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A Madness Most Discreet p.3 | G.W.

feat George Weasley x Malfoy!reader

summary: after a brawl at the Three Broomsticks, you and George steal away for a night of romance without the specter of being caught looming over you. however, when you return to Hogwarts in the morning, you find that things have taken a turn for the worse.

cw: MDNI 18+, smut, protective!George, fighting, drinking, Draco is an asshole, blood prejudice and classism, internal angst, some fluff, Umbridge joins the chat

series navigation | part one | part two | masterlist | divider by @roseraris

Reader's POV

The Three Broomsticks was slammed, damn near packed to rafters with students. Endless trays of butterbeer and whiskey flew over your head to sate the crowds debauched appetites, the glasses rattling with every thump of the shitty punk bands drummer.

You were crammed into a corner booth, sipping on a cocktail you had to teach the bartender how to make, with three of your friends, pretending to care about their relationship drama and the latest Slytherin gossip.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Talia asked, placing a hand over yours to get your attention.

“Not at the moment,” you shrugged, taking a sip of your drink. “I'm finding most Slytherin boys are rather…dull.”

They all nodded sympathetically.

“Well, what about non-Slytherin’s?” Devi asked, leaning in conspiratorially. Everyone was well aware of the fact that dating a non-Slytherin was off the table, as far as your family was concerned.

Little did they know you were sporting a bite mark from a certain red-headed Gryffindor just below the waistline of your skirt.

You rolled your eyes. “Not even worth talking about, let alone dating” you drawled. “Soph, how are things with that Ravenclaw?” You asked, turning the conversation away from you.

“Ugh, I ended that. They were way too chatty,” Sophie laughed, before rambling for about fifteen minutes about why she thought they were too chatty.

You finished your drink and flagged down the waitress for another. “Make it a double,” you said, sliding her an extra galleon. You'd need all the help you could get to survive this evening.

“Who do you think is the hottest Slytherin?” Devi asked.

“If one of you says my brother, I swear to Salazar—” You and Draco hadn't spoken in days, not since the Howler incident, and the last thing you wanted to do was listen to your friends drool over how hot he was.

“No, no!” Devi giggled. “What about Blaise, though?”

“Oh, or Theo!”

“Dull,” you reiterated, laughing along with them. “Theo’s about as toxic as he is tall, and Blaise is so far up his own ass, he can't see the sun.”

“But they are pretty,” Talia argued. “And that's all they really need to be, anyways.”

You chuckled. “Very true.”

“What about Gryffindor?” Sophia asked.

Devi chewed her lip, then—”Okay, okay, don't laugh, but I think the Weasley twins are gorgeous.”

You about choked on your fresh drink. “The Weasley's?” You asked, putting as much incredulity into your voice as you could.

“I know, I know. But George is like—” Devi fanned herself.

“They are unreasonably tall,” Sophia added. “And that will always make a guy hotter.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, look!” Talia squeaked, pointing at the door.

As if Devi manifested them, Fred and George sauntered into the Three Broomsticks, with Lee, Ron, Harry and Seamus on their heels. And of course, George looked damn near sinful in his light wash jeans and rugby jersey, his hair tousled in that devil-may-care, thoroughly kissed way he looked after you got your fangs into him.

Merlin, you saw him yesterday, you needed to get a grip.

His eyes snagged on yours across the room, a spark igniting that you could see even in the dim and dusty tavern. But then, Angelina Johnson swept in, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him over to the couches where her and her friends were.

You didn't have a problem with Angelina, you shared Magical Runes together, and she always struck you as plucky and clever, two traits you liked very much in a woman. But disquiet pooled in your stomach when George smiled down her, saying something you couldn't make out while he graciously greeted her friends.

It was ridiculous, though, because you and George weren't official. You couldn't be official—no, wait, you didn't want to be official. Right? You didn't want a relationship, you wanted to have fun. And you were.

Things with George had been lots of fun. And that was all it needed to be. Fun.

“Ugh, that Johnson girl is going to get him,” Devi scoffed, offended by the very insinuation, as if she’d have a chance either way.

“Angelina’s not so bad,” you said without thinking.

Your friends all stared at you.

“Rubbish Quidditch player though,” you added quickly, and they seemed to relax, sliding into gossip about the Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin this weekend.

Angelina was far from a rubbish Quidditch player, but you felt compelled to divert the situation, even if the comment sat like a rock in your stomach.

Your focus turned back to George while your friends dithered, and you noticed he was moving away from Angelina, rather than sitting down like you'd expected. He was shaking his head, mouth turned down apologetically, and your heart gave a little flip.

Was he rejecting her?

His dark eyes flicked to you again, skating over your body, the bare skin of your legs, and a now familiar warmth kicked up in the belly. Even without words or touches, George always managed to make you melt.

You knew he only had eyes for you, and it settled the passing quake in your soul.

He returned to his friends, having to shout over the crowd to order a beer. You smiled to yourself, unable to stop the bloom of affection his voice conjured.

Another hour passed, the two of you on separate sides of the stuffy tavern, periodically catching each other's eye through the haze of pipe smoke. You wanted desperately to ditch your friends and curl up in a booth with him, maybe rent one of the private lounges for a bit…

The tavern doors swung open, and your improved mood immediately soured once more.

Draco came traipsing in with Blaise, Theo, and Pansy, smug as a peacock. You sunk further down into your booth, trying to hide behind Sophia, but of course, Draco spotted you.

He made a beeline straight towards you, pushing through the crowd without care.

“We'll be over there, y/n,” Talia said, pointing at a table across the room while ushering Devi out of the booth, Sophia following them.

“No, wait—shit.” So much for friends.

“I thought you were at the castle?” Draco asked, bracing his hands on the table and the back of the booth. Caging you in.

“I am, obviously,” you replied, taking a sip of your drink. It tasted bitter, watery, but the booze still burned enough to work.

“Why are you avoiding me?” He pressed, sliding your drink away from you.

You scoffed. “Maybe because you're a controlling arse?” You yanked your drink back, liquor sloshing over the rim.

“I'm not—” he sighed. “Okay, I am. But I had nothing to do with that Howler.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don't you have bullshit to peddle elsewhere?”

He slid into the booth and you scooched away, refusing to look him in the eye, lest you cave to his guilty expression. “I'm not bullshitting you. I would never go to father behind your back, I swear.”

Draco had always been a shit liar, especially when it came to you. Sincerity shone through his pale eyes. You hated it, but only because it meant you had been wrong.

“You know he'd blame me for your discretion, so why would I rat?” Draco added, and you knew he was right. Draco always took the fall for your missteps, no matter how you pleaded with your father.

It was Draco's job to protect you, so any failing on your part was ultimately his.

“I know,” you murmured, placing a hand over his. An unspoken apology. Malfoy's didn't apologize.

“You know why I didn't get a Howler too?” He asked.

You shook your head.

He leaned forward, ensuring he wasn't overheard. “I went home with the Vanishing Cabinet, got the flogging in person the day before.”

You gasped, releasing his hand to cover your mouth. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“I thought he'd leave it at that. Didn't want you to worry. But then he sent the Howler…” he mumbled, stealing a swallow of your drink, then screwed up his face in disgust. “That's bloody awful.”

“So, who snitched?” You asked, glancing sidelong at his friends and a few Slytherin’s clustered by the bar they were too young to drink at.

Draco shrugged. “Snape, I reckon. Maybe another student.”

Snape. That's who George accused as well.

“Why would Snape do that?”

“Because he's a miserable fuck trying to get father to trust him,” Draco replied. “Same reason anyone does anything to us.” A bitterness edged his tone, and a frown tugged at the corners of your lips.

When did he start looking so…weary?

“Are you alright?” You asked.

He nodded. “Just couldn't stand having you hate me too.”

“Oi, fucking watch it, Weasley!” Theo barked, wrenching you and Draco from your conversation. “They don't teach respect in the gutter?”

Ron was standing a few feet from Draco's friends, cheeks red with fury. “Fucking lightweight, gets knocked by sodding spring breeze—”

“More like a fucking golem, bloody stupid oaf—”

Ron swung, fist coming hard and fast, but Theo managed to duck under it, driving his shoulder into Ron's guts.

Draco was up in a flash, catching Lee before he could intervene and shoving him back. “How about you mind your fucking business, Jordan? Wouldn't want your jaw too mangled to announce my fucking victory this weekend—”

You jumped up, rushing to try and separate Theo and Ron, who were trading punches like playing cards, but someone caught you around the middle, hauling you back a split second before you got caught with a wayward swipe. So close you felt the air bending around Theo's fist caress your face.

“Enough!” George snapped, directly behind you, his brawny arm solid and comforting around your waist. He released you the next second, though, taking a half-step away. Fred was there the next second, prying Ron out of the Theo's grip while Harry got between Draco and Lee.

You grabbed Draco as soon as Lee had his hands off of him, wrapping your arm around his to keep him from lunging again. “Stop it, D,” you hissed in his ear. “The last thing we need is the Aurors telling father—”

Draco was huffing, anger rolling off him in pungent waves. “Wouldn't be a fucking problem if the boors would just stay in their place,” he spit, pointing a finger in Ron’s face, his Malfoy signet ring flashing in the candlelight.

You gasped. “Draco!—”

Ron lunged towards the two of you, fist cocked back to hit Draco, but George jumped in the middle, catching Ron's fist and shoving him back a step.

“I said enough,” he growled, throwing a glare back at Draco. You'd never seen George so serious, something militant and snarling possessing your sweet Georgie.

“What's the matter Weasley? Can't stand to see your little brother get his ass handed to him?” Theo taunted.

“Ron could snap your scrawny ass like a twig,” you shot back.

“Oi, fuck you. Birds stay out of it—”

George snatched Theo up by the collar, dragging him up onto his tiptoes and shaking him. “Not another word, Nott,” he warned.

Merlin, you knew George was protective, but this…he looked prepared to rip Theo’s throat out with his teeth.

“Okay, okay, let's just calm down. We're not fucking children,” you said, moving away from Draco to get between George and Theo. You placed a hand on George's chest, feeling his heart pounding beneath his ribs, and nudged him back.

Reluctantly, he released Theo, stepping back to stand beside his twin, hackles still raised, chest rising and falling quickly.

Theo opened his mouth to say something else, but your warning glare had him cracking his jaw shut.

“It's over. Draco, take your friends home,” you said, channeling every bit of your mother's authority.

Draco scowled. “You can't—”

“Go. Potter, take Ron back,” you ordered. “You bairns are to young to drink anyways.”

They all scoffed, grumbling about how you weren't the boss of them while still gathering their things. You risked a glance at George, and the proud gleam in his eye made your knees weaken.

“Go on, then. The princess has spoken,” Fred teased, waving them away, grinning when Draco flashed him a vicious glare.

You rolled your eyes and turned your back on them, bracing your elbows on the bar to hide your trembling. The lingering adrenaline from the fight and the thrill of George's protectiveness made you feel a little lightheaded.

“C’mon, let's get out of here,” Fred said, moving towards the door. Lee and George followed, and your heart sank a bit watching George walk away without a backwards glance.

Then—“Actually, I’m gonna hang back for another drink, but I'll meet up with you later?” You overheard George say, and it took everything in you to not perk up like a dog.

“Saw something you liked?” Fred asked, and you could practically hear the waggle in his eyebrows.

“Something like that,” George chuckled.

You risked a glance up in time to see Fred and Lee walk out of the pub, leaving George by the door, waving them off.

“What'll it be, love?” The bartender asked.

“Just a water and a room, please,” you asked, sliding some coins across the table.

George leaned against the other side of the bar, watching you over the rim of his beer. An impish smirk lifted the corner of his mouth.

“Sure, hun.” They took your coins and grabbed a key from under the bar, passing it to you before fetching you water.

You accepted your water with a smile and headed to the stairs, having to stop yourself from taking them two at a time out of excitement. Butterflies rioted in your stomach, your skin tingling in anticipation.

With shaking hands, you unlocked the door, draping your Slytherin scarf over the handle so he'd know which was yours.

Five minutes later, knuckles rapped softly on the door.

“Come in,” you called, turning back to the mirror while your removed your earrings.

A moment later, George appeared in the mirror behind you, his arms looping around your waist and hauling you back into his chest.

“Must you dress so bloody gorgeous all the time?” He asked, openly ogling you in the mirror, hands smoothing over your curves.

You smirked, setting your earring on the vanity. “Never know who I might need to impress—”

George spun you around, pining your hips to the counter as he leaned over you. Your lower belly liquified at the ferine look in his eye. It seemed his blood was still running hot after the fight.

“Find anyone?” He asked, carding his fingers through your hair to tilt your head back a little further, exposing the tender sweep of your neck.

Something reckless in you wanted to test the waters, draw out this newfound, bestial side of him. “There was this one Gryffindor, handsome, charming, dark curly hair—”

George’s fist tightened against your scalp, the prickle of pain making you gasp as he leaned in closer. “I'll call Lee back here then, see if he can wrangle you half as well as I do,” he purred, his hand on your waist sliding down between your legs, rucking up the little dress you wore. His fingers grazed the swell of your aching cunt, discovering the honey soaking through your underwear, and loosed a low chuckle. “Someone else get you this wet, love?” he cooed, kissing along your jaw while you melted like putty.

“Just a coincidence,” you whispered, breathless when his middle finger passed over your vexed clit, still a bit sore from the day prior.

He hummed, withdrawing his hand and resting it on your thigh, letting you feel the wetness clinging to his fingers. “Just a coincidence, huh?”

You whined, folding immediately at the loss of contact. “You'll think I'm insane,” you admitted, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“Will I, now? Why's that?” He tugged your head back up by the roots of your hair.

“I liked…seeing you…get protective…” you mumbled, averting your eyes.

He tilted his head a bit, looking infuriatingly chuffed with the revelation. “Oh, sweet girl. That fight turn you on?”

“Not the fight, just…you.”

“I see.” He nodded sagely. “Here I thought you'd think I was out of line.”

You shook your head, working your lower lip between your teeth. “What would you have done if Theo’s rogue punch connected?”

George's eyes darkened. “Something that would send me to Azkaban for life, probably,” he said, voice pitching lower, the roughness of it making you shiver. “I'm not usually quick to anger, but with you…” He sighed, resting his forehead against yours.

Your heart surged, pounding frantically in your chest. The world felt silty beneath you, shifting, spreading, on the precipice of being swallowed whole. On the verge of falling.

Careless, you plunged forward, crashing your lips into his. He collapsed into you, his tongue diving between your teeth to devour you. You could taste the beer on his lips, something hoppy and dark, intoxicating, and you pulled him closer, needing more, needing to breath him like air.

“Need you,” you panted, gulps of air sawing through your burning lungs.

He tossed you up onto the counter, belt clinking against the ceramic as he undid it. “M’sorry, baby. Can't wait,” he muttered into your hair, spreading your knees apart with his hips.

Panties tugged to the side, the cold bite of the tile against your fevered skin, the steely hardness of his cock breaching your heat, fullness, fuck, so full.

“George,” you keened, nails scrabbling for purchase on the vanity as he fucked up into you, splitting you down the middle. But the clenched fist of your cunt hampered his progress.

“S’fucking tight, rattlesnake. Seven hells,” he growled, spreading your thighs wider, pressing deeper.

“I can't—shit,” you whimpered, tears collecting on your lower lashes at the brutal stretch.

“You can, pretty. I know you can,” he soothed, palming the side of your face and kissing away an errant tear. “Just need to relax f’me.” His other hand left your thigh, dipping between your bodies. Middle finger brushed your clit, tracing gentle circles around it, and you felt your muscles start to unwind, the stitches of pain dissolving into pleasure.

“Fuck, George,” you moaned, his cock sliding a bit deeper as your walls loosened.

“There you go, thaaat's a good girl. Nice n’ easy,” he hummed, withdrawing his hips before sinking forward again, finding a steady, languid rhythm as he fucked you open. “You feel so good, baby. Perfect little pussy takin’ me so well,” he praised, lips feathering over your pulse.

Pleasure mounted, evident by the puddle collecting beneath you, slick soaking into his jeans. Your body was starting to ignite, a delicious, consuming warmth spreading under your skin that had you singing his praises. Enraptured.

Lips found yours again, parting, taking, the sloppiness of it dragging you closer and closer to oblivion. Quick fingers and deep, deliberate thrusts hitting every mark, every nerve. It was inevitable, hunting you, chasing you down like prey.

No one could fuck you like George could, and you told him so between broken cries.

“Yeah, baby? No one can fuck you like me—fuckin’ made for me,” he groaned, thrusts getting rougher, punishing as the coil in your belly tightened, baring down on him. “Go on, love. Show me how good I make you feel. Come for me—”

You shattered, a dying star, eclipsed entirely by bliss.

“Shit, gonna take me with you—fuck!” A snap of his hips, the slap barely audible over your mewling, and you snatched his soul, greedy cunt milking him for everything he had.

He braced his hands on the counter, trembling with effort of not crushing you while you twitched and spasmed, locked up so tight he could barely withdraw.

“Shh, love—did so good,” he murmured, kissing every bit of skin he could reach while your mind pieces itself back together, bits of soul adrift in a sea of dopamine. “M’sorry—I didn’t—did I hurt you?”

You shook your head as you came back into your body, feeling his cock slide out you with a surge of release. “Didn't hurt me,” you panted, catching his chin and drawing him into an airy kiss, too out of breath for a proper one, but feeling compelled to do it anyways.

“Good,” he exhaled with a relieved smile, pecking your lips again. “How long do we have the room for?” He straightened to grab his wand and clean you both up.

“Tomorrow morning,” you replied, folding your lips to suppress a smile.

His eyes widened, copper brows shooting up. “Sleepover?”

You nodded, chest swelling with giddy elation. “Sleepover.”

George's POV

George managed to coax you into a shower, insisting on washing your body himself with the cheap inn soap just to hear you purr in pleasure, relaxing completely into him. He didn’t know what it was about you, but he wanted to brush your hair, feed you grapes, fan you with one of those big leaves like Cleopatra.

He was down bad.

“I saw you talking with Draco earlier,” he said, massaging away the tension in your shoulders. “Are you guys okay now?” It was clear how much fighting with Draco weighed on you, and George cared more about your happiness than his own distaste for your younger sibling.

You shrugged. “He's says he didn't snitch—” a soft moan slipped past your lips when he dug into a particularly tight knot. “He actually mentioned Snape as a possibility, like you.”

George was glad you couldn't see the face he made. If Draco accused Snape, it was extremely likely that it was actually the Potions Professor.

How much attention has Snape actually been paying to you?

His hands stilled on your shoulders as anxiety slithered under his skin, coiling around his throat. Could Snape know?

You turned to face him, eyes round and tender. “You worry too much,” you cooed, wrapping your arms around his neck, dripping wet skin pressing against his. His anxiety unraveled, bones softening, and bent down towards you like the branches of a willow. Molded his lips to yours.

It wasn't hurried, stolen seconds like the majority of the kisses you shared. Rather, it was languid, loose and messy and indulgent. Lips gliding through warm water, tongues sweeping, tasting, savoring.

He was lightheaded with it, bracing one of his hands on the stone wall behind you, afraid he'd dissolve entirely and wash down the drain. Away from you.

Merlin, how could he ever be away from you?

Then, it dawned on his that this may be the only chance he'll have to do this with you-- spend a quiet night somewhere safe, where he could love you however he wanted without fear of being caught. He could shower with you, sleep in the same bed with you. Such simple mundanities that felt more precious than gold with you.

This thing with you was fleeting—a strike of lightning. A shooting star. And soon, it would have to end. He couldn't bring you home, couldn't get a flat with you—

The thought stole his breath, a pained sound escaping from his throat, and you broke the kiss, pulling back to look at him.

“George?” You caressed his cheek, pushing his soaked hair from his forehead. The sweetest thing. “Love, are you alright?”

He nodded, turning his head into your palm and brushing the delicate skin of your inner wrist, the heel of your palm, with his lips. He didn't trust himself to speak.

“Let's just focus on being here, yeah?” You murmured, able to discern where his mind had taken him. “Just us, just tonight.”

Tears burned behind his eyes, but he pushed through them in favor of kissing you again, crowding you back against the shower wall. Focused on the heat of your skin, the slide of your limbs around his, your tongue on his throat, and let worries of tomorrow wash away.

After a second, equally as intense round, he dried you both off and carried you to bed, your wobbly legs that of a newborn fawn. The bookshelves beside the bed caught his eye, and he wandered over after tucking you in and lighting some candles.

He slid something off the shelf, garnet leather, tattered at the corners, with silver embossing on the cover and spine: Romeo and Juliet.

Normally, he wouldn't reach for Shakespeare, but you made him want to weave sonnets, monologue verbosely on balconies edge—

“How's this?” He asked, turning to show you, and your kiss-bitten lips curled into a sleepy smile.

“Perfect,” you hummed.

He climbed back into the downy bed beside you, your naked body curling against his side, natural as the moonlight caresses the wall. The steady thrum of your heartbeat synchronized with his as you got comfortable, nuzzling into his shoulder.

The book opened with an antiquated crack, pages thin and yellowed with time. He leafed through it until he reached the Prologue, and started to read aloud.

“Two households, both alike in dignity,

In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean,

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,

A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life…”

Reader’s POV

When you and George return to the castle the following morning, you part as if complete strangers. Without a backwards glance, without the preamble of a goodbye. George turned towards the Great Hall, you, towards the library. But the loss was an anchor on your heart, raw and sulfuric as freshly carved grief.

Going back to acting like strangers, propping up the charade after the bliss of tearing it down, felt impossible. Insurmountable. Agonizing.

You'd never been more sure that George Weasley was yours and you were his. And what a cruel trick of fate that you could never be together, not without sacrificing everything else.

And even if you were willing to, you knew George wasn't. He would never give up his family, would never disappoint them in that way. And you could never ask him too, not matter how badly you wanted him.

But you couldn't let him go either, too selfish, too desperate, too possessive. A dog with a bone. How could you go back to that world of callousness, of treachery and darkness after being bathed in his light?

You mad either nearly halfway to the library when a commotion rang out, students running down the hall back towards the courtyard at the center of the castle. Like the rush of a river, you were quickly caught up it in, bobbing along until you were spit out at the back of a massive crowd of students and faculty.

Draco's platinum hair caught your attention towards the front, and you forced your way towards him.

“What's going on?” You hissed, tugging at his robes.

He turned, a cruel retort on his tongue until he realized it was you. “Trelawney’s getting canned,” he snickered, ushering you in front of him, his body shielding your from the push of the crowd.

That explained the wailing.

“Why on earth would Dumbledore do that—” but then you noticed the pink-clad Umbridge standing beside the bawling Divination professor and all of her belongings. You had always disliked the puggish woman, with her upturned nose and pressed lips, expensive tweed dyed that horrible, intestinal pink.

In her hand, she held a dismissal order on the Ministry letterhead.

Something was deeply wrong.

You spotted George across the way, standing with his siblings, Harry and Hermione. He edged in front of Ginny, pulling her just slightly behind him as he watched Umbridge chastise poor Trelawney with narrowed eyes. He had Harry by the shoulder, preventing the impulsive boy from running out the professors defense.

He looked…afraid. Fred did too.

George's eyes met yours, softening a bit before they flicked up to Draco, and immediately turned glacial. Hostile. You glanced up and found Draco smiling, and your stomach turned.

McGonagall rushed out, gathering Trelawney in her arms and shushing her.

“Is there something you'd like to say, dear?” Umbridge asked.

“Oh, there are several things I'd like to say,” McGonagall bit.

Draco snickered, and you elbowed him.

Then, the doors burst open behind you, revealing Albus Dumbledore. He strode forward, anger practically radiating off of him.

“Professor McGonagall, might I ask you to escort Sybil back inside?”

The way Umbridge was looking at him, all arrogance and snobbery. Like she knew something he didn't…

Understanding settled heavy on your bones. This was no ordinary sacking—this was an act of war. The war George tried to explain. The war that your family tried to hide from you. The war that the Ministry was in denial of, that you were in denial of.

George had tried to warn you, but it was too late.

The war had officially come to Hogwarts, and you were standing on the wrong side of it.

Thank you for reading!

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akira-dulbar · 1 day ago

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The Life You Left Behind - Part 1/3: Discovery

part 2

Summary: Before Jason died, he had a relationship with a classmate. Years later, Damián is struck by the resemblance a child has to his brother Jason.

Warning: Mentions of teen pregnancy, breaking and entering, slight mention of caffeine addiction, swearing, mention of religion. (I honestly don't know what else to add.)

----

Damian was a warrior. From birth, he was trained to face everything and everyone, and not surprise anyone in the process.

But that child…

When Alfred picked him up from school that day, nothing seemed strange. It wasn't until they stopped at a red light that Damian realized there was a kindergarten a few blocks from his school. The place was fenced (for the children's safety), the building was red, and had a flower arrangement of all kinds (which didn't surprise him). He could see the children running back and forth. But what caught his attention wasn't the racket those children were making, but rather the fact that there was one sitting further away from the rest, facing the road with his legs crossed on the grass and a book resting on his lap, seemingly very focused on whatever he was reading.

Now, there was nothing unusual about a child reading during recess, or about the child being isolated from the rest; that was everyone's taste (he did it too, rather than waste his time in unnecessary conversations), but there was something about that child that disturbed him somehow.

Normal people would try to ignore it, but then again, Damián wasn't normal. He was raised for greatness. His father was the best detective in the world, and therefore, he also considered himself the best, better than Drake (although he was a worthy opponent, he would deny it his entire life). So, he stared at the child, trying to figure out why he was so disturbed.

Is it the way he sat? No. The way he dressed? That doesn't make sense. Is it the way he furrowed his eyebrows while reading? He had to admit it reminded him of someone, but it was still strange.

Before he knew it, the light had already changed, and he still hadn't figured out the root of the concern. It wasn't until Alfred was about to set off that the boy decided to raise his head and…

"Oh my God," Damian said, "so now he wasn't religious, just like the rest of his family wasn't. But when electric blue eyes looked at him, he felt like someone from above was playing a trick on him. And it wasn't just the eyes, no, it was also the way she looked at him and how identical he was to his brother… Damian just stared at one point, his head full of questions.

"A clone? Probably, but if he was a clone, it wouldn't make sense for him to be in kindergarten." But Damian knew something wasn't right, since a clone was identical to a person, and even though this boy was identical to his brother, there were still things that didn't fit, like his nose and mouth were different from Jason's.

"Young Master Damian, is something wrong?" When he realized, Alfred was holding the door for Damian to come down, looking at him with concern and warmth. Damian knew not responding was disrespectful and that he should answer the butler (also his father's adoptive father) calmly, but all Damian could do was blink several times.

"Are you okay? Is something hurting?" "Yes, something is wrong." No, nothing hurts, but that's not what he's going to tell Alfred now, not until he resolves this. Besides, he'll surely find out somehow in the end. It's Alfred, for God's sake.

--------

When Tim woke up this morning, he thought it would be like every other Wednesday: going to college, solving a case, and drinking coffee until his body thought it had had enough for today and collapsed, or he'd stay awake until someone (mostly Alfred) forced him to get some sleep.

But what he didn't expect was his younger brother Damian (with whom he has a love/hate relationship) in front of the Batcomputer, looking at images and websites from a kindergarten a few blocks from Damian's school.

"May I know what you're doing?" Tim hoped it wasn't that Damian had gotten into a fight with a kid and was now seeking revenge. Because if that were the case, he'd have to talk to Bruce and Dick once and for all.

"None of your business, Drake." Damian continued to flip through group photos of several kids in the kindergarten, stopping at one and then opening another tab, without even glancing at it.

"God, it's too early for this," Tim could only think, needing an extra-strong black coffee and a new, preferably more pleasant, younger brother (though deep down he knew he'd miss this bat-child demon). He had every intention of leaving when something on the screen caught his attention.

"Are you looking for birth records?" Tim prays that Damian isn't thinking of kidnapping a child; they've already got enough with Bruce's adoption tendency.

"It's good to know your eyes aren't failing you, Drake." Tim wants to strangle him, but he didn't want another scolding from Dick (or Alfred). Anyway, this couldn't be left like this.

"If you're thinking of kidnapping a child, I'll call Bruce." Please don't let that be it.

"I'm not going to kidnap anyone. There's no need to call anyone."

"Then enlighten me. What are you doing looking for birth certificates, because what I think is you're going to make someone disappear?"

"Nobody cares about your way of thinking, Drake."

"I'll call Dick." Tim watched as Damian remained silent for a few seconds, then looked back at him (perhaps checking if he was capable of doing it) and sighed. He then turned back to the batcomputer and started opening more tabs.

Tim was about to pick up his phone and have a serious chat with Dick about Damian's behavior. Until he said, he turned to him and pointed out a specific photo out of many.

Tim leaned closer to look at the photo, realizing it was a group photo of several kindergarten children that Damian had previously had on the screen. He honestly didn't know what he was looking at because they were just the typical photos the kindergartens posted on their social media from each year with different grades. Oh, that's what he thought until his eyes fell on the image of a boy with a book in his hands, clutching it to his chest and looking at the camera with a smile.

"A clone?" That was the only answer Tim could have come up with because, as far as he was concerned, there was no other explanation for a six-year-old (maybe five?) boy looking so much like his older brother (with whom he also has a love/hate relationship, damn it), and he doubted Jason was even in kindergarten at that age. (The photo also showed the date it was taken, so it was impossible for it to have been taken now since Jason is 21.)

"No," needless to say, Tim didn't like that answer at all.

"What do you mean, no? We're seeing the same thing, aren't we?"

"Tt, it can't be that your eyes are failing, Drake. Even the worst detective would realize he has to look at the entire screen." Okay, Tim was offended by that because he knew beforehand that he was still in second place in that category, and it was Damian who told him to look at the photo, not the entire Batcomputer screen, so where he's concerned, he's a good detective.

In any case, he looked at the screen again, and there were several photos (as he noticed earlier), but not all of them were from kindergarten. Some were, but from years past, where the boy was getting younger and younger. He also noticed that in some of them, a young woman, not quite in her twenties, appeared with the child in her arms. In this photo, the child was closer to the camera, and his resemblance to Jason was even more striking.

Tim felt that the conclusion he would reach would turn his stomach. He didn't want to look any further, as he felt like he had opened Pandora's box (although it was Damian who opened it). It wasn't until his eyes looked at three photos that he felt his heart leap out of his body. On the left is an older photo from school with the same woman as before, but much younger (damn, she looked younger than Tim, and he's 17) and with his damn undead brother.

Tim is surprised that Jason, before and after his death, doesn't look so much like the same person, since in the photo he looks thinner and smaller than he does now, where he looks like a damn elephant (thanks, Lazarus Pit).

In any case, in the photo they're both smiling and holding hands, looking very happy. Which is fine, normal when you're with your girlfriend and you're as happy as a clam. But the other two photos are what make Tim reconsider his decision to not have slept when Alfred told him to, because otherwise he wouldn't be having to look at these images, but instead he'd be snuggled up in his bed and at peace.

In both photos, you could see the same young woman from the previous one, but something had changed. One photo was holding an ultrasound (God have mercy on Tim), and in the other, she was disheveled in a hostel room with a baby in her arms (a baby… a fucking baby, for God's sake, Jason, what did you do?). Now Tim understands Alfred and his need to keep giving the "talk"…

God, he feels so tired… And he still hasn't even finished his sixth cup of extra-strong black coffee of the day.

"When was the baby born?" Tim could only close his eyes as he asked. It could still be a dream, right? Faith is the last thing you lose (although no one in this family was religious).

"7 and a half months after Jason's death." All Tim could think about was how old Jason was at that moment.

"So, at 15, he got a girl pregnant a month and a half before he died?" When Tim saw that Damian was about to answer, he interrupted him.

"No, Damian, it wasn't a question… The damn thing," Tim decided, deciding that the next time he saw Jason, he would strangle him just like Homer Simpson would do to his son Bart…

"There's still a chance…" Tim looked at Damian in disbelief and saw that Damian was looking at him calmly and gently, as if trying to calm him down (which is nice to know the little devil cares about him).

"Which one?" Okay, denying the child might not be the best idea, considering all the evidence that yes, it could be Jason's son (Tim feels his mouth go dry after thinking of the child as his brother's son), but they can't blame him; this alone is bad enough.

"A DNA test. We need something from the child to compare with Jason's DNA." The Batcomputer had DNA from everyone in the family in case something happened and it was needed. So, trying to get Jason's DNA was already solved. However, Tim feels there's still a small chance that the child wasn't Jason's, but it's a possibility that will be embraced with open arms.

"Where does he live?" Okay, Tim. One step at a time. First, an extra strong black coffee, and then we'll get to work.

--------

Again, when Tim woke up that morning after passing out from exhaustion the night before, he didn't think he'd find himself trying to break into a kid's apartment to steal some DNA and test if he was his brother's son (who, if found, would strangle him for nearly having a seizure). If someone had told him that, he'd look at him like he was crazy and try to prove he was under the influence of something.

But here he is, opening the window to the kid's room and going in to prove he's not Jason's son (again, Tim feels his mouth go dry)…which is great!…

It wasn't difficult for Tim to get into the room (which is worrying because it's not very safe), and the first thing he saw was the large shelf full of books against a wall (which, for his own peace of mind, he tried not to look at). There were also a bunch of dinosaur toys, some Superman figures, and a number of Wonder Woman figures and statues (which I also ignored, for his own good).

He went to what seemed like the window display to see if he could find a comb with the boy's hair so he could get out of there. But it seemed God wasn't on his side because when he found the comb, he realized it didn't have a single hair of the boy's (which was great for him). Tim could only frown and sigh because again, nothing had gone his way.

When Tim felt something moving, he quickly turned around to check the threat, but realized the boy in the bed had rolled over to lie on the other side, leaving his hair in place. Without further ado, Tim approached him so he could cut a few of his hair without much force so as not to wake him and be able to leave.

Now, since he entered the apartment, Tim didn't want to look at the boy so as not to confirm the truth that he might be his brother's son, making him his nephew. So he quickly ripped out two pieces of hair and then went straight to the window to leave, when he was about to leave, for some strange reason he felt he had to turn around, there was no going back if he turned around, he would be confirming something he didn't want to know, so without further ado he went out the window back to the batcave with two pieces of hair for the DNA test.

--------

Well, it turns out it doesn't matter whether you turn around or not, because it still came back positive, which made Tim's stomach churn.

"So now?" Tim felt like he needed three extra strong black coffees to get this over with.

"I have to say, even though it wasn't what we planned, the result seemed pretty obvious."

"Haha," Tim could feel himself about to throw up, and he didn't want to imagine when Jason found out…

"Wait…"

"Oh God," Tim had just realized something.

"Oh God, how are we going to tell him??"

"Drake…"

"How are we going to tell him?!" Tim started pacing, getting louder and louder.

"Drake…!!!" Tim didn't seem to see how Damian was tense in the Batcomputer chair.

"HOW ARE WE GOING TO TELL JASON HE HAS A SON?!" Tim yelled desperately at Damian, who in turn kept looking behind him.

"What?" Tim tensed when he recognized that voice, Dick.

"Hey, replacement, what are you talking about?" Tim turned around and could clearly see three figures: Batman, Red Hood, and Nightwish. The first one still had his mask on and kept staring at the Batcomputer with a frown, while the other two were staring at him and Damian.

"No, wait…" Tim couldn't think of a congruent response, considering the Batcomputer still had everything about the boy, along with three DNA tests (yes, three, because the third time's the charm), and they approached the Batcomputer after not receiving a response, which Tim knew was over. (The good thing about this is that he let Damian explain, after all, he was the one who opened Pandora's box.)

-Red Robin report- yep, let Damian explain everything to Batman (and his brothers). After all, he's already done enough and urgently needed three more strong black coffees to relieve this tension he's feeling.

-Oh God, Jason, what did you do?- he watched as Dick stared at Jason, who was still staring at the Batcomputer screen and looked like he was going to die again, but this time it wouldn't be the Joker's fault.

-!!!!!…- And when he heard something (or rather, someone) collapse to the floor, fainting (Jason, probably after seeing the evidence), all he could do was sigh.

-(It's going to be a long night)-

-------

I have this 3-part mini story in Spanish, but I'm missing the English one, If I see that you like it, I will upload the other two parts, if not, then here it is. anyway, I don't know English.

#alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #batfamily #bruce wayne #damian wayne #no use of y/n #tim drake #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #nightwing #batman #red hood #red robin

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waynes-readingverse · 1 day ago

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Truly a perfect (and realistic) ending to a wonderful series! This was such a magical ride from beginning to end! Your writing really took me to a different world here, Alex!! 😍💜🌌

And oh boy, my heart was beating fast in my chest when Michael stormed her hotel room, and Sam and Dean weren't there yet. I was glad his anger simmered down a little, but of course, seeing her with Dean then later turned the heat right up again 🙈

“Darling, are you…you scared of me or something?” he asked incredulously. “I know I’ve been working late, not coming home when I say I will sometimes, but have I ever raised a hand to you? Not even once, right?”

The nerve... 🤌🙄

“Her maiden name is Joanna Beth Harvell,” you revealed. “Brady Johnson isn’t her brother, Michael. You’ve been paying to sleep with another man’s wife.”

The fact Dolores was Jo blew my mind! 🤯 Up until that point, I had made an OC for her in my head lmao

But man, Dean storming in all heroic had my knees weak, girl 😍😍

“You take your hands off me before I tear you apart,” Michael hissed. Dean’s face was full of cold fire, with a threat thinly veiled underneath. “Lay another hand on her, and I’ll break every bone you got left.”

Such a pissing contest, and I'm loving it lol

Once Sam showed the numbers and records, written in Michael’s own painstaking hand, your husband’s face went ashen.

GO SAM!!! 😎

And for a moment, everyone was happy then, right? But damn if my heart didn't drop during this scene:

“Sam’s gonna keep watching out for you, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said. Your smile fell. “You’re still going back to Kansas?”

You had me so worried!! I was afraid we'd end up in, I don't know, 1968? And they're both married with kids to other people... But I was real glad it was only a few months. Seriously, thank fucking God, you didn't rip my heart out. Phew... 😆

I totally understand why Dean left, though. It wasn't the right time for them, and she needed to deal with her divorce first and Dean with his... demons lol, and that's why I loved this so much! Because it wasn't clean-cut, and Michael wasn't giving up so easily, and she still struggled with her feelings, and all of it made sense and kept it realistic. Truly loved that! 🥹🫶

And I knew from the start when I read the chapter title that the "dried ink" would both refer to her divorce papers and a new marriage certificate 😂💕

“I’m not another man,” Dean said. His tone was firm, but also imploring, willing you to hear him. He gave your waist a gentle squeeze. “I’m me and you’re you. It’s not about Michael, or anyone else right now but us. And you’ve gotta know…sweetheart, you’ve gotta know that I’m not him.”

That broke me... The reassurance he gives her? Gah 💀

“For marrying another man they’ve never met, scarcely two minutes after the ink dried, so to speak,” you said, using his words.

I also died that she got married so quickly again for a second time! I'd understand her parents' concern lol. Luckily, she met Dean the second time around, or this is the kind of hopeless romanticism that becomes dangerous fast 😂

“For the money. I’m thinking that after all this, you want to stick closer to home, be near your family,” he said. “I’ve got nothing tying me down over there besides the house, so I figure we can use the money to buy one here. With whatever’s left, I could try to start an auto repair shop. Nothing big to start. Just a space big enough for the work. I’m not picky about it. Your uncle could send me the stragglers from his tows, if he’s agreeable to it.”

This was such a smart idea of him, and I loved that he wanted her to be closer to her family! 😍 Surely also scoring brownie points with the in-laws lol

“You better not stop, Sergeant,” you whispered. When he chuckled, you felt it deep in your chest. “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, shortly before he claimed your lips again. The train rode on.

Oooof, and that was such a perfect way to end it, too 😮‍💨

Like I said, I hope they truly live happily ever after with a bunch of kids running around the yard, Dean grilling, and her baking apple pie. They deserve it 🥹❤️

Such a fantastic journey, friend!!! ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 5

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: Ready for an angsty-fun filled finale? 😘💖

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: “The Very Thought of You” by Tony Bennett

Word Count: 6.6K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, tense situations, protective Dean, hurt/comfort, fluff, and spice.~

✨ Series Masterlist

🎵 YouTube Playlist || Spotify Playlist

Part 5: Dried Ink

Dean slammed the payphone back on the hook in frustration. He’d tried calling twice from the train station and couldn’t get you at home. It was getting late in the evening and he knew you were off work already. Where the hell did you go?

“She could’ve packed up and left him already,” Sam said. “I gave her the number of a decent hotel I know over in the Village.”

Dean reluctantly stepped aside for the next person waiting to use the phone. The sound of his train clicking by fast on the tracks echoed in the station. A gust of wind shoved at the brothers' backs, ruffling their long coats, as well as Sam's hair.

“You think she did it that quick?” Dean asked.

“One way to find out,” Sam said. “Come on. I’ve got my car waiting.”

It was so very strange to watch the bellman bring your suitcases inside your new room. You’d only ever stayed in a hotel once, for your honeymoon in Philadelphia. Michael took you to the Walnut Street Theater there, and among other things, to see the Liberty Bell. It had reminded both of you about the true cost of freedom.

You let that thought slip away from you with a shake of your head as you started unpacking, hesitantly at first. It almost didn’t feel real.

Fortunately, after sampling from a bottle of scotch you’d found under Michael’s side of the bed (and slipped into your suitcase), you began to settle into the idea. You took a break from hanging up your dresses in the closet to peer out the window to the narrow, busy streets below the fifth floor. Everything looked so small down there, so far away. In time, maybe the heaviness in your heart would feel that far away too.

Except the loud, insistent knock on the door broke you out of your thoughts. Straightening up with a frown, you set down your glass and went over to the door. It could be Housekeeping coming up to bring you the fresh towels you asked for. The ones that had been laid out in the bathroom smelled musty.

You opened the door to a tall frame taking up room in the doorway. It was Michael, standing there disheveled and steaming mad. He held your letter crumpled in his left hand.

“Michael, what—what’re you doing here?” you gasped and stepped back. He followed you inside the room and slammed it shut. He looked around at your open suitcases in disbelief, then finally at you.

“What’s this supposed to mean, huh?” he demanded to know. He shook the flimsy piece of paper at you. “I come home with flowers, two tickets to see a show, ready to take my wife out to dinner, only to find the apartment half empty. Not to mention a letter that…frankly, cut me to down to the core.”

His anger lessened then, turning into dismay; the kind that you never would have expected to see in his eyes. Not after how he’d been acting for the past few months. He came closer and grabbed hold of you by the shoulders. When you tensed and expelled a shaky breath, he blinked in surprise.

You drew enough courage to meet his eyes, so blue, for once so earnest. It made you sick. Because the man he was when he was sober was more like the one you married. Only, you felt the true version of him was more akin to a sleeping dragon, lying in wait to be provoked.

“Neither of us have to lie anymore and pretend this is a marriage. At least, not one worth saving,” you said. “I know, Michael. I know about Dolores…or should I say, Joanna.”

Michael paused. His head cocked as disbelief crossed his features. He stared down at you almost without blinking.

“Did you know her real name was Joanna Johnson?” you asked. “Ring any bells with Brady Johnson, the man you’ve been paying to keep her company?”

Michael frowned. “He’s her brother. He pays her bills—”

“No,” you shook your head. “Look in the folder sitting on the coffee table there.”

You gestured over to it with a nod of your head. Michael was drawn to the path of your gaze. When his morbid curiosity was too much, he finally let go of you to investigate the folder in question. You released a subtle sigh of relief. You began drifting over behind the couch and closer to the landline phone. It rested on a nearby accent table.

Meanwhile, Michael sorted through the contents of the folder and all the information Sam had gathered for you. He’d made copies of all the evidence for your personal records, including the photos he took of Michael and Dolores.

“Her maiden name is Joanna Beth Harvell,” you revealed. “Brady Johnson isn’t her brother, Michael. You’ve been paying to sleep with another man’s wife.”

No one short of Clark Gable could fake the jolt of shock that crossed Michael’s face. You saw the truth of it in his eyes when he glanced up at you.

“I don’t know why it should bother you, seeing as you don’t seem to care much about wedding vows,” you couldn’t help but snark. You were no longer all that sad though. Somehow, that pitiful look on his face made you feel sorry for him.

Michael seemed to have swallowed his tongue. For a while, he couldn’t dislodge it from the roof of his mouth to speak. But when he did, it wasn’t with anything good to say.

“How did you get all this?” he asked.

Your spine stiffened. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over, Michael. I can’t do this anymore. You should be getting the divorce papers served to you by the morning—”

Your words were cut off when he rounded the corner of the couch, grabbing you by the arms again. This time, his grip was much firmer and made you gasp.

“What the hell is going on? Have you been spying on me?!” he raised his voice to new heights, shaking you once by your shoulders. “How long have you been planning to leave me?”

The words became choked in your throat along with your fear—one that paralyzed you, and made you feel sick with yourself, small and weak.

The door bursting open again startled you both, but it was Michael who grunted when he was heaved off of you by his shirt and waistcoat.

You stumbled and braced yourself against the back of the couch, but your widened eyes fell on the one man you never thought you’d see again.

“Dean,” you breathed.

He spared you a look of concern through his anger, but Michael soon commanded his attention by trying to break his hold. Dean reeled back his arm and delivered a solid punch that knocked the other man into the wall. Michael leaned heavily against it to keep himself upright, and he had to blink a few spots out of his eyes, not only grimacing at the ache in his cheek. That one blow had rattled through his skull, disturbing old injuries. He glared over at Dean.

“Who the hell are you?” Michael shouted. His shock only increased when he noticed Sam Winchester shutting the hotel room door behind him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m her lawyer, Mr. Milligan, and you’re hereby served,” Sam said.

He strode forward with a packet of papers. Michael took a purposeful step towards him, but Dean shoved Michael back against the wall. It allowed Sam to place the packet in Michael’s disbelieving hand.

Dean went over to you then, giving you a meaningful once-over as you held yourself. He softened when he saw the tears in your eyes.

“You all right?” he said quietly, laying a hand on the small of your back. You still couldn’t quite speak, but you nodded at him gratefully, tucking a wily strand of hair behind your ear.

Michael took notice of it once he peeled his eyes from the divorce papers, and up at you and Dean. Michael’s lips pursed as his posture became even more tense and irate.

“I’m not signing this,” he said, tossing the folder onto the coffee table beside the evidence of his infidelity. He met your wary gaze. “Look, I’m not saying I’ve been a perfect husband, but you’re my wife. That still means something to me. We can…we can still work this out.”

Against your will, hot tears burned in your eyes, and your mouth trembled. The men watched you closely.

You shook your head.

“No. We can’t,” you said. “You’re not the man I thought I married.”

In those blue eyes, you thought you saw the shine of a breaking heart. But all too quickly, it turned into anger and denial. Michael meant to cross the narrow distance between you with a threat on his mind and tight coiling of his entire frame. Dean’s hand slid from your back as he stepped in between, fisting a hand in the other man’s dress shirt and pressing there hard.

“You take your hands off me before I tear you apart,” Michael hissed.

Dean’s face was full of cold fire, with a threat thinly veiled underneath. “Lay another hand on her, and I’ll break every bone you got left.”

“Dean,” you gasped, reaching out for him. His backward glance at you warned you to stay where you were.

Michael became even more incensed. Again, he was noticing the familiarity between you and this man invading his space, threatening him, and standing between him and his wife. Before he could open his mouth to protest, Sam finally spoke up again.

“If you don’t take that file and leave now, peacefully, then this isn’t the only one of your affairs that’s going to come to light,” Sam said.

Michael hesitated. He glanced over at Sam with an angry raise of his brow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know very well what it means,” Sam replied. He picked up the folder of evidence he gave you and slipped out a few documents that highlighted an audit of Milligan Meats.

“How does a family business stay so incredibly lucrative during one of the worst times for meat production since the Depression?” Sam wondered aloud. “Maybe it has something to do with those connections you made in Philadelphia, greasing hands like Vondich, from Pittsburg. Or accepting kickbacks from the Torelli family to stock their restaurants with higher quality beef. Who knew that your father had deep, shall we say intimate ties, to one of the biggest mafia families in New York City?”

Once Sam showed the numbers and records, written in Michael’s own painstaking hand, your husband’s face went ashen.

“How did you get this?” he said. Then, as it dawned on him, he looked over at you in betrayal. You hadn’t known about the Torellis, but Sam had been able to sort the last five years of audits for himself, thanks to your investigation of Michael’s office.

“I did my own digging, Mr. Milligan,” Sam said, earning back his attention. “Your wife’s only part in this was asking for my help in securing her divorce. As you can see, I’m very thorough. And these aren’t my only copies of this information. I’m fully prepared to take it to the authorities, today.”

His lie was to protect you, just as much as Dean physically putting himself between you and Michael was. You didn’t know if Michael entirely bought the lie, but eventually, his shoulders sagged in defeat.

He grabbed the papers from Sam’s hand, pivoted on his heel, and turned to leave. However, Michael stopped at the doorway to look back at you.

“This is really what you want?” he asked.

You nodded. “You know it is.”

With that confirmation, Michael took his heavy heart with him when he left.

Sam and Dean helped you repack your things. Neither of them trusted Michael to leave you alone now that he knew where you were. You didn’t want to make such a fuss, but they insisted on helping to put you up at a different hotel across town.

Sam took half of your belongings in his car, where he also had Dean’s one and only suitcase. Dean loaded the rest of your luggage in a taxicab and sat beside you, mostly staring out the window while he smoked. During the ride, you couldn’t help but glance at him every so often. You noted his profile, handsome as always, except now you couldn’t quite tell what he was thinking.

“Dean,” you said quietly. It earned you his attention, as his eyes roamed over you from your familiar beige jacket to your favorite burgundy lipstick.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I am,” you nodded, giving him a small smile. “Thank you.”

You tried to convey deeper things with your words, and you thought Dean read your meaning. He hesitated for a moment, but he took up your hand and pressed a kiss to your fingers.

“Sam’s gonna keep watching out for you, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said.

Your smile fell. “You’re still going back to Kansas?”

Dean held your gaze for a long moment, and let out a breath through his nose.

“Nothing’s changed, sweetheart. I’m still a man with a lot to make of himself, and you’re still a married woman, even without the ring,” he said, gesturing to your left hand held in his. “It’s not the right time for us…and I’m not asking you to wait for me to get my act together. It’s not fair to you.”

You were quiet for a while. The cab’s tires continued rolling over bits of gravel in the street, the honking horns and other pocketed sounds of the city falling into a background symphony. You glanced up at Dean, meeting his eyes once more.

“I don’t regret anything,” you told him, squeezing his hand. “I could never.”

The corner of his lips quirked upwards. “Me either, baby. Not for all the world.”

He held your hand until the taxi stopped in front of the hotel. Dean leaned over to open the door. He helped you out of the car, but there, he let you go.

You supposed you’d have to be strong enough to walk alone this time.

March 1946

Four months later, it was official.

Oh, Michael sure made it difficult. Sam did make a point to keep an eye on you though. He even hired a client and friend, Benny Lafitte, to accompany you to and from work every day. The burly man was an intimidating presence, but he was kind and respectful. He made you feel safer, especially in the evenings when he kept watch of your apartment for a while, sat out front in his car.

Michael was tenacious. He likely used his connections through town, however nefarious they might be, to find out where you were staying again. He continued to show up outside your hotel room.

Nonetheless, when he sat up against your door all night and realized that you wouldn’t budge, the anger finally drained out of Michael. The exhaustion and guilt set in, perhaps not for the first time.

Then, he drunkenly apologized through the closed door, not knowing you were leaning in on the other side of it. It wasn’t the kind of apology that meant anything, you thought, but the kind that meant to let him save face in your eyes, to persuade you into softening.

You didn’t soften, even though he tried everything to get you to reconsider. He tried gentle words and grandiose gestures, even so far as getting down on his knees outside the door and begging—something you’d never seen him do, not once. Part of you wanted to open the door just an inch if it allowed you to see that sight.

Your tears came, but not because your heart was easing up to him. Your heart was breaking again, knowing this was the end.

He tried reminding you of how difficult it would be for you afterwards, how it might affect your family, your job, everyone’s perception of you. More importantly to him, it would affect how people saw him, a man divorced after barely a year.

Somehow, you found the strength to speak to him slowly from inside the door.

“It’s already done, Michael. And so am I,” you said. “After I saw you and Dolores together with my own eyes, I…I was intimate with another man. I didn’t do it to hurt you, but I still did it.”

His silence was deafening. Not being able to see him actually made this easier though. You sighed.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t go back to us,” you said, “because that would be a lie.”

You couldn’t see it, but his face tightened as angry tears filled his eyes. He felt the weight of his decisions like never before, along with a pulsing, phantom pain in his skull that alcohol could no longer dull. Dimly, he remembered the man he used to be, before. He remembered having a shred of honor to his name, even before he married you. And he did that because he’d loved you. He was sure that he had, somehow…

“I am sorry, darling,” he croaked. “You have to know…”

You nodded, taking a breath to try and steady yourself.

“I know,” you realized. As much as he was able to be, he was sorry.

He picked himself up from outside your door and walked away. He never returned after that.

In those four months, you resolved to move back to Sioux Falls. New York had become your home in the past year and a half you’d lived here, but it wasn’t who you were. You wanted a quieter life. A more peaceful life.

You initially agreed to move to the city with Michael because you had wanted to please him, and make his transition back to civilian life easier in his familiar surroundings. You thought the two of you were building a life together.

New York City was still a heartbeat of a world, but it was no longer in your heart.

Now, you were finishing up on packing your things at the hotel. You left for South Dakota tomorrow, and you already sent your last payment to Sam Winchester a few days ago, along with a handwritten letter thanking him for his help. You felt badly for not going to visit his office in person, but it would be too hard. You would be too tempted to ask about his brother.

Dean.

Just the thought of his name made your heart constrict. You weren’t sure if it was only with pain, though you hoped he was doing well. You tried to remember that you had known him for barely a week. Your mind and your heart shouldn't be so taken up with him.

And yet.

He had seen you at your lowest, belly-to-the-ground low. He had brushed away your tears and hadn’t tried to flatter you with pretty words. He’d made you feel better with simple, raw honesty.

He gave you a window into his past, even though a soldier like him wouldn’t easily pry himself open for anyone, short of his own brother, you suspected. So you’d come to realize, whenever the memory of him greeted you after that day in the park, that he’d given you something special. Perhaps the best night of your life.

Your fingers paused on the brass doorknob to what had been your bedroom for the past few months. It was a modest one, complete with a kitchen and a small two-seater sofa.

Hotels were expensive, but your parents had been kind enough to send you some money to help you. They’d been dismayed to learn of the reasons behind your divorce, of course. They both had been against it at first, but when they heard your voice over the phone, along with the full story, they finally agreed to support you in what way they could, especially by welcoming you back home.

You were looking forward to seeing them. It had only been a couple of months since they’d come to the city for Christmas, but you were ready to go home to some familiarity, and to your family’s support.

You shook your head to get yourself unstuck from all of that. You straightened the wrinkles out of your long skirt and adjusted the collar of your blouse. You had just come home from your last day of work not too long ago, so you supposed you would take a bath and get changed into something more comfortable before you finished packing. Your train left tomorrow, early in the morning.

You were about to head into the bathroom when you heard a knock at the door. Frowning, you wondered who it could be. If it was Michael again, you were not opening the door, and you’d call the police for good measure if he stuck around. You were done entertaining him in every sense of the word.

You went to the door and looked into the peephole. Your brows furrowed. You unlatched all three locks on the door and opened it to the room service maid.

“Hi, Bridget, how are you?” you greeted her.

“Oh, I’m doing well, ma’am. Sorry, I’m a bit behind today, but I’m here to clean the room.”

“Oh, well, now isn’t really a good time,” you said. You had duffel bags and suitcases open, with your clothes, a curling iron, and other things thrown about. Not to mention, you had a leftover sandwich sitting half-eaten on the dining table with a nearly empty bag of chips.

“I’m afraid I can’t come back later,” said Bridget. She tended to talk with her hands, made more interesting by the fact that she held a broom with one hand, and pulled her cleaning cart with the other. “It’ll be too late, and then you’ll be asleep!”

“Look, I’ll just clean tonight, and you can come back tomorrow after I leave. How does that sound?” you suggested.

“All right, if that’s how you want it,” Bridget said with a shrug. She threw her broom on the cart and started pushing it down the hall. She still called back to you over her shoulder, “Goodnight, ma’am! Safe travels for your trip home.”

You shook your head with a weary smile. “Thank you. Goodnight!”

You closed the door behind you and reset all the locks in place. Releasing a heavy sigh, you supposed you should get back to packing. You turned to do just that, when there came another knock on the door. This time it was a heavier sound.

“For God’s sake. What is it now?” you groused.

You went back to look into the peephole. This time, your mouth fell open in a gasp. You undid all the locks again with shaking hands, and you opened the door. There stood Dean Winchester.

He looked nice. Dapper really, wearing a dark blue suit and tie over a crisp white shirt and blue waistcoat underneath. His hair was combed and gelled and parted to the right, and he smelled faintly of a woodsy cologne.

He also looked just as stricken to see you. His eyes were as green as you remembered, and they took in your form from head to toe. They returned to your face, softening slightly, and he smiled.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

God, his voice. It threatened to make you weak.

You shook your head and managed to smile back at him. “What’re you doing here?”

He chuckled. “Well, that’s some welcome.”

“You know what I mean.” You reached out for him, and he took your hand, raising the back of it to his lips in a kiss. All the while, his eyes never left you. Your face flushed hotly, your heartbeat leaping in and out of rhythm.

“I’m here to see you,” he said, matter of factly. As if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Your mouth ran dry. It was difficult to form words, but somehow you managed it.

“Would…would you like to come in then?” you offered.

“I’d like nothing more,” he replied.

The depths in his words made a tingle run down your spine, though you tried to hide your reaction to it. You let him in and shut the door behind you both.

“So you’re headed home, huh?” he asked. He was sitting next to you on the couch with a soda you procured for him, and a cigarette in hand, yet to be lit.

“Did Sam tell you?” you asked.

Dean nodded, smiling ruefully. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

You ducked your head, a bit embarrassed. He tossed his unlit cigarette on the coffee table and tucked a finger under your chin. He raised your head until you met his eyes.

“There she is,” he said softly.

You sucked in a breath laden with emotion. Tears welled up in your eyes.

“Why are you here, Dean?”

“I think you know,” he said, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I think you need to say it,” you replied, daring him with the directness of your gaze. His hand fell away from your chin, just to cup your cheek as he moved closer. You grabbed onto his arm in reflex.

“I told you, I had to see you,” he admitted.

“Why? Why now?” you asked. “After what you said last time… For goodness’ sake, Dean. Why wait until I’m about to leave?”

“Because,” Dean said. He took a subtle breath, making himself relax. “Because I had to sort myself out, and I had to wait until the ink dried on those damn divorce papers. Because if I’d come any sooner, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

Hope dared to rise high in your throat. Your eyes flit over his face, and finally met his.

“From what?” you whispered.

Dean tilted his head to consider it. He bit into his lip, and then, he made a choice.

He kissed you with abandon. He kept kissing you, stealing your breath, finding new angles to devour you with. He robbed you of any coherent thought in your head the moment his tongue breached your lips to curl against yours. It was all you could do to keep up with him, but you grabbed onto his jacket and made indents in the fabric with your nails. His hands moved down your body to squeeze your waist, pulling you flush against him. You moaned into his mouth.

“Dean,” you said, half on a gasp, half on a whimper.

He managed to slow down for a moment. His hand came up to pet your hair.

“No matter what the hell I do, I’m selfish. I just…I can’t let you go,” he said, with furrowed brows.

You shook your head in dismay. “You didn’t need to, you know. I wouldn’t have let you take me home that night if I didn’t think you were a good man…and I certainly wouldn’t have invited you in.”

Your lips tugged at a smile, making Dean smirk as well. That memory had stayed with him too, usually on long nights alone in his house. He tried to remember the sweet smell of your perfume, the feeling of your soft skin, the sound of your pretty moans in his ear. Even now, the thought stirred the well of arousal inside him.

But also, there were other things he missed, like the sight of your smile, your sweeter voice, somehow gentle and strong all at once. He shook his head, thumbing at your cheek.

“The truth is, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since the day I met you,” he said. “I’m pretty sure that means I love you.”

Your eyes blinked wide at him in shock. His face was steady and even, but his amusement was starting to peek through the longer he looked at you.

“Pretty sure?” you asked breathlessly.

“Well, I’m willing to be more definitive on the subject if you are,” he teased.

You fought a smile, but you couldn’t quite help it. Still, doubt began to creep in from behind.

“I want to believe you,” you said quietly. “But part of me is afraid that these are all just pretty words. If I let another man—”

You tried steadying yourself with a breath. Your watery gaze cut away from Dean, but he wouldn’t let you hide. He gently brought you back, once again guiding your chin. He swept the lone tear from your cheek.

“Please, just tell me the honest truth. Tell me how you feel about us, and I promise, I won’t take it for granted,” he said. He knew he was practically begging, sounding almost needy and weak, but he couldn’t walk away from you again. Not until he knew for sure what you could want from him…what you could want with him.

The seconds of waiting for your answer were more agonizing than the long hours he spent traveling back to New York.

Until finally, you spared him. You shook your head and raised a hand to caress his cheek, your thumb brushing over his plush lower lip.

“After you left, I thought about you every morning when I woke up. And I prayed for you every night before I went to sleep,” you said. “I’m pretty sure that means I love you too.”

Dean smiled. It was a soft, boyish smile that seemed too young for his face. You loved him all the more for it.

He leaned in…but he hesitated, stopping just shy of your lips.

“Look, I still don’t know if I can be the man you need,” he said. He looked into your eyes. “But I can promise to try, every day, and for the rest of our lives.”

Hot tears once again stung in your eyes, threatening to blur your vision.

“That’s all I could ask for, Dean,” you replied. “I’ll try for you too.”

He smiled slightly, holding you a little closer by your waist.

“Good, because my shoulder still hurts sometimes. Gonna need you to work another miracle or two.”

You laughed and nodded, your hand sliding back up his arm to rub the old injury in his shoulder.

“My specialty,” you teased.

His smile dimmed then, becoming a touch serious, and even rueful.

“And, uh…I don’t sleep so well at times, either,” he said.

You sobered as well. “Me too,” you said. Your lips hinted at a smile again. “But we can keep each other company.”

Dean read the thread of suggestion in your eyes, despite the hint of shyness. His smile began to perk up again.

“I can also be kind of stubborn,” he admitted.

Amused, you tilted your head and ran a gentle hand over his chest. Was he giving you every reason you might say no to him?

“Well, I’m sure I can find a way to soften you up,” you said.

Chuckling, Dean took your hand and pressed a kiss into your palm. “Oh, I got no doubts about that, sweetheart.”

He rested your hand back on his chest and thought for a moment more. You just waited for him, patiently stroking his hand with your thumb. You had time to wait.

“You know, I occasionally like to cook too,” he said, with something of an embarrassed chuckle.

Your smile brightened with interest. “Really? Well,” you said, slipping your hand out of his and winding your arms around his neck. “We can take turns feeding each other then.”

Dean really liked the way your mind worked. His hands splayed along your lower back and brought you more flush against his chest. Your face was mere inches from his, tilted up to him in waiting.

Again, he stopped short of kissing you.

“Ah, there’s probably a lot more you should know, but this one’s kind of a big one,” Dean said. That serious tone crept back up in his voice. “I’ve got a plan to make money. It’s not a sure-fire thing, but it’s an honest one. And even if it doesn’t work, I’ll just try something else. I’ll do whatever it takes to take care of you. You don’t gotta worry about anything, okay?”

You smiled at his earnestness. What surprised you most of all was that you believed him. Every word. Because you could see it in the deep green of his eyes. If you trusted him, he wouldn’t let you down. Or at least, he would try his hardest. Try really was all you could ask for.

“Then I’ll take care of you too,” you nodded, stroking his cheek.

Dean’s smile rang true as well.

He finally kissed you again, trapping you thereafter against the sofa.

You sighed and nuzzled your head in a more comfortable position on Dean’s shoulder. The train bound for South Dakota was travelling full speed ahead, four days after your initially booked ticket. The carriage bumped and jostled you both at times, but you felt nothing but peace.

Dean turned his attention towards you, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. His fingers entwined with yours in his lap.

“Comfortable?” he asked, both genuine and a little teasing.

“Mhmm,” you nodded. Your eyes closed as you let out a breath. He smiled into your hair.

“So what’s it like in Sioux Falls?” he asked quietly, as to not disturb you too much. He just wanted to keep hearing your voice. He’d missed it. He’d missed you.

“Quieter than the city,” you replied, after a moment to think about it. “Slower, but in some ways nicer. I think you’ll like it more than New York, anyway, and I think my parents will like you too…if they don’t think too much less of me.”

“Why would they think less of you?” Dean asked.

You picked your head up and looked up at him a bit bashfully. You raised up your joined hands, where his mother’s wedding bands now rested on your ring finger.

“For marrying another man they’ve never met, scarcely two minutes after the ink dried, so to speak,” you said, using his words.

Dean chuckled, and he wrapped you up more snugly against him and rubbed your back. If you wanted to get technical, the new marriage license was the most recent “ink” to be penned. Sam had been your witness, of course, and he’d hugged you both afterwards. For Dean, Sam’s hug was tight and bracing.

“I’m happy for you, Dean. I’m always here for you. Anything you need.”

“That’s my line, little brother.”

Dean hadn’t known that the two of you needed to take a blood test just to get hitched, let alone that the license wouldn’t be valid for 72 hours. Though it did give you and Dean the opportunity to put your hotel room to good use for those three days. Call it a honeymoon before the honeymoon.

(In fairness, you’d tried to hold out for decency’s sake, but your resolve dissipated even quicker than Dean’s.)

“Don’t worry, I’ll charm ‘em,” he said with a grin.

You snorted. “Good luck with my father. Be prepared for his grilling. Where do you plan to live? What’re you doing for work?”

“Well, the first one we can talk about. The second one, I’ve already got an idea,” said Dean. “I wanted to wait until I saw you again to decide…but I plan to sell the house in Lawrence.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Why?”

You had already been mentally preparing yourself for a move to Kansas after visiting your parents. You never considered that Dean would want to sell his family home.

“After he gets to know you, I don’t see why not. Dean, that’s a great idea and…thank you,” you replied. Your heart was touched that he would sell his family home, just so you could be near your family. You squeezed his hand and blinked past the tears beginning to burn in your eyes.

“Really, you don’t know what it means to me that you’d consider me like that.”

Dean noticed you getting worked up. He stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, though part of him felt a bit bashful.

“It’s not all that special,” he said. You didn’t budge, however.

“Yes, it is,” you said. You leaned up, wordlessly requesting a kiss. Dean obliged you. He kissed you long and slow and tender.

He broke away after a while, just to look over your shoulder. He smiled. Then he leaned forward, careful to keep you secure in his arms as he locked the door.

“What’re you up to?” you asked in amusement, despite the fire churning inside you.

“It’s a long way to the Midwest, sweetheart. I’m taking advantage of it,” he said. “What do you say?”

A knowing smile began to tug at your lips. “Hmm, depends on what you want to do.”

Dean shifted you onto his lap. Smirking at your small sound of surprise, he made a show of undoing every button that laced down the front of your dress with slow precision. Your breathing shallowed as you watched his nimble hand go one by one.

“I plan to take my time,” he said. “I plan to make us both glad this train is loud enough to drown out just about anything.”

He laid a kiss just above your neckline. The more buttons he loosened, the more bare skin he had to trail his affections, like on the tops of your breasts, and another kiss in between them. Uttering a soft sigh, you held him to you by his hair and threaded your fingers through the brown strands. His other hand squeezed your bottom, earning a stifled giggle from you.

“I plan to map out every part of you, all over again,” he said, “until I can see it all with my eyes closed. Until we’re both sweaty and satisfied.”

He raised his head just to mark a biting, claiming kiss on your throat, making your breath hitch.

“That okay with you, baby?” he asked again.

You felt his growing smile against your skin. You tightened a hand in his hair in retaliation. It was a scandalous proposal, not to mention risky. You two could be booted off the train, for heaven’s sake…

Your breaths were shallow as he slipped a hand under the collar of your blouse, even under the bra to palm at your breast.

“You better not stop, Sergeant,” you whispered.

When he chuckled, you felt it deep in your chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, shortly before he claimed your lips again.

The train rode on.

AN: I promised a happy ending, didn't I? 😉✨ What did you think of the "end" of Michael, as well as how she and Dean worked things out? I absolutely loved working on this series and this AU world. Maybe I'll do another '40s AU in the future! 💖

But until then, I have lots of fun things coming up! You'll hear about the next story soon. 😘

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thatoneautisticshark · 1 day ago

Text

This, which I have been working on for ages and couldn't get right. They don't even fully fuck at the end lol.

But virgin soap gets his first dildo, and is feeling religious guilt. Price and Ghost help.

TW Sexually explicit, anxiety, religious guilt.

Johnny could hear his heartbeat in his ears as he carried the parcel through the halls. He felt like everyone knew exactly what was in the parcel, and everyone was staring.

Everyone knew good little Christian boy Johnny had bought a dildo.

He could feel his face heating up and had never been so grateful to see his door, quickly walking in and slamming the door.

He chucked the parcel on his bed, staring at it. He really bought this, and it was fine. It was natural to need release.

He tore open the parcel, revealing the unassuming black box, and jumped back as if he'd been burned.

Nope nope nope.

Never mind, he couldn't fucking do this.

He took about ten minutes to breath resting his head against the wall. He was being silly. He knew that.

But… he just couldn't.

But he also spent 60 bucks on that. He wasn't going to waste it. He needed to stop being a chicken, if only for the sake of his money.

He grabbed the box, ignoring his hands shaking and opened one of the flaps and into his hands fell… a small bottle of lube.

Strawberry flavoured.

Johnny squeaked, whole face turning bright red as he instinctively threw the bottle, it bouncing on his bed.

Strawberry flavoured? It was fucking flavoured? What the fuck? Oh he was going to hell for sure. As the lube came to a halt, he saw the note attached “A bonus because you are a fruit :)”

Johnny flushed, squeaking louder. Oh god, the lube was mocking him.

The lube knew.

He slid down the wall head between his knees, he needed to calm down. He wasn't going to die, no matter what his heart rate may suggest.

It was okay.It was lube and a dildo.

He nearly died on the regular for crying out loud, this was fine. It was no big deal.He grabbed the box. Pulling out the solid black dildo, feeling the weight in his hands, the silicon.

And nope no. He fucking couldn't. He shoved it and the lube away in a drawer if his night stand, burying his face in the pillow.

“Oh fuck I can't do this.”

It took him two days and about 60 different google searches and articles to finally pull it out again, setting it on his bed.

As he actually looked at it, he blinked in total disbelief. “For beginners? For beginners are they on fucking drugs this is huge … how am I even meant to… huh?”

Johnny sat on the bed, burying his head in his knees as tears streaked his face. He couldn't fucking do this, it was so wrong, he was guaranting himself a spot in hell by doing this.

God he was such a baby, a big strong military man fucking sobbing over a dildo!

He suddenly heard a knock on his door. “Johnny? Are you okay?”

Oh fuck that was Ghost.

“Mactavish? What's wrong?” Price was with him? Oh shit.

Johnny was so so glad he locked the door. He couldn't imagine his captain and Lieutenant walking in on this. Then he heard the door creaks open, and realised with absolute dread he in fact hadn't locked it.

And both of his bosses were walking in, on him sobbing on his head in front of a dildo. He couldn't move though, couldn't bring himself to sit up, to wipe his tears and tell them he was fine.

So instead he let his head drop against the pillows, still sobbing, albeit a little louder.

Price moved slowly into soaps field of vision. “Uhm… What happened son?” Soap heaved slightly still laying motionless on the bed and sobbing as he watched both Ghost and Prices eyes dart to the dildo.

Standing tall and proud on his pillow.

Ghost sat on the bed next to johnny, threading a hand into his mohawk. “Breathe Johnny. You're okay, what's going on?”

Johnny leaned into the hand, but continued to sob.

Price awkwardly patted his back “There there”

“God hates meeee!! He's gonna fucking smite me and I'm going to hell” Johnny burried his face back in the pillow, whole body shaking with sobs.

Ghosts voice came softer than Johnny had ever heard it. “God doesn't hate you, Johnny. What's wrong? Why do you think you are going to hell?”

Johnny gulped, breath hitching “Because I'm gayyy…. And like men … and I'm gonna burn in hell because I bought a dildooooo!”

His breath heaved again as he heard an inhale from one of the other men , but continues

”And it's a waste of money… b-because I can't even fucking … it's… I can'tttt it's confusing!” He heard an odd noise from Simon, but the hand in his hair didn't stop, and neither did Price patting his back.

Johnny was slowly beginning to register what he actually just said, to both his superiors, but didn't have time to back track before Simon was talking.

“Okay.. uh So… You've never done anything like this before… and you bought the dildo, but now you are feeling religious guilt… and you can't work out how to use it?”

Johnny flushed a bright red but nodded, slowly painstakingly lifting his head so he could see the other two men.

They were looking at each other silently communicating, something Johnny had always found exceedingly impressive -and hot. The way they just had to look at one another to decide something had always impressed Johnny.

However he was finding it much less cool when it was about him, he had no clue what they were working out about him, and it was humiliating and incredibly anxiety inducing.

Finally price silently nodded at Simon and the large man turned to Johnny, looking him dead in the eyes. “We could teach you Johnny, if you wanted.” Simon offered voice still that soft gentle tone as if Johnny would break if he was louder.

Then his brain suddenly caught up with what was said. He turned bright red, spluttering. They would help? What!?He wouldn't be against it, he loved both of them, and they were hot as fuck.

He really couldn't work this out alone. But where the hell did that offer come from?

Price seemed to take his silence as discomfort, moving to sit on the bed.

“Or we can just forget any of this happened if yo-”

Johnny scrambled to cut him off. “No no no no. I-...I want …” He gulped ..hoping that got the point across, without him having to explicitly say it.

Simon grinned, or atleast Johnny was fairly sure he did, because of the crinkle of his eyes. Something Johnny loved to pick up on.

Price moved a hand to gently stroke Johnny's thigh, nothing sexual about it, a simple bit of comfort, but it still made Johnny's dick throb.

“Okay… we'll discuss a few boundaries things and then start okay?”

Johnny nodded slowly sitting up, still bright pink, but he sat up anyways, squeaking as Ghost wrapped an arm round him, pulling him flush against that hot muscled chest.

Prices hands gently moved to the Scots hips, and he pressed a kiss to others forehead.

Simon rested his forehead against the back Johnny's head. “D’ye know safe words? Actually I'll assume not. Basically a way to say how you are feeling. So we'll just go traffic light okay”

Johnny frowned “What's the traffic light?” he murmured soft and uncertain.

Price smiled softly “It's a system of simple words to tell us how you are doing. So red is stop, Yellow is slow down, or take a break. Let you get your bearings, and green is all good.”

The captain gently rubbed his hands all up Johnny's torso, tough hands massaging the tension out of his muscles, letting the scot process.

Johnny nodded, committing it to memory, trying to calm his nerves, he knew he was okay, he trusted these two with his life, he could trust them with his virginity and arsehole.

He slowly relaxed against the chest of his lieutenant, leaning into the hands feeling up his body. It was okay, he knew this.

Simons deeper voice rumbled again, and Johnny could feel the chest under him vibrate. “If you say stop, we'll stop okay? Any time, no matter what. We want it to be good for you, alright love?”

And Johnny would be lying if he said that pet name didn't go right to his dick, the care and sweetness, while talking about fucking him, he nodded and felt himself being gently pushed down against the bed.

Price shifted gently placing pillows around Johnny..and then he placed a gentle kiss on his lips, before pulling back to watch the others reaction.

Johnny felt his whole face flush a bright pink, eyes blowing wide and mouth hanging open dumbly.

He had been kissed.

Kissed.

By Price! His hot arse captain. Price huffed slightly. “That okay lovie?”

He questioned softly while grabbing Soaps dildo and the strawberry lube, placing the dildo on the table, and the lube in Simon's hand.

Simon, who Johnny suddenly processed, had his mask off! Simon was completely bare faced, and he couldn't work out if Simon was pretty or hot. He was both so rugged and tough, with pretty curls and his soft eyes.

And Johnny swore if there was a heaven he was in it. Big gentle hands, he couldn't even tell who tugged his shirt over his head, and Simon dove down peppering gentle kisses all over Johnny's chest.

Johnny's head fell back against the pillows, a loud moan escaping his lips at the feeling the gentle kisses slowly turning more open mouthed and wet, Prices hand still on his hips.

It was already so so much, but it was …. Amazing. It felt so good he could barely register what was happening as hands roamed his skin, nails scraping and fingers squeezing.

Simon smirked as he took a nipple into his mouth, causing the Scots hips to buck up, and body tense.

Johnny was brought slightly back to reality by Prices hand finding his hair, grabbing but not yanking. Gently stroking it back. “Mouthy isn't Simon? Has an oral fixation I swear”

The normalcy of it could have made Johnny sob with relief, it was the men.he was comfortable with, and they were acting the same as always. It was so comfortable and safe.

Johnny barely got out an affirming hum, pressing his face against the hand in his hair, much like a cat. Ghost cooed softly placing wet, sloppy kisses down the Scots chest, stopping near the band of his trousers when the man under him tensed.

“Okay, Johnny? Can I keep going?”Johnny slowly nodded, uncertainly, although some of his fear disappeared once price tilted his head up, gently kissing him.

His lips moved clumsily bumping against prices, teeth gnashing slightly, until Price pulled back, still gently cupping Soaps jaw. “Lovie, have … have you ever kissed anyone?”

Johnny felt a bright red blush creeping up his face as he quickly shook his head.

Price's expression just softened even more. “Right. Just relax, let me kiss you, your lips will move naturally okay?”

Johnny nodded as those wonderful warm lips collided with his again, His captains tongue tracing his lips and hand cupping his face as if he were precious.

He had entirely forgotten about Simon until a warm heat engulfed his dick and his hips bucked up. He barely registered the slight gagging noise from below him, a guttural moan escaping his mouth.

He had never felt anything like that before it was so so hot. It felt amazing but weird.He was just getting his bearings slightly back, cracking his eyes open to see Simon, looking up at him through his lashes.

And then the fucking cunt hollowed his cheeks and sucked. Johnny's vision went white, eyes rolling back. He really felt Simon was attempting to suck his soul out through his dick.

He rolled over, a bit overwhelmed with sensations, burying his face in what he thought was a pillow, and quickly worked out was Price's thigh.

A warm hand came to rest in his hair again, and Price gently lifted his head. “colour, darling?"

Colour?

Johnny blinked dumbly at him, confused.

A thumb was gently rubbed along the bone under his eye. “Your colour love. Green, red or yellow” He clarified.

“Uhm..g-green.. it…it feels good” Johnny stuttered out, hiding his blushing face, as

Price cooed for communicating.

Johnny didn't think he'd ever been praised so much for talking. It was so overwhelming but so sweet.

He carefully cracked his eyes open looking down, and the sight made his dick throb. Simons hands were braced on the Scots thighs, and he was bobbing his head with fever.

He seemed to sense the gaze on him, looking up and making eye contact, directly while continuing to suck, before swallow Johnny all the way, nose buried in the dark curly pubes.

Johnny squeaked, cumming harder than he ever had before, cumming before he even realised he was. He buried his face in Price's thigh, moaning as waves of pleasure crashed over him.

He made incoherent noises, begging… for something, he didn't really know what he was begging for.

“Fuck … fuck… please..”

Price soothed him, letting him catch his breath until he finally looked down at Simon. Simon who had a mouth full of Johnny's cum, and was leaning up to kiss price with it.

Oh fuck.

His dick gave a valiant throb, even though there was no way in hell he could continue going. That was hot.

Price eagerly gulping down his cum, from Simons mouth, murmuring about how good it was.

God could get fucked, Johnny decided. He didn't give a shit was magical sky daddy felt, he evidently had never got his dick sucked like this.

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concretejunglefm · 1 day ago

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The way you bend, the way you break.

Summary: Your best friend, Noah, has harbored a deep and obsessive crush on you for a long time. Driven by his intense jealousy, he reaches dangerous extremes to finally claim you as his own.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x f!reader.

THIS IS A FIC CONTAINS DARK THEMES PLEASE CHECK TRIGGER WARNINGS.

CW: smut including unprotected sex (p in v), ghostface, mask kink, boot riding, obsessive bestfriend!noah, stalking themes, yandere themes, manupilation, coercion, blackmail, dubcon, threats of violence, knife play (reader on receiving end), blood play (readers), degrading dirty talk, dacryphilia, breeding kink if you squint, hair pulling, pussy slapping

Names: Princess, bitch, (little) slut, little rabbit, baby, pretty thing,

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“What’s your favorite scary movie, princess?” An enigmatic, almost mechanical voice purrs through the receiver.

“So original,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “You can stop playing games, Noah.” The idea of your best friend playing games like these with you, just to tease you, wouldn’t come as a surprise.

“Wrong, it’s not Noah,” the voice corrects you, dismissing your assumption, and your heart drops.

“Look, asshole, whatever game you’re playing, I’m not interested, okay?” You huff, hanging up and choosing to ignore the strange sensation of being watched that begins to creep in.

A moment later, your phone buzzes with a message from an unknown number. Attached to the message is a video. You pause for a moment, contemplating whether to press play on the thumbnail, which features a frame of your face. You could choose to delete the message, pretend you didn’t see it, or even block the number. However, curiosity overpowers you, and you decide to press play.

The video you’re watching features you and your ex. What you’re seeing is something you had presumed to be long erased from the existence of any phone belonging to either of you. Then again, you also know better than to assume anything could be permanently erased from the internet in this modern era.

In the frame, you’re on all fours and facing the camera, while your ex, out of frame—lucky bastard, is pounding into you. Every sound from you is almost as exaggerated as the way your eyes roll back and your tongue hangs freely, playing up for the camera—and for him.

When you close the video, another text appears.

Unknown: Hang up on me again, and this video will be sent to everyone you know.

Your chest tightens, and your mind races with panic and dread. As you try to message your best friend with trembling fingers, an incoming call interrupts you, preventing you from reaching out for help.

“What do you want?” you manage to say, trying to keep your voice steady, though it falters slightly. Fear creeps in, and you can’t help but notice the amusement in the strangers’ mechanical voice.

“You might want to use your manners, unless you want everyone to discover your little home movie.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the thought of anyone else seeing that video. The fact that a stranger already has it in their possession sends a sense of dread through you, accompanied by another strange feeling.

“Now, are you going to be a good girl and listen to me?” He poses it as a question, but the cold, unsettling tone of the stranger on the other end suggests it’s more of a command.

You swallow the lump forming in your throat and find your voice as you respond, “Yes.”

“That’s good, or you’ll end up starring in a snuff film for your next movie.”

“Oh god…” the words escape your lips, a choked sob rising within your throat.

There’s a ringing in your ears, and you take a step back. Your eyes dart around the open living room, looking towards the front door. But it’s as if the stranger can sense your thoughts, because his voice interrupts your train of thought.

“Don’t even consider running. We’re going to play a little game called hot and cold.”

“I-please…” A soft plea escapes your lips, followed by a choked sob. Fear has frozen you in your tracks, fear and something else, a subtle thrill that creeps into your mind, suggesting that you might be enjoying this.

Surely not?

The stranger completely disregards your plea for freedom, continuing to explain the rules of his game. “If you manage to find me, then maybe I’ll grant you your wish and leave you be.”

There was something about that “maybe” that you didn’t entirely trust. It hinted at the possibility that he had no intention of letting you go once he had you in his grasp.

Slowly, you begin to walk yourself through the house, one ear attentively listening to your surroundings while keeping the phone firmly pressed to your other ear, listening to him call out the varying degrees of how hot and cold you were.

You’re on the verge of giving up, ready to confront him and call him out on his bluff. He’s not here; he’s been playing you, making you believe he is. But just as you’re about to make your move, a rustling behind you catches your attention. As you turn, you’re met with a towering figure standing above you. He’s dressed in an all-black ensemble and wears a ghostface mask.

“Surprise, princess!” he announces, raising the blade in his hand. As you try to pass him, he swiftly scoops you up with his free arm, capturing you in a tight embrace and pulling your back flush against his front.

“Tsk tsk, sweet little rabbit, where do you think you’re headed? Don’t you want to play?” He smirks beneath the mask, and you hear the sly grin seeping into his voice.

When you feel the cool metal blade against your cheek, you softly whimper, “Please…” desperately hoping to somehow escape this or at least beg this stranger to release you unharmed.

“Please,” he repeats your word back to you, his tone mocking. Before asking, his voice laced with a menacing undertone, “Are you scared, princess?”

He gently caresses the skin of your cheek with the flat side of the knife, causing your heart to quicken in your chest as it trails down your throat. You yearn to say yes, but you can’t bring yourself to admit your fear to him, especially not when you can already sense the intensity of his arousal pressing against your ass.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long,” he whispers, his mask tipping up slightly to reveal his lips. With a gentle yet firm touch, he presses rough, lingering kisses along your throat, making his first move in asserting his claim over you.

You wish for your body not to betray you as it currently is, feeling the heat rising in your stomach, which gradually spreads throughout. Your thighs press together in your pajama shorts, the fabric giving little cover.

Your mind reels from his words as you suddenly realize that this could be someone you know or someone who knows you, at the very least.

“Aww, listen to you whimper. Are your legs shaking too?” He teases, and you realize just how unsteady you are on your feet. His arm is the only thing keeping you firmly in place, as his twitching arousal rubs against you, and his hips rut in a way that provides him with a semblance of relief, even though he’s already fantasizing about how you’d feel wrapped around him.

You hadn’t even realized you were whimpering until he pointed it out. Now, you could barely silence yourself, only soft pleas falling between the quiet sounds. But you no longer knew what exactly you were pleading for—to be let go, to have something more. Especially now that a growing ache was forming between your thighs.

“I bet if I reach down, you’ll be soaked.” You shake your head in denial, but deep down, you know he’s right. No matter how hard you try to pull away or squirm against him, his hand won’t stop descending into the front of your shorts. His gloved fingers glide over the fabric of your lace panties, sending shivers down your spine.

He doesn’t stop there; instead, he pushes aside the fabric and presses a finger between your folds, applying a pressure you didn’t realize you needed to your clit. The pressure makes your hips buck, and instead of a whimper, a needy whine escapes your throat. His dark chuckle in response washes over you, and you feel a wave of shame for genuinely enjoying this.

The delightful sensation of his leather glove is so pleasurable that when he starts withdrawing his hand, it makes you whine, your hips instinctively moving to follow him.

“Look at you, you enjoy this, don’t you? Desperate slut.” His words are confirmed when he raises his hand, reveling in the wetness that coats his gloved fingers. To your surprise, he pushes them into your mouth, making you clean them off with a low growl of an order against your ear.

Beneath the mask he reveals in the sight of you and continues his mocking as he glides the blade of the knife along the front of your sleep shirt, just scraping the fabric. “Mm, you’re making this too easy. I had anticipated a fight. But no, you’re just a twitching mess.”

You despise yourself for loving it so much, for the gentle sounds emanating around his fingers and the way your cunt throbs with need, your arousal intensifying with his degrading words.

“Now, it’s time for some real fun.” He delights, pressing the tip of the blade against the fabric of your shirt. He twists it slightly before pulling it to tear, slicing it all the way up until the fabric is reduced to two hanging pieces at your chest. You gasp, feeling the cool air against your hardened nipples as he spreads the fabric further apart, intensifying your arousal.

Before you have a chance to comprehend what’s happening, he starts dragging you backward down the hallway and towards your bedroom.

When you reached the bedroom, he ordered you to strip completely. Now, he has your hands tied behind your back while you rub your soaking, wet cunt against the thick, black leather of his boot.

You want so intensely to hate this, to vehemently protest against him, yet every sound you make, every desperate shift of your hips, contradicts those thoughts.

Honestly, you’re enjoying this more than you’d ever dare admit.

“I knew you’d be a good little slut, just like you are in that video.” The mention of the video from him sends a wave of embarrassment across your already flushed skin, causing your eyes to dart away from him before he suddenly grabs your chin with a harsh grip, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Look at you, you’re gasping like a whimpering, bitch in heat. What’s got you so worked up? Is it me or the knife?”

From the corner of your eye, you catch the glint of silver from the blade, the one he’s been taunting you with. He traces it over your collarbone and throat, but not with enough force to cause any damage. The weight of it emphasizes the threat behind his words each time he promises to ‘slit your pretty little throat’ if you don’t follow his instructions. It’s what led you into this position, yet you find yourself desperate and needy, pleading for him to let you cum and even give you more because you’re aware of how far gone you are.

“Are you going to cum all over my boot like a good little slut?” he teases, and when you try to look away once more, you feel the unforgiving grip of his fingers in your hair, forcing your head back as he compels you to gaze upon him. “Do you need a reminder about not answering me, princess?”

You gasp when you feel the sharp, cutting sensation of the blade against your skin, at your collarbone. This time he’s applied enough pressure to create a small cut, a pool of blood forming. As he lifts the blade to show you the blood, he offers it towards your mouth.

“Lick it,” he commands, and you obey, your eyes wide with a mix of fear and lust. You watch him, fixated on the mask, as you roll your tongue over the flat edge of the blade. The warm metallic taste of your blood coats your tongue.

A moment later, he advances just enough to tilt his mask and press his lips against yours in a passionate exchange. His tongue forcefully enters your mouth, stealing and sharing the lingering taste of your blood, and you moan into his mouth in response. The taste of him is both familiar and electrifying, reminiscent of sweet watermelon halls.

When he breaks away, the mask is swiftly pulled back into place, thwarting any chance of catching a glimpse of your tormentor, but that concern becomes pushed aside when your mind grows clouded by the tight coil forming in your stomach as you careen closer to your climax. You almost don’t want to reach it, fearing the consequences of its end, yet also it being an acknowledgement of your enjoyment and present desire.

There’s no escaping the moment you start to crumble before him, not when you’re trembling and your moans are intensifying in volume.

“Come on, pretty little thing. Give me what I want. Make a mess for me.” He murmurs his encouragement, his eyes fixed on you behind the mask, locked onto the way your hips buck and you desperately grind against his boot, coating it with your arousal. He can sense that you’re restraining yourself and his fingers in your hair tug harshly, drawing your attention to him. “There’s no shame in it. No one’s watching except me. So cum for me, baby.”

It’s as if, on command, you follow his words and let go, feeling your body quiver as your release surges through you with a roaring heat, strained whimpers escaping your lips. You quickly feel yourself growing limp, your body exhausted as the adrenaline wears off, but you know that he hasn’t finished with you yet.

It’s as if you’re a doll, and he’s treating you like one, placing you on the bed and positioning you just the way he desires. You willingly submit, no longer resisting now because you don’t want to. You want this. Even after your recent orgasm, you feel yourself tightening around nothing, the overwhelming desire to be filled consuming you, and you’re certain that’s precisely what he’s going to do.

“Keep your legs spread wide for me, princess.” He says, pushing you down against the mattress as he shifts behind you. When you try to look up, you spot the mirror facing the bed and glance at your reflection. What a mess you are spread out for him—your ass pulled up and presented while your upper half is pressed to the mattress. In that moment, you realize he’s mimicking the position you were in, in the video.

“Please…” you whine, a gasp escaping your lips as you feel his gloved fingers gently stroke your wet folds.

“Hush, you’ll get exactly what we both know you want.” With his other hand, he strokes his cock, positioning himself behind you. His eyes scan your exposed body, taking in the way you tremble under his touch. “Oh, you’re soaking.”

Another whine escapes your lips, and you instinctively try to conceal your face with the flush of embarrassment. However, his gloved hand forcefully slaps between your thighs, right against your clit, causing you to yelp and lift your head.

“No hiding. I want to see you,” he warns, and your eyes dart to the mirror, where you catch a glimpse of his head turned. He’s watching you, and he wants to watch you while he’s fucking you. That sick bastard, you think, but perhaps you’re the sick one because you feel a strange thrill coursing through your body, your clit throbbing with anticipation at the thought of what's to come.

“So fucking wet,” he murmurs softly beneath his breath. As you feel the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, your hips shift, trying to push back against him and you feel his harsh grip holding you firmly in place. “God, you’re such a desperate little slut,” he taunts, chuckling darkly.

The tip of him feels so big against you, yet you crave more, yearning for him to fill you up, despite the pain it’s already causing to feel him pressing into you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he forcefully slides you, your walls stretching around him, struggling to accommodate him. A tear escapes and rolls down your cheek from the immense pressure he brings as he slides into you until he’s deeply buried, asserting his claim on you.

“God, you should see how well your pretty pussy is taking my cock.” He growls, gripping your hip firmly with one hand and the back of your neck with the other, pinning you down. He starts thrusting into you, his pace quickening with each stroke inside your tight walls.

The intense movement of his hips makes you cry out, sobs bubbling up your throat from the overwhelming pleasure as you feel him pounding deep into your stomach. “Please…” you choke out once more, unable to find any coherent words.

Did it hurt? Did it feel too good? Was it a delicious combination of both? Regardless, it already felt like too much for you to handle, and your fingers curl into your hands, still tied behind your back. It only makes it easier for him to grip onto you, forcing your entire body down onto the mattress as he slammed his hips against your ass.

“You feel so fucking good.” He groans, and you whimper, your body trembling from the intensity of another climax building within you. You can’t stop the tears that continue to fall; your sobs slip out between your moans, something he’s quick to notice. “That’s it, baby—keep crying for me. I want to feel those beautiful sobs as you come undone.”

That’s precisely what he experiences when you squeeze around him every time another sob rises in your throat, his cock throbbing within you. However, it’s just as he teeters over the edge that you follow, feeling him thrust himself deep into you as his cock twitches with the release of his warm cum, filling you—completely claiming you as his.

No amount of protest could have stopped him, especially since he never gave you any warning. Despite your whining and attempts to throw him off somehow, you’re pinned beneath him as he leans over you, caging your smaller frame beneath him. “Just take it,” he growls, making you feel even smaller as you tremble, unable to deny the way your own body falls apart with the knowledge that he’s cum inside you, filling you deeply, feeling the bulge of him in your stomach.

He remains buried inside you, twitching and throbbing as you squeeze him, as if holding him there, unwilling to let him go.

Neither of you moves, frozen in this moment. There’s a part of you that secretly doesn’t want to.

For a fleeting moment, your eyelids flutter, and your body succumbs to exhaustion. However, you’re jolted to your senses when you notice him raising his hand to remove his mask.

In the mirror opposite, you’re greeted by a familiar face that makes your stomach flip and your eyes widen. “Noah…” you breathe out, and he leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers,

“Surprise, princess.”

#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens smut #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #tw: dubcon #ghostface!noah #noah sebastian x reader #tw: knifeplay #tw: bloodplay #concretejunglefm fics

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suzukiblu · 2 days ago

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Day eighteen of “Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it” behind the cut. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Oh, well, I guess partially? Though I think technically just Impulse and your boy here did, but yeah,” Bernard replies with a shrug. Kon . . . maybe also tilts his head. Okay. Yeah. He remembers Nina Dowd. Like, goddamn, does he ever. Fondly, one might even say.

Specifically, like, he fondly remembers Mighty Endowed and her . . . “tracts of land”, was that how Tim had put it, as the ridiculous nerd he’d been and still is to this day?

Dork.

“God I’m still sad we didn’t actually get to fight her,” Kon mutters, shaking his head a little wistfully. “Worst missed opportunity that sixteen year-old me ever suffered, and I was sixteen for a minute.”

“I–you–Bernard!” Tim sputters. “How did you never mention that before?!”

“I dunno, babe, maybe ‘cause I’ve been pretending very, very hard to not know you were Robin?” Bernard reminds him with an amused grin, leaning in to lightly flick Tim’s nose. “And I felt like ‘oh hey did you know your buddies sent my one cousin to jail back when we were in high school?’ would maybe not be helpful with that?”

“Technically Rob was also there,” Kon says. “And we didn’t really do much anyway, mostly we were busy dealing with the Super-Cycle and its shitty ex-boss. Actually, did literally anyone ever figure out why good ol’ Nina got the whole hottie-with-a-body New-God-meets-anime-catgirl treatment and none of us did? Like, did we ever get the Cycle to explain that one to us?”

“I mean, are you sure you didn’t?” Bernard asks, looking him over meaningfully. Kon is not above preening for that. Very much so is he not above preening for that.

“. . . were you actually concerned about that at the time, Kon?” Tim asks. “Did that occur to you at the time and you just decided . . . what, not to worry about it?”

“Worst case scenario I coulda gone back to the Wild Lands, the beast-men probably woulda let me crash with ‘em,” Kon replies with a shrug, then takes another swallow of hot chocolate. God, it really is unfairly good. “Endowed got tiger stripes, right? I could rock me some tiger stripes.”

“I mean I dunno, would your buddy the prince be into tiger stripes?” Bernard asks in amusement.

“Technically he’s king now, actually,” Kon says. “Also he is a tiger, so I don’t see why not? Like, you’d think he'da been cool with that, right?”

Tim says nothing. Somehow his total silence comes out very feeling all the same, though. Kon spares him another nice sharp grin and licks some of the melted whipped cream and caramel off the rim of his mug. Tim puts a hand over his own face and very feelingly continues to say nothing.

“Probably wouldn’t need the collar anymore, right?” Kon muses “innocently” into his delicious chocolatey caramel-y goodness. “But maybe he'd lemme wear it for old times’ sake.”

“I changed my mind, you should’ve just asked Nightwing and Starfire what they get up to,” Tim says dubiously, giving him a deadpan look as he does, and Kon actually fucking giggles over that one, which is maybe slightly embarrassing but oh well, he’s done weirder. Like, literally fifteen minutes ago he was doing way weirder, in fact.

He kinda wishes Bernard’d get in the bed again, though. Dude’s kinda just been standing there, it makes him feel sorta rude or whatever. Admittedly Bernard getting back in this bed comfortably would necessitate some sacrifice of personal space and possibly someone ending up in someone else’s lap or at least real intimately pressed together, but . . .

Kon, very briefly, tries to imagine what it might feel like if Tim and Bernard pinned him between them the same way they’d fucked him together just to, like . . . cuddle, or sleep, or like . . . whatever.

. . . . . . . . . Kon needs to not imagine that right now, or his dick is going to have its own personal Mighty Endowed arc. Chances of accompanying maniacal catboy laughter pretty low, but still nonzero.

God, though, he really would like to–no, nope, that is weird shit, self. Very weird shit. “Time for a new train of thought” levels of weird shit, in fact. Maybe a couple new trains of thought, if need be.

“Jesus, you’re cute,” Bernard says, giving Kon a grin and reaching over to pinch his cheek, which should maybe feel ridiculous or demeaning but actually kinda just makes him wanna melt all over the dude.

. . . need might be, yeah. Kon swears to absolute fuck, if he gets Pavlov-ed into getting horny over getting called “cute”, he will have to go supervillain for at least the next six to eight months. Like, he will go out and get himself a black bodysuit and smack on some gold armor and/or accessories and just finally have his Black Zero era. He has literally never actually wanted to have a Black Zero era, but over that cheek pinch thing, he genuinely just might.

“I think you’re just projecting, man,” he says with a smirk, deciding to just hope he’s at least not blushing as hard as it feels like he’s blushing. Bernard grins wider at him and pinches both his cheeks this time, then flattens his hands against them and squishes them instead. Kon, unfortunately, has apparently gotten dicked down good enough that he just kinda lets the dude do it.

Jesus, he is way too easy, isn’t he.

#timberkon #timkon #timbern #konbern #kon el #conner kent #bernard dowd #tim drake #superboy #dc robin #wip: think pink #dom/sub

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kettleinusefornow · 2 days ago

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Rough ride..MDNI

CHAPTER 3

Sae Itoshi X Reader fic

Contains breakup and miscommunication

Revenge sex

Iceskater!reader

eventual happy ending </3

teenage love

ALOT of angst

CHP1 CHP4 CHPLIST

CHAPTER 3: Different Fonts, same insides

Sae’s POV

“Why is she here..? I can’t meet her right now.. Not after I just met Rin.” He thought to himself as she stood in front of him. The moonlight only did her good as it radiated the glow of her aura. Her gaze was sharp like the edges of glass shards.. The calculating coldness in her eyes drew him in. She showed a tinge of betrayal as she looked into his eyes. He felt as if there was swirling darkness in her that he couldn’t ignore, but the only thing that came out his mouth were razor sharp words.

“What do you want?”

Why did he say that? He asked himself that question. His time in Spain made him turn into a cold and miserable being. He didn’t find joy in having happy relationships with people when he found out how the world doesn’t care about who you are and only what you are.

She was visibly taken aback by his bitter tone. He isn’t.. He couldn’t have such a bright star in his dark world. It would only diminish her brightness. She was a princess and he was an ogre, that's something no amount of luck or power could change. She was an unattainable flower at the end of the cliff and was limbless farmer that could only dream of climbing the cliff. She still had that shine in her eyes that still had the ability to dream and stay unaware of the real world. Sae on the other hand.. He knew how it was to be confident in yourself only for it to be easily outshone by someone better than you.. He shouldn’t bring her down with him. He almost didn’t catch her calling out his name.

“Ca-can I come in?” God.. Her voice was like honey that was freshly harvested in the middle of spring, it was almost the same as it was 5 years ago.. She had the voice of a thousand sirens.. If you get too attached you would only end up getting drowned..

“Okay.” He wanted to push her away but he couldn’t.. He just had to let her in. She came in, clearly cold. He had no right to touch her and warm her up or scold her to wear more layers. He lost it a long time ago when he saw the real worth that he had.

She went into the living room and sat down on the couch where they had their sweet memories attached to it.. He wondered if she recalled them too. He sat across from her.

Seeing her could only bring the blissful memories of the past.

“Sae, why do you keep acting like you owe me something?“ Y/N suddenly asked him while laying on the patch of grass, freely basking in the sunlight of Sae’s backyard.

“Do you really have to make my kindness into some twisted meaning?” Y/N looked straight ahead at the sky while he looked at her as if she was an extraordinary beauty while replying to her in a calm tone.

“Well I don’t know! It just feels weird..” She grumbled while closing her eyes. Sae didn’t take his eyes off her. What felt weird? The way he looked at her as if she was the only one for him or the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off her even though she looked like a mess after playing in the mud all day? Young love is just so pure.

”The only thing that’s weird is the fact that you are wearing mismatched socks on grass! Weirdo..” Y/N sprung up looking at him with fire in her eyes. “You-!” She grabbed his collar but he swept her wrist and pulled her down onto him, right in front of his face.

“My fashion is just too complex for someone like you to understand!” She declared, clearly being offended. It was followed by silence after that, before erupting into laughter while Y/N fell back onto the grass grasping her stomach and laughing. Sae laughed too.. Of course he laughed. He was still a kid that was joyful in the past…

That laughter soon turned into silence again, Y/N spoke up. “Sae.. Do you think you’ll be different after you come back from Spain?” Sae pondered for a while before, “The only thing that’ll be different is the fact that I’ll be taller than you! And maybe you are meaner.” Well.. Sure their height difference was larger now but.. She wasn’t the one turned sour.

©kettleinuse4now | please do not translate, repost, refer without permission | don’t steal and say it’s your own (ahole behavior)

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avonne-writes · 7 hours ago

Text

Re: my superpowers au idea

@butternuggets-blog

If you have to live with the kind of condition Gale has been blessed - or cursed - with, you either learn how to shut the world out and focus inward, or you go mad. Needless to say, even as a kid, Gale wasn’t going to let all the strange voices he kept hearing take over his mind. He was determined to control it better, and, over time, he developed techniques that now allow him to only listen in on others' thoughts when he wants to.

With some exceptions.

See, there are many things he can ignore and let fade into the background murmurs of the world, but it's significantly harder not to let the sound of his own name capture his attention. It’s something he just learned to live with, something he accepted. Besides, not many people tend to think of him by name when he's in the vicinity anyway. Except for, apparently, John Egan.

It always gets Gale, no matter how he tries to keep it out. He could be eating his breakfast in the mess hall, shaving at the sink in their quarters, listening to the Colonel's briefing or reading before bed, and Bucky's loud thoughts would hit him out of nowhere, pushing their way past his defences and demanding his attention even though Bucky still doesn’t know anything about Gale's secret. Which is probably for the better. Gale isn’t ready to talk about the things he has overheard Bucky thinking.

Sometimes, the idea of telling him everything tempts Gale though. Like today, when all the excitement of arriving at Thorpe Abbotts made the men's loud thoughts battle each other in overwhelming cacophony. Gale gritted his teeth through it and locked it out as much as he could, but he still ended up with a horrible headache. A splitting pain at his temples that has him tossing and turning in misery in his newly assigned bed.

Thankfully, most of the others are still at the Officers' Club, celebrating their arrival, and the rest are sound asleep. To hear a dream, Gale would have to focus on entering the dreamer's mind consciously, and he has no desire to do that. It’s blessedly quiet in his mind. He closes his eyes and tries to let his thoughts sink into oblivion, the way his head sinks into the softness of his pillow.

But just as he starts feeling the pull of sleep, he hears it: Gale.

Bucky.

"Damn it." He mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He’s determined to pretend he's asleep in the hope that not having a partner to talk with will prompt Bucky to fall asleep faster too.

"...I gotta tell Gale. He needs to know. I'll tell him."

The thoughts reach Gale sooner than the sound of the door opening, and suddenly, the loud, nervous beat of his own heart joins the noise in his ears. Oh God. Does Bucky mean he wants to confess his feelings tonight? Despite all his efforts not to listen in on thoughts not shared with him willingly, Gale knows that Bucky has been sweet on him for quite a while now. Hell, with the way Bucky looks at him sometimes, he thinks he might have known even without the frequent litany of adoring thoughts pushing into his mind.

It's been difficult to handle that. No one has ever felt like this about Gale, and that's a fact. Gale knows for sure. And he wants to reciprocate - he does reciprocate, but he can’t help but fear that if he gives himself over to it fully, with his whole heart, he’s going to lose it all the first time Bucky thinks he’s falling out of love with him. And he won't even have the luxury of denial.

"There you are, Gale." Bucky's thoughts continue as he approaches Gale's bed. "Oh, he’s asleep."

For a moment, there's silence and it gives Gale hope that perhaps Bucky will keep his thoughts quiet tonight, but no such luck. A moment later, Bucky breaks through Gale’s usual mental shields by thinking of his name again.

"You’re so beautiful, Gale. Wish I could tell you, you know. My angel."

Even while faking sleep, Gale feels his cheeks heat up. He hears Bucky sigh, then the bed next to his creak under a weight sinking down on it. At this point, his mind is fully focused on Bucky, he can’t help it - he wants to know, he wants to hear it all.

"I missed you so much." Bucky thinks, wistful even though Gale's right there in front of him. "Missed your smile. Your eyes, your hair, your smell..."

For the next few seconds, Bucky's thoughts are a jumble of memories of him trying to breathe Gale's smell in and the intensity of his joy whenever he got to do it. Gale's face burns with it, knowing that he shouldn't have ever heard these thoughts, but he keeps listening. The warmth of Bucky's love is addictive.

"God, you have the prettiest lips. Lips of an angel, I swear. I wanna kiss them so bad."

Here, Bucky's thoughts wander again, going through all the moments he came close to kissing Gale, and Gale shivers as he remembers them with him. Finally, Bucky stops. For a disorienting moment, his thoughts become fantasy, and Gale sees himself the way he is right now, curled up on his side, his face smooth and relaxed. In Bucky's mind, he seems to glow like an actual angel, purer than Gale has ever been in reality. Bucky thinks about leaning down and imagines the softness of a kiss so vividly that Gale feels it burning on his lips.

He almost frowns when he hears a soft, smacking sound, but it clicks a second later, when clothing rustles and Bucky's thoughts become a deep, resonating please - Bucky has just kissed one of his rosaries.

"I love you." Bucky sighs again.

"I really shouldn't tell you, should I?" The flash of a B-17, then the memory of fear follows, but Bucky banishes the thought before Gale could make sense of it.

"I know. I won’t tell you. Let you have your peace until you see it for yourself." There’s more rustling, then the warmth of a hand comes to hover above Gale's face before it withdraws without ever closing the distance. "Sweet dreams, Buck. Sweet dreams."

Bucky moves away, getting ready for bed. He keeps thinking about Gale, a fantasy of him in a world where Gale loves him openly. Where he gets to climb into Gale's bed and wrap his arms around him. Under his thin blanket, Gale shivers again, then shuts his mind off to the outside world as much as he can. He tries not to wonder if there’s anything else Bucky's trying to keep from him besides his feelings.

With the quiet rumble of Bucky's mind just beyond his comprehension, he falls asleep.

#mota #gale cleven #john egan #clegan #buck x bucky #superpowers au #my writing

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skeletonh0e · 23 hours ago

Note

A little request relating to the weather I’m dealing with the rn.

The boys reacting to their first thunderstorm/tornado. Especially with a Y/N who is just used to them. Sleeps through loud ass storms and goes through the protocol for a tornado yawning. Not ignoring the boy’s distress(if they have any) but just very used to it themselves. 🌪️⛈️

Heard about the crazy ass weather, thankfully I'm on the other side of it. Ya'll stay safe out there.

Some of these boys are gonna be IN for it considering the underground does uh, not have tornados lol. Gender neutral reader

The boys vs the Weather

Classic Sans:

He's heard of storms yeah and even made his own little tiny tornado, but uh-

The weather in the underline hardly changes and everything here is so chaotic what in the god damn

He's composed but definitely a sense of worry there

The fact you remain so chill is extremely off putting to him at first but it helps as it can show him this isn't anything to panic over

Plus also probably a good idea one of you knows what to do

Asks for advice on how you manage to sleep so peacefully through them, he'd like to do too but he'll settle for snuggling up to while you sleep waiting for it to pass

Underswap Sans:

P A N I C

The magnificent Sans isn't ready for this! What gods have the humans offended to deserve this!?

You'll have to talk him down, but thankfully it won't take him too long to recover. Though he'll be a bit jump

Listens to you explain the precautions intensely, definitely having a game plan for next time

Probably starts an epic speech about you two being the ultimate power couple going through this then yelps when something hits the window

He'll just uh....stay close to you for now

Underfell Sans:

"What the fuck is this bullshit!?"

Honestly though less anger and more genuinely being flabbergasted

And you're used to this!? Really!? You're so weird what the fuck (you will have to deal with him bitching and complaining the entire time)

Grumpily takes some safety protocols and keeps a close on the progression of the storm as if trying to determine his own right move

He can handle it and learn to adjust the best probably but still grouchy a bit

Might use it as an excuse to day drink after its over (you could both probably use it depending on the storm tbh)

Underlust Sans:

Oh he doesn't like this at all

Not shitting his pants with fear or anything but he definitely is more on edge during the whole thing

Cool that you're used to this, but he's not. Don't mind him, just idly hovering close to you constantly double checking about everything.

He'll be kinda noisy and ask how you manage to stay calm, how many times have you been through these, blah, blah

Honestly keeping him distracted with conversation will help

Maybe listen to some music with him to block out the noise while you snuggle up, he might just be able to fall asleep with you

Horrortale Sans:

The fuck? Doesn't know whether to be impressed, concerned or just annoyed by the inconvenience of it all.

Whatever he's definitely sticking near you, protective primal instincts have been activated

Won't ask for it but probably also give him some reassurance, tell him things will be fine. He naturally has come to expect the worst outcome due to trauma.

Type to stare out the window with a blank expression, just watching the harsh wind tearing everything to shreds....it's a little concerning....

Silent for the most part but does occasionally ask questions and ask if you're okay

Glad you're calm but also wants be there for you too

Fresh Sans:

Here comes the hurricane bitch(tm) starts playing

Okay there's A LITTLE concern, less on his end and more for your own but the fact that you're just chill about it kinda puts him at ease

But ya know....he can dimension jump, you really don't gotta deal with it.

You don't wanna end up in Oz (though he'll happily be the wizard while you're dorothy or...the scarecrow?....or something idk the reference joke got away from him)

Might wanna keep an eye on him though as he gonna skateboard in a tornado if you ain't looking but also he like nearly completely indestructible so

Might hover over you while you sleep through an particularly extreme storm, a rare protective moment from him

Killer Sans:

Pretty.....

Like actually low key fascinated by storm and the sheer amount of destruction they cause, the type to watch the forecast of the outcomes the same way ppl might watch a light show

Maybe if you freaked out he'd be a bit worried but for the most part you seem to know what you're doing so-

As long as you aren't in any active harm or visible distress

He's content to just watch the storms and the panic they cause

Though of course he can always use his short cuts to get you out of there if worst comes to worst

Dust Sans:

Nooooope

Too much anxiety for this, the two of you are LEAVING

You're uh, kinda not given much of the choice in the matter.

If you insist on staying anyway, he might just let you with a huffy "have fun dying" before he storms off

Uh lil reminder none of the bad sanses are 100% healthy partners

He will actually come to your rescue if the storm is extremely severe to the point you might be in legit danger, but even ignoring that he'll do something to apologize non verbally. What kind of depends on how salty you are about it.

Nightmare Sans:

Also in the camp of "not dealing with this" and instantly drags you to his realm

If you try to stay, well here's the thing-

He's not asking

Also not the healthiest partner out there but this is all coming from a good place. Besides he's not wrong in that this is the easiest option

Stay in his castle, everything is handled.

Admittedly a little.....impressed? (For lack of a better word) by your abilitt to stay calm even during such extreme storms though even if he doesn't experience this side of you fully

#💀 the boys (group post)#sans x reader #underfell sans x reader #underswap sans x reader #horrorfell sans x reader #fresh sans x reader #underlust sans x reader #killer sans x reader #nightmare sans x reader #dust sans x reader #asks #requests

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141goblin · 2 days ago

Text

Soft: Chapter Seven

CW: Suggestive, slight manipulation and sneakiness behind the scenes, John Price being DOWN BAD for reader :3

A/N: damn this is picking up. ngl this chapter had me giggling and kicking my feet as I was writing it. Strap in...

The beers are cooling in the fridge, the crisps are in bowls on the coffee table and I have enough cigars to last me a week-- all the needed ingredients for a lad's night, when they come ‘round to watch the footy. It's something that keeps me sane since retirement, even though I would never admit it, the lads wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. It makes me feel like I'm still part of the team, still Captain of my team, still needed. The lads know that even if I don't say it. I need a little something extra to keep me sane these days, especially since there’s been nothing but radio silence from my big, soft, sweet girl. Every night before bed I type out a message, inviting her on a date, or simply just wishing her sweet dreams. Don't want my angel having nightmares, do we? But, the backspace gets pressed and the message is left unsent, don’t want to scare her off.

I’ve been hypothesising for the past few days as to why I haven't heard from her, and I’ve come up with the following possibilities: 1. She has a boyfriend.

2. She isn’t interested in me, (not bloody likely).

And that’s it. I hate both possibilities. I know for a fact that she’s interested in me. Not in the arrogant, ‘I'm a sex god’ way, but in the ‘I know women’ way. I saw that look in her eyes the other night, the subtle swirling of heat and wanting, the way she’d chew on her plump bottom lip as she sat there on that stone bench, poor baby lost in her thoughts. Thoughts of me. I saw that blush on her cheeks, I absolutely saw it. Either that, or it's my old age makin’ me think a pretty, soft woman wants me the way I want her when really, she might not ever want to see my ugly mug ever again.

There is an option I’ve been considering, the option that the ugly, impatient, eager part of me is leaning towards. Johnny’s bird is her best mate, right? I’m sure I could pull a few strings, get her address and drive over there under the pretense that I need my jacket back. My bloody jacket. Two weeks it's been there, collecting the scent of my beautiful girl, and just thinking about burying my face in it makes my mouth water and my chest ache. I wonder what she smells like when she hasn't doused herself in perfume like she had the other night, what would fill my senses if I pressed my nose to the softness under her jaw and inhaled? The back of her neck, maybe even between her tits.

The lads arrive and the usual routine occurs, muddy boots and trainers left at my front door, beer bottles on the coffee table, crisp crumbs in my carpet and echoes of banter and laughter, the soft hum of the football commentator filling my living room. It does everything to soothe my soul like it normally does; time spent with my brothers-in-arms, with good food and good beer. But as always, the woman has made a home in the cradle of my skull, like a little bird making a nest. I cannot get her out of my mind, and I’m not sure I want to. I decide to attempt to drown her out with a bit more booze, knocking back an extra beer or two, and attempting to wash her out, at least until I can get my hands on her. Of course, the bloody lads pick up on it, “You alright, Cap? Don’t normally see you drink more than three”, Johnny laughs, nudging me with his elbow. If anyone knows what's happening up there in the confines of my skull, it's him. I chuckle and nod, swirling the malty liquid around in the amber bottle before tipping the remnants of it into my mouth and down my throat.

“Oh, come off it. Can’t a bloke enjoy a few beers with the footy?”

That earns a few chuckles from the lads and it gets forgotten. But, I don't miss the knowing glance Johnny sends my way like he's already formulated a plan in that head of his. Good lad, Soap. Simon’s taught you well. The football game comes to an end-- 2-1 to Liverpool, and I get up from the couch to put the empty bottles in the wheelie bin out the front of the house and light up a smoke. The bottles clatter and ting as I empty them into the receptacle, the noise louder than I'd like. Don't know what my neighbours must think, hearing me empty glass bottles into my recycling bin two or three times a week.

I lean against the cold brick of my house with a cigar between my teeth, the end glowing red as I inhale before blowing it out into the night air. The beer has done nothing to quell my thoughts of her. If anything, it made it worse. It’s like she's taunting me up there, parading her pretty self around and telling me I'm not allowed to have her yet. Oh, my girl. Why must you torture me this way?

I'm pulled from my thoughts when I hear my front door opening and closing. I turn around to see Johnny, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket as he greets me with a nod. He knows I'm thinking of her, I can see it on his face. A silent message of ‘I know she’s up there, I can see her behind your eyes’. I give him a nod back and take a slow, heavy drag of my cigar, letting the smoke curl into ribbons in front of my face.

“How is she?” I rasp, not lifting my eyes away from my boots. I can practically hear the smile in Johnny’s voice, I don't need to look at him to see it. I see him shrug out of the corner of my eye.

“Don't know, Cap. Amelia hasn’t heard from her, or somethin’.”

I nod, boots kicking up some stones from my front path, like I'm making conversation, like it hasn't been clawing at my insides for two fucking weeks. Johnny’s bird hasn’t heard from her, which makes things more difficult than I thought. I thought they were supposed to be best mates? Fuck sake, why does this have to be so--

“Here.” Soap says with a grin that's softer than usual, slipping a scrap of paper into my palm. The corner of a notebook that’s been torn off and had something scrawled across it.

“Don't tell ‘er you got it from me, yeah? Ameila’ll kill me.”

I lift my open palm up and look at the piece of paper. Written on it is an address and I don't even have to ask to know who lives there. Good lad, Johnny. Knew you’d figure something out. I’ve never felt more like a teenage boy in my life, having to force myself to remain straight-faced and jumping up and down with the sheer excitement coursing through my body.

I tell the lads that it's time to call it a night, ‘Gotta see a man ‘bout a dog’, I tell them, and they understand not to ask questions. They’re out the door within ten minutes and then I'm in my bathroom, rummaging around for something, anything, that smells nice. I opt for a slightly expensive aftershave and some beard oil, rubbing it into my hands before running my fingers through my whiskers and-- Christ, when did my beard get so grey?

Without thinking twice, I grab my jacket and practically jump into my car. My thick finger keys her address into my SatNav, and I'm roaring down the street within seconds. It's time to finally get my eyes on my big, beautiful girl.

#john price #captain john price #john price x reader #call of duty #captain price #fanfic #cod modern warfare #modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #cod fanfic #fat reader

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crumblekitten · 1 day ago

Text

ImGonnaGetYouBack

luke castellan x fem reader

AO3 LINK

warnings: kissing, angst

words: 1.5k

whats on the ratio?: ImGonnaGetYouBack by taylor swift

Luke used to say he would never hurt you, you weren’t sure how true that was anymore.

“I don’t want you—us to keep getting neglected because of our parents. We don’t deserve it.” Luke pleaded, trying to open your eyes in a new light.

He grasped at your hands, moonlight shining on his scar. How simple things were when you snuck into the forest before this.

“The gods are my enemy. You… are still my sweet, naive girlfriend— you don’t get it now…” His words snapped you out of it, what?

Your hand gently touches his cheek as he’s basically on his knees in front of you right now tears start to swell in your eyes and your eyebrows are knit in sadness

He had never seen or heard you like this before…

His hands reached up to your own, cupping them in between his own and softly squeezing them, just as he always did when he hugged you; a comforting and loving gesture.

Luke’s face showed a mix of sadness, guilt, love and confusion. He was torn apart. What had he done?

You both stay like that for a few seconds though it felt more like a few hours and you just look at his eyes, the fireworks that camp sets off to mark the end of the summer are reflected in them and a soft smile crosses your face but your eyes are filled with love and sadness and maybe a little bit of betrayal

Luke could have lived in this moment forever. The feeling of your hands in his, the fireworks going around. He was entranced by the way they glittered your pretty eyes, making them a lot more pretty than usual. Your smile was captivating.

He wanted you so badly to see things his way. To join him, be on his side. Was he really that selfish? Luke didn’t care, as long as he had you by his side, everything would be perfect. “Please…” He whispered.

when he says that your mind flashes to a memory of when you had first met it was before you both had met Thalia or Annabeth you where in a dense forest pine trees around you Luke had a nasty gash on the side of his face from a monster fight and he wouldn’t let you help him with it “please…” when you had said that his eyes had softened and his gard slowly fell down and you started to clean and wrap the would and then your attention snaps back to the current moment and you trace the spot on his face where that mark was, now faded away and tears start to fall from your eyes

His expression changed as you touched his cheek, he knew exactly what you were thinking; the first time you and him had met, that tender moment when you’d stitched him up and he’d allowed you in. Gods… why did he give in so easily?

His hands gripped on your own tightly, pulling you close as he desperately tried not to break down again. That first meeting had changed his life, the first time he’d realised a mortal was worth the risk..

Luke leaned his forehead against yours, eyes shut and taking in the moment. The memories and the fireworks, the way you held him so easily without fear. He would give up anything for this feeling. You. He was a fool for not realising sooner.

He whispered, “I’m sorry…” as if those two words could make everything better again. Luke couldn’t face the fact that he was to blame, for all of this. In more ways than one.

“You know I can’t go with you” your eyes are still open and you take in Luke’s Cologne he smells like pine and musk

“Why? Why not?” His voice had a pleading tone to it, Luke desperately wanted you too. He wanted you to see through this all, see the big picture for what his cause really meant. For him.

Luke could smell the faint scent of strawberry from your hair. Gods, this reminded him of the many years where he’s held you close in the middle of the night, admiring the way you looked when you slept.

The fireworks sounded loud at their peak, echoing across in the camp and even the forest. Luke could hardly keep his focus, everything between them felt distant already— like nothing would ever be the same again. He couldn’t do anything but grip firmly onto your arms, desperate for answers and solutions.

“You know how it is… we’re never a priority for them. They’ll throw us away… just like everyone else. I know you don’t want to hear this but I won’t let it happen to anymore of us…”

“No matter how bad the gods are Kronos will be worse” your voice is gentle and your eyes are still filled with tears

“So you just want us to sit around, being forgotten about and eventually left behind?! Or worse ?” His voice hardened, the sadness and fear seeping into his voice. It stung him to think he couldn’t even convince his own girlfriend of the cause. What was the point of anything then? What was the point… What was the point of it all…

Your hands move to both sides of his jaw and I you whisper “I’ll love you till the end you know that right?”

“Don’t say that..”

He shuddered against your touch, tears threatening to fall again. The way you whispered that felt all too real right now— it felt like farewells and goodbyes to a past he loved too deeply. That memory of the first time you comforted him, the first time he felt he wasn’t alone.

He swallowed, trying to hold it together. What was wrong with him? He was stronger than this..

His hands moved on their own. Slowly wrapping his arms around your shoulder, pulling you into a tight embrace; He let out a breath, a mix of shaky breaths and choked sobs, his face buried in your hair. Gods. Everything hurt right now; the idea of losing you, the words you’d said, and the memories… He couldn’t get enough of you..

“I don't want to let you go..” His voice was muffled, the fireworks seemed far… too far from here

“whether I’m gonna be your wife or going to kill Kronos for this I haven’t decided yet.”

Luke would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t so dire. You were still trying to make the best of it, even in the worst situation like this. Gods, he loved how strong you could be..

He didn’t say anything to your comment, just holding closer onto you as if he was trying to memorise this moment. That strawberry scent, your hair, the way you felt like home.. This was what he had to keep himself grounded to.

You softly kiss him

His hands reached up to cup your face as you kissed him. There was a sense of urgency in the way his lips moved against yours. It almost felt like he was starved, like he’d waited all night for you. But in reality it had always been him.

The fireworks lit up the night sky as his arms wrapped around your waist, holding you closer. Luke parted his lips, wanting to deepen the kiss..

“I haven’t decided if I’m going with you yet…”

The fireworks lit up the campsite behind you but Luke could only think of you— the way your lips felt against his, the way your breath hitched when he pulled you closer than before.

The son of Hermes slowly broke the kiss, panting, breathless and staring deep into your eyes. It took a lot of restraint for him to stop himself, to not keep kissing the girl he loved. The girl he loved….

And there it was. The weight of everything was brought back to him.

”but whether it’s handcuffed or not I’m leaving here with you” and you smile at him

This time Luke didn’t hold back the tears. He buried his face into your neck as he sobbed, everything spilling out.

Every moment he’d ever spent with you played on a loop, that first interaction at camp and the many times he’s held you close, how he’d fall hopelessly for you and realise how much he’d risk for you..

“I love you. I love you so deeply.. I don’t deserve you—“

The fireworks continued to boom outside and the whole camp was celebrating the end of summer— it was ironic. Luke was crying and holding his girlfriend close to him— as if his world was falling apart when the real world was going off with a bang outside.

Luke’s sobs eventually died down, the fireworks ended as well, and he sat quietly, clinging onto you for the whole night as he couldn’t let go..

As the night wore on, Luke’s grip on you slowly loosened, and he was fast asleep on your shoulder— his arm still loosely around you, not leaving just yet. The night of fireworks and tears had been a lot, and he needed this rest. He was still clinging on, even when asleep.

What would the morning bring, for this relationship that would never be the same again..

You just sit there in the woods and hold him not wanting to wake him up “I’m gonna get you back for this castellan…”

#luke castellan #percy jackson #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan smut #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan angst

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