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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 2 days ago

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Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 2 - Bubbles

Read it on AO3

Mark of Dean series master list

18+. 9.8k words. Explicit sexual content. Some graphic violence. Dubious consent. Unhealthy relationships. Age gap. Sad ending.

You hum along to the music while you look out the window as the landscape roars past. It's flat land out there, farmland, not particularly pretty. Not young and open and fertile like you.

Dean clears his throat, shifts in his seat as he tears his eyes away from your reflection in the rearview mirror, back to the road. Fertile? Jesus Christ, where the fuck did that come from?

Sam has his head lowered in the passenger seat, laptop on his legs. Dean has half a mind to tell him to stop looking at it or he'll get car sick, an old instinct from when Sammy used to get nauseous when it was still John in the driver's seat, Dean in the passenger and his little brother in the back, usually his nose in a book. A long time ago.

Instead, now it's you and Castiel sitting back there. Castiel is looking out the other window, not helping the family on a road trip energy floating around the car. No road trip’s complete without some underlying tension.

Let's see. There's Cas and Sam, who can't get out of Dean's ass for even a second about the Mark and its consequences and their but are you really sure you're okay, Dean? Deep down he knows they are genuinely worried, but when they talk to him that way it makes hot, tantrum-inducing irritation shoot up Dean's spine.

Adding to that, Sam and Cas have, through their shared worry about Dean, formed some kind of best-friends-forever bond. It used to be that Castiel was Dean's buddy, his guardian angel, and while he didn't like that he and Sam never found that kind of closeness, now that they have, he feels awfully on the outside.

He doesn't like it. He hates it actually. Being on the outside of anything makes him feel desperate, lonely, almost immediately. Angry, too, and that might be the Mark, but it's difficult to tell. More difficult than Dean would like to admit, than he has admitted.

And then there's you, of course. Because every friend group needs a couple of dirty secrets, and apparently, you're his. Or he's yours. Something like that.

You seem to be doing absolutely fine, though, because you are, as previously observed, humming. You broke things off with Dean earlier today, as much as there was something to break off, and you said it could never happen again.

And you're fucking humming.

Dean's hand on the steering wheel tightens. He's not mad at you, not really. Well, he is, but there's more that he feels. He still can't look at you without immediately being very aware of what his cock is doing. He cares for you, he really does, always has. He used to be your friend. Can he still be that?

Fuck no, he thinks, shifting again. Never mind whether he can be, he doesn't want to be that. Not that he never appreciated it, he really did. Always thought you were a cute little thing, caught himself feeling almost regretful that you weren't ten years older when he met you, at least halving the difference in years between you, making him feel like not quite such a dirty, old man.

So friend it was, but not because that's who he wanted to be, but because that was the only option. He doesn't want it to sound like he doesn't appreciate you, he doesn't want something else, just something on top of that, him on top of you, soft thighs pressed high on his side, tight pussy taking h–

No, this is exactly the kind of shit he needs to stop. He feels tension low in his stomach. He has half a mind to pull Baby over, drag you out and fuck you right on the hood of the car. You'd like that, he's sure. Would try to find something to hold on to while his thrusts shove you back and forth. Maybe you'd make that sound you made that night. The one that sounds like you're in ecstasy.

Jesus, Dean thinks, runs his hand over his face. Jesus goddamn fucking Christ, he needs to focus. He has a plan after all. It's gonna take a few things to put in place, but he can manage that. He throws you another look in the rearview mirror. And you catch him. Smile at him. The sweetest, loveliest smile he's ever seen.

Maybe he shouldn't do it. It's not a nice plan. But he doesn't know what else to do. He wants what he wants, and he doesn't see why he should deny himself. It's the only fucking thing he ever does, is deny himself. Sure, he has the impulse control of a toddler, but all those things, food, booze, women, they're all just gun powder poured into an open wound, set alight to shut the gash, but never to close it, heal it. He's never wanted anything as much as you.

He looks out the front, and when he glances back, you're looking out the window again. Is this love? he wonders. He's not sure. He loves you, definitely, but is he in love with you? He wants you, he knows that. But is that enough?

His free hand goes to his arm, absent-mindedly, and scratches there. It makes him flinch and he looks down.

He was scratching at the Mark. He can't see it because of the jacket he's wearing, but he knows exactly where it is. Dragging his fingernails along the fabric resting over it. Sweet relief of a constant pain.

That's what fucking you felt like. Like reaching that spot that has been bothering you for an hour and raking your fingers over it. Something so good it makes you close your eyes. His brain was quiet, afterwards. And during it, well…

He was concentrated on you. Mesmerized, more like it. He's never felt that kind of arousal, of lust, that kind of relief. It nearly made him go cross-eyed, that's how good it was. It was the kind of fucking that you hope to find once in your life, and then compare every single encounter ever against. It was like his first blowjob and that time he fucked those twins and washing down the best burger in the world with a long sip of cold beer and when Baby kicks a little when he accelerates and the soft way a knife goes into a bad guy's neck and a hot shower on a cold day, but all rolled into one.

Surely it was the same for you? You were there with him, right?

Surely that must mean something?

You arrive at the motel, check in, one room - it used to be one for Sam and Dean, practiced in sharing, one for you, because, well, Sam and Dean could be a little old fashioned and boys and girls don’t go in the same room seems to be something they have picked up and run with.

You used to say it’s a waste of money, since all you would do is sleep. You always hung out together until just before getting ready for bed anyway, and you repeatedly told them you didn’t mind if they farted at night. Dean laughed at that, and eventually, they agreed to share one room with you. You’d insist on sleeping on the couch, being the shortest out of the bunch, would roll up, always wait until they were asleep, which with both of them could take a long time. But it was always worth it, to hear their slow breathing in the room with you. It lulled you in like nothing else could.

But right now, you’re not sure if sharing is such a good idea.

Dean’s been strange since you told him that you’re not gonna sleep with him again. Which is fair. Are you kind of relieved that he does care? That he didn’t take it in stride? Yes, of course. You’re only human. The fact that he seems hurt, is quiet… You don’t want him to feel even a second of pain, but of course it tugs at your heart. Dean wants you. He really wants you. Not that it matters, now. But it makes it all deliciously harder.

Still, you feel strangely fresh and optimistic. Not at the choice itself, but at least at the fact that a choice has been made. It was in your hands, all of it, and now it is out of them. You can’t help but feel a little lighter.

Plus maybe, just maybe, things will go back to the way they were. With you pining for Dean in secret, and him treating you like a kid, or a little sister. All flirting platonic and meaningless to him, just kindness, but driving you so wild you could have screamed. Needing to play the adult feels good right now, but you wish to go back to that status of the one that needs protecting, the one that needs looking after. It’s not an easy wish to accept, sometimes, but you’ve learned not to shame yourself for it. You’ve been strong so often. It’s okay to want to be cared for.

Dean stretches when he gets out of the car, eyes narrowed, slightly frowning. You catch yourself staring at him, marveling at him. It’s like everything before this was just a fever dream, the chasing, the wanting, the not knowing. Now you see him. You had sex with this man. He wants you. This man. Pride swells your chest, just a touch of shame at the pride following right after.

You drop your bag near the couch, then move to the table, where Sam is already spreading out. You lean on it just as Dean and Cas walk in with the rest of the luggage.

“Should I get us some coffee?” you ask and Sam looks up, smiles, is about to open his mouth but Dean interjects.

“Cas and I are gonna head out and interview some witnesses,” he says, kneeling down to open his own duffel. “You two should focus on research.” You nod. It’s strangely reasonable. You look towards Cas.

“Remember to tell them you work for the FBI this time,” you say with a smile, “not the FCA again.” Castiel gives an embarrassed huff.

“It’s a lot of letters,” he says, then frowns. “I find acronyms confusing.”

But you’re already not listening. After your comment, you looked at Dean, hoping he’d laugh with you. You love Cas, but teasing him together with Dean, lovingly, is one of your favorite past times. You miss it. You miss Dean. In so many ways, even though he’s right there.

But he’s not smiling. He’s not even listening, you’re pretty sure. He’s just straightening, shoving a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, looking down at the table you’ve all gathered around. He looks sad. Distracted, deep in thought, and sad. Could it be? Could it be because of you? Do you have this kind of power? You're sure Dean doesn't have a lot of practice being rejected, at least not by women he sees as sexual conquests. By everyone else? Maybe.

“Sheriff’s office is only twenty minutes away,” Dean now says, completely ignoring the previous exchange. “Let’s go.”

You drop into one of the chairs once the other two men have left, reach for the nearest book, open it at a random page. Try to ignore the lump in your throat.

Focus. It’s what Dean needs. It’s a good distraction. He just needs to keep it up. A few more hours. A few more hours, and you should be back in his arms.

And it’s not like he isn’t gonna have fun in the meantime.

It’s the fifth door he and Cas are knocking on. Dean gets out of the car, hand going to his wrist, tugging at his shirt, then straightening the jacket of his suit. He feels the Mark rub against the fabric of his shirt.

Sometimes, it’s so quiet. Sometimes, it’s just there, humming away, kind of like you were in the car. But sometimes it irritates him, itches. Feels like arm hair caught on a zipper. And sometimes it screams.

More importantly, sometimes he knows it’s the Mark revving him up. He understands that the things he feels are amplified by it. But the thing is, it’s still just him. Still all the stuff he’s just buried in himself. That’s what Sam and Cas don’t understand. The Mark isn’t changing him. It has made him louder. Clearer. Like a radio finally tuned to the right frequency.

The door is opened by the witness, an attractive woman in her late thirties - Dean’s age, he has to keep reminding himself. He doesn’t feel it. It always surprises him.

He flirts with her a little, playfully rolls his eyes at Castiel being awkward, rather than play over it. She gives him a suggestive smile. Cute, but not what he’s looking for. She’d make him take her out, dinner, maybe a movie. A second date before she’d even allow him to push his hand under her shirt. That’s not what he needs.

He needs quick, he needs dirty, he needs immediate. He’s simple like that.

When they leave the house, walk down the front steps, Dean looks at his watch. The gesture is for show, since he already saw the time inside, on some ugly grandfather clock that he hopes to hell was an heirloom. Seven in the evening. Perfect. He slaps his hands together, rubs them against each other.

“Maybe we should start thinking about dinner,” he says, turning to Cas. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his pants and grins. “Don’t tell me you’re not starving.”

Castiel gives him what for the angel passes as a sarcastic look. Hardy fucking har har. He sighs, which is the one human habit Cas seems to have perfected.

“It looks like none of the witnesses have seen anything that could help us,” Cas muses, “so I suppose this is a good time to take a break.” Dean nods for extra emphasis, rolls his shoulders.

“Could use a drink,” he mumbles, looking down the street.

It lands. It lands so perfectly it’s almost ridiculous. Just goes to show he knows Cas. Maybe better than he knows himself.

“Yes,” Cas says, his face changing into a friendly expression even as he says the word. “We should grab a beer. I can’t technically get drunk anymore, but I enjoy the camaraderie of it.”

Dean turns to his friend. For just a second, he feels guilty. Cas wants to get a drink with him. Yeah, he probably wants to talk about his feelings - Dean’s, not Castiel’s - and ask him if he’s really, truthfully, pinkie promise can’t tell a lie honest to God okay. But the point still stands. Luckily, Dean shakes himself out of the guilt immediately. He’s good at that. So he throws the angel a smile.

“I consider that a personal challenge,” he says and Cas now smiles genuinely, his entire face lighting up.

So Dean will get Cas a drink. And then he will take care of everything else.

You’re pulling on your jacket while Sam explains his salad order to you.

“Samuel,” you say, suppressing a grin, “I have bought food for us about a million trajillion times. I know what you like.” Sam drops his hands on the table, then chuckles. God, it feels good, this lightness. Joking with Sam. You know it’s only been less than two weeks since things have changed so drastically, but it feels like an eternity.

“Alright,” he says, admitting defeat, “but to be fair, I need to explain it to Cas and Dean every time, so it’s just kind of a habit.” You shrug.

“Guess I’m the best of all of us,” you say with a heavy sarcastic inflection, making Sam grin, lay his hand over his heart.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” he says and you laugh, grab your phone off the table and then walk outside.

You don’t have a second car, and the fast food place is a little bit away, but you don’t mind. The evening is mild, even though darkness has fallen a while ago, and you’ve been cooped up all afternoon in the motel room. You take a deep breath. It’s mostly exhaust fumes, but still, it’s nice. It’s a good walk. You swear to yourself to try to go on more of them.

When you get to the restaurant, you study the menu while you stand in line. The chain’s mascot - a beaver in overalls, for some reason - is screaming at you to get a Chippy Choc Chocolate Shake. It’s cute, but not what you’re in the mood for. You make it to the front of the line and order.

Chicken sandwich for you. Salad shaker with a light dressing for Sam. Cas doesn’t need nutrients, but you get him a small Coke, cause you know he likes the bubbles. For Dean, you go all out: double bacon burger, extra pickles, extra onion, and at the last second, you get him an order of the Dam’ Good Fries. You chuckle at the name.

Your arms are full as you walk back. The food will probably be cold by the time you get back, but it’s not like any of you have the highest culinary standards.

You’re halfway back when your phone vibrates. Balancing some of the food against your body, you pull it out of your pocket. It’s a message from Sam.

Dean and Cas found another witness to interview, just down the road. Just got there but will be back before dinner, oh Queen of the Salads.

The emojis he picked are random, but you think they’re salad-inspired, and then a crown at the end. What an absolute doofus, you think as you push the phone back into your pocket with a smile.

When you reach the motel, you need to balance the food again to grab your key. You push it into the lock and then shoulder your way in.

Your first thought is that Sam must have left the TV on, and your second thought is that that’s very unlikely, since Sam rarely watches anything but the news, and he never watches them on regular TV, because the ads annoy him. He’s also not the type to leave the TV on. So it’s all around weird.

You need to turn when you enter the room since due to the stuff you’re carrying you walked in sideways. When you do, you freeze on the spot.

It’s not the TV. It’s Dean. It’s Dean and he’s not alone.

He’s standing behind the second bed, facing you. You see the anti-possession tattoo on his chest, and then your brain catches up that he needs to be shirtless for that to work. Except he’s not just shirtless, he’s naked.

There’s a woman on the bed. You’ve never seen her before. Later, all you’ll remember about her is that she has dark hair, that her head is hanging off the side of the bed and that her legs are pulled up so that Dean can fuck her the way he’s fucking her.

She’s gasping and moaning and grunting deep in her throat. You’re not sure if she registers that someone has come in. But Dean does. He does immediately.

He looks up. He’s panting and his hips are snapping forwards and backwards while he fucks the woman under him. You can see his cock gliding in and out of her, but only the root, because of the angle. You realize all of this as abstractly as if it isn’t happening to you but to someone else.

When you look away from Dean’s magically disappearing and reappearing cock, you look up at his face. He’s looking straight at you. His lips are parted and you think a smile is tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, then groans, briefly looking down at the woman’s breasts, then up again. “Had to get somewhere fast, was kind of an emergen– oh fuck, that’s it, baby.” His head drops down again, as he keeps fucking. The woman still hasn’t really reacted, but just then, she opens her eyes, focuses on you, though she seems to have a hard time with it.

“Who the fuck are you?” she slurs, making no attempt to stop Dean or get him off her.

Indeed. Who the fuck are you?

The food and drink drops from your arms without you meaning to. The strength to hold them simply leaves you. The lid on the Coke opens, the liquid inside going everywhere. It might as well be happening on a different planet.

You turn around, rush outside. You just have the wherewithal to pull the door shut behind you, and immediately you curse yourself for it. Still being so fucking considerate.

The pain is so immediate, it shocks you. It’s crawling into your throat, like panic, as you rush across the parking lot, without a goal, except for away. Away from Dean, from what you saw.

Your breath is coming fast, but the tears are faster. Without meaning to, a sound leaves you just as you turn the corner off the lot. You’re just there enough still to realize you’re walking back into the direction of the fast food place, so you turn around, because that way are people. The other way is better, even though you have no idea what that way is.

It doesn’t matter. Your arms go around you, your face scrunches up, and a deep sob leaves you.

How stupid you are. How absolutely dumb. Horrendously, endlessly, disgustingly stupid. You thought you were being the adult.

Dean never cared about you. How could he? How could he ever? His biggest worry is probably making sure he comes and then hustling that woman out the door before Sam is back, and Cas, wherever he is. His worry wasn’t you. It never was.

Like someone changing the channel in your head, you see Dean again. Torso glistening, and those noises, skin on skin and grunting and panting, like goddamn animals. Like you and him did. Oh God. He doesn’t give a shit about you.

You actually thought you were on top of this, this whole situation. That you had done something right and good and reasonable, and that things would be alright. How fucking stupid are you?

Dean never cared. He slept with you, had sex with you, because you threw yourself at him. Came to his room with a bottle of his favorite whiskey, asking him about a boy you liked, what to do with him to make him like you. You might as well have walked in naked.

And then, when Dean thought you maybe wanted more than just one night, you avoided him, and then shut him down. All while telling him that he wasn’t in his right mind. Pathetic.

And now you’re hurt? You dare to be hurt? Because you’re not his number one?

Another sob leaves you. God, it hurts. It hurts so much. It’s not like you’ve never seen Dean just before or right after he hooked up with someone. It always made you jealous, distantly, because you were reasonable enough to know that you could never have him like this. So you teased him, acted shocked and, if you’re being honest, a little uppity about his behavior. Like a little girl that knows everything. He must have thought you were ridiculous.

And still, and still. There’s a part of you, no matter how much you beat it down, no matter how much you know you are the bad guy here, I mean, wake up, there’s a part of you that really thought he liked you. That Dean Winchester maybe liked you. The sweetest, strongest, most beautiful person you’ve ever met. Liked you. What an absolute joke.

You don’t know how long you walk, but it’s a while. It’s dark, the streets empty. You have no idea what time it is, because you’d need to unlatch your arms from your body to look at your phone.

You’d recognize the sound anywhere, of course. In your sleep, probably. Still, right then, you are so deep in your thoughts and fantasies, that the Impala is already pulling up next to you when you notice it.

Dean’s in the driver’s seat, of course. His arm is over the back of the bench and he’s leaning his head forward to look at you through the window. You stop walking, look at him. Swallow, but your mouth is dry.

He’s leaning over now, rolls down the window on the passenger side, the one you’re on, a little bit.

“Get in,” he says. His voice is softer than you expect it to be. You sniff.

“Just get in,” he says.

There’s probably no one in the world that would describe Dean as some sort of mastermind. But after today, that just might change.

It’s a matter of timing, and he almost messes up a few times. He’s been calculating all afternoon, thinking about how to do it. It’s a lot of things that need to go right. Not least of all his own seduction skills.

He and Castiel walk into a bar - there’s a joke in there somewhere. Dean picks just about the shabbiest one he can find, as close to the motel as possible.

They sit down, order their drinks. Cas immediately starts on the probing, hiding it very badly by pretending he’s talking about the case. Dean just nods along as he looks around and takes stock.

The one he settles on wouldn’t be his type, if he had one. He likes to drink, but she’s sloppy drunk, standing near the bar, one heel already tilted. She’s cute, but it’s not even eight PM on a Wednesday, and she’s sloshed. Not that he’s one to judge.

He grabs his drink and walks over to her without saying a single word to Cas. Let him figure out what Dean is doing. He’s a big boy.

He gets to chatting to the woman, forgets her name immediately. There’s a brief moment where he wonders if she’s too drunk for him to take home. She’s kinda unsure on her legs, laughs too loudly at everything he says. She’s also eye-fucking him something fierce. Still, this chick needs a cab, not some creep trying to hook up with her. Dean only distantly remembers that he’s that creep.

Luckily Castiel leaves him alone, maybe happy that Dean isn’t sulking or murdering or whatever he thinks Dean likes to do these days. He briefly winks at the angel when he asks the woman if she wants to get out of here. She steps close to him in an attempt at being seductive, runs her hand down his chest. She’ll do.

As they’re walking out, Dean looks at his phone. It’s still on the messages from Sam, the ones he made sure he got a few minutes ago when he was about to leave with his special guest. There’s Dean complaining that he’s hungry, Sam agreeing that they should eat, then saying that you just left and that Dean and Cas should start making their way back.

Dean’s sure Sam suggested that he go and get the food, but that you fought him tooth and nail, knowing that for him tearing himself away from his books is much harder. Plus Dean knows you like to walk. It was a gamble, but one he knew the odds on.

He smiles as he pockets the phone. It’s a race against time now, but at least it'll be a fun one.

He calls Sam as he’s pulling off the bar’s parking lot. Luckily the drunk chick is quiet. Dean hopes she won’t throw up. That would put an end to his plans very quickly.

“Sammy, it’s me,” he opens the conversation. “Listen, we need your help to finish some stuff up…”

The address is a fake, of course. Still, it’ll take Sam long enough to get there and when he calls to confirm the address, Dean simply won’t answer. So maybe he’ll call Cas instead. Everything should already be done by then.

When he hangs up, the woman turns to him with a suggestive grin.

“Who’s Sammy?” she asks. “Is he gonna join us?” Dean just huffs. Yeah, that’ll be the day.

Once they’re inside the room, it’s quick. Dean helps undress her. Usually he’d take his time with a woman, but now he doesn’t. He hopes she’s too drunk to care, as he pulls a condom from his wallet, then maneuvers her over to the bed. He looks at the door briefly. He’ll be facing you when you come in. That’s hoping he didn’t miscalculate somewhere and it is you walking in. If it’s Sam or Cas, he’ll survive that too. Not like it hasn’t happened before.

Luckily, the woman’s pretty wet. Not that it surprises Dean - he tends to have that effect - it’s just that he wasn’t under the impression her brain and pussy were still that much in sync. But it’s good. One less thing he has to worry about. He takes his cock in his hand and strokes himself to hardness.

He thinks about you, of course, and he doesn’t question that even for a single second. The tug and pull inside him is immediate. You’re there, under him, open and waiting, shifting around a little, just moving your body cause you already feel so damn good. Well, he’s about to take you to the next level.

You grin at him, bite your lip, let your legs drop open, breathing hard. Lower lips glistening, some of it having transferred to the inside of your thighs, that’s how bad you want him.

Come here, baby, you say, your tone only a little ironic. He raises his eyebrows at the cheekiness of your tone, grabs your waist with one hand and guides himself into you with the other.

You make the most pornographic noises. Every little push and pull a whimper or gasp or this wonderful sound he can’t really describe, it’s throaty but not. He’s not sure. Perfect, perky tits bouncing a little. Fuck, you want him so much.

You squeeze him inside of you, roll your hips, and even though you shouldn’t technically have any control in this position, you make the most of it. Your sounds get louder, as you’re basically jerking him off with your pussy. Goddamn, he’s gonna—

Dean takes a sharp breath. Focus, he thinks, and his good for nothing brain replies: you were focusing. What the fuck else would you call this? He looks down at the woman. She’s attractive, it’s not that, and she seems to be enjoying herself, but it’s almost turning him off, how much she’s not you. Goddamn it.

He pulls out, briefly, strokes his cock again. She’s mumbling, something about how she wants him to keep going and how good that was, whatever, so Dean closes his eyes, to focus.

It’s you, hand flying to your clit to keep you high, or– no, no, he told you not to touch yourself, that he’s taking care of you, so you don’t, just lie there waiting for him, no, begging for him to keep going. Please, Dean, put it in, I’m so close, I need you. Yeah, that’s right. The reaction is immediate.

He plunges back in, makes the woman drop back her head, off the side of the bed. Good, he doesn’t have to see her face.

You walk in a few minutes later. It actually takes you longer than Dean was expecting, made him almost worried if something changed, if you weren’t going to show. Maybe Cas called from the bar and Sam pulled a car out of his ass, somehow, and picked you up, and then drove to the bar and now you’re all sitting there, talking about how strange and wrong and weird Dean has become.

But that’s not what happens. You walk in, and your reaction is a million times better than Dean even dared to imagine. You care. You do care.

It turns him on to see you like this. To see you care. He was terrified you wouldn't. Any moment now you're gonna walk up to him, grab him and fuck his brains out. He needs to drop his head forward cause he's about to come from the thought alone.

But then you drop all the food and run out. Dean's surprised, it's not the reaction he was expecting, and then he flinches when his arm suddenly twitches. He looks down at the Mark.

He's dressed and in the car fifteen minutes later. He pulled out, didn't even come, unable to imagine the drunk woman as you for even another second. Why would he, when the real deal is out there?

He comes up with some story on the spot, about you being his niece that he's looking after. The drunk chick nods, hair disheveled, then belches when she's pulling up her tights. Dean's pushing her out of the door before she's put her second shoe on.

He drives off the parking lot, hangs a left, heads towards the town center. You're not there, or at least he doesn't find you. He turns the car around, does another lap. Still no sign of you.

He finds you in the other direction. He was just about to get worried - it's not like it's safe out here necessarily, for someone as young and pretty as you. So it's a relief when he pulls up.

It's an even bigger relief when, after staring at him for a moment with eyes whose redness Dean doesn't miss - you've been crying, because of him, goddamn this worked perfectly - you get in the car. In the back, not the front, but it still feels like a win.

He doesn't say anything as he drives back to the motel, and neither do you. It's dark by now, and he parks the car at the opposite end to the lot, far away from the room. Just in case Sam or Cas decide to show up.

He turns off the engine and looks up, into the rearview mirror, at you

“Sorry about that,” he says, not sounding sorry, talking as if you're in the middle of a conversation. You don't react, so Dean adds: “About what you walked in on there, earlier. I didn't think you would be back so soon.” Still you don't reply.

“Kinda had to be fast,” he continues, distantly wondering if he’s trying to fill the silence. “Just… just had to get somewhere fast, you know?”

Dean’s still looking into the rearview mirror, studying your face. You’re looking off to the side, out the window, avoiding him. Your arms are wrapped tightly around your body, like you need to protect yourself.

And all of a sudden, it doesn’t feel good. The high Dean was riding of not just getting his dick wet but of seeing you react with shock and jealousy dies down, drops him with no warning, and he needs to swallow.

“Hey,” he says into the rearview mirror, trying to get your attention, but instead, your arms around you tighten and then he can see your bottom lip begin to tremble. It’s the sweetest, prettiest thing he’s ever seen and it breaks his heart in two.

You squeeze your eyes shut and then your shoulders are shaking and before Dean can do anything, a tear, and then another, drop from your closed eyes. You sniff, and Dean feels frozen for a moment.

He was hoping you’d throw yourself at him, fuck him stupid to show him who he belongs to. Who you belong to. He didn’t expect this.

“Hey,” he says again, shifting in his seat, quieter this time, inclining his head in utter discomfort and shame, a feeling he should be used to by now but still it burns violently in him. “Don’t– it’s okay.” Your lips are pressed together, but you release them with a sob. You don’t look at him when you speak.

“Did you do that on p–purpose?” you ask, and your voice is so shaky it’s like someone grabs Dean’s heart and presses it between their hands. “How could you– Why would you do that?”

He opens the door before he even plans to do it. Gets out, lets it shut, and then opens the backdoor. He scoots in and you don’t move away. Dean sits, leans over to pull the door closed behind him. It’s probably a good sign, he thinks, just as he turns to you, that you’re allowing him to sit next to you. And then in the next moment he thinks: good sign for what?

He turns to you, and you’re avoiding his gaze, staring at the nothing. Dean needs to bring his arm to the back of the bench so that he can turn to you, and while he watches, you try to control yourself, every part of you tense, under pressure. His fingers land on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and that seems to break your levee.

You pull your shoulders up, and you’re shaking the next second. Thick, loud sobs leave you and the tears spilling down your face are endless. Dean hesitates for a second, but the sadness caused by seeing you like this, even if he is the cause of your pain, propels him forward. He scoots closer, the arm already on the back of the bench touching your shoulder now going around you, while with the other he reaches for your face, cups it gently in the hope to get you to focus on him, maybe to bring you out of this.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he really, truly is. This isn’t how he imagined it. This isn’t how he wanted it. He’s completely failed to consider that this might be an option, that for you to do anything about what he did, even jump his bones, you would have to be upset. Shame rears its head inside of him again. How could he be so stupid?

He turns you towards him, but the gentleness he hopes will calm you only seems to make things worse, because you open your mouth, lips puffy from crying, lips he wants nothing more than to feel right now, but he can’t, he shouldn’t, and address him without looking at him.

“Who would do something like that?” you say, hiccuping. “How could you– Why did you do that?”

It’s the same question you’ve already asked, but the unspoken answer remains the same. Dean did it because he could. Because he wanted something, saw a way to get it and didn’t care about the consequences. Because he feels justified in burning the house down to make himself warm, and he doesn’t give a shit about who’s asleep in bed upstairs.

“It was stupid,” he says, thumb tracing your skin in the same pattern over and over, to calm you, but honestly, also to calm himself. To reassure him that he fucked up like this and still gets to touch you. That things are gonna be fine, fine, and he can still be close to you. “I– I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I did.” A lie. “I’m sorry.” Not a lie.

And then, and Dean could sing at that if he was the type, you lean against him. He raises his chin and your head slots under it so perfectly he thinks this must mean something. Your shoulders go slack, and Dean needs to close his eyes, because this, this, means you still trust him. He hasn't become someone unsafe for you.

He presses you against himself and you keep crying. Dean doesn't want to think about what it means that you are back in his arms despite what he did. He feels guilt at the act, and then more guilt at not pushing you away from him, at not stopping you from returning to him. He's a lucky son of a bitch, and he knows that luck won't hold, it can't, not forever. It's fine.

It's fine, because you lean against him, your smaller body shaking and the Mark rejoices. It wants Dean isolated and alone, but maybe you can be the exception. Maybe you won't question him all the time the way Sam does, make him feel bad about every single fucking decision he makes. Maybe you can be the one he shares all of this with. The one he can finally give himself up to.

He turns your face and looks down at you. Eyes half closed from the crying and there are those puffy lips again. He leans forward and kisses them, deeply, hungrily. He feels you tense for a moment. Then you return the kiss.

He kisses you harder. You seem tired, the way a good long cry makes everyone tired, but you're hurt, so you crave the closeness, the forgiving, the forgetting.

He'll make you forget. He’ll make you forgive.

He’s terrified you’re gonna stop him, any second now. He can’t have that, can’t have you turning from him, so he keeps kissing you, presses his tongue into your mouth and you accept it, press yours against his a moment later.

Heaven, he thinks. Pure and blissful heaven. But now that he’s had a taste, finally has had another taste, he wants all of it.

Without moving his lips away from yours, he begins maneuvering your body, pulling your hips forward, turning himself. His hands go to the button of your jeans, open it with the most delicious pop he’s ever heard, and you’re not telling him to stop, you’re not pushing him away.

It’s close quarters on that backseat. Not like Dean doesn’t know, not like he hasn’t done this. If you would ride him, that would work much better, or even if you got up on all fours. But he’s careful of moving you too much, of waking you from this trance you’re in, this trance that allows him to keep going.

So he awkwardly lays you on your back. Your jeans are around your knees already and getting them the rest of the way off isn’t easy. He manages, but needs to sit up, unlatch from you, and he’s terrified you’re gonna use that moment to tell him to stop.

But you don’t. Your arms are drawn up to your chest, and you’re not looking at him, avoiding his gaze, even. But Dean can’t think about that now. You want him. Maybe you just can’t admit it to yourself.

It’s too much work to do the whole spiel with your underwear too, so Dean simply pushes the fabric of it to the side. He sees your pussy and he wants to appreciate it, push his mouth against it, but he doesn’t have the time, doesn’t have the self control, not now, not right now. He’ll spend time on you next time, but right then, he just needs to have you.

He leans over you again, elbows holding him up. He’s not looking at your face, even though he misses the sight of it, but he’s pretty sure he’s not gonna like what he sees there. He wishes you were enthusiastic, would grab him, pull him in. But you’re not. He’s scared that if he looks at your face he’ll see you’re not really there in the car with him.

He’s pulled down his own suit pants, taken his cock out, hard and wanting without so much as being touched once - the new status quo he has simply accepted when it comes to you. He shuffles around a little, tugs one of your legs up on his side. He needs you that far open so your underwear doesn’t get in the way when he begins pushing into you. Still, he feels the fabric run along his dick. He doesn’t care.

He presses his open mouth against your temple, one hand going to the side of your head, taking a fistful of the hair there, not to pull, but only to steady himself. You make a sound in your throat that could be encouragement or disdain or just air leaving you, but Dean can’t focus, can’t hear it, he can’t concentrate on something like that when he’s finally, finally, inside of you again.

On the first push in - not a lot of resistance, he distantly notes, so maybe you do want him - his stomach twitches and his fist in your hair tightens. It’s almost painful, the muscle contractions, no, it is painful. But it’s also good. He thinks it’s an orgasm, but he doesn’t shoot into you, so he elects to ignore it, groans until it’s passed, then begins moving.

He moans immediately, mouth still pressed against you so you can hear him. Why has he been going out there, fucking hundreds of women, when something like this is possible? How did he have no idea what he was missing out on?

His sounds break the silence of the car, his loud breathing, along with the slight squelch of him going in and out of you. It’s why he hears the voices immediately.

“There’s food all over the floor, I don’t know what happened,” he hears Sam and freezes. A second voice joins him, and of course it’s fucking Cas. They’re a little bit away and Dean’s not immediately sure if they’re coming closer.

“His car’s here,” the angel points out, ever the observant one. “He must have just checked into another room with his… friend. ” Dean shifts just a little, and you whimper at it, so his hand flies to your mouth, presses over it and he looks down at you. Your eyes are glistening in the soft light of the parking lot. A sudden instinct strikes him, and he gives an experimental roll of his hips.

A few things happen at the same time: you make that sound in your throat again, lids fluttering and eyes rolling up for just a second. At the same time, your pussy clenches down on him, a quick, uncontrolled squeeze.

Interesting, Dean thinks. Very interesting.

He pushes forward again, and the same thing happens. His hand is still clasped over your mouth and he pushes a little harder, making your breathing pick up. You like this. You like needing to be quiet, the danger of getting caught. Sam and Cas standing out there, just a few feet away from finding out that you’re allowing Dean to fuck you in the backseat of his car.

He gives a hard thrust, your pussy grabbing him at the sudden stimulation.

“Ssh,” he goes, unable to hide the grin on his face. He says it quietly but it feels loud in the car’s interior. “Don’t want them to hear us, now do we?” It has the desired effect. You move under him, shift around as far as that’s possible. You want him to move, Dean realizes. Oh, that he will.

He starts fucking you again, slow and shallow. The slow part is mostly so that the car’s frame doesn’t squeak, give you two away. But he can’t deny the thrill of seeing your eyebrows pull together, your eyes shutting, trying to concentrate on the feeling. Oh, you love this.

“I’ll call her,” Dean can hear Sam say, barely registering, but then a second later he hears a buzzing in the car. He almost freezes, almost stops, but then he realizes it’s your phone. Your jeans are in the footwell next to him, and he sees it peaking out, the screen lighting up with Sam’s name on the display. He makes a quick decision.

Dean reaches down, grabs the phone, and shoves it between you two. He tilts it so the edge of it presses against your clit, or as close to it as he can find without looking.

He knows he’s hit the spot when you buck up under him, like a wild horse trying to throw him off. What he guesses are involuntary moans shatter against his hand and you’re twitching, squeezing him like crazy, moving around, like you’re trying to get away from the stimulation, but his larger, heavier body is pinning you down, stopping the movement from rocking the car. The phone buzzes, then briefly stops, the buzzes again, but the short breaks aren’t enough for you to recover. Dean grins, even though you’re making an awful ruckus.

“Ssh, ssh,” he presses out, despite your moving and clenching and twitching feeling absolutely amazing, “stop thrashing, they’re gonna find us.” You seem to just register what he’s saying, seemingly try to calm your body, still twitching here and there but giving yourself over to the feeling.

“No answer,” he hears distantly, “let’s wait inside.” He hears footsteps retreating.

Just in time too, because he can’t wait anymore. He pushes himself up, careful not to put too much weight on your head, but still pressing the back of it down into the leather. With the new angle, he can drive into you faster, harder. And he does.

The call is dropped a second later, and Dean tosses the phone somewhere on the ground, not caring. He’s looking down, at where he’s disappearing inside of you, but he can’t go faster, so he lets go of your mouth, grabs your hips, and begins slamming himself into you as quickly as he can.

He needs to come, and he needs to come now. He’s pretty sure his head is gonna explode otherwise. He’s pretty sure his heart is gonna stop if he doesn’t. It’s the only thing on his mind.

He looks up at your face, and it makes his cock twitch violently when he sees what he sees. You’re just pulling your legs up, so as to give Dean more room to move. Your face is flushed, probably both from his hand and from you trying to be quiet, and your lids are low. He looks into your eyes as he keeps thrusting, and you into his.

You moan loudly when your gazes connect. You’re crazy about him, Dean understands in that moment. Just as crazy as he is about you.

“D-Dean,” comes out of you suddenly, the first thing you’ve said since this all started. Dean only has it in him to raise his eyebrows. He’s too busy burying himself in you over and over.

“I– I shouldn’t be doing this to you,” you moan, stammering on the first word. Dean grins, gives an extra hard thrust. He wants you to know how hard he is, all of it for you, and you gasp, then whimper. He gives you another.

“Yeah, look what you do to me,” he grunts, picking up his rhythm again. He lowers his head, almost snarls up at you. “Look what you fucking do to me. Making me fuck you like this.”

You whine again and then, without him needing to do anything else, your hand wanders between your legs, fingertips finding your clit and rubbing quickly. Dean could scream from lust and joy. You want to come. And he’s gonna get you there.

He shuffles, brings his knees more under him. It raises your lower body up but it gives him the purchase he needs to set the pace he desires. He holds you fast in place at your hips as he fucks you, his cock now coming away glistening from your arousal.

You give a loud moan, Dean hitting something in you that makes you even wetter, makes your inner walls flutter like the embrace of a long lost lover or something different, something more alien. He wants to touch every other part of you, but he can feel it building now, feel the tension rising in him.

He comes, groaning loudly, and while he empties himself into you he simply keeps fucking you, his cock twitching like crazy. You throw your head back, making noises that almost sound like pain, and then he feels you come around him, twitching and vibrating. Perfection. Absolute perfection.

He keeps fucking you, making you whine, but still he doesn’t stop. Thank the Mark for what he is able to pull out of his body, or maybe it’s just you, the chemicals of your bodies mixing, undoing all natural laws, because a minute later he feels his balls pull up again, and one arm shoots forward, grabs your jaw, your chin resting in the valley between his thumb and index finger, and he comes again, grinding himself deep into you while he holds you in place.

He’s not sure if he blacks out for a second with the intensity of it, but then he’s blinking, his surroundings coming back into focus. You’re not looking at him, your own eyes closed, Dean’s hand still attached to you. He lets go and pulls it back, before slowly pulling out of you.

“Are you okay?” he asks. You open your eyes, stare at the ceiling of the car. Both of you are still breathing hard, your chest rising and falling, the movement absolutely mesmerizing to Dean.

“Yes,” you say, quietly. Dean sniffs.

“Let’s get some dinner,” he says.

Dean and you walk into the motel room and Sam drops the phone he’s holding in both hands on the table in front of him.

“There you are,” he says, voice tense. “Is everything okay?”

Dean walks over to the table, past Castiel, and puts the two armfuls of food he’s carrying down. You walk in too, close the door behind you, then stand there while Sam and Cas both look at you.

“I came back and I thought something happened,” Sam says, standing up, looking at you with a worried expression on his face. “I tried calling.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice coming out a little cracked, “sorry, phone died. I got in and I…” You look down at where the rug of the room is still slightly darker because of the spilled drink.

“Sorry,” you say again, still looking down. “I was embarrassed and I just wanted to get the food, because I knew you’d be hungry when you came back. And Dean too.”

The story has more holes than a sinking ship. It’s ridiculous, actually, and it feels nearly offensive to be telling it, to assume that anyone would believe it. Still, your brain feels pinned, frozen, and it’s all you can come up with.

“Who cares?” Dean says in the general direction of his brother as he sits down in one of the chairs, drags one of the styrofoam containers towards him and opens it. “Everyone’s alive. We got food. Can we eat?” Cas turns to you, takes an extra step towards you and lays his hand on your shoulder.

“So long as you’re okay,” he says and you force a smile onto your face, nod. Try to ignore the tackiness between your legs, the one you were violently aware of standing in the glaring light of the fast food restaurant, waiting in line, again, now next to Dean. It made you shudder and he turned to you, but you pretended you didn’t notice. You’re gonna have to take a shower later, even though you already took one at the bunker earlier.

Dean is already chomping down and Cas moves away from you, looking over the banquet and with a small smile reaches for the new Coke you got him. Only Sam isn’t moving. He’s watching the scene, a slight frown on his face. Dean notices, raises his eyebrows at his brother.

“Come on, man,” he says after swallowing, “your rabbit food’s gonna get cold or whatever.” But Sam still doesn’t sit, instead crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“So did you two get the food together?” he asks, trying to make his voice lighter than it actually is, you think. “Cause we saw your car in the parking lot, Dean. After you left Cas at the bar.” There’s accusation in the last part, and it bubbles to the surface as Dean slows his chewing and a cold shiver goes through you.

“I went for a little post-coital drive,” Dean says, not taking his eyes off his brother. The lie comes to him so shockingly easy. Dean reaches for a napkin, dabs at his mouth before he straightens in his seat.

“You know the ones, Sammy?” he asks, a slight challenge in his voice. “Oh right, you don’t. You don’t get laid.”

It’s just a joke. It’s just the kind of joke Dean makes and Sam rolls his eyes at and that’s it, harmless. But of course it’s not. It’s heavy with meaning. You’re reminded of the stickiness between your legs. You should just excuse yourself to the bathroom but you feel like you can’t move, like that would be so obvious. Why would you go to the bathroom other than to clean Dean’s come off yourself?

Sam huffs, much too late. It’s forced, not genuine, but, to your utmost relief, he finally sits down. Dean begins chewing again while Castiel briefly looks between you two and Sam stares at the mountain of food for a few seconds before reaching for what is clearly his.

You move, finally, stepping forward as if you’ve never stepped forward before. Every single movement feels mechanical, and after what feels like an eternity, you reach the table, sit down, once more reminded of the mess in your underwear. Dean pulled the seat of it over your crotch once he’d pulled out. Keep that in there, he said, and you only nodded.

You’re looking down at the table, too nervous to make another move when suddenly a wrapped sandwich is held before you. You look up. It’s Dean, reaching across the table, holding it out to you. He’s looking at your face, his expression completely neutral. For a moment, it might as well just be the two of you in this room.

Your hand goes up, and you take the sandwich from him. Dean pulls his hand back, keeps looking at you for another second. There’s a thousand things you could interpret into that stare, but you don’t know what you actually see there. So you look down at the food in front of you. It twists your stomach to think about it. But it’s not the only thing you think about.

You think about Dean, above you there in the backseat of his car. About how it felt like he couldn’t stop himself. You didn’t want him to, you think, although you’re not sure. You’re not sure what you want at all. This feeling afterwards, this dread in your stomach - it shouldn’t be like that, right? It shouldn’t feel this way.

You think about him, moving inside you. About him pressing his hand over your mouth. You liked it, because it felt like you didn’t need to make a choice. It wasn’t like pushing him off you and alerting Sam and Cas to your presence was an option. So you might as well enjoy it.

You don’t know what to think. Shame burns hot in your chest, but not as hot as in your core, or the rest of your body, all of it screaming for Dean.

#supernatural #spn #fanfic #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #moc dean

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bnny0rgnz · 3 days ago

Text

The Wayne Effect

I’ve learned three things while living in Wayne Manor:

Bruce is a very busy man, so he doesn’t have time to talk to me.

Bruce forgets about the promises or plans he makes with me.

I have an older brother. The only thing is, he isn’t my biological brother—but I’m fine with that.

My first encounter with my older brother was better than my first encounter with Bruce. Dick actually spoke to me, but he was awkward. He smiled at me—unlike Bruce. He shook my hand—unlike Bruce. And he said goodbye—unlike Bruce.

So why am I still invisible to both of them now?

Dick once promised he’d play a game with me to get to know me better, but he always forgot. "How about another time, yeah?" he’d say before disappearing again.

He forgets my name, the name Bruce gave me. How shocking. No matter how many times I try, he forgets about me. It must be because he’s busy, like Bruce. Or maybe... he has short-term memory loss.

I’d like to add something else to my list: 4. Dick has short-term memory loss and doesn’t know it.

Coldness wrapped around me as I stirred in my sleep. Whispers slithered into my ears. I gripped the covers, pulling them tighter around me as the darkness thickened. Then, I felt it—an eerie weight pressing down on me.

(Y/n...)

A whisper. My body stiffened.

(Wake up.)

My vision blurred as I forced my eyes open. A shadow hovered above me.

My mother.

(It’s me, your mother.)

I whimpered. My body wouldn’t move. The room darkened as she drifted closer, an eerie grin spreading across her lips. A single tear slipped down my cheek.

(Oh, you poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb.)

Cold fingers traced my hair, brushing my cheek. I wanted to speak, to scream—but no words came out.

(Stop... this isn’t real. You’re dead.)

The air turned ice-cold. My mother’s voice became a cruel, lilting laugh.

(There’s nothing you can do.)

Her hands reached for my throat.

"STOP!"

I jolted awake, panting. The light from my curtains cut through the darkness. My hands trembled as I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead.

"It was just a bad dream," I whispered to myself, though my heart pounded against my ribs.

A knock at the door.

"Master Y/n, are you awake? It’s time for breakfast," Alfred’s calm voice called.

"Uh… yeah. I’ll be down in a bit."

I threw the blanket off and sat at my vanity. Grabbing a brush, I ran it through my hair, replaying a voice from the past.

"Always brush your hair when you wake up, after lunch, and before bed. This keeps it from getting frizzy. Never cut it. It must stay long. Do you hear me?"

I stayed silent. My mother’s fingers twisted into my hair, yanking my head back.

"I said, do you hear me?"

"Yes, Mother. I understand."

"Good. You must always listen to your mother."

I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking the memory away. Voices echoed from downstairs—Dick, sounding excited. Bruce, uncharacteristically calm.

A new voice.

I stepped out of my room and walked downstairs. There, standing between Bruce and Dick, was a boy.

Jason Todd.

My new brother.

Jason was the best thing that ever happened to me at Wayne Manor. He acknowledged me. He made time for me, even when he was busy training. He played games with me, helped me with my homework, and read books with me.

One day, while we were out, we passed a streetlamp with a paper taped to it—a flyer for a ballet academy. Jason saw my interest and tore the number from the bottom.

Ever since then, I have attended ballet classes. I invited Bruce and Dick to my first recital, but they declined. Jason would’ve come, but it was his first night patrolling the city as Robin. Alfred recorded the recital for them, but no one ever watched it.

Then, Jason died.

The Joker killed him.

My world shattered. I cried myself to sleep every night. I waited up, hoping he'd come home—but he never did. Bruce locked himself away in his study, refusing to eat.

I prayed for Jason to come back. He never did.

A year passed. Jason returned—but he wasn’t Jason anymore. He ignored me, grunting whenever I spoke to him.

More people came into the house. More brothers. More family. More people who didn’t see me.

Dick forgot me completely. Bruce never acknowledged me. Cassandra didn’t talk to me. Damian insulted me. Jason ignored me. Stephanie was awkward around me but lively with everyone else. Barbara scoffed at me and walked away.

Wayne Manor wasn’t home. It never had been.

I hate it here. I’m not wanted here. I don’t belong here. What’s the point of me being here?

I sat alone in the living room, lost in thought. Then—

A knock on the door.

I blinked. Alfred wasn’t around, so I answered it myself.

A beautiful woman stood in the doorway.

"Wow… It’s you."

She smiled warmly. "Oh, hello. Y/n, right?"

She remembered my name.

"I believe we met last week when I came over."

I stared.

"You remember my name?"

"Of course. Why wouldn’t I?" she asked, stepping inside and removing her coat.

No one ever remembered me. Not like this.

"Say… I don’t think I gave you my name," she mused, adjusting her glasses.

"No, you didn’t," I admitted.

"Well, my name is Vivienne Heartland—but you can call me Vivi."

She reached out, softly patting my head.

"Hello, Vivi. You’re pretty."

The words tumbled out before I could stop them. My eyes widened, and I slapped a hand over my mouth.

Vivienne laughed. "Aww, that’s sweet. I appreciate the compliment. I guess it’s like the old saying—‘Pretty knows pretty.’"

I flushed.

"Is your dad around?" she asked. "I need to talk to him about something important. I tried calling him from the office, but he won’t pick up."

"Yes, he’s in his study."

"Thanks. See you around, Y/n."

Vivienne walked down the hall, her presence lingering like a warm ember in the cold house.

And for the first time in a long time—

I felt seen.

______________________________________________________________

A/N: Sorry this sucks guys, was really busy today!

#batfam #batfamily #batfamily x neglected reader #batman

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gregheiferly · 3 hours ago

Text

LOVEY-DOVEY

first comes love

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. established relationship, hurt to comfort, angst, fluff, leon’s mental problems, future smut, ddlg

note. the first of hopefully 3 chapters?!! i have lost the ability to write im ngl,,, i promised this fic over a year ago and never got it out but i forced myself thru it bc it’s been sitting around like unfinished for a year LMFAO so it’s clunky.. doesn’t make sense… and also i do want to make clear this isn’t supposed to be a baby and marriage = happy marriage sort of fic i just see that ending for this couple in particular.. anyway ignore typos,, ignore any mistakes and pretend it makes sense. feedback / rbs always appreciated!

i would also appreciate if you read this post about plagiarism by a user on both tumblr and ao3

lovey dovey

“I used to hear Hola! and jump—Oh, gosh, I’m not racist or anything, I voted—“ Ashley adjusts her monogrammed scarf, looking at him with her new face. It’s the same, but different. Tighter, brighter, when her eyes widen her brows don’t raise and when she pouts her chin doesn’t dimple.

“Ashley.” Leon interrupts to get her back on track before it gets any worse.

D.C. does its best to dampen his mood, torrential rain soaking him to the bone, but you’re wearing these tiny winter booties that make his day a little better.

“I just bet, I mean I know Leon never tells you anything about Spain, or anything at all.” She waves her hands in a flourish, not a hair out of place. “I signed an NDA, I don’t know how long they last, but I’m sure it must be over by now, I don’t really believe in them to be honest–What is a piece of paper going to do? I mean, it’s not like the piece of paper knows who I’m telling.”

“She’s too little to know,” Leon says out of instinct. He takes the role of Daddy very seriously these days.

“Leon.“ You frown at him, it’s so cute he’ll think about it for hours.

“Sorry.” Is all he can come up with.

“Anyways, I wanted to ask about plans,” Ashley says, the exchange going unheard by her.

(If she’s not talking she doesn’t really seem to care about the conversation at hand.)

“Plans?” Leon doesn’t follow, and neither do you.

“Oh, you know.” She dabs at the corner of her lip with a handkerchief that matches her scarf, her lipstick leaves a pink smear on the edge of her cup. It’s heart-shaped. Fucking Cupid over here. “Haven’t you ever thought about babies, Leon? You’re pretty old now.”

That’s not her card to play. Shouldn’t he be asking her about babies? She’s only getting older, not many eggs left in her basket. But, y’know, that’s not very PC, and Leon really isn’t that bad. He’d like nothing more than for her to move at her own pace - it was hard enough seeing Sherry grow up, passing her off to a guy nearly ten years younger than her—And Leon is in no place to talk about age gaps, but guys are immature and stupid, he would know.

“Ashley,” he interrupts once more, though he has nothing to say at all. Marriage. Babies. Jesus Christ, you are the baby. He’s got jackets older than you.

“We haven’t thought about it—I mean, I ask him about it sometimes, but nothing serious,” you tell her honestly, the corners of your mouth drooping downwards in a frown.

You are one unhappy little girl and he is in for one hell of a ride back home.

“I never make plans that far ahead,” he says, rehearsed, before your soured mood runs off the edges of your face and into the rest of the room. Distemper in a dogfighting ring.

“Hm.” You make a noise beside him, knee bumping his under the table. It’s a touchy subject. An untouchable subject, actually, because he refuses to sit down and talk about it, he shuts it down immediately. You can’t make babies with a baby, that’s just plain wrong.

(But you can fuck said baby every which way. You can spit in the baby’s mouth and spank her raw. That’s perfectly normal.)

“The next time I see you, Leon, it better be at your wedding,” Ashley warns him, a burnt orange blazer draped over her slender shoulders as she primps herself up enough to face a camera or two. “I’m happy to help with, well, with everything, I have a lot of time and money to waste so don’t think you’re bothering me. Oh and another thing—Leon?”

“Yeah?” He shifts from foot to foot, the arm circling your waist drops to his side limply.

“You can call me anytime, you know that, right?” She stares at him, right through him with her big brown eyes. “And you know I can see when you’ve read my texts, right?”

Leon nods stiffly, he stands there like a fucking scarecrow when she wraps her arms around his neck.

“I know,” he mumbles into perfumed hair.

When you ask him, “Why didn’t you hug her back?”

He tells you, “I didn’t want to make you jealous.”

“I don’t get jealous.” That’s right. You’re a very self-assured little girl with your head screwed on right, he can’t go around telling such obvious lies.

“Dunno, just felt weird,” Leon admits, plucking the fuzz off your sweater to keep his hands busy, “haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“That’s your fault.” You walk ahead and he knows you’re pissed.

“Yeah, I know.”

The air crackles with tension, heavy enough to shift the layout of Leon’s home a little to the left—Or maybe you really have gone and done that without telling him, taking over his world with parts of your own - it wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary. That’s got to be some form of gaslighting. He can’t even see the TV from this angle.

“Baby?” Leon calls out.

You poke your head out of the kitchen.

“Did you move my chair to the left or am I losing it?” He shifts in his seat, moves from left to right, leans back to try and understand what has gone on.

“You’re losing it, I moved it to the right.” You wipe your wet hands on your skirt, it borders on frumpy, makes your hips look even wider. He pretends that he hasn’t ever thought about knocking you up.

“Why, baby?” You’re testing his patience, being short with him, huffing and puffing and sticking your nose in the air.

“Because it looks better, but I can’t do it when you’re home ‘cause you never get up.” Carefully, you edge towards him, skirting around the room until you find yourself in daddy’s lap.

The weight is grounding, his hands find your hips in no time, fingers dimpling the fat as he squeezes down to ease whatever is going on inside of him. “You can’t stay mad at me, baby.”

“Yes I can.”

“Who’s gonna take care of you then, hm?” Leon asks, sliding his cold hands under shirt to grope your heavy tits. He pretends that he hasn’t thought about running his fingers over your lace bra to find milky wet patches. That he hasn’t thought about you, glassy-eyed and in desperate need of daddy’s help, pushing your leaky tits against his chest and begging him, pleading with him to take on the role of dairy farmer for the day.

“I can take care of myself.” You shrug. So cold, so cute. “But you, daddy.” You kiss his nose. “Without me, you can’t even remember to take your meds.”

That’s right. You did well without him. You didn’t need a daddy until you found the right daddy. You wanted a daddy so dearly, but you can take care of yourself just fine. You can pour your own juice and you can tie your laces and fix your hair just fine, it’s just better when daddy does it for you.

“True,” Leon mumbles, he kneads your breasts contemplatively, “but it’s good to ask daddy for things, I don’t want you getting hurt doing it on your own.”

“I have bandaids.” Comes your rebuttal.

“Baby, you’re being mean.” Leon’s voice verges on a whine.

“I’m not being mean, Leon.” You let yourself melt into him, fat tits spilling through the gaps in his fingers. His hands are small and there’s too much of you to contain. “Why don’t you want to marry me?”

That’s a loaded question. One he can’t quite answer because there’s no real answer and he doesn’t really want to answer it.

“You’re too good for me.”

“Oh my goood,” you groan, rolling your eyes so hard you age backwards, and it really makes you look like a teenager—A little girl—It makes him feel like your father. Not your daddy, but your father. And hell, he’s old enough to play the part.

“What?”

“It turns me off when you say shit like that, like ohhh I’m such a old loser, I can’t even get it up, baby, why are you even with me?” You do your best Leon impression, it almost makes him smile. “You literally want everyone to feel bad for you all the time, and you know what, Leon?”

“What?” Leon says again. He’s feeling parched. Lightheaded. Sick. Psychotic. Bad. Just fucking bad. Everything gets so bad when you’re not smiling at him.

“I can’t feel bad for you if you don’t tell me what’s going on—You don’t tell anyone what’s going on so nobody feels bad for you.” You stand up, his hands are left cold and empty. “Only you feel bad for yourself, you literally sit around all day drinking and feeling shitty about sitting around and drinking—You don’t even want to do anything anymore, you didn’t even want to see Ashley today! She loves you so much, she’s your friend and you can’t even text her back because, because… Well, I don’t even know!”

“Baby—“

“You don’t go to therapy and you forget to take your meds, and, and I have to remind you all the time and—“ You take a breath, your lips moving soundlessly as you count to ten. “I don’t mind doing that for you, I like taking care of you and I like when you take care of me—It makes me happy that you let me y’know do that…” You gesture to a stray pacifier on the coffee table. “And I love you, Leon, but it’s just like you never want to fix anything, you just want to stay like this and I don’t want that, Leon—“

“Babe–“

”I told you that I wanted to get married, I told you that it would be a problem for me if you didn’t want kids, Leon—I don’t want to be with you if you don’t want that with me, I told you that before we got serious and you said yes and now—“ You throw your hands in the air, cutting yourself off with a half-aborted sob and splitting his heart right down the middle.

“It’s not like that, baby,” Leon starts gently, pushing up out of his armchair so he can hold you like you need to be held, “I didn’t… It’s not you, you know that don’t you? You’re perfect, you’re a good girl, it’s just…”

“What?” You press your face into his chest, searching for comfort as you run your hands over his back. “It’s what?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh my god, Leon.” Your voice breaks, and you look up at him. For a minute it’s like you’re in soft-focus, like you’re a love letter gone yellow with time, sepia-stained and unspeakably tender and—and the reel is burning away because you’re too beautiful to last forever. You’re the most fragile little package, stamped to handle with care and he’s tossed you onto someone's lawn and you’re going to be plucked away by a porch pirate and—God, he’s such a fuck-up. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

Might be cliche, but it’s true. It’s him, not you. It’s always him. It’s why he’s been alone for so long. It’s not work, it’s not what happened in Spain or Talk Oaks, not even Raccoon City—Not mom, not dad, not Ada or Jack or Ashley or the fucking President, it’s not some grand, tragic circumstance—It’s just him.

“If I marry you…” Leon’s mouth dries up while he flicks through a mental Rolodex of excuses.

I drink too much. I’m depressed and probably bipolar. I’m infertile. You’re a baby, I can’t have babies with a baby. You’re too young. I’m too old. Especially for kids. I look like I could be your dad. I’m suicidal and needy and if we have kids what if you like them more than me? I work a lot. What if I put our kids in danger? What if I put you in danger? What if I’m a shit dad? What if you stop liking me after we tie the knot? You’re so young, you have your whole life ahead of you and you want to marry an old man? You should leave me for someone younger. Please don’t leave me.

All of it is true, although none of it is an honest answer to your question—The answer is quite simple really—Leon won’t marry you because he refuses to be happy.

“If I marry you,” he says again, eyes flickering from your eyes to your pout, “what will Sherry think?”

Your hands are in tight fists by your sides, bottom

lip trembling as you struggle to remain impassive—And he knows you like the back of his hand, like the veins in his dick—That wrinkled nose could only mean one thing. You’re not about to cry, you’re mad at him.

“Leon.” Your jaw tightens, grinding your teeth into a fine powder. “You know Sherry isn’t thinking about you, right?”

“How could you say that?” He asks, somewhere between hurt and confused.

“I’m just… Like, fuck, Leon!” You angle your face away from him, cycling through every stage of grief as you gather your thoughts. “It’s not about what Sherry wants or what she’s thinking or whatever, it’s about what I want and what you want.”

“But—“

“She isn't a part of our relationship, Leon, nobody is.” You tilt your head back, looking up at the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut. Praying or doing a breathing exercise. “Like… Like you don’t like Jake and she still married him because he makes her happy, Leon—Why don’t you want to be happy with me, Leon?”

“I am happy,” he lies.

“Don’t lie to me, Leon—Do I not make you happy, is that what it is?” You look at him helplessly and he stands there with nothing to say.

“You do make me happy,” Leon insists softly, you’re the only thing that makes him happy. Light of his life, apple of his eye, the centre of his whole entire world.

“I just don’t get it anymore, Leon.”

Oh, god.

“I don’t… I made it clear that I wanted something serious, I want to marry you and I want to have kids with you—I don’t get why you would lead on me like that.” You cross your arms over your chest, bracing for his answer. “Has all of this been for nothing?”

To be entirely frank - Leon is being selfish.

He’d rather keep you in limbo than let you move on with someone else. He doesn’t want to think about you in bed with someone else, calling someone else daddy, letting them touch you and take care of you—It makes him dizzy, he’s getting jealous of a guy he made up in his fucking head. You’re the only good thing in his piece of shit life and he has no intention of letting you go—He really should, and he probably would if you asked him a year ago, before the D word but now—

Leon feels out of place.

If he’s not your daddy, then who is he?

“You’re just… You’re just freaking out ‘cause Ashley put it in your head,” Leon retorts childishly, “we don’t need a baby to be happy.” You’re the only baby he needs to be happy.

“Are you kidding, Leon?” Your nose is running and you wipe at your face with balled up fists. “Don’t make this about Ashley, you know that isn’t the problem—I really can’t believe you, if you're not serious about me then why are you still with me?”

Truthfully, he didn’t mean for all of this to go so far - then your toothbrush joined his, your Sylvanians found a nice spot on his mantle next to the potpourri, the whole daddy thing happened—

And all of that means that this is not a midlife crisis or a fling or a distraction.

It means that you’re his girlfriend, the woman he loves.

“I am serious about you.”

We just want different things, would be the right way to put it. It’s not entirely true, but Leon doesn’t know how to tell you that peace is unrecognisable to him. He doesn’t know what it feels like, it scares him, the finality of marriage and kids and all of these childish dreams he had so long ago—It’s scary, and it takes a lot and Leon could shoulder the whole fucking world if he had to and the whole fucking world is a lot. He’s done it before. Jesus Christ, he’s fought creatures that go beyond the scope of human understanding, but all of it comes to an end. Fights end. Missions get completed. Damsels are saved and monsters are slain and Leon gets home okay as he can be.

But this… Marriage. There’s no way out—Like, there’s divorce, obviously, but something about marriage is permanent. He can’t shoot a gun and get out of a marital dispute, and he can’t outrun a missed birthday because ultimately he has to come home to you.

Coming home to you sounds good. It is good. It’s the reason he bothers coming home after work instead of bumming around in bars like he used to. But, but, but it’s about trust and working together and while nothing will really change you’ll legally own him and he’ll legally be yours and that’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young to take on and technically you’re already doing all of these responsible things for him and—Marriage is just different, okay?

“I don’t think you are, Leon.” You blink at him slowly, sadly.

“I am,” Leon insists because he is serious about this. About you. He loves you and he knows that, but he’s fine with what you have now. Girlfriend-Boyfriend. Daddy and baby. “I am, baby, but don’t you think that we're moving into this too fast?”

“It’s been two years, Leon.” Another slow, sad blink, you look off to the side. “I told you I was dating to marry, Leon, I told you what I wanted, I want kids with you—And I’m sorry but you’re not getting any younger, if you’re just wasting my time—“

Something sharp and ugly takes hold of his chest. ”You just think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a baby, that's all you want from me.” That isn’t what Leon wanted to say, but the room is getting too small and that struck a fucking nerve.

“Excuse me?”

Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. A rotten sole-crushed peach, that's all he is, it’s true. And he doesn’t deserve you, but he doubles down selfishly. “You think I’m gonna blow my brains out before I give you a kid,” he repeats, “that’s why you’re freaking out about this now.” Leon’s so very talented at fucking things up. Paperwork, his liver, his entire fucking life.

“No… That’s not—Are you kidding me? Is that all you got from this, Leon?” You’re looking at him with these accusatory eyes and you’re not calling him daddy or tugging at the back of his shirt for attention. “How could you say that about me? Is that what you think of me?”

Leon would like to say no and he’d like to apologise, instead he fumes silently, teeth clenched so tightly they’ve started to ache. “C’mon, use your big girl words and tell me the truth.” He’s not very tall, but he’s taller than you - he looks down his nose at you.

“Don’t talk to me like that, Leon.” The shift in his behaviour is new, you’re used to his self-loathing, his laziness and reluctance and his general unlikeability, but this—Leon has never been mad at you, and he doesn’t want to be mad at you and he’s more mad at himself than he is you—But still, like, he looks mad at you and he can see the way you’re trembling, puffing out your chest and standing your ground to appear so much bigger than you are. It breaks his heart, he’s the worst daddy ever. The most dick-headed jerk of a boyfriend and you’re still here. Fighting for him, well, with him, you’re here and you’re fighting with him, that’s still something.

“Why not?” Leon tilts his head to the side, his face softening in faux confusion. “You like it so much, don’t you?”

God, maybe he’s not so normal after all, and you haven’t fixed him, and bad thoughts always come back, and if he was normal he wouldn’t be wanting to jump off every balcony and walk into every main road and disappear into bodies of water.

Leon isn’t normal. Big surprise.

He’s just starting to realise that it doesn’t matter how many people love him, it doesn’t matter how many medals he’s awarded, it doesn’t matter that he’s a treasure to some degree, an old gun worth keeping—None of it matters, Leon realises, none of it will ever fucking matter because he is who he is.

Leon is going to lead a miserable dogshit life because he can and he will and it doesn’t matter how many good or bad things happen to him, it doesn’t matter who he falls asleep next to - he’ll still feel shitty in the morning.

(At the end of the day, he’s a Kennedy, and no Kennedy has ever been particularly lucky.)

“I’m trying to be serious, Leon, and you’re acting like a child!” Your bottom lip quivers, and you’re probably wondering where your daddy has gone. “I can’t… I can’t believe you’re talking to me like that right now.”

Neither can Leon.

Guilt coils in his gut like a snake, constricting and hissing in the back of his head that he should know better, he’s so much older, he’s your daddy, and he’s meant to take care of you. That’s what daddies are for.

“I don’t want to… I don’t want to force you into this, Leon, I don’t want to make you marry me if you don’t want me—“ He does want you. He wants you so bad. “—I don’t want to force you to have kids with me if you’re not ready, I just wish you had told me before I moved in with you—“ The hurt that crosses your face strikes him right in the heart, teardrops beading your gossamer lashes.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, baby,” he says softly, quietly, earnestly, not daring to take a step closer because he doesn’t deserve to feel you or smell you or touch you, “I want to be with you, I love you.”

“I don’t know anymore, Leon.” You look to him helplessly, blinking up at him with these big doleful eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, equally as helpless, “I don’t know.”

He’s your daddy, he’s meant to know, but he doesn’t, so he just stands there like an idiot.

“I’m sad,” you tell him honestly, “I’m going to go upstairs now.”

Leon goes to follow you.

“Don't follow me.”

Leon goes back to standing there like a fucking idiot.

#leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #resident evil angst #resident evil fluff #resident evil x you

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quintessenceofdust88 · 19 hours ago

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Fuck it Friday Saturday

I was tagged by my lovely @bidisasterevankinard (Diana you're the love of my life thanks for tagging me, it makes my heart warm every time ♥) Soooo I'm kinda cheating a bit, cause I posted this as snippets of make me write, but now I've organized it into a whole thing that shall be finished and posted soon (hopefully!). It's from New Tides, ch. 1!

Buck is, there is no sugarcoating it, freaking out.

There’s fifteen minutes left until Tommy is supposed to pick him up, and Buck still isn’t completely sure he won’t call and pretend he is sick and can’t go after all. Because he’s about to go on a date with a dude, and although that isn’t weirding him out at all (he is an ally, for Christ’s sake!), he’s so nervous it feels like his heart will fall out of his mouth.

He’s halfway to reaching for his phone when it rings on its own, and Buck is so worried that it might be Tommy canceling on him (and despite of what he was thinking five minutes ago, he’s sure he’d be devastated if that were the case) that he doesn’t even look at the caller ID before answering.

“Hello?!” He answers, checking his hair on the mirror for what has to be the tenth time in as many minutes.

“Stop freaking out, Buck” Maddie’s voice answers from the other side, and Buck, despite himself, feels a little calmer at hearing his older sister’s voice.

He hadn’t initially planned on telling Maddie about his date with Tommy, at least not until he was sure of what was going on. But Chim had blabbed to her about the whole ‘asking Tommy out while on painkillers’, and Buck had ended up telling her about Tommy showing up at his loft. To his relief, his sister had been completely supportive, the only teasing coming from the fact he had to be high to finally admit that guys were hot.

Right now, though, he’s extremely grateful that Maddie knows, because she’s the only person who might be able to talk him out of his mental spiraling.

“I am not freaking out!”, Buck exclaims, but he knows there’s no fooling Maddie. “Okay, I am, but Maddie! What if this is a mistake?”

“Why would it be a mistake? Don’t you want to go out with him?”

“Of course I do! But what if I mess it up? You know that’s very likely to happen.” Buck says, pacing up and down his living room. He hears Maddie sigh very audibly on the other side.

“Buck. Don’t let your head keep you from having something nice. Please? You deserve it after the last few months.” She says, almost pleadingly, and Buck’s heart skips a beat.

He does deserve something nice after having his leg crushed by a firetruck, then spending his whole summer trying to get back on his job only for an embolism to ruin his plans, and then being in the middle of a literal tsunami. Tommy Kinard is the first really nice thing to happen to him in a long time, and he’s already finding a way to Buck it up.

“You’re right”, he admits to Maddie. “I… I need to get out of my head about it. It’s just dinner, right? No big deal.”

“Definitely not a big deal”, Maddie agrees emphatically, and Buck takes a deep breath, his heartbeat slowing in his chest. “Go, have fun with your hot pilot. I love you”

“Love you too, Mads”, Buck tells her, and then they hang up.

He’s still not totally calm, but he’s feeling better. This is something he’s always been good at; flirting, dating, getting to know someone (getting them to stay is where you run into trouble, a treacherous part of his brain tries to add, but Buck is determined to ignore it for now).

It won’t be any different just because Tommy’s a man, he reasons as he sprays on his favorite cologne. Buck still wants to flirt with him, get to know him. Definitely kiss him again. So why was he getting all nervous about it? He’s totally got this.

There’s a knock on his door. Buck’s heart plummets all the way down to his knees.

He doesn’t got this, in fact. But it’s too late to back out, and Tommy is waiting for him outside his door like a perfect gentleman, and Maddie raised him right. So after a deep breath and a slight wiping of his sweaty hands on his dark jeans, Buck opens the door.

To find Tommy Kinard with an honest-to-God bouquet of sunflowers in his hand and a sheepish adorable smile on his face.

Np tagging @agentpeggycartering @laundryandtaxesworld @dum-amo-vivo9 @jamieroyjamieroy @unhingedangstaddict and whoever else would like to join! (if you want you can consider this your tag for Inspiration Saturday since Friday is over for a lot of folks already!)

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #gabby writes #new tides #life is changin' tides part 2

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octavinelle-oyster · 22 hours ago

Note

It’s the same anon from the idia post, it was a wing emoji but since that one’s too new I can go with 🦇 anon!!

Anyway, another request since I have way too many ideas cooked up, could I request Sebek (or Leona if you don’t want to write him but I love my silly crocodile boy) with a shroud family!reader? Like in the ignihyde dorm, younger sibling of Idia and older sibling of Ortho, and is a shut-in like Idia just not quite as bad?

Thank you, have a good day!!

Characters: Sebek Zigvolt

Type: Headcanon

Info: Reader is Idia’s younger sibling, Reader is the same age and in the same year as Sebek, Reader is not Ramshackle Prefect

“Thank you for being friends with me. Baffling decision, but thank you.”

Sebek Zigvolt

It all started when the two of you were put into the same history class.

The only reason the two of you ever spoke in the first place was because you were sat next to each other and Trein loved giving group projects to first years.

You two were paired up to write a report on the history of worker fairies within your first week of school.

Sebek was, at first, his usual brash, loud self— an instant contrast with your more quiet demeaner.

Whenever someone would pass the two of you in the library they always thought “That poor Ignihyde student…”

Needless to say, with Sebek you got your assignment done very quickly. He was on top of getting shit done as soon and efficiently as possible.

Even if he had to collect you from Ignihyde himself and drag you to the library for sources.

He REFUSED to use the web btw. All the information had to be sourced from the library of Night Raven College in his eyes.

If you got fed up with his behavior enough to speak up you two would clash. A lot.

But the two of you were the first to turn in the assignment and get full marks so you win some and lose some.

Depending on if the two of you would actually argue or not during the course of the assignment, he may view you in a higher regard than the other first years.

You worked quickly to get the assignment done too! (you just wanted away from him and his loud self screaming in the library.)

But, this also leads Sebek to naturally turn towards you whenever Trein tells the class to discuss readings.

He does most of the talking.

God forbid if you share any other classes.

In Alchemy he’s constantly hovering. Always reading out measurements a little louder than needed but hey! He just wants to make sure you hear him right and don't give him too much flower dust and blow up the cauldron!

At first he restricts your friendship to just in-class interactions and the occasionally acknowledgement in the hallway. But after about the 3rd month or so he’ll start to warm up to you.

Maybe walking with you to class under the guise of needing to make sure you don't get pushed around by any other students with your seeming lack of confidence! (Just deal with him please he doesn't know how to initiate a proper conversation with a friend.)

If the two of you eventually become good enough friends to the point of hanging out outside of class?

You’re never getting rid of him sorry. Especially if he claims to be your friend by this point.

He’s still a pretty busy body and will always put Malleus above all else but when he does have free time between his club responsibilities and training and classes, and homework and Malleus— he will seek out your company.

But you’ve got it all wrong if you think he’s just going to sit around with you and play video games.

He is the reason you get out of the dorm so much. Like sure, you're not nearly as bad as Idia- but you're also not nearly as socially prone as Ortho.

Speaking of the Shroud brothers.

If he notices, he never points it out until you bring it up. But his wide eyes and tense shoulders say otherwise when the two of you turn the corner, planning to leave your dorm and nearly run smack into Idia and Ortho and you hit Idia with the “hey bro…”

Okay I kind of got carried away…

I’ve also started getting into the Diasomnia chapters and I gotta say, Sebek is growing on me

I also just realized how crazy the banter would be between an Ignihyde middle child and Sebek would be

Like actually. The joking insults would be diabolical omg maybe I’ll make a pt 2 with more romantic undertones bc I feel like this one was very bare… I'm sorry bat anon 💔

#twst #twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst wonderland #twst x reader #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek #twisted wonderland sebek #sebek x reader #sebek zigvolt x reader

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ford-tamblyn · 10 hours ago

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“ please don’t. I would like to have kids some day “ ford replied as he glanced to his twin with a surprised look on his face. He understood the concern but Ford couldn’t let himself drop it. Not when his family refused to let him live it down either. Maybe they were all jokes from them but ford couldn’t help but forever feel like the family sell out. He was a professional liar when it came down to it and it made him realize as he got older that him and his dad were maybe a little closer than he’d one thought. “ that’s true. Most people in reality tv are actually worse in real life. “ he’d own plenty of people who were way worse. A few that were better but it was rare. “ you know, in the beginning it wasn’t a character right? “ he admitted. “ I was actually that mad and volatile and a pain in this ass. I think cause I was mad about the stuff with dad and then because I left home I didn’t have as easy of contact with you and the others. I think that’s why I have a hard time living it down. It’s not who I am now , but it wasn’t exactly a lie either “

“ wait so we’re admitting my idea wasn’t the worst thing to ever happen?” Ford asked at the comment his twin had made in regards to his reality tv run. He smiled a bit and didn’t dwell too much on it.

“ fuck I shouldn’t have opened my mouth “ ford added shaking his head. There of course was someone but how could he really get into it all yet when he was still figuring some stuff out. “ there is someone though. Do you remember Iris Alderidge? She went to school with us. Maybe the grade above us? I think she used to date that guy who ended up an actor? She’s back in town and we reconnected and I don’t know? We were friends back then and now it just feels different. Like we’re both different and I really like her, please don’t laugh “

Ford understood the idea of being caught in the moment. Kenny and him may have been different in other ways but that was something the twins shared. He knew exactly what it looked like when he got caught up in a moment. “ I get it. “ Ford began as soon as the story had wrapped. He hadn’t been there in person but he understood the fears of being trapped. It was so funny though because all ford wanted in life was to be ordinary now but his siblings had other plans. But none of them were ever gonna be ordinary. They were Tamblyns and with that came a flair for the dramatic. “ You will never be ordinary even if you’re stuck in Aurora Bay dealing with all of us. “ he teased. “ I know we’re not the family to talk about this stuff but, if you ever feel alone or sad again, I’m around for you “ he noted trying to it to think too much about it but he understood how it felt to be in a place and just feel so completely alone. It was why he quit Nepo babies. “ that’s the main reason why I quit the show. Filming kept me away from you guys cause I didn’t wanna suck you and Vi, and the others into the show and I felt trapped. The situations are different but I think our family has this thing where we want to avoid feeling so stuck. It’s in our nature to run from being trapped“

“What a thought, right? “ he laughed before glancing at them again. Kenny didn’t answer about the whole dying together joke and he assumed that meant somewhere between yes and shut up. @kennyxtamblyn

"Ford, if you say you're like him again I'm going to kick you in your balls." Kenny rolled their eyes with a huff. "You're not like him. Even if you lied about stuff for your little reality show it doesn't make you like him. The difference is that on the reality show you were playing a character-- acting. Besides, anyone who thinks reality tv is one hundred percent real clearly still needs a reality check." Kenny paused, realizing how weird that sounded. "Whatever. You know what I mean. You're not like him. Dad wasn't playing a character, he was lying to everyone and... well, he sucks. You played a character on a show. I'm not going to let you sit here and continue to compare yourself to him." Kenny teased their twin relentlessly but that didn't mean they didn't love and care for him.

"A real girlfriend?" Kenny's brows rose, happy to change the subject from their crappy father to something more interesting. "Will you ever get a real girlfriend or will you forever wallow in your self pity for taking a job that kept food on the table?" That just may be the closest Kenny would come to admitting that Ford wasn't a sell out but did what he had to do to survive. "Pray tell, is there a real girlfriend I don't know about yet?"

When the conversation turned back on Kenny and their ex-- well, on their spouse, they shifted their weight. It wasn't exactly something Kenny talked about much. Sure, the marriage was impulsive and it was probably due to the excitement of being in a romantic setting after having filmed a wedding for a couple in Italy, that led them to make the rash decision to get married on a whim. It didn't mean Kenny didn't care about the person though, it was just that Kenny didn't want to settle down and they felt weird talking about that sort of thing. However, if Kenny was going to talk to anyone about it, it would be to Ford.

"I think it was me being caught up in the moment and thinking I wanted something I really didn't. Well, not that I didn't want them, it was just... I don't know. I think we were too caught up in everything to realize that we wanted very different things. I want to keep traveling and exploring and they wanted to find a place a stay and settle down. Be... normal." Kenny said the word like it pained them to even think about having a somewhat normal life. "It's not that I don't like them or that we weren't good for each other, I just don't want to feel..." Kenny paused, trying to decide if they wanted to allow that little wall to come down so they could share something personal with their brother. "I didn't want to feel trapped. I don't want to live an ordinary life where I'll be alone and sad all the time but I can't stand the idea of staying in one place for too long." It was a bit ironic because Kenny was now living in Aurora Bay and had been for nearly a year now. It was different though because Kenny never felt alone with their siblings.

"You? A Tamblyn? Getting their shit together? Don't think it's possible." Kenny grinned.

@ford-tamblyn

#kenny

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oddberryshortcake · 18 days ago

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I guess Malleus knew who Silver’s biological parents were the whole time 😭😭😭 damn

#wish we could’ve seen that scene because lilia lied about where he found silver at first #I guess at some point in the past he told malleus everything and they kept it a secret forever #or planned to talk about it with him when he was older #or maybe it happened after book 7 😭 idk i kinda wish we actually got a family talk #twst #twst spoilers #twst chapter 7 #silver vanrouge #twst silver

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gingermintpepper · 7 months ago

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I saw it in your tag game post that you're also fond of the Apollo-Heracles conflict 👀 for a myth that appears in only a couple of sources, it sure has a lot of presence in the vase paintings (no seriously, everytime I think I've seen the last of it, I find ten more)

SO do you have any favorites among the paintings that represent this story??

OMG OMG THIS ASK IS A GIFT. IT IS A GIFT THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR LETTING ME TALK ABOUT THIS

I also think it's extremely interesting that it's a story so popularly portrayed by vase paintings and in such a variety of ways!! It's certainly one of the stories that gets left out of written compilation of Heracles' legend a bit (which is a shame, I think it's a fantastic story) but Apollo had a very peculiar relationship with Heracles in general that I just kind of find amazing (and very, very funny).

Apollo is not a god with any legitimate grudge against Heracles, but he does argue with the mortal a bit like he argues with his favourite brothers 😂Part of why I love the story of Apollo and Heracles fighting over the tripod so much is that it is such a little brother thing for Heracles to be upset with the proclamation his elder brother has given him and so, he throws a great fit, taking up the chair and declaring that he'll just give himself a better prophecy! And Apollo, instead of being a marginally professional big brother, decides to fight him for it until their father has to break up their cat-fight. Like was that not just the plot of the Homeric Hymn to Hermes? Is this not exactly how Apollo treated Hermes when he was a child and now those two are inseparable? 💀

Because of this, my favourite vase paintings tend to be the ones that highlight the personal squabbling between Apollo and Heracles the most. There are some very elaborate ones that have the full host of them - Athena, Heracles, Apollo, Artemis, usually a dog and a doe, I've even seen a couple that had birds and plants etched on them, but the simplest ones that show Heracles about to bonk Apollo with his club out of frustration or depict Heracles nyooming away from Apollo while Apollo (presumably) yells curses about how he's going to fling Heracles head first into Tartarus for daring to take his things? Yeah, those are the premium big brother/little brother things I'm looking for.

(Photo. Marie-Lan Ngyuen)

(Photo. Museo Claudio Faina)

Also the one in the Theoi.com archives is a real classic - perfect energy.

#ginger answers asks #Thank you SO much for letting me talk about this even a little it always makes me smile #Despite their disputes - if you ask me Apollo was quite fond of Heracles #And I think a big part of why I ultimately come to that conclusion is that Apollo never hinders Heracles or withholds blessings from him #He simply calls him a bitch every time he sees him and then makes his life marginally more inconvenient #like any good older brother let's be so fr #It's extremely charming to see him so playful with a mortal he's not in love with/that is not his son #Other moments of Apollo teasing Heracles includes him trying to convince Artemis not to let Heracles catch her doe when he comes #to fulfill that particular labour (again he doesn't actually try to stop it he just puts up a bit of a fuss about it)#and perhaps another of my all time favourites #Personally luring Heracles into Admetus' house so Heracles can wrestle Thanatos while Apollo rescues Alcestis #I DO NOT KNOW WHY MORE PEOPLE DON'T TALK ABOUT THE LUNACY OF APOLLO'S ADMETUS/ALCESTIS PRESERVATION PLAN #He really said “No yeah I know a guy don't worry about Death Incarnate” and then Heracles shows up at Admetus' door like this is a sitcom #The laugh track that plays in my mind every time Admetus opens that door sees Heracles and then looks back at the disguised Apollo like #'HIM?? HERACLES?? Heracles who can break me in seven pieces with a thought Heracles???'#And Apollo just gives him a thumbs up and says “feed him well pookie <33”#Genuinely some of the funniest shit I have the pleasure of reading in greek myth #Another reason I don't think Apollo has any ill will against Heracles though is how Apollo reacts when Heracles #loses Hylas in the Argonautica #Or well some versions of the Argonautica - this is also a story that changes wildly depending on the source/compilation #But Apollo is incredibly sympathetic to Heracles' sorrow and kind of decides there and then that Heracles losing one love #should be the return of another and asks that Zeus let Heracles free Prometheus when he makes his descent into the underworld #Similarly it is Apollo who anoints Alcaeus/Alcides the name Heracles (also dependent on the myth source)#They just had a very fun relationship and it's a serious shame that it's not acknowledged more #apollo #heracles #greek mythology #(Also people do not talk about the fact that Apollo grappled with Heracles to a standstill enough actually)

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ceiling-karasu · 13 days ago

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Hi, just want to let you know that I’ve always enjoy reading your tags, it’s a lot of fun reading your clever insights and observations on my arts. I really appreciate them.✨

Your art improve amazingly over these past few months and I’m looking forward to the direction it will take in the future. I also admire your dedication when it comes to writing, finishing 30+ chapters series is definitely not an easy tasks and I think that’s really cool. \(^^ )

Thank you very much! I'm looking forward to completing another 30+ chapters series in the future.

I really like your art and how the color schemes seem to match the personalities of the characters. They always look so crisp with the right amount of style on character positioning.

I always thought it was really cool how you managed to have so much detailed backstories and world building, alongside managing to create pictures and comics to go along with the chapters and stories you write. It has been really inspirational!

Although, funny, enough, I have been thinking about asking you if you had any preferences on sources to start researching universal aviation codes and the differences in between civilian and military planes, jets, helicopters, and airships, and which you think might sound better when used by militaries vs civilians. I think I am going to have to do a lot of studying on IATA, ICAO, PAT, Mode-S, VFR, and transponders, as well as codes used in towered vs non towered airports. I feel like I am going to have to do a lot of study on aviation and plane/jet/drone schematics for future chapters.

#thank you!#I remember a story where the air traffic controller had a stroke and the pilots were said to switch to 'non-towered' codes #after a few minutes once it was clear something was wrong #airships have different codes based on specific rules involving rigidity so that is a bit annoying lol #then again there might only be about 25 of them left in the world so it could be easier to understand than I think #and then there is the differences between discrete and non discrete aviation identification codes of SSR and PSR #so I guess a jet a plane a drone and an airship can have the same identification code since they are different types of vehicles?#but I would think it would be confusing if they showed up in the same place at the same time #I think it is obvious that I have very little idea of what I am talking about when it comes to aviation right now lol #can an autopilot give off codes on its own?#although I still stand by my argument that the physics of firing a giant laser that is usually fired from a large sturdy base in real life #would be detrimental to the structure of a plane or the pilot #then again it is not something I should really try to wrap my head around given that it IS fiction #but I am already cheating with the unobtainium as a fuel source and taking liberties with IMSI catchers #current series may take a lot longer to get to 30+ chapters since my SO and I are moving into a house together #I'm going to have to come clean about what I have really been doing in my spare time #my goal was at least 150K words and I am already closing in on that faster than I planned #I should post some of the older art pieces I have never shown anybody #then again I can redo them with the newer techniques I have learned over the past few months #maybe post both versions #layering my beloved #I need to get around to drawing head shapes and hair styles for different species #I also need boat codes but my dad was a cryptologist when he was drafted in the Navy so maybe I could ask him #Lily bell on the thorn thicket #the rod that blocks the lightning

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my-thoughts-and-junk · 1 year ago

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i think originally they planned to make jerry a college student who impregnanted a seventeen-year-old beth until they realized that would make him basically unredeemable in the eyes of the audience

#random thoughts #guess what motherfuckers it's blue man time #okay so basically the general consensis now is that jerry is one year older than beth but i CANNOT find a source on that #and in interdimensional cable 2 rick speculates on jerry's age being around 39 #and in michael chrickton's world (a comic which came out during season 2 which is when interdimensional cable 2 came out)#a '40-year-old morty' looks exactly like jerry #so i think they originally planned to make jerry like. 23? when he impregnated beth when she was 17 #which DOES roll with his character honestly #yknow until they established they were both in high school in season 6 #and even in s3 e10 when jerry's talking about their first kiss he says 'senior year' which is JUST ambiguous enough #to be when beth was a high school senior and he was a college senior #anyway this would make rick's hatred of him like. actually justified. and make beth and jerry's relationship more complicated #and summer and jerry's relationship too

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guidingthulite · 9 months ago

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the fun part about me finally watching yokai gakuen is that when i watched the movie like 3 years ago i joked about jinpei having comphet but guys. i don't think it's a joke anymore

#'the cat has comphet' i say into the mic. the crowd boos me #'i don't know what a comphet is but if it's food i definitely had it at the cafeteria!' standing up. jinpei jiba himself #what do i think about this show now that i'm finally watching it. it's complicated #IT'S EITHER REALLY GOOD OR REALLY BAD. THE ONRYO'S BACKSTORIES ARE REALLY SAD AND I LIKE THEM A LOT #BUT IF I HAVE TO SIT THROUGH ANOTHER CRINGY EPISODE I WILL CRY TILL I RUN OUT OF WATER #goromi is the character ever though. a rude ass cat with a gun. genuinely like her a lot #'but alma you talked about jinpei's backstory and you expressed an attachment to raimu! what do you mean you finally watching it!'#i don't. i don't remember why but i watched the first two eps and i couldn't find the rest so i decided the best course of action was #to watch the last two ones. why? i don't know. lord emma was there. wasn't he ema? i didn't know anything #i mean... i wouldn't have anyway the eps weren't subbed anyway i just saw raimu and went 'i jam with this dude!'#and became inexplicably attached. the catboy romance ever...?#as for jinpei's comphet i just. he said 'i'm into older women!' and i was like 'oh that's not a crush he just has mommy issues'#AND THEN IT TURNS OUT HIS MOM DIED...#he also didn't care at all when fubuki said emma liked him in the movie. he was fully focused on the fact that she became a snake #his uh. love plans (?) for enra are also rather tame. compare with kyubi who i wanna whack in the head with a bat #am i taking this too seriously. yeah probably. but jinpei dressed up as freddy mercury once. that has to mean something #also wild boy is a lesbian. technically that doesn't make any sense but like. the vibes. what are yokai heroes anyways?#are they them? are they a fusion like in dragon ball or steven universe? then why kengo benimaru? he's not like jinpei or bakera AT ALL #this show is so confusing i want out i want out i want out i wa-

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anghimalaaynasapuso · 1 month ago

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GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

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