#this made me feel too good i might have a problem | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

moonit3 · 2 days ago

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ᯓ★ SYNOPSIS: breaking up with mark wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. you couldn’t date a superhero, especially one as invincible, it felt selfish in leaving mark, but you needed to. sinister! invincible x reader

ᯓ★ WARNINGS/INFO: yandere themes of course, gn! reader, angst, violence, spoilers for season three, blood, reader’s not having a good time, overall an open ending.

ᯓ★ A/N: hmmmm did someone asked for angst??? because i did! this one too me a while to finish as i write it originally as headcanons, but then i changed my mind last minute and made it into an actual story… yeah, and I don’t regret it. also, an open ending because again i got lazy and also because this might be too long.

you broke up with mark.

that is it. a relationship of almost a year ended with a talk and agreement when he suddenly revealed to be a superhero—someone called invisible or something like that.

there wasn’t yelling nor arguing at his parents’ house when he made that big announcement. in fact, everything was too peaceful and of course, too understandable for both sides.

you told him you couldn’t be with him—at least mot as his partner anymore—when he is pushing himself further than he should. mark is always putting himself in risk to others and almost dying many times, you leaned.

it’s feel painful and almost as a betrayal when admitting when you said:

“i want to break up.”

but he understands. mark really does understand when that comes from, especially when seeing your reactions and sudden changes of behavior when connecting the dots. it didn’t take much time to you to understand his feelings, his relationship with his father and then, learning about his duty with the gda.

what was meant to be a celebration of almost a year together ended with a long and lasting relationship coming to an end. a bittersweet one, at least.

inside his bedroom, the two of you share the bed for what you know will be the last time. mark’s head rests in your lap, his brown eyes tracing the contours of your face like you’re a painting he’s memorizing—but still can’t stop studying. it makes you sick with guilty, the way he looks at you—so full of love, openly vulnerable—even after you just broke his heart in millions of pieces.

you run your fingers through his hair without thinking, out of habit, and you immediately regret it.

“you’re doing that,” he says quietly, his voice só soft that he’s afraid to break the moment. “like nothing’s changed.”

you pull your hand away, putting it behind you. “sorry.”

he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles—god, that smile of his—like your apology didn’t land or didn’t matter at all. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I’d rather have this than nothing at all.”

that’s what make it worse now. he clings to the scraps. the way he helps letting your hurt him gently drives you insane. mark deserves the entire world, even you aren’t the one to give it to him.

you shift, almost uncomfortable when your eyes flick to the open window just to look anywhere else but him. “you should hate. you should be telling me to go away or even to yell at me for being now your ex.”

“but i could never do that,” he says, and he means it. that’s the problem, mark loves you like he bleeds-freely, without stopping or hesitation. it makes you wonder how much you don’t deserve him.

you inhale slowly, forcing back the lump in your throat. “this isn’t good for you, for either of us.” you said. “I gotta go, mark. and this time, forever.”

he nods, but it’s empty. “I know… I just don’t want to let go yet.”

and neither do you, not really. but staying with mark would be more crueler than leaving.

you can’t be with him. not when you don’t know if he is coming home or not, mark is someone you love dearly and deeply. but he deserves someone with a better mental state than you.

you press a soft kiss to his forehead, the kind you used to give him every morning during class, and hailed, “goodbye, mark.”

a smile grown on his lips when he closes his eyes. that kiss might be the last warm thing he gets to keep from you. and maybe, it is.

months went by since the last you spoke to mark. and yet, life didn’t pause for a heartbreak—college started instead.

dorms were assigned, and soon you are surrounded by an unfamiliar roommate, a shared mini fridge, and the constant hum of someone’s music and voice bleeding through the walls. it is a complete different life than high school, there is more drama and more gossip.

somehow, people in college acts more as teenagers than teenagers themselves. it’s almost worrying seeing how childish some of them behave.

but still, sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and reach for your phone, thumb hovering—almost teasing yourself—over his name out of habit. you never type anything. you just stare at it, wondering if he ever did the same.

your roommate asked you once:

“are you seeing someone? because someone as hot, intelligent and radiant as you definitely is desirable.” spencer said, with that signature half-smirk that made it hard to tell if they were teasing or serious.

as a member of the daily bulletin—upstate university’s student newspaper—spencer has a way of knowing everything. who got caught blowing smoke at the bathroom. who was spotted kissing someone in the art building stairwell. who dropped a class just because their ex was in it. those weren’t good stories they could publish, those are gossip that spencer just like learning to mess with people’s mind.

if they didn’t want to be a reporter so badly, they easily could become a professional blackmailer (is that even a real thing?).

you raised an eyebrow, almost unsure if this was an interview or some stranger version of flirting. “is that part of the gossip’s column of the newspaper or a personal observation?”

spencer shrugged and settled into the secondhand armchair the two of you brought last month. it had been a bit pricey, but worth in the end—it matched perfectly with the flower-shaped stool your mother gave you. plus, it made the perfect spot for afternoon breaks with the coffee machine your stepfather gifted you.

they stretched their legs over the armchair, not even bothering to take their shoes off. “both. you’ve been showing up on people’s radar lately.” they said, looking at you with their piercing blue eyes.

“but that doesn’t mean I’m seeing anyone.”

their eyes sparkled with interest. “then it’s a campus-wide heartbreak!”

you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. maybe spencer was digging another story as usual.

“yeah, but for real.” you added, hoping to not make spencer even more interested in your dating life, especially as they don’t know much about your previous relationship. “i don’t if i am ready to date again. mark was like, my first everything in many things and i still struggling to get over the fact that he is really important for me despite ending things…does that make sense? like, mark is now my ex, but i still care for him. what an idiot I am.”

they nodded, learning back against the armchair with casual ease. its clear spencer wants to learn more about mark—especially when they’d learned of his existence a few weeks ago, when you’d use him an excuse to turn down a too-persistent jock at a party.

“ah yes, mark.” spencer said, dragging the name out like a headline they were trying to frame just right. “mysterious long-distance boyfriend ex? or convenient partner ghost boyfriend?”

you let out a small laugh, then shrugged. “neither. things got complicated and then we broke up before i moved to college.”

spencer raised a brow. “complicated?”

you hesitate for half a second, then said it like it was nothing. “he is invincible.”

spencer blinked. “come again?”

“mark. my ex. he’s invincible,” you repeated, looking at the expression on spencer’s face. their usual smirky smile now replaced with a shocked one, their lips opened wide as well their eyes.

also, you just spoken as casually as if you were talking about changing your major from criminology to english literature.

spencer just stayed quiet for a while, mouth slightly open. “like…the invincible? black and blue suit, throws tanks, bleeds on national tv?”

you nodded. almost being offended with how casually they described mark.

a pause again. this time more longer than the previous one. then: “oh. huh. I thought he was dead.”

you snorted. “nope.”

spencer learned forward, taking his feet out the armchair when learning down at the small coffee table to pour them a cup of coffee. it’s almost seven pm, but they need a drink to make it through this new piece of information. “okay, you absolutely cannot drop that and expect me to stay calm. you dated invincible? how—why did you break up?”

you throw yourself to bed, suddenly tired. spencer pushes the armchair closer to your mattress, catching how expressive you seem to have become when the subject of your ex-boyfriend begins a superhero comes up.

“because I don’t want to compete with the world. and honestly? I didn’t want to get tired with constantly wondering if he would survive after those fights with supervillains and all of that.”

spencer stares at you for a beat, taking a sip of their coffee, then slowly nods. “okay. that’s…actually pretty valid. damn. I’m gonna a minute to process all of that.”

you smile faintly, half amused, half sad. “yeah. me too.”

spencer gently flicks your forehead before striding over the window, settling onto the flower-shaped stool with the ease of someone who’s made a habit of dramatic existential. they crack it open, the night air slipping in, and pull a cigarette from their inner pocket of their jacket; a moment later, the soft click of a light sparks the flame to life, casting a brief glow across their face as smoke curls upward into the dark air out the window.

some moment of brief silence is suddenly cut off when you make a certain question about mark.

“do you think I’ll ever see mark again? not that i want to see him, but…you know that feeling?” you say, hugging a plush of your to your chest.

you shift around on bed, turning to face spencer, who’s still perched at the window, exhaling smoke into the quiet campus night.

they don’t reply right away. the smoke drifts lazily through their lips to the open window, catching the gentle breeze of the night before disappearing into the night.

they take another drag, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the window.

“i think,” their voice is low, surprisingly compared to their previous behavior. “you will. probably when you least expect it.”

your stomach twist, though you are not sure why. you pull the plush tighter.

“he just… shows up one day like nothing ever happened?”

spencer shrugs again, this time louder than before. “you dated invincible—the guy who bleeds every time they get into a fist fight—so yeah, he will come back one day and i wouldn’t be surprised if he got hit by a magical lightning that would multiply him, creating alternative versions of him.”

you huff, almost scared of the thought of being other versions of mark out there. it would be a nightmare if that ever happened.

“I don’t want him to come back and I definitely don’t want him to multiply or something like that.” you said, putting the plush on the bedside table when sitting against your pillows. “one invincible is quite enough for the world.”

spencer glances over their shoulder, smoke curling from their lips.

“yeah,” they say, narrowing their eyes slightly when throwing their cigarette to the ashtray at the window. “one invincible is pretty much enough for the world.”

life is unfair, and the universe clearly has spencer on its side.

because how else do you explain dozens of versions of mark flying around the world, wrecking havoc in so many capitals? well, you can’t. and right now, you aren’t going to think of an answer, not when you and spencer are running for your lives.

one of those so-called ‘variants’ has attack upstate university’s campus, making the entire place into something straight out of an apocalypse movie. buildings lie in ruins, reduced to nothing, and the once blue sky has burned into a dull, smoky orange. smoke, dust and fire choke the air, turning the campus to a lifeless place—like there hadn’t been classes and people echoing all over the place hours ago.

“come on, this way.” spencer doesn’t let your wrist slip away. their grip on your skin almost leaving bruises of how strong they hold you, afraid that you will disappear if they let go. “we should be able to get to my car and then go to your parents’ home safely.”

you nodded.

you breath shallow, legs moving before your mind could catch up. the air is thick with panic and smoke, siren walling faintly in the background.

spencer leads you through the wreckage—past shattered walls, fallen beams, and what students commons were meant to be. you can feel glass and debris underneath your shoes, a reminder of easily was to destroy a place like upstate university in seconds.

you glance back once, instinctively—as if mark standing there. watching. chasing.

and unfortunately, that’s exactly what you see.

suspended in the haze of the smoky orange sky, a variant of mark invincible floats above the destruction in completely silence. his silhouette just clear enough to see through the smoke like he is some sort of phantom, face completely exposed. he doesn’t move, his expression of neutrality doesn’t change—he just hovers, as if he is waiting for something.

there’s something off with this version of mark. not just the suit, a white one with grey stripes, but as well the way he holds himself. tense, but as well rigid. like he is a predator who is ready to attack.

your breath almost falls. you fail to realize how long you’ve stopped walking until spencer hisses your name before pulling you back behind a cover to hide.

“don’t look at him, you idiot.” they whisper, ducking down besides you before taking a glance at mark as well. “that’s not your ex-boyfriend.”

and you know that. you are very much aware this isn’t the mark you were acquainted with once. but that doesn’t stop your heart from lurching at the sight of his face—even that isn’t the mark you know.

spencer moves their arm around your shoulder, holding you closer to them, hoping to shield you from the imminent danger. they know the chances of getting to the car are almost null and so, the only thing they can do right now is bring some sense of comfort and security.

“it’s okay, [name].” spencer brings your face to their chest, patting your hair in the process to cease the panting coming from your throat. “we will stay hiding until they leave, okay? then i drive you safely back to your—“

their words end in a gurgle.

you turn just in time to see spencer stagger backward, clutching their chest as they shove aside.

their mouth hangs half-open. the color drain from their face, their eyes widen—in fear and pain—before you take notice of the crimson running their plaid shirt.

then you see it. another version of mark standing behind them with his hand going through spencer’s stomach. that thing doesn’t show remorse—not when he is smirking as spencer gives their final breath.

their body collapses into the ground with a thud, pain etched across their face, fingers trembling where they fall as *mark* remove his hand from their stomach.

your eyes lock onto spencer’s body lying on the ground. their bright blue eyes—once so full of warmth, sarcasm, and that stupid stubborn fire—are gone, replaced by a dull, vacant stare.

moments ago they were alive. breathing. speaking. pulling you to safety.

now they are just… gone.

tears roll down your eyes when the realization hits. spencer is death, your best friend, died because of him. all because they were trying to save you from those idiots variants.

“awww. you really thought they were going to save you, didn’t you?” the variant chuckles, cruel and low, his smirk only growing wider as he grips your chin and tilts your face towards him.

up close, the difference are clearer—his skin is paler than your mark’s, almost ghostlike, and smeared in the crimson that once belonged to spencer. it stains his yellow and black uniform, his cape, his gloves, his neck and even the corner of his mouth.

“you are easy to fool, [name].” he whispers, bringing your face closer to his. his touch is cold, deliberate. it makes you fail to understand how a person could be able to be this evil, to be capable of taking someone’s life and still smile after. “just like them.“

the smoky air clung thick to your lungs. you didn’t speak. you didn’t move. not when your legs no longer touch the ground when one of his hands make it ways to your waist.

you remain frozen beneath his touch, tears streaming down your cheeks as his hand move from your chin to your lips.

you don’t breath—you don’t dare to—his fingers are cold, dirty with blood, and the gentleness of the gesture only make it worse. It’s mocking—twisted.

and all you do is cry, trembling in silence, while the monster wearing mark’s face watches you fall apart.

“even in a different universe, you still look the same and act the same pathetic way.” he said, smiling at how easily scared you are of him. this variant knows well that he could anything with you right now and that you won’t even try to get off. he has the upper hand, like he always did. “always so sensitive and so attached to insects like this one, ridiculous. but i guess that doesn’t matter when the idiot from this universe fell in love with you as well.”

his words went unheard for you—still in denial of witnessing spencer’s death—but his smirk leaves an impression on you. his teeth, surprisingly sharp and dirty in crimson, he could easily kill anyone if he dared to bite someone’s neck.

but deep down, you know the true.

if he wanted to kill you—if he meant to make you another example to this world’s invincible, another name lost in the static—he could’ve done it by now.

but he hasn’t.

and that silence, that pause, is somehow more terrifying than his violence.

you feel it in your bones—an unbearable weight of being spared. not of mercy, but for a reason you hope you are wrong.

his visors reflect your expression. the dried tears streaked down your cheeks, the fear in your eyes—still there, but slowly fading away.

now something else is there.

anger. frustration. a small hint of defiance sparkling where that sentiment of helplessness and fear used to be. because really, why is the point of being afraid of death… if this guy isn’t even going to grant you that?

his thumb brushes the corner of your lips, spreading blood there. a romantic gesture to his eyes. you don’t flinch and he pull you closer than before, this time he tilts his head, eyes narrowing in thought.

“i won’t kill you,” he murmurs, his voice lower and delicate than before. “at least… now yet.”

his eyes—or whatever thing that is behind that stupid visors of his—stay locked on yours.

“after everything i did and went through to get here… to get to you,” he said, almost as he is confessing his love for you. “ending your life now would be a waste.”

there’s a hint of happiness in his voice—in the way he says it, something that makes you wonder if he truly has spared your life, maybe it was just delayed.

his hand shifts from your face to your waist, holding you tightly before lifting off—flying the two of you away from the wreckage that was once the university.

you press your face against his chest, not out of comfort or something, but because you have no choice. you can’t look down. you don’t want to witness the destruction he and the others has caused. you don’t want to see spencer. you don’t want to see the place you adored so much as tomb for those who lost their life here.

you close your eyes, clinging to the person you fear and hates the most, because right now, this version of mark is the only thing preventing you from falling.

this mark chuckles at your reaction, clearly happy seeing how easily it is to scare you, to make you hopelessly insecure.

he could say something. he could mock you, tease you—maybe even drop you from his arms for a few heart-stopping moments just to watch you scream. but he doesn’t. not yet.

the real fun hasn’t even begun.

then a voice cuts through air.

“oh, you found them.”

great. that is what you just needed. another stupid version of your ex-boyfriend to make even more worse than now.

you turn your head slightly, opening your eyes to catch a glimpse of a second mark flying beside you. it’s the one from before. an alternative version of mark that wears a white uniform with grey stripes. the very same one who bears an expression of casually and calmly on his face, almost as if he hadn’t destroyed half of the world along the other alternatives.

“i was looking for them in the wreckage,” he said, almost sounding annoyed when fixing a stray lock of hair out your face. “thought they were gone. guess i was wrong.”

the new variant—the white one as you mind refers—hovers too close of you, his eyes almost penetrating you like you are a precious gem—a valuable piece of jewelry.

you can only shirk into the mark holding you, which is quite hilarious for him. a quiet laugh escaping his lips, but his grip tightening around your frame. it makes your eyes roll with how hard he is holding you.

“they’re scared.” the newcomer says, voice laced with a hint of sympathy, probably mocking you. “let me carry them, it will be easy for them to not be carried by a cold killer like you.”

the mark carrying you doesn’t reply—just keep flying, jaw tense as he focuses on remaining in silence.

“i call next,” the second one adds, casually. “just because you found them first, it doesn’t mean you will keep them forever.”

a moment of silence follows. then, clipped and cold, the one who wears the yellow cape speaks:

“she’s not yours to call.”

his voice is flat. the shift in the atmosphere is clear—the sky becomes darker, thicker and definitely more intense when you knows there is some ongoing tension between these two.

you don’t speak a word. you don’t move. you don’t breath. because you realize something really bad. it’s there are more version of mark that want to have you.

It means there are more monsters like these two wanting you for themselves.

you turn your face deeper to mark’s chest, pretending that you aren’t hearing their conversation. you try to pretend you don’t feel the hear of their eyes crawling over your skin.

“i’m not here to fight you over them. yet.” the white one keeps with his usual expression of calmness. it’s almost irritating seeing that. “besides, it would be tragic if we start killing each other for them before the others can get a chance to see their face.”

a chill slides down your spine.

kill each other?

are they willing to go that further to have you? it can’t be true.

you exhale shakily, your voice barely audible to them: “you aren’t going to kill each other for me, right?”

the mark holding you doesn’t answer at first. he murmurs something under his breath as his gloved fingers shift at your side, holding you firmly.

“you’ll see.”

he doesn’t look at you, but feeling his touch shift again, almost like a reassurance touch, make you even more worried about your incoming fate.

you can only hope—maybe—that your mark is still out there.

that somewhere beneath the death, wreckage and death all over the world, the monsters wearing hai face… your mark still out there.

#my works #x gender neutral reader #x gender neutral y/n #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere invincible #invincible x reader #make grayson x reader #yandere mark grayson #invincible x you #invincible x y/n #invincible variants #yandere invincible variants #mark grayson

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queen-of-deans-booty · 13 hours ago

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Work It Out

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.8k

Warnings: smut without plot, spanking

Summary: You and Sam have been in a disagreement for over a week. Both of you think you’re right in the argument, but neither one of you wants to admit defeat. Dean gets fed up and decides to leave so that you two can work out your problems… or fuck it out.

Square Filled: size kink for @spnkinkbb

Author’s Note: any and all comments are greatly appreciated! <3

It’s day nine of your and Sam’s fight and Dean is getting sick and tired of playing the middleman. He has heard both sides of the story multiple times, and all he wants to do is rip his own ears off.

He’s done.

He doesn’t want to play this game anymore.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks when he sees his brother.

Dean has a duffel bag slung over his shoulders, and he walks to the metal stairs.

“I’m staying in a motel for a few days. You and Y/N are kind of pissing me off, so you need to sort out your shit. I kind of don’t want to be here when you do.”

“She’s the one who is being a baby about this. Why should I have to fix it?”

“Because you’re Sam. Because you’re the one who is good with the words. Plus, I know you understand her worries about it, right? She’s just looking out for you, man.”

Sam grumbles but doesn’t say anything more.

“I’ll be back in a few days. Try not to break anything while I’m gone, and you better wipe down anything you fuck on. Bye.”

Sam rolls his eyes when he hears the metal doors slam. Yes, he understands why you’re pissed at him, but this is the life. He has always made it clear that he might not be okay after a hunt. As sucky as it is, you have to be okay with that.

You are, but what you’re not okay with is him putting his life at risk every time someone screams for help. He put himself in harm's way for someone, and it almost got him killed. You’re all for him and Dean saving people from monsters, but you don’t need him to get killed in the process.

You were pissed in the beginning of this fight, but now you’re ignoring him out of spite. You don’t hate him, but he gets so unbelievably irritating at times.

Sam knows how to fix this. Your attitude is the problem. He’s ready to move on, but you’re being a brat. He knows only one way of fixing this issue.

You’re inside the kitchen making some food for you and Sam. He might irritate you, but you don’t want him to starve. You’re layering the noodles for a nice lasagna when Sam walks into the kitchen. Your plan is to ignore him until you see that he’s wearing nothing but a towel.

His chest is wet with droplets of water. His chest hair sticks to his pecs. His hair is wet from the shower, but no longer dripping.

All you want to do is lick up each droplet of water, but then you remember you’re supposed to be mad at him. You clear your throat and go back to layering the dish with uncooked noodles. He stands right behind you and leans against the counter, watching you work.

You don’t need to turn around to know he’s there. You can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“Can I help you?” When he doesn’t answer you, you roll your eyes. “I’m not going to look at you. I’m still mad at you.”

Suddenly, you feel a sharp pain on your ass and the sound of fabric swatting your skin.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

You turn to yell at him when you notice he is butt-ass naked. He uses his towel to swat your ass. His cock is already half-hard, and you quickly look away so you don’t do something stupid like pounce on him.

Your pussy throbs at the anticipation, but you squeeze your thighs tighter together to get her to shut up.

“Go away, Sam.”

“I’m your boyfriend, Y/N.” He grabs your hips and tugs you into his body. “You can look.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not? Afraid you’ll want me too much?”

He grinds his cock in the crack of your ass, and you suppress a moan. It’s been over a week since he’s fucked you, and your pussy is desperate. She’s this close to crying for him.

“Stop. I’m mad at you,” you whisper.

Your voice isn’t as strong as you want it to be, and he knows it.

“No, you’re not. I know what you’re trying to do. Your attitude is all tough until it’s running down your leg.”

Fuck, why does he have such a dirty mouth? You’re desperate for him now, and he knows it. He reaches around you and undoes the button on your jeans. He roughly yanks both your jeans and panties down until they are pooling around your ankles. He pushes your chest down until you’re flush against it.

He runs his big hands over the globes of your ass, and you bite your lip in anticipation.

“I want you to count.” He brings his hand down onto your ass, causing you to yelp in surprise. “If you don’t count, we start all over.”

“One,” you pant.

Smack! You squeak out the second number, already losing focus. Spanking is a big turn-on for you. Sam rubs your sore cheek with one hand, bringing his other hand to your other cheek.

“Three!” you gasp.

Smack! Smack! Smack! They come in quick bursts, and you do your best to keep voicing the number you’re on. Only four more. Sam presses his hard cock into the crack of your ass while kneading your cheeks. He pulls away and slaps both cheeks at the same time, and you count out number seven and eight.

“Fuck, you’re doing such a good job. Two more. Can you handle it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

Sam grins and smacks you twice more, satisfaction running through his body when he hears how needy you are in your voice.

“What a good girl. Fuck, you’re soaked, and I’ve barely begun.”

You whine when you feel his finger tracing your entrance, gathering the wetness that sits there. Without warning, he shoves a finger inside of you, and your back arches. At this point, you’re wet enough so that Sam slips right in without resistance. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your reddened skin, and you moan when he curls his finger in you. He slowly pulls it out, only to put two into you when he pushes forward.

“Fuck, please, Sam. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good girl,” you beg.

“Good things come to good girls who behave.”

Sam pulls his fingers out of you and sticks one of them into his mouth. Fuck, he’s never tasted anything like this. So tangy yet with a hint of sweetness. He leans over you and puts his middle finger to your mouth.

“Taste how wet you are.”

You don’t think twice about taking his middle finger into your mouth. You lick and suck your juices off his finger. You moan and push back into him, impatient for his cock. He pulls his finger out of your mouth and stands up straight, wrapping one of his hands around his cock.

“Do you want me bare?” he asks. “To feel every inch of me as I slide into this pretty cunt?”

“Yes, Sam. Please, fuck me.”

He grabs your hips with one hand and pumps himself with the other hand. “Well, when you beg like that, how can I say no?”

Sam runs the tip of his cock through your folds before pushing in. You gasp at how big he is, and it takes everything in you not to push back against him. In one quick thrust, he seats himself in you.

“Fuck!” you gasp.

He grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs so that your head is off the counter. He stays like that for a moment, just allowing you to feel how full you are, and allowing himself not to come right there and then. A week might not be long, but it is when your pussy feels this good.

He starts off slow, pulling out and watching himself slide right back in. What a sight to behold. So wet for him. He can see his cock is shiny with your pussy whenever he pulls out. He wonders what you’d look like on your knees sucking him clean.

Another fantasy for another day.

Then, he starts to pick up the pace, watching as your red ass jiggles whenever he slams into you. You’ve never been quiet during sex. It’s a good thing Dean left when he did. However, he doesn’t care if he is here. He’d still fuck you however he wants.

He presses the front of his body to your back, pinning you flush against the desk. His soft grunts fill your ears as does the sound of his cock slamming into you. Fuck, this is so much better than you could have hoped for. A week without sex makes the makeup fuck even better.

The spanking got you halfway to an orgasm, so you’re close without him touching your clit. Normally, you need that to come, but you’re so caught in the moment that you can’t think of anything else but coating his cock with your cum.

“Does my good girl want to come?” he grunts out.

“Please. Let me come,” you beg.

“What was that? You have to speak up if you want me to hear you,” he smirks.

Pleasure spikes your entire body as he quickens his thrusts. He’s close, whether he wants to admit it or not. You clench around his cock, making it slightly harder for Sam to move.

“It’s like that, huh? Fuck,” he curses. “Are you close?” You nod rapidly. “Come for me. I want you to fucking soak my cock with your cum.”

Fuck, he even talks dirty well. His thrusts get deeper and hit a spot you never knew existed. Stars explode in your vision as you’re brought to orgasm. Your body jerks as your pussy spasms around his cock. Sam moans softly and thrusts once more before shooting his load inside of you. He removes his hand from your hair, and you drop your head to the counter.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

Sam looks down and sees a bit of your mixed cum leaking out of you. He slowly pulls out, making you wince from the pressure. His cum leaks down your thigh, but he’s quick to catch it. He scoops up whatever he can and pushes his cum back into you.

“Now, are you going to stop being a brat?”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” you sigh. You stand up on shaky legs and turn to face him. “I just worry about you.”

“I know, but please trust that I’d never do anything that would take me away from you. I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know the risks.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You kick away your clothes just as Sam picks you up by your thighs. “We need to clean this counter.”

“Later. Dinner can wait. I’m hungry for something else.”

Your laughter echoes off the walls as he carries you to your shared room, where he can lavish you for hours.

Want to be tagged? Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester fic #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester angst #sam winchester smut #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fluff #supernatural angst #supernatural smut

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maybe-boys-do-love · 2 days ago

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My Hopeful Little Queer Shows 🌈

Finally someone tagged me! Thank you @williamrikers I've been dying to participate in this one.

You'll notice I'm as ever long-winded and for some of these, I've spliced in some of my previous writing. But hope's a perennial interest for me as a viewer. I hope you don't mind.

Boys In Love

Hope...that I'm understood and supported

I've made it no secret that I share many similarities with Shane, and I'm lucky to have had partners like Kit twice in my life. Kit and the writing in the series treated Shane's autistic behaviors with delicacy, accuracy, and kindness far beyond what I've seen for an autistic character most anywhere else (coded or explicit), even opening my eyes to some overgeneralized social logics I had instilled. Mick played it's nuances beautifully, too. A spiky profile, as they say.

It balanced the support for his character with demonstrations of Shane supporting others' challenges. The ending made no promises for his future or the other boys, except that they could cherish being truly cared about for now as they took one step at a time forward. People like me and Shane are just people who exist in the world and make our way through life, and it fills me with hope to see creators and characters who understand and appreciate that.

The Trainee

Hope...that the world doesn't ask or require perfection from us

This was my first BL introduction to plot de-escalation. I'm trained to expect a mounting of conflict in my stories (fiction as well as nonfiction stories like the one's told on the news or by friends), culminating in an explosion of sorts, with a cause or person to blame and a few heroes who overcome that mess. Shows like The Trainee revealed how cynical and stress-inducing that line of thought was.

There was no 'gotcha!' moment here. The series brought us so many situations that could've sparked drama or set off a firing process for one of the employees. Maybe you felt some of the problems should've been dealt with that way. The point of the series wasn't the consequences of actions, though. Each week, instead, the episodes restored the dignity of its characters so they could learn and grow and let others inspire them to move forward.

The director's speech to the interns at their farewell party highlighted the central theme perfectly. "I remember the first day we met. I heard none of you were any good. I couldn't tell if three months later, you'd be any better. I just wanted you to find your own path and see your own worth." What kinds of grace and patience are we willing to give ourselves in order to seek out and work toward meaningful lives? And once we can offer this to ourselves how do we offer it to others? if you're feeling lost on your path in life and need a kind hand to comfort and guide you, I can't recommend a better internship than the one offered at Good Pick on The Trainee.

The On1y One

Hope...in hope, itself

I'll ask you to forgive me as I splice from my old posts because, while it was airing, I gushed about how The On1y One's open ending was all about the ability of us and the characters to hope. For me, with its thorough investment in the themes of ephemeral pain and beauty, The On1y One is a rare instance where the intangible hope for a future story we can't see lies at the very foundation of the series itself. It chooses to look at the moon instead of the coin. We have to believe in potentials and futures that didn't necessarily arrive for these characters. Author Marilynne Robinson writes in What Are We Doing Here, "We may all live in anticipation more than in present time, worry and dread pulling us out of the moment, too, but hope giving us better purpose, the imagination of what might fall into place, to our benefit or satisfaction. Hope shapes intention. It leaves improbable possibilities open." This series did not seal itself with a kiss the way many viewers seemed to want, but for me it artfully opened a door of possibility.

The last image we get in the series is that ellipsis of belief, moving us toward something we cannot see. After Jiang Tian symbolically reties the circle of his bracelet finally committing to a bond with someone after his years of abandonment, we return to the image of the glass pitcher filled with mint lemon water, whole again, at least for now.So it is with these two We hear a nondiegetic promise from Sheng Wang that he'll come back. It's ostensibly a promise to return to Class A for Jiang Tian. Things broken are rendered whole again, not exactly as they were, maybe not even in reality, but in hope.

Only Friends

Hope...that you're not alone in this mess

"We're selfish and vain creatures of beauty, and isn't it bizarre how we make the best friends in the world?" said a queen on drag race once. The queen who said the above quote, Sharon Needles, has since been widely disowned by fans for her offensive comments and other queens for her rude behavior and disruptive drug habits. The honest truth of queer friendship was at the heart of Only Friends, which more than any other BL attempted to capture queers in all their petty contradictions--it's not a coincidence that many of the emerging gay male podcast pairs start with this series.

How could that ugliness fill me with hope? Well, I've known these people, experienced these kinds of broken friendships, watched self-righteous discourse roll across my screen about who should be canceled, excluded, punished, and barred from our concern. Even a doctor's diagnosis that offers no cure can still be a comfort. You're not imagining it! A diet of narratives about everything only getting better has the side-effect of making the world a disappointment compared to the ideal insisted upon.

For a more literary perspective than drag race, writer Wendy Smith wrote about Chekhov that he "invites us to be tolerant and accepting, to see the inevitability of change, but to understand that it brings loss as well as gain. His characters can be foolish, selfish, oblivious, wrongheaded, even hurtful, but their longings and loneliness are so evident." The Realism of Only Friends comforts me. I am not a lone perpetrator of or witness to the mess of life. 'Shit happens' is a compassionate, hopeful message for a series to offer if you've felt alone amongst the shit. Gays, like any other group, don't deserve civil rights because they're morally pure--no one is. It's because they're human.

Cherry Magic Thailand

Hope...that people want to care for others

Achi, played by Newwie, is not unkind or inconsiderate, but Cherry Magic's gently-offered observation that his insecurity (like our own) derives and reproduces itself through negative assumptions about others' thoughts is profound. He doesn't realize it and would never do it intentionally. In fact, he admires most everyone and their capability. He just hast has a hard time seeing his own worth, and projects that blind spot onto others instead of seeking out their alternative perspectives. When we truly engage with others face-to-face, Cherry Magic believes we'll start to see how others admire the light we bring to the world, too.

Cherry Magic Thailand is overflowing with kindness and love. And it matters so much that it's a queer narrative at the center. Presuming others won't see your worth is so much more ingrained when there's such a prevalent history of it. This series insisted upon pushing past that history to create a new present in which we can appreciate that most people are genuinely seeking ways to care for other people. Maybe not to the sparkly-eyed level of Tay Tawan as Karan, but people will be thankful you see them as a person to trust and ask for support.

Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

Hope...that the cycles of abuse and neglect can be broken

For all the hope that people genuinely want to care, I'm no stranger to the crueler realities of the world. Without diving into my personal history, I'll just say I'm fast to spot a dangerous glint in someone's eyes, and for a portion of my life, like Do Hoe, lived in fear and restraint at the thought of enacting some things I'd experienced.

LFTCOT in its Realism is an intense watch, but every moment depicts the two leads attempting to break out from the cruelty. The leads stumble and, without realizing it, stubbornly mirror the psychology of their families as they grow older, but always in a drive to move beyond those painful pasts. Particularly, I felt understood by the draw they both have to work with children, overseeing their growth, care, and protection in contrast to how they experienced adolescence. To watch them in the last episode soft and free from the entanglement of their shame and past miseries changed me.

Peaceful Property

Hope...that the current state of the world is not permanent

I won't even claim to be a strict Marxist, or anything, but hear me out. Marx wrote (and has been widely misunderstood for writing), "The theory of the Communists may be summed up in the single sentence: Abolition of private property." In Peaceful Property, we watch a landlord release his properties to tenants one by one, until he finally smashes a model of his own family's first home, releasing all their accumulated savings. It's one of many political threads sewn into a series that at the heart of the issue is more concerned about the spiritual alienation and loneliness everyone is made to feel from their work, from themselves, and from each other under this system.

It's not that I think a QL series or a whole slew of them will end capitalism, but I'm moved by the depth and the emotional sensitivity with which screenwriter P'Dome showed these theories (meta incoming on that front). There is a celebration of explicit and subtextual political density in the writing of Thai QLs that thrills me. American writers especially have as of late leaned into irony and tragedy to convey political messaging, but in Thailand, despite a more restrictive regime, they have found a means to transform their frustrations and knowledge into heartwarming broad-appealing entertainment brimming with commentary and hope.

What Did You Eat Yesterday?

Hope...that even the smallest gestures matter

The signing of a paper in someone's kitchen, a grocery errand for a bag of onions, flexibility in the household budget for a cuter cafe: these are some of the reasons I sobbed--often for more than half an hour--while watching this series. WDYEY is a slice-of-life comedy in nearly the purest sense. It focuses on such intimately mundane aspects of an older gay couple's life together. I could've included this for the hope it brought me as simply a rare model of older gay men, but it's more than that.

Shiro and Kenji's ages place them in a position to appreciate how the small gestures we perform make up our life, offering a balm when the world is chaotic or harsh and a blessing to existence when we could so easily take it's gifts for granted. Childhood's are spent, and parents' pass. Our own lives and those of the people closest to us are so much more precarious than we can bear to acknowledge all the time. In the face of these existential facts, the cooking instructions slipped into each episode become a ritual. We boil the water, mince the garlic, sear the salmon (it was on sale!), and someone will be home from work soon who will look at us and see the daily efforts we've put in to be in this world the best we can.

He's Coming to Me

Hope...that the people we've lost still matter

Remembering those we've lost in our art, in ceremony, and in even just in our hearts, HCTM insists, helps us to carry a part of them with us. Much of my adolescent awareness of gay men was shaded by the HIV/AIDS pandemic and its unfairness. It's a painful moment in history to recall, but how cruel it would be to move beyond the people who's lives were stigmatized and cut short by it.

HCTM found a profoundly uplifting queer metaphor to commemorate the passing of the torch from a lost generation to those who grew up unconsciously grieving their mentors' absence. Some felt cheated by the ending's refusal to fully bring P'Med back to life, but for me it affirmed that hope is never extinguished, not even by death.

A Tale of Thousand Stars

Hope...that I matter

There's a fine edge to deep-seated shame, which for many of us doesn't ever quite touch suicidality. Without breaking the skin, it merely presses down on our hearts with a sharp doubt about our worthiness, whether someone else might live our lives better than we are living them. With no way to restrain the blade, we put our effort into living our lives as an apology for who we are and what we can't forgive ourselves for. We live for others, and even if we can't find solace at least we try to be kind. The slow build-up of the depths of Tian's shame over the course of the series culminating in the cathartic star-counting scene, where Phupha grabs him by the shoulders on the mountain urging him, "No one should use their their whole life to repay someone else's," freed me from a weight years of therapy couldn't manage alone.

It was paired by a theme and a performance by Mix that highlighted the complex internal sense of femininity for many gay men that, due to social persecution and ridicule, can make them feel wrong and unworthy of life even under the most privileged circumstances. By the end, A Tale of Thousand Stars offered hope that I could accept myself--the dreams I have, the intuitions I feel, the paths I choose, the ways I express myself, even the mistakes I make--and at least a few people who mattered to me could love me compassionately without feeling affronted or abandoned when I choose to follow my heart where it needs to go. They'll still be there for me no matter what I do.

My School President

Hope...that it's getting better

Not in a utopic fashion, mind you, but watching MSP had me reflecting on how different my life might've been if a show like this been on The Disney Channel or ABC Family growing up. If it had been allowed there, it would've meant the broader culture was accepting of boys falling in love. I would've had feelings far less compartmentalized, conversations far more celebratory, crushes I could've fully realized, for which I'd roll off my bed in giggles and pouts like Tinn.

This series seems to be the most accurate reflection of what the (chaster-side of) adolescent beginnings for gay attraction can look like in the current culture. It's not entirely devoid of homophobia, but it's no longer so beholden to it. There is glee in the experiences and the media where struggle and tragedy once predominated. For all the awful things happening in the world, it's because of series like this I can see ways it's getting better. At least I hope so, and that's the point.

For anyone who read through all of this self-indulgence, bless you! Consider yourself tagged just for that feat.

And even though I know some have already done it and some won't participate, I'm specifically tagging @doublel27 @emotionallychargedtowel @williamrikers @mephistopheleswasrobbed @imminentinertia @firstkanaphans @scarefox @ginnymoonbeam @arminthada @hashtagiwannakissyou and @ohnomalora for talking about some of these shows with me and/or to enjoy the thrill of being thought of :)

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noblesandsstories · 3 days ago

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Venomous Ties: Wesker Chapters

Chapter 1- Tell me somethin' then I'll forget, and you might have to tell me again

Alpha! Albert Wesker x ????! Fem! Reader

-> Omgeaverse; Angst; Age gap (Reader is mid 20s ish, Wesker is 37); Older man, younger woman; Slow (ish) burn; Manipulation; Wesker being sneaky; Swearing; Allusions to physical abuse; Bruno is a warning all on his own; If I forgot something please let me know

AN: I finished this faster than I thought I would in all honesty. I wasn't able to spend as much time writing cause my life got busy, but when I did write I made good use of the time. I think having some other stuff on the side to help cleanse the pallet helped too. My one big note is that this is only cannon if you, the reader, want it to be. The goal of VT was to keep Wesker's feelings towards the reader/Snakelet ambiguous. However, there were so many behind the scenes details that only Wesker knew, I felt I needed to at least offer some of it. Enjoy and as always, reblogs and comments are loved <3

Title is from "Daddy Issues" by The Neighborhood

“He’s just leading us in circles!” William squeaked. “We’re never going to get those papers on the recent attempt of the DNA splicing with a live subject at this rate.”

Wesker was starting to get irritated, but more with Will at this moment. He was trying to think, and him stating the obvious was obnoxious.

True, Edington was trying to keep his research out of their hands. Whether it was because he was (also) planning on stepping out on Umbrella or because he had some idea of creating job security, Wesker could care less. But he needed that research. If they could definitively splice DNA of an animal into Progenitor samples and use it as a way to slip animal traits into their subjects, it could open a whole new world of opportunities for what can be devised with the T-virus.

The problem is getting the damn files from the man-

“We can’t rely on getting the files from Edington himself. We need to find another way to do so,” Wesker states.

“And how, pray tell, do you think we’ll manage that?” Birkin huffed.

The door to the room opened.

Wesker turned around to be greeted with the sight of… you.

“I’m here to write notes of the meeting for Dr. Edington.” Your voice was steady, like you were oh so certain of where you needed to be. But your body language betrays you, you’re cautious. So shy you automatically sit at the back of the room. You don’t look either of them in the eye, or even really at them at all.

It’s like fate itself dropped you in his lap.

“Why can’t he be here himself? He’s rather needed for this,” Will barks out.

You don’t retreat, but you don’t look up either. “I’m sorry, sir. He didn’t tell me where he went, just to take notes.”

Will shrieks a reply, and Wesker feels his eyes roll. Of course the bastard would leave to get out of this, and when you reply that you don’t know his location, he feels like he could punch a wall.

“We can’t let just anyone sit in.” He speaks, trying not to let his anger show. He expects you to retort, something about how it’s what you’re told to do. Instead.

“I understand. I apologize that there is not more I can tell you.” You close your little notebook and seem to be ready to leave. Too bad that’s not an option now.

He moves silently and quickly, and when you turn to look up he’s already above you. “Identify yourself.”

You give your name, and explain your position to Edington. Not asked but appreciated, as learning he has his own personal record keeper is quite the gain. He takes more of you in.

Your complexion is quite pale and there’s a gaunt look in your face that has him asking when was the last time you ate anything of true sustenance. And when Wesker catches the fading mark of a black eye on your face, the pieces seem to perfectly click.

He puts the last “report” that Edginton sent his way on the desk in front of you.

“Then perhaps you can answer the questions we have pertaining to this. Specifically, why it’s written in gibberish?”

Your eyes are barely on the paper for a second before you reply. “It seems you got a coded report.”

He had figured it out for a code, but now you had him piqued as to what you know.

“Coded?”

“Yes, sir. I write the notes for the lab session, he writes it in official terms and in code, and when he needs to send a lab report out, I translate it back.” As you’re saying this, you began to write in your notes, and Wesker feels every part of him focusing on you.

“Do you know it off the top of your head?”

“Yes sir, most of it. Since it’s a shorter one, I can probably get what I can done in 30 minutes.”

Maybe the code was simple and he could pick it up. If it was something you could have memorized to the point of

“If you can’t complete all of it?”

“It’s a book code, sir. I can go back to the office and pick out what I don’t recall. That might take slightly longer but not by much.”

It was rare that Wesker was intrigued by someone’s skills, but being able to apply a majority of a book code by memory was certainly something to note. And certainly something that could be useful.

“This is highly classified information that we are just handing to a random woman, we can’t just give it to her.” William, of course, needed to be the stickler.

“Edington has already been giving her plenty to work with and she saves us one conversation with him.”

And maybe many more in the future, if Wesker plays his cards right.

The door opens and the rest of the team that was going to meet today begin to walk in. More time wasted across the department. “This meeting is cancelled for today. Continue your projects as normal and we will get back to you for rescheduling.” They practically point faced and walked right on out, a word to the three already in the room never uttered.

He turns to you. “I’ll be by Edington’s office in an hour and a half to collect that report. Be expecting me.”

You nod and grab the last of your things and scuttle to the door, but not without a polite “Have a good afternoon” to William. So well mannered.

When the door closed, Wesker finally looked to Will to see him about to pop a vein. “You just let her walk out with that report? She had no identification outside of a first name!”

“Pipe down,” Wesker crooned as he set a timer on his watch, grabbed the few things he brought with him to the meeting room, and left.

William, expectedly, followed after him. Wesker tuned him out halfway to the lab. The moment he entered he went straight for the computer in the room and began diving into the employee files. He wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for, but it seemed the best place to start.

It seems by now William had realized he wasn’t listening anymore and had started on his own project.

Edington was close enough to the top that it took no time to find him. The page starts with his credentials; his degrees, his previous work experience, hell his college GPA was here too. Try hard. He submitted the code to access the confidential files gathered by the intel department and, since the Fates were smiling upon him this day, there you were in a photo right next to who he assumed was your mother.

Around ten years ago, Bruno Edington married your mother, who took his last name. But according to the official records, you didn’t.

He spent the next few hours looking up every detail of your life he could access, which felt like nothing. He found your birth certificate, officially aging you in your mid twenties. He found your school records, you were an ok student, excelling in classes like English and history, and just passing in classes like math. You were all around the place in sciences. He found your parent’s custody files, which was only an official filing. It seems like your biological father put up no fight at all for you.

And then he found a hospital visit. In fact it was quite the hospital visit it seemed. You were young, very young, and you were beaten quite viciously. Broken rib, concussion. The nurse wrote a note about suspecting the stepfather and reporting to CPS, but he went to dive into their records and found nothing on you. After that he noticed a severe lack of medical records in general. Nothing on your designation either.

Wesker’s watch goes off and he closes the programs, powers down the computer, and makes his way towards the door.

Will looked up confused. “Where are you going now?”

“To go pick up the translated report.”

“There’s no way it’s been an hour and a half.”

“It hasn’t,” Wesker replied shortly as the door closed behind him.

It took no time for Wesker to reach Edington’s office. He opened the door to see you reading a virology textbook in the armchair. Interesting.

“Enjoying yourself?” He hums, walking in.

“Taking in the quiet. If I may, what’s your name?”

Wesker had to admit, he had rarely needed to introduce himself, though he shouldn’t be surprised. “Wesker.”

“Spelt how it sounds?”

Wesker nodded, and as you wrote down something on the back of the packet, he focused on the scent around him. It absolutely wasn’t a scent you put off, it’s too well blended. There was a faint, faint smell of smoke. Perhaps a candle, then?

You hand him the report and it was then that he realized that the whole report was hand written. “Could you not just type and print it?”

“I don’t have access to the system, and I don’t know where the printer room is, apologies.”

He absent mindedly flipped through the report and he inhaled again, but still doesn’t pick up any other smells in the room. Perhaps you’re on some kind of scent blocker. “This will work for now. Tell your stepfather-”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Pardon?”

Your voice was still the more cool, practically emotionless, tone you speak in. But your eyes give away your brief flash of fear. “He…he doesn’t like it when people call him that.”

Silence passed as Wesker put the pieces together.

“Understood,” he responded slowly.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to take up your time. I’m sure you have work to get back to.” He’s not surprised you’d want him gone, it seems you don’t like showing your fragilities, a sentiment Wesker himself can understand.

“I do indeed. I’ll be seeing you.” He doesn’t mean it so much as a threat, as a promise.

“Have a good day, sir.”

Wesker tried to ignore how much he liked your obedient submission as he slipped out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why, how fortunate,” Wesker hummed as he rounded the corner to meet face to face with Bruno Edington. “I was just looking for you.”

“Wesker, what do you want? I’m busy.” Bruno always reminded him of one of those small dogs that yap to seem more intimidating. Even as he stands there and barks, Wesker can see the nerves in his eyes.

“I’m sure you are. Needing an assistant to get all of your work done and playing hooky on the meeting you wanted must take it out of you.”

“What did she tell you? I do my own work, she just-” He growled, Wesker could smell his anger. He didn’t intend for you to enter the crossfire of this discussion, but it seems inevitable; Bruno wants a reason to hang you, doesn’t matter the crime.

“She didn’t say anything.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “I doubt that Wesker. Little bitch is always looking for a reason to be a pain in my ass.”

“Cruel words to say about your step daughte-”

“That whelp is nothing to me!” He snarls, hatred dripping like venom from his words. Playing into Wesker’s hand.

“Then you wouldn’t mind if I took her off your hands?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“You seem to dislike her presence and you are doing everything yourself, she’s just helping correct. I need extra hands in my lab but don’t need someone with any wild qualifications. You get rid of her, I get my extra help.” It’s not as much of a question as Wesker posed. If Bruno disagreed, it supported the idea that he needs her for his work and Wesker can throw him under the bus for that. You would also be in the way of the bus, but he can pull some strings.

Bruno thinks for a moment. “I’ll consider your offer. Give me three days.”

“Then I’ll see you in three days.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It didn’t even take three days. Wesker got an email the afternoon of day two.

Paraphrased: “She’s yours, but you talk to her about it.” Fine with him.

Wesker ended up busier than he thought he would be at the police station, and thus wasn’t able to be in the lab that much; though he suspects that Bruno keeps you purposefully holed up in his office; most likely so no one catches on to his little trick.

He truly never intended to see you around, especially not at 7 o’clock at night while he was having a late dinner in the break room before a late session in the lab. Though your head poking in amused him greatly.

“Now what are you doing here this late? Have you decided to make a hole here, little mouse?”

“My ride forgot me.” You’re trying to come across as light-hearted and failing spectacularly. Your eyes are shifting around the space, as if waiting for something to hop out at you. Your eyes linger a bit on his food, but not very long.

“Do you not have a way home?” He’s not surprised, this mansion is in the middle of nowhere and taxis don’t come this far. If you’re left behind, you’re left behind.

“I’ll live,” you hum absentmindedly, focused on something else. You start pulling open cabinets and looking through them. You’re hungry, then?

“You’re not convincing me,” he says as he comes up behind you and reaches to where he knows Will keeps his spare protein bars (He’ll just buy him more later), then puts it in your hand. “Can’t have the cornerstone of Edington’s work starving, now, can we?”

“I’m not doing that much. He does research, I write down what he tells me to,” you say as you open the package, though you struggled opening it at first.

“Most of this job is writing things down. If he can’t do that without assistance, he needs to consider other careers.”

He just barely made out your mumbling something about an “understatement”.

“What makes you say that?”

It’s like he electrocuted you. You were still. Clearly you didn’t like snitching on Bruno, in fact you seem scared. But when he inhaled, there was no scent in the air.

“Interesting,” he thought out loud.

“What?” you squeaked.

“Nothing. What’s your education level?”

You were hesitant, but answered “Graduated Raccoon City High a few years ago.”

“College?”

“I want to go, but Bruno won’t have it. Says it’ll be a waste of money.”

“Yet you do a majority of his work.”

You went quiet, your eyes uneasily glancing around the room as you took slow slow bites of food. Eventually your eyes land on the fridge and stay there, while you swallow. He noticed your lips looked dry.

Wesker walked over to the fridge and opened it, grabbing a water bottle. As he brings it back over to you, he puts together that you’re not all there. And you look… quite sad.

He snapped his fingers in front of you, and you flinched.

“There you are, I thought I lost you.”

“Sorry, I think I’m just a bit tired,” you say, looking a bit bashful. “I’ll take this and go back to Bruno’s office.”

Interesting, you call him by his first name. “Last I recall, he doesn’t own a couch or anything of that nature.”

“There’s an armchair, I’ve napped in it a few times.”

Another opportunity. “This lab is connected to a manor with plenty of rooms to spare, I’ll escort you to one.”

“There’s no need, I’m sure they’re for something important.”

Wesker can’t help but laugh at that. Spencer hasn’t been here in years. “Hardly, it remains mostly empty, unless Spencer has guests to attend to.”

“Will he not-”

“He’s away and leaves me to look after it. Any mess you leave behind the maids will tend to.” He goes ahead and moves to the door, making sure you understand you’re not getting out of this. You seem to get it, grabbing your water bottle and approaching the door.

He makes sure you stay close behind him for the walk. It’s easy to get lost in the manor when you haven’t been there before, he was very aware. Soon he walks up to the old familiar door, opening it for you to step in.

It looks exactly as he last left it; mostly barely but clean. He points to the door to the side.

“That leads to the en suite bathroom. Anything else?”

“Do you have a list of directions out?”

It was such a genuine question, it caught him off guard and all he could do was laugh. Genuinely laugh. It had been a long time since he had laughed like this, it felt so foreign.

Wesker quickly regains his composure. “I’ll come get you in the morning. I’m sure there will be things to talk about.”

Your eyes give a brief flash of concern, before an air of acceptance washes over you.

“Goodnight Dr. Wesker.”

“Goodnight my dear.”

He steps out of the room, closing the door behind him. The pet name was a slip up, but one he could figure could work in his favor. He just fed you, gave you water, and found a place for you to sleep, all things close to courting. Hopefully you’ll be far more willing to accept his deal now that he’s shown that he can provide for you better than Bruno.

It bothers him that he can’t seem to figure out your designation. You have no scent whatsoever. He had dug for a while and found nothing on it either. An enigma, it seems. He doesn’t mind. If anything that gives him a fun little mystery to solve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wesker was quite pleased when he saw you on the other side of the door after your discussion earlier that day. It was nice that after a day of experiments not going quite how he wanted them to, one thing going his way was a pleasant change.

As you step in, you bring your hand up to your face, covering your nose.

“Problem with the smell?” He hums, a bit amused at your reaction. You’d think someone who’s worked in a lab for a few months would be used to it by now.

“Withdrawal from my medicine leaves me feeling sick. I wanted to give you my answer.”

He already knows. “And?”

“I’ll do it.” Of course you will.

He can’t help the smirk that blooms on his face. “Then we should discuss details. I was planning on paying you hourly instead of salary. Is that fine?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Salary is a fixed income, though there are ways to increase it and receive bonuses. I suggest hourly as it will be easier to keep track of overtime and thus pay you what you’re owe. Though if later down the line we wish to change this we can. I was thinking of making our first contract 6 months to give us plenty of time to see if the terms we agree upon work, so don’t feel as if you’re trapped into the decision you make now. Does that sound adequate?”

“You really don’t have to ask me. I don’t have any reason to bargain for better.”

“You should. It could be your dignity on the line.”

“I never had much to begin with.”

“A shame.” You seemed to be rather aware of your position here. That was somewhat reassuring, he wasn’t taking on a complete fool. He turns to grab his binder with the contract he typed up.

“Are you the only one who uses this lab?”

“No, my associate Dr. Birkin who you saw the day of the meeting works here as well. You will most likely cross paths with him frequently. If he asks for assistance and you wish to help him, feel free, but not obliged. He knows the nature of our deal.” That whole conversation with Birkin was more obnoxious than Wesker thought it would be.

Because Birkin was too into the idea.

“I think a young woman on the side will be a nice addition to your life, Albert.”

Idiot.

“These go over the specifics I have typed up for now. If you wish to change anything, write a note by it and we will go over it all at once. The final form concerns medical history. Due to the nature of our work here, there are some things I need to know.”

“Of course.”

He passed over the contract with a pen and a comment on taking your time before he went back to prepare the wells for the samples he was dealing with today. The work was methodical and repetitive, one of the few tasks he felt like he could turn his brain off for a brief period of time. Soon it was at the point where he only needed to wait for the samples to process. He decided to go over some of the latest reports that Birkin- who was currently in a meeting with Edington and a few others- wrote up to see if there were any changes in the most recent tyrant specimens.

Wesker was just about to go back to check the specimens in the wells when the doors bangs open.

“That imbecilic jackass is sending us in circles.” Birkin hisses as he storms into the room.

“Careful,” Wesker said, dropping a hint of threat in his voice. The last thing he wanted was you putting together that he was using you completely. He looks over to the desk to read your face, to find you gone. It didn’t take him long to find you.

At some point in time, you had transitioned to the corner of the room and were currently sitting on the ground. Birkin had also found you, then turned back to Wesker.

“Albert, don’t tell me you banished her to the floor,” Birkin scolded.

Before Wesker could tell him to shove it, you spoke up.

“I prefer sitting here.”

The two men stared at you for a moment, before Birkin turned back to Wesker. “As I was saying, we’re being sent in circles. There’s no way we’ll get the results we need when we need them. And I don’t know if you heard the last notice from Spencer, but I’m not happy about it.”

Wesker was half tempted to tear Birkin’s head off because of course he read the damn notice. And they had already talked about Edington’s nonsense before. Instead he settled with growling “Should we be having this discussion now?”

Birkin waved with a scoff. “She’s going to figure it out-”

“I meant to insinuate I was in the middle of something.”

“Ah, yes. Understandable. Is it the sequencing for the variant we found in our last test?”

“Yes, it’s quite tedious.” Not really, but whatever to get Birkin to leave him the hell alone.

“Wasn’t that the whole reason you wanted her here?” Birkin chuckled.

“Paperwork first.”

“Of course, legality is what we’re known for.”

Wesker shot him a glare, but internally knew that he had a good point. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a little smile from you. He doesn’t know how to respond to your amusement besides turning and returning to work.

Further down the line, after Birkin has left and Wesker’s certain you could have finished reading that contract two times over, he finally gets done with recording everything. He turned around to see that you had picked up a book and were reading.

“Apologies, that needed to get done, though it wasn’t meant to take that long.”

“It’s fine. I understand,” you hum as you put the book back on the shelf and gather the paperwork in hand as you stand.

He moves over to where you are, holding his hand out expectantly. “I won’t keep you much longer, it’s about time for your ride to clock out. I just want to go over your medical papers quickly.”

He flips through it quickly, eyes scanning through everything. Luckily nothing obscenely jarring that could inhibit anything. He decides to use this window to get the truth.

In all honesty, he could never find anything on your designation. No signs of you enrolling in any kind of designation based programs, nothing in school files about unfortunate presentations, nothing. And that simply wouldn’t do if this was to go forward.

“There’s a question missing. What’s your designation?”

“Beta, most likely,” you reply. “My mom suspects that I have some kind of disorder where I didn’t present in normal ways, including producing scents. She also thinks my sense of smell was messed up too, as I can’t smell people’s scents.”

“Interesting. But no diagnosis?” He asks conversationally.

“My mom doesn’t like doctors.” Sounded a bit like a half assed excuse but he’ll leave it be. Chances are it was far more complicated than that.

“Tomorrow I’ll come in closer to when Edington leaves. I should have a keycard for you as well as the pager, though that item is still in the air. Any questions?”

“No, sir.”

He felt his smirk return as he replied, “See you soon. It’ll be a pleasure working with you.”

As the door closes behind you, Wesker felt his smile drop. As he files his paper work away, your contract included, he couldn’t shake off his suspicion that that stuff about your designation was pure and total bull shit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were an obscenely fast learner. Wesker would rarely have to repeatedly demonstrate a task or instruction and having a second pair of hands was quite helpful. The amount of time he was saving by having you run documents for him was a large amount. You seemed quite pleased when he provided food, though seeing how you looked he couldn’t guarantee that was an instinctual reaction. You only napped when it wasn’t busy and he definitely could have had you stay home, but somehow he knew that being in the lab was a better place for you. After all, he can’t have his ticket to Edington’s research in distress.

By month two, Wesker was starting to feel grateful for your presence. You were a good conversationalist for him, only having brief and short responses, not droning on and on about things that don’t matter.

Plus you seemed to love routine and order as much as he did. Your dedication to keeping everything in the lab as organized as possible was his saving grace at times. With how quickly that you could pull out things that he and Birkin couldn’t find could almost make you a hero in their eyes. Almost.

But with all the help you were, it wasn’t enough.

Seems like Edington had completely snapped his jaws closed. Wesker hadn’t seen another report from him in too long and as the third month of your employment came around, he was past the point of frustration. He would need to try to utilize you in a new way.

“You are personally familiar with Edington’s work, correct?”

It was a quiet moment in the lab, he felt it was the perfect time to fish for information. You didn’t reply immediately, but Wesker didn’t rush you. Once you analyzed the situation, you’d choose him. After a few more seconds of silence, you answer.

“I am.”

He made sure to keep his face neutral, but didn’t let his gaze leave you.

“He’s been delaying giving us most of his reports in recent months, before meeting you. He has seemed to catch on that we can’t quite fire him or reprimand him for it, due to his importance to the project he’s assigned to. But that doesn’t negate that we still need updates on his project.”

“What specifically do you need?”

“The results of his most recent experiment where he tested his project on a live subject.”

He was expecting you to offer your services, or even outright say you’d try to get the reports. He did not expect what you actually offered.

“I can write it out for you if you’d like?”

“Can you?”

“Of course. I transcribed it for him.”

To Wesker’s absolute shock, you start writing away in your notebook. He walked over to look over your shoulder and saw you, sure as day, writing out the start of a report.

“It might take a bit. It was a long study; he observed the subject for about three days.”

Wesker couldn’t think to speak. Instead he was caught up reading over your shoulder. He watched the report unfold under your hands until the timer for his last test went off and he went to deal with that. All the while his mind kept wandering to you; analyzing the information you just dropped.

Soon enough you announce that you’re done with the report. He begins flipping through the pages of the report. You have all the analysis, the data, you even recreated a graph accurately.

“Is it common for you to remember everything you’ve ever written?”

“Well yeah? Is that odd?”

Wesker couldn’t believe his luck.

“Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wesker played his cards carefully for a whole month, and when he read over your recent report he saw it all fell into place.

He purposefully placed a new book on DNA sequencing in the pile you were reading through, then had you start up on writing his reports with the idea of being too busy to do so himself (with his work at S.T.A.R.S. picking up, that wasn’t a complete lie). Then, the final part of the test, was giving you the notes of an mRNA sequence that was straight up wrong, slip the aforementioned book out of the lab, and see what happened.

Lo and behold, he read over your report, and the sequence was perfect. You had perfectly applied the knowledge you read once to a report.

This is the third instance of evidence towards his theory, and this one test made it seem more probable.

You had an eidetic memory. How crisp it was, he can’t say quite yet, but it was good enough that he can use it if he knows what he’s doing.

Now your value to his plans skyrocketed. Having someone who can keep information that no one else can access was worth its weight in gold.

You seemed to have no clue. Chances were Edington didn’t know either.

And he was certainly going to keep it that way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As frustrating as the virus breaking containment was, Wesker was going to consider it a blessing. Tricell was already begging for him to join their ranks, and Umbrella (namely Spencer) had begun suspecting his change in allegiances.

The damning evidence was in his lab, but he’s assuming their investigation was interrupted since they haven’t broken down the door to his apartment. But everything has gone the way he’s wanted so far.

Last he checked, the only members of S.T.A.R.S. left were Redfield, Burton, Chambers, and Valentine (who he locked in a holding cell underground). Chris and Rebecca were still dealing with one of the god awful puzzles in the garden, and he was quite sure Barry wasn’t going to give him any grief with that threat on his beloved family. Birkin was dealing with the issue in the training facility, thus wouldn’t be bothering him either.

Therefore he had all the time to search his lab for those papers and make them conveniently disappear. When Umbrella would eventually send a cleanup crew, he wanted to make sure there was no evidence of his betrayal. Even though he was sure he was going to need to disappear afterwards regardless, he wanted his bases covered.

When he went to the filing cabinet in the lab, though, the original places he stashed them were empty. He purposefully put them out of order, so that they would be harder to find, but they were completely gone. Even when he checked other spots, they were still missing. They didn’t come through already, did they? He would know by now if Umbrella was after him.

You had to have something to do with it. Wesker remembered telling you to sort his files, but he genuinely thought you would slack off, but you are a hard worker. Should have known your desire to please him would override your desire for rest. But now he needed to know where you put them.

You wouldn’t bring them home with you, you were too smart to risk that with Edington. But you obviously did something with them.

He pulled out the few reports he wanted to hold on to, then started looking around the lab to see if anything was out of place. He was fortunate that this place was sectioned off so there was no disarray from infected and those being chased by them, therefore he didn’t have to worry about things being too out of place.

Where would you put them? Somewhere you could find, but no one else. He looked over to your corner, where you would sit. Nothing out of place.

Except his notepad, facedown. He certainly wouldn’t leave it there, and it certainly wouldn’t be facedown.

He flipped it over. The pages were blank.

You placed it there, you had to. But why? What were you communicating?

The notebook was facedown where the underside was shown.

Underside.

He looked under the table. Your notebook was taped to the top of the table on the far back, where someone would have to basically fold themselves to see it. He crawled under and pulled it off, opening to the first page, where you had slipped all of the papers.

He almost purred with satisfaction. Clever girl.

That was the last he needed from the lab. He slipped everything in his briefcase and headed out the door.

Now all he needed was the tyrant embryos, and to make sure all of S.T.A.R.S. was dead. Then he could head back to his apartment and disappear.

But as he walked down the hall, his mind drifted back to you.

You had been so good for him. Hell you covered his ass when he didn’t even need you to. It would be a shame to leave you with that asshole and your mother. Maybe when all was said and done, he’d find a nice place for you to go. A well-to-do pack, or maybe send you off to a college somewhere. You would excel in academics, especially if you grew bolder. But some time away could build your confidence.

Yes when all of this was said and done, he’d make sure you were taken care of.

Border by @sweetmelodygraphics

#resident evil #albert wesker #resident evil fanfiction #venomous ties #albert wesker x reader #albert wesker x you #resident evil william birkin #resident evil wesker #wesker #william birkin #resident evil x reader #resident evil omegaverse #omegaverse #alpha beta omega #a/b/o #a/b/o au #a/b/o verse #omegaverse au

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dangermousie · 10 hours ago

Text

She said, “I’m not coaxing you. I’m just telling you that I like you too, whether you’re Yan Zheng or Xie Zheng.”

“I rejected you before because I thought we wouldn’t have a good outcome together. When you were Yan Zheng, our worries were just about daily necessities. But you could earn money by copying books and writing essays, and I could make money by butchering and selling pork. Whatever difficulties we faced, we could support each other and overcome them.”

“But when you’re the Marquis of Wu’an, I don’t know how to help you with any of your problems. I don’t understand what you’re busy with or what you’re worried about. My mother says that for a couple to last a lifetime, they need to understand and support each other. Those who become resentful couples often wear out their past affection before they can accommodate each other for a lifetime.”

“I wanted to make a clean break, but you told me about watching the sunrise together at Yan Mountain, going hunting in Huizhou, and asking Master Tao to take me as his goddaughter because you were afraid I’d be bullied. I’m not made of stone. I would be sad and reluctant to part too.”

“I don’t know if I’ll regret choosing this path in the future, but at least for now, I’m willing to give it a try.”

She looked at him seriously. “I will become someone like you, to be with you openly and honorably.”

Under the blazing sun, Xie Zheng’s pitch-black eyes didn’t reflect any light, only mirroring Fan Changyu’s image. Like thick ink, it seemed to want to swallow her completely.

He hugged her tightly, his voice deep and hoarse. “No matter what identity you have when you’re with me, it’s always open and honorable.”

Fan Changyu said, “What I’m looking for is the confidence to walk alongside you forever. This confidence doesn’t come from how deep your feelings are for me, but from myself. Even a powerful eagle can’t carry another eagle while flying, right?”

Xie Zheng understood the meaning behind her words, but precisely because he understood, his thin lips pressed tighter. He straightened up and said, “The battlefield is not child’s play. One misstep could cost you your life. Even with the bravery of one man against ten thousand, accidents can still happen. I won’t let you take such risks.”

The battlefield could bring military merits, but buried beneath the yellow sand were countless white bones.

Fan Changyu looked at him and said, “I’m afraid of death too. I can’t bear to leave Ning’er and you. But if I don’t walk this path myself, others might force me into dangerous situations in the future. I still remember the two assassination attempts at home in Lin’an Town. I never knew my enemies were such powerful people. You almost lost your life to them once.”

“Rather than being carefully protected like a fragile vase, only to shatter when I fall, I’d rather train myself to have a body of copper and bones of iron. I said I want to walk alongside you. Those are my enemies too, and for the sake of avenging my parents, I should do this. I like you, but I can’t rely on you for the rest of my life. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be myself anymore.”

Best passage in the whole novel so far and OMG she’s the best heroine I’ve come across in ages!

#cnovel #chasing jade

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my-stories-vault · 2 days ago

Text

Thank you for such a lovely comment, Beth. Left me giddy, lol. Took me the entirety of yesterday on what I wanted to say 😄💘!

This was super sweet H 😍 I haven’t read a song fic in SO LONG, and from talking with you and what little I know of Tollywood (also thanks to you), seeing this paired with Love Story and the little nod to Dean being her Romeo at the end was just so special!

Haha, yesss - I was nervous about that, lol. Didn't see too many of those here. Lol, yeah, the dramatic Tollywood - I tried to walk the fine balance between my exaggerated world and the outter sublime one. I realised while I was writing that the Romeo and Juliet is a good drama to pair with my culture in some ways, it made a good bridge between my two inner worlds. So glad you liked it 🥰!

I can’t get over how beautiful your prose is ❤️

Thank you so much 💘. As a Lit Major, it's an honour to here one of my works being called "prose" - feels like a plaque. Means a lot 🥹

On a side note, I know it has nothing to do with it, but the wrapping ribbons brings me to my first love of love stories - Sailor Moon

Oooh. Is it an Australian cartoon? I love the gif you've shown me, lol. I grew up on Doremon and Shin Chan, or Ninja Hatori if we stretched it - but Sailor Moon sounds so fluid (probably the effect of the ribbons 🤭😂).

There you go again. I love the usage of hanging the moon. I’ve only seen it used a few times, but you just know Dean loves deeply, and if he finds something like he has here, he’s going to be fiercely protective. I loved how you showed him fierce and protective of her, while trying his damn hardest to be respectful of her wishes.

Right? The phrase is so damn gooey and sexy at the same time - I wonder why it isn't used more often. Haha, thank you so much - my Deans keep changing on what season/background he has if it's in an AU - but this one thing'll never change. Protectiveness bordering on paranoia - I find if I were as traumatised, I would've been the exact same 🙂.

Hahah - thirty seven. I’m surprised the hunting ones like the dungeon are a problem when her family are hunters, but I guess it’s not the to do thing to have where you work and where you live under one roof?

Ooof, that's a good point. I forgot it might not seem that normal to a non-native eye 😂.

Okay, I'm going to break down the parental code that reigns a lot of people here: Control.

They don't have a problem with weapons, per se, but they have a problem with what house the weapons are in. They see Sam and Dean and they see two jacked men, grazing the glory of six feet without parents (elders are guides, without them you are a disgrace in our society - you will never be up to any good) - and they think that their daughter's nearly committed a sin. Because then the boys are stronger than the parents and they disapprove.

Does that make sense? I sometimes get my normals blurred lol.

Yeah - I need you to tell me more. Is it over the shoes that I’m assuming they’re wearing? The ankles? Lower leg?

It's preferable that both the blesser and the blesse (just make words but I hope you get the sentiment 😂) are barefoot. Shoes are sort of disrespectful that's why you don't wear it in temples, and that means, you shouldn't wear them while giving/receiving blessings either. However, when in hurry, you excuse it. And the blesse is supposed to bend down well and touch the toes of their elders; the elders will loving show their blessings by touching your head.

Fun side fact: some cultures don't allow girls to touch feet (before marriage) because they are considered reincarnations of goddesses.

DEAN DESERVES EVERYTHING - so does this reader!

I just copy pasted because I wanted it to be said again 😂❤️ - especially the Dean part 🙃.

This is what I’m wondering again lol. Her parents are hunters. I reckon they’re seeing a lot more that they’re saving face over. We won’t comment on that stuff, but we will show here other marriage prospects in private.

Oh, they are very conscious of society watching. They won't say anything in front of the Winchesters because they are "strangers". But if I know their mindset correct (said the author, lmao) they came prepared with the Marraige prospects - they were simply waiting to know about her virginity so they could know if the guy would accept her or not.

Please note that I hate it as I say it 🙂🔫.

How dare! I was so mad when I read that. And the line about trying to be a friend to your kids. A parents job is not to be a friend but to parent.

Very true. But here, usually the self-conscious mothers, feel like if they were their child's friend, they would be younger. A dad rarely ever feels worried about their age. I figured I should include it to demonstrate to a slight extent what the mother was going through too. I don't know if that's something in pther cultures as well?

Really I was mad with how the parents were treating her the whole time, but the contrast with Dean and the love he was showing, my heart ❤️

Also just love Dean doing what he does best!

I'm so glad I was able to convey that through, lol. I was nervous I was overdoing it or not enough. I usually don't get like that, but I wanted to show all sides in a very few words. (As you know, one-shots aren't my strong suit 🤣.)

This was a beautiful story (where’s the proposal- huh? Huh?) Thank you so much for sharing! Whenever I read reader inserts, I’m reading the y/n as an OC and I loved how you shared your culture with us and the little differences/nuances compared to western culture.

Hahaha, inserting the thought of proposal in my other series now lol.

And thank you so much for reading. Feels damn awesome to hear your comments and thoughts about it 💘😘!

Love Story King.

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Y/N L/N

Blurb: You are in love. You have strict Indian parents. What else spells disaster?

Trigger Warnings/Tags (18+): language, overprotective parents, angst, hurt/comfort fluff.

Song Inspiration and Lyrics: Love Story by Taylor Swift (mentioned in bold and italics)

A/N: This one's close to my heart 🙃. My dear friend, Hepza from Wattpad, had this challenge with me two years ago. She wrote about Indian Arranged Marriages, and I wrote about the Love Marriage version. These were my prompts: "I don't want a Prince Charming on a white horse", Love Story by Taylor Swift, and any two Indian wedding traditions of my choice (they're explained in the chapter). If you want to give Hepza's version a go, you can find her on Wattpad - her version's amazing ❤️❤️.

Disclaimer: NOT ALL Indian parents are like how I've shown in this fic down here. Some are kind, supportive, and progressive. However, a few of these situations are derived from the real lives of a few other people I know: this is for them: I hope you all find your Deans, lovelies.

Love Story King.

We were both young when I first saw you

I close my eyes and the flashback starts

I'm standing there

On a balcony, in summer air

You trode lightly on the gravel road that hugged the Bunker from the outside. The early summer sun shone on the black rocks like an aesthetic come true. Slight summer heat licked up your neck and spiraled down your spine as you stretched languidly. Closing your eyes, you spread your arms as if waiting for the morning gorgeousness of the backwoods to douse you like the wrapping ribbons of the wind. The snow was melting, and so were you. Your melanin-plus body was appreciative of the dying winter even if you were having an internal meltdown.

You spent November through January dodging the outdoors, telling Dean you didn't want to catch a cold. The poor man, alternatively, with his brother, braved the frost to go on supply runs. You repaid them with warm meals for their tummies, tummies that had been homesick for most of their lives.

Today, a slice of your home was joining you. You couldn't decide if you were more anxiously nauseous or anxiously happy to be seeing them after two years.

But it wasn't your mom's nagging calls that had finally dogged you into an agreement. Your parents wanted to meet their future son-in-law. You'd finally broken down and told them about him - your conscious couldn't let you marry Dean without at least their approval. You owed them a meet-and-greet because Indian or not, they'd helped take care of you all your life.

Right up until Dean came along and plucked you from the crowd.

You'd always been a hunter, so that kind of introduction to Supernatural 101 hadn't really been necessary in your case. And much to both yours and Dean's surprise, you two had clicked. You had just moved out of your parents' sheltered scrutiny when you bumped into Dean on a case - one thing led to another, and you ended up in each other's company so often that one day you two decided not to part.

'Good morning,' a tastefully gruff voice met your ear; it was a warning before two arms wrapped possessively around you.

You let out an indignant huff on being interrupted during Nature Time, but you turned into a puddle in his embrace - where you felt the safest. Accepted, loved, and at home. Before Dean, you didn't think of those words as synonymous.

'Fill up on all that affection,' you mumbled, resting your head back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the side of your hair before lowering his head into your neck so that the scraggly scruff of his cheek tickled your skin ever-so-lightly. He brushed his lips to the juncture where your neck and collarbone met as he hummed, making a shiver run down your spine.

'Tell me why again?'

He laid a series of kisses on your shoulder, trying to make you forget your dumb rules. You also saw the tint of nervousness in his voice, through the relaxed gait he'd forced onto his body.

You smiled sadly. 'It's not allowed - hugging, or even holding hands before marriage. Much less kissing, or . . . sex.'

When you broke that news to Dean two weeks ago, you didn't know who had been more annoyed about it: him or Sam; mostly because Dean constantly complained about it, much to your amusement and Sam's horror. Dean had also been "making up" for the lost time about to happen, once again, to Sam's absolute misery.

Not that you had been exclusively and actively seeking out that "act" before meeting Dean - in fact, he'd been your first - but you did like . . . canoodling with him. You were the more one-man-woman kinda person - literally in everything. And you'd known that when you had given yourself to Dean, he would be it for you. Meanwhile, that was still unacceptable to your family. So, this visit was essentially going to be "fake it till you can make it" kinda altercation.

'I know it's supposed to be honourable,' he commented, placing another kiss up your neck. 'I just think it's stupid. I mean, what if you marry a person and you have no chemistry?'

You smirked. 'You're just upset about no sex for a week with me.'

'Of course. That, too. You're downright edible.'

It elicited a stuttering giggle from you. He turned you in his arms to see you for himself, and you snaked yours around his neck.

His freckles shone in the sun, like red polka dots for handsome faces. His cupid's bow dipped his upper lip downward, which you really hoped your kids would inherit one day. Some days you it was a tough decision to consider: what's more adorable about Dean - his dimples when he was smiling with his heart on his sleeve, or his glittering forest gems that highlighted between his crow's feet when he looked down at you as if you'd hung the moon.

He was giving you that look now. It prompted a shy, bashful smile of your own.

'I've told you before: chemistry doesn't matter,' you responded to his question. 'You aren't marrying them because of their . . . "skills", but more because you're promising them the rest of your life - despite anything.'

Once upon a time, he would have teased you for your inability to say the word "sex" so casually - one of his favourite pastimes was poking you out of your shell - and what he loved even more was that you often ventured out . . . only for him. He knew what a special pedestal he'd been put on in your heart, and it meant the world to him.

However, today he didn't have it in him to lure you out with sweet nothings. He nodded absent-mindedly, still recalibrating his mind around the fact that he won't be able to say that word for the next week either if he didn't want to be rejected.

If your five-year-long relationship had been anything to go by, you two have a multitude of differences that set you both seas apart, literally. It's evident you two've been a product of generations that belong to different continents altogether, but why should that stop love from blooming? If only Dean could get that across, everything would be all right.

'I'm having flashbacks,' you whispered.

'Of?'

'Our relationship,' you admitted.

He frowned. 'Why?'

'There are thirty-seven things in the Bunker right now that they can disapprove of.'

'That's specific,' he chuckled.

'I'm serious,' you chided. 'Sam has long hair, we have guns taped under the dining table, and don't even get me started on the torture chamber behind the archives. If my snooping mother finds it, you can say goodbye to all our dreams and hopes.'

Dean tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He knew you wouldn't leave hi,m and he also knew how painful it would be for you to marry him without your parents' blessing. Your relationship with them was complicated; it reminded Dean of his own relationship with his father. Family can rip you apart, but you still want to keep it together; Dean didn't want it on his conscience that he didn't even try to support you through it.

He tugged your chin up and gazed into you with a seriousness that the man reserved for special occasions. 'You know I love you. By the end of this week, they'll know no man, or woman, will love you more than I can.'

You strained on a smile and forced yourself to revel in his optimism. You kissed his palm softly.

'Yeah, they're humans, after all - they'll see it,' you hoped. 'And I love you, too. So damn much.' It was your habit to say it back; you couldn't not.

See the lights, see the party. the ball gowns

See you make your way through the crowd

And say, "Hello"

Little did I know

That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles

You welcomed your parents into the Bunker with a huge smiles. It was nice to see them after such a long time. Greetings were passed around, and Dean and Sam had gone as far as to lean down and touch your parents' feet.

It was an Indian thing to touch your elders' feet to seek their blessings, and you were simply surprised that they even remembered it was a thing. You were fighting tears of joy and sheer overwhelming by the time your Mom happily hugged them like her own kids. At least they'd won her heart just a smidge. While the boys backed away to take their bags, you had started leading them down, subtly fanning your face to stem the tears right where they were.

Your parents levied one question after another on you - mostly catching up about hunting (they were hunters, too - it was a family business), then they asked how America was treating you, and you questioned them about their flight before they finally steered the conversation to the reason they were here.

A few days back, Dean had proposed - he'd gone and done the whole nine yards, the champagne, a classy restaurant, beautiful music in the background, and the most breathtaking ring you'd probably ever seen in your entire life. Or maybe, it was just the man who'd been holding it.

But you hadn't been able to say yes.

It led to one of the largest fights the two of you had had, but it ended with Dean demanding you reveal everything to your parents if it was such a bone of contention for you. Your paralysing fear had only been swayed when Dean later confessed that it felt like you were ashamed of him. You decided the world could screw itself, but you wouldn't let him feel that for a single second more.

That had been four days ago. Now your parents were here, in your space.

'So, you live here all alone, Y/N?' your father said with a slight edge to it.

Tread carefully, all the alarms in your head screamed at you - for this was where the beginning of the end started.

'Oh, no. This is, uh, Sam and Dean's place.'

Another look was exchanged between your parents. Oh, how you hated that look! You stuttered to dispel their worries. 'I just . . . you guys were coming over, and my house couldn't have held us all, so Dean offered . . . while you were here.'

You were a grown-up woman, for God's sakes, that lied for a profession - you should have been able to say it better than that, right?

Right.

Luckily, you'd cleared all the lies with boys beforehand, so they knew what to do in case you weren't able to hold your own.

So, even if you'd lived at the Bunker practically ever since you left your parents', they really didn't need to know that. Because forget handholding - living in close quarters with a man before marriage was a sin, and these were two strong, bulky-ass men who could manhandle you around even on their worst days (you bet this was what your father was thinking). If they found out the truth, they would declare you dead to all your family, friends, and relatives.

Dean swooped in when it seemed like you'd jammed. 'We have a lot of rooms here. I wanted you guys to be comfortable. Especially now that we're going to be a family.' He stepped up beside you and was going to put his arm around you, but the way you stiffened reminded him to keep his hands to himself, so he tucked them awkwardly in his pockets, shooting them a charming smile as a replacement.

Your Mom shot him an uncomfortable smile. 'Oh, dear, that's sweet of you. But you didn't have to go to such trouble.'

'Nonsense! Please, you're welcome here.'

Your parents didn't look convinced.

They had evolved barely to welcome the different societal norms of the culture Dean was a part of, but the idea of a love marriage was a new level even for them - heck, they were just getting used to the fact that women could drive cars.

'We should eat!' You clapped your hands and smacked your lips.

'Yeah, good idea,' Dean breathed out, taking a lead as he often did. 'Why don't you show them the restrooms, sweetheart, and their rooms? I'll get the food; Sammy'll set the table.'

Before you could glare at your boyfriend for the very suggestion, your Mom was already protesting. 'Absolutely not!'

The ever-active brothers who were already in motion froze in their places with confusion and slight fear. The kitchen was the one place where your mother's voice rose - it was sad she'd rearranged her life around that one room, not that you had any say in that. You also realised that the boys lost all the little respect they'd gained in your mother's eyes. With your father, they went negative.

'Why would you work in a kitchen, Dean?'

Dean looked sincerely befuddled. 'Ex-Excuse me?'

Your mom looked at you as if she was waiting for you to yell "Buzinga" or something to prove this a joke - you half wished you could. You may not have gone over this with the brothers, but you were an Indian daughter, and you'd be remiss if you didn't have a suitable lie ready for it.

'Well, the boys have lived alone for most of their lives,' you were quick to supply. 'They're used to working for themselves, Maa.'

Both the Winchesters shot you a look of incredulity at that explanation.

'Papa, Maa, why don't you take the boys with you, and relax, huh? I'll handle everything.'

That brought a smile to their faces, and they loosened the muscles slightly. Your father patted your mother's shoulder (they weren't even too affectionate after so thirty years of marriage) while Sam followed them with slight reluctance.

Dean doubled back to follow you into the kitchen, where he hissed in a lowered decibel. 'What is this?'

You sighed. 'Indian men are the breadwinners, women work the households - sometimes even the women who work, actually.'

'That's just stupid,' he was quick to aide.

You couldn't even begin to count how many times Dean had said that about the Indian way of doing things. You loved him for it, actually - he hated all the regressive things you did, but he was a willing participant in the traditions that made your culture beautiful - he happily walked the balance for you, like the little girl in you had wanted your partner to.

'Look, just, work with me here,' you begged. 'I haven't been able to cover everything with you guys, okay? And this is just for a couple of days.'

'But that's a couple of days of you working alone,' Dean said with upset - you know how he took sharing everything with you to heart, and you adored him for that. It was a relief to be with him after the kinds of marriages you'd seen in your household, but you needed to do this if you wanted approval.

You smiled ruefully at him as you brought out dishes. Dean's hand came out to pick up the cutlery before you slapped it away, and he glared at you.

You retorted with: 'Go, Dean. I'll be fine. Trust me - for my parents doing all the household work alone is almost as important as having a college education.'

You could see he was struggling with that new information.

'Now leave, or they'll think you're helping me.'

'Oh, God forbid, you're actually taken care of,' the sarcasm was real.

You smirked before something occurred to you, and your expression turned to one of reprimand. 'Oh! And we're lucky my parents didn't notice it, but don't call me "sweetheart".'

'What, now, they have a problem with nicknames?!'

You could already see this week being too much, but you decided to inhale before you calmly explained. 'Well, yes. It's weird to call a woman with any nickname before marriage, unless of course it's a legal nickname.'

'That's just—'

'—Stupid,' you completed. 'I know.'

He seemed genuinely nettled, so you cut him some slack: 'You can say it to me when we're alone? Just . . . watch everything you do in front of them, okay? It's like fighting a monster - you must watch your every move lest you want yourself to be vulnerable to their attacks. They are vicious when they want to be - nearly as bad as sorority girls, I suppose,' you said, trying an expression more suitable to his understanding.

'Seriously?'

You smiled at him pleadingly, and Dean left with a huff, muttering under his breath.

But you appreciated him going the effort. Dean is a wonderful man, and once you passed through this week, you were sure the rest of your lives were going to be amazing.

And my daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet"

But you were everything to me

I was begging you, "Please don't go"

A knock on the door pulled you from your reverie. You put down your reading glasses to see your mother push it in before you could allow the person inside. Frankly, you were just grateful she knocked before barging in. Getting that habit instilled in your parents was equivalent to getting a child potty-trained.

You smiled softly at your mother and the warm grace she seemed to pull into the room. You felt a nostalgia towards her; you'd missed her, even if it was only a little.

'Hey, Maa. You and Papa settling in okay?'

'Oh, yes. I unpacked everything. Your father caught on that new show,' she said with a tint of bitterness. Yet if you pointed out, you'd be the bad guy, so you didn't. 'You?' She came to sit beside you on the bed, and you staved off the annoyance that came with the invasion of personal space, making room for her.

'Yep. So. What are you doing here?'

'Oh, I just, we haven't had the opportunity to talk in the longest time . . . And now you're getting married!'

You forced a smile. 'Uh huh. Yeah. Thanks for giving Dean a chance, by the way. It means a lot to both of us.'

'Oh, sure. Sure,' she waived it off, and you felt a tingle of discomfort go down your spine. 'You two crazy kids must be in love if he's willing to put up with your extra curves.'

The last few years with Dean had taught you to take offense at things like that. He cured what he'd called your "sorry syndrome" - it was so bad that when a person told you not to apologise so much, you apologised for apologising so much. A trait of your mother's and a gift of your childhood. However, it had been five years.

So, instead of shrinking down in shame, which would have been your old self's go-to, you actually scoffed, 'Pardon?'

'Oh, you know,' she said sweetly, casually, looking down at your body in distaste. 'It's almost like you're already married - you seemed to have stopped watching your weight.' She had the audacity to laugh in the end. Her own hands were clutching her stomach as if she were trying to hide her own bulge.

Embarrassment colored your cheeks beet red. 'Mom,' your voice took a sharpness that made even Dean grimace most of the time - but your mother remained obliviously uncaring of your feelings and happiness.

'Oh, honey, don't look at me like that,' she chided as if you were the one who had it all wrong.

Sure, you may have gained a couple of pounds, but you were still well within the weight range that a person of your height should be at. Just because you didn't have a flat stomach didn't make you unlovable. . . .

'I don't want to talk about this,' you reeled in your emotions to stop them from disrupting your steadfast voice.

If you want to insult someone to death diplomatically, your Mom would be a good teacher.

'Oh, there's no shame in talking about weight; isn't that what girlfriends do?' she nudged.

It was pathetic that she thought that that was what being your kid's friend meant. What was even more pathetic was that it stemmed somewhere from her need to be young, more than being a supporting star in your life.

The most pathetic thing, you ask? That you actually thought you missed her.

You cringed. 'There's nothing to talk about. Dean loves me for who I am.'

She gave you a sceptical look. 'Are you sure, sweetie? Look, Y/N, he's a man of . . . Western Culture,' she said it as if that were a despicable status to have.

'We've been talking about that,' you gritted. 'Not all Western Culture is British - not that all the Britishers are wrong.'

'Oh, now you're going to teach me, are you?' her eyes flashed. 'How old do you think you are? I'm your mother. Who do you think is more intelligent here? My parents were in the Dandi March that Gandhi led to get something as simple as salt for his countrymen! And you think you know how the British were, better than me . . . ?'

You tuned her out for a bit. There was only so much you could listen to as she used Gandhi, a brilliant man, by the way, who became one of the original topics of conversation between you and Sam, for her own means. Parents used stories to control their children, at least in your household.

'And that's not even the point!' she spat, bringing you out of your reverie onto a point that isn't her bragging about being wiser simply because she's older.

'Dean's . . . an orphan. He didn't have the hand of his elders over his head. And I'm pretty sure he's had sex way before you. I mean, has he even agreed to wait? For you?'

You were so flustered by the point of sex - the first time you'd heard your mother use the word - that you couldn't address how her "orphan" point bothered you, like a knife in your back might.

'Yes!' you lied. Well, partially lied. The part about Dean waiting for you, as soon as he knew you both had feelings for each other, was true. But it was your decision and yours alone when you told him you were ready for the next level. 'Dean's a gentleman, Maa,' you punctuated - this part was a hundred percent true though.

Your mother was yet to be convinced. She pulled out from the pockets of her fully unrevealing nightgown, a few photos, and nausea seemed to climb up your food-pipe the second you realised what that could possibly be.

Your eyes widened in betrayal as she confirmed your suspicions. 'These are a few Indian men your father and I have been talking to, sweetie-'

'No,' you shot out of your bed in revulsion at even the thought. 'What the . . . I love Dean!' You choked on the word "hell" there in the middle. 'You came here to give him a chance!'

'Be that as it may, you're still a kid, Y/N! You don't have the experience of the world - listen to me, just go through them.' She pushed them in your face.

You blinked back your predictable swell of frustrated tears because you didn't want to give her another reason to insult you. 'Why are you doing this?' your voice wavered. 'I don't want another man. I'm in love with Dean. You told me you'd get to know him-'

She sighed (cutting you off) as if she had to explain everything to her dumb little child. 'Look, now that I know you aren't tainted, I'm sure these men will be willing to accept you. It's not too late for you, sweetie. You just fell in love, you didn't indulge in . . . sin,' she said the last word as if it were taboo.

It took you a long second to process her words, "tainted", "sin", and a few more underlying insults in less than five sentences.

You were sick to your stomach. You couldn't actually believe this was your mother - a woman who was supposed to accept and love you no matter what. What surprised you more was how much you held onto hope every time, and how it was that much deeper that they hurt you. Every. Time.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' left your mouth before you could stop yourself.

'Y/N, language!' she gasped as if you'd just told her to fuck off.

You lassoed your temper enough to not let another angry word wander out of your mouth, and you subsequently fled the room. You were faster than her and practically raced down the hall, ignoring her calls for you to get back.

Tears were already streaming down your face by the time you reached the library, and you almost jumped out of your skin when Dean's warm voice sought you. 'Y/N, do you want to join us for a beer?'

You made an abrupt halt, and it was then that Dean noticed your tear-stained face. He was already on his feet and approaching you to comfort you when you let your frustrations loose on him.

'I would love a beer, Dean,' you said ironically, 'But I'm not allowed one. Because I'm still a little kid, and my parents think we're making a mistake by getting married!'

He was shocked at your outburst. He glanced back at the other two men in the room, who looked slack-jawed at you.

The oldest man in the room gained a furious glint in his eye as he schooled himself. 'Young lady, you need to calm down,' he ordered with restrained emotion.

'Calm down?! Calm do-!' you inhaled sharply. 'How could you do this to me!?' you cried out. 'I love Dean! And you guys knew this, but here you are trying to sell me off as a virginal, all-in-one, ready-to-be-the-mother-of-their-babies woman to a couple of losers I don't even know!'

A hurt look filtered through Dean's expression, and he longed to reach out to you and calm you down himself, but he didn't want to fuel the fire. He hated how they've been treating you, and he's starting to see your point about them driving you crazy.

It hadn't been one whole day, and they'd made you cry so. His heart took a hit everytime he peeked a look at your face. He hated this. He was starting to hate them.

Your father rose to his best height - and once upon a time, you would have shrank away from that intimidating pose that he managed to cut - but you could see it now; your boys towered over even him. And suddenly, you weren't scared of this man anymore - the one who'd controlled your and your Mom's every decision.

'The boys we've been looking for you are all perfect for-'

'That's the thing - I don't want a Prince Charming on a white horse!' you essentially screamed.

Holy shit, I just yelled at my father.

But even that wasn't good enough to stop you. 'And if you can't realise that . . . ' you shook your head at a loss for words, panting, as you rushed up the stairs and out of the Bunker.

Dean only waited for a courtesy second before he bolted after you.

And I said

"Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone

I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run

You'll be the prince, and I'll be the princess

It's a love story, baby, just say yes"

Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel

This love is difficult, but it's real

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess.

It's a love story, baby, just say yes

Dean knew you like he knew the back of his hand. On foot, without a car, there's only a handful of places your laziness would allow you to walk towards. So, it was no surprise when he found you at a quiet clearing in the Bunker's nearest bunch of woods. You'd gained a habit of storing a blanket and some reserve food in the trunk of a tree that you'd found a hole in. And he knew his money had been in the right place - you were already on the picnic blanket, sniffling as you'd rolled into a ball, trying to comfort yourself.

He sat down silently beside you and pulled you in his arms, tugging till you were fitted snugly between his legs. Then he tried to coax your hands away from yourself, and you broke down sobbing as you released the hold on yourself and caught him in a hug that tight.

He returned the embrace, letting you curl into him as you let your angry tears out. As you let the pain flow. He rocked you from side to side slightly till your full-blown sobs were down to smaller body wracks.

He was curling and uncurling his fingers through your soft, recently washed hair. And it was only when you could hear more than your own voice that you noticed him speaking soothing words to you, even occasionally pressing a feather-light kiss or two atop your hair.

'I thought,' you gasped, clutching the drenched shirt on his chest, 'I thought, maybe this time they'd be proud of me. This time they would approve of my choice.'

Dean waited, you continued.

'Y-You're the best thing about me, Dean,' you swallowed. 'All my life, all my decisions have revolved around their choices, their approval. Everything they wanted. But you . . . you're so perfect. How could they ever find a flaw in you?'

Dean frowned at the choice of your words, and as he often did, he disagreed, deciding to take issue with your words. He pinched your chin between his fingers and made you look up into his eyes. 'You're perfect as you are, Y/N.'

'My parents don't think so.'

'I do.' He wiped the wetness on your cheek, 'Fuck, sweetheart, I want to marry you; I want to start my own family with you, I want you to be the mother of my children - that's gotta mean something, right?'

You blew out a breath. 'I just don't know what to do anymore - I guess, I guess . . . maybe I was . . . I was trying to get them to . . . accept me, for once. I fought with you for that. I mean, what the fuck?!'

Dean ducked down his head, and kissed the saline over your mouth, releasing it a second later to kiss your left cheek, then the other one, and then leave several other butterfly kisses in his wake all over your face, just trying to calm you down.

When your breathing had seemed to get even, and you looked to have calmed down a great measure, Dean finally spoke. 'What do you wanna do, sweetheart?'

You huffed, looking down at your hands. 'Ideally? We should elope.'

He had to chuckle. 'Oh, yeah? That's not very Indian of you,' he poked your tummy, and you glared up at him softly.

'They're never going to agree to this. Us. And I'm not marrying someone they choose . . . some asshole hunter who thinks he's got all the ladies of the world wrapped around their little finger - I've already got one of those.'

'Hey,' he looked you in warning, but both of you knew his gaze held no heat behind it.

You shot him a sweet, mischievous smile, and he narrowed his gaze at you, before he articulated what he wanted to say to you, '. . . Look, I-I don't want you to regret anything. We can't simply sail off into the sunset. If that were possible, we would have already done that.'

You pouted. 'Really? I was already looking for castles on far-off islands where I could be a Princess, and you'd be my Prince.'

'I thought you didn't want a Prince Charming.'

'What I want,' you grasped the open ends of his flannel, 'is to have a life with my one true love, and to not be told how I'm supposed to feel.'

He couldn't resist a peck to your pouty lips, and he tightened his hold on you. 'Alright. You'll have all of that. But after we give this another try, okay? If I can, I want to give everything to you.'

You sniffled. 'Am I asking too much of you? I know we shouldn't care what our parents think. That this is about us.'

'This is more than that,' he said. 'You want your entire family to be there on your wedding day. I get that. I wish my whole family were there, too, you know?'

You gulped your sadness and cupped his cheek. 'I know.' You nuzzled your warmed-up face into his neck. 'I think . . . somewhere I want them to celebrate you too,' you whispered. 'It's silly, but I want to be the family you miss. I want to be there for you. I, too, want to give you everything I have - and if that's crazy relatives, you're gonna have it!'

He half-smirked. 'Well, aren't you nice?' He kissed your forehead with fervor, then he rested his head against yours. 'I love you.'

You kissed him in retaliation, fierce and loving. Long enough that both of you were panting by the time you parted.

'We'll go in after a few minutes,' he murmured against your lips.

You snickered. 'Papa giving you a hard time, huh?'

'Shhhh,' he pressed another kiss to your hairline, and you had to smile at his avoidance tactic - you knew he was trying not to complain about your parents, and that was legit downright sweet. 'Let's not talk until we're ready to head back, hmm?'

'I can live with that,' you whispered.

I got tired of waiting

Wondering if you were ever coming around

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town

And I said

"Romeo, save me, I've been so alone

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Is this in my head? I don't know what to think"

You beamed down at the new designs covering the expanse of your hands right up until your elbows - front and back.

As compensation for forcing you, your parents had tried to make amends - extremely begrudgingly, mind you; and after hundreds and hundreds of talk sessions with Sam and Dean, they had been prepared to finally, completely, and wholeheartedly accept this relationship.

Months. Took you two eight months, precisely.

But it was worth it.

And you didn't know who had been happier with this development - you or Dean; for once, they'd been treating him more like a son than they'd ever treated you like a daughter - gender dynamics, yada yada.

For your sake, the boys tried not to show how obviously they enjoyed their attentions, and your mom's spoiling attitude towards "her boys", but you were glad that your boys were finally getting the love and care they deserved. If your parents are overstrict, they are also overcaring, and it usually plays out in favour of guys. You'd had enough of their involvement for a few lifetimes, so you were just happy to sit back and watch them choose Sam and Dean over you. For sure, some little part of you wished they'd treated you like that when you were a kid, but you'd take the brother's happiness any day.

After all, you shouldn't be too surprised - it was practically a trope to treat the in-laws better than your own kids. And if the in-laws were men, you stood no contest.

But even your mother's pestering and nagging couldn't upset you today.

Today, you'd applied mehendi, and you were bubbling with excitement to show it to your fiancé.

After dodging most of your relatives' rooms who'd taken up residence at the Bunker for the wedding that was in three days, you'd managed to sneak into Dean's room. It wasn't like most of them were up anyway - it was way late in the night, and everyone had crashed after the Music Night (also known as Sangeet in India) that was a custom before the weddings.

Dean was already ready for bed, in his sweatpants, and was pulling on his t-shirt for the night.

You let the door click back softly, and it was a testament to how tired Dean must be if he didn't notice you up until now.

'Hey, handsome.'

He whipped around with his gun pulled on you, and his eyes went wide. 'Y/N! Dude, don't do that! It's bad enough most of your relatives don't know the concept of knocking!'

You let out an evil giggle. 'Aw, did I scare you? Do you need a hug? Do you need me to tuck you in?' you used your baby voice on him.

'No,' he replied in order, 'yes, and yes!'

You laughed this time, holding your hands behind your back this entire time. 'I have a surprise for you first,' you told him in a sing-song voice.

'Really?' he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

'Geez, get your mind out of the gutter! You just said, none of my family knows how to knock.'

'Well, fortunately, I know how to lock,' he looked at you meaningfully. 'Blows your mind, doesn't it? The science of locking?'

Your body vibrated with laughter, and your cheeks throbbed from smiling so much. 'You're incorrigible; but no, that's not the surprise.'

'Then?'

'Close your eyes.'

He sighed in a manner that said, "the things I do for you". You locked the door behind you just for a few moments of privacy (didn't stop Dean's devious smirk from growing) as you drew closer to your man.

You draped your newly colored hands over his shoulders in a gesture you'd lost count of how many times you'd already performed, and it was pure instinct when he returned the hug, keeping you close to him, attaching you to his hip.

'Open 'em,' you softly told him.

He looked down at you instantly, smiling first at your proximity before his eyes drew to the gorgeous shade of brown patterns smattered across your forearms and palms, a fragrance tickling his nostrils as he tried to guess which new tradition he was being privy to now.

'Is that permanent?' came the first question as his own palms came to capture your wrists and have a closer look as his cute brows furrowed curiously.

'No. It's called mehendi.'

He shot you a questioning glance as he turned your hand to get its full experience.

'A heena tattoo,' you clarified. 'It's temporary. You apply it like paint to your hands, sometimes legs. When the first layer peels away, only its hue is left and that amazing smell . . . it was one of my favourite things as a kid, to get mehendi done.'

'Why?' he asked, loving the childlike glee you displayed when you talked about this.

'Because they said, the darker the color of your mehendi, the more your man will love you,' you grinned.

'Oh.' But it didn't have the effect you were expecting on Dean. He frowned and looked down at you in earnest. 'But then why would you wear it at our wedding?'

'What do you mean?' getting anxious that, perhaps, he didn't like it - the wedding was in three days, and this was not going anywhere till two weeks at least.

'I mean . . . do you doubt how much I love you that you needed to put this on? I mean . . . What if it's not dark enough now? Doesn't mean I don't love you.'

You wouldn't have been able to fight the smile even if you tried, and boy, you tried because Dean seemed sincerely hurt by that. You turned your hands so that they rested face-up in his palms, and then, on both hands, you pointed at two distinct spots, making him squint to understand.

'Wait . . . is that my—?'

'When you get married, you write the groom's name amongst the designs to show that your mehendi came true. Only the man you love the most has the honour of going up on your hands in Mehendi,' you informed.

And Dean bit his lip, as his ears turned pink. 'All right, that's awesome. Can . . . Can I also put it?'

An unadulterated laugh burst out of you.

The dirty blond-haired man blushed harder, trying to understand what incited that reaction. 'What? I want to honour you, too!'

You're heart fluttered, and millions of butterflies took off in your stomach, your love swelling up in your chest to the point that you weren't sure you would be able to contain it anymore.

'You would do that for me?' your voice was gently disbelieving, and Dean could have sworn he saw tears shining in your e/c irises.

'Only if it's okay with you.'

You cupped his face in your hands. 'You can do it - just don't let any of the elders see it.'

'Why not?' his nose scrunched adorably.

'They'll think you're gay,' you chuckled.

He rolled his eyes slightly as he rested his forehead against yours. 'Oh, but sweetheart, what I'm about to do to you is so not gay.'

He pressed his lips passionately to yours, and let's just say you didn't get to leave the room like you'd originally planned you would.

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

And said

"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone

I love you, and that's all I really know

I talked to your Dad, go pick out a white dress

It's love story, baby, just say yes"

There was only one other thing that proved a bump on the road to the wedding.

It was a day prior to the big day.

Your parents had cornered Dean and Sam into the library and insisted that this was more important than sleep; probably even more important than the wedding itself.

The brothers had shared a worried look, and Dean told them that he'd call you too, but your father only demolished that idea by deeming you a child, and he said that there was no possible requirement for you in an adult conversation, quote-for-quote.

Sam had been a huge calming factor to Dean's flaring temper during interactions with your parents. The younger brother, even now, had to temper Dean's rage with a warning look, and a comforting hand on the shoulder that said they were too close to the wedding to let anything ruin it.

And Dean at least agreed with that part.

Although the boys had been loving how well-treated they seemed to be once your parents warmed up to them (and how they also bought into the several lies that Dean and Sam had to pave the way with to the wedding) - it hadn't gone unnoticed in Dean's eyes how you were still treated more like an object being given away rather than his fucking bride. He hid his annoyance well from you, so it wouldn't put you in a tough position.

Sometimes he couldn't believe how unfair that system was towards women, and it was absolutely horrible as to how the woman he considered his world was nothing but an object to be disposed of in some people's eyes.

It was hurtful, and Dean's admiration for you had skyrocketed ever since he saw what kind of shit you'd had to put up with all your life - and how, despite it all, you'd turned into such a beautiful human being - one he could see spending the rest of his life with. One he craved to be with, one he prayed to God for, one he'd always dreamed of.

He wasn't saying that his culture was any better - if anything he probably also condoned it to a great extent - because the thing is, and this was his strong belief, culture shouldn't make people simply for the reason that people make culture; why should one person's thoughts confine another person's actions in such a demeaning way?

He'd sworn to himself that he would treat you like you actually deserved for once - not that he wasn't trying before, but he was going to try harder, and that was a promise he made to himself.

'So, Mr. L/N, what did you want to talk about?' Sam politely asked.

Your father had asked them to call him "papa", a term of informality and endearment that you preferred - but they hadn't been comfortable with it, and your dad hadn't been comfortable being called by his first name, so the boys simply stuck to "Mr. L/N" or "Sir" till they were ready to break that habit.

'Actually,' your father was tense. 'We probably should have talked about this earlier.'

One of your Uncles added, 'We just assumed that you would be the first ones to bring it up. We were wrong.'

'What? What do you mean? Is everything okay?' Dean sat on the edge of his seat.

The older men exchanged exasperated looks.

'What is it?' Dean pressed.

Your father sighed, and raked a hand through his hair tiredly - he seemed to age ten years in those few seconds. 'We haven't discussed the dahej.'

The brothers looked to one another for help - finding the other one equally clueless, they both raised their brows simultaneously in a very brotherly fashion at your family.

'Dowry,' the Uncle cleared up.

Dean felt bile press against his mouth, and he wasn't sure he'd heard it correctly. 'Dowry?' he had to resist grinding his teeth. 'You want to buy me to marry your daughter?' the disgust was clear as day in his voice, and Sam looked equally disturbed by that notion.

'Well . . . don't you want that?' your father looked surprised with their reactions.

'No!' Dean barely stopped himself from yelling. 'Sir, with all due respect, I love your daughter - and I want her for the rest of my life. That's all. Now, if you could stop treating her like a piece of your furniture or something, I would really appreciate it. Traditions or not, she's a human being, and what you just suggested is outrageous.' Dean stood up in anger, but he kept speaking steadily. 'I respect that woman; heck, I worship her, and now that she's becoming my wife, you'd better respect her too, or I swear to God, we're going to have a problem.'

He marched out, leaving Sam to deal with the aftermath. But Dean was too busy fuming to actually give a fuck right now.

And he would've just walked on by till he was in the sanctuary of his room, when he found his peace just at the end of the steps at the beginning of the corridor.

'Y/N,' he breathed out.

You had tears in your eyes again - and would have begged everyone to believe that you weren't always such a crier, and it was the situations really - but right now, you didn't have it in you. You were surfing on one of your most emotionally heightened moments.

Dean's heart sped up. 'Did I cross a line? Fuck, Y/N, I'm sorry—'

You raised a hand to cut him off, rolling your eyes a little. 'These are happy tears, stupid.'

He sighed in relief. 'Really?'

'Well, a mix,' you shook your head. 'Did you really mean that?'

Dean was on the verge of taking offence again, but he kept his voice low so that you were his only audience. 'Of course I did!' He gestured widely and vaguely at the Bunker around you, 'Do you think I'd tolerate any of this for anyone else?'

And once again, Dean Winchester had made your heart grow three fucking sizes.

Any other time, you would've avoided getting near him in fear of being cited - but right now, you were too damn overwhelmed and too damn weak in the knees to not slot your figure against his in gratefulness. You were always amused by how much love you had for this man: you were sure you'd combust if he wasn't holding you together right now.

His anger washed away with your nearness. 'Aren't you scared someone will see you?' There was only a slight teasing lilt to his words, but he was tightening his hold on you nonetheless.

'They'd better,' you answered. 'People should be taking fucking cues from you. You're like . . . like a . . . a Love Story King,' you bestowed the title.

His cheeks decided crimson fit them as he also simultaneously fought off a grimace - but he was trying not to spoil the moment as he smiled down at you, eyes full of awe and adoration. 'Well, now that I've talked to your Dad, and everything is out of the way - I guess you're finally mine.'

You smirked. 'Oh, jaan, Juliet always belonged to Romeo.'

He blushed harder, only because that nickname did things to him. It meant "darling" in your language, and sounded incredibly sexy to him in your velvet tongue.

He then pulled away to show you the inside of his hands. And you gasped softly when you saw your name written on both his palms in Mehendi, and your eyes were pooled with renewed tears. 'Oh, my gosh, you actually went through with it!'

He chuckled at your awestruck expression. 'Yep. Turns out even Romeo only belonged to his Juliet.' He cringed a tad because he segued into your Taylor Swift reference.

But you pulled him down for that, laying your lips against his - the rest of the world be damned. If this man can quote your favourite singer, you can kiss him in a hallway.

A/N: So, what do you think? If you have any comments or questions, please feel to reach out!

And one more thing! I know I haven't updated for a while. One of my relatives passed away a while back along with the other shit that I talked about. I fell hard off the consistency wagon. When I could find my inner writer again, I decided that I would finish the TSW series before I started posting it again, so this kind of gap never repeats - I've been going hard at it, and I hope to finish writing it soon! Y'all can expect regular posting from around October. Thank you all for your patience 🥰❤️!

Meanwhile, I will try to update a few fics that I do have, like this one, on here.

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