#girl good on you for keeping all the keys to your shitty jobs over the years

[explodingstarlight]

doodled a lil April today cuz I adore her

[henchy5824]

Keys and Cats

Oh boi! Been doing a little more digital art (seriously, it's addicting). Been learning a lot. Linework is still atrocious but at least I can mask it with shitty backgrounds now! 😂

This is going to be a wombo combo of art and headcannon. So here goes:

I got inspired by this little story here https://archiveofourown.org/works/54281104 by @soot-and-salt

My inspiration led me to think about how that could be a concept to be expanded upon.

So we all know Keekee is sort-of the spirit of the Hazbin Hotel. She is at the same time master key, house pet and she can go(or fly) where she wants and open any door.

Now, I think it would probably be a good idea for normal hotel operations for the hotel manager and the facility manager to also have their own keys. We see throughout the show that Vaggie has to constantly borrow Keekee to do her job. Not very efficient.

That's where other keys and the Cursed Cat Alastor character come in

Personal headcannon ties into how Cursed Cat Alastor could possibly make an appearance in the show and this is how:

-Magical Master Key blanks are generic and literally blank until given to a person by Lucifer

-The keys get infused by the souls of their owners to make them sentient. So the creatures that spring from this are somewhat a reflection of their owners. Not perfectly, of course and the owners don't pour their soul into the object. These keys are NOT horcruxes. It's more a guideline/baseline of what type of creature springs into being.

-The cats that turn into keys and can open every door have their own personalities and are only somewhat aligned to the person that lend their soul to its creation. So basically like Keekee only with a way more nerdy explanation. It just kinda made sense to me that way because of what we see from Charlie and Keekee during the show. I might be too over enthusiastic about this, though! 😂

Enter:

Loom and Ariel.

Since we can't keep calling the character Cursed Cat Alastor, I figured I give him a proper name in my headcannon. So he is called Loom. Like a looming shadow. He has the ability to shadow teleport, similar to Alastor only for Loom the teleport is instantaneous inside the Hotel. Unlike the two girls, he can't fly but he can make himself loooong like a fluffy cat snake (after all, you get longer bellyrubs if your belly is longer! It makes perfect sense! LOL).

He likes bellyrubs and wheedling treats ouf of Lucifer. Because Lucifer has a weakspot for small fluffy animals he always caves. Loom is a chubby round loaf cat with stubby legs. So basically the inverse of Alastor. Which is hilarious. Alastor himself loves his cat because it's just as much an agent of chaos as himself. Loom makes Theremin noises in addition to purring. So when Loom purrs Alastor can add his own background noise /white/grey into the mix to make an entire room sleepy and relaxed.

Ariel was a fun name to pick out because it means 'Lion of God' and that was oddly funny and fitting for a literal winged angel cat.

She is a tall elegant cat with a big fluffy tail. I based her loosely around Duchess from Aristocats. Her highlights and colorpallette are based on Vaggie, of course. I did change the wing color to those of Adams wings because it looked better in contrast to keeping the Vaggie/Exorcist pallette for the wings.

I have a weakspot for kittehs like that. Elegant and cute go very well together. And long fluffy tail is always nice! Like the other two cats Ariel can teleport inside the Hotel and she can fly in general like Keekee, though she has to use her wings to do it. So she doesn't exactly 'float' like we see Keekee do in the show. Ariel has an interesting attachment to Husk. She likes to perch somewhere in the proximity of the bartop (although not directly on it) and watch him work. Although Husk is not a catperson he did come to value her presence over time and sometimes goes over to pet her when nobody is looking.

She likes her ears scratched (especially the folded ear) and Husk is more than happy to oblige. Vaggie is of course overjoyed with her cat. Ariel is best friends with Keekee but the two girls accept Loom in their circle. When they get annoyed by his antics, they just fly out of reach.

Ok this turned out way longer and way weirder than I though. LOL

Sorry not sorry BAIIIIII 😂

[holylulusworld]

Girls like us

Summary: Trusting people is not your strong suit.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, mentions of a shitty father, fluff

A/N: Loosely inspired by Zoe Wees’ “Girls like us”

Divider by @firefly-graphics​

“It feels like I am an ant, and they are burning me with a magnifying glass. Every time I feel like people judge me for my appearance, my clothes, the way I talk...simply everything about me,” you’re fidgeting in your seat, nervous to tell the therapist about all the things keeping you from opening up to people. 

“Why’s that?” the therapist asks. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“Maybe it’s because I never was one of the pretty and popular girls. You know, it’s hard if you don’t fit in. Judging looks, hushed words. Little giggles. I know all the signs of rejection.”

You bite your lower lip, chewing on it. “What can you tell me about your childhood?” she asks, tapping the end of her pen. “Y/N we wanted, to be honest, didn’t we.” She points out as you try to avoid talking about your past. “I can’t help you if you don’t open up to me.”

“My dad was absent most of the time,” you shrug. “Mom worked her ass off to make sure I and my siblings won’t starve. She was tough in her way. I admired her for being a father and a mother to me and my siblings.”

You run your fingertips over one of the scars on your arm. It calms you. 

“What can you tell me about your father? Why was he away so often?”

“He traveled a lot for his…job,” looking at your shoes you try to find a way to not tell her about your father’s possessiveness or that he couldn’t keep a job to save his life. Not that he tried, though. “I guess he was more interested in his job than his family.”

“Y/N, you told me about your mother, your siblings, and your life. But you still avoid talking about your father. I think he’s the key,” she looks at you, demanding answers you can’t give to her.

“He’s not,” you huff. “Do you know why I feel like this? I was an outsider, an outcast, the one not fitting in all my life. I always struggled to keep up with everyone’s expectations. I feel like I’m not good enough every time I try to fit in.”

“Do you have anyone in your life?” she asks. “Someone loving you. Or a friend supporting you? A colleague maybe.”

You smile now. Warmth washes over you as you remember someone is waiting for you to come back. Someone loving and supporting you.

“Yes, I got someone in my life,” you smile now. “He’s always there to pick me up when I fall. And he’s there to listen to my rant. If I need a shoulder to lean on, he’s there too.”

“That’s good.”

“He’s my best friend, my confidant and so much more,” she nods knowingly as you wrap your arms around yourself. “I-“

“Y/N, that’s progress. We should come back to this at our next appointment,” you’d like to roll your eyes. Of course, she stops right when you are about to get to the core of your trust issues. 

The fact that no one ever stayed. 

Your father left to hunt the evil. Your mother grabbed your siblings and ran when the monsters your father hunted broke into your house, seeking revenge for their fallen friends.

She just left you there, for the monsters to feast on. 

Their bad luck Bobby Singer and Rufus Turner followed them to your house. You survived the night, and your family too. But you never looked at your mother the way you used to.

“Sweetheart, what do you want for dinner?” Dean calls from the kitchen at the bunker. “Baby? Are you okay? How was your spa day?”

“I-“ you tiptoe toward the kitchen. Dean doesn’t know you are seeing a therapist to not dump all the shit weighing heaving on your heart on him all the time. “It was nice, I guess. I’ve missed you, though.”

“I’ve missed you too,” he flashes you a smile melting your heart. You don’t know it, but Dean followed you the first time you went to see your therapist. He didn’t want to spy on you, just make sure you are safe. “How about my infamous bacon burger?”

“I’ll love everything you make,” you walk inside the kitchen to stand behind Dean and wrap your arms around his waistline. 

“Bacon burger and salad it is,” he says. “Do you want to have a bubble bath while I prepare the food?”

“No, I want to help you,” Dean hums when you hold him a little tighter. 

“You can cut the onions,” he chuckles when you hiss. Dean knows you cry like a baby if you cut onions. “Fine, you can take care of the salad.”

“Did I ever tell you that you are my haven?” you hide your face in his back and close your eyes. 

“You’re my haven too, Y/N,” he softly says your name. “Do you want your bacon extra crispy?” You nod, but don’t let go of Dean. 

He closes his eyes and enjoys feeling your body pressed against him. 

One day you will tell him about all the things from your past you still hide from him. Just not tonight…

Tags in reblog.

[lustfangs]

Treble clef anon here (𝄞)!

I hope this new piece lives up to my previous standards. Of course, as per your suggestion, we'll be taking a deep dive into the wonderful world of dumbification.

Afterall, what need have you of thoughts - when you're so wet and horny and needy and dumb that all you can think about is how bad you want to be ruined right now?

xxxxxxxxx

It began at work.

It's been a pretty busy month - with calls coming in one way, emails the other, and your boss constantly nagging you about some shit you sent to the wrong person last week, it's astonishing you're even able to keep up. Well... you haven't really been able to keep up that well. Every night you get home so tired you can barely blink without falling asleep, yet the moment you roll laboriously into bed, you're kept awake by the persistent low-level stress of knowing you've got to go to work again tomorrow.

You've thought of getting a therapist, but who has the time for that? Rubbing at your clit at night, awash with the hot flood of an orgasm or three, is all the reprieve you really get from this damn job. And even then, it's so short you barely notice.

So it's another morose, upsettingly boring day when you sit down at your desk, getting a final stretch in before switching on the shitty little company computer and opening the first few emails. They're the normal stuff: finances, shipping, some idiot lost their keys again, etc.

Except, there's one new message. Unknown sender, but you can't be bothered to run up the name. It's probably some newbie who forgot to switch to their work email. Inside, you see some garbled-looking text, obviously photocopied from somewhere, and a file attachment.

Fuck it, might as well, you think, double-clicking your way through. It's some kind of webcam app - your beleaguered old in-built cam blips to life, a dim light in its corner to show it's somehow still shambling on. On your screen, you just see your face. Haggard, strained, and shadowed with eye bags darker than your eyeliner, you look about as miserable as you feel. Across this dour screen flashes a message. Quick, subtle, but you catch it.

"Blink twice"

Hell, why not. You blink twice.

"Good girl."

Your cheeks flush, that light red startlingly noticeable in the slightly grainy camera footage. Oh, so that's what this is. One of those call-and-response porn bots? You'd heard of them before - hell, you'd been sent them before, whenever some dumbass let their email get hacked - but this one is surprisingly well put-together. Usually, big compilations of these pop up either on youtube or on porn sites, depending on what they ask people to do. Long compilations of tired workers being a little goofy, or a little slutty, into a camera that scrambles their identity when the recording's over.

It's funny, you never thought you'd get caught up in one of these. Maybe you'll be able to get off to it later, when it's inevitably uploaded to the hornier channels of the internet. No new emails. So for now, you keep watching.

"Blink again"

You blink, a damp little spot between your legs.

"Good girl." "You love doing what you're told."

Your breath hitches, the look on your own face enough to send a thrill of lust through your body.

"Nod for me."

Your head bobs once

"You love doing what you're told." "Nod again."

Thank god you're in a cubicle with a door, even if it's just a flimsy bit of cardboard. You nod, mouth slightly agape, and keep staring.

"Good girl." "Show me your tits."

You glance around, making sure nobody's around. Getting up a little, you can see there's even fewer people in than usual. Just you, your boss, and a cleaner. Guess everyone else took the weekend off. Or they're just working from home; you live too close to work not to bother coming in and keeping home separate.

Dropping back down into your seat, you flash your tits - short, sweet, and just long enough that you get an eyeful of yourself, before tucking them back under your shirt.

"Good girl."

The look on your own face is something else. Mouth a little open, tongue just by your lips, you barely manage to restrain yourself from groping at your tits, just dying to see how hot you'd look doing it.

"Again."

They're out in the air before you even realise, and with the click of the far door, you know the janitor's gone for the day. Just you, and your boss in her closed office.

"Touch them."

Your repressed need for some release takes over; groping needily at yourself, you do everything to look as slutty as you can in your reflection - kneading, pinching, pressing them together until your nips are nice and puffy, and you're aching to have them sucked.

"Good girl." "You hate thinking, don't you."

You keep staring, transfixed.

"Nod if you don't want to think"

You've nodded already, and it takes a second for you to realise you actually need to stop. Breath shaky, you drop your hands from your chest, just moving your arms to squish your breasts together and jiggle them a little, chair creaking beneath you.

"Good girl." "Don't think, just nod."

Your head bobs on its own, following the words.

"Don't think." "Take off your shirt."

The cotton lands in a heap on the floor, barely able to contain the instinctual nodding, as you get to see your smooth skin for the first time today. A drop of drool lands on your leg. Where'd that come from?

"Don't think." "Good girls don't think."

Another wet drop on your legs.

"You're a good girl, aren't you?"

You nod vigorously, staring at the image of your own tits.

"Say it."

You stop, suddenly unsure. It feels so good, but... say it? Your mouth forms the words, your head fills with their tune. Will your boss hear you? Surely not, she's behind a closed door afterall?

"Say it."

You raise your head a little over your cubicle wall, just enough to see. She's busy behind her desk with something, barely visible through the slats of her covered office windows. The door is firmly shut.

"I'm a good girl."

"Good girls don't think."

"G- good girls don't think~"

"Good girl." "What are you?"

"I'm a good girl."

"That's right. You're a good girl. And good girls don't think." "Good girls are dumb."

You shift your legs, and feel your own fingers already there, rubbing away at your clit like there's no tomorrow. It's so, so, wet down there, and you can't help yourself now, can you?

"Say it."

"Good girls... are dumb."

"Good girl." "What's your name?"

"I-"

You can't... remember? Your own name? Where was it again - oh, yeah. It's on the floor, on your discarded shirt. You fingers slip inside for a second, and the blind, gasping lust that seizes you refuses to let go, wetly plapping your own hand against your plumply pretty labia, every thought vanishing like smoke.

"What are you?"

"I'm a good girl~"

You whine, eyes rolling over how good you're making yourself feel.

"Your name is slut."

"My name is Slut?"

"Remember, good girls don't think."

"Mnnh~"

You bite your lip, unable to block the low moan sliding out of your throat, your new name locking into place. You should have that put on your... cube ickle? That's a long word.

"Long words are funny." "Good girls are dumb. Long words aren't dumb." "You don't need long words. You're dumb." "What's your name?"

"Slut."

"And what are you, slut?"

"A good girl~"

"And what are good girls?"

"Uhhh..."

You strain your mind to think, absently licking the sweet slick off your own fingers. Humping your hand, creaking the chair, you desperately try to grasp what you were thinking about - was it your wet, aching pussy? No, that's not it. What about this hot feeling between your legs? And how about those cute tits on the screen in front of you? Yeah, that makes sense!

"Good girls are dumb." "My, you really are a good girl."

"Mmhm..."

"So what are you, slut?"

"Uhm... I'm..."

"You're a dumb slut. That's what."

Your whole body trembles as the pleasure suddenly washes over you, hips rolling your sloppy pussy onto your fingers, helplessly riding them as you stare at the pretty slut on the screen.

"Stand up"

You shoot to your feet, tits bouncing as you try to keep fingering yourself, even standing up. Oh look, you're boss' door is open. Wow, has she always been this hot? You shoot a look back down at the screen.

"Cum in my office." "Edge until you reach me. Kneel every time you get close."

You follow the pretty instructions, dumb brain shorting out every time you get so, so close, and dropping to your knees, dripping wet juice all over the floor each time. By the fifth time, you're right by her door, and fat tears are rolling down your face as you grope desperately at your tits instead of your puffy pussy. Finally, you step inside. The office is decorated all in black, as is your boss, her chest and thick cock both straining against her clothes. Standing there, you fingerfuck yourself for her pleasure, squealing with need as the floor soaks in your juices, the smell of sex wafting through the room.

She just watches, clicking a pen.

Why is it so hard now? you think, mashing your clit so hard you're crying all over again. Let me cum for her! I want to cum for her! I'm a good girl! Good girls are dumb! I'm dumb slut! Dumb slut want cum! Just those words flash through your mind, and soon enough you're saying them out loud.

"I'm a good girl! Good girls are dumb!"

"Yes, my dear. Good girls are dumb. And you're such a perfect, pretty, dumb little girl for me, aren't you~?"

The orgasm comes with a scream, dropping you to your knees, then onto your face, as wet cum squirts against the glass of her office, thumping dully in the heart-pounding quiet. Your breaths are nothing but moans and whines, your poor mind gone completely. Just a fuzzy haze left, mumbling something into the wet carpet as trembles wrack your body, showing off your pretty back, and your pretty cheeks, to your new master. Wasn't she your boss already~?

~~~~~~

tadaa! I can do a part two if you like Something tells me your boss won't be satisfied with just watching you lose your mind in front of her.

I get the feeling she wants to keep you.

But who am I, the author, to decide such things?

P.S. I hope you feel a little better now, and hopefully you'll have an easier time of it than before.

Treble clef anon you are my savior!!!! I’ve missed you <33 please send that second part over I’ve been so busy lately :((

[andypantsx3]

Tw: Misogyny and discourse (pls don't feel obligated to answer this)

Ok soo Andie I feel like you are so good at giving advice and you are just such an amazingly sweet and kind person and I aspire to be like you. That being said I am just stuck in a very uncomfortable situation and I sadly can't talk about this to other ppl close to me (you'll see why).

I have a cousin brother who is staying in the same city as me, because of his Uni he sometimes comes over when he has holidays or on the weekends. There is ofc nothing wrong with that, I like that he can relax here a bit and I get to spend time with him (it's my parents house btw). Everything was fine and well but then sometimes out of nowhere he'll start acting weird (also he's a devoted andrew tate fan so....). He'll just come and say horrible things to me like how I should take care of the house (he says its a girls job to do all the work whereas men should be allowed to laze around) , force me to do his uni work and projects and belittle and humiliate me when I refuse, he lectures me about my weight and calls me a cow, he takes my things without asking and goes through my stuff and messes up my room when I go for my lectures. He's just really nasty to me in general.

My mom doesn't say anything to him and she instead scolds me. She says that he is our guest and I am overreacting. She says he has done nothing to warrant my dislike for him and that I am being very petty and unreasonable even though SHE SEES THINGS HAPPEN RIGHT BEFORE HER EYES?! We also have this very toxic culture in my family where women are expected to give everything up for men's comfort without complaining and it is our job to bend ourselves backwards to keep the peace in the household by not fighting. She says these are just normal sibling things and brothers are allowed to do all this and I am just being oversensitive.

I really don't know what to do Andie. I definitely don't hate him because he's my brother but I don't know how to handle him or my family without getting distant or fighting with them :(

Hello my love!! This is such a tough situation and I am so sorry you've been put in this spot!! I am sending you all my love and support and hoping your family cleans up its act soon, but it sounds like instead you might be waiting a while!!

I am a very direct problem approacher by nature, so I'm not sure that what I would do would work in this situation!! My first thought is that it's your house, and you can welcome him into it while still establishing boundaries. If I was in this situation, I would probably end up telling my brother once he starts in on one of those behaviors again that he can stop right now and still be welcomed in your house, or he can insist on his course of action and will have to find somewhere else to stay. It's his choice.

In his own house he can have his own rules, but in yours, your feelings and your time and your boundaries are to be respected. I would hope framing it like that gives him the idea that he's welcome in general but with options and consequences to consider, instead of him just feeling like he's allowed to be there and do what he wants. But unfortunately it does sound like this approach would still make waves in your family if he chooses wrongly, so you would have to be prepared for that.

I'm not sure if it's best to take a less direct approach (be aware this is not a strength of mine) by doing his projects so badly he does poorly in school and then feels the need to do them himself, by buying a lock and key for your room so he can't go in it when you're not there, or by keeping your house even dirtier or something so that he doesn't like being there. But again this is like, not my strength so idk how good this recommendation is.

Idk!! This feels like such a bad situation to be in and you might just have to weigh which outcome is the most bearable to you; fighting with your family for some amount of time, or feeling shitty for the amount of time you have to see your brother while he's in university.

(Also if anyone else reading this has been in this situation before or has recommendations, please give them in the replies!! I feel like I'm such a bad problem solver because I only know how to bulldoze!!)

Anyway I just want to reiterate that I feel for you and I hope you are keeping your head up! While not exactly the same as your situation, I grew up in a physically and emotionally abusive household with a very misogynistic father and so I know all too well the kind of toll gendered standards (and blindness to/deference to male figures) can take on you. I have been told I was basically born with a stick in hand and all I knew how to do was poke the bear, so that's all I can think to do now lol. But regardless of how good or bad my advice is, I am 100% there with you and supporting you with my whole heart!!

I hope you find your way out of this, and I'm happy to chat/let you vent to me if you ever need it!!!!

[fzzr]

The Dreaming Boy is a Realist was the most intriguing anime of Summer 2023

Previously

Yumemiru Danshi wa Genjitsushugisha (The Dreaming Boy is a Realist, henceforth "Dreaming Boy") is not a very good anime on the surface. The animation is often awkward or simply missing, the voice cast is just OK, the music is nothing in particular. On top of that, the core conceit of "guy stops harassing girl, girl isn't sure how she feels about this" is a fundamentally bad premise. Despite all that, Dreaming Boy is the anime I thought about and looked forward to most each week.

Getting the main plot of Dreaming Boy out of the way first, it's pretty straightforward. Male protagonist Sajou Wataru has been asking out female protagonist Natsukawa Aika over and over for two years. In episode one he decides it's time to stop. He isn't over her as such, but he decides to spend his time on things other than badgering her. Though she is relieved at first, Aika finds that his sudden retreat leaves a hole in her life that genuinely bothers her. Her friend Kei can see right through them both, and acts as as an especially aggressive Interloper keeping them from drifting completely apart.

This is where the first hint of something unusual comes along. There's a certain type of romcom that suffers from what is sometimes called Shitty Protagonist Syndrome. This is where the lead character is such an asshole that it becomes unbelievable that anyone could ever fall for him. Dreaming Boy somehow has and avoids that problem at the same time. Since we don't see his years of harassment except in retrospect, we're not invested in seeing him be punished, but it's still a thing he did and the premise revolves around him essentially being rewarded for bad behavior. This could have had the effect of pulling me completely out of the show, but....

The thing is, that isn't actually most of the plot. It actually gets treated more like a background feature a lot of the time. Most of what goes on in Dreaming Boy is about broader social interactions and consequences. If you have a poor reputation at school, you will not be taken as seriously when you might be sick. Yeah, it sure is awkward to walk in on a sibling snogging. Getting your first job can be boring or terrifying depending on who you are. Sometimes your initial impression of someone can lead you into making potentially dangerous assumptions.

Most of Dreaming Boy is emotionally intelligent investigations of small alienations. Wataru is sometimes vaguely included in things but has no one in class to really go to bat for him in the moment, nor does he make an effort to join in. It's not just him, either. In each mini-arc, either he or someone he interacts with finds their social position has changed in some small way. What is it like when you move seats in class and your social circle changes? How does it feel to be the rebound? Is it more painful to turn people down or not to be invited at all? How do you respond when everyone asks you if they can hang out with your sibling? Is it worse to be ignored or have a kind of attention you don't appreciate?

We do see Wataru hit some of the usual romcom checkpoints, except instead of dramatic steps toward some fated ending, they're just things that happen. And... that's just how it really is? Not every time you see someone in the hallway will be a conversation that advances your feelings toward them. Getting sick mostly just sucks, even if your crush comes to check if you're OK. No matter how all-consuming your feelings for someone may have felt like in retrospect, chances are it wasn't the defining feature of your life 24 hours a day.

As one example, there's a beach episode that is much more like actually going to the beach than any I've ever seen. You plan it kinda vaguely, because how complicated can going to the beach be? Oops, you miss inviting someone because you waited too long. You see a beach attraction, let's go check it out... nope it's closed. The arts and crafts store is cute and all but making things like that by hand results in something that looks very handmade, or just doesn't come together at all. The whole episode builds up to Aika and Wataru possibly meeting coincidentally at the beach that day and then they just... don't. Was it a beach episode? Yeah, but also it was just... a day at the beach.

The relationships between the characters (other than the leads) are also way more real than you usually see in anime. The most notable one is between Wataru and his sister. They're close enough in age that they get in each other's way socially, but instead of being some dark resentment that someone will have a drama about, it's just yep, that's what having a sibling that close is like. There's no "I'll do anything for you" speech. It's just clear that they're both alert to what is going on in the others life just enough to be able to step in if their help is needed. If one of them asks the other for a favor, even as small as "make me coffee", they will almost always do it with some pro-forma grumbling. It's understated and very clearly based on a real sibling relationships rather than being there to check off a trope from the list.

So what is The Dreaming Boy is a Realist, actually? It's a slice of life show set in the second act of a shitty-protagonist tsundere romcom. Aika and Kei are living in that story, but when it fills Wataru's life with other ladies, it's not a light harem situation. Instead Wataru is navigating and learning from mundane social interactions. It's half of a good show, drowned in half of a bad show. Despite how bad the bad show was, I don't regret watching the good parts.

Conclusion

Score: I stand by the assertion that The Dreaming Boy is a Realist is not very good in absolute terms. I would give it a 6/10 at best from a purely technical standpoint. However, something that makes me think like this definitely earns some extra credit, so I'm putting it down as a 7/10.

Recommendation: No one needs to watch this. There are actually good shows that dig in to under-addressed corners of human social and emotional ambiguity. But... there aren't a ton of those, either, by definition. Just saying.

Comparisons

I looked at Dreaming Boy as a modified take on the shitty-protagonist romance, so I get to talk about Saekano again! In Saekano, the protagonist starts the series with a tendency to project onto others the traits he expects of them. He trespasses on the feelings and boundaries of others because he's interacting with them based on how he thinks they should respond, rather than who they are. His growth over the series is in very large part about learning to see people as who they actually are. Wataru's story is more about social and emotional transparency, making sure everyone is on the same page about their actions and feelings. Since Dreaming Boy isn't (and probably never will be) complete it's hard to compare them head to head, but conceptually Saekano has the advantage thanks to being more willing to call out the protagonist for his bullshit.

Oregairu involves a kinda glum guy who can fix everyone's problems other than his own. It tends to go much deeper into the problems, and the results vary quite a lot. The big improvement over Dreaming Boy is that it has much more respect for the female leads. When he hurts one of them in his greed, it's a catastrophic event and the show does not hold back in holding him to account. Unfortunately Dreaming Boy will probably not get far enough along for me to see how it would handle such an event, but I can't help but wonder what it would take to push Wataru toward making amends more affirmatively.

Onegai☆Teacher is another show with genuine heart under a trashy premise. In that one, a high school student marries his teacher, who is a hot alien babe, due to a whole situation. It presents itself as extremely horny (and it is) but just when you think it's about to start paying off on all the lewd setup... surprise! This is actually a show with a plot and themes and all those good things. It doesn't have to ignore its setup to do that, either. Sex is a part of life. Instead of holding it back, its willingness to engage with the physical on a deeper level elevates it. I'm not sure Dreaming Boy could have been redeemed in that way, but it's a fact that such a feat is possible.

Horimiya is the best example of a slice of life romance out there. It's arranged inversely from Dreaming Boy, in that it's a romance inside a slice of life rather than a slice of life inside a romance. The romance itself is too different to even contrast. The real point of interesting comparison is in how they handle their characters. Horimiya has an ensemble cast and we see most of them from multiple angles. Dreaming Boy doesn't let as many characters hold the point of view, but it still manages to have its supporting cast show different angles as Wataru learns about their situations and challenges. Obviously Horimiya is still way better, it was just surprising to see Dreaming Boy reaching for that same ring.

Final Thoughts

Oof, bad luck to Dreaming Boy for having to go up against four different 9/10 shows at the end there. That's also a part of the paradox, though. It deserves to be considered among the greats even as it lives with the dreck.

I wish I could say that Dreaming Boy deserved better implementation — better art, better acting, whatever — but it doesn't, really. The technical problems do not change that the gems of insight are trapped underneath a wrongheaded premise. "I wish it had a completely different main plot" is not something that can be fixed with polish. Still, I can't help but think if the author had found a different vehicle for the stories Dreaming Boy actually wants to tell, maybe it would have deserved it all.

[sukirichi]

— there’s always a price to pay when you get your hands on a work of art.

PAIRING: tattoo! artist megumi x reader

REQUEST. tattoo artist au + mutual pining + size kink, praise kink, thigh riding + reader is shorter than megumi and isn’t shy 

WARNINGS: feral megumi, scratching, vaginal sex, size kink, praise kink, mature content, slight overstimulation, sexual tension lol, unedited story

NOTES: ah thank you so much for this request, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Here is my third contribution for FERAL MEGUMI FRIDAYS! and oh wow tattoo artist megumi uh no thoughts head empty

WC: 5.4k+

The tattoo saloon loomed over you, the neon signs almost blinding in the darkness. You could feel your heart pick up its pace in your chest as you hitched your bag up higher, the excitement settling in your toes. Mustering up the brightest smile you could have, you cleared your throat and pushed the door open, the tiny bell on top jingling to signal your arrival.

Your eyes roamed around the walls covered with intricate drawings, the leather seats dark and kept in pristine. Now that was rare – your leather couches always wore out in just a few weeks.

Making your way inside, grip on your sling bag still tight, you bit your lip as you peaked behind the counter. Empty. No one was there, and the nearby opened rooms were empty as well. Scratching your head, you scrunched your nose in confusion. You were sure you got the right place.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to leave, then stopped in your tracks when a dark-haired man exited a door you hadn’t even noticed at first.

He was tall – taller than you; his arms stretched until the sleeves of his black hoodie were pulled down, revealing a sliver of black tattoos that marked his skin. Upon hearing your awed gasp, his cold blue eyes fluttered to yours, the man – who was absolutely handsome despite his frown – froze in his spot.

You waved a hand to him, your smile bigger than ever. “Hi!” So you would be working with this cute guy? Maybe job-hunting wasn’t such a bad experience, after all.

“Hey,” he drawled out hesitantly, approaching you with his ink stained fingers pointed at you. He was still frowning, which was a damn shame, since you were sure he’d look even hotter if he smiled. “So...you’re Y/N.”

“Yeah!”

“And you...” he tilted his head to the side, inquisitive eyes studying your form. You would’ve felt conscious with the way his brows furrowed, eyes unreadable and lips pressed into a thin line, but you were sure you dressed to impress on your first interview. You admitted, however, that maybe wearing a white collared shirt with a pink tennis skirt made you stand out like a sore thumb in the heaviness of the studio. “...want to be a front desk man here?”

“Yeah!”

“What makes you think you’re qualified for this?” he crossed his arms on his chest, and you didn’t miss the slight bite of his voice. So he was handsome – but cranky. Great. “You don’t look like you fit in here.”

“Judging someone’s appearance and inferring that it has any relation to their credentials isn’t such a professional thing to do, you know,” you raised your chin proudly, jutting a pointer finger to his chest. He clearly didn’t expect this because he scowled and took a step back, while you fought the grin that threatened to paint your face. “Would you like it if people told you that you’re not qualified to be a lawyer because of your tattoos and piercings?”

He scoffed, “I don’t want to be a lawyer. As you can see, I’m a tattoo artist. And to answer your question, no, I don’t give a fuck what people think about me.”

“I can tell,” you muttered to yourself before smiling back up at him. He was too easy to read; his brow quivering and lips firm at your faux enthusiasm. “But yes, I do believe I’m qualified! I’m a fast learner and I’m even quick on my feet! I’m really good at talking to people too so I believe I can help schedule client appointments really well and guide them with this whole process.”

“Being front desk man doesn’t mean serving the clients tea and biscuits.”

“I know.”

“You know?” he snorted with a roll of his eyes. He then gestured you to follow him all the way back to the front desk. You expected he’d teach you about how to handle the appointment books or pick up phone calls, but instead he plopped down on the leather couch of the waiting area, his legs crossed on top of the other.

Your eyes followed the patch of pale skin exposed from his ripped jeans before you looked away, not wanting him to see that you found him attractive despite his less than welcoming personality.

“What exactly do you know about this industry?”

“Nothing, to be honest, but I’m not here to be a tattoo artist or anything. I just really need a job and I assure you I’ve got plenty of experience and knowledge when it comes to manning front desks or counters,” you stated confidently, “I know I look out of place, but I really need this job.”

The man only narrowed his eyes at you. Contemplation was written all over his face, probably wondering why you couldn’t just work somewhere else. “Why come here, of all places?”

“Because it’s the only one that has a flexible schedule,” you sighed, “I can’t work shifts anymore because I’m too busy at university. From when I talked to your boss – Geto, was it? – he said that the salon was open 24/7 and I could work until before my classes start. He’s not really strict about that kind of thing.”

“So you mean to tell me,” he leaned forwards, looping his fingers with one another while his ice cold gaze slithered over your desperate ones. “You’ll be at university for half the day, sleep until midnight, and then come here to work and attend class a few hours later? Isn’t your schedule a little irregular?”

“Oh no, it’s not like that! I also have mock classes after uni and it lasts until late at night, then I help clean at the local shelter. They’re running out of volunteers and the dogs are really adorable and take my stress away so...I make sure to come by when I have time.”

“You are one odd creature,” he noted loudly, almost as if he wasn’t completely aware he vocalized his thoughts. Well, at least now you knew he wasn’t the type to think his words over, which either made him more entertaining – or insufferable the longer you worked with him – if you began working anyway. “You could’ve used your spare time to rest. Do you even eat?”

“Yeah, I have a granola bar right now with me! I actually brought two,” you pulled out the snack from your bag, “You want some? I only got the oats, though.”

“Keep it to yourself,” he rolled his eyes, slapping his hands over his knees before rummaging over something behind the counter. “Fine. If Geto said he’s okay with you, then you’re hired.”

“Really, that easy?” your eyes widened, but then you chuckled when this strange man glared at you in response. He sighed as he pulled out a piece of paper, a pen on top of it. The papers read something about application forms and credentials, and you beamed, happily writing your information away with a slight bounce in your toes.

Unable to keep your happiness to yourself, you looked back at the bored man, wiggling your eyebrows playfully. “Huh. I was kind of expecting you would grill me – you’ve got that scary look in your eye. Let me guess, you often scare clients off?”

It seemed he could never get tired of glaring at you, because his eyes fuelled with heat as he leaned against the wall.

You hated to admit that he looked ridiculously handsome like that – the guy wasn’t even doing anything remotely attractive in the first place!

“I’m the most booked artist here, and I ask that you don’t get too comfortable with me. You haven’t even started working here and you’re already riling up on my train,” he groaned when you merely laughed in response. He made quick work of signing something in your form before handing you a key. ��Here’s for your locker. Come to work tomorrow. Geto won’t be around for a week so I’ll be the one judging your performance. If you fuck up in the slightest – I won’t hesitate to fire you, you understand? We always have Yuuji coming around anyway, you’re really not that needed for the front desk.”

“Oh,” you nodded at his harshness, unsure whether to feel threatened or amused. “O-okay. I’ll do my best then. I look forward to you – ah, wait, what’s your name?”

“Fushiguro Megumi.”

“Oh, that’s a pretty name,” you muttered to yourself, uttering his name over and over again until it rolled smoothly on your tongue. “Shame you have a shitty attitude along with that handsome face, though.”

“You trying to say something?”

You faced him, about to laugh when he scowled at your not-so-subtle comments. Waving your hands to him, you made your way out the door, your smile only irritating him further. “No, I wasn’t. I’ll be taking my leave then – see you tomorrow!”

Seems like working in a tattoo studio wouldn’t be so bad.

You came to work the next day early and pumped with adrenaline. The idea of meeting the moody tattoo artist caused you to be giggly and happy the whole day, not even feeling the exhaustion of a long day of hard work as you made your way inside the shop.

Clocking in at exactly two in the morning, you proudly tugged your name badge on top of your left breast, patting it for good luck.

The bells jingled, making you look away from your tag. “Good morning – oh, where’s Megumi?” The man standing in front of you was taller than Megumi, his head nearly knocking over the doorframe if it wasn’t for his poor, slouched lanky frame.

He had white hair that brushed atop his cerulean blue eyes, and your eyes widened because wow, he was beautiful.

“Hey, you must be Y/N! Megumi told me you came around yesterday but he didn’t tell me the counter girl was this pretty,” He was in front of you the next second, his nose nearly grazing over yours that had you leaning back into the wall for space. “Hmm...he didn’t tell me that at all.”

“Oh, thank you. You are...?”

“I’m Gojo Satoru, one of the senior artists here. Since Megumi isn’t here yet, let me give you a tour!” Before you could react, Satoru already had an arm wrapped around your shoulder, his other arm waving and pointing to all the hung paintings and labels on each door. You found it odd that he treated you like you were an old friend, but you weren’t going to complain. Nice co-workers were always welcomed.

“Here is the holding area where clients wait to get their session done. This is Geto’s studio and right next to that is his office where he does all the finances and all that jazz, while this is my studio. Cool, isn’t it?”

Your mouth fell ajar as Satoru led you inside his studio, the walls painted the same aquatic shade of his eyes, but what caught your attention was the galaxy themed tattoo designs he made. They came in different shapes – a volcano head, a dragon, a worm, a four-armed monster – but inside them were all galaxies with sparkling and burning stars. You could see everything and nothing all at the same time.

“Whoa, you made all this?!”

Satoru’s chest puffed out proudly, “Yeah, I did. I’m flattered by your reaction, I really am, but you haven’t seen Megumi’s yet. There’s a reason our salon boomed even though he’s only been working here for two years.”

At the mention of his name, your interest was piqued, all ears and curious smiles directed to Satoru. “Oh, can I see Megumi’s studio?”

“You can – if you book an appointment.”

“But I don’t plan on getting any tattoos,” you frowned.

“You’ll never get to see his work then,” he chuckled to himself, the sound growing louder when you visibly deflated. What was the point of getting your hopes up like that then? “Megumi doesn’t like letting others in his studio without permission or an appointment.”

“Why not?”

“He’s just iffy about it,” he shrugged, “Don’t bother trying to decode his personality anymore, Megumi’s very hard to understand. Though if I were to make sense of it...” he rubbed his chin, eyes looking out into the distance. “I guess you could say Megumi’s not the type to be showy when it comes to his work of art. Did that clear it up?”

You blinked back blankly. “No, not really. But it’s fine – I don’t plan on getting to know him anyway.”

That was the biggest lie of your life.

The moment Megumi came around a few minutes later, a loud groan upon your animated greeting over his arrival, your chest bloomed with a different kind of fluttery warmth. He rarely came out after that, clients swarming in to both his and Satoru’s studios, but each faint glimpse of his door cracking open that allowed you to see him focused as he worked, you could no longer deny the heat burning down your legs.

You crushed on the grumpy tattoo artist.

And the more you came around work, greeting him zealously and teasing him to no end that he’d look hotter if he smiled, your crush only intensified for him – completely unaware that he too, couldn’t get his thoughts off of you even with his door closed.

In fact, he kept his door closed all the time because your voice distracted him too much.

“Hey, Y/N, you free?”

You looked up from the textbook you were reviewing, slamming it shut when Satoru’s head peeked out from his studio. He was still wearing gloves with a pen between his fingers, most likely still in the middle of a session.

“Yep! We don’t have appointments yet and I’ve already closed it for non-appointees. Did you need me to get you something?”

“Yeah, could you get Megumi for me? He isn’t picking his phone up and one of our special clients are coming soon. I’m packed right now so I can’t fetch him. I’ll send you the address and you get him, yeah? Just open the counter if you need money for a cab.”

You blinked owlishly at him. On one side, you’d be more than glad to see Megumi again. He hadn’t arrived despite it being four in the morning already, and you were worried, but you also didn’t have his number to ask how he was doing. Progress with Megumi was...slow, to say the least.

He still holed himself up in his studio, coming out only for bathroom breaks, although you noticed a drastic improvement when he finally began to mutter an almost shy “good morning” under his breath for the past few weeks.

It wasn’t much, but you’d have to make do.

“Uhm, when is this client of his coming? Should I run...?”

“Yeah, you need to fucking run. They’re coming in an hour and a half!” Satoru exclaimed, flailing his hands around like a madman.

Even after working with him for some time, you still couldn’t believe the older man was practically a man child, even asking for head pats sometimes. He would lean down with a pout, using a squeaky voice to call your attention, which always succeeded in Megumi fake gagging before he locked himself inside his studio.

“Forwarded you his address. Really sorry for the inconvenience, Y/N!”

“It’s okay!” you jumped out of your seat in an instant, not bothering to take your name tag off anymore as you left the salon, hailing the nearest cab.

Megumi lived quite far from the salon, which had you wondering why he chose to work there when there were plenty of salons in his area too. His place looked shady, as well, his apartment in a high-rise building with endless graffiti and several drunk stragglers hooting for you.

You ignored them all, taking two steps at a time from his staircase, your hands on your knees as you panted for air. Why did he have to live on the tenth floor?

“Megumi! Megumi!” you banged your fist on the door, throat parched from your sudden cardio session. You were sure you burned ten calories just from that sprint, and you sighed in relief when Megumi swung the door open, still looking handsome – and sleep-deprived – as ever in his black shirt and black skinny jeans.

“What?” he demanded. After seeing that it was you, he quickly snatched a water bottle and passed it your way, closing his door behind him. “Y/N? What are you doing here? How’d you know where I live?”

“Satoru said you had a really important client. You weren’t picking your phone up so he sent me to come get you.”

“It’s my day off,” he grumbled, answering your silent questions, your worries dissipating into thin air. Once you’d satisfied yourself by basically dunking the entire bottle, Megumi rolled his eyes, his hands flat on the small of your back while he guided you downstairs. The sudden touch flamed your cheeks; a stupid smile on your face. You were shameless, though, leaning back closer to him in the darkness of the early morning. “Why does he send a girl out of all people?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“It’s unsafe. My neighbourhood isn’t the best and who knows what would’ve happened to you if some goons came out?” Megumi hailed for a back, surprising you when he let you get in first and paid for the fee despite your outstretched hand prepared with the bills. “I can’t believe Sukuna chose this day to come of all times. I can never get a damn break.”

“Sukuna?”

“A special client. He’s a really huge tipper and comes on odd schedules – I didn’t think he’d come now.”

“Yeah, I checked the papers and he wasn’t there,” you frowned to yourself.

Megumi pressed his head against the window, eyes closed as his chest heaved up and down rhythmically. With the sun slowly shining from behind you, the golden stretches of it outlined his sharp features you adored, and you rested your chin on your palms, eyelashes fluttering at his beauty. “You know, Megumi, you’re really pissy sometimes – but you’re quite nice, aren’t you? I’d say you were even worried for me.”

He cracked one eye open, those blue eyes still shining with irritation, but make no mistake since his ears were flushed red. “I’m not. I just don’t want to be involved in a police investigation if they find your body near here.”

“How sweet of you.”

“Shut up.”

You and Megumi were beginning to get closer. You couldn’t pinpoint where he started to grow more comfortable with you, but it was definitely there and it was painfully evident that even someone stupid like Satoru noticed the sexual between you two.

He would always sniff the air whenever you and Megumi sat next to each other during lunch breaks, a wide grin on your face while Megumi buried his face in his hands, groaning because he knew the moment Satoru opened his mouth, nothing but dumb comments would come out. And dumb comments they were; the white-haired man merciless as he teased Megumi for acting like a cute little kid around you.

You never took it to heart, though. It was Megumi you were talking about; he was hot and cold; sweet then distant from one moment then an entire person the next.

Not that you minded, it only added to your fuelling crush on him, but you couldn’t control the way your heart fluttered every time Satoru whispered that he did like you, excusing that Megumi just wasn’t the best with words. Apparently, Megumi had spent too much time holed up in his apartment and studio that he had zero to little knowledge on how to talk to pretty girls – especially one that was clearly attracted to him as well.

Satoru encouraged you to go for it – that you should confess or break the ice first otherwise Megumi would never do anything about his raging boner every time you came around.

You only flushed at his statement, but you couldn’t deny that you too felt the same way.

One morning where Satoru and Geto were out restocking supplies, you and Megumi were left alone in the salon. Of course, he still resorted in the comfort of his studio, muttering under his breath that he wanted to try some designs before disappearing. Only this time, he left the door slightly open, the lights peeking through the slight crack.

Walking up to him with muted footsteps, you leaned over his shoulder, glancing over a sketch of...you? “Are you drawing me?”

Megumi yelped at your voice right next to his ear, throwing the paper away on the other side of the room before glaring at you. You laughed at his reaction, because how was it possible he was both so criminally sexy yet adorable? He looked terribly gorgeous today, as well, wearing a short sleeved black hoodie and black sweatpants, looking so comfortable and boyfriend like – and you couldn’t even begin to express your appreciation over his new lip piercing.

“Why do you always sneak up on me?” he snapped, “Didn’t I tell you I wanted privacy?”

“Then why aren’t you pushing me away?”

Megumi sighed exasperatedly, turning back to organize his pencils before glaring at you. “What do you want? Got no one else to bother since Satoru isn’t around?”

“I just wanted to see your art,” you mentioned, but kept your eyes directed on him instead of the plethora of sketches and designs hanging from his wall as to not offend him. “Satoru told me to never come inside. He said you’re really...private when it comes to your works,” you furrowed your brows at the last part, feeling your heart beat pulse at your tongue.

It was now or never.

“Can I see your tattoos too?”

“Why do you want to see them?”

“A work of art on a canvas who’s also a work of art himself?” you finally gained confidence to tease him again, getting riled up further when Megumi stiffened at your curious hands travelling under his shirt. His breath sharpened as his glare only deepened, though he didn’t make a move to stop you. “Why wouldn’t I want to see that?”

“Being flirty doesn’t work on you. It’s not cute.”

“You’re blushing though,” you remarked. Megumi groaned and pushed your face away until your buttocks landed on his recliner. Satisfied with Megumi not completely kicking you out, you swung your legs back and forth, still staring at his hoodie as if it was an offensive material.

“Can I...see?” Megumi rolled his eyes before he lifted his shirt up, revealing to you intricate patches of black ink splattered over ripples of muscles. Your mouth salivated, and somewhere down there, you drooled too. Tentatively, your hands reached out to finger the image of canines, Megumi shuddering over your cold touch on his warm skin. “It’s beautiful. What does it mean?”

Megumi pursed his lips before whispering, “These are the dogs I had as a child. My father got me them so I wouldn’t be too lonely when he’s away from work.”

“They’re very pretty. They look like black and white wolves,” you smiled, elated that he was opening up in more ways than one. Your touch flitted over to a winged creature under his left collarbone, small letters beside the image. “And this bird? Nue? He’s so majestic,” Your hands never stopped in trailing over his skin like a lost wanderer, sweeping over ink ink until Megumi completely discarded his hoodie to the side, his back faced to you.

A white viper tattoo stood large on his broad back, crawling until over his shoulder with the fangs ending just above his pecs. Megumi swallowed at each slivering touch, your fingers dipping and caressing every dent and curve of his body.

You couldn’t get your eyes off of him, your breath hitching in your throat as one of your hands gripped his biceps subconsciously. “You’re so beautiful.”

Megumi stiffened when your thumbs grazed over his nipple right next to the viper’s fang. Almost as if a switch was triggered inside him, Megumi growled, ducking to capture your lips with his in a sloppy, heated kiss. His hands tugged at the ends of your hair to arch your neck to him, his knees slapping your legs open before he settled comfortably between you, his low groans mixing with your breath moans.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. From the moment I met you,” he nibbled your lips, hands trailing down to thumb at your hipbones. “I knew that innocent good girl look was nothing but an act.”

You smiled through the kiss, a tiny gasp falling from your lips when Megumi pulled you closer until your heat grinded against the hardness inside his pants. Laughing at his harsh movements, you let Megumi tilt your head back, his lips sucking and teeth gently nipping at the sensitive flesh of your neck.

“Innocent girl?” you echoed, legs now wrapped around his waist to pull him closer. “What makes you think I am?”

“White lace panties? Short tennis skirts and sunshine smiles?” Megumi clenched his teeth, his hands eager as he tugged the white lace down until it looped to your ankles. You gasped, back arching when he thrusted two fingers inside you, curling and fingering against your bumpy walls. “You’re not fooling anyone, baby, especially not me.”

“Took you long enough to understand I wanted you though,” you chuckled through broken moans, eyes shut tight while your legs opened wider, heels digging into the hard cushion of his seats. “I was wondering when I’d get to break you from that tough guy act of yours and have you fuck me good,” Megumi growled at your words. You leaned forward to scratch at his chest, your tongue licking the shell of your ear as you rasped, “And on a side note, I am a good girl – only to those who can make me feel good, of course.”

Megumi cupped his palm to collect your arousal dripping of his, finally shutting you up when his fingers grazed over your sweet spot that had you clenching around him. And those were just his fingers. “You’re something else, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I know,” you nodded smugly, hands coming up to tug harshly at his hair. Megumi hissed at the sharp pain, prompting him to fuck his fingers in and out of you faster until you leaked down to his chair, thighs trembling and your high-pitched moans coating the walls of his stupid. “Megumi, ah! Just shut up and fuck me already – been wanting you long enough.”

“Needy little girl,” He pressed you down on the reclining seat, settling between your legs before he spread your lips open with two thumbs. At the sight of your bare cunt clenching around nothing, Megumi groaned, teeth biting his lip because he could cum right then and there. “Fuck, look at you. So wet already,” he ran a hand over your slit to collect your arousal, eyes dark with lust as your juices webbed between his fingers. “All this for me? You’re so good.”

“Fuck – yeah, yeah I am,” you leaned back harder into the seat, groping at your own breasts while you nodded dumbly, too fucked out to even form a coherent response. “Going to be good for you, Megumi, gonna make you feel good.”

“Sorry, babe, maybe next time. I’m too impatient to not feel your pussy around me,” he pushed away at your hands that planned to pump his cock, his hand coming down to push you hard against the seat until his weight loomed over you.

You felt Megumi begin to align his tip at your center, dampening his mushroom head with your arousal first that had you both moaning left and right.

Hands scratching down his back as your teeth dug into your lips, Megumi pushed into you with one thrust, the sudden stretch making your legs shake and your body writhe underneath him. “Shit, why are you so tight? So fucking warm and perfect,” he rasped next to your ear, and you could hear how hard he was breathing as he thrusted into you, his cock hitting all the right places.  “Could fuck this pretty pussy all day, baby, shit.”

“Me-Megumi – t-too big!”

“Shh, you’ll be fine. You’ll take it like a good girl, won’t you?” he cupped your cheek, grinning sinisterly as he watched the way your greedy walls sucked him in. “See how you take me so well? You’re so small and pretty wrapped around my cock. I could break you if I wanted you,” he growled, his hands gripping hard at your hips when you clenched around him, enticing the man above you to quicken his pace.

Megumi watched with a lust filled gaze as your breasts bounced at the relentless pace he started, his balls slapping at your ass. “Oh, you’d want that, wouldn’t you? You want to be stuffed with my fat cock in you? Fuck you until you’re a drooling mess? You’re so gorgeous when I fuck you stupid.”

“Yes, Megumi, agh. Keep going, keep going, I’m so close!”

“Oh, you feel like heaven around me,” he praised at your neck, his cock stretching you wide and pushing into you. Megumi groaned lowly at your ear as his palms flattened over your stomach that bulged every time he thrusted in, his balls tightening at the sight. “Look at how big I am for you, baby, but you’re doing so well. You were made for me – made to take my cock, shit, you’re so perfect around me. Gonna make you feel good, yeah? You’re such a good girl for me. Cum, baby, that’s right – I’m allowing you to cum.”

“Gumi, Gumi, fuckkk,” your legs tightened around him as Megumi panted with each harsh thrust, the black marks over his skin expanding and stretch when his forearm rested beside your head. His muscles clenched as he fucked into you deep, over and over again until he pushed you over the edge.

A silent sob left your lips when you came around him, your juices creaming around his cock. A few thrusts later, Megumi fell on top of you as you felt him spill his seed inside you.

He had too much that you felt both your cum dripping down your ass; Megumi pulling out with a slight wince from the oversensitivity. You struggled to catch your breath as you laid there, legs wide open and the cool air hitting your bare pussy. The door was still open, and Satoru and Geto could walk in on you both looking like this, but you couldn’t care, not when you could barely feel your legs.

You dropped your arm over your face, hearing Megumi pull his pants back up. “That was...”

“Intense?”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, wincing as you sat up. Your hair stuck to your forehead in sweaty clumps, dawning on you now that you were still very much covered in your sticky cum. You recoiled from the seats as you realized Megumi hadn’t even put on a towel underneath.

“Shit. Is this chair even clean?”

“I sanitize it every after session. Don’t worry about it,” he rolled his eyes, his tattoos covered and hidden from your sight once more when he pulled his hoodie over his head. Megumi retrieved a clean towel from his drawers and wiped at your sensitive pussy, your legs immediately closing around his hands when the towel accidentally grazed your clit.

Megumi gripped your knees with a silent glare. “Stay still. I’m cleaning you up.”

“I didn’t peg you as an aftercare guy. Thought you would leave me hanging here,” you teased, but really, you were feeling warm all over again as you watched Megumi wipe you all the way down to your other hole, your legs still tensing up.

Once he left to wash his hands, you could relax, tugging your panties back up with immense struggle. He wasn’t kidding when he said he’d fuck you good – you could barely feel your legs now.

“And have you make a mess by ruining my seat?” he sighed as he returned, helping you seady yourself while he snapped the slightly soaked panty back to your core. “No thanks.”

“You’re so mean, Megumi. I’m hurt.”

He rolled his eyes at your pout, leaning down to kiss you square on the lips. This time around, the kiss wasn’t rushed; it was slow and sensual, firm yet gentle, and his hands carefully massaged your sore hips that would soon bruise from his grip before.

“No, you’re not,” he mumbled through your lips, mimicking that lovesick smile on your face as he pulled away. “But babe, you know the rules. Now that you’ve seen my work of art – what tattoo would you like me to give you? My name on your inner thigh?”

[introvertedelf]

The Mundane and the Shadowhunter

Chapter 7

Read chapter 6 here

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

YOUR POV

Waking up in no one less but Alec Lightwood’s arms was like a dream come true. You quickly had found that Alec was chased by a lot of other Shadowhunter girls, desperate to marry him instead of their arranged marriage partners.

You were lucky. You didn’t think you believed in true love before Alec, but since that moment you met him? You were nearly convinced now. It wasn’t your typical falling in love at first sight, though. An arrow pointed in-between your eyes by the hottest ‘man’ you’d ever seen? No way.

Your daydreaming was interrupted when Alec moved his hand from your thigh to your waist, a low grumble coming from his throat.

“G’morning,” his voice rasped, his dark lashes fluttering as he opened his beautiful eyes. You laughed softly, snuggling into him lovingly.

“Good morning, handsome,” you complimented, causing him to blush. “I love it when you blush like—“

He shut you up by pressing his lips to yours, placing his hand over your mouth after to replace his lips. “Shush.” You giggled, licking his hand and causing him to jerk it back. “Did you just lick me?!” He questioned hysterically.

Innocently, you shook your head.

“Yeah right. Get up, gorgeous. Training.”

________

Training. You were learning quickly to despise that word, as it always meant sweating like an MMA player and getting your ass kicked like one, too.

“Keep going!” Jace and Alec, yes, both of them urged you on. You tried to do another squat, but instead just ended up falling on your ass. Jace cackled, Alec hitting him on the shoulder to make him stop as he hid his own laugh. He came up to you, offering his hand to pull you up.

“You know, I’m getting real tired—“

“Too bad,” Alec interrupted. “You have to get stronger, Y/N. We’ve talked about this.” He got serious, his face becoming that straight, unfaltering one that you first saw when you met him.

“Well maybe I don’t want to do this. Ever think of that? Why can’t I just do something that involves book smarts like, geez I don’t know, become a Shadowhunter librarian? Why can’t I skip all this bullshit training and—“

“This training is issued to all shadowhunters, Y/N. And guess what, one day this training might save your life. You just don’t know anything about our world. You are constantly under watch by all kinds of beings that want to hurt you. So stop complaining and just deal with it.”

“You’re right. I don’t know anything,” you stated, your cheeks hot and tears threatening to spill from being reprimanded by the man you loved. Without another word, you turned and walked away, your stride long and quick as you went right out of the doors to the institute.

You ignored Alec’s calls to you.

________

You had no idea where you were going—just that you were getting away from all of that. You knew Alec was just trying to help, but this was all too much. You felt weak. Ignorant. And just tired. You never thought you’d say that you missed your mundane life. If only Alec could be a part of your normal life, everything would be perfect. But you knew that was impossible. Associating with shadowhunters meant danger, pretty much. You could never really be safe again.

You crossed the street, heading the familiar way to your apartment. It looked as shitty and unrenovated as always. You walked up the sidewalk, coming to the gate. It was open, naturally, as everyone forgot to close it all the time. It was a tiny three building complex, so it didn’t take long to arrive to your door. You didn’t have your key anymore, so you crossed your fingers that it was open. Alas—it was not open. For once, management had done their job and kept vacant apartments locked. This was your breaking point as you slid down the door, tears spilling down your cheeks. Your arms were over your head, and you prayed to whatever god would listen that no one would find you like this.

“Hey there, little one,” a deep and cunning voice called, footsteps virtually impossible to hear.

Your head shot up, looking at a very tall and pale, what you presumed to be, vampire. “Who are you? Stay away—“

“Now now, is that any way to treat a friend? Come now, I can make you feel all better,” the vamp stepped towards you, stopping suddenly when an arrow shot at the speed of light into the vamp’s shoulder.

“Get the hell away from her,” a dangerously calm voice said. You looked up, sighting Alec with his bow drawn. He cocked a brow at you, through a relieved look was ever so present on his features.

“Ugh, Shadowhunter. I should have known. Always one to run our fun—“

Alec shot a warning glance at the vampire. “I said, get the hell away from her.”

“Fine, I can see this meal has already been tainted anyways,” his nostrils flared, and you unfortunately got what he meant. Even after your shower, he could smell Alec on you still.

Alec didn’t react to what he said as the vamp scurried away. Instead, he dropped his bow and ran up to you, picking you up in his arms and pulling you into his embrace. “Never do that again. Y/N, I’m serious right now. Anything could have happened to you—it’s too dangerous,”

“Alec! I’m fine. I’m sorry I was being stupid . . .”

He pulled away, his look was now soft. “Come on, I’m taking you back home.”

Your walk back to the institute was quiet, though Alec had your hand in his the entire way. It’s like he was scared to let you go again.

When you walked in, Izzy, Jace, and Clary all stood there, a relieved look on their faces.

“Y/N, what the hell?” Izzy snapped, coming up to hug you.

“Seriously, I’m fine. I just went to my old apartment,” you said, wanting to neglect the fact that you’d almost been attacked by a vamp.

Alec walked up. “She negates the fact that had I not been there, she would have been a vamp meal.”

“What?” Jace and Clary both said at the same time, looking at Alec.

“This is exactly why you need to train,” Jace said to you, ignoring Alec’s sharp look to him.

You pulled out of Izzy’s arms, turning to Jace. “Wow Jace, I’d have never fucking known that. Thanks for stating the obvious. Real brainiac here.” For a moment, he looked pissed. Oh shit, you thought.

Then out of nowhere, everyone starts laughing like I’d said something funny or something. “Oh man, glad to have you around, Y/N”, Jace said, his hand at his mouth.

You looked at Alec, a confused look on your face as you saw him laughing just as hard. He pulled you to him, putting his arm around your waist. “Oh Y/N. Never change,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Maybe you were really going to have to start taking training seriously.

[blackberry-gingham]

Cardinal Rule | Oswald Cobblepot x Fem!Reader

(The Batman 2022)

Chpt 1 | next...>

A working girl at Gotham's iceberg lounge, a club in town shot through with crime. One of the shining examples of what's wrong with this place. You're no stranger to hardship... But that doesn't mean you have to live your life in the gutter. You only need to be willing to get dirty.

You're more then fine working your way out of this place, but when the Penguin himself takes a shine to you... Is it a way out? Or just another run of trouble.

Tag list: @greenheart99 @smokeywhalee @samatedeansbroccoli @tolovaj (list open to additions or reductions, whichever you prefer!)

tags: idk, swearing. non graphic sexual themes.

---

Gotham City. The Iceberg lounge. Two places you never thought you’d come to call home.  You never knew your parents… A couple of Drop heads is all the social workers told you. Once you were old enough to know, you never bothered to try and find them. Why should you? Clearly they never gave much of a fuck about you.

The city gave birth to you. Raised you. Taught you everything you know.

You don’t need to know anything more than that.

And in a place like this… There’s only one kind of job for a pretty girl with no family. Not smart enough to win a grant for school. Too good for something like waitressing. No… The way you see it, if you’re going to get groped for your tips, then you're gonna make sure you get compensated properly for it.

A couple hundred a night isn't too bad of a start.

Thunder rips through the sky overhead. Summer has just come to a close, meaning all the young bucks with their daddy’s money are long gone for college. They’ll be back next summer. In the meantime, you’ll settle for the old money. It’s just as green, if only a little crisper.

The second you key into the back of the club, a wall of sound and smells meets you in the threshold. This place… It’s an oasis. An escape. Anyone who wants to leave behind this hell hole city, their shitty life, or maybe just themselves… They’ll find whatever they need to do it, right here.

Booze, drugs, girls, lights, noise. The building itself is a drug.

What does that make you?

None of the girls ever really talk to each other. You're all here to do a job, get paid, and go back to dull reality. You’ve known some of them for nearly a year now, without having ever caught their names. Maybe that’s how they like it. The anonymity. It’s definitely what you prefer.

Breathe in. 

Breathe out.

You’d be surprised how much that little mantra has gotten you through. 

This job pays, sure, but… God, it sucks the fucking soul out of you. You always say one day you’ll get out. Maybe even find a respectable desk job. It’s a story you’ve been telling yourself for years.

So for now, you put on your makeup. The glitter and paint. Strip down to your working clothes. And you look in the mirror. Yeah… One day.

“Hey!”, a sharp and heavy pounding shakes the walls. One of the many, many bouncers barges into the dressing room, looking pissed as hell. He points aggressively at you and two others, “You, you, and you- Downstairs! I’m sick of you whores not showing up to your fucking job!”

“Ay ay ay!”, a second voice follows quickly behind the bouncer. Strange, because you don’t recognize this one. You know for certain that you don’t, because that accent stands out like no other… “What the hell are you yellin’ at my girls for, huh? What are you, an animal? Get the fuck outta here”

Oswald Cobblepot, better known in the criminal world as “The Penguin”, does not stop to make conversation. He keeps walking through as he rebukes his employee, as though he has other, more important matters to attend to then to pause for this. The bouncer mutters something with a bowed head, then a pointed glance at you and the others he selected.

The dressing room is little more then a hallway itself, making it feel like a surprising after thought in the grand scheme of the club proper.

You’ve bounced around from club to club over the course of your “career”. The Iceberg is your most recent stop, but certainly not your longest tenure. And yet… For all the many months you’ve been here, it strikes you so odd that this is the first you’ve ever heard the voice of your boss. The boss, at that.

Penguin is broad and stout as brick house. Perhaps he was impressive looking, once. Balding, with a large, hooked nose and terrible scars along his face. Completing the look of his namesake, he’s never without a suit and a bowtie. Usually not the best fashion choice for a man of his build, but somehow he manages to pull it off well.

He’s quite hard to miss, which means business must keep him busy for how little you’ve seen of him. At most, perhaps you’ve caught a glance of him at a distance. Usually while he’s up in that glass box of an office. But never much more than that.

“Excuse me, ladies”, The Penguin angles his body a bit to slip through the throng of dancers on his way to wherever it is he’s going. You politely move back to hug your ass to the vanity behind you. His front faces yours as he shuffles past, meaning you think little to nothing of the brief moment of eye contact he gives you.

That is, until you notice the second take.

You roll your shoulder and brush it off. In this line of work, a man staring at you has long since lost its excitement. For now, you scurry off down the hall and stairs, surrounded by an array of women around your age in exactly similar costumes. Glittering, skin tight leotards, sky high heels to show some ass, sheer mesh sections to show a little skin…Everything you’d need to show a good time.

This makes your first time down in the 44. 

There’s not much you know about it. It’s a mob hangout. Full of drops and shady dealings and scary, powerful figures. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little nervous. You take a look around you. The other women seem so confident… That, or they’re damn good at pretending. 

Yet another bouncer checks all your IDs at the elevator. One at a time, you file in, like lambs for the slaughter. The doors shut quietly, bringing a whole other shush to the space in their wake. Suddenly, the lights and deafening noise of the Iceberg are gone. Not just muted and muffled, but… Completely silent. It lasts a good minute, just enough for you to think, before the doors ding once more, opening up to a whole different scene. 

The lights are dim, but still possess that same neon, LED glow as above. Thank God that down here they’re not flashing at least. The music is quieter too. Slower, and more relaxed. Something for the oldsters, no doubt. But then again… aren’t you too?

You sigh quietly, not a clue what to do next.

Breathe in. 

Breathe out.

For a moment, you hang back and watch the other girls. A couple mill about, looking for another table to schmooze. Or rob. A few more look for places to dance and poles to hit. You’ve never been much of a “hospitality” girl. To tell the truth, you really couldn’t give a fuck about all these rich assholes and their poor, busy lives as they make millions a year and spend just a fraction of a fraction of it all down here. Buying drops. Buying girls. 

Besides, getting paid for a quick, rough, and far too often, shitty fuck, never appealed to you. Whatever lines your pockets you suppose, but still... Not for you.

You give a forlorn look at the poles off in the back. They’re occupied right now. Not a surprise considering that’s where all the real money is made, but you’ll get your chance later. With one more weary sigh, you look out across the room of degenerates and criminals. If you must play hostess… Here’s to hoping it pays.

So, you make your rounds. You do your schmoozing. And you make a pretty decent cut already. You’ve turned down a couple would be Romeos, and still made your bank regardless. Then finally, finally the pole you’ve been working towards opens up.

The lights go up on the little platform and you can feel yourself pulled into auto pilot. You’ve practiced this dance so many times, it’s like second nature by now. And so you dance. You parade around, covered in glitter and somehow managing to not break your neck in these heels while you roll your hips and shake your ass for some drunk old men with all the other women beside you doing just the same.

Somewhere, way way up on the top floor, Oswald Cobblepot, owner of the whole joint, takes a rest in his office. It’s been a long night already, and it feels like the shit’s just started. With a weary sigh, he dips into a side room within the office space behind a covertly placed door into a soundproof room. Fully sound proof, that is. Don’t get him wrong, the glass office is nice, but damn. All that racket, even muffled as it is… It gets to ya. 

He switches on the lights and pours himself a glass of whiskey, as he takes a seat in a fine leather armchair. This room has no desk. Just a chair, a couch, a nice little hosting table, some secure old filing cabinets, a small tv, and a select few refined decorations. That painting over there is straight from the homeland, you know. This rug… Not so much, but it sure as hell is as comfortable as it is stylish.

The room is silent except for the occasional clink of ice in his drink. Oz takes one more sip, then lowers his glass to his knee. You know, there is one particular piece in here that he’s really proud of… He’s not one for glitz and garish glamour mind you, but he’s thinking of upgrading his wardrobe a little. Just something to accentuate with.

In a subtle little box, there on the table, lays a neat little thing. Just a normal, black umbrella with a fine, silver handle fashioned in the shape of a penguin’s head. Clever, he knows. The neat thing about it? It’s reinforced to be a proper cane, rather then just some flimsy old umbrella. He hasn’t quite broken it out for a debut yet, but… It’s there. And more and more as the days go by, he starts to question how long he can afford to be without it.

Being in this line of work ain’t easy. How do you think he got these scars, ya know? God, he did some hard shit when he was younger. Maybe he don’t look it as much now, but he was one hell of a bruiser back in the day. Course, one day all the jobs catch up with ya. You’re bound to get hit back eventually… And damn, if he ain’t had his fair share of getting hit.

The scars are nearly as fucking old as he is… and he ain’t young, heh. They don’t bother him none. Nah, it’s his hip that’s been off lately. An old wound from so long ago, he barely remembers. Never bothered him much before. Can't say that now, though.

He’s trying to hide the limp, but on rainy, freezing ass nights like this… Fuck, it’s hard.

It’s bad enough he’s stuck as the underdog… Having Falcone question his capability is the last thing he needs. There’s only one way out of a life like this, and God knows he ain’t done kicking yet.

Oz sighs and drags his knuckles up and down along the joint, only to dig a little harder. Damn, he ain't sure if he should be rubbing out all the muscle, or the bone itself. He’s been making rounds all night. Shit hurts. After hardly a second of giving the sore spot some attention, he stops.

God, he's tired. He sighs and takes another sip of whiskey. It's a better shot at helping the pain then anything he could do.

Ey, maybe he should lose some weight, huh? Take some pressure off the joint or some shit. Might help, sure. but, will he do it? He swallows down the last of the whiskey and huffs a bemused smile. Probably not, damn him. He laughs.

The monitor in front of him flickers to another feed. Security. He’s got half the place wired up for him to keep an eye on. Even Falcone don’t know about this. Neat, huh? 

He skips past a couple cameras, all boring. Booths, bar, more booths. Who gives a shit, huh? He’s looking for- There we go… He pours another drink, and watches the girls swing the poles. Usually he likes to regard himself as a gentleman, but… Damn. These girls can really dance.

Besides, what kind of proprietor would he be without enforcing a bit of uh… Quality control. Yeah, that’s it.

One girl stumbles a bit, right there on stage. In the fucking 44 too? Oh, she’s out. Where the fuck are his people getting these girls from, huh?

He takes note of the ones he wants gone, but doesn’t let it interrupt his enjoyment. The feed switches to another angle of the same scene. He sits up a little to get a closer look and takes another sip of his drink. If he looks close… There. He’s got a pretty good view of your pole tonight.

It would be… unbecoming, to go hit up one of the dancing girls in his own club he thinks. One of the many, many cardinal rules in this line of work, in fact. But... there’s no question, he’s had his eye on you for quite some time now. Fuck, you can dance. He’s familiar with your routine enough to know that you ain’t much for working hospitality, but God- When you do though…

Sometimes he catches himself wondering if it would be all that bad, hiring one of his own girls for a night. You ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want to. Hell, he’d be glad just to have a little gentle company up here. All these hard nosed guards ain’t much for personality, you know? Like… a buncha robots or something, yesh.

The feed tries to  move on to the next camera, but he skips it back to you.. He follows your every step and leap. Watching every move, studying every turn…Perfect, throughout the whole routine. Beautiful. Mesmerizing.

Maybe…

Penguin hobbles up from his chair and back out to the pounding, main office. He’s stiff as hell… Damn, sitting back down at that raggedy old desk is a fucking relief. He gets some papers together and jots sloppily along a couple lines and boxes. Only takes a moment, and the work is done. Now, just a moment more to warm up his bad hip...

He walks just fine coming out of the office and on his way up to one of his floor managers, “Here, take care of this”, he shoves the papers off for the employee to deal with. Pointing to names scribbled on the document lines, he says, “Get her and her and, Jesus, her outta here. But this one”, he taps your name twice, “keep her in the 44. She’s got talent”

[theunholygrails]

Foolish Games Part 2

Masterlist

A/N: Introducing new characters and some drama! Percy is still sexy as ever :'(.

Warnings: BJ

I woke up to a door slamming so hard it joined the symphony of my pounding headache. I groaned, hoisting myself over the back of the couch to investigate to intrusion. A brunette head of long sweeping hair rushed through the foyer, barreling towards the kitchen. A familiar mop of black hair hurried after.

Reyna was speaking so fast in Spanish my brain scrambled to keep up. I noted lots of curse words followed by a series of sentences too fast I was surprised she even knew what she was saying. Percy was answering in slow measured words, probably fighting a hangover of equal measure. I ducked behind the back of the couch, reaching for my phone plugged in on the coffee table.

It was noon. 2% battery and a couple messages from friends. Nothing from my ex thank gods. Five from Annabeth being nosey. I opened my uber app, squinting in the sunlight breaking through the cream curtains. I managed to get my driver secured.

A door slammed and I winced, peaking to check that they were in another room. I did not immediately spot my dress in the chaotic. I grimaced remembering the midnight swim. When I sat up I finally noticed the white tshirt I wore and the basketball shorts. And then I went rigid remembering what happened after the swim.

“Motherfucker,” I whispered.

Now I really had to get out of this house. I checked the arrival time of my driver. Three minutes away. Great. I made my way on shaky knees to the large wooden front door. My keys were still in the collection dish. I grabbed them quietly and turned the door handle a fraction of an inch before another door slammed open and Reyna came barreling back into the foyer, brown eyes landing promptly on my guilty ass. Behind her, Percy pursed his lips into a thin line and raised both of his hands to lay on top of his head. His biceps strained nicely against the thin t shirt.

“The fuck is this?” Reyna whispered.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I babbled.

“It’s just Noa, Rey. Gods,” Percy said.

“I can see that, Percy!” She snapped. I was glad her spear was not strapped across her back this morning. “Why is she sneaking out of my house in your clothes?”

“People were swimming last night. Her clothes got wet.”

“I’m sure the fuck they did.”

“Zeus, Rey! You ended it with me. Why does it even matter?”

“Because I still fucking love you! I’m sorry, okay?” She burst out crying and Percy instantly pulled her against his chest. The memory of being in those arms drove me out the door like a nest of hornets.

~~~~

“I’m just saying. You have nothing to feel sorry for,” Annabeth paused to sip her iced coffee. “Unless they get back together and then you sleep with him. But as of right now, you’re good. Trust me. Been on the Percy train. We’re still friends. You’ll get over it. Just a harmless rebound for both of you.”

I groaned, laying my chin on the cool metal table parked outside our favorite coffee shop positioned between our New York apartments. Just two Manhattan women enjoying their Sunday afternoon. The air was cooling as fall neared. I pulled my baseball cap closer to the top of my sunglasses.

“Should I call him?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Let him deal with his relationship drama. Reyna is a lot to deal with. Still nothing from fuckface?”

“Nope and that’s fine.”

“Good for you. We will hydrate you, get you a good dinner, hit the gym before work in the morning and then get back on our bad bitch mental track. Agreed?”

~~~~

“Good Monday, yogis,” I chirped from my desk at the corner of my studio.

The third class was beginning to trickle in and I was settling into my rhythm. Hot yoga was next and hopefully I would sweat out all the negativity I’d allowed lately. I was in the middle of emailing back a potential client when someone rapped at the wood of my desk. I glanced up to a blonde male who waved gently.

“Heya, sansei Noa,” he said.

“That’s karate. Can I help you?”

“Do you do trial classes?”

I hit send on my email and closed my laptop. The guy was built like a poser with the defined muscles and chiseled jaw but his voice was soft and tempered. He was clean shaven and dressed like a basic gym bro.

“Normally you have to schedule them beforehand because of class size,” I gave my standard answer.

“Right, my bad. Sorry. I was just passing by the front and it looked like the kind of place I needed right now. Can I go ahead and pick a date then?”

I was staring too long into his pale blue eyes, honed in on the polite response. A nice change from the daily demanding consumers. “You know what? Ive got space right now if you like? Have you ever done hot yoga?”

A brilliant white smile showcasing sharp canines. “My favorite.”

“Perfect. I just need a name, number and email to get you a file started.”

He leaned large hands on my desk. “It’s Luke Castellan.”

Before he could give the contact information, I cut him off. “Wait. I know you.” His tanned skin paled significantly.

“I…”

“You’re supposed to be dead!” I blurted out.

His eyes skated around the room and he leaned in closer. “That’s not supposed to be public knowledge. I assume you’re a demigod?”

“Luke, you trained me. We took fucking sculpting together. The Apollo table was right next to the Hermes one for fuck’s sake.”

He winced. I heard a murmuring from the rest of my class I was disturbing with my volume. I collected my shock finally. ���Take a seat if you want. We should talk after class. I need to start.”

“Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry Noa.”

I waved him off and walked over to my yoga mat. I sat cross legged and drew in an even breath to smooth out my emotions.

It was a slow 30 minute class. Each pose and movement dragged on. Finally, I dismissed the group and nodded Luke outside. He was waiting on the bench outside of the studio I split renting with a few other instructors. I sat next to him, wiping sweat from my face with the towel slung over my pink sports bra.

“Alright, talk,” I said.

“Not much to say. I was given a second chance at my hearing. Here I am. Starting over.” A shrug of well-defined shoulders. The muscles flexed beneath his gleaming sweat. His red tank top stuck to his chest and stomach. “I wish I remembered you, truly. That time is such a blur in my life.”

“It’s ok. You were a lot older than me and to be honest I had a massive crush on you so I probably hid most of the time.”

A surprised smile slipped across his lips. “I’m assuming the betrayal helped you get over that?”

I laughed outloud, slapping his knee. “No shit! So where are you staying these days?”

“Just around the corner actually. Got a job at the local gym.”

“Yeah I bet the fuck you did.” I squeezed his forearm between both of my hands. I wanted to roll my eyes at me falling back into my school girl giddy at him. Betrayal of the gods aside. He was even more gorgeous than ever. The scar down his face gave him a dark sexy vibe. Like a bad boy even though he claimed he was rehabbing himself now.

“So how, did you feel about the class?”

“I mean, I’d like to sign up for it a couple times a week, that’s for sure. And I’d like to take you out to dinner to make up for not remembering a beauty like you.”

I almost bit my cheek biting out the response of “Yes!”

“You’ve got my number,” he said, chuckling quietly. “I’ve got to get to work.” He shouldered his gym bag and excused himself.

The bike back to my apartment was spent reliving my tween fantasies about bad boy Luke. I opened my apartment door and screeched seeing a man sitting at my kitchen counter. Percy turned to face me.

“You know you live in New York? You should really lock that.”

“It was!” I snapped.

A quick grin. “Yeah. But it was easy to break into.”

I dropped my bag onto the floor and brushed past him to get a protein shake from the fridge. “I have to shower and get prepared for my night classes.” I told him.

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t either.”

He paused, studying my face in the shitty lighting of the single bulb hanging between us over the counter. “Are we good, Noa?”

“Of course. What’s a little head between friends?”

“Okay…I can’t read you. Can you not play tough just for a minute?”

I chugged the shake and set the bottle down between us. I leaned my arms on the chilled counter, bun knocking against the light. “Honestly, Percy. I’m fine. We are good.”

“Reyna moved back in.”

“You’re engaged again?”

I drank from the empty bottle to give myself something to do. He watched me with those green eyes. He’d known me for far too long. He was nearly impossible to deceive, but I was determined today. The fact that I had dreamt of fucking him two consecutive nights was irrelevant if he was off the table. Even if his lips did look incredibly juicy tonight. Even if they had done near illicit things to me just nights ago.

“I don’t know. She said she wanted to work on things. And it’s her dad’s house, so I can’t ask her to go and I don’t want to go to my mom’s and admit defeat.”

“You know you could stay here, Perc.”

He worked his jaw silently, then rubbed his hands over his face. “Thanks. I do know. Even if we aren’t officially back together, I think we should work on it…” he trailed off.

“And not tell her about you eating me out?” I leaned closer because I was mean to both him and myself. Because I knew this top combined with this angle gave him a simple opportunity. And he took it.

His tongue slid out between his lips as his eyes flicked down, stayed, then dragged deliberately back up. “Probably not,” he agreed.

For a long moment neither of us said anything. He had more to lose now than me. We were no longer on equal playing fields. So, I left the ball in his court. “I’m going to go shower.”

I was done washing in the first ten minutes. The second ten was giving him a little wiggle room to decide. I had my hand on the faucet to cut off the water that was beginning to go cold when I heard the door creak open. I watched through the fogged glass, catching a hold of my breath. I watched as he tugged his shirt off. My stomach flipped over itself when he reached for his jeans. What had I done?

The opening door let in a rush of cool air, perking my skin to attention. My eyes raked unapologetically over his naked, aroused body. His dark hair quickly slicked against his stubble covered jaw. His eyes were no longer the sea green but murky like the deep water of the ocean.

“Hey,” he said quietly, cautiously.

“Hey,” I giggled, reaching out to touch his rough jaw. He winced, catching my hand with his. “We probably shouldn’t kiss again.”

“Sure, whatever you want, Percy. What can I do to you?”

He groaned, turning his mouth into my palm, scraping teeth against the vulnerable skin. “Touch me,” he said.

My free hand instantly planted against his chest, scraping at the muscle. His eyes fluttered closed, head tilting back to expose his throat. I slid my other hand into his thick hair, tugging it tightly between my fingers and pulling to grant myself more access to the strong column of his neck. I bit it first, backing him into the tiled wall when he shuddered. I kissed over the reddening skin and moved my hands to his flat stomach, feeling the shuddered breaths beneath my touch.

“Like this?” I asked.

His reply was unintelligible. I kissed down his chest, moving my hand lower still as I went. When my fingers brushed over the v-line of his hips, I shifted my route away from the center and to his thighs. An annoyed grunt escaped his lips. “Hush,” I scolded, getting my knees under me. The now cold water was hitting the back of my neck and flowing down my body. I placed my hands on the inside of both his thighs, trailing them upwards and upwards until he nearly contorted when I gripped him. He let out a scandalous string of curses that quickly turned to moaning silence when I took him into my mouth.

He unraveled in minutes and I let him cum all over the breasts I had teased him with earlier. I rose in front of him, my own rosy cheeks mirroring his. “Now we’re even.”

[sodasback]

Ex BF - Part 2

Drew Starkey x Reader

Part 1

You guys, I changed my mind, this one just works so much better as a Drew Starkey fic ...so fuck it, I’m just gonna post what I had on my deactivated blog. 

It had been months since you ran into Josh on set at Drew’s work. Luckily, Drew was only in a couple scenes for that project and he only worked on that show one more day without running into Josh. Now, you, Drew and a lot of the Outer Banks crew were all in LA again and going out to a bar.

Unfortunately for you, and everyone that night, Josh and his friends were at the same bar.

“Oh hey, it’s y/n and her movie star boyfriend, Andrew.” Josh said as he appeared next to you and drunkenly leaned an arm on your shoulder. If looks could kill, the look on Drew’s face would have for sure been the death of Josh. It was a mixture of shock and rage at the audacity of this guy. Drew was so taken aback, he didn’t know how to react.

You uncomfortably chuckled and squirmed out from under Josh’s arm to stand in front of Drew quickly, not knowing if Drew’s truly calm nature could be tested any further. “Mhmm, great to see you Josh.” You stated dismissively.

Your effort to separate them was lost as Drew instantly and easily maneuvered you behind him protectively. You turned for the bar as quickly as possible, hoping to end the situation there, so you grabbed Drew’s hand to pull him along with you.

“Aww, y/n/n, you’re not gonna stay and let me get to know your little boyfriend?”

You felt dead weight behind you as you tried to pull Drew away. 

“Bro, I’m telling you right now, back the fuck off.” Drew stated. You whirled around to get in front of him, as Josh took a step forward and titled his chin up, “Or what?”

You put your hands on Drew’s chest. He easily looked over your head to continue glaring at Josh.

“Drew” you said sternly. He glanced down at you for a second, before looking back up at Josh. Josh smirked and waited to see what Drew was gonna do. “He’s not worth it. Trust me.” You said. Drew looked down at you and softened. 

He wrapped an arm around your shoulder an you wrapped both arms around his waist to walk to the bar. 

“You know, as hot as you are when you get all scary like that. I really really don’t want you getting in a fight because I have an absolutely horrible ex boyfriend.” 

You emphasized the first part of this sentence, but Drew just gave you a deadpan stare. He knew you were trying to flirt with him to get him to relax. And you knew it was too late at this point. As evolved and emotionally intelligent as Drew was, he had now entered caveman mode. Josh challenging him because of you triggered instincts deep within him to meet that challenge aka defending your honor. ...1 point toxic masculinity, 0 points non-violent female empowerment.

At this point in your life, you were happy. You had everything you wanted in your career. You had a beautiful apartment. Your family was healthy. You had the best friends you could ask for. And of course, you had Drew. Drew was the one. He was your soulmate. Your best friend. And you knew it. You didn’t feel the need to put Josh in his place any more. You just wanted to keep enjoying your life. You had time to make peace with what Josh did to you and you felt like you moved past it and him. Yeah, you felt like you were past it, you tried to convince yourself. It had been years since the incident happened and you and Josh broke up...

Flashback

You and Josh were 20 and had been on and off for a couple years. One night, you had both been out, when you started fighting, something that wasn’t new to your relationship. Josh had been flirting with another girl a lot of the night and gaslighting you to make you feel like you were imagining it. As you brought up the flirting again, he was reaching for his car keys. You were pissed that he was using this tactic again. He would leave until you calmed down and started to worry about him so much that you would just finally give in and forget the fight, instead of holding him accountable. You were so mad at him for making you feel like you were crazy and for always manipulating you by leaving. You couldn’t stop the words from coming out of your mouth, “Sure, just leave again. Fucking typical, Josh. Like father, like son, I guess.”

And before you could even process what happened, the whole right side of your face was stinging, a cut near eye was bleeding from his ring and your ears were ringing. Josh had just backhanded you hard. Time stood still for a moment as your hand went to cradle your cheek. You were absolutely shocked.

“Oh fuck. You okay?” 

You finally looked up at him with an unreadable expression on your face. “..don’t make this a big deal, okay? That was a really shitty thing to say and you just made me so mad, I couldn’t help i-” At that point, you stormed into the bedroom and locked the door. He now was faced with you being upset and maybe even losing you; he started knocking on the door and apologizing profusely after realizing your reaction. You were completely blocking out all the noise coming from the other side of the door as you tried to gather your thoughts. 

Okay, that was a really low blow. Yeah, but he HIT you.

I definitely shouldn’t have said that. But he HIT you.

Maybe I deserved it. No, he HIT you. You continued to argue with yourself.

What would you tell your y/bff’s/n if this happened to her?

What would your mom or dad tell you right now?

If he did it once, he could do it again.

...this isn’t the first time you’ve been scared of him.

...but he seems genuinely really sorry.

You opened the door to find Josh sitting on the ground leaning against the wall. He looked at you scared and hopeful, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“I’m sorry for what I said. It was really unfair and hurtful of me.” You stated genuinely.

Relief washed over his face for a second, “I’m so sorry baby. I swear that will never happen again.” He said, as he got up and he started to make his way to hug you. 

“Yeah, I know it will never happen again...” you held your hand out to stop him from touching you, confusion now evident in his expression, “because we’re done.”

His face dropped, expression now being somewhere between confused, angry and disappointed. Josh wasn’t used to you putting up boundaries and not letting him get away with all the shit he pulled. “Y/N-” he started. 

“No.” You said adamantly, “Frankly, I don’t care how sorry you are. I don’t care how much I pissed you off. I don’t care how much you promise that will never happen again. Our relationship was toxic before what just happened. I know I’m not perfect and I have a lot of things to work on. But I 1000% know in my bones, that I WILL NEVER let you hit me again. I deserve better. We’re done. I’m going to my parents’ house. I’m coming back tomorrow between 10 and 2 to get my stuff. Don’t be here.”

A couple months later, you had a text from an unknown number. It was Josh borrowing a friend’s phone to text you, since you blocked any way he had to contact you. He apologized. He held himself accountable. There was no deflecting or manipulating in the message and he promised he would never contact you again. You replied: “Thank you for your apology. Yes, I’d appreciate it if you don’t contact me again.”

And that was it. You ran into him briefly at the grocery store once and you had been in a really good mood. Your interaction was light and almost flirty. You felt so ashamed about it later, but you hadn’t seen or heard from Josh again until years later, with Drew on set. And little did you know, seeing you with Drew set something off in Josh that he just couldn’t let go.

-

As you stood at the bar, waiting for the bartender’s attention, you turned to see the caveman version of your gorgeous boyfriend still glaring, his fists clenching and unclenching.

“Babe.” You said and he looked at you.

“He’s got fuckin nerve.” He said shaking his head and you took a deep breath ready for the rant, “First off, called me a movie star. I am a serious actor, Y/N.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh at Drew being offended anything this asshole said and Drew’s eyes widened at you and you stifled a giggle while you laced your hands around his neck to appease him, “Mhmm” you encouraged. 

“And then he called me ‘Andrew’“ Drew went on. And you nodded and gave him a sympathetic pout, “I know, I heard.”

“And THEN, he has the AUDACITY to put his fucking arm around you?! Bro, I’m heateddddd-” He continued, barely paying attention to you as you leaned your body against his. You ignored the fact that he just called you bro and tried a different tact. 

“Drew, stop. You can’t get into a bar fight. Think about your job.”

“I don’t care about my job. I care about you.”

“That’s not true. You do care about your job. And I know you care about me. But if you get into a fight right now, it’s not gonna change what he did to me. It was a long time ago. We’re not together anymore. I’m over it. Punching him is not gonna do anything except jeopardize your future.”

Drew still had his fight face on, “Well, knocking that smirk off his fucking face would sure make me feel better.” He said and you scowled at him. “And for the record, I don’t think you’re over it. And you don’t have to be. You never have to be over it. And that doesn’t mean you aren’t fucking strong and badass.” 

You were quiet as you contemplated what Drew said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before looking at you. “Okay” he said softly. 

 “Thank you” you said softly before you pulled him down to kiss him. After a minute of you successfully distracting him with a pretty passionate slow kiss, you felt Drew melt a little. 

“Hey, I’m sorry. Do you want to leave? Like do you not feel like being out anymore?” He asked sweetly.

“No, I’m okay. He’s just being a drunk asshole.” You turned away to grab the drinks the bartender poured for you and Drew, “We probably won’t even see him for the rest of the night.” 

You turned back and realized caveman Drew was now glaring at Josh again as you spoke, “..or not.” You rolled your eyes.

Despite the bad beginning, you and your friends ended up having fun as the night went on. And you and Drew proceeded to drink. Which was probably not the smartest decision. You were both feistier when you drank and you knew Drew’s natural state of calmness was only going to wear off as the night went on.

Eventually, you had to go to the bathroom. But you didn’t trust Josh to not instigate something with Drew while you were gone and you didn’t trust Drew to not try and avenge your honor while you were gone either. So you found Austin, Chase and JD. Chase and JD were only half-listening as they watched whatever game was on the tvs at the semi-crowded bar. 

“Guys, I need you to watch Drew while I go pee.” You said. Drew rolled his eyes and hung his head back with a groan.

“What’s the rig?” Austin asked, ironically using his favorite word as he put one arm on your shoulder and the other on Drew’s.

“Drew is trying to fight my ex-boyfriend and you need to stop him from ruining his career and/or going to jail for assault.” You looked at Drew as you finished your sentence remind him that he could get in serious trouble for getting in a fight. Drew scoffed as Austin looked to him for confirmation of what you were saying.

“He called me a movie star dude” Drew said.

“Oooff” Austin agreed that this was a major dig.

“And then he called me ‘Andrew’“

“Ahhh man” Austin commiserated, “This kid deserves to get hit for sure.”

“Austin!” You scolded, “You are not helping!”

“Bro, that’s not even half of it. Like what he did to Y/N; he deserves to get the absolute shit beat out of him, I promise you-”

“Okay, stop! We’re not discussing this. Chase, JD, you are in charge of Drew. Keep him occupied while I go pee and don’t let him ruin his entire life by getting in a stupid bar fight. And Austin, stop encouraging him and keep your mouth shut til I get back please!” You commanded, as you pushed Drew and Austin toward Chase and JD. JD gave you a salute while he put his arm around Drew’s shoulders. 

While you were gone, Drew was drunk and spilling all your business, trying to get all 3, also drunk, boys on his side. “Guys, you don’t even know. This guy is the biggest asshole.”

“Wait, is he really? Or do you just not like him because he’s y/n’s ex?” JD asked.

“No dude. First of all, he like cheated on her a bunch of times; he was super manipulative and .. he fucking hit her once dude.”

The all looked at each other, “What the fuck?!”

“Like hit her?”

“Yeahhhhhh, like physically hit her face.”

“Well you are completely justified, brother.”

“Yeah, we have your back man, whatever happens.” They all nodded and broke out of their little huddle.

“Look! No fighting!” Chase said proudly when you got back, opening up his arms.

“Good job Chase. Gold star” You said returning his quick side hug.

The group decided it was time to go to one more bar, so you all walked out the back ext into a big alley. Where, of course, Josh and his friends were smoking and noticed your crew before you noticed them.

“You think her movie star boyfriend knows what an uptight little prude she used to be?” Josh said to his friend loud enough for you to hear. You honestly didn’t even care about what Josh said, you knew he was trying to get Drew to react. And you knew even your sweet, soft Drew was not immune to anger getting the best of him. Drew stopped walking, still slightly turned away from Josh and just shook his head, not believing Josh’s audacity. 

Even though the guys had been supportive when they were talking to Drew about fighting Josh, no one actually wanted that to happen. So Austin was quickly by Drew’s side, “Don’t do it bro. It’s not worth it.”

“Drew.” You said trying, to get him to focus on you. Unfortunately, you were with a group of boys full of testosterone and Chase was also feeling feisty and protective. 

“Hey, why don’t you shut the fuck up bro” Chase said, taking a step toward Josh, but luckily a level-headed JD was immediately pushing Chase softly backward. 

“Ooh maybe, she’s not such a prude anymore. Maybe she’s sleeping with the whole cast; they’re all so protective of her.” Josh laughed.

“Josh stop! What the fuck is wrong with you?” You yelled at him. And Drew was instantly moving in front of you, “You need to stop talking right now man.” Drew said in a tone that made the hair on your arms stand up. You could feel the tension rolling off Drew.

“Drew calm down. Please.” You pleaded as he looked down at you.

“Y/n, I can’t let him talk about you that way.”

“He’s trying to get under your skin. That’s what he wants.”

“Yeah, well it’s fucking working.”

“Drew, come on. Let’s just go home.” He began to give in as you pulled his arm. 

Josh was obviously determined for a fight, because the next thing that came out of his mouth made it impossible for anyone to stop Drew.

“Hey good luck with y/n, man. I treated her like trash for years and she still came running back to me, bitch has got issu-” And before he could utter another word, Drew’s fist connected with his jaw. 

“Fuck.” You cursed as your hands went through your hair and you backed up between Austin, Chase and JD.

Josh recovered and hit Drew in the eye. 

You gasped. Turning into JD’s chest and he protectively wrapped his arms around you. Drew hit Josh again and he fell to the ground. Drew bent over him and punched him again. “Don’t you ever fucking talk about her again!” He yelled through gritted teeth, “Don’t look at her again. And if you EVER touch her again, I swear to God-” he spat in between a few more punches. 

“Drew! Please!” You yelled and finally Austin pulled him back. “That’s enough, bro.” 

“Come on” JD still had his arms around you, walking you away from everything. 

Drew was breathing heavy and trying to overcome his adrenaline. You and JD were already around the corner with most of the group. 

“Come on, let’s go” Chase ushered Drew away with Austin. And they followed in the same direction. Drew saw you walking ahead of him. 

“Y/N” he called after you softly. You stopped and turned around. He was already right there enveloping you in his arms. 

“Fuck y/n. I’m so sorry.” He muttered kissing the top of your head. You just kept holding each other while the group called Ubers. 

You pulled away from him a little, “Are you okay?” You asked trying to get a look at the bruise forming on his face. “Yeah, baby. I’m fine. I’m so sorry I did that. I’m sorry I put you in this situation.” He said, hugging you again. After a long pause, you pulled up and looked up at him:

“Thank you.” You stated genuinely and Drew looked at you surprised. But while you continued to look at each other, you both understood without saying anything more. You both knew it wasn’t okay that Drew just got in a fight. And you both knew you didn’t need your boyfriend to defend you honor, but you were thankful someone finally had.

Taglist: @moniamaybank @abbyj1822 @october-cameron @hernameisnoell @railmerafe @stupidpendeja @lemur46 @phantompogues 

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

[laketaj24]

The Business II: Sorry Mama

A/N: Sorry, I promised this Monday! But here it is! It is a little lengthy, but I think it’s worth it. Taglist here. Reqs are open! Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!

Warnings: Smut, daddy kink, a little pettiness -

Part I

Colson Baker Masterlist

Song Inspo: Sorry Mama, Phem and Machine Gun Kelly

His home made you feel as if your tiny loft apartment above the record store was a fuck up. You didn’t even have a front door in Colorado, and here you were being presented a room bigger than your entire apartment. You sat comfortably on the bed, trying to escape a reality that was smacking you in the face.  

“Interview at the radio station in the morning.” You had out your planner jotting down the long list of his upcoming events and practices. “Shit, he’s going to Cleveland next week.” Did you even have your license? Were you able to fly?

“Busy?” He knocked on the open bedroom door and then leaned his tall body against the door frame.

“Uhm, just making a schedule for the next few days.”

“Are you always awkward as hell?”

You scoffed. “Are you always abrasive?”

“Abrasive, no. Honest, generally yes. I’ve been trying to get you alone for two days.”

“I didn’t know.” You lied. His attempts were blatant; he’d bought you coffee every morning, granted you were his assistant, and he’d attempted conversations with you but him being your boss made it hard to define the lines in whatever you two were doing. “What are you trying to get me alone for?”

“To talk,” Colson walked into your room. “How are you liking it?”

“It’s pretty busy; you travel a lot.”

He chuckled. “Yep, all the time. Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you answered. “You?”

“Nah, I mean, you haven’t gotten me coffee or like done anything yet, but I think you’re cool.”

Your mouth dropped, and he burst into laughter. “Can I do anything for you today, Mr. Baker?”

“For me, no. I’m great. But you can come out of this room and go a few places.”

“My wardrobe is shitty. I’ve washed this outfit three times. And it’s not even mine.”

“It’s clear it’s mine,” he laughed again. “Let’s get you some clothes.”

“I’m gonna pay you back.”

“No, the fuck you’re not, meet me downstairs. And you gotta wear your own shoes, you can’t fit mine. I’m like certain you don’t have big feet.”

He disappeared, leaving you in the bedroom by your lonesome. You had been sheltered the past three days, not talking to anyone but Kara, who had nothing good to say. And at this point, it didn’t matter. You just wanted her to stop calling you; she’d left you drunk with a bus full of men and said good luck.

The phone rang again and again; you answered, this time perching it on your shoulder. “Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Do I sound distraught to you?”

“You don’t have to be a smart ass! You quit your job. You haven’t come home. I was worried.”

“I’ve got a new job; I’m good. Thanks.”

“Being a whore?” She scoffed. “What’s the job?”

“None of your god damn business, you smart-ass arrogant bitch.” The call ended, and the eyes of Rook landed on you. “What?”

“You okay?”

“Oh, I’m better than fine.” You growled. Perhaps you shouldn’t take your anger out on him, but you did. “Can you move?”

“Certainly.” He smirked.

He moved out of the way, and you headed down the stairs; Colson awaited keys in hand and a smile on his face. “Assistant?”

“Colson.”

“Yeah?”

“Are we leaving?”

“Yeah.” He opened the door for you and waited for you to go first. You lead the way staring at the array of vehicles in the driveway.

 The store didn’t have everything that you wanted, but you were impressed it offered more than what you expected.” You looked at the black dress, slinkily hanging from the manikin. The satin would hug your curves, but it wouldn’t put them out for everyone to see. You liked it. You touched the soft fabric and then picked it up.

“If you get that dress, you gotta wear it home.” He said from behind you.

“Why is that” You two had not addressed the elephant in the room. You’d rode this man for hours straight and would do it again if he looked at you a certain way. But he was now your boss; there were lines to not cross in business. This was an apparent line that should not be crossed.

“I want my clothes back.” He said with a crooked smile. “So you either wear that or go naked?” Colson shrugged and looked in the body-length mirror in front of him. “You can decide; I think U might win either way.”

“What’s the prize that you win?”

“I don’t know exactly; you've been quiet as hell ever since you got off  the tour bus.”

“I don’t remember how we met.” You admitted.

“You remember nothing?” He cocked a brow. Colson looked at you through the mirror; his face is stoic and unmoving. “You were that fucked up?”

“I’m not a good girl.” You answered. “I figured you knew that.”

“I don’t like good girls, so perfect.” He turned to face you and bit his lip. “You really remember nothing?”

“Is it worth remembering?” You teased.

“I’ll give you a refresher.” Colson pointed to the dress. “Put that on.”

“I’ll don’t think I want it anymore.” You brushed past him and looked up. “I’ll find something I like Colson, you just chill. Isn’t that what you told me you were here for? Just to chill.”

“You’re right; take your time.” Colson gave in quickly with a slight nod, and he moved to the men’s part of the store, not paying you any attention.

You were not a good girl; that made telling him no easy. So if you wanted to fuck him, you could fuck him. But, unfortunately, this was not the time; you barely remembered how this all started. Had it not been for the video footage, you’d be fucked. The feelings were all there, you blushed every time he cracked a smile, and yet you stood in a mental chamber confused about what to do.

You picked up a few items and headed into the changing rooms. They were huge, not like the department storerooms you were accustomed to; there was a mirror and a chair. You hung threw your clothes over the door and picked up the first dress. It was bright yellow, not really what an assistant should wear. You didn’t care. You slid it over your hips, jumping once to get over your ass, and then looked in the mirror. Yellow always looked good on you. You shook your head yes and smiled. Shit…, you were beautiful, hair pulled a messy ass bun and glasses on the tip of your noses, and you were the baddest bitch you’d ever seen in your eyes.

It was a yes for the yellow dress. You tossed it over the door creating a mental yes pile for yourself. It took you about ten minutes to try on every dress. Three yes and two no, it worked for you. Maybe he would find a normal store so you could have leggings; there was no way in hell you were wearing dresses the entire gig. You shimmied out of the last dress and tossed it over the door, and it disappeared, snatched down the moment it hit the door. Then you realized… no clothes were hanging there. Every piece you’d draped over was gone. You stood with your panties in bra with a dropped mouth. The awe was real; he got you. The sneaky man fucking left you helpless.

“Colson!”

“What’s up?” He asked innocently.

“Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“Oh, my clothes? They are in the car.”

“Oh my god! You asshole. Give me my clothes.” Your heart dropped as you heard his laughter, and then you joined him. “This is not how you fuck me again.”

“It is, however, how I get you to try this dress on for me.” He hung the black dress over the door. “Please?”

“Fine!”

“Thank you, Y/N. You are so difficult.”

“Mark my words, you sneaky little bastard.”

“Little?”

You snickered. “Big sneaky cocky bastard.”

“Better,” Colson said. “What words am I marking?”

“If you get this pussy… it won’t be today.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.” You took the dress from him and started to get dressed. He somehow guessed your size appropriately, and you didn’t even care; you were impressed. The dress felt as good as you imagined earlier. It fit you right, hitting a few inches above your knee, accentuated your ass, and making your breast pop. This was a club dress for sure, but here you were, walking out the dressing room with it. Colson awaited you in the front of the store, bags in his hand and a wicked smile on his face. “You like it?”

“Fucking love it.” He shook his head and pointed to the clerk. “She’s fine as fuck, right.”

The woman blushed and pulled her hair behind her ear. “It looks good on you!” She beamed.

“Don’t lie; she’s fine as hell.” He walked over to you, draping his long arm around your shoulders. “You like it?”

“I do.”

“Road trip.” He took your hand in his and pushed the front door open to the store, and lead you out. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good, I could eat too.” The edged sentence hit your pussy immediately, but he just kept walking to the car, ignoring the few people who recognized who he was and opened the door for you. They kept their distance, but the vultures were out and clicking their cameras.

Colson hopped into the car and pointed to your seatbelt. “Buckle up.”

“You're not worried about them?”

“Who?”

“The paparazzi”

“Oh, Nah, they got a job to do. Let them do it.” He shrugged.

“They’ll know about me.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He merged into traffic and sighed. “They’ll know you’re my assistant tomorrow at the interview.”

“Right!” You exhaled. Small reality check, you swallowed and looked into the bag. “You have a busy tomorrow lined up, you know that?”

“I do; you do too.”

“Are you sure about having me as your assistant? I can go home; you don’t have to keep being nice to me because a groupie made it back to Cali with you.”

“Nah, you act like you don’t even like me.” He shot you a loo a sped the car up, “You got nothing to worry about, right?”

“That’s right.”

 He got food for the both of you, but he didn’t head back to his place. Instead, you were outside of the city driving up the hills of California; you’d always wanted to come here, so you took in the scenery while mentally going over the schedule again for tomorrow. Colson's hand rested on your thigh, the calloused pads of his fingers stroked playfully up and down your legs. You liked the feeling. It had been a while since you’d felt some guitarist hands on your body. Apparently, he played it more than you gave him credit. He gripped you occasionally and dug into your flesh. Sensual act for someone who had a new girl every three days.

“You’re from Colorado,” He asked as the car slowed at the top of the hill. The plateau gave a good view of the city that thrived a few miles over.

“No, I’m actually from Texas, but I left when I was twenty. My parents were hella strict.” You peeked into the bag of food and grabbed one of his fries.

“Colorado served you well.”

“I just moved there, I went to New York, got a really good job, lost it, and then moved to Colorado with my mom and her new husband. I hate it.”

“Well, good you don’t live there anymore.” Colson parked the car, let his seat back, and took the bag from you.

“You say th-,” Your phone rang. Your mother’s face flashed before you, and you rolled your eyes. “Give me a moment.”

Parents were needed; you knew this, but your mother had criticisms, and if you knew Kara, she’d called your mom to tell her about the last few days. No, you had not answered her calls, and you didn’t intend to deal with it now, but if you knew your mother correctly, she was two seconds from declaring you are missing.

“Hello.” You answered the Facetime call, and your mother did not look impressed, just worried.

“Y/N.” She shook her head. “Where are you? Did you quit your job? Haven’t you been home in days? Are you okay?’

“I am fine.” You shook your head. “I have a new job now, and I will be home soon. I promise.”

“With that, whatever the fuck he is?” She stared at you.

Colson leaned in the frame, “Performer. Hey Miss Y/L/N.”

“I am married now; that’s not my name.” She cut daggers into him. “Walk away from him; I would like to talk to you alone.”

You sighed, “Be back.” You stepped out of the car and walked a few steps from him. You hoped he wouldn’t hear your mom act a complete ass on the line, but she was about to be loud. “Mom.”

“Don’t fucking mom me,” She hissed. “Don’t do this,” She paused. “Come home, now. Tell that tug to give you a ride, and maybe they’ll hire you back at the gas station.”

“You really think your daughter is only worthy of a gas station?” Colson appeared behind you.

“Give me a second.”

“Hang up on her.” He shrugged. “Conversation was over before it started; she didn’t give you a chance to explain anything. She just assumed you were out whoring?” He raised his brow at you. “Conversation was done five seconds ago; hang up.”

“Tell that boy to stay out of this,” She added.

“Mom, I got a job as his assistant.”

“A whore?”

“Okay,” You tried to block her assumption ut. “I will call you back later.”

“Yeah, away from him.” She ended the call.

“You know how to make shit worst!” You stared at him.

“Or better. Fuck her, fuck that little ass gas station. Fuck her calling you a whore.” Colson took your hand and spun you around once; the move resembled dancing. You felt like you were floating; he twirled you back to your chest.

“I didn’t know you were this sweet.” You said, looking up at him.

“I have my moments.” He admitted. He swayed with you. “They’re not as rare as people think.” Colson sighed and lifted you from the ground easily. Your feet dangled as he walked you back to the car and placed you on the hood. “I think this is going to be good for you, so don’t worry about the shit that’s going on back home; this is a good thing.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I keep meaning that shit too.” He stood in front of you and lifted your chin. “You really don’t remember that fucking kiss.”

“Which one,” You smiled.

“This one,” Colson’s lips met yours, and your breath disappeared as did the need to breathe, and you didn’t instantly remember, but the butterflies were familiar. He cradled your head to give him more access; his tongue dipped into your mouth and met yours. You moaned, tasting him, and fought the urge to wrap your arms around him and moving this along faster.

You pushed him back a little and took a quick breath. “It was that good?”

“Um, that was better.” His face turned a shade of red. “Fuck.”

You two met again, this time with no intention of stopping. Colson’s long fingers moved up the line of your thighs, pulling the soft fabric with it; you raised your ass from the hood of the car and unbuckled his belt. “What’re you gonna do to me?” You whispered.

“Make you forget who you are,” He whispered.  

Were you going to fuck him on the hood of his car? Absolutely. You tugged at the seam of his boxers, tugging on the elastic, and he pulled them down enough for him to spring out from them. Eagerly you stroked him from hilt to tip, and he pushed you back on the hood of the car, fuck warming you up… you were wet enough. He gripped your thighs, pushing them open and running his fingers down the slit of your pussy before he slammed into you.

The sun had started to set, but if anyone wanted a show of you getting fucked they had it, legs open and back arched from the car. He suppressed a growl fucking you slowly. He took pleasure in watching your face contort each time his length went into you. “You’re perfect.”Colson’s tone dropped to a whisper, but that fucking whisper was enough. You wanted to sit up and ride the fuck out of him.

He hit deep, the curve of his cock hitting the right time you bucked against him, spasming, and he’d only been in yu a few minutes. “How many are you gonna give me today?” Colson asked.

“How many do you want?” You rested on your elbows and gave him a smile.

“Everything you fucking got.” He slid out of you and pulled you closer to him, kissing you before he turned you around and bent you over the car and slapped the round globes of your ass. Colson played for a second, slipping one finger into you and then another. You mewled, wiggling your ass against his war cock, coaxing him to slide into you. He played into it, rubbing the head of his cock across your entrance and then sliding back into you.

Your teeth clamped onto your bottom lip, and you were flushed, relishing his movements. He pushed into you, rounding his and pulling you back onto him. “Look at that pretty pussy.” He hovered over you. “How she’s fucking shaking for me; I think she remembers who daddy is… Let me see if I can make you.”

Was that a challenge? His hand traveled down your back to the line of your ass, and he pushed a finger into you while he continued to fuck you. His pace left you winded, but the feel of the pressure of him being in both had you elated. “Fu-,” You bit your tongue.

“Y/N.” He sung and then slammed into you once more. His finger curved, and you screamed. “Say it for me, call me daddy.”

“Daddy, don’t stop.” You all but sang, and Colson reacted accordingly, making his fingers move expertly to apply just enough pressure, and his cock hit just the right angle. Of course, you fell apart under him, but he didn’t stop, nor did you want him to. You could handle this if this is what he wanted from you.

The thought of him stopping hadn’t crossed his mind; he was too enchanted in watching your ass bounce on him and feeling the shockwaves of the orgasm flow through your pussy onto his cock.

 The evening passed seamlessly; you had worked up an appetite, so you ate, talking about tomorrow, and he drove back to the house. The house was quieter than usual, TVs could be heard, but everyone had separated. “Get some sleep.” He said, opening the front door for you. “we got a busy ass day tomorrow.”

“Will do, good-,” Colson’s lips met yours once more. “Night.”

“Night.” He took the bags from you. “See you tomorrow.”

Your mind raced as you walked up the steps to your room. This was going to be more difficult than you intended, fuck blurred lines--- you could barely see straight.

Taglist: @taytayize123 @ctrlszn @supernaturalvikingwhore @jae-writes-fanfiction @bigsisbria @placeoffreedom @kyla-queen @missdforever @gottatoxicattitude @bang-kim-bap @msreshel @blowmymbackout @titty-teetee @strawberry-skyes @mauvecherie @savageiz @luci-her @littlelovebug98 @babyboy-cody @hellshedevil @daddyavesxx @crystalbaby12  @jeonsblackgf @fangirl199812 @thatonegrl-1 @isyoongi @honestsycrets @lifeisabitchandsoareyou @cartoonlover101 @therandomthoughtsofmsparker @bowwowzer37 @fandomfic-galore @mayaslifeinabox @hangovercurse  @szaplsdrop @heavenly1927 @mvrylee @canyoubuymetoast @littlelovebug98 @nightgirl250 @psychiccreationtaco @stupendoushairdocloudmuffin @aliendemigods @triplexdoublex @placeoffreedom @amorestevens @brightblaqkkheaven​ @pettyvxbes​ @pacmacs-macs @lostaurorax​

[beann-e]

“ let’s go“

“ excuse me “

“ I said let’s go . “

Your eyes creased as you leaned back into your desk chair —leg moving to cross over the other as your hands landed together in a hold on your lap. Eyes looking up at the male in front of you.

“ look at you looking everywhere but this messy ass desk I see “

you scoffed “ if it’s so messy why do you keep coming down here just to add on to it ? “

his head shaking a bit at your comment he had to admit he was a bit interested in your words even though he originally came here for a purpose. He had to see how this would play out. So yeah he’d play your little game.

“ huh mister prohero “ your face lit up in sadness to mock the male in front of you “ aw wait I forgot I have to be exact with my words when it comes to you because your emotionally challenged“

you stood up placing your hands on the desk in between you and the blond haired male.

“ the only thing ‘ challenged ‘ here is this crusty ass run down building I had to buy glasses to find “

“ ouu where are they? maybe they could also help you see this“ you smiled before reaching into your suit jacket only to pout “ crap hold up it’s not in there it’s something I picked up specially for you hold on “

“ what the hell are you looking for in there your taking awhile “ he spoke louder after a couple minutes seemed to pass and you were still searching around

“ huh that’s weird — hold on I can’t seem to find it “

“ find what ? “ his face made up in confusion as his eyes followed your body that was looking through your desk only to turn and rummage through the drawers behind you“ fuck is it really that bad —you’ve gotta clean y/n “

“ yeah I know hold on I swear I know where it is I keep a lot of them just in case “

“ is it important or some shit ?— if not I can wait I swear i’ll just come back down here tomorrow“ he sighed still trying to look over you shoulder “ I just came down here to fuck with you before heading ho—“

“ yeah no you’ll want it a lot of people seem to want it these days — it’s hot on the market “

“ well what the hell is i— “

“ AHA “ you screamed your hand stuck in the drawer as he tried to peek over your back to see what it was his body shrinking when he saw your eyes whip around to lock with his. Him going back to the cool, calm collected guy he was minutes ago as he ran his fingers through his hair

“ here look it’s limited edition these days “

“ what is it like an all might collectable or some shi— “

His heart stopped when he seen you fully turn around and smirk your eyebrow slightly raised as his eyes slowly went downcast on your hand showing off the freshly painted middle finger.

It straightened to perfection as it stood tall only causing the male to fume silently and speak under his breath “ what the hell “

“ look baku it’s the fuck you so desperately want me to give “ You pushed it towards him as you walked around your desk to get closer seeing the upset face he held “ aw what you don’t like it “

you sucked your teeth reaching into your back pocket “ here i’ll exchange it for you “ you brought your hand out from your pocket and back into his face as he started to shake slightly. You knew you’d went too far. Your jokes always went further than a person wanted you to.

You were fucking with him

He didn’t like it

He wouldn’t like it this time

.. He liked it

— he liked it

wait he lik—

Your eyes widened as you stared up at him face going stone when you finally seen that his lips were pressed harshly on yours. His moves were rough hands fast and quick already knowing what to do while you struggled with yourself over where to put your own.

No matter how many times the male before you kissed you it always felt differently each time. Your body relaxed into his as he smiled into the kiss only to laugh and bring his forehead to rest against yours “ your so fucking stupid “

“ but I beat you in class ranks in high school “

his smile widened he couldn’t even find it in himself to be upset not when you were having fun with your joke “ yes yes you did “

you smiled softly only to have it wiped away when he opened his mouth again “ but I beat you in jobs you asshole “

“ hey prick I enjoy my job “ he nodded his head as he moved to sit in your work chair “ yeah no no of course “

his hand moved to pull a cup of old coffee from behind your computer as he looked at you “ I would totally be able to tell— babe all id need is an everyday trip to your luxurious work place“ he lifted the coffee cup and held it to his cheek smiling softly to mess with you

he swiveled your computer monitor to the side to show off the millions of coffee cups you had hidden from his and your employees eyes

“ god so many— how would corporate feel about this knowing you’ve got all this shit piled up back here— it’s screaming that you overwork yourself y/n “

“ uh i’m mostly worried about my bosses opinion “

he smiled up at you only to shake his head with a small laugh whispering under his breath “ fucking stupid—you’re your boss “

he laid his cheek onto his palm as he looked up at you anytime he was around you it was like he was completely swallowed whole by your vibes. You were such a down to earth person and that’s what calmed him no matter what argument or how many there were you always found a way to calm him and the situation down.

no matter what you said or did he would always find a way to look at you as though you were holding the whole world in your eyes “ and what does your boss say y/n ? “

you perked up “ ouu good thing I have em on call let’s see “ you reached out to grab your husbands phone hand wrapping around it tightly feeling the many scratches it had on it’s back from the slams of it on the table after one too many documents he’d filled out the night before at work.

He was always so angry and mean—even to objects

Your fingers moved to put in the password as he looked at you head leaning back to rest against the chair as he moved the chair from side to side you having his full attention before he reached out to grab your phone sliding over to answer the call

“ hi is this big bird ? or also known as red from angry birds ? “

“ Ill let you slide with your comments because your voice sounds kinda hot right now and i like your suit — but yes this is your local prick hotline how may I assist you today “

A smile made its way onto your face as you watched his own just grow larger and larger over time “ oh I see so this is the one and only katsuki bakugou hmm “

you tapped your chin “ so tell me what’s someone as unimportant as yourself doing answering your bosses phone “

“ ouuu hard question “ he played with his keys that laid on your work desk “ I came here to ask em out for lunch maybe go out to go karts y’know since there’s a little brat at home who’s been dying to ride one ever since they’ve seen that shitty commercial “

“ mmhmm so please enlighten me what does this have to do with you answering your bosses phone “

“ nothing “

“ oh ? “ your eyes widened “ well I heard several complaints that you were just telling your boss what to do as if their not head of your company or in other words your “ you whispered “ boss “

“ yeah I guess i’ve fucked up huh ? should have actually dressed up instead of coming to get em’ in sweats serves me right— here i’ll pass the phone to my boss since they seem to look more business professional today — I don’t feel worthy enough to answer my bosses phone “

“as you should — nice to know you’ve finally learned your place“ you bit your lip at his quietness expecting him to go off or say something snappy but he only encouraged you to continue with a small smile and a head nod.

Honestly he was enjoying you he loved your jokes even if they sometimes went too far or if they hurt his pride he loved to see you enjoying yourself.

He’d rather you be open and comfortable with him and tell your horribly stupid jokes versus beating yourself up and thinking you have to watch what you say around him

“ fuck it’s gotta be the pantsuit is that why your letting me do all this—you douche your probably paying more attention to my suit than me “

“ correct smart girl —role reversal? “

“ we’re switching back? “ you laughed confirming his statement “ role reversal “

“ fine by me “ you smiled as he held out your phone to you and you held out his to him.

“ yes may I speak to y/n bakugou ? “ he stated as he spoke into his phone

“ mm i’m not sure I know them could you be more exact “

he scoffed “ yes my boss — i’m looking to speak with my boss please “

“ oo a boss —wife —plus a mother that’s a lucky catch you should be greatful — le asshole“

His smile faded as he stared at your eyes that locked with his . In this moment nothing could compare to the happiness he felt except for when he took his child to their first quirk appointment and received the good news of them not only having his quirk but yours too. Happily he wouldn’t have to deal with his kid getting bullied sadly he had a mini icy hot running around.

This was why he married you and this is why he loved you because what felt like hours of conversation had only been 10 minutes. He felt like he’d been transported to another world when he was talking to you. What originally started out as him just coming to take his wife and daughter on a lunch date turned into him on the phone with his boss.

You,

yet again being reminded that he’d always fall under you in status , in authority , at home, in the marriage , at work , and in his heart. Youd always be the one in power

“your fucking funny — a comedian really —always keeping me on my toes so yeah—yeah a real lucky catch— ‘m fucking lucky “

[the-dubstep-strawberry]

Blind Betrayal: In Defense of Elder Maxson

(I have no idea what prompted me to go full Elder Maxson Defense Squad late at night, but I’m having thoughts on this that won’t leave me alone, so here goes...)

Picture this.

You are Arthur Maxson. 

You’re a member of a famous family line known for leadership, courage, wisdom, survival, tactical genius, accomplishing feats of glory in battle, and so on and so forth. 

You are also the last member of that family line. 

As a result, you have not only been saddled from birth with Expectations of Greatness, but with the terrible knowledge that if you fuck it up, you have doomed your entire bloodline to extinction and potentially placed the future of your faction - your home, family, friends, comrades, and whole way of life - in severe jeopardy.

No pressure.

You’re also twenty years old. 

You were orphaned as a child and were quite shy, but you were also quite bright, creative, maybe a bit of a daydreamer. You liked to write stories and thought Liberty Prime was cool. The Scribe caste might have been a good niche for you. Unfortunately, you are Arthur Maxson, Last of His Line, and any control that you might have had over your own life has already been overridden by people older, wiser and more powerful than you. They’ve decided that you had to learn how to be a Knight and go charging into battle to perpetuate your family’s glorious reputation in combat, but also not to get yourself killed or else Your Whole Faction Is Doomed (again, no pressure).

So you learned to be a Knight, and probably got kicked up the ranks a little faster than most teenagers because not being a child prodigy was not an option for a Maxson. Luckily for you, you were able to live up to at least some of the hype, pulled off some brilliant tactical and diplomatic moves to crush Super Mutant invasions and incidentally reunite a rogue chapter, which became disillusioned on ideological grounds and left years ago, with the rest of your faction.

Nice job. Your fans will probably fill in the gaps with a little extra stardust and hype, so if you flubbed your lines once in a while, it’s probably not going into the Codex.

And now you’re Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel. Your entire faction looks to you for leadership and relies upon you for survival. You have quite a large army at your command and have cultivated an impressive reputation, and have now decided to leave your usual stomping grounds; you’ve embarked upon an ambitious campaign to liberate humanity from the sinister clutches of The Institute and the army of synths that they’re hoping to replace actual humans with. People expect nothing but complete and total victory from you. This is no time to screw things up.

(Did I mention that you’re twenty? Most guys your age are still finding their way around their Power Armor, goofing off in the barracks, chasing after girls, getting into hijinks on shore leave, and so on. But you are Arthur Maxson, and you have Responsibilities. No slack whatsoever will be cut here, and failure is not an option. If you go down, the Brotherhood of Steel falls with you and it will be your fault.)

Everything appears to be going well, the new Pre-War recruit is exceeding expectations and even grumpy Knight Rhys appears to merely resent their existence. All is going according to plan...

... until you find out that one of your men, Paladin Danse, a highly respected field officer of many years’ standing, is not what he appears to be.

You have long been impressing upon your crew the need to completely eradicate any and all synths because they are The Enemy and will destroy mankind, but one of them has infiltrated your senior command and knows all kinds of key strategic stuff about your faction, classified stuff, military intelligence, and other things that you really do not want The Enemy to know. If he’s been reporting back to them, they will soon know how to destroy your faction from the inside out.

He has also gone missing in suspicious circumstances and you think your new recruit, who was training under his wing, knows - or can at least find out - where he is. You’ve made efforts to keep this quiet while you tried to verify this intelligence with the rest of your senior officers - checking and double-checking, because holy shit, how could this have happened? This can’t be true. You don’t want it to be true. You trusted this man as a fellow officer and as a friend, and always spoke of his abilities and character in glowing terms. But this is not only a personal betrayal - it’s a professional one, with potentially far-reaching consequences. After all, how can your judgment be trusted if you confided in someone who was sent as an enemy agent to infiltrate and betray the Brotherhood? This could potentially destabilize the Brotherhood of Steel’s entire command structure and spell doom for yourself, your men, and possibly even humanity itself.

So now your faction is unexpectedly in mortal peril and the shit has hit the fan. Word has gotten out about this revelation and people are talking. Whispering, in fact. All the while, looking to you to see what needs to be done about this problem.

It’s clear what has to be done. However much you liked Paladin Danse, he is potentially a traitor with too much important information about your faction, and he cannot be allowed to run loose - or, worse still, report back to the enemy which placed him in your midst in the first place. So you send your new recruit after him, with the strict instruction that he is to be terminated. 

You are, naturally, very pissed about all this and want the problem to go away as soon as possible. A threat to the safety and integrity of your faction, which has already splintered off into rival groups once, to disastrous effect, over disagreements with the general direction and trustworthiness of its leadership, is an unacceptable existential threat. You are not about to let the Brotherhood disintegrate on your watch. You can’t. You have no choice but to keep this together.

Unfortunately, there is a problem. Danse is very sincerely professing to know nothing about his true identity and claims to have always served the Brotherhood with unfailing loyalty. Your new recruit is inclined to believe him and is refusing to follow through on their mission objective.

You have no idea if he is telling the truth, or if he has been programmed to say this convincingly - so much so that he possibly even believes it himself. You are most likely incredibly pissed off by this whole situation, but there are greater things at stake here. 

Like humanity’s future. And your faction and family legacy not being torn apart by internal division, with great risk of harm and death to the people who rely upon you for protection, justice and their very survival.

You can order that Danse be killed and know, whatever happens, that your faction will be safe from betrayal to its sworn enemy, even if the poor guy didn’t even know that he was being sent to spy on the people he was taught to call his brothers and sisters. You are very aware that this is a horrible outcome if he proves to be an unwitting party and genuinely unaware of his origins, but also acutely aware that if you start recanting your own statements about synths being The Enemy, you run the risk of undermining your entire campaign, losing the trust and respect of your men and your senior command staff, and possibly even being deposed as Elder. You were appointed Elder after a succession of unsuccessful candidates followed in the Lyons’ wake, and it’s very likely that whoever will take over from you will be - at best - a lesser candidate, and at worst, a potentially disastrous choice who will lead the Brotherhood into ruin, despair, madness, death, etc, etc.  You know damn well that weak leaders don’t last long in the wasteland, and neither do leaderless factions. This is potentially a choice between Danse’s survival, or the Brotherhood’s - you can sacrifice a single hapless soldier to appease the threat of Scylla, or opt for Charybdis to try to spare him and risk having your whole ship pulled out from underneath you, condemning yourself and countless others to a terrible fate.

Or... you’ve been given a potential out. You can declare the former Paladin dead, but spare him by way of permanent exile, upon pain of death should he ever return. Only the new recruit will know the truth. Danse will still potentially be running around as someone who Knows Too Much about the Brotherhood’s military secrets, which is obviously a less than desirable state of affairs, but he will no longer be in a position to continue to spy and report back, so that aspect of the (perceived or actual) threat has, at least, been permanently removed. This option is merciful and, if you’re really honest with yourself, you probably prefer this one because it lets you off the hook to a degree and you no longer have to kill a trusted officer and friend. However, it also requires you to assume a great deal of personal risk, particularly to your reputation as a leader. What are your men going to say if they see the “dead” guy running around the Commonwealth and it becomes clear that you have not only failed to execute a traitor, but lied about it to everybody in your faction? How are you going to explain why you refused to kill someone who was planted in your organization’s ranks by a sworn enemy?

You have to choose one or the other. You’re the leader of the Brotherhood and this is a particularly shitty dilemma which you would really prefer not to be in, but you were appointed because these kinds of impossible decisions frequently arise in times of war, and you know that effective leaders sometimes have to make deeply unpleasant choices, opting to sacrifice one man in order to protect many more.

Either way, there’s going to be a downside and you’re either going to be regarded as a complete asshole (even if people are forced to reluctantly agree that you didn’t have much choice in the matter and acted out of concern for the safety of the Brotherhood and the success of your mission), or you can risk a great deal - perhaps far too much - all for the sake of a man you’re no longer sure you can trust, because good leaders are merciful and Danse has never steered you wrong before, even though he’s had plenty of opportunity to do so in the past.

It’s a hell of a decision and not one to be made lightly, but you have to make it nonetheless. You may be twenty years old, but the world is depending on you all the same, and there’s no way out of this one. The fates of you, your men, your mission, Danse, and all of humanity are potentially at stake and riding on that one decision.

Choose wisely, Elder.

[theysayitscrazy]

Eliminated Part 2 (NSFW)

FanFic Friday Week 4 (Slightly Late) @rebelwrites​

Clay Spenser x Reader (Reader is Full Metal’s sister)

Let me know if you wanna be tagged when I post.

You stare at the invitation with mild contempt. It was overly shiny and sparkly, and covered in glitter. It was just plain gaudy. The amount of pink included should be outlawed. You hated this time of your 20’s. Everyone you knew was either getting married, buying houses, or having babies. Yet, you were still single. You chose your career, over a relationship. Well, according to your ex, that’s what happened.

In reality, you grew apart and lived different lives while struggling to make things work. In the end, they hadn’t worked out, and the problem had to be eliminated.

That had been a year ago. Now you were thirty years old, single, and too focused on your career to even meet a guy outside the office. And the dating world had gone digital in the last decade, leaving you completely out of the loop on where to even begin. The idea of meeting a guy from the internet left you unsettled and turned off.

You sigh and toss the envelope on the bar in front of you and reach for your drink.

Your phone chirps and you reach for it as someone sits in the seat next to you at the bar. Annoyed, you look up from your phone to give whoever it was that decided they needed to sit so close to you in an empty bar, a piece of your mind, only to find the blond haired and blue-eyed charmer known as Clay Spenser.

“Spenser,” you acknowledge.

He leans forward on the bar and motions for the bartender. He orders a beer and then snatches up the invitation. “Holy pinkness,” he chuckles.

You roll your eyes as you skim over the email you just received from a client.

“Always working?” Clay asks.

You glance up from your phone and realize you’re being rude. Sighing, you turn off the screen and set your phone down. “Usually,” you grumble in response.

Clay’s smile is easy, but you can see the way he’s watching you, like he’s reading your mood. “Bad day?” he asks.

“Yes… no… I don’t know.” You sigh and take a pull off your glass.

Clay chuckles again. “I’ve never known you to not have an answer.”

You shake your head and look down at your phone as a text message chirps through. You can feel Clay’s eyes on you, like they usually are, but you ignore him, like you usually do. Ever since that night at your brother’s house, when your ex had been eliminated, things had gotten interesting between the two of you.

The flirting was fun. But that’s all it was. Fun, right? He worked with you brother, he was younger than you, if only by a couple years, but he felt… wholesome. He wasn’t tainted like you were.

Before you can answer the string of text messages that came thru, your phone rings. When Harvey’s face pops up the screen you frown and debate answering it. You were done with him for the day. You groan and answer the facetime call. “Hey.”

Harvey’s smirk is annoying as he looks you over.

You rolled your eyes, knowing what he saw. White pinstripe halter stop that buttoned down the middle and showed ample cleavage but stayed professional. The black matching suit coat was off and draped around the back of the bar stool, so your vibrant black and watercolor tattoos that covered both arms were on display and contrasted against your professional attire.

“You need something?” you raise an eyebrow at him, waiting for his sardonic comments to start rolling in.

“Yeah, for you to get your head out of your ass. Let me guess, you’re at some dive bar, drink in hand, wallowing self-pity,” Harvey shoots at you as he levels you with a typical Specter head tilt.

You narrow your eyes at him as Clay chuckles.

“Boo hoo, your last college sorority sister is getting married. What do you care? You haven’t talked to the chick in two years. Put your big girl panties on and man up. I need you to meet a client.”

You pick up your drink and stare Harvey down as you toss back the remnants of the straight whiskey.

Harvey smirks, “We both know you can handle your liquor. So why don’t you take that SEAL team hot shot you got eating out of the palm of your hand and go meet the client. I’ll text you the address. It’s in Rochester.”

“Harvey, that’s an hour away and it’s a shitty neighborhood,” you shoot back him.

Harvey smirks. “Good thing you’ll have a bodyguard. Oh, and another thing. Get laid.” He hangs up the phone.

You let out a frustrated growl and slam the phone on the bar top.

Clay turns his big body towards you and smirks. “Need a bodyguard?”

You glare at him and grab your keys off the bar. You slide off the barstool and grab your black pinstripe jacket off the back. You take your time pulling it on. Clay’s eyes are on you. Once things are buttoned in place, your black jacket matching your black pants, you look up to meet Clay’s gaze and raise an eyebrow at him.

He smirks and lets his gaze wander over your body. He no longer hides his blatant attraction for you, and while he’s yet to act on it, he’s stared in many of your fantasy’s. How’d he get you off with those deft fingers. That scruffy beard adding pleasure as he ran kisses down your body.

His smirk widens, as if he can read your dirty thoughts. You keep your face indifferent though. You play it off with a roll of your eyes.

“I’ll drive,” he comments and holds out his hand.

You stare at those fingers before you think fuck it and hand over the keys to your Range Rover. You ignore him and turn toward the exist.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asks.

Confused you glance at him over your shoulder and groan when he’s holding up the pink wedding invitation. He laughs and looks at it. “It’s pretty horrible.”

“She an old sorority sister,” you sigh with a shrug. “She’s…bubbly.”

“I can’t believe you were ever in a sorority,” Clay sniggers. “Not Miss tattooed, ‘Punk Rock Princess over here.’ Miss, ‘I’ll eliminate any threats to my person.’”

You roll again and turn toward the door. “Bitch please,” you shook back at him. “I’m a God Damn Queen.”

~*~

“That was not what I was expecting,” Clay murmured when he pulled in your brother’s driveway, several hours later.

You glance over at him. He’d been quiet the entire drive back from the client’s house. “My job isn’t always mergers and acquisitions,” you state, knowing where his head was at. “Sure, they pay the bills and I’m damn good at it. But this, is why I became a lawyer. People like Carl Terron. People who were taken advantage of and used and degraded, and in the end lost everything. This case could be the case that changes laws and sets precedents, so that something like what happed to Terron, doesn’t happen to anyone else again. This case could help save lives.”

Clay turned to you during your passionate speech and watched you. When you stopped speaking, he reached out with his large hand and cupped the side of your face.

You freeze. For as much the two of you had been flirting for the past year, he’d never made a move before. His blazing blue eyes bore into yours. His intensity stirs something deep inside you. You wait, watching him, like a deer in the headlights.

His fingers curl around the back of your head as his calloused thumb caresses your cheek.

“Clay,” you say, not really sure why you’re stopping this.

He drops his hand almost instantly and you immediately miss the warmth of his palm. Pain flashes across his eyes, or regret maybe? “I’m sorry,” he sighs, and looks out the front window. “I know you’re still dealing with last year. I shouldn’t have come on so strong.”

“It’s not that,” you sigh, playing with the several rings on your fingers.

“Then what is it?” Clay asks, looking over at you, hurt still evident in his eyes.

His pain strikes you and you reach out and take his hand in yours. “I’m being stupid.” You play with those deft fingers in yours, and a blush tints your cheeks as you think of all your fantasies that those fingers played a staring role in.

“That’s a lie. You’re one of the smartest people I know,” Clay says and squeezes your fingers between his. “What’s going on with you today?”

You look up, startled, and find yourself staring into his endless baby blues. “What do you mean?” you ask, confused.

“I mean, you’re not yourself. Yeah, at client’s house you put on a good show, but before that, at the bar… now? What’s going on with you?” His gaze is piercing, and you find yourself at a loss for words.

You open your mouth, trying to find the words, when a knock on the window behind Clay startles you. “Shit!” you shriek and jump a mile out of your seat.

Clay turns, and you see your brother looming through the driver’s side window, flashlight shining in on you. You reach across the center console and lean over Clay’s big body and press the button for the window. “What the fuck?” you yell at Scott.

“What the fuck you doin out here?” Metal’s voice is deep and commanding.

“Sitting in the fuckin car, what’s it look like we’re doing? Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck you out here for?” Your anger kicks up.

“It’s my house. I’m allowed to wonder why my baby sister is sitting in the dark in her car late at night. Where the fuck ya been? It’s past midnight,” Metal demands.

Pissed, you climb over the center console and get right into Clay’s lap. “Shit,” he groans and holds his arms out in surrender as you climb fully into his lap.

You ignore him as you settle onto his powerful thighs and get in your brother’s face through the window. “Why the fuck is it any of your business where the fuck I’ve been? Cut the shit Scott. I’m thirty fucking years old. I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, and you can fuck off,” you shout at him.

Scott laughs and you roll your eyes. “Spenser though, really?”

“Fuck yeah, and fuck you,” you shout back him, a smirk on your face.

“Fuck you,” Scott grumbles and heads for the house.

When Scott was gone, you let out a chuckle and lean into Clay. You find yourself tucked against him, your head on his shoulder, in the crook of his neck. “Hold me,” you murmur into his ear.

His arms come around you in a tight embrace and cradles you against his warm body. You’re curled against his chest and for the first time in who knew how many years, you finally felt safe. He is solid and broad and strong, and you relish the feeling of being in his arms.

You take a deep breath, breathing in his scent and close your eyes. He smells like home.

“Y/n, what was that about?” Clay asks softly.

You shake your head, not wanting to break the moment. He’s so warm, so safe.

Clay’s large hand slides up your back and his fingers card through your hair.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” you ask, before he can say anything.

Clay stills, his hand fisted in your hair. “No. Why would you think that?”

“Before… you had asked me what was going on with me today,” you murmur into his neck, finding it easier to speak without looking at him.

His hand not fisted into your chignon, rubs idle circles on your back. Calming… soothing. “Does this have to do with your ex?” he asks.

You nod slowly. “He was friends with all my friends in college. We met our freshman year. We had all the same friends. So that Wedding invitation just brought up a bunch of old memories, both good and bad,” you sigh.

Clay’s fingers massage your scalp as he holds you tight against him. “No, I don’t think you’re a bad person,” he finally answers. “I think you’re strong and fierce and aren’t afraid to stand up for yourself. You can take care of yourself and others and eliminate any problems that comes your way.”

You find yourself smiling against his neck. You pull back to look him in the eyes. There’s a seriousness in his blazing blue eyes that you hadn’t seen before. It makes you pause and take him in, really take him in. For all the flirting and banter the two of you had thrown back and forth for the past year, you hadn’t really stopped to consider how fucking real he was.

There was a raw honesty in those baby blues that grasped at your heartstrings and pulled. What you had mistaken as wholesome, was in actuality, genuine and real. You were surrounded by fake people on the daily, but Clay Spenser, was as real as they came.

You reach up and run your fingers through his scruffy beard. It was softer than you expect. His eyes are on your face, watching your every move. It’s clear by his cautious gaze, he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

So, you do. You lean forward, lacing your fingers through his beard and pull his mouth down to yours at the same time. His fingers tighten in your hair, and you gasp as he pulls your hair so deliciously. He takes advantage of your gasp and his tongue sweeps in. Your eyes drift close as the kiss turns more passionate.

You shift against him and realize your pencil skirt is ridiculous and not cooperating. You groan when he nibbles on your bottom lip. You try to pull away, but he’s got a firm grip in your hair, so you whimper against his lips.

His chuckle has your eyes opening. His eyes are watching you while he bites down just a bit harder. His hand slides up your thigh and under your pencil skirt with ease. You whimper again and let your eyes fall close. He releases your lip, so you use his beard to pull his mouth back to yours. “Uh uh, baby,” he murmurs against your lips.

You snap open your eyes again, and he’s smirking down at you. “Bu-”

“Shh,” he whispers. “Trust me?”

You gasp slightly and your eyes go wide. The earnestness in his gaze has you nodding though. It’s reluctant and slow, and Clay seems to get that. He presses a soft kiss to your lips before he whispers, “Close your eyes.”

And you do. You rest your head in the crook of his neck and let him take care of you.

His hands work magic on your body. One slides down and manages to undo the clasp and zipper at the back of your pencil skirt while his other hand slides up your thigh to your core and he chuckles when he finds the lack of panties. “Naughty, naughty,” he murmurs.

You smirk and place an open-mouthed kiss to the column of his neck.

The sharp pinch to your inner thigh has you jumping and groaning. “None of that,” he orders, his voice deep.

You let out a pathetic whimper and give into him. His deft finger’s part your folds and he chuckles again, “So wet for me, baby.”

He takes his time sliding one long and thick finger all the way to the knuckle and you part your thighs as much as the now unzipped pencil skirt will allow. He slides in a second finger, and you groan. God his fingers are thick. God damn, do they feel good.

His thumb circles your clit almost teasingly and you thrust your hips up to try and get some friction from it. The pinch to your nipple comes as a surprise and you let out a low groan. “Be good.” Clay commands, softly.

You run your hand through his beard and slide it to the back of his head, curling your fingers in his curls.

His pace is brutal and you’re barely holding on when his mouth covers yours and he says, “Come for me,” against your lips.

You shatter into a million pieces in the front seat of your Range Rover. “Good girl,” Clay’s voice is rough and deep and has you opening your eyes. He watching you with a reverent smile on his lips.

You grin and use his beard to pull his mouth to yours again. His fingers in your cunt swirl again and let out a low groan. “Wanna come inside?” you ask.

He chuckles and swirls his fingers again. “I thought I already was.”

You close your eyes and let out a little whimper. “The house Clay.”

“Your brother gonna kill me?”

“Nah, I’ll deal with Scott.”

“Gonna eliminate him?”

“I’m gonna eliminate you if you don’t finish what you started.” His rich laugh puts a smile on your face, and you have a thought. “Hey, you wanna go to a wedding with me?”

“Do I have to wear a tie?”

Your eyes snap open to take in his goofy face and grin. “Only if you wanna use it to tie me up later,” you smirk at him.

He grins wickedly and curls his fingers inside you, sending you over the edge again.