed smile. "Lead the way."

You two climbed up carefully, the attic ladder creaked under your weight as you climbed up first, carefully pulling yourself onto the wooden floorboards. The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of aged wood, the gray light was shining through a small window. Dean followed close behind, his boots thudding against the rickety steps.

"Woah, there's a lot of stuff here.” he muttered, brushing cobwebs off his sleeve as he straightened up. His eyes flicked around the attic, taking in the assortment of stacked boxes, old furniture covered in sheets, some closets and a few worn-out hunting tools shoved in the corners.

You hugged your arms around yourself, exhaling. "Yeah… My dad never threw anything away. Said everything had a memory attached to it. My mom hated this habit of his, lots of stuff and junk led to a mess naturally."

Dean laughed quietly. "Sounds like my dad, except replace 'memories' with 'potentially useful crap'. Old man still keeps a damn broken tape and unnecessary maps of the forests located at the other side of the world."

That pulled a small smile from you. Dean kicked at the dust on the floor, then turned his attention to the boxes. "So, what are we lookin' for? Just… anything?"

You nodded, kneeling beside one of the boxes. "My mom will eventually donate some of these stuff, I'm sure of it. I just want to go through around here, see what's worth keeping. At least, for me to keep for myself."

Dean crouched down beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. "Yeah. I get that."

You glanced at him, hesitating. "Did you ever keep anything of your mom's?"

Dean was quiet for a second before he shifted, lifting his right hand. You saw a silver ring on his ring finger, he rubbed the ring with his thumb.

"This was hers," he said, voice softer than usual. "My dad said she'd used to wear it all the time. When she… y'know… my dad kept it. Didn't let me have it for years. Guess he thought I was too young or somethin'. But I wanted it. Needed it. It was all I had of her."

You watched the way his thumb brushed over the ring's surface, like it was instinct— like it was second nature to hold onto it, to make sure it was still there.

You spoke softly. "That's nice, having something to keep with you."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. It helps."

You swallowed hard, turning back to the boxes. You opened one, sifting through old books, worn-out leather wallets, and a few faded polaroids. But it wasn't until you reached into the bottom of another box that you felt something cool and metallic against your fingertips.

You pulled it out slowly, dusting off the grime to reveal an old, bronze necklace. The chain was simple, but the pendant—a small, circular sun shape with an engraved design— felt significant.

Dean leaned in, eyes narrowing. "That your dad's?"

You nodded, running your thumb over the pendant. "I think so. He never really wore jewelry, but I remember seeing this in old pictures. Probably from when he was younger."

Dean studied it for a moment, then exhaled through his nose, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You should keep it."

You hesitated, gripping the necklace a little tighter. "I don't know… it feels weird. Like it's not really mine."

Dean huffed, reaching out and plucking it from your hands before you could protest. "Well, it is yours now," he said simply, unclasping the chain. "C'mon, turn around."

You blinked up at him, your cheeks warming up. "What?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Turn around."

You hesitated before turning your back to him. The air felt heavier, your skin prickling as his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as he fastened the clasp. The cool weight of the pendant settled against your collarbone.

"There," he murmured, his voice close— too close that you could feel the warmth of his breath, it tingled your insides. "Looks good on you."

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm the attic felt. You turned back around, fingers instinctively tracing over the necklace.

"Thanks." you said quietly, smiling.

Dean shrugged like it was nothing, but there was a softness in his expression, something almost shy. "Yeah. Anytime. Uh… Shall we?" He pointed to a nearby closet. You nodded, keep searching without really knowing what you were looking for. You focused on the closet, pulling out an old leather jacket that still smelled faintly of your dad's cologne. The scent hit you like an old memory, catching you off guard, but you swallowed it down and carefully wore the jacket, deciding to keep it for yourself.

"Hey." Dean muttered, catching your attention.

You turned your head to see him pull a slightly crumpled piece of paper from a folder. The edges were yellowed with time, and there was a faint smudge of ink where someone —probably you— had pressed too hard with a pen. That was a child's drawing— your drawing.

It was shaky, the proportions all wrong in the way kids never quite get right. A stick-figure version of your dad stood tall, with big hands and a lopsided smile. Next to him, a smaller figure —your younger self— clutched onto his hand. Above, a huge sun and some cloud figures, a couple of trees and flowers were there too. Above the drawing, in messy, unsteady handwriting, were the words: 'Me and Daddy!!!' with some heart drawings.

Dean chuckled softly, looking at you. "This yours?"

Your heart ached. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, reaching out and taking the paper from his hands. Not in an unkind manner but sudden, instinctive.

Dean blinked, clearly catching the movement, but he didn't say anything at first. He just watched as you stared at the drawing, your grip careful but firm, like you weren't sure whether you wanted to protect it or crumple it up entirely. After a short minute, Dean spoke, voice softer than before. "Your dad must've been a real good father."

A sharp exhale left your lips. You swallowed, blinking a few times, but your throat still felt tight.

The words should've been easy to agree with. He was your dad. You should be able to nod and say yeah, he was great, and let the conversation move on.

"He tried," you murmured, voice unsteady. "He wasn't… bad or anything. He just— he was never really there. Not in the way that mattered."

You wet your lips, fingers tightening around the drawing as you kept speaking. "He loved me, I know that. But he was always… distant. Like, he'd be in the same room, but it was like he wasn't really there. Always thinking about something else. Work, hunts, whatever it was that kept him busy." Your voice wavered, but you pushed forward. "He sometimes showed up for things —birthdays, school stuff— but never in the way I needed him to. I could feel him not really wanting to be there, he would just want to get over with it and move on as soon as that event passed. He never showed effort in a way that felt… enough."

Dean's jaw tensed, his gaze flickering over your face. He nodded, almost to himself, like he understood that very well. "Yeah, I get that."

You looked up at him, your chest feeling tight. "You do?"

Dean let out a small breath, running a hand through his hair. "My dad, he… he was there, technically. Raised me and Sam. Taught me everything I know. But mostly, it was about hunting. Orders. What we had to do. Didn't get a whole lot of time for… y'know. Other stuff." He glanced at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Guess I always told myself that's just the way things had to be after mom's death. We could never have a normal life, I accepted that since I was a kid. That's just… how my dad was supposed to be. He was a man grieving. He was a guy who was angry all the time. A guy who didn't really see me unless it had somethin' to do with a hunt. I used to think if I did everything right— like listened to him, followed orders, never messed up, hunted a freakin' werewolf on my own— he'd actually look at me, y'know?"

You nodded, your grip on the drawing tightening. "Yeah, I know. I used to leave drawings on the fridge. Every time he came home, I thought —maybe this time, he'd look at them. Maybe this time, he'd say something about them. But he never did. Same thing with gifts, I never actually saw him use the cups I bought for him, or wear the clothes I chose for him. Hell, I even ditched school and didn't study for my grades just so he could scold me, even if that was a bad light he saw me in. He would say something, do something that would show he actually cared for me. "

You swallowed hard, staring down at the drawing, the drawing that the child in you reflecting and cheering the perfect dad she had. "At some point… I just stopped fighting for his attention, I stopped believing him."

Dean's brows furrowed slightly, his gaze sharpening. He didn't say anything, just let you keep talking.

"He always had these big promises," you murmured, voice cracking even more. "He'd say we'd go on a trip, or that he'd teach me how to do something— fix a car, go fishing, just… normal things. Things dads are supposed to do. And I believed him. Every time. Even when he forgot. Even when he didn't show up. But after a while, I just… stopped." you admitted, feeling something in your chest twist painfully, you were full of anger for that naive child in you, full of grief for her too. "Stopped believing it. Stopped waiting for him to keep his word. I didn't even ask anymore. I just knew— whatever he was doing was always going to be more important than me. There was always going to be a last-minute excuse, another 'I'll make up for it later' thrown into the broken promises jar. And now there's no way or time to make up for it, he's fucking dead. And I feel absolutely horrible complaining about this right now, I hate how I feel like I'm being a brat about his memory. Because at least he was there, I had my dad, showing me his effort or not. I had him, fuck, I miss him… Now it's too late, I can't even stay mad at him for not keeping his promises or not remembering things."

Dean's jaw ticked, and his hands flexed on his sides like he wanted to say something but was holding back.

You inhaled, pushing past the lump in your throat. "And when he did remember? When he actually showed up and acted like he cared?" You let out a small, humorless laugh. "I didn't even know how to react. It felt weird. Uncomfortable. Like— like he wasn't supposed to do that, y'know? I'd spent so long without it that when he actually tried to be affectionate, it just felt… wrong."

Dean finally spoke, his voice quiet. "Like a stranger tryin' to play house for a day."

You nodded slowly, putting the drawing away. "Yeah. Exactly like that."

A heavy silence stretched between you two, but it wasn't awkward this time. It was something else. Something real, something common you both felt.

Dean exhaled through his nose, looking down at his hands. "I, uh… I know the feeling. My dad, he—" He hesitated, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Man, I used to fight so hard for his attention. Always did what he wanted. Always tried to be what he needed me to be. Thought maybe if I did everything right, he'd—" Dean's jaw clenched for a second before he shook his head, clearly struggling to talk about his emotions. "Didn't work. Nothin' did. I stopped fighting for it too. Didn't mean I stopped wanting it, though."

Your chest ached at that.

Dean sighed, leaning back against one of the old trunks. "Guess we both know what it’s like to be second place."

You swallowed thickly, looking back down at the unstable lines, the little girl with the lopsided smile. You whispered, wiping the tears that you didn't realize have fallen. "Yeah, guess we do."

You weren't used to crying in front of people. You weren't used to people seeing you like this. And Dean— he was still sitting there, watching you with a worried expression, his brows slightly furrowed, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. His hands clenching like was turning something over in his head.

Then he seemed determined, like he finally decided. He took a step forward, slow and careful. He hesitated for a second— just a second, like he wasn't sure if he should, then he reached for you. Before you could even think, his arms were around you. The scent of leather and faded cologne curled around you as he pulled you in, his grip strong but not suffocating. One arm around your back, caressing your hair; the other around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His chin rested lightly on top of your head, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

He pulled you even closer if that was possible, like he could feel the way you slowly, finally let yourself melt into it. Relax in his hold, his arms.

"You're good," he muttered against your hair. "Just breathe."

You did. You didn't even realize you'd been holding it.

Your nose ached with the sudden sob you barely held back. "Promise?"

Dean patted your back, that gesture alone was enough to make you free that sob, letting him in. "Promise."

#𐂂 𝄢 syl's fics #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #young dean #supernatural

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crows-heart · 1 day ago

Text

To us

rawdogging this shit it was meant to just be a creative writing assignment but it got too long for it so im putting the full version on here!!! i dont intend for this to get big or like have a part two but i am open to writing one (definitely not going to abandon this like i did with my last fanfic thing noppers)

simon riley x gn!reader, 1st person w/o use of y/n, string of fate soulmate au (i did write it gn but it stil feels feminine somehow so apologies)

cross posted on ao3!!

As soon as you turn 18, a string appears, forever attached to your pinky, that only you can see. Nobody particularly knows how this happens, but we’ve learned to not question it. It leads to your forever soulmate, your other half. Most of the time, the string was red, leading to your destined romantic soulmate. Sometimes, though, some people had pink strings, leading to their platonic soulmate. Other times, multiple strings would be knotted together in the middle. Very rarely did someone have no string, but it still happened.

You’re meant to follow your string, find your soulmate, and live happily ever after.

I don't think that life was meant for me.

It started (obviously) when I turned 18. It was just a red string, nothing more to it, from what I could tell. It led east, and it always seemed to be slack -- slack enough to give the impression that my soulmate was much farther away than I thought they would be. That's fine. Just more motivation to explore the world, right?

I was always told to never lose hope, and that no matter what, I would reach my soulmate eventually. I just had to let “nature take its course” first. Yeah, I don't know about everyone else, but I started losing hope the more years that passed without the string getting any more taut. Sure, I could’ve taken initiative, but I was a broke 20-something year old fresh out of college. I hardly had the money for rent or any other basic necessities, much less a plane ticket or gas money to see where in the world my soulmate was.

That got pushed out of the way the moment the string started to fray.

It wasn't a normal phenomenon. The only times I ever heard about the string starting to break was when your soulmate was dying. It broke fully when they died.

My string? It looked about one tug away from snapping apart.

I doubted I looked much better at the moment. The old lady I was sitting next to on the plane gave me a sympathetic look at my frazzled appearance, though I hardly noticed it since I was looking at the string every other second, watching for any more tearing. I bought the cheapest tickets on the earliest plane to Europe, hoping it wasn’t a waste to go across an entire ocean. I would start in Britain and go from there. The string was moving around a lot recently, pointing southwest for the first time and shifting around a bit, but it's finally returned to pointing east, and has stayed there, so I can only trust that my soulmate isn't moving anytime soon.

I did anything I could do to distract myself from the situation at hand. I tried watching movies, reading a book, even staring at the cabin wall to bore myself to sleep. I was desperate for a distraction. There wasn’t even any screaming and kicking children to keep me awake, but I just couldn’t sleep. I had too much nervous energy. My soulmate is dying and I don't even know who they are.

Finally, the plane touched down and everyone was let out. I was trying hard not to push people around, but I did bump into a couple people on my scramble to get out since I was looking at my string. It wasn’t looking any better, but it wasn’t as slack. That was a good start.

I tried not to get anxious as I got my luggage and headed out of the airport, but it was hard. Even if Britain was considerably smaller than the United States, it was still huge, and there's still so many people here. It was like I was trying to look for a needle in a haystack, but I had a terrible lighter to burn away parts of the hay -- the lighter being my string.

I throw my stuff into the first taxi I can find and wait as the driver brings me to the nearest motel. Like I said, I'm a broke 20-something year old. There conveniently was a car rental nearby, so I got over there as fast as I could. I didn’t have a lot of time to waste, especially considering how the string was looking.

It was facing north eastern now, just a slight change, and it wasn’t any more taut than it had been at the airport. It still looked close to breaking, enough for that anxiety to grow and grow. As I drove down the -- thankfully -- empty highway, in between flicking my eyes from the road to my string, all I could think about was what to say. Clearly, whoever was on the end of this thing wasn’t in good shape. They’d still be alive, sure, but what’s guaranteeing that they’re even awake right now, or that they’d even want to see me? I haven’t exactly tried to reach out, but neither have they.

Those thoughts are put on the back burner for the moment as a building comes up on the horizon. I slowed down, realizing I had been speeding up slowly the longer I was trapped in my head. The building was a hospital. The closer I got, the more I noticed. There were 2 trucks parked in the front and a group of men standing by the one closest to the road. The men seemed to be military, if their stature and general appearance was anything to go off of, but I couldn’t focus on any of that.

All I could focus on was the string leading directly to the middle of the group, leading directly to the tallest of the group, who was leaning against two others.

My breath hitches and I quickly park the car, not even bothering to shut it off as I throw open the door. I’m rooted in place, unable to move as the two soldiers lead the third to the truck. The third had his head tilted slightly down, looking like he was barely managing to put one foot in front of the other.

He must’ve noticed the way the string was, taut and insistent, as his head picks up and he turns as best as he can, eyes now staring directly at mine. Neither of us look away as he’s pushed into the truck. I take a step forward, but the truck starts and I can just barely make out the narrowing of his eyes as the truck drives further away, pulling him further away.

I should’ve taken the car and chased after them. Should’ve taken that tiny rental car and pulled over an entire army truck. I didn’t. Instead, I step inside the hospital entrance, trying to not sound like I’m insane as I stand before the front desk.

“Ma’am, I’m really sorry to bother you, but is there any chance you know of a patient that just left? He’s really tall, built like a brick wall, left just a moment ago with two others.” The words tumble out of my mouth as my hands grip the edge of the desk. The secretary’s brows furrow, looking up from her computer to take in my awkward grin and frazzled demeanor.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t give you that information.” Her voice is firm, but sympathetic.

“Please, I- I don’t know who he is but he’s my soulmate and my string is frayed--” My pleas are interrupted by a gruff cough, a clearing of the throat for attention. My shoulders tense as both mine and the secretary’s gaze lands on the man standing just a couple of steps away. He looked to be a soldier as well, though maybe a bit older than the others I saw outside earlier.

The man wasn’t looking at the secretary, rather his gaze landed on me, softening slightly at my obvious distress.

“I migh’ be able to help you with tha’.”

The man introduced himself as John. He said he was the captain of the men I saw earlier -- Johnny, Kyle, and Simon.

Simon. My soulmate’s name is Simon.

It’s funny how quickly things change. Just yesterday, I was worrying over what to eat over dinner, and now, I’m worrying about my soulmate’s possibility of dying and first impressions. John warned me that he was a bit reclusive -- which explained why he hadn’t attempted to reach out to me either -- and had just gotten back from a near death experience. He was going to be jumpy, to say the least, and probably a bit too cautious.

The ride there to their base was quiet. I was stuck in my thoughts again, staring at my string, and John didn’t try to push for a conversation. The truck eventually rumbles past a pair of gates and parks, prompting me to step out. I follow behind John as he walks ahead, making sure not to stray too far behind so people know I'm with him and not just some random civilian who snuck inside.

He leads me through the winding corridors, occasionally looking back with that firm, but slightly softened look. We come up to what looks like a common room, where the two soldiers I saw earlier were sitting.

“Where’s the third muppet?” John asks, giving a subtle nod towards me. The eyes of the pair were a bit unnerving, but I tried not to think about it. The string around my pinky was taut once more, attempting to tug me towards where my soulmate was.

“He’s in his room, sir.” The one with the hat -- Kyle, I suppose -- remarks. His eyes were on the captain, but his attention was divided between the two of us. “Dunno if he’s accepting visitors.”

“He’ll make an exception.” With that, John places a hand on my back and guides me to the hallway attached, giving another nod to prompt me to go. He stays back with the other two, probably to explain the situation.

Walking down the hallways leading to his room was nerve racking. I kept my head down and focused on the string, letting it guide me. There weren’t many people walking around, thankfully, but the few that were only gave me odd looks before continuing on. Eventually, I came to a stop in front of an unassuming door where my string was pulled under it. I breathe out a sigh and raise my hand to knock, the sound seemingly echoing in the rather empty hallways.

There's a grumble from behind the door, and some shuffling, but it opens inwards regardless. My soulmate stands before me, just as silent as I was. He stood tall, though with a bit of limp, likely due to whatever injury he faced that caused the fraying in the first place. His good shoulder leaned against the doorframe, supporting his weight when he couldn’t. The two of us stared at each other for a moment, still in silence. I snap out of it soon enough, my eyes meeting his, the same dark eyes that caught mine earlier.

“Hi.” The awkward smile was back, this time a little softer and less panicked. I could only hope that he still wanted me after all these years with no attempt to find him.

His expression was unreadable, making me unable to get a grasp on how he might react.

“Look, I know that we’ve never met, but I… I don't want to lose you before I even know who you are.” He continues to stand there, causing me to keep talking, if only to fill the awkward silence. “I couldn’t just sit and wait while our string looks like--”

Just like earlier, my rambling is interrupted. He moves closer, as if in a daze, and slumps against me, his body going limp in my arms. I go still, staring straight ahead, but I move only when Simon’s arms wrap softly around my waist. One of my hands cusps the back of his head and the other rests on his upper back, right between his shoulder blades, rubbing softly up and down while remaining mindful of any injuries in the area.

“... Hi.” He mumbles back, voice muffled by how his face was buried in my shirt. His voice was raspy, like how one might sound after shouting for hours on end, but it was comforting, though I doubt that was intended.

A warmth bloomed between the two of us and if I had looked down at our string, I would’ve seen the strands slowly coming together. Not fully, but it was starting to be a little more stable.

It’d take a while for the string to go back to normal, but I was willing to dedicate the rest of my days to it-- to us.

#cod #call of duty #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley fluff #ghost fluff #soulmates #gender neutral reader #ghost x gn reader #simon riley x gn reader

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