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godmadeaterribleerror · 19 days ago

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Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to.

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely.

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake.

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life.

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie.

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar.

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too.

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need.

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done.

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new.

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out.

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean.

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel.

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time.

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.”

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him.

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away.

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock.

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him.

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her.

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him.

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words.

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more.

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?”

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth.

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain.

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece.

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light.

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?”

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year.

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?”

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?”

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued.

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.”

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?”

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him.

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous.

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak.

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles.

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened.

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her.

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent.

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again.

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties.

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot.

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on.

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe.

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that.

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before.

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it.

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again.

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick.

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it.

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter.

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor.

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw.

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what.

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side.

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner.

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence.

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with.

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows.

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker.

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble.

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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colored-cloverfeilds · 2 years ago

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I really do think that ONE hit the nail on the head when he made reigen. he's a conman. when things aren't going his way his immediate reaction is to beat the other person up and it somehow always works. he violates every working law immaginable. he is so unreasonably lucky for no reason. his best friends are an autistic middle schooler, an evil spirit and an ex-terrorist. he pays his workers pennies and is worried theyll join a union. he lives in a shitty one bedroom apartment. he gets drunk off of no alcohol. hes constantly surrounded by other autistic middle schoolers. he has no real, functioning adult friends. he has a license but hasn't used it in 10 years, and when he did use it, it was to take a bunch of kids to meet aliens. he's written his own biography. God hates him. his family hates him. he hates himself. and yet there's a psychic kid with a bowl cut who looks up to him with nothing but admiration. he throws salt at evil spirits and people if they annoy him. he would protect his students no matter what, and has almost died multiple times to help them. the only thing that makes him happy are dogs. in fact, he had a dog before, and it was eaten. he's canonically sexy and depressed, but also very, very ugly and sweaty. he's tried to shoot and kill a man not because he was super evil and trying to take over the world, but because he was hurting his kid. he was told he would go to hell and couldn't care less. he met real aliens and all he could think about was how he was gonna pay his bills. he has god awful posture. he smokes cigarettes but never smokes in front of the kids. he wrote his will by age 29. all the animators wanna fuck him. he gets no bitches canonically. he's ONEs favorite character but he always makes him want to kill himself. he was doxxed. he was cancelled on Twitter. he entered a wack a mole competition and won 4th place. children make fun of him. he describes himself with having motherly love. no one likes him. everyone loves him. the anime designer draws him starting from his ass -> waist -> back because "it's like running your tongue over his body". his theme song sounds like a mario kart course track. he's so utterly pathetic.

plus he's just a genuinely good person and he's one of the best characters ONEs ever created??? genius.

#arataka reigen #reigan arataka #mob psycho 100 #mob psycho #reigen #reigen arataka #sorry autism won tonight #these are all canon /srs #mp100 #mob psycho reigen

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 6 months ago

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Chapter 21: Try to Understand

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV

Summary: When the reader left Payback 40 years ago after a falling out with her childhood best friend she never looked back, but when two men show up to her apartment and start asking her questions about the past, the reader begins to think those things can’t stay hidden and starts to question what’s real and what’s fantasy. This is a re-telling of The Boys Season 3, where the reader is a supe who's known Soldier Boy since 1927. The chapters will fluctuate between past and present. This is chapter twenty one of my "You Call It Madness But I Call It Love" series. (I'm so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Word Count: 7.5K

Warnings: I'm gonna go 18+, I'm not sure that it needs it, but I'm still gonna do it. Angst, Talks of pregnancy, Talks of possible abortion, Cursing, Fluff, Sexual References, Graphic Nightmare?, FLUFF, Family Problems, Self-deprecating thoughts, Awkward Situations, Soldier Boy might be, is, really, absolutely, completely a little OOC. Soldier Boy is really all you need as a warning.

Note: This is told from the Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. Reader is described as "curvy" occasionally. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal Monologue is in first person and is in italics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

Soldier Boy POV

After his shower, you still haven't come back from talking to Rosemary, and Ben decides that instead of eavesdropping on your conversation, he's going to go to the kitchen and get a drink. He knows exactly where Legend hides the good shit, mostly because Legend hid it to keep it away from Ben in the first place. And despite it happening forty years ago, nothing in Legend's house had changed. Ben had many memories of this house, at least two Herogasms had been hosted here, hell, Ben had memories in the room you two were sharing, but he kept them to himself.

The last thing he wanted was for you to think about any of the things that happened in the past, not when you had told him that he had made it up to you, not when you had held him close after all these years and whispered things to him that he always wanted you to say, and not when he was more happy than he'd ever been.

You said that you forgave him, Ben understood that, but that didn't mean he was going to stop making it up to you every day and it didn't mean that he was going to stop making you happy, because after all these years you were still the only thing he wanted, and he refused to lose you ever again.

He glances at the empty bottle on the nightstand, the one that you brought with you last night and the same bottle the two of you finished together.

He was surprised when you said you stopped drinking, but not completely. You'd only drunk socially as a supe, and Ben hadn't seen you drunk since the two of you were kids. He knew it was because you didn't want to lose control like he did.

Ben stutters on the memory of what happened in Mid-town, and what happened forty years ago when he threw a car through a house and killed an innocent bystander. Ben didn't believe he was a bad guy, he was a hero or- the memories of all the moments he lost control began to seep though the cracks- at least he thought he was.

His mind drifts back to you. You were always in control. The one time he'd ever seen you lose control was when you lost it at the premiere all those years ago. It was justified. Ben would have lost it too if he walked in on anyone fucking you. His jaw clenches at the thought, but then he remembers what you said last night, that there hadn't been anyone else, that you never wanted anyone else but him ever. It was surprising to him, that you hadn't moved on, even after all this time you still loved him the same way you always had and that there would never be anyone else.

Fuck. Ben took in a deep breath to avoid getting too excited remembering what you said, feeling warmth begin to build in his abdomen. It had been difficult to contain himself when you admitted that to him. If you had let him, he would have made love to you right then, made you feel things that no other man ever did, but you said you wanted to wait.

And Ben wanted to respect that, wanted to respect you.

He examines the empty bottle once more.

When you were younger he'd watch you get drunk on cheap beer that he bought you more than once, usually when you proclaimed that you could drink him under the table and then Ben had to practically corral you to get you home. Then again he liked those nights, when you'd try to sing, swing from light poles that lined the street, and you'd grab his hand and say crazy things like "let's run away" or "let's go egg Missy Callahan's house." Both of which Ben didn't need much more convincing to say yes, but the two of you never did.

He would have run away with you if you'd ever seriously asked him to, he would have dropped everything to leave, would have chosen you just as you chose him the night he showed up and asked you to go with him to get the serum. The promise he made to protect you and be strong for you the night you went with him was not new. He had repeated it to himself every day since the minute he realized how much you meant to him.

And he would continue to do it for the rest of his life.

Ben ascends the stairs, buttoning the Giants jersey that Butcher bought for him. He wasn't the biggest fan of them forty years ago, but it was one of the only shirts he had. And the last thing he wanted to do was walk around without a shirt on. Ben smiles to himself remembering your reaction when you walked in on him changing into his supe suit yesterday morning. He loved that you reacted to him that way, it was the same way that he reacted to seeing you yesterday when you were standing in your bathroom in only your bra, looking just as beautiful as you had forty years ago when he took you to bed and-

Fuck. Ben took in another deep breath finishing the last button to avoid thinking about you naked. It had been forty years for him and he knew that he was going to have to take it slow when it came to sex.

He stumbled into the kitchen and froze.

Lou was sitting at the square kitchen table that sat under a floor length window and looked out onto the sprawling backyard of Legend's property. Ben could see Rosemary and you talking at the very edge of where the grass met the thick woods beyond.

"Hi Ben!" Lou smiles wide at him. A giant box of crayons sits on the table just beyond her filled with every color known to man, while she scribbles in a sketchbook that looks suspiciously like the same ones that Ben had seen you buy for yourself in the past. "Do you know how to draw trees? Aunty y/n always does them for me, but she's talking to mommy."

"Um-" Ben clears his throat, fastening the last button of his shirt. Lou was smiling at him the same way you did, like she was genuinely happy that he was there, and he wasn't used to that. It was the same way you used to smile at him when he climbed through your bedroom window. He looks out the window to where you're still talking to Rosemary trying to find a way out, until finally he sighs. "No. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, mommy can't draw either." Lou looks back at her drawing while reaching for a brown crayon. She was wearing pink polka dot pajamas, pants and a shirt that matched. Ben had never seen pajamas like that before, but he supposed that pink was her favorite color, given that she was also wearing a pair of bright pink fuzzy slippers.

He couldn’t help but smile. He wondered if you hated how much Lou liked pink, if it reminded of those dresses your mother used to make you wear that always made you look like a giant iced birthday cake.

Personally, Ben didn’t think you looked that ridiculous, he thought that you looked cute, ruffly, but cute. You never believed him when he told you that.

Ben wandered over to the cabinet where he thought the whiskey was, but as soon as he opened it, he found the cabinet empty.

Did he fucking move it?

"It's under the sink." Lou said from behind him.

"What?" Ben turns around surprised.

Lou was still scribbling with her crayon in her sketchpad. "Uncle Legend came in and moved it this morning."

"Thanks." Ben awkwardly makes his way over to the sink, and sure enough behind the mop bucket is a full bottle of whiskey. He busies himself with pouring a glass before he eyes the chair next to Lou wondering if he should sit there.

Ben was nervous, he'd never admit it, but he was. This was his granddaughter, someone that you loved very much. He'd never been around a kid before, didn't have any siblings growing up, and certainly didn't have any relatives with children the way you had.

He liked to think that if he had been there when you were pregnant and when you gave birth to Rosemary he would have gotten used to it gradually. He wasn't sure if he could even be a dad, not after everything that happened with his own.

He was sure that he was going to be a disappointment to Rosemary and even to Lou and-

"Sit with me." Lou says, interrupting his train of thought as she gets off of her chair to pull out the one next to her for Ben tugging with all her strength to pull it out from under the table.

Ben hesitates, but finally smiles at her efforts to get him to sit with her and sits down.

An awkward silence falls over him, he's again unsure what to say, so he takes a sip from his glass and hopes that you'll come in and save him from saying the wrong thing, but given how upset you look standing outside with Rosemary, he's sure that it won't be anytime soon. The urge to go outside and get between Rosemary and you is strong, but just as he begins to move to get out of the chair, Lou interrupts him.

"You make her smile more." Lou says, while grabbing a red crayon with her chubby hand and begins to draw the petals of a flower in her sketchbook, meticulously trying to make them more circular, tongue between her teeth as she concentrates.

"Who?"

"Aunty y/n. She didn't smile as much before." She says it matter of factly.

"Really?"

Lou nods reaching into the box of crayons for a new color. "She tried to act like she wasn't sad, but I think she was. Sometimes when she thought I was asleep I would find her on the couch just sitting there. I think she was lonely. And I tried to give her bigger hugs but they never seem to work. Hugs always make me feel better." Lou sighs.

"I'm sure that your hugs made her feel better." Ben's says tightly. He's not sure how to talk to Lou, isn't sure if he should talk to her like an adult or not.

"I love aunty y/n. I want to be just like her when I grow up. I want to be an artist!"

Ben looks down at the sketchpad on the table beneath Lou’s hands. It was of a giant tree that had different colored flowers all squished together in its branches. Each flower was different than the last, crudely drawn, but under it all Ben could see her potential. It reminded him of the sketchbook pages you first showed him when you were eight and swore him to secrecy, threatening bodily harm if you told anyone else about them.

“You’re very good.” Ben says and Lou beams with pride at her drawing, before flipping to a new page. She holds out a brilliant yellow crayon towards Ben. “Please draw a sun right here.” She taps her finger against the top left of the page before placing the crayon in his hand.

“Oh I don’t think I-“

“You can do it Ben! Aunty y/n says that art doesn’t have to be perfect, that it gets messy sometimes but that makes it fun!” Rosie reaches for a purple crayon and begins to draw stick figures to the right of the page.

Ben had heard you say that before, usually after your mother would sneer or make a comment about your paint stained hands when he’d bring you home from a day at the park. But sitting here listening to Lou say it was different.

Lou reminded him of you as a kid. She wasn't afraid to speak up, to say what she thought, and she was filled with creativity and love.

Ben always admired that about you, that you were able to create things so perfectly and that you always made space in your heart for him, even when he was a complete dick for so long. He wondered if Rosemary was like you too. He could see a bit of it when she told him off, saw how headstrong she was and how ready she was to protect who she loved from him.

Ben hated that Rosemary believed that he would hurt you again, when it all but tore his own heart out to do so the last time.

But he was trying, hoped that she could see that he was trying and hoped that one day she’d let him in. The problem was he wasn’t the most patient person in the world.

He looks down at the crayon in his hand frowning slightly. He wasn’t an artist like you. The only thing that he’d really ever drawn was the naughty doodle that got him kicked out of boarding school, the one that made you laugh so hard you pushed him off the bed when he drew it for you in your sketchbook. You’d tried to show him other ways of drawing and painting but he’d never been interested.

Not to mention he didn’t think it was manly. He didn’t think that a man should have a hobby like this. It should be fishing or hunting or something like that but he looks down at Lou.

Her eyes are shining bright with excitement, smile wide, dimples showing and he doesn’t want to disappoint her, not when she’s been nothing but nice to him since he showed up.

If Hughie or fucking Butcher come in here and see me drawing this fucking sun I’ll-

“You don’t look like your pictures.” Lou hums drawing a smile on the face of the stick figure.

“Huh?” Ben looks up confused.

“The pictures that mommy keeps in the drawer.” Lou says reaching for a black crayon to draw long flowing hair on the stick figure.

“What pictures?”

“Of you and aunty y/n. Mommy has some in her drawer.” Lou acts as if she hadn’t said anything, grabbing a different crayon to draw another stick figure.

“She has pictures of us?”

“Yeah. You don’t have the beard though. And you and aunty y/n are really young.” She pokes his cheek with a chubby finger, making Ben freeze. Lou squints her eyes at him. “You don’t look like the picture that aunty y/n drew either.”

Ben hesitates, eyes slightly widening. “She drew a picture of me?”

“Few days ago.” Lou scribbles. “You didn’t have a beard then either.”

In the new drawings and paintings that Ben had seen back at your apartment, he hadn’t seen any drawings of him, he assumed it was because of everything that happened, but to learn that you did still draw him made him smile.

“You don't like it?” Ben asks, amused.

She shrugs. “It’s okay.”

“Aunt y/n likes it.” He said it more to himself than to Lou. Like hell he was going to shave it off when he saw how much you liked it when he came back. Ben smiles to himself remembering how your heart beat jolted out of your chest whenever he touched you, how your cheeks flushed, how your smooth skin felt beneath his hands-

There were so many little things that Ben missed about you, so many things that he had forgotten, and now he got to learn each one all over again and fall in love with every part of you for the second time in his life.

The sun he drew in the top left of the page was lopsided, but Lou didn't complain, in fact she added a pair of sunglasses to it, and a bright smile that Ben laughed at.

"What are you two doing?" Ben hears your voice say as your hand gently rubs his back. Ben looks up embarrassed. He hadn't wanted to get caught with a crayon in his hand, but at least it had been you and not Butcher.

"We were just-" Ben begins to say, his eyes flicking to where Rosemary stands behind Lou eyes narrowed.

"Mommy look. Ben is helping me color!" Lou crows, picking up her drawing so Rosemary can see.

Ben realizes what Lou was drawing on the other side of the page. Lou has drawn Rosemary and you standing with Lou in between the two of you holding on to her hands. Ben's eyes slide to the last figure in the drawing, his chest suddenly very tight, it's him, standing beside you, frowning, but holding on to your hand.

Rosemary smiles tightly at the page with a sigh. "That's nice sweetie. Come on, let's get you dressed."

"But I like my pajamas."

"Do what your mother says Lou." You smile down at her, stroking her dark hair back from her face.

"Okay." She sighs dramatically and begins to walk out of the room, but Rosemary is still glaring at Ben.

"Rose-" You begin to say, but she interrupts you.

"She might be able to forgive you, but I'm not going to." Her eyes narrow. "I don't think you're good for her."

Ben is still sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, your hand solidly on his back as if you were making the statement that you weren't going to push him away. It solidified something, showed him how much you were willing to sacrifice to keep him in your life, and again enforced just how much you loved him. If Rosemary hadn't been standing there, he would have sat you on the marble countertop and sucked another mark into your neck. The one he left yesterday was already starting to fade and he wanted to replace it as soon as possible.

But he was still angry, angry that Rosemary wouldn't give him a chance. "Your mother means everything to me." Ben says honestly. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. All I'm asking is that you get to know me first before you-"

"I don't want to get to know you." Rosemary says. "And if you hurt my mother again, I’ll make you wish that you stayed in that fucking lab."

She's gone in an instant, making Ben feel a pain in his chest that he hadn't felt since he spoke to his own father decades ago, on those nights when his dad got so drunk that he couldn't stand up straight and the nights that his father's words rang heavy in Ben's ears. Those nights Ben would get drunk, climb up the tree outside your window, and stumble into your bed, curling into you because you were the only thing in his life that he couldn't stand to lose, couldn't stand to disappoint, and the only thing in his shitty life that made him happy.

"Ben-" He hears you say.

"Mhmm?"

"Look at me."

Ben looks up. He doesn't like the worry in your gaze, doesn't like how your own eyes are just a little rimmed red like you were crying.

"I love you." You whisper. "And she's not going to change that."

"Are you sure?" He barely breathes the words, afraid in his soul to admit them to you, to speak them into the universe.

You drop into his lap, putting your forearms on his shoulders.

"Ben." You drag your fingers through his hair, your touch soothing his anxiety. "You know me enough to know that I don't pull punches. If I didn't want you here, I would make sure you weren't." You press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. "I want you here with me. I don't want you to go ever again. "

They were the words that he wanted you to tell him on the nights he crawled through your bedroom window, the question that he was always afraid to ask. Because he never believed that you could want him even a fraction as much as he wanted you, could love him and want to be with him as much as he wanted to be with you. And yet here you were after all these years after all the shitty things he did accepting him and letting him into your heart.

“Okay.” He leans his forehead against yours for a minute. “What did you talk about?”

“Homelander. And what happened yesterday.” You sigh. “She’s about as thrilled as I thought she’d be with us going after our old team. She was pissed when I told her about Countess the other day but this was worse.” You mutter holding on tight to him. “She’ll get over it. At least… I hope she will.”

“Mhmm.”

“I will say that I’m kind of jealous.”

“About?” Ben is suddenly worried.

What did I do? Did I-

“Every time I tried to get you to draw with me you said no.” Ben watches you frown dramatically. “And here you are with another woman-“

Ben rolls his eyes and shuts you up by closing the distance between your faces. You laugh into his mouth, his tongue finding the rigid edge of your front teeth as you do before you fit your mouth against his and kiss him, your soft lips molding against his in a way that makes a deep seated groan vibrate up through his chest.

“You try saying no to her.” Ben mutters.

“It’s impossible.” You open your eyes to stare at him again, your gaze filled with more love than Ben had ever seen. He’d never seen anyone look at him like that before, none of the other women he’d had in his life had ever looked at him the way you did. And he never wanted you to stop. You looked at him like he was special, treasured, like he was something that you never wanted to stop looking at, like you saw every part of him and refused to turn away.

He'd only seen that once before. He had taken a woman out for drinks, you had been doing an interview that ran late and Ben was trying to pass the time, but at the bar he had seen an older couple sitting in a booth in the corner. Ben couldn't look away from them. They were sitting on the same side of the booth, the man's arm draped over the woman who leaned into him with a wide smile, her gray hair pushed back in an elegant twist, but she looked up at him with such reverence that Ben couldn't help but think of you. When he saw that he left the woman he came with there and went to your apartment, to wait until you got back. And when you had fallen asleep Ben had folded you into his arms and allowed himself to dream that one day you would look at him the same way.

And now years later here you were looking at him as if he was the most precious thing he'd ever seen, the same way you looked at him the morning after your birthday when you told him you loved him.

"But I did tell you that once Lou drew you into the family portrait, you were in." You reach back to pick up the drawing holding it between the two of you so he can see Lou's hard work. "She really captured your frown." You snort, leaning your head against his shoulder while you look at the drawing.

"Shut up." Ben squeezes you, but he can't help but smile at the paper.

And deep down Ben started to believe you when you said that this was his family too, because sitting there with Lou he had felt just as at home as he had with you.

All he had to do was convince Rosemary.

[30 MINUTES AGO] READER POV

I can't believe that she walked in on us IN BED. She's already pissed about me having him here, but why did her finding us together feel like the equivalent of my mother walking in on Ben and me?

You follow behind Rosemary silently, trying not to think of how sad Ben looked when you left him. You would have wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, curled up beside him and make him understand that no matter how much Rosemary wanted you to push him away, you weren't going to leave him.

You could see the fear flashing in his eyes, had seen it last night when he yelled at you. As much as he didn't want to admit it, you knew that Ben was still afraid that you would leave him. And knowing how much you meant to him made you love him even more.

It was a beautiful day. Legend's home was the only one within ten miles, his money well spent to keep himself secluded from the rest of the world. The large trees at the back of his home were tall and strong, their branches curling upward to the sun as if they wished to worship it.

The sunlight was warm on your shoulders, soaking through your t-shirt and sweat pants as you follow behind your daughter, who was obviously trying to get out of earshot of Ben's supe hearing. You didn't want to break it to her that you'd probably have to drive at least a mile away for Ben's hearing to get a little bit fuzzy.

Finally, just as you reach the crest of trees at the back of the lot she stops and turns back to face you.

She's frowning and waits a minute to begin. "I want you to tell me what happened."

"I did-"

"No. You didn't tell me everything and I want to know exactly what happened and why you had to fight Homelander."

You bite the inside of your cheek.

There really wasn't an easy way to sugar coat it or really explain it in a way that Rosemary would understand without getting angry.

She almost went ballistic the other day when I told her that I killed Countess and that was a complete accident. Us going after the Twins was not. Us going after the twins was calculated.

"Okay. Before we talk about that, I want you to understand why-"

"Oh you mean why you and Ben-" She seethes his name. "Were going after your old team? The exact thing that you told me you weren't going to do when you came to tell me about Countess?"

"Yes."

"Fine." She leans back against one of the trees, still frowning. "Go on."

"Ben told me what happened in Nicaragua. What Countess said was true, she seduced him to make me angry." You hold up a hand. "And before you say that Ben said those things to me and did those things of his own free will. I know."

Rosemary still doesn't look pleased.

"They betrayed him in Nicaragua. They attacked him and gave him to the Russian military."

"But why?"

"Honestly I'm not sure. I think it's because Ben used to be wild and impulsive and-"

"Used to be?"

"Just listen." You sigh. "He spent forty years in Russia being tortured and experimented on. They put something in his chest-"

"What did they put in his chest?"

"It's like an energy beam." You were giving her the short version about what the beam really did, because you didn't think that now was the best time to say that it might turn supes human. "But that's why we went to see the Twins, because they betrayed him and when Homelander showed up I had to step in."

Rosemary pinches the bridge of her nose and you can tell that she's trying very hard to not get angry. "So let me get this straight, you went to see the Twins, AS SOME KIND OF FUCKED UP REVENGE FANTASY?"

"Well-"

"No. My turn to talk." She holds up a finger like she's admonishing a toddler. "I can't believe that you can't see what's happening."

"See what?"

"You told me that things were different, that he'd changed but he hasn't! He's still the same angry dick! The only person that's changed is you!"

"What?"

"And you don't fucking see it!" Rosemary shouts. "You facing Homelander, you killing Countess, you going after your old team- it's all him! As soon as you got a whiff of Soldier Boy you started to slip back into the person that you were forty fucking years ago."

"That is ridiculous-"

"No it's not. And it's all him. He is the one making you throw the life away that you have made for yourself. He is the one making you use your powers again! He is the one making you go along with his ridiculous revenge plot-"

"Ben is not making me do anything!"

"He is-"

"You have no idea what that's like for people who say that they're your friends betray you. To have people who you thought trusted you give you up like that. They stabbed him in the back Rosie, and they sent him away to another country to be tortured. Do you have any idea what they did to him there? Our old team deserves everything that is coming to them."

"I don't know who you are anymore."

"I am still the same person I was. I am still me."

"No I don't think you are-"

Your jaw tightens. "Look, I understand that you're upset with this whole situation. With having to be here and with me letting Ben back into my life, but he is my family too."

She bristles when you say the word 'family.'

She has to understand that, to know that Ben is my family, is her family.

"Rosemary, do you have any idea what I would do for you if someone tried to hurt you or Lou the way they hurt Ben? What I would do to them for even trying?" You whisper it, but you can see her expression soften as she considers what you were saying. "You were angry with me because I was going to go to Russia alone. You wanted to protect me. And even all this stuff with Ben, you have been trying to protect me from him because you believe that he's going to hurt me again. How is this any different?"

“It is.”

“Why? Because he’s hurt me?” Your eyes lock with hers. “I’ve hurt you by letting him back in my life. Are you saying that now you wouldn’t protect me? That if I asked you to go with me to Russia right now you wouldn't do it.”

She stands there looking at you for a minute, letting what you've asked hang in the air between the two of you. And you know that deep down she understands the need to protect her family the same way you did.

"No. That's not what I'm saying. You depend so much on him and it's only been three days." She sighs. "Mom you were happy before-“

"No I wasn't." You mutter.

The memories of the last three days with Ben proved that. You hadn't realized just how in the hole you were until he walked back into your life. Until you felt how much you loved him and now understood how much he loved you. Waking up with him, falling asleep with him, spending time with him, seeing his smile, hearing him speak, and feeling him beside you all felt different. She was right, you did feel different. You felt lighter and warmer, like you'd mainlined sunshine, like everything else had been colorless until Ben walked back in.

You understood that now you may have tried to be happy, and you were with Rosemary and Lou, but not anywhere else. Being with Ben felt right.

Rosemary eyes you for a minute and then finally sighs. "I know."

"What?" You weren't expecting her to say that.

"He's been here only three days and you're-" She searches for the word reluctantly. "You're glowing."

"Huh?"

"My entire life I've watched you. I know you. You're my best friend. And I'm not saying that you haven't been happy, but with him you're a different person."

"You've already said that and it's not true. I'm still me-"

"Not about the supe shit." She shakes her head. "The way you look at him, the way you smile, the way whenever he shifts in another direction you do too like somehow you sensed it. And it scares me."

"Why does that scare you?"

"Because if he decides this is all too much and he leaves, I don't want to see the person you become when he does." She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. "I kinda feel like I've seen that person the last thirty nine years."

"That's ridiculous-"

"You told me about before, told me how you were when he left, I didn't see it, I couldn't imagine it, but now seeing you with him, understanding just how much of a hold he has on your life, understanding how much you love and care for him- mom… I see that the life you made for us, you still weren't you. I'm not sure if you were really completely happy and now seeing you with him, I-"

You place your hands on her cheeks. "Rosie. What happened forty years ago is not your fault. I would not change a single second that I spent with you and Lou. I do not regret the life that I've made with you. I do not regret you. I want you to understand that. The things that happened between me and Ben, even though they were fucked up, does not mean that I don't love you."

"I know that." She whispers, but you're suddenly unsure.

You thought that you'd expressed that to Rosemary enough over the years, that you did not regret having her, that you wouldn't change that decision.

"Rosie please." You hug her, tears burning just behind your eyes. "You are not a mistake. I love you." You pull back to look at her green eyes, the same as Ben's. "And I wouldn't change a single thing about my life. Because maybe I wasn't happy with me, but I was when I was with you and Lou."

"Okay." She pulls back with a sigh.

"I just wish that you'd try to talk to work things out with Ben." You search her face. You told yourself that you weren't going to get involved, but you wanted her to like him. He was her father and he was going to be spending time with you.

"Look I don't want to hate him, and maybe I don't, but it's not your fault." Her expression hardens. "He shouldn't have shouted at you yesterday for that. You didn't make me hate him or make him the villain. It's not your fault." She repeats.

"Maybe it is. I told you all those things about him, I made you focus only on the bad, only on the things that happened towards the end-"

Rosemary takes your hand. "Mom you told me everything. I remember the good things. I remember what your friendship was like. I remember the stories you told me when I was a kid about Ben and you running around Philadelphia."

"Which ones?"

"When he was strong for you when you couldn't be. When he took care of you, when he took you places, when he supported your art. When he made sure that you were happy. I-" She pauses. "I haven't forgotten those."

"Then why-"

"Because they happened before. When Ben was still Ben and not Soldier Boy. I've seen every single film. Watched every interview, commercial, and even those stupid music videos." Rosemary shakes her head as if trying to rid herself of the image.

"You have?"

"Yes. And I saw the person he became."

You knew what that looked like. Ben really did go all out for the cameras when they were rolling, but when it was the two of you he was just him. And the past two days he had shown that person to you all over again, and you knew deep in your heart that you were trusting him again.

"I know that you don't believe me when I say this, but he really is different."

"Sure."

You sigh. You knew that she wouldn't believe you, that she was just so hell-bent on pushing him away that she wouldn't listen to you. But you knew deep down that he was different, and that he was trying. It was enough for you.

Ben was enough. And the fact that he was willing to throw away all the macho bullshit he had spouted in the past, that he was willing to try to change to be the boy you fell in love with, meant everything to you.

You knew that you had probably forgiven him too early, but you wanted to believe him, and you wanted him to be back in your life.

Rosemary echoes your sigh and looks back up towards the house, stamping her foot in frustration. "Did you at least kick his ass?"

"Who? Ben? I told you that I threw him-" You begin to say suddenly confused.

"No." The ends of her lips twitch into a smile. "Homelander."

You laugh. "Yeah. They don't really make heroes the same way these days."

"Good. He probably fucking liked it."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that." You snort remembering the look he gave you when you threw him against the ground. "But it was kind of cathartic to throw him around. I feel a lot better. Maybe you should give it a try." You narrow your eyes at your daughter. "I mean Homelander not Ben."

Rosemary's lips pull into a mischievous smirk, looking more like Ben than she ever has. "I'll keep that in mind."

READER POV

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, heart racing to catch up as you tug your arms to get them free, but leather restraints hold them in place at your sides. A cold chill seeps up through the metal table you lay on though the thin paper gown that covers your body. Brilliant light from fluorescent square lights above blinds you. And even when you shut them tight the flash of red that stays behind burns through your iris.

Shadows move just on the edge of your vision and you strain your ears to hear them speak, to understand why you're here, why you're strapped to this table, but the only thing that remains is a garbled sound broken only by the rapid ding of a heart monitor.

Where am I? How did I-

A sharp pain deep inside of you makes your breath catch, an uncomfortable sensation between your legs. You try to kick out, but your legs are strapped down, pried apart and bent at the knee. Your pleas for release are slurred as if you've forgotten how to speak.

Someone brings their hand down over your mouth and you bite down, blood and flesh sticking between your teeth and the person strikes your face savagely.

The shadows that pass over where you lay on your back are impossible to bring faces to and their muffled conversations are just out of reach.

And when you open your mouth to scream everything goes black.

"Y/n!" You hear Ben shout as you come to, his hands on your shoulders shaking you from sleep, but you can't move, can't speak still stuck in whatever hell-scape that your mind designed. "Please Sweetheart." He's leaning down over you, eyes wide with fear and anxiety, eyebrows pulled together. "Wake up."

"Ben-" You croak, breath coming in gasps, eyes blinking to focus on him above you.

Ben breathes out a sigh of relief, pulling you up into his arms and tucking your head beneath his chin.

"Ben." You say again, tears falling from your eyes sobs shaking your shoulders, breath coming in gasps as you cling to him, holding on to him so tight you think you hear his back crack.

“Shhh. It’s alright Sweetheart, I’m here. I’m right here.” Ben murmurs into the top of your head, rubbing his hand down your spine.

It wasn’t the first time you’d had the nightmare, but it was the first time you’d had it in forty years. It had started a few years before Ben had been taken. You don’t know why, but you always assumed that it was stress of being a hero or your heartache over Ben refusing to see you as more than a friend, that finally you cracked. But you didn't know why that particular scenario. The only time that you'd seen something remotely similar was the day that you received your injection of Compound V and you figured maybe your mind created the dream to haunt you.

And now it’s back because I’m stressed about all this shit with Homelander.

You inhale the familiar scent of Ben’s cologne, tears soaking into the front of his black shirt, but it does little to calm your heartbeat. You sob again, arms wrapped around his neck holding him tighter to you as you shudder.

“It’s alright. I’m right here.” Ben says again. His hand trails gently down your spine up and down in a soothing motion to calm you down.

He’d comforted you before after the same nightmare, he knew exactly what you saw each time, but he also was confused as to why you saw it. In his arms you felt safe, as if no one else could touch you or pull you away. You wondered if Ben felt the same way when you held him.

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head, pushing back the strands of hair that clung to your sweaty forehead.

You shudder again, sweat sticking your shirt to your back, but your heartbeat begins to slow as you take in another breath.

“Same dream?” Ben whispers.

“Yeah.” You breathe. “I haven’t had it since you were-“ You choke on the words again as the images from what you saw come back. The mumbled voices of the figures fading in and out of your ears.

“Did you ever figure out what it was?”

“No. I-“ You inhale. “I don’t know. I-“

Your body shakes again as you cling to Ben, trying to forget the dream that never seemed to go away. “I don’t know.”

READER POV

In the days that followed Butcher and Hughie looked for Mindstorm's last known location, and Rosemary tried to stay as far away from Ben as she could, which wasn't too far because she refused to leave Lou alone with him. And Lou kept wanting to do more and more with Ben.

But you didn't mind that, because it meant that Rosemary got to sit front row to Ben trying to get more comfortable around Lou.

And try he was. He sat with her each day while she drew after breakfast, watched you and her paint side by side on Legend's back porch, waited patiently while you braided Lou's hair back from her face, and even indulged her in the occasional game of Go Fish that Ben always seemed to lose. But he didn't mind or at least not that you could tell.

"I understand that you all have this kind of fucked up fantasy when you go after Mindstorm," Rosemary sighed leaning back on Legend's dark brown leather couch with a beer in her hand. "But I still don't see how this is going to help us with Homelander."

Butcher shrugs taking a sip from his own beer bottle, brooding in the chair across from her. Hughie mirrors the shrug and reaches for the last slice of pizza in the ornate glass coffee table in front of the couch.

You were sitting on the couch beside her, your legs folded up underneath you with a mug full of scotch clutched between your hands, while Ben stretched out beside you nursing his own glass of whiskey.

In all the years that you had known Legend, there never seemed to be a shortage of booze. Ben respected that.

Lou was sleeping soundly upstairs, you kept checking on her every few minutes with your supe hearing, but so far she hadn't woken up.

"Because those two wanted us to go after their old team first." Butcher gestures to Ben and you with his bottle.

"At least we don't have a hard-on for Homelander." Ben frowns. "Can't tell if you want me to kill him or if you want to fuck him."

"Ben-" You sigh.

You had tried not to think about Homelander over the past few days, but it was unavoidable. You bite the inside of your cheek remembering what it was like to fight him, what it was like to hold him by the throat and stare into his nearly black eyes.

He had been pissed. You knew that, but you hadn't expected to feel so weird when you looked at him. You remember his blonde hair, the sharp smell of hair dye, the strong cut of his jaw-

Your thumb rubs the side of the mug you're holding. There was something else about him though, something that you couldn't place, something that when you looked at him you felt that you had forgotten something. Something important that nagged and tugged at the back of your mind.

But what? I've seen him before, at least not in person, and definitely not that close. Only in those pathetic interviews on T.V, on those stupid energy drinks…

You think again about the grip you had on his throat, remember the angular planes of his face.

"That doesn't fucking help." Rosemary rolls her eyes and you look up at your daughter.

She really does act like Ben even if he wasn't around through her childhood.

You think to yourself, your eyes tracing her face, looking at the soft dusting of cinnamon colored freckles over her cheeks that she usually hid under makeup and the nose that always reminded you of your father.

You think about Homelander again. But what did I forget? What about him made me-

Your entire body freezes as you stare at Rosemary's face, the face that you'd looked at for the past forty years.

No. That's impossible-

You can't breathe, can't think. Something cold clamps over your heart the chill soaking into your bones like you've sunk into deep water. All other sounds in the room fade into a muddled haze as you sit there and stare at her, eyes widening, heartbeat beginning to thud loudly in your ears.

Oh. My. Fucking. G-

The mug shatters in your hand, glass and alcohol going everywhere, but you don't feel anything. Only the sense of dread, and the chill that spreads with the coming storm and the understanding of what it is you've forgotten.

And you hoped to God that you were wrong.

A/N: I'M BACK BABY! Honestly after a week off I am doing alot better. Thank you everyone for the love and support. I hope y'all liked this chapter. It's moving the story right on along and the next chapter is going to be BIG and BLOODY. But we'll make it through.

As always thank you so much for reading! If you'd like to be added to the taglist or if you are already apart of the taglist and it didn't notify you, please let me know! :)

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#soldier boy x you #jensen ackles soldier boy #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy/ben #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #jensen ackles #soldier boy fanfiction #solider boy #soldier boy fic #billy butcher #youcallitmadnessbuticallitlove

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queen-morgana91 · 10 months ago

Text

"Why do people dislike Zuko/Zutara stans??"

Mmmh

🤦‍♂️

Sorry but I can't stay silent anymore, these posts are insane

Aang: a kid/genocide survivor lashing out because his best friend and only living link to his people has been stolen. The avatar state (a power he is afraid of) was a response to losing another part of his home, the only person connecting him to his past and eradicated culture

Katara: saw Aang loosing control in the avatar state and CHOSE to be at his side and help him, because she KNOW what's it's like having your loved ones stolen from you, she is hurt from seeing him hurting because she's an empathetic person and she loves him. She's comforting a friend during an emotional crisis.

Zutara/Zuko's stans: Ugh violent destructive tantrums save yourself katara! Zuko <3

Mh ok.

It's funny because those people are stanning a character who called Katara a peasant and threatened to wipe her village and only were in good terms in the last few episodes. They are stanning a character who was a villain/antagonist for two seasons (and half of season 3) who tried to kill her and her friends over and over again. But that's ok, he suffered and redeemed himself in the last 3 episodes, so it doesn't matter, while everything the abuser/toxic Aang """did""" was beyond forgiveness.

That's the message of Avatar the Last Airbender :)

The way people in this fandom are so unempathetic towards a 12 year old who lost everything is so crazy to me.

These episodes are full of sad moments with a lot of hurt behind it. These are all children (child soldiers also) overwhelmed by moments of severe loss. These children are human and they have flaws.

This is why being a fan of most animated content sucks as their fanbases have the intellectual capacity of a goldfish

#avatar the last airbender #atla #aang #katara #kataang #zuko #anti zutara stans #anti zuko stans #free aang #free katara #free zuko #this series deserves a BETTER fandom #WHAT SERIES ARE YOU WATCHING

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feeder86 · 11 months ago

Text

Selfish

“Why are you arranging to go out with the boys? You know we’re going up to help my parents with redecorating this weekend!” Lucy complained, standing straight up and looking down at Ryan, laid out on the couch.

“We’re doing what?” Ryan asked, completely perplexed. “We were there last weekend!”

“Yeah, and I told my dad you’d give him a hand with the wallpapering this next weekend as well,” Lucy continued in her whining tone.

“Their entire lounge?” Ryan shot back. “Nobody told me!”

“Well…” Lucy mumbled, suddenly realising that Ryan was right. “I’m telling you now.”

Ryan huffed in frustration. He hadn’t had a night out with the boys in months. He’d thought, when he married Lucy, that he was setting himself up for a good life. She didn’t want kids, she wasn’t crazy about him visiting the gym all the time and she was a fully qualified chef! However, two years in and Ryan had never had so little time for himself, endlessly fixing up their apartment just as Lucy wanted it, then constantly heading out to see her parents; always being signed up for some tedious maintenance tasks now that Lucy’s dad was getting on a bit and living off his retirement income. “Fine,” he sighed, deleting his planned message to the group chat with the boys. “I guess I can see my friends when I’ve got a couple of weeks off next month.”

“Oh, yes!” Lucy nodded, making Ryan instantly regret reminding her about his time off. The cogs in her head clearly rolling into action, imagining all of the jobs he could get done in that time.

“Ryan!” cheered his buddies a full nine weeks later, amazed that he had actually made it out. “We haven’t seen you in ages!”

“I’m only here for one of two drinks. I dropped Lucy off in town to do some shopping,” he explained to them, not wanting to get their hopes up.

“You’re not coming to the club?” Adam asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise after giving him the biggest hug.

“No… no. I wish I could, but…” he grumbled, considering the best way to explain how much Lucy was monopolising his time; how frustrating and demanding she had become since they got married. . “...I’ve got commitments,” he simply stated, deciding not to poison his time with his friends by complaining about the person who had kept him away from them for so long.

“Don’t worry about it, buddy,” Jack jumped in, filling the silent void that was killing the mood. “Life happens.”

“Jack!” Ryan exclaimed, seeing his high school best friend and doing a slight double take. The guy had altered quite a bit since Ryan last saw him. Where had that double chin come from? How was he filling that shirt with all that padding in his stomach? What the hell had happened? “How long has it been, buddy?”

“I saw you at Ginny and Fran’s house warming, about four months ago,” he answered. “I introduced you to my new girlfriend, Michelle.”

“Oh, yeah,” I remember, Ryan nodded, thinking back to how drunk Lucy had been that night, and how early they had had to leave. But Jack hadn’t looked so overweight back then. They’d tried out their friends’ new swimming pool. Jack had been one of the first ones in. He definitely wasn’t out of shape. Not like he appeared to be now.

As luck would have it, when the guys all went to grab seats, Ryan ended up next to Jack, right on the end of a long, rectangular table. Back in their high school days, the pair of them had been the best of friends, and that old rapport immediately came back every time they met; even after months of separation. Jack had always been the bad influence that Ryan’s parents had never approved of. He’d been banned from hanging out with the guy on multiple occasions when he was growing up and, even now, he still felt like he was doing something he shouldn’t, giggling away at the crude jokes that tumbled out of Jack’s mouth with ease.

“So, things are going well with Michelle?” Ryan asked, spotting that Jack had already referenced her several times in their conversation.

“Things are going great!” Jack beamed. He leaned in a little closer, clearly not wanting the other guys to hear. “We’ve even talked about getting married!”

At this, Ryan’s eyebrows flew up. “Married? After four months?” he whispered back, knowing that Jack didn’t want this broadcasting. He remembered how promiscuous his friend had been during his college days. If Ryan had been asked to pick any one of the guys here who was least likely to ever settle down, he would have chosen Jack without a second thought.

“I know!” Jack beamed, leaning back and placing his hands on the top of his stout little paunch, which jutted out into a proper shelf as they sat down. “I’m so ready for it though,” he smiled, seeming to rub his stomach mindlessly. “I’m actually really excited about the idea.”

Round and round Jack’s hands went, rubbing that tight ball of stomach fat, pulling Ryan’s gaze into it. “I’m happy for you,” he mumbled back.

Jack looked around, checking that no one else was listening in, then he turned himself a little more into Ryan, about to divulge even more private information. “Michelle’s super kinky!” he whispered.

Ryan chuckled and leaned in as well. His own sex life was so monotonous these days, he was actually quite ready to hear about someone else having a good time. “Oh yeah? She certainly looked pretty flexible when I met her that one time,” he grinned, settling into dirty ‘guy talk’ with enthusiasm.

“Oh, buddy!” Jack sighed, rolling his eyes and giving a huge exhale. “You would not believe it. She has me wrapped around her little finger. Absolutely anything she wants, I do for her.”

“That doesn’t sound too dissimilar to me and Lucy,” Ryan quipped, chuckling at his own joke.

“No, I’m not talking about boring shit, like decorating,” Jack shot back, having heard all about Ryan’s grumblings. “I’m talking about really kinky, submissive stuff.”

“Really?” Ryan smirked. “I never thought she’d be the dominant type.”

“No,” Jack agreed enthusiastically. “No one else knows. She hides it really well.”

Ryan had to admit that he was getting a little turned on. “So, what type of stuff does she make you do?” he asked next; his eyes twinkling with boyish interest, just as much as Jack’s were.

“All sorts,” Jack answered, his hands slipping onto his gut again. “When we started going out, I was still trying to act like the playboy I used to be. Michelle was having none of it. She’s put guys like me in their place before. Trust me, I’ve seen the pictures!” he smirked.”But her biggest turn on is making sure I overeat and get bigger.”

“Seriously?” Ryan asked, now understanding why Jack kept on holding his stomach. “I thought girls hated it when guys put on weight?”

“It’s an absolute fucking dream!” Jack replied, lowering his voice even further. Just the fact that he had sworn showed Ryan how turned on his friend was, simply by talking about it. “I get home and she’ll sit me in my gaming chair and set everything up for me. Then she brings me endless snacks and beers; a few sodas, cream cakes. Michelle won’t even let me get up. I do nothing around my apartment at all! No washing, no cleaning and certainly no cooking! She gets off on controlling my entire lifestyle when I’m at home. Then rewarding me for it.”

“Dude, that’s amazing!” Ryan had to agree, feeling surprisingly jealous. He’d been up until almost midnight last night, fixing a new shelf for Lucy’s candles, whilst his buddy Jack had been gaming, eating and getting pleasured the entire time.

“You see why I’m so keen to marry her now?” Jack joked back. “Can you believe it? I’m actually living out our dream that we used to talk about in high school.”

Ryan looked a little perplexed, trying to remember what they used to talk about ten years ago.

In turn, Jack seemed a little surprised that Ryan was struggling to recall. “You remember? Mr Hanson was such a bad gym teacher, we used to joke that we would just find some girls who liked fat guys and never have to put on a pair of itchy gym shorts again.”

“Oh, yeah!” Ryan chuckled. “That worked out well for me,” he sighed sarcastically. “I ended up marrying a professional chef, but I’m now ten pounds lighter than I was when we married.”

“Dude, there are other girls out there,” Jack went on enthusiastically. “Believe me! My eyes have been opened in these last few months! If you want the life that I’ve got…” he proclaimed, rubbing his stomach once more, “trust me, you can have it!”

Ryan nodded. No one else had dared to suggest he thought about a life beyond Lucy. Whenever he raised his concerns or annoyances about their marriage, people were keen to stamp them out, reminding him, in their accusatory tones, that marriage was all about compromising. Now, here was Jack, actively encouraging him to imagine being with someone else instead. It was the reason why Jack was, and always would be, Ryan’s very best friend.

Ryan looked at himself in the mirror a couple of weeks later. It was Sunday night. He should have been well rested, and yet he looked nothing but tired. The dirt under his fingernails from digging up Lucy’s parents’ garden all weekend was still visible in places, despite scrubbing for so long in the shower. His ribs were showing in his chest and, although he was built with plenty of muscle, he’d never looked so lanky and slim in his life. He thought of Jack and his life of pleasure and luxury. This… this tiredness and exhaustion was not what he wanted for himself. He looked almost ill.

Life had to change.

Ryan raised his cell phone to the mirror and took a picture of himself. This would be his lowest point, he decided with determination. From now on, things were going to change. He never wanted to see himself like this ever again.

“What’s all this?” Lucy complained, slipping into Ryan’s truck on their way to the supermarket. She held up several pieces of packaging, wrappers from fast food places and sugary snacks. “Is this what you’ve been eating when you’ve been in work this week?”

Ryan nodded without shame. “I feel like I’m too skinny. I’m trying to put on a few pounds.”

“Since when?” Lucy blasted back indignantly. “I’ve never told you you’re too skinny. I like the way you look.”

“I don’t,” Ryan shrugged. “I’ve never liked being skinny. I was always bigger than this growing up. In fact, I was actually quite chubby when I started high school.”

“Well, no. Sorry,” Lucy stated, without compromise. “I’m your wife, and I say no.”

Ryan looked at her in disbelief. “It’s my body,” he declared. “And I want to feel good about it.”

“I said no!” Lucy spat, brushing all the packaging into the footwell and sitting herself down. “Now, let’s talk about something else.”

Ryan got in, sat down and slammed the door shut, neither of them speaking for the entire ride.

‘Fastest ways to gain weight’ Ryan typed into the internet search that evening after Lucy had gone to bed. He quickly skipped through anything that dealt with muscle gains and focused solely on those that promoted increases in fat. He may have married Lucy, but she didn’t own him. In fact, she was the one who needed to learn that more than anyone. This was one ‘no’ that he wasn’t about to cave into.

“You’re looking well,” cried Ryan’s aunt as he stopped over to fix her leaking tap.

“Thanks,” he smiled back. “I feel quite well,” he agreed. “I’ve been trying to put some weight back on these last few weeks. I was starting to get far too skinny.”

“I was saying that to your mom, but she didn’t agree with me. You had gone dreadfully skinny.”

Ryan nodded in agreement. He had always been much more on his aunt’s wavelength than anyone else in his family. “I found some recipes online and I buy in these little calorie shakes that seem to work well on me. I’ve put on about 20lbs altogether,” he explained, raising his shirt briefly to show that his stomach was indeed a little thicker. “Lucy isn’t too pleased about it. But she’s never happy these days.”

“Well, you were never skinny growing up, were you?” his aunt nodded. “You always had a sweet tooth, I remember. You used to eat me out of house and home when you came over!”

“That’s why I’m so tall,” Ryan laughed. “I was always so well fed growing up.”

The pair of them laughed and Ryan packed up his things. In the old days, he would have headed straight home to his wife, but now he was feeling the need to be much more selfish, heading istead to the fast food place he had grown quite attached to and determined that he would at last defeat the Mega Monster Meal that had, up until now, eluded him.

“Come on, we’ve got to go!” Lucy complained, checking the time as Ryan rushed about after his shower. He’d been late home, getting caught up at a job, sending his wife into a tailspin as she tried to get him ready for her friend’s engagement party. She’d laid his suit out on the bed, his underwear, shoes and socks; knowing exactly how she wanted him to look.

Ryan hated being rushed. So what if they missed the first twenty minutes? Was the world really going to end? It was the side of Lucy he hated most, struggling to pull his socks on as his feet were still so wet.

“Oh,” Ryan mumbled, sucking in his stomach and trying to button up the suit pants. He tugged and pulled, holding his breath as much as he could. “I’m too big for them!” he chuckled with amusement, remembering that he had bought the suit for a wedding less than a year ago, when he was much skinnier. “What a waste of money, these were!” he joked lightheartedly. “I only got to wear them once!”

Lucy stared on in horror. She’d told him again and again to cut down on his eating. Couldn’t he see how bad he looked? Wasn’t he ashamed of how his stomach was starting to develop into a little paunch.

“Relax,” he whispered back, trying to calm her down. “I’ll just pair the jacket with my jeans and then we can head straight out.”

However, Lucy’s face had flushed with anger. “No,” she declared, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m going by myself. I’m not being seen with you, looking like this.”

Ryan stared at her in disbelief. He didn’t have words, listening as she stormed down the stairs and threw the front door closed. He heard her car start and he peeked out the window as that too stormed off down the street; out of view.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, Ryan threw himself down onto the bed; still dressed only in his underwear and socks. How had he married someone so fucking unreasonable? She was just so…

But then a thought came to Ryan, making his brain tingle into life. Had he actually just been given the night to himself? The whole house? Just him? All evening?

He looked down at his thicker stomach and smiled with delight at it. “Thank you!” he laughed aloud, managing to pinch a little and jiggle it in happiness. He felt a twitch in his groin, realising that with the night to himself, he could watch porn or do anything that he wanted. He could order food in. Lots of it! “Yes!”, he nodded, getting more excited and turned on now. This was his night. Free reign to be as selfish as he liked.

Ryan proceeded to indulge himself in every way possible, looking down at his bloated stomach a couple of hours later. Maybe this was it, he thought to himself. Maybe this was the way out of his miserable life with Lucy. He could seize upon her dislike of his weight gain and run with it. Why stop? He’d certainly gone beyond the point of denying himself for the sake of her ideals. There was a path in front of him, the exit sign shining brightly and a new life within his reach. He just needed to have the courage to reach for it.

“A Saturday night to yourself?” Jack laughed, surprised that Ryan had actually followed up on his promises and made it out for a drink. “You must have been a very good boy!” he teased.

Ryan hugged his friend and stood back to admire him slightly. Jack had grown wider since he’d seen him last, his hips and love handles spreading. Teh guy’s face was bigger, cheeks blooming large. And underneath his t-shirt, Ryan could see that the man’s nipples had become pointed, pressing outwards from his puffy former pecs. “I can see that you’ve been having a very good time of things!” he joked, being in the know about how Jack’s kinky sex life worked with his girlfriend.

“I could say the same about you!” Jack smirked back, poking Ryan in his tight little paunch. “Have you and Lucy been having your own kinky fun?” he teased.

“We’re not really talking at the moment, dude,” Ryan explained straight away; keen that he didn’t have to spend the entire night talking about her. “I want out. I’ve reached the end.”

Jack winced sympathetically. “I can’t say that I’m all that surprised after the way you were talking last time. But that still doesn’t explain this,” he pointed back at Ryan’s middle, smirking.

Ryan laughed, having forgottem how quickly Jack could lift his spirits with his cheeky humour. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied coyly, smiling with just as much mischief.

“Yes you do!” Jack laughed back, patting Ryan’s paunch properly now. “Did you do it on purpose? Is this to piss Lucy off?”

Again, Ryan laughed. He shruged his shoulders. “Yeah,” he nodded in surprise at Jack’s bluntness. There wasn’t anyone else in the world he could imagine himself admitting this to. “I guess I did,” he smiled, resting his hand over his thicker middle like it was his new prized pet.

“Dude, that’s so awesome!” Jack blasted; his face lighting up with all the enthusiasm Ryan remembered when the pair of them used to get up to mischief in high school. “You love it, don’t you?”

Ryan felt like he was dealing with an excitable puppy, but the interest was infectious. “Well, I can’t say I’m against it,” he replied diplomatically.

“Michelle is going to love this when I tell her,” Jack pressed on, ordering them both a couple of beers. “She said at the pool party that you would make a good fatty.”

“She did?” Ryan asked, surprised that Michelle would talk about other guys in that way.

“Absolutely,” Jack nodded. “She said you’re like me; a similar build; perfect for fattening up, apparently.”

“She really is a kinky one, your Michelle, isn’t she?” Ryan chuckled, feeling strangely aroused by the idea of her talking about him like this.

“How far are you planning on taking it?” Jack pressed him.

“The weight gain? Um, well. I’m not really thinking about anything really. I’m just having some fun,” he answered honestly.

“Dude, if you’re ever going to grow a gut in your lifetime, getting a divorce is one of them.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ryan asked, only half listening now as he tried to work out why there was so much blood pumping into his groin.

“A divorce is like a free pass for so many things. No one will bat an eyelid if you start getting properly fat once you two separate.”

“Well, we’re not quite there yet,” Ryan backtracked, wincing slightly as the word ‘divorce’ came up so casually in their conversation. Lucy hadn’t mentioned it to him yet, and neither had he to her.

“Just imagine it though,” Jack encouraged him. “You, sitting in your own apartment somewhere, drinking as much beer and eating as much pizza as you want after work. No Lucy complaining in the background and telling you off. No massive list of jobs to be completed at the weekend.”

“That does sound pretty sweet,” Ryan admitted; his dick now inexplicably full of blood.

“I just can’t wait to tell Michelle,” Jack said again, more delighted than ever as the pair of them settled in to watch the football game on the big screen.

The realities of splitting from his wife were somewhat different from the fantasies that Jack tried to portray, Ryan soon realised. Divorce was quickly turning into the most expensive thing he had ever done. Lucy’s parents, who had been too impoverished to hire a gardener, or a decorator, or a maintenance guy the entire time he had been married to Lucy, suddenly stumped up the cash to pay for the most cut-throat, killer lawyer for their daughter. With his head in his hands, Ryan soon realised that he was going to have to start from scratch: no home, no pensions, not even his truck for work. The only place that he could afford to live was a room in an apartment downtown, sharing with two students from the local college. Twenty nine years old and here he was, right back at the starting line.

Of the two guys he now lived with, Ryan didn’t see much of Paul, the computer science major. He was often out in the library, or hiding out in his bedroom. That worked fine. With his life turned so upside down, Ryan wasn’t exactly wanting to be dragged out to parties midweek when he had work the next morning. No, the only real pain in Ryan’s ass was Ash; the smart-mouthed literature student with a carefree attitude to life that frustrated Ryan to no end.

“You know, when you get a real job, you’re not going to be able to sit up until 3am watching a movie marathon with your waste of space boyfriend,” he complained at the guy one evening, tired from an exhausting day in work, having been constantly woken by the pair of young lovers laughing so hard at the screen.

“Fine. Whatever,” Ash huffed. “I’ve had a stressful day, okay. I don’t need this.”

“Stressful?” Ryan parroted, feeling the rage bubbling up inside him. “You want to know about stress?” he growled. “You’ve been sitting inside all day typing up an assignment on a computer screen. That’s not what real stress looks like. You’re in college - you have absolutely no idea about the real world; about trying to actually earn a living!”

Ash rolled his eyes. He’d heard it all before.

Sure, Lucy knew how to press Ryan’s buttons, but this boy was on a whole other level. “You graduate with your masters in nine months!” he blasted. “What the hell do you expect to do then? You’ve got no idea, have you? How can you just wander so aimlessly through life?”

“What does it matter?” Ash sighed. “Things always work out in the end.”

“It matters because, trust me, your twenties will be over in a flash and you need to start getting somewhere in life. Not just watching movies until 3am! And certainly not with someone like Ben! You’re just setting yourself up for failure, and it pisses me off!”

“Like you, you mean?” Ash shot back, visibly annoyed. “You’ve done the whole marriage thing, the house, the cars. Yet, you're back here, sharing a shitty apartment with a couple of students. You did everything right, everything the grown-ups told you, and now look at you! Sometimes life is just like that. So stop taking out your frustrations on me and start focusing on yourself instead!”

Ryan didn’t respond. He stormed off to his room and threw himself onto the bed. Then he took a few breaths and considered what Ash had actually said to him. The guy had been right: he was taking his anger out on him. Ash was young, more academically bright than Ryan had ever been, good looking and full of personality. He had his whole life in front of him without any major mistakes under his belt yet. So why did Ryan feel the need to be such an asshole to him?

Despite not officially apologising, Ryan did make an effort to be nicer to Ash over the coming days. He still didn’t care for Ben, the guy's boyfriend, feeling that Ash could do much better. But he was polite and courteous, never failing to put in his earplugs when he knew they were going to be watching TV until late.

Ryan’s weight had not been a priority for him since he’d moved in. Any erotic fantasies he’d indulged himself in last year were thoroughly dampened by the divorce. Yet, his weight continued to climb, spurred on by the cheap, high carbohydrate diet he fell into whilst living in the apartment.

When he was with Lucy, Ryan had indulged himself in sugary treats and even high calorie supplements that he would now consider an eyewatering drain on his monthly budget. He was having to to work harder than ever to bring in the money and his paunch seemed to lose that fluffy softness of his early gains, solidifying into something firmer and more rounded as it continued to push itself out from under his chest.

New clothes were also a luxury that Ryan could ill-afford. His t-shirts fitted awkwardly around the swell of his stomach and there were many times in work when he felt a cool breeze on his butt crack. Beer was the only luxury he allowed himself in those early days, especially on the weekends, when Paul usually went back to visit his family and Ash was generally out partying with his boyfriend. In those few, blissful hours, he could guzzle down his beers whilst sitting in his underwear in front of the shared TV screen, appreciating exactly why he had given up his marriage. Life was hard, but it wasn’t always awful.

Through word of mouth, Ryan had started picking up more work on some of the other rental properties for students that littered this area of town. Desperate for the work, Ryan had been undercutting people quite dramatically in order to guarantee an income for himself. However, trying to get an early start on these types of properties was never as easy. Students were inherently lazy, he decided, whilst banging on the door of one apartment, trying to get someone to let him in. After a full five minutes, a groggy looking guy crawled to the door wearing only his underwear and a t-shirt that was back to front.

“Your landlord sent me to see your air con,” Ryan eventually explained.

Without a word, the exhausted guy simply opened the door further and let Ryan get by. “You’re not going to be noisy are you?” he eventually asked. “My boyfriend is still asleep.”

Ryan looked at his watch. It was almost 10.30 in the morning. Why would anyone still be asleep now?

“It’s okay. I’m getting up anyway,” yawned another guy, waddling sleepily from the bedroom and giving his boyfriend a quick peck on the cheek. It was only then that Ryan clocked him. It was Ben, Ash’s obviously cheating boyfriend; the guy’s face suddenly looking considerably more alert as he too recognised Ryan.

“You’re not going to tell Ash, are you?” Ben shouted, having followed Ryan out of the apartment the second he had finished up; safely out of earshot of his second boyfriend.

“Of course I am,” Ryan replied simply, continuing to walk away, without stopping.

“You’re just going to make him miserable,” the guy shot back. “Is that what you want?”

At this, Ryan laughed. Guilty people always seemed to have such a terrific way of turning things back around on the other person. “Trust me,” he sniggered. “He’ll be way better off without someone like you in his life.”

“Do you think it was easy for me with Ash?” Ben started next; his tone shifting to something nastier. “It’s not exactly easy trying to feel special when your boyfriend has a massive crush on the pot-bellied daddy bear he shares an apartment with. How do you think that made me feel?”

“What are you even talking about?” Ryan laughed, surprised at how far Ben was going with his bullshit. A daddy bear? He was only six years older than Ash.

“Oh, come on. You know exactly what you’re doing,” Ben snapped back, getting more viscious as he realised that Ryan wasn’t willing to compromise with him. “You’re always there, or strutting about in just your underwear, drinking your beers in the living area and being overly friendly. You’ve been trying to fuck things up for the two of us for ages.”

Now Ryan did stop, turning to face Ben properly. “What planet are you living on?” he asked, completely flabbergasted. “I just try to be pleasant. I’m not trying to do anything.”

“Prove it then,” Ben shot back, seizing upon an opportunity. “If you’re really not trying to fuck things up between us, you’ll let this one little indiscretion slide.”

If Ryan hadn’t just had the hardest year of his life, dealing with some of the most despicable, bullying lawyers out there, he may have fallen for Ben’s game. As it was, he wasn’t afraid of standing his ground. “Tell him by the time I get home later. Or I will.”

Ryan crept into the apartment later that evening, finding Paul in the kitchen. “You missed some drama today,” he sighed. “Ash and Ben broke up. I walked in on it all before. It was so awkward.”

“Is Ash okay?” Ryan asked, relieved that Ben had listened to his ultimatum and done the deed himself.

“He’s in his room,” Paul nodded over to the bedroom door. “We’d best leave him be.”

Ryan nodded in complete agreement, deciding to hide out in his room that evening so that Ash didn’t need to see anyone when he would inevitably have to come out for a glass of water, or to use the bathroom.

The evening was slipping away and Ryan had just finished a TV series that he had been charging through for the last two weeks. There was still an hour until he would need to get to sleep; enough time for one last beer, before the inevitable daily grind would start all over again. He strutted out of his bedroom and made for the refrigerator, pausing only briefly to crack the can open and chug a little of it. He burped quietly, finding that the first few mouthfuls of fresh beer always made him the most gassy. Then, suddenly, he heard the door to Ash’s room opening and he stood there, feeling completely caught out.

“Hi,” Ash whispered, not making any pretenses that he was here for any other reason than to see Ryan.

Feeling incredibly awkward, Ryan now regretted coming out of his room without a shirt on; his bloated pot belly on full display. Before today, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but Ben’s words had planted an unpleasant seed in his mind that made him question everything he did a little bit more. “I’m sorry to hear about Ben,” he stated straight away. “How are you doing?”

Ash sighed and began to pour his heart out. He knew all about Ryan’s discovery earlier that day and he thanked the guy for doing the right thing.

“I’m just looking out for you,” Ryan nodded, swigging the last of his beer and crushing the can for recycling. He shouldn’t have really had another one. His stomach felt quite painfully bloated and tight after it.

“Oh, and about those things that Ben said to you,” Ash quickly jumped in, seeing that Ryan was heading back to his room. “I hope it’s not going to make things awkward between us.”

Ryan had to think for a second about what Ash was getting at. The crush? Was Ben actually telling the truth about that? “Um, no. Not at all,” he mumbled back, rubbing his hair with a little embarrassment. “Don’t worry about it,” he smiled, finally making his escape.

An evening out with Jack was exactly what Ryan needed a couple of weekends later, as Ryan’s divorce was at last finalised. Unlike Ryan’s months of hell, Jack’s appearance was symbolic of a life of sheer indulgence and pleasure. Unlike Ryan, his body was pure softness, with blubber beginning to creep its way into the guy’s neck and upper arms. His stomach had swollen quite considerably and his butt had a surprising width to it that Ryan had not expected.

“Listen, I didn’t want to message you about this. I kind of feel pretty bad asking you in some ways, knowing what you’re going through,” Jack started after Ryan had finished explaining how the divorce had eventually played out. “I wanted you to be my best man.”

Ryan smiled brightly. “Of course I will,” he beamed, getting up to hug his old friend warmly as he stayed sitting in his chair.

“Thanks,” Jack smiled. “It’s not going to be a huge wedding. Not everyone approves,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“How do you mean?” Ryan asked, sensing that Jack needed to offload.

“Well, Michelle’s parents aren’t coming,” he huffed. “They’d watched Michelle do this to her old boyfriend,” he explained, rubbing the quite substantial shelf of belly fat under his sagging nipples. “So when the same thing started happening to me, they told her they wanted no part in it.”

“Bonus!” Ryan joked, trying to remain upbeat. “My marriage certainly would have gone a lot smoother without the in-laws.”

Jack nodded, seeming to be somewhat in agreement. “Michelle’s not too cut up about it,” he whispered. “Then, well, you remember my dad. He still goes out running three times a week. So he’s not been all that in favour of Michelle and her wholesome home cooking..”

“You can’t live your life for your parents,” Ryan jumped in. It was a lesson he had learned somewhat bitterly when his own church-goin parents had taken Lucy’s side in the divorce. It made him think back to how much they had pushed him to get married in the first place, and he began to resent them, quite justifiably in his opinion.

“I know, I know…” Jack nodded. “And I wouldn’t change a thing. She’s it for me, y’know?”

Ryan raised his beer and they drank to that sentiment.

“What about you?” Jack asked next. “Is there someone new you’ve been holding back from me?”

Ryan shook his head. “No, not at all,” he stated. “Well… I mean…” he hesitated for a moment. “No. No one.”

But Jack’s interest had already been piqued. “Oh, come on. You can’t give me that and then say nothing!” he teased.

Ryan sighed, realising that he had dug himself into a bit of a hole. “It’s nothing,” he huffed at his own stupidity. “It’s just, one of the guys I live with has a bit of a crush on me.”

“Your first chubby chaser!” Jack laughed wickedly.

“Well…” Ryan conceded. “It looks that way, yes. His ex-boyfriend told me off for strutting around the place in just my underwear. He said I had a pot-belly and told me his boyfriend thinks of me as a hot daddy bear!”

Jack chuckled again. “Well, he’s not wrong. You do have quite the pot-belly!”

“Isn’t it a bit weird though?” Ryan asked his friend.

“Being referred to as a daddy bear when you’re only twenty nine?” Jack asked, simultaneously nodding in agreement. “But once you put on a bit of extra meat, that’s just the way people see you. It’s much more arousing to lean into it, rather than try to fight it.”

“Lean into it?” Ryan asked. “That’s your best advice?”

“Just enjoy the attention,” Jack smirked. “So what if he’s a twenty-four year old gay guy? You don’t have to be into someone to appreciate their admiration,” he nodded knowingly. “Trust me on this one. You’ll come to see that I’m right.”

With the divorce at last over with and all lawyers paid off, Ryan began to feel the financial strain starting to ease. Lucy hadn’t been quite as successful in getting all that she wanted from him. The worst case scenario was, thankfully, avoided. A few more months of living with the boys and Ryan would soon have saved enough money to rent his own place instead. With the ties that bound him to his ex-wife now finally disappearing, Ryan began to remember why he had fought so long for this freedom.

“I’ll have the Monster Meat bucket,” he declared, walking into a fast food place and not feeling guilty about the cost for the first time in months. He sucked in the smell of all the greasy goodness and knew that this was a freedom he would never again take for granted. Now he could gorge on as much as he desired and never have to explain himself to anyone. He could literally get as fat as he wanted now he was divorced and single, with no one to please but himself.

As he settled down into a seat, Ryan felt the bliss of devoting all his attention just to his epic meal for a full 20 minutes. It was all the stress relief he had ever needed. No one in here was particularly slim and it seemed, in those moments, that he had taken himself out of a world that so frustrated him, and into one that he felt comfortable in. Sure, he could probably join a gym and drop this weight in a relatively short amount of time. He could train his body hard and attract some beautiful girl to make his ex jealous. But Ryan knew that he had moved beyond that now. He didn’t care what his ex thought of him, or anyone else for that matter.

Or was Ryan just kidding himself? Was this really a moment of clarity? Or would he soon go crawling back to a diet plan the second things started getting rough? He was desperate to believe that wouldn’t be the case, but no one could ever be totally certain when it came to the future. It was only the present he could master. And so, armed with that knowledge, he went back to the counter, even though he felt almost too stuffed to even think about food.

“I’ll have the triple burger, please,” he stated, adding another milkshake to go with it. “He felt his hardess start to tingle, like the old days when he used to do this. Back then, he’d assumed it to be some twisted excitement about pissing Lucy off. Now he realised that this was so much more. This was about taking himself to somewhere he had never allowed himself to imagine going..

“Is this for you?” Ash asked, handing Ryan two boxes of pizza. “The delivery guy was coming up the stairs as I got home.”

“About time!” Ryan sighed, taking the boxes from him and settling back into the chair in front of the sofa. Two pizzas were a necessity for the Friday night baseball game and he was already four beers down. It would have been a perfect night but for the sticky humidity that had loomed over the city for the last few days; making him strip to his boxers as soon as he got home. “Do you follow baseball?” he asked Ash politely, nodding to the couch to see if he wanted to join him; knowing that, with Paul gone for the weekend, Ash would be on his own otherwise.

“No. Watching sports is not really my thing,” Ash replied unenthusiastically, despite continuing to linger around.

“Do you mind getting me another beer then?” Ryan asked,deciding to put the guy to work if he was so free to just stand about like this.

Ash hopped to his task with remarkable speed. “Here you go,” he smiled delightedly, heading straight over and handing it over to him, not seeming to realise that he was blcoking part of the TV screen. “I’ve got some chips and dip if you want some?” he asked next.

“Sure,” Ryan nodded, hoping that the guy would at least sit down then and stop getting in the way.

Once again, Ash went to his task, presenting the chips and dip much better than Ryan ever would have. He placed them on the coffee table and then finally sat himself down on the couch.

“You not having any?” Ryan asked five minutes later, noticing that it was only him actually eating.

“No, thanks,” Ash simply replied, pretending to be interested in the game. “They’re for you. Do you want another beer?”

Ryan felt the remaining liquid in his beer can and nodded, surprised by how diligently he was being looked after. Even when he asked Ash to fetch him the ice cream from the freezer later on, he was surprised that the young guy hopped to it, bouncing off the couch with an enthusiasm he had never seen before.

At the end of the game, Ryan took himself to the bathroom to relieve himself after the seven cans of beer he had ended up consuming. He looked in the mirror and marveled at the reflection he saw within it. Bloated and stuffed, Ryan had never seen his stomach looking so round and tight. Although he had upgraded his underwear a little while back, already these were looking worn and stretched, pulling the waistband down so that a good couple of inches of butt crack were on show. His muscular chest had started to build up with fleshiness in recent weeks and he placed his hand there to feel just how soft it was starting to get under his arms. He pulled the scales out with his foot and wondered just how much he weighed in this overfed state. He stepped on, waiting for the numbers to settle: 256lbs; the biggest number he had ever seen by quite some margin. It was, quite frankly, the cause of an almost instantaneous erection.

“I was wondering, if you’re still hungry, I could make you some pancakes?” Ash asked next as Ryan finally made it out of the bathroom. “I’ve got all the ingredients in.”

Ryan sat himself back down with a grunt and rubbed the shelf of his tight stomach, surprised that Ash was still hanging about the living area. Couldn’t he see how full Ryan was? Was he completely obvious to the heavy breathing and occasional grunt when he had to move, even slightly. He knew that the guy had a little crush, but what on earth was he possibly getting out of all this?

“Go on,” Ash pressed, actually trying to persuade him now. “Just a couple of them; nothing too big.”

Ryan looked up at the guy, already making his way to the kitchen and just waiting for that final nod of approval from him. Out of little more than curiosity, he agreed; watching with interest as he spied Ash settling to his task. Was he really using that much oil to fry the batter mix up? Was he actually rubbing butter into them? Did he really need to pour on that much syrup?

Despite tasting amazing, Ryan knew that every mouthful he was taking was completely and utterly packed full of calories and fat. As if desperate for his approval, Ash had watched him consume every bite of them. A sweat had begun to pour off Ryan’s forehead, but he wasn’t entirely sure that this one was caused by the humidity. “I am absolutely stuffed!” Ryan declared, grunting and rubbing the stretched out ball of stomach fat. “I haven’t eaten this much in ages,” he chuckled. “Not since I was trying to piss off my ex-wife after she told me she liked me being skinny.” “You were putting on weight on purpose?” Ash asked, quite startled by the comment.

“I was going for it, like you wouldn’t believe!” Ryan nodded. “Unless you’ve been through it, it’s hard to comprehend how petty you can be towards the end of a bad marriage,” he grinned, suddenly noticing that his hands were all over his own rounded stomach. “I was even taking this special calorie supplement shake you can buy, just to speed things up,” he laughed, thinking back.

“Oh!” Ash exclaimed knowledgeably, suddenly naming the exact brand .

They both went quiet. What a strange piece of trivia for Ash to just know, thought Ryan. The guy seemed to sense that too, suddenly looking a little sheepish.

“Do you still take them?” Ash asked next, trying to look a little less interested than his excitable voice made him sound.

“I don’t need to,” Ryan grinned, tapping his fully grown pot belly. I just weighed myself twenty minutes ago. I’ve put on another 40lbs since I moved in here. It seems that I just can’t stop these days!” He yawned, standing up and stretching. “Anyway, buddy. I need to head to sleep,” he declared, seizing upon the fact that his erection from the overeating had at last subsided.

“Do you think there is a way to tell if someone is like your Michelle?” Ryan asked the next time he caught up with Jack at the very hastily organised stag party.

“How do you mean?” Jack asked, only a little worse for wear as he and Ryan gradually fell to the back of the crowd of friends taking them to the next bar.

“You know… Someone who is into the idea of helping someone else gain weight,” Ryan explained, trying to keep his voice fairly low.

Jack chuckled. “Oh, trust me, you’ll spot them!” he nodded. They’re not exactly subtle. “They’ll find ways to ensure you’re eating and they’ll probably want to watch too. If they’re anything like Michelle, they’ll probably try to keep your activity levels low and complement you at the weirdest times; like when you’re bloated from overeating.”

Ryan nodded, taking it all in and finding a striking resemblences to Ash’s more recent behaviours. “Anything else?” he asked.

Jack considered for a moment. “The compliments,” he added next. “They’re totally bizarre. If they’re praising you for overeating, that’s a pretty sure sign. But sometimes they may try to convince you that you look better, or more masculine, or whatever it is they think you want to hear. When the reality is, you just look fat.”

Again, Ryan nodded, keen to match Jack’s thoughts to his own observations of Ash. “You see, I think I might have…”

“Come on!” shouted their drunk friends up ahead. “The night is still young. Stop waddling behind and get your big butts up here!”

Jack and Ryan smirked at each other. Despite Jack’s rather considerable extra weight, Ryan had been lumbered in exactly the same category. The pair of them were, for better or worse, the fat guys on this trip.

“You’re back!” Ash smiled late the next day as an exhausted Ryan made it home. “Did you have a nice time? Are you hungry? I could make you something to eat?”

Ryan looked again at the time. “You’re still up!” he asked with surprise, knowing that Ash always had an early class on Monday mornings.

“Well, I wanted to check that you got home okay,”Ash replied, heading to the kitchen and renewing his offer to make something for his roommate.

Smirking at the fact that he was being fussed over and mothered by a good-looking twenty-four year old, Ryan had been disappointed that he hadn’t had more alone time to discuss this situation he was in, with his buddy, Jack. “Okay,” he nodded, deciding to just let Ash do his thing. “Sure, that would be nice.” He headed for a shower, returning to find an enormous, steaming hot lasagne, glistening with grease and cheese, sitting there on a plate, ready to be eaten. “Did you make this from scratch?” he asked Ash.

Ash nodded. “I remembered you saying that lasagne used to be your favourite dish growing up. I’ve never made it before, but I made a whole bunch of them and portioned them up in the refrigerator for when you get hungry.

Ryan smiled at the effort Ash had clearly gone to for him; a whole new level of care and attention. He opened his mouth to try some and nodded in approval. The lasagne really was delicious, although it was more than obvious just how much oil, cream and several different types of cheeses had gone into it to make it really quite extremely high in calories. If all the beer and fast food hadn’t ensured his pants would be tighter tomorrow, this little calorie bomb sure would.

“How was the weekend, anyway?” Ash asked, sticking around for the show and watching Ryan devour every bite.

“Pretty good,” Ryan nodded. “I had a couple of jibes from some of my old school friends about my weight. But we all turn thirty this year, so the dad-bod is definitely where most of them are at now anyway. I’m just the one who has already graduated from that stage,” he winked at Ash, tapping his gut.

“What did they say?” Ash asked with surprising interest, placing a cushion over his crotch.

“Oh, you know,” Ryan went on, deciding to play up to whatever kinky fantasies he thought his roomate may be having. “Just pointing stuff out to me: telling me how tight my clothes are, how slow I was when we were walking to different places and calling me out on how much I was eating when we went for food.”

“They’re probably just jealous,” Ash shot back straight away.

Ryan smirked. There was no way any of the guys were in the least bit jealous of his sprouting pot belly, making him all but invisible to the many hot girls they bumped into that weekend. This was clearly just another one of those bizarre compliments that Jack had told him to look out for. “Yeah, you’re right,” he lied to Ash, rubbing his bloating gut as he chugged down a few of the sodas Ash had supplied with his late night meal. “I’m sure they are jealous, deep down.”

Stepping on the scale was not something that Ryan did all that often. He could feel his stomach’s rounded shape starting to swell even larger, and he knew, from the fit of his underwear and pants, that his thighs and butt were also bearing the brunt of all that he was consuming each day. Still, as he stepped up, early one Sunday morning, after a particularly gluttonous take-out weekend of having the apartment to himself, Ryan’s eyes widened in shock: 278lbs! “Fuck!” he blasted in shock, before laughing to himself at how fast the latest few pounds had slipped on. He really weighed that much? He didn’t feel that heavy! He strolled over to the mirror inspecting his shape. Sure, his gut was pretty well developed by now and all the extra eating had sure softened his chest up rather a lot. He spun, noting that his butt’s width was quite considerable now, with back fat bulding at his sides and folding under his shoulder blades. Yet, he still didn’t feel like he should weigh 278lbs! Somehow, he had always imagined a guy that size being much bigger than this. What Ryan actually felt as he saw himself there, was very small still; acting as a licence for him to continue to indulge.

Jack’s wedding was fast approaching as the weeks rolled by. After being fitted for their suits, Ryan and Jack headed out for something to eat.

“That tailor seemed pretty pissed off that we left it this late to get ourselves measured for the wedding outfits,” Ryan noted as they sat down and grabbed the menus. “I guess we’ll have to cross our fingers that they can get those pants in for you in time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jack shrugged. “I put on weight every week, so there would have been no point in going any earlier. I would just have outgrown them. “I’m almost 350lbs these days.”

Ryan nodded. Jack did indeed look impressively large, yet he was only 60lbs or so bigger than he was. And Ryan still felt tiny in comparison. “I know what you mean,” Ryan agreed. “I split some pants the other day. I’d only bought them four weeks before.”

“It’s weird, isnt it. When you’re gaining weight, you’re so tuned into how your body feels and looks. Yet, at the same time, you’re completely oblivious to it as well; how tight your clothes are getting, or how large you seem to other people.”

Ryan nodded enthusiastically. He felt so glad that Jack noticed this as well, sparking a lively conversation between the pair.

“You’ll be getting your own place soon, I take it?” Jack asked. “The two students you're sharing with must be graduating soon?”

“A couple of months,” Ryan nodded, suddenly realising that he had been a little lazy in his hunt for a new apartment.

“That’ll be nice!” Jack smiled. “Your own space at last!”

“Well, it’s not too bad as it is,” Ryan explained. “Paul is never there at weekends. And now he’s got himself a girlfriend, he’s not there much in the week either.”

“And what about the other one? The one you used to fight with loads?”

“Yeah, he’s there a lot, but… we don’t argue so much these days,” he admitted; suddenly feeling the desire to say so much more about kinky little Ash.

“Before I foget,” Jack jumped in. “Michelle wants to know who you’re bringing as your ‘plus one’ to the wedding next week.

“I’ve got a ‘plus one’?” Ryan asked, genuinely surprised.

“Dude!” Jack grumbled. “Seriously?”

“I’ll find someone,” Ryan replied hastily, seeing how stressed Jack was getting.

“What about that girl you were hinting at when we briefly chatted during my stag party?” Jack asked, clearly keen to get a name locked in.

Ryan thought for a moment. Had Jack assumed he had some potential hot chubby chaser girl on the go? He pondered the idea, realising, quite suddenly, that he didn’t really need one. In the most unexpected way, everything that he had yearned for in life had already arrived. “Hey, Jack,” he asked thoughtfully. “How did you know that Michelle was the one for you?”

“She’s gorgeous,” Jack shot back with a sly grin.

“Besides that,” Ryan insisted. “How did you know that you guys were meant to be together?”

Jack sighed. “I guess…” he began softly, “...it was the way she made me feel: so loved and cared for; admired and adored. I’ve never felt that from anyone before.” He seemed moved, just by talking about her. “Plus she dominated me and forced me to pack on over 150lbs of pure fat; which is one of the kinkiest fucking things I could ever have imagined!” he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Ryan laughed and nodded. He made a crack about how much fatter Jack might be after he got home from his honeymoon, but, really, his mind was elsewhere; with someone else entirely.

Ryan arrived home to see a large crate of beers resting on the kitchen counter tied up with a ginormous red bow. He laughed, seeing that it was his favourite brand and noticing that a large tray of assorted doughnuts lay beside it.

“Do you like your present?” Ash asked, coming out of his bedroom with a huge smile on his face.

“You bought these for me?” Ryan asked, feeling his mouth watering at the sight of the doughnuts, even after how much he had eaten with Jack that afternoon.

As if psychically linked, Ash began unpackaging the doughnuts for him, leaving them open for him to stuff one into his mouth. “They’re to say thank you. I just had my novel manuscript accepted for publishing.”

Ryan nearly spat out his doughnut. “You’ve been writing a novel?” he blasted in shock. “Since when?”

“Since you kept reminding me that I need to do something with my life; back when you first moved in.”

“I was being an asshole,” Ryan confessed. “I didn’t mean to make you feel…”

“You gave me the kick up the ass that I needed,” Ash threw back with a smile. “You always told me how clever I was and that I could do anything.”

“You’re an amazing person,” Ryan marvelled. “In fact, you’re the best person I’ve ever met in my life!” For weeks now, he had worried that his behavious around Ash, indulging his little feeder tendencies in subtle ways, had only brought the guy to fetishize him. Their relationship was merely one of a simple exchange: Ryan would enjoy being overfed and catered for by his roommate, and Ash would get to enjoy the subtle art of ensuring a guy that he found attractive, continued to pile on a few pounds. Now, however, every sense felt strangetly heightened in this moment of celebration. He couldn’t believe that Ash had been secretly writing away for months when Ryan had assumed the guy to be inside his bedroom, playing games. Just how blind had he been this entire time?

Ryan took a step forward and Ash did not retreat. He grabbed the much smaller guy’s shoulders and held them firmly. Again, Ash did not stop him. Then, seeing the inviting, warm look on Ash’s face, Ryan took the biggest risk of his life, going in for a kiss and desperately hoping that Ash’s lips would move to meet his.

Unbelievably, Ash was kissing him back, moaning gently, as if luxuriating in something he had never wanted more in his life. The kiss became intense, very quickly. With his shirt lifted off him, Ryan felt the handsome guy’s hands rubbing all over his stomach. Before he knew it, Ryan was being guided into the living space, his sweatpants ripped down and then his body pushed with surprisingly kinky force, back into his usual chair in front of the TV.

Ryan looked up at Ash with startled arousal. The guy seemed so naturally suited to taking charge. He would have known that this was Ryan’s first gay experience and he led the way with ease, erasing any opportunity for awkward fumblings to slip in. He cracked open one of the chilled beers and fetched the tray of doughnuts from the kitchen counter. Then, when he was sure that Ryan was settled, he plunged his whole mouth down onto the fat guy’s crotch.

Ryan’s whole body twitched.This wasn’t a blow job, he thought to himself, feeling the intense stimulation straight away. He found himself moaning, even when he was trying not to. Was this intense pleasure what it was supposed to have been like all along? Lucy had never made much of an effort with anything in the bedroom, but Ash’s mouth was doing things to him that Ryan could never have dreamed of. He supped on his beer and ate a doughnut, feeling Ash’s hands rubbing the spherical shape of his stomach, clearly getting off on making this moment all about him.

Barely two doughnuts in and Ryan felt his body lurching as it wanted to climax. Ash worked his pace even more, feeling the throbbing in his mouth. Then, when the moment came, he pushed his mouth even deeper, sending Ryan’s hardness all the way down his throat. The pleasure; the orgasm; that intensity. It was unlike anything Ryan had ever experienced in his life.

There was no going back.

Over the following week, Ryan discovered that Ash had a whole arsenal of tactics to please him. Not only did the guy continue to fuss over him with his cooking and snack deliveries, but his tight, energetic little butt seemed determined to outdo every single previous sexual experience that Ryan had ever had. They spoke at length about their attraction to each other and how smitten they both had become. Ryan had no hesitation in inviting Ash to be his date for Jack’s wedding. And, in fact, spending so much time with a now professional writer, really helped Ryan to produce the best speech he could have wished for. Rather than feeling sick with nerves as the big day arrived, he felt excited and pumped, heartily stuffing himself on the big breakfast Ash had so lovingly prepared for him.

“Your friends really aren’t keen on Michelle, are they?” Ash commented later that evening, as the pair of them were reunited after Ryan’s time sitting at the top table and the endless photographs that needed taking.

“Um, no,” Ryan nodded. “Not so much.”

“I had no idea that your friend, Jack, used to be so slim before he met her,” he whispered, fearing that one of their families might overhear. “Your buddies seem to think she’s the devil incarnate!”

Ryan chuckled. He’d heard it all before. “She’s lovely really,” he tried, looking over at the pair of them as Michelle spoonfed her 350lb husband a large piece of their wedding cake. “She just… knows what she wants.”

“I think everyone here can see exactly what it is she wants,” Ash joked back as Jack’s full, swollen belly was patted with approval by his new wife. “It makes me wonder what your friends are going to say about me eventually.”

Ryan pulled Ash into him by holding his slim hips in his chubby hands. They had decided that it was best to go easy on the public displays of affection, considering that this was their first time out together as a couple. However, Ryan simply could not help himself. “Oh, yes?” he asked keenly.

“I certainly don’t have any plans to put you on a diet,” Ash grinned, fingering the skin between the stretched buttons of Ryan’s beer swollen gut.

Ryan growled in lustful approval. His hands slipped onto Ash’stight, toned butt and pulled the guy in even closer.

“In fact, how come you’re not eating a big slice of wedding cake for me right now?” Ash teased.

Ryan moaned lightly. This was exactly what he wanted. He knew how much scrutiny he was under today. He could feel the judgemental eyes upon him, for his shocking weight gain, the fit of his tight shirt, and the fact that he was dating someone none of them had ever expected. He should have been nervous or self conscious. However, with Ash in his arms, Ryan had never felt more free to be himself. “But won’t that make me even fatter?” he teased back.

Ash smiled. “Oh… I hadn’t thought of that,” he joked, accepting the kiss that Ryan soon bestowed upon him.

Ryan felt Ash’s hands feeling his big, broad butt as they kissed; the pants he had been measured for only a week ago, starting to feel rather uncomfortable after only a week of dating the handsome twenty-four year old. The kiss ended and both of them laughed, realising how ridiculously long it had taken to get to this point.

“Is this along the lines of what you had in mind for me?” Ryan asked moments later, pushing out his stomach as far as it would go and stretching those buttons even more.

Ash seemed thrilled, looking around the room in surprise that Ryan was making himself look so large in front of everyone that he knew at the wedding. He smiled, rubbing the underside of Ryan’s ball-like gut and then leaned in to whisper. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” he teased.

Ryan growled in lustful appreciation, then took his boyfriend’s hand and led the way to the wedding cake.

Exactly one year to the day, Ryan and Ash were sitting in that same room, together with Jack and Michelle, celebrating a year since the wedding. They reminisced fondly, thinking about the perfect day it had been and laughing about how shocked everyone had been after Jack came back 30lbs heavier from his two week honeymoon.

“You can’t be far off the weight I was this time last year,” Jack noted, surveying his buddy’s hefty appearance.

“Possibly,” Ryan nodded, rubbing his large stomach. “I still don’t feel big yet though,” he replied, as if he was oblivious to the enormous ball-shaped gut and the groaning of the chair, supporting his wide butt and mostrous 347lb body.

“Unless I ask him to do something,” Ash jumped in comically. “Then he always says he’s too fat to do anything!” he joked, making everyone chuckle.

“I’m actually going to be pushing Jack to five hundred pounds this year,” Michelle explained, taking her morbidly obese husband’s hand as if this was an announcement that thay had been planning for some time.

Ryan noticed Jack staring at his face for a reaction; perhaps some surprise that his old school buddy was so ensnared by his beautiful wife that he was willing to take his weight gain to such extremes for her.

“He’s going to be a lot of work for you at that size!” Ash grinned conspiratorily at Michelle. “I hope you’re ready for that?” he laughed.

“Oh, I’m counting on it!” Michelle smirked, rubbing the 430lb man’s knee under the table.

“You’re a very lucky guy,” Ryan nodded at his friend in approval.

“There you go, Ash,” Michelle smirked. “It sounds like we may have another willing volunteer to join the five hundred pound club,” she nodded towards a jealous looking Ryan.

“You’re joking aren’t you?” Ryan laughed. “Ash is heading off on his second book tour in March. “I won’t be gaining anything for almost two months whilst he’s gone. I’ll probably just wate away!”

“You liar!” Ash teased him back. “Last time I was away, you pretty much lived on takeout and put on almost twenty pounds in a month,” he chuckled.

“I don’t remember you complaining,” Ryan smiled back; his voice dripping with affection and lust.

Michelle looked at them both, clearly wanting to cut through their mushy meanderings. “So, five hundred pounds?” she asked again, trying to circle the conversation back. “I’m getting the impression that you boys are kinky enough to enjoy seeing that on Ryan,” she pressed; ever the bad influence.

Ryan and Ash looked at each other with a wicked excitement in their eyes.

“We’ll talk about it when we get home,” Ash stated diplomatically. Unlike Michelle, he liked to be a little more discreet about his kinks and fantasies when it came to enjoying Ryan’s large body.

Ryan smirked and winked at his old buddy Jack. He knew exactly how to read between the lines of whatever Ash said. There was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity to get Ryan to that size. And so, just like his high school best pal, Ryan was as good as setting sail for five hundred pounds. How insanely arousing was that?

“Eat up, my friend,” Ryan smiled competitively at Jack. “I’m coming for you, Fat Boy!”

#gainer fiction #gainer stories #gay feedee #gainerstory #gayfeeder #gayfeedee #gainerfic #gainer story #gainerstories #gainer fic

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shadesoflsk · 11 months ago

Text

MOONTALK

pairing: Leon Kennedy x GN Reader.

summary: After retiring, Leon often has nightmares about his past. Talking under the moon's gaze seems to help.

warnings: Smut MDNI, just oral (m receiving), angst to fluff to smut hehe, mentions of death, violence, and alcohol, catholic symbolism, dad bod leon hehe (x2) subby leon, reader is called spouse.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: Hello! This is very simple since I'm trying to get better at writing smut for gender neutral readers :) There's not enough content and while I improve at writing the whole sex scene I shall bring you this! (I'm open to suggestions or constructive criticism.) As always, I hope you're having a good week!

The starry night is chosen to be Leon’s witness in the middle of his stolen slumber.

It’s a common occurrence, part of himself longs for the pain-filled activity since it serves as a reminder of his own life. Night terrors scare him more than his anxiety. The first one clings to his soul and threatens him with an inability to wake up. Helpless to his own mind, he prefers to be fully awake.

However, his brain isn’t his friend. Even when awake and aware of his surroundings, his mind would recreate scenarios he has lived before. Blood dripping and sticking to his combat boots, the smell of the iron-ish liquid filling his nostrils painfully making its home in Leon’s head, messing up with his perception of the world and himself.

Somewhere in that messed up path, he had found you.

He didn’t intend to, it wasn’t in his plans to. He had locked his heart and thrown the key somewhere in the sea of his failures.

A feeling of regret brimmed in Leon’s soul. How could his name be attached to yours if the sole mention of Leon Scott Kennedy brought memories of hell on Earth? A former rookie cop, ready to risk his life on duty turned into the government's best weapon. He’s made peace with that, ever since his mission in San Francisco his life has gotten significantly better.

But that doesn’t mean it has stopped hurting.

He once heard Jesus presented his left cheek to be slapped. In the past, he’d have imagined the mere thought of being that naive was ridiculous.

“You have heard that it was said, 'Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.”

Now, that passage has been planted in his heart like a thorn that wouldn't go away no matter how much he pinched the skin. But rather than being a bothersome feeling, it shaped him into the man he is now.

He would never be Jesus, he knows that much. Ever since he was a kid, his connection to religion was always dangling between trust and distrust; faith and doubt. Fear crossed his juvenile and innocent expression whenever he came across a statue of the people’s lord and savior.

God bad, Jesus good. People good and bad. The Old Testament was the backbone for Leon’s hatred towards God. If this supernatural being ‘loved’ his people, why would he punish them?

Sins are ambiguous. Killing is bad. But if he had killed creatures that were no longer humans, is he a sinner without redemption?

He’s still coming around that last statement. Were they really no longer humans?

That’s why he prefers the New Testament. A fresh start, a new life being born. Jesus wouldn’t judge him for the man that he was and is.

And just like him, he turned his left cheek in a mission in San Francisco years ago, when he ended Maria’s life. Bitter and revengeful for killing her father, the woman made it her mission to murder Leon. But ultimately (and ironically) she ceased to exist in Leon’s arms.

‘Revenge’ was met with a ‘Now you can be with your dad again.’ Merciful, he had granted her a last moment of peace.

The soundless night heightens Leon’s senses. As he tries to brush off his worries, some footsteps break the unnerving silence that Leon is in. His ears focus on the soft pace that he easily identifies as yours.

Recognition turned into monotone and monotone into mundane. And don’t get him wrong, God he loves feeling he has finally found his home.

Leon’s arms are resting on the balcony railway, blue eyes focused on the starry night.

“You should be sleeping.” He flatly says without turning to face you. Not out of apathy but guilt. Not being next to you has woken you up.

“Can’t sleep without my husband.”

Sensing you approaching, he opts to tease, trying to divert your attention somewhere else. “Wouldn’t be my dear spouse if you weren’t clingy.”

“I’m not clingy.” But you wouldn’t allow Leon’s usual antics. You know them by heart, lighthearted jokes instead of facing reality. “I’m just worried,”

“You worry too much.”

“But I’m always right.”

A sigh.

Teeth biting the inside of his cheek.

“It’s hard to sleep sometimes.” The phrase is not directed at you, but a response to his own thoughts. For him, safe and sound sleep is a blessing he’s not lucky enough to receive.

“I know.” And then again, your reply isn’t about yourself. A feeble smile appears on your face out of empathy and partial understanding. Standing next to him, your elbows rest on the balcony railway, the chill air sending goosebumps through your skin. “Did you dream about something?”

Leon’s eyebrows knit in concentration as he mull over her question. When he tries recalling his past moment of slumber he is met with the usual gruesome scenario and the same gut-wrenching screams.

“Same old tale.” He exhales. In the past he would have had a glass of whiskey in his hand, tilting the content to one side as he gazed over the starry sky. But he made a promise, and as much as his past comes back to haunt him, he’d keep it.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Why I don't believe you?”

He brings a calloused hand to his mouth as he registers your words. Under the moonlight, his expression gives away his exhausted state, a hint of darkness around his eyes, a permanent faint frown.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yet here I am asking.” It’s not until now that you notice Leon’s shirtless torso. Most of his scars are turning a light white color while his bruises are changing their hues. His body is not the same from a few years ago. His abdomen no longer shows off his chiseled abs but a slightly round and soft belly.

“Feels like I’m walking in circles.” He finally answers with his eyes closed. His restless mind can’t give him a break. Unable to completely live in peace, he finds himself pondering about his own humanity.

“The past is always clearer at night.” With an expression akin to resignation, he looks at you. “And the past tells me I’m a monster.”

The faint sound of the clock could be heard even when they were both gazing into the sky and letting their thoughts be consumed by the chill night. It reaches the dreaded ‘Devil’s hour,’ 3 AM.

“You aren’t a monster.” And it is the truth. While Leon is a complex man, it is not a difficult task to unravel and search through the layers he has covered himself in. His heart beats for the nation and therefore its citizens.

“If I’m not a monster then what am I?” He replies, his face growing somber. “If what I’ve done isn’t destruction what is it?”

“Salvation.”

It is far from salvation. It’s selfish to even think that way.

Sadly, Leon was the designated pawn to complete the job nobody wants to do.

Sadly, Leon is no more than a victim in the web of despair and destruction.

“Salvation.” He scoffs, a sharp ironic demonstration that your words weren’t the best. “I used to fight while the innocents kept falling at my feet.”

A glimpse of a past self appears in front of you. Chaos and loathing unfurls.

It’s been years since you last saw the man who used to drown himself in the deadly burning liquid. However, the alcohol no longer filled the empty spaces in his body and soul.

Truthfully speaking, nobody can fix or heal anyone. But you gladly took the role of being Leon’s partner in life. Not only romantically speaking. Silently, you made a home in Leon’s heart and he was too comfortable with you to ask you to leave him.

“You didn’t do it in the first place.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “The government did.”

“But I was just another bullet in a gun.” He replies softly, his gaze drifting forward. Even after all of these years, he couldn’t completely shake off the guilt that kept haunting him. “Another man with his finger on the trigger… I was just a man with a gun.”

“And you’re also a man with a heart.” You respond immediately, not giving him a chance to continue his venom-filled words toward himself.

“If you were the demon you think you are, these late-night thoughts wouldn’t be haunting you as they do. You wouldn’t be mourning every soul even after all these years.” Your words bring a sense of comfort amidst the internal battle that is occurring inside him. The weight of his burden has always been more bearable with you.

“You think I’m that much of a saint?” A faint smile tug at Leon’s lip. A troubled expression on his face tells you he is still not believing your words. Or perhaps, he feels like he shouldn’t believe you.

“I don’t think you’re a saint. Humans are much more than black or white, good or bad. We are gray.”

Your statement is true. Humans are far from being one-dimensional beings. The balance has always been there and he knows it. When he was a child and religion was still an important part of his life, he remembers when Jesus protected Mary Magdalene.

‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.’

Leon had stained his hands with blood and gore, but he had also saved countless lives when the odds were against him.

“God… I’m pathetic, aren’t I?” He laughs, finally bringing you closer to him with his arm around your waist.

“No, you’re just human.” You reply, admiring the view your balcony provides, you think about the endless possibilities in life. If you hadn't met Leon, where would you be? And if Leon hadn't met you? How his life would look right now?

Universe works in mysterious ways, if you hadn't been in the right place at the right time, you wouldn't have your soulmate next to you.

A comfortable silence sets in as Leon finally relaxes and gives his mind a break. There were days and nights in which his brain was weak, but that doesn’t mean he hasn't gotten better.

“I would do laundry and taxes with you in every timeline.” You break the silence with a quote from a movie both of you had watched and Leon being the moviegoer he is, you know he’ll recognize it.

“That's not how the line goes, you silly.”

Bingo.

“Then enlighten me, Mr. I know every movie by heart.”

“It is ‘in another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you.’” He states matter-of-factly which gains a laugh from you. But in a way, you’re used to his antics and almost nerdy personality only you get to see.

But your words mixed with the ones from the movie hold a glimmer of truth. Even in a timeline in which he wasn’t an agent and just a regular citizen, you’d have fallen for him. Because his past doesn’t make him the man he is now.

In another life, you’d love him over and over again.

“But I’d do all those things in this life and even in the afterlife.”

His eyes fall on you, the glimmer in them now being obvious. Just a few words from his love would pull him out from his depressive nights.

“You never cease to amaze me.”

“I’m just amazing like that.” You wrap your arms around Leon's neck while his hands rested on your middle section. “Now hug me because I’m fucking freezing.”

“Let’s go inside, shall we?” Laughing, he pulls you closer in a tight embrace. “I’d hate for you to catch a cold. Besides… I need my cuddling partner every night.”

As both of you move out of the balcony and away from the cold wind of the night. Leon’s hands move painfully obvious to your rear. After his late thoughts, he only wants to feel you close to him.

“I don’t think you want to cuddle.” You remark the obvious. Leon just chuckles, nodding.

“Aside from being the perfect partner you’re also a mind reader?”

You step in your bedroom. Place that has been witness to Leon’s most vulnerable moments, from the times in which he'd come back from a mission to the ones in which both of you would get lost in each other's bodies.

His sanctuary, your heaven.

You smile at him as you motion him to sit down on the bed. Both of your eyes are locked in a gaze that says what you are feeling, love. No matter how hard his or your days could be, both of you could always come back to a partner that takes care of them. No matter the situation.

As he takes a seat on the edge of the bed, you lean closer and press a kiss to his forehead, to his nose, to his cheek, and lastly to his lips. This last one lingers more than the others, sweet and slow, like how you want to treat him tonight.

“I love you.” You whisper as you pull back from the kiss, your thumb grazing over his stubbled jaw.

“Love you more.” He responds with the same tenderness you have brought him. After saying his words, his hands traveled to where your hips were, attempting to pull you closer.

“Nuh-uh. Tonight’s about you, sir.” You have your mind set that this night is going to be all about the perfect husband you have in front of you.

With that, your lips once again found their home but this time it was on Leon’s neck.

With your lips giving some attention to Leon’s sensitive skin, you treat him like he was fragile porcelain.

After a few moments, you slowly lower yourself until you're between his thighs. Another reminder of how much his body has changed, his thighs were fuller and bit less toned than before.

He has seen you like this before, on your knees and with the sweetest of looks but dear God it gets better every day.

You press your cheek against Leon’s inner thigh, your hand rubbing the flesh that is still covered with his sweatpants. He was no longer an active agent therefore he had gained some weight which you completely love. He blames the alcohol he used to drink so much and the lack of high-impact exercise. But you always reassure him that you love him nonetheless.

Your hand creeps to his clothed crotch, you gently trace along the bulge that has already formed. Leon’s breath is starting to get heavier but nothing too scandalous, for now.

“I haven’t even touched properly and you’re already this hard.” You are trying to be gentle, but there’s something about having control over him even when you’re on your knees that just prompts you to tease him a hit.

“Might as well cum in the spot, don’t you think? Bet you’re already imagining me pulling down your boxers and stroking your cock.” The face Leon was making could send you straight to heaven.

“You’re the devil…” Leon tries, he tries to gather himself by making a joke. But his high-pitched speech comes out pathetic. A rebuttal? More like a whine.

“What? My handsome husband can’t handle the spice? I expected better.” The praise seems to hit a spot somewhere in his body because the way his hips just bucked and sought the friction of your hand was contradictory to his previous words.

“Please…” And after that whimper, you no longer want to tease the man. Especially tonight in which he deserves the best.

“Ok, ok. I gotcha…” You murmur, wasting no more time and pulling his sweatpants down. A wet spot is already formed in his gray boxers. Then again, more teasing words flood your mind but you brush them off.

With a gentle kiss on his inner thigh, your fingers hook around the fabric and slide it down. His dick springs forward, and as always, it makes your mouth water. It’s the same image as always, slightly curved lenght with veins you had memorized by now and a reddish tip that tells you how bothered and pent-up he’s been.

Marriage has always been depicted as a boring and monotonous lifestyle, in which you get bored of your spouse after a couple of years. In a sense, you understand where they come from. However, Leon and you always made sure to keep things interesting, and as corny as it sounds, both of you try to make the other fall in love again.

You press a kiss on his tip, holding back a laugh as you know how sensitive he must be. The slightest touch has him gripping the bedsheets.

“You’re teasing.” He says as his lips form a pout. His calloused hands flatten on top of your hair

“Am I?” You give his shaft a few kitten licks, not breaking eye contact while doing so.

Finally, your shenanigans are followed by your lips wrapping around his tip, sucking the area. That gains a whimper out of Leon, the ones you’re so used to.

When you first met the stoic agent, you wouldn’t have thought that he’d be so vocal in bed. Even when he was supposed to be on top, he’d let the most beautiful moans against your ears. asking for permission to continue, asking for permission to fill you up.

For a moment, your lips continue sucking off his tip. Your saliva coating the area and sloppily making out with the head of his dick. Your fingers wrap around the base of it, almost overwhelming Leon with the amount of attention he is receiving.

“Ah — Fuck…” His eyes roll back as you finally take him whole. The previous ministrations long forgotten as your mouth and part of your throat surround his sensitive cock.

You bob your head, slowly at first, controlling your breath as Leon involuntarily thrusts his hips making his tip hit the back of your throat. You place your hand on Leon’s thigh, to motion him to stand still.

“Shit — sorry, sorry…” His voice gets slightly higher, now his previous words turn into pleas or straight-up moans. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth as your tongue runs on the underside of his cock.

“Too good for me…” He’s reduced to just babbles and whines, his knuckles turn white as keeps on gripping the bedsheets, an awful attempt to drown more moans. As you continuously bob your head, Leon could feel his high coming.

Unconsciously and given his dazed out state, he brings his leg to your shoulder. You were completely focused on him and this simple action made your concentration break a bit. He’s putty in your hands, his brain no longer functioning whenever you are in control.

You’d edge him, you’d definitely tease him for that. But now, you just continue sucking him off with the inner side of his thigh brushing against your cheek.

“I’m gonna — Fuck…” It’s not a warning, but a comment, a needy announcement. As much as he denies it, there’s not a better image than seeing you covered with his cum, or watching you swallow it whole. It made him feel a sense of pride, knowing that his spouse is the one making him come undone.

And as your tongue runs along a vein, he couldn’t contain it any longer. With a high pitched whine and throwing his head back, he spills down your throat.

The warm liquid fills your mouth and some of it drips from the corner of your lips.

You stay still for a moment, collecting every last drop of Leon’s cum. When you feel Leon’s hand on your shoulder —the one that doesn’t have his leg on it— you know he was asking you for a break.

Pulling out with a pop, you gently move his leg for him to rest.

For a few seconds, you just massage your jaw as Leon tries to recover. Heavy breaths fill the dark room, allowing you to relax once again.

“You good?” You ask as you are sitting down on the floor.

“Yeah — Just… give me a second.” He laughs, closing his eyes. A loving smile forms on his face.

You laugh too, getting up from the floor, you admire the scene Leon provides you: All of his body exposed to you, his sweatpants and boxers pooling at his ankles, and his fucked out expression.

Heaven.

After a minute or so, Leon composes himself.

“I’ll make sure to wake up every night if this is the treatment I get.”

“Next time I will just tie you up to the bed.”

“Oh? I like the sound of that.”

Laughing, you slap his naked chest as he pulls you closer. Nights like this are a reminder of his humanity and his right to love and to be loved. The past can never be changed or forgotten, but he can learn from it.

💬shadesoflsk: Comments, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated.

author's note 2: I just had to mention eeaao! It's one of my favorite movies and I know Leon would love it. Sorry if it was too sappy of me but then again... I'm always like that.

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy smut #resident evil #resident evil x reader

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