#twitterpation

[kwistowee]

😍 SET IT UP (2018)

[bugcasino]

pov: your hot LA date lends you his shirt and you’re feeling pretty groovy about it

[zepskies]

Smoke Eater - Part 5

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

🔥 Series Masterlist

Word Count: 5,000 Tags/Warnings: Fluff, house fire, perilous situations, angst, hurt/comfort 

Part 5: “Twitterpated”

“Hey there, beautiful,” Dean said.

His voice alone was enough to cause a shiver tingling down your spine.

You couldn’t help but giggle as he once again drew you into a kiss. He held you close by the waist. Feeling his hands spanning your lower back was doing things to you, but you knew you had to keep a level head here.

“Dean,” you said. Your lips curved against his. “We’ve said hello about three times now.”

“Wanna make it four?” he suggested. His voice was deep as sin.

Damn this man, you thought. He was a professional flirt.

But you laughed, and he smirked at the sound. He resisted letting you go when you playfully tried to pull away. The two of you were standing in the middle of your small office, in front of your desk at work. A large bag of takeout was perched on your desk, but neither of you cared about food just yet.

Dean liked the look of you in your navy blouse, tucked into a trim pair of pants, down to your smart heels.

“Tell me you didn’t go up all 20-something flights of stairs in those daggers you got on,” he remarked.

You followed his gaze down to your heels.

“Oh no,” you said. “I’ve got a backup pair of sneakers that I came to work in. Then I slip these on behind my desk. No one’s the wiser.”

Dean enjoyed that playful little smirk you gave him. He still couldn’t believe you’d walked all those stairs, but he guessed he couldn’t begrudge you for your lingering fear of elevators.

“Yeah? What else do you get up to behind that desk? Besides work, that is,” he teased. You guffawed and playfully hit his arm.

He chuckled and finally released you. You’d already dragged a spare chair next to yours behind your desk, so he began helping you unearth the various containers in the bag he brought. All the while, he surreptitiously took an inventory of your office.

It was all very neat and organized, just like you. You had a large window right behind you, which let in some much-needed natural light. There were tile floors, like the rest of the building, but while your desk was an old wood, clunky thing, you had a double monitor setup with an organized file system on either side.

As you pushed things aside and made room for the food, Dean noted the way stray pieces of hair fell from your clip, framing your face. He itched to take that clip out and make that hair wild, maybe even wrapping it around his hand.

Instead, he reached out and tucked a few strands behind your ear. It earned your attention with a soft blush.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’,” he grinned. He was treated to one of your shy smiles as you continued in your task.

Soon you and Dean were once again sharing good food and conversation. You explained what you did for work, being a Senior Sales Representative at Savage & Co. He listened, offering interjections here and there: gems like, Josh sounds like a fucking idiot. And, so does your boss. You couldn’t disagree.

In the back of your mind, it was still a bit strange for Dean to be in your office. It felt rather intimate for a second date, but you supposed coming to your place of work wasn’t so new to him.

“You sure are killing that chicken,” Dean remarked, as he watched you carve into a large drumstick with fork and knife. He shot you a teasing smile. “You know it’s already dead, right?”   

You gave him a dry look, despite your amusement. “I’m starving! All I’ve had today is a cup of coffee.” 

He frowned at that. “What, you can’t take a break for an egg McMuffin?”

“Ha!” you cracked, and took a sip of lemonade. “There are no breaks around here.”

Dean hummed, though you could see he didn’t like it.

“You sound like Sam,” he said.

“Oh, your brother?”

“Yeah, Mr. District Attorney,” Dean said in a mocking voice. But his smile betrayed his fondness, and his pride for his younger brother’s accomplishments.

You remembered then that Dean’s father was a police officer as well—a real life homicide detective! You ruminated on that when you and Dean moved on to dessert. You had a scoop of frozen yogurt, while he started to dig into a slice of blueberry pie.

“You know, it’s amazing to me that your entire family went into public service, from all angles,” you said. “It’s impressive…and really noble, actually.”

Dean offered you a quirk of a smile. It told you he wasn’t typically one to be comfortable with praise, as he carded a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, well. It’s a living,” was all he said.

You shook your head with a smile. His humility seemed genuine, and you found it endearing as hell.

“And you’re the eldest, right?” you asked. Dean nodded around a mouthful of pie. He set down the little tray between you for a moment.

“Yeah, though you wouldn’t know it looking at my brother. Around sixteen, he shot up like a damn weed. Friggin’ gigantor.”

You giggled at the image. Now you were truly intrigued, and hoped to meet both Sam and Dean’s father in the future. Though for right now, you glanced down at the slice of pie resting between you, all glossy blueberry filling and flaky crust.

You raised your cup of frozen yogurt to him. “Wanna try a bit of this, so I can try a bit of that?”

You went for a piece of pie with your fork, but Dean snatched the tray out of reach. He eyed you with a bit of admonishment.

“Hey, now. I got you your fake ice cream or whatever,” he said. You rose brow at him, both incredulous and amused.

“What, you won’t share with me?” you asked.

A smile twitched at his lips, but he stayed firm.

“Sweetheart, I’ll get you whatever you want, but here’s where I draw the line.”

You laughed in disbelief. But then an idea made your smile slide into flirtation. You set your dessert aside and rolled your chair closer to his. Dean watched you as your hand slid up his arm, and your pretty eyes met his.

“Okay, what if I make it worth your while?” you posed.

He tilted his head. His hand found the curve of your waist and slid around, bringing you even closer.

“Oh, yeah?” he challenged. “If you really want my pie, that’s gotta be damn worth it.”

Another giggle bubbled in your throat, but you continued to play your part.

“I have a few ideas,” you said. Your fingers drew a path down his chest, over the soft gray Henley he wore. You could feel the warmth of his skin underneath, and the firmness of his body. His grip on your waist tightened a fraction.   

And he smirked. “Tell me…”

Your lips were a whisper from his. He smelled like spicy cologne and blueberries. Two of his fingers came to brush your hair away from your cheek…

But as usual, your boss had the absolute worst timing. The sound of your office door opening was like a gunshot ringing through the room, making you and Dean separate from one another with a jolt.

Nick Savage strode in without knocking, as he was wont to do. (No matter how many times you asked him not to.)

“Hey, what’s your progress on the Greenway account…oh,” said Nick, pausing where he stood.

He took note of Dean in the room and straightened his posture. His expression changed from its lazy gait, to a more tightened one. You swore you could spot a tinge of annoyance as well, like he was surprised that he hadn’t caught you alone in your office.

“I see I’m interrupting,” he said.

Holding in a sigh, you looked over at Dean and found him similarly assessing Nick.

“This is Dean. You might remember him from last week, when the elevator broke down. He’s one of the firefighters who got me out,” you said. Your hand fell on your companion’s arm. “Dean, this is—”

“Her boss,” Nick said. He seemed to lighten up and give Dean a smile, reaching over to shake the man’s hand. Dean obliged him.

“So I’ve heard,” he said. His tone was pleasant enough, but still more reserved.

Nick purposefully shifted his attention back to you.

“Report? Greenway account?” he repeated.

Your lips firmed into a line, though you slipped back into the professional patience you had to maintain at all times with this man.

“I’m still on my break, but I’ll have the report to you by end-of-day,” you said.

Nick tsked at you with a shrug. “How’re you gonna get that account locked down if you’re not trying to conference with Mr. Greenway? He’s headed to China in two hours.”

You had to reign in an annoyed tick in your brow. But you didn’t notice how Dean was watching the exchange between you and your boss with a thinly veiled frown.

“I’ve called three times, Nick. He’ll get back to me.”

“Hmm. I wonder if Josh is taking that same approach,” Nick wondered with mocking sincerity. “I’ll go ask him.”

He finally turned to leave, though he stopped short, giving Dean a lazy salute. “Nice to meet you…”

“Dean,” he reminded. 

“Right.” Nick slid a pointed finger your way. “Greenway. 2:00 p.m.”

You were silently simmering by the time your office door closed behind him. 

“Well, he’s a delight,” Dean remarked.  

“He’s a dick,” you huffed and tossed your napkin down. But you grabbed your desk phone to make a quick call—to Mr. Greenway.

Dean frowned, but he covered it up by wiping his mouth with a napkin, subtly clearing his throat.

“I should head out then, let you get back to work,” he said. 

His words made you pause. You had a reply ready on your tongue, that his suggestion was probably for the best.

But then you actually looked into his eyes. Guilt prickled in your chest as you realized what you were doing. Not only were you letting Nick get under your skin again, but here was a man who’d brought you lunch. Who was willing to sit in an uncomfortable chair to spend some time with you, and you were about to brush him off.

You hung up the phone without dialing. 

“No. I’m sorry. Stay, please,” you told him, and grabbed his arm to keep him in his seat. You pushed your desk phone away with your spare hand and gave Dean your full attention, along with a smile.

“Where were we?” you asked.

Finally, Dean’s reserved expression eased as he relaxed in his chair, and subtly leaned towards you. He thumbed at your cheek with a smirk.

“I don’t know, something about making it worth my while.”

You bit your lip on a deeper smile.

“Oh, yeah,” you nodded. You crossed the ever-closing distance to give Dean a proper kiss. Your hand found his cheek, and your thumb brushed back and forth across the stubble there. You tasted sweet, sweet pie on his lips. 

Even after you parted softly, Dean went back in for a second taste of you. This time it was deeper, as he angled into the kiss. He once again brought you close, just shy of dragging you into his lap.

His hand reached behind your head and succeeded in taking the clip out of your hair. He tossed it on your desk and sunk his hand into the soft strands while his lips continued to devour yours.

It was a small move, but you found it both soothing and exhilarating. You shuddered when you felt his fingers brush the back of your neck. It had you contemplating locking the door of your office and forgoing the rest of lunch…but your mind was competing with your heart, warning you to be cautious. To protect yourself. 

Really, you’d just met Dean. You had no idea what to expect here, even though your heart was tripping up over his slightest touch.

Still, your face was warm when you eventually parted from him. You chanced meeting his eyes, and you blushed further at what you saw.

The truth was, Dean had been contemplating laying you out flat across your desk. But he tried his best to keep it down to a simmer behind his eyes, a bright and gleaming green.

“Worth it?” you asked. Your voice was a mere whisper, despite your smile.

He returned it, and gave you one last kiss.

“So worth it,” he said. 

Dean wasn’t sure he liked this.

The start of his shift was usually the time for him to be relaxed, but focused. He knew who he was and what he needed to do when he entered the firehouse. It was his second home, perhaps even the place where he felt most comfortable.

And yet, he nearly burnt his hand while pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Shit,” he muttered. He jolted and hopped back a step as scalding brown liquid splashed between his feet. It had Benny and Meg looking over from the common room, where they sat at the dining table.

Dean looked at the mess he created and tried not to sigh. He wasn’t awake enough for this…or maybe, he didn’t want to admit that he’d been thinking about you.

Your smile, your eyes, your voice, your occasional shyness, versus the way you dealt with your boss like a pro. Your confidence that was damn sexy, and had Dean imagining what you’d be like taking his orders, or giving them right back, shoving him down into a seat, straddling his thighs, his hands hiking up your skirt…

Dean shook his head a bit sharply to try and clear it.

He circled into the kitchen in need of a paper towel. But he bumped right into Jack, who was making breakfast. It sent the salt canister flying out of his hand and dumping into the pan of eggs.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry,” Dean said. He really did sigh this time. Now they’d have to wait even longer for breakfast.

“Uh, it’s okay. I can save it,” Jack said, though his brows were furrowed as he contemplated just how he was going to do that. He took a wooden spoon and tried to scoop out the mound of salt on the still-sizzling eggs.

Meanwhile, Dean’s lips pursed as he went over to grab a few paper towels. Once the mess by the coffeemaker was clean, he poured himself a tall cup and took a seat between his friends. Benny shot him a glance as he sipped at his own mug.

“You all right, brother?” Benny asked.

“Just fine,” Dean replied. He tried to sound breezy, but neither Benny or Meg bought it. She eyed him with a smirk.

“Heard you went on a date the other night,” she said. “A real one, with chocolates and flowers and all that shit.”

Dean shot her a sharper frown. “Who the hell told…oh. Perfect. Goddamn it, Cas.”

He should’ve known that big-mouth bastard couldn’t be trusted.

“Nope,” Meg said. Her eyes were dancing mischievously, and Dean knew he was in for it this morning. “Your little girlfriend is best friends with my cousin.”

She tossed a sly look at Benny. “You remember Andréa. You two were sucking face hardcore the other night. And giving quite a show to the local pedestrians. Have you called her yet, by the way?”

Benny cleared his throat, but he looked both unrepentant and tight-lipped about his business as he stayed sipping his coffee. Dean shot him a smirk. Until Meg directed her cutting gaze back to him.

“And you,” she said, just as slyly. “Dating your own damsel in distress. How fucking predictable.”

Dean’s lips firmed into a line, while Benny’s brows shot up.

“You really went for it with Elevator Girl?” he remarked in surprise. “I saw you two talkin’, but didn’t think you’d pulled the trigger.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “All right, first of all, let’s stop calling her ‘Elevator Girl.’ She’s got a name.”

Once he’d told them your name, however, their smiles deepened. And Dean knew it was about to be a long shift.

“Ooh, he’s got it bad, bad,” Benny shook his head.

Meg made a “cute” face at him and reached out to shake Dean’s chin, smirking when he slapped her hand away.

“Look at him, all twitterpated,” she teased.

“I’m fine,” Dean all but gritted out. 

Benny chuckled, but truthfully, he was happy for his friend. It seemed the time had finally come when Dean Winchester was hooked on a nice girl. Hopefully one he intended to keep seeing.

“If it’s that serious, you should bring her by the Roadhouse again,” Benny said.

Dean snorted into his coffee. “Yeah, like I’d want to subject her to you degenerate clowns.”

“Well, if you expect to keep it going with this girl, she’s gotta meet us eventually,” Meg pointed out. Dean shot her a look.

“Oh, she’s definitely not meetin’ you,” he said.

Meg’s brows knit together. “What? I’m perfectly pleasant.”

Before Dean could utter a retort, a familiar alarm bell tolled on the intercom speakers. There was a working house fire over in Bellmont—the wealthier part of town. Truck 79 and Rescue Squad 5 were called, along with Ambulance 7.

All hands on deck.

“Okay, Jack. You’re staying on my ass once we get in there. You got it?” Dean told the Candidate.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Jack agreed. It was only his second real fire since he joined Firehouse 25.

By now the team was in full gear, with jackets and helmets and belts. The Chief, Bobby Singer, was at the helm. He and Dean shared a nod.

“All right, Dean. Head in. Lafitte and Ramirez will vent the roof,” he said. 

Dean nodded again. “You got it, Chief.”

While two of his team got the firehose ready, Dean fitted his mask over his face. Already the fire was at a full blaze. They had a limited time before the fire grew too wild to safely maneuver. They’d know when the flames started smoking black. The Chief would let them know on their walkie talkies, and Dean would have to pull his team out.

But first, there was a family of four trapped inside the large two-story house. He fully intended to get every single one of them out.

Thanks to the mask, he could hear his own deep breaths in his ears as he entered the house. A quick look back confirmed that Jack was on his heels, and Gordon was right behind him.

“Okay, clear each room. I’m going right, through the kitchen,” Dean called out the order.

“I’ll take left through the living room,” Gordon replied.

Dean shot a thumbs up. “Copy that.”

Then they got to work.

The flames were high and eating up the walls of what would’ve been a pristine open kitchen. The room was clear, so Jack and Dean kept moving forward until they reached a long hall. They had to hasten single file until Dean opened up the first bedroom with his crowbar.

“Fire Department, call out!” he shouted.

He didn’t hear anything, but that didn’t mean the room was clear. It was a child’s room, a girl if he had to guess. There were stuffed animals strewn across an unmade bed with pink bedsheets. He checked the closet while Jack looked under the bed. Neither man found anything.

“All right, moving on. First bedroom clear,” Dean said into his walkie talkie. “Going upstairs next.”

“Master bedroom clear,” Gordon commed in.

Jack and Dean continued to the second floor, where the flames were thickest. It was getting harder to see, and even harder to breathe, despite the mask.

“We’re almost outta time, fellas,” Bobby radioed.  

“Just a couple more rooms, Chief,” Dean responded. The first and second bathroom was clear, as was a linen closet in the hall. He had a feeling about this last room though.

He opened the door and nearly got a flaming piece of wall dropped on his head. He jumped back at the same time Jack helped pull him to safety.

Dean breathed deeply. He didn’t have time for thanks, but he reached back and pat Jack on the arm before he entered the bedroom. It was another child’s room, this time for a boy—with green walls, and a school uniform on the back of a chair.

“Fire Department!” he said, though it nearly died on his tongue at what he saw.

There in the far corner, on the other side of the twin bed, was a man kneeling on the floor. He was doing his best to cover his wife and kids. His back was charred beyond recognition.

Dean snapped to attention when he heard one of the kids whimper.

“Fire Department,” he repeated, as he rushed to them. He and Jack peeled the man off his family as carefully as he could. Dean hauled him onto his shoulder.

Meanwhile, the man’s wife was crying and holding her children as tight as possible: a boy that looked about 10 years old, and a young girl. The mother’s glassy eyes widened with hope when she saw Jack and Dean.

“We’re gonna get you out. Come on,” Dean reassured. His hand on her shoulder was both supportive and urging her up onto her feet. Jack helped get her kids up as well.

Gordon joined them as soon as they were out of the room. He picked up the boy while Jack carried the little girl, and Dean had an arm wrapped around the mother while he still carried the father on his shoulder. 

They made it out of the house just before the ceiling started to cave in at the doorway.

Meg and Chuck were waiting for them with a gurney, where Dean carefully laid down the man he carried. His wife hovered close with her kids as Meg began calling out instructions to her partner, trying to take the man’s vitals, all while they wheeled him towards the ambulance.

Just before they would’ve brought him up into the ambo, Meg halted them with a hand. Her other gloved hand was poised at the man’s wrist. She listened closely for a few more seconds in concentration…

And she sighed through her nose. She removed her stethoscope and met the wife’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

Dean’s heart fell into his stomach, but he held the woman as she fell apart. Jack and Gordon did the same for the kids. Behind them, the rest of the team were dousing the flames and black smoke consuming the house with the firehose. Chief Singer let out a heavy breath, but he continued issuing orders as needed.

Dean stared at the pale, soot-stained face of the man he’d failed to save. The woman’s cries rang in his ears, and he continued to support her as she fell to her knees and gathered her children close.

He understood their pain.

Not for the first time, he wondered what his father must’ve felt…the day his mother died.

Dean was a seasoned firefighter. He’d seen enough of the horrors this world could produce, and he had an internal catalogue of shit he’d rather forget. But he knew, as he later got back onto the truck for the long ride back to the firehouse.

He knew this day would be another one to be imprinted on his memory.

“You’re quiet,” Sam noted. He ate dinner in relative silence with his brother, in the apartment they shared. Dean met Sam’s eyes.

“Long day,” Dean eventually said.

Sam didn’t like the sound of that. Before he could probe further, Dean’s phone vibrated on the small dining table.

Dean slowly reached for his phone and saw the new text message, from you.

Hey, thanks again for lunch yesterday. Hope I get to see you again soon. ❤️

It briefly lightened him, almost bringing a smile to his face.

It soon fell, even though his thumb hovered over the keyboard to reply. His mind was blank. Right now, he couldn’t think of a damn thing flirtatious, or charming, or even human enough to say to you.

“Dean,” Sam said, earning his attention. “What’s wrong?”

Again, Dean hesitated. He blew out a slow, heavy breath and sat back in his seat. He ran his fingers roughly through his hair as he thought and thought.

But if anyone might’ve understood where his head was at, it was his brother.

“What do you think would’ve happened if Mom had made it out of the fire, instead of Dad?” Dean asked.

To say that question shocked Sam would be an understatement. Yet to his credit, Sam internalized most of his reaction. He tilted his head as his brows furrowed.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. Dean’s question was impossible for his mind to even wrap around; mostly because he never got the chance to meet his mother. The house fire claimed their home when Sam was barely six months old.

All he knew was his father, and Dean.

Dean shook his head and wiped a hand over his mouth, an anxious gesture Sam knew well. 

“She would’ve been just as messed up at Dad, but…I don’t know. Ignore me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying.”

“What made you think about that?” Sam asked.

“Today,” Dean said. Though he paused, he managed to say it. “It was a house fire. A mom and two little kids, boy and girl. Their dad just laid over ‘em, took the brunt of it.”

“Jesus…he didn’t make it, did he?” Sam deduced, from Dean’s eyes and his tone. Dean shook his head slow. 

“I’ve seen a lot of shit, Sammy, but…”

This was why Sam worried about his brother. He admired the hell out of him, but he also worried. 

Sam had a ring in his nightstand. He’d picked it out last month. Part of him was hesitating to move forward, not because he thought his girlfriend of three years would say no to marrying him, but because he didn’t want his brother to be alone.

“You don’t have to look at me like that. I’m okay,” Dean said, levying him with a knowing look. His lips gave a wry turn. “Nothing a couple shots of Jameson won’t cure.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, that’s what you need.”

“Right. Like I haven’t caught you up late with your mistress, Johnny Walker,” Dean tossed back.

Sam’s lips pursed, but the point was made. He spent his days putting murderers, drug dealers, rapists, and thieves on trial. Some days were darker and more unreal in their realism than others. And he could only burden Eileen so much.

Still, he didn’t like the look of Dean, who got up from the table and took his half-full plate of spaghetti to the sink.

Dean went up to his room and showered. He’d done so at the station, but showering was one of those methodical things he could do to try to ease his mind, besides working on his car. It provided an alternative to drinking. 

But it didn’t work this time, as he knew it wouldn’t. He lied in bed after getting dressed, just staring up at the ceiling. 

He checked his phone and saw your text, still waiting on an answer. He hesitated…but his thumb hovered over your name. He called you instead.  

“Hey,” your soft voice greeted him. You sounded surprised to get his call, but also a little sleepy, like you were on the verge of going down for the night.

“Hey, yourself,” Dean said. “Sorry, were you about to get to sleep?”

“No, I’m awake. What’re you up to?”

“I’m home. Been a long day,” he admitted. 

“Yeah?” you asked. “Dean, are you okay?”

He heard the perceptive shift in your tone. Against his best efforts, he should’ve known you would pick up on the threads of his mood. But he smiled at the sincerity in your voice. True concern. 

“Yeah. I’m good, sweetheart. How’re you?”

“Uh-uh. Not so fast,” you replied. “…Did something happen at work today?”

He sighed. “Yeah, but uh…we don’t need to get into it. It’s okay.”

“You sure?” you asked. “I’m a good listener.”

“That you are,” he said, with a deeper smile. “You know what’ll help me?”

“What’s that?”

“Tell me, how bad did you wanna knuckle-dunk your boss’s teeth in today?” 

“Oh my God. On a scale of 1 to 10?”

“Lay it on me.”

“20,” you replied. “You met him, so now I can tell you without exaggeration. He’s the Chief Asshat among asshats.”

Dean chuckled. It crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“What’d he do this time?”

You explained your latest frustrations. Then you continued to make him laugh with all the creative ways you’d imagined ending your boss for his dickish behavior, demanding reports, pitting you against your coworkers, being a general pain in the ass. 

The rusty can opener in the break lounge was Dean’s personal favorite. 

Hearing about your day, and the colorful adjectives you used, managed to lighten him. For a little while, it even took his mind off his troubles. And you admitted that venting to him about your violent fantasies was its own form of therapy. 

“Damn, do I gotta worry about you?” Dean teased. 

“Only if you get on my bad side, Lieutenant,” you said. Your voice was nearly a purr.

It had him smirking, with a tendril of heat lacing down the back of his neck. 

“All right, then. I promise I won’t make it a habit,” he said. “Gotta keep you nice and sweet for me.” 

You laughed then, in a way that had him imagining your pretty smile. 

He ended up talking with you about everything and nothing, well into the night.

AN: 🥹 *sighs* Anywho, I know this chapter was a little shorter than usual, but I hope you got a kick out of Dean's first meeting with Nick. And we got a snapshot of an unfortunate "bad day" at the firehouse.

In Part 6, we'll get deeper into the murder mystery, along with a taste of jealousy...

Next Time:

“Uh, no, that’s okay,” you said. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“What?” Gordon asked.

It was getting busy in the bar, making it loud enough that you could understand why he hadn’t heard you. You leaned over towards his ear.

“I’m good for now, thanks,” you said, raising your voice a bit. Gordon leaned in even closer and chanced resting a hand above your knee.

“You sure?” he asked. He gave you a smile that was all smooth sex appeal and confidence, without being arrogant. It was undoubtedly attractive, but you were more shocked than charmed in your blush.

You instinctively leaned back when you felt his hand on your thigh.

Keep Reading: PART 6

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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[babs-babbles]

I was bullied into finishing this

[cambriancrew]

Gotta love (/heavy sarcasm) the universal rebuttal to the plurality chapter in the Transgender Mental Health book: "being trans doesn't make you plural."

Absolutely no one is saying that. The book doesn't say that. We're not sharing the book claiming it says that. We even this time said outright why there's a chapter on plurality in a book on transgender mental health care, paraphrased from the first page and the screenshot we shared: there's a lot of trans people who are also plural and plurality complicates gender related care.

Yet it's dismissed without even glancing at it, despite us sharing it Because they were asking for proof that psychologists support endogenics.

If you don't intend to take answers seriously, don't ask the question.

[cyberdragoninfinity]

me last year: i think it'd be funny if dennis and yuri had a little gay thing going on

me after hearing these dennis duel links voicelines: OH OK SO DENNIS WAS IN LOVE WITH YURI. OK.

[malachimoet]

I ship these two so hard you have no idea.

[celestialowlbear]

Excuse my crappy screenshots but - can we all just appreciate this man? 🫶

[dailyayao]

[foxtophat]

Agent Stone makes a big purchase without consulting the Doctor.

what a way to start the new year, by adding to a fic i haven't touched in 2.5 years!!!! sonic 3 did a fucking number on me and i needed to get this shit out there ASAP. stobotnik is precious to me, and agent stone being a little freak is even moreso.

as usual, please leave a review telling me how much of a little freak stone is, and uhhh happy new year???

fic transposed under the cut for those without ao3 accounts

Work Text:

Stone has never felt as comfortable in his own skin as he does here, hidden away in Robotnik's nondescript satellite laboratory. They're as far away from prying eyes as a two-hour commute to the capitol will allow, and besides him, there's only the doctor, a few nameless technicians, and the occasional clandestine meetings with government officials. Unhindered by expectations from lesser people, Stone has finally found his voice. No more hiding his excitement for messy jobs behind a grim facade of patriotic duty. No more doublespeak, no more pretending. It's a wonder what a little privacy and good company will do for a man.

Speaking of good company — Stone doesn't know where he'd be if it weren't for the doctor. He'd worried before they met that it would end as it always does: with the object of his fascination finding him off-putting and ultimately sending him back into the pool of nameless government lackeys, adding another witness for his inevitable ICC trial. He'd feared that the doctor's reputation was all smoke and mirrors; that he too would have a line Stone would eventually cross. But instead of drawing lines, Robotnik is only ever interested in pushing them: sometimes to see how far Stone might go and other times, just to prove a point.

For the first time, a person hasn't let Stone down. He's as cold, callous and intelligent as the reports implied, with all the psychopathic traits that make for a perfect leader. His engineering skills are beyond compare, and every task put before him is conquered with ruthless efficiency. What's more, he isn't ashamed by any of it. He revels in being better than everyone else.

He's everything Stone has ever wanted and more. Not only is he a proud super genius with a fiery passion and no moral compass to speak of, but he's also tall, handsome, and brutal . In the months since they came to mutual understanding about Stone's... quirks, Stone has been shoved into walls, pressed against computer screens, and had his face groped to the point where it sometimes leaves a mark. He never knows when to expect it, never certain when the doctor will turn from hot to cold on him, or even if he deserves the treatment.

His knees go weak whenever he thinks about it.

There's only been one problem, and it's got a simple enough fix. Stone doesn't bother the doctor with his minor complaint; he simply handles it himself, the same way he handles all of the paperwork and cleanup. A week of calling around the area is all it takes before he manages to find a single La Marzocco espresso machine with minimal use and a flattering, glossy black finish. Six grand seems a little much, but he doesn't haggle over it. He wants it and he wants it now, because if he has to go another week with the old Folgers drip roast, he's going to literally murder the next government liaison he's forced to interact with.

The machine's aesthetics fit in perfectly with the rest of the sleek galley, so much so that the doctor doesn't notice it for almost a week. He rarely enters the galley, of course, but the few times he's stopped by, he hasn't commented on it.

What he does comment on is the improved quality of coffee. Between time crunches and general culinary disinterest, Robotnik only ever takes his coffee black; he'd complained every day with the old brew, but not now. Now, every cup is met with a surprised noise of pleasure, burrowing into Stone's internal organs like wood ticks. He can only imagine what other noises the doctor will make once he begins experimenting with creams and sweeteners.

Imagining it is fine, but Stone needs to know . He wants to understand the nuances of the doctor's palette; he's already memorized the finer details of the man's dental records, so why not map his taste-buds? And if he becomes so attuned to what the doctor wants that he becomes irreplaceable, then so be it. If the doctor can't imagine living without him, all the better.

The Marzocco is a truly marvelous piece of machinery, absorbing more of Stone's attention than it probably should. After all, there are attachments to order, measurements to experiment with, and manuals to read. He cleans it obsessively, as if Robotnik would even notice if a crumb remained from one pull to the next. It isn't as though he has particularly discerning taste. That's going to take time to nurture.

As usual, Stone's obsessive tendencies are his downfall. Distracted as he is by the machine's clean lines and the temperature of the water, he fails to notice when Robotnik enters the galley. The man has a nasty habit of sneaking around the place, but up until now, Stone's managed to catch the scent of his soap or the sound of his boots on the tile. The smell of coffee and hiss of steam have rendered him blind.

When the doctor speaks, it's from directly behind him. "So, this is where I find you."

Stone startles visibly at Robotnik's sudden presence, turning in time to see a pleased grimace flit across the doctor's face. At least he knows he's giving Robotnik what he wants, even when he's about to get scolded.

"Doctor! Sorry, I was —"

"I know what you were doing, you layabout! You've spent twelve hours this week in the galley, fiddling with your little..." He tries to pick a suitably offensive comparison before visibly deciding he doesn't care enough to try. Dreading any sign of boredom towards him, Stone quickly fills the blank.

"It's an espresso machine, sir."

"I know what it is," Robotnik snaps, scowling. "What I don't know is why I'm tolerating your obsessive behavior."

Okay, fine, so maybe Stone's been spending more time fiddling with the damn thing than he needs to. He has room in his life for two obsessions! He's a multi-faceted individual!

"I haven't let it interfere with my job," he sulks.

"Oh, really. And I suppose you would know better than me , wouldn't you?"

"No, that's not what I —"

It's so easy to offend the doctor that Stone still hasn't quite mastered walking the line. That becomes painfully obvious when Robotnik's hand lashes out and grips the back of Stone's neck, fingers digging into his muscles. He tries to wince away and fails to do more than jam his hip into the counter, and the doctor responds by stomping on his foot, pinning him in the uncomfortable position.

The pain is everything. Stone focuses on it over the doctor's hot breath on his neck, desperate not to give his thoughts away. They're in that position for less than six seconds before the Marzocco lets off a hiss of steam from the basket. Stone's trembling knees threaten to give out, but he can't afford to fall. He's too close to the machine, it's too hot, and if the doctor pinches that nerve between his fingers again, he's going to face-plant into the hot metal plate. That pain will be intolerable, and if it leaves a mark...

He can't say anything. He can't admit the fear aloud and let Robotnik think this is his limit. Because it isn't. It isn't, and if he has to burn his face to prove it, then —

A hiss of air escapes from between his teeth, giving him away. Robotnik's grip tenses abruptly, yanking Stone back from the steam-heated metal. Relief and shame pool together in Stone's gut.

Pathetic, he thinks, unsure which of them he's more upset at.

"If I want you to hurt, Stone," the doctor hisses in his face, "I'll do it myself. There's no need for rudimentary torture tactics between us, is there?"

They are so close. Stone imagines he can feel Robotnik's heart racing in the fingers pressed against his neck, although he's probably mistaking it with his own thundering pulse.

"No, sir." He swallows. "Nothing rudimentary between us."

For a split second, Stone catches something that may be confusion in the doctor's furrowed brow, but it's gone before he can confirm it as anything more than a trick of the light.

"Not even coffee, apparently."

It's a surprisingly passive reply, followed by Robotnik removing his hand from Stone's neck. Before the disappointment even registers, Robotnik follows up with a slap to the shoulder that's hard enough for him to smack his head against the overhead cabinet door. Stone doesn't so much see stars as he feels them swirling around his belly.

"I can't survive on the old stuff, sir. It's so..." He makes a face. "Cheap."

"Cost effective," Robotnik corrects sarcastically.

"I think we can afford to splurge. Besides, I paid for it myself." He offers a placating smile that doesn't waver in the face of Robotnik's scowl. "It's 100% government-free coffee."

"It seems like a pointless use of your personal funds," Robotnik mutters, pursing his lips.

There's no point in arguing for his own comfort, considering that Robotnik neither cares about comfort nor has any interests outside of listening to 70's psych-rock at an ear-blistering decibel. But there's another, iron-clad way to appeal to the good doctor's sensibilities. People like to say that the best way to a man's heart is through the stomach, but Stone knows that the only thing you need to feed is his ego.

"You deserve the best in every aspect of life," he says, meeting Robotnik's eyes for a calculated 3.8 seconds before dropping his gaze to the foot over-top his. "And my job is to make sure you get what you deserve."

The ball of Robotnik's boot grinds down against his toes. Stone makes only a cursory effort to hide how it affects him, waiting to see if this is finally a push too far.

"Well." The doctor huffs, and Stone looks up to meet his petulant pout with a deferential smile. "I suppose I can't argue with the results..."

Stone can't resist rewarding the doctor for his lack of boundaries. "And that's just the start, sir. I promise, I have a lot more than just americanos up my sleeve. I've been practicing my biscotti recipe, too..." He can't help how his smile widens smugly. "If you can forgive me a few of those hours, maybe I can sweeten the pot?"

Robotnik squints at him hard through his glasses for a moment, then raises his chin dismissively.

"I suppose you haven't fallen behind yet..." He presses an accusatory finger in Stone's face; lucky for him, Stone knows better than to bite the hand that feeds. "But if I notice you slacking again, Agent Stone, we will be having a more primitive conversation about it."

Oh, boy. That threat certainly doesn't do much to dissuade, does it?

"I understand completely, sir."

"Well? What are you waiting for? You have paperwork to file, a backlog of requisition forms to fill out, and don't think I'll let it slide if you miss the three PM coffee break you've manipulated me into taking! Get to work!"

The doctor slaps Stone's shoulder once again. His thumb and forefinger dig their nails into his nerves, and Stone lets himself crumple to his knees. Why not? It lets the doctor feel physically dominant over him, and it keeps Stone from pushing things past the bounds of civility. Like the espresso machine, it's what's best for both of them.

Robotnik grins wide, fakes a kick at Stone and laughs when he cringes in surprise.

"That's two for flinching, Stone." He tuts, checking his watch. "I'll have to get you later. Reports, requisitions, Robusta!" He turns on his heel and offers only the flick of his hand in the air as a wave goodbye.

Stone, twitterpated to the point of nausea, decides he'll run four minutes late with the coffee. Just to see what might happen.

[catalisst]

[vampirecatprince]

V for Vendetta was on one of the TVs in the break room at work yesterday and it was that scene with V making breakfast in the really dumb apron and casually talking about how he steals butter from a fascist dictator and I'm only just now remembering my massive teenage crush on him oh no

[cambriancrew]

"Endogenic systems are all chronically online bullshit"

Explain then how two of my headmates got into an argument over a spelling toy that had physical buttons and cards and a little lcd screen, when we were 4 years old back in 1990 long before we had internet access, and had never even heard of plurality before, just assumed everyone had independent "parts" that argued with each other.

The online community gave us words for our experiences. They didn't create the experiences themselves.

[nerdygirl84]

He is soooooo *screams into a pillow*

[dreamtigress]

::bounce:: He asked for more time with me, and we had a whole conversation about wanting a *lot* more time with each other. Neither of us felt like our social batteries were drained after spending nearly 8 hours together. We've set up a semi regular date night kind of a thing. We continue to chat, and he continues to be amazing and made of green flags, and it is NOT Thursday yet, damnit. Heh. NRE

[gl1tchr]

PROUD OF MYSELF TODAY I got lots of prompts done