Summary: A Supernatural AU. Dean is in love with his best friend, the Reader. He confesses his love
for the Reader to his mother, only to realize at the last minute that
he’s butt-dialed the Reader and his entire confession has been recorded
and sent to the Reader in a voicemail.
Pairing: Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Baker!Reader
Genre: Fluff, Angst
Word Count: 2,664
Warnings: None. Except a poorly edited chapter, and a writer’s first post of her work on tumblr.
Inspiration: Episode 2x02 of the television series Baby Daddy.
slides out from underneath the pickup truck he was working on, reaching for a
dirty rag to wipe the grime and oil from his hands as he pushes himself from
the concrete ground. Small pebbles crunch underneath his heavy work boots as he
trudges towards his office, grumbling to himself as he begins to take notice of
his appearance. His blue jumpsuit is soiled with oil stains, dirt, and sweat. His
soft light brown hair is disheveled and matted with sweat, a few lone strands clinging
to his damp forehead. His cheeks are flushed crimson and his face slack with
exhaustion, both clear indicators of the strenuous labour he endured the entire
“Rough morning?” Benny, Dean’s newest employee, asks as he
leans under the hood of a Chevrolet.
“You have no idea,” Dean answers with the shake of his head.
“The truck’s taking a lot longer to finish than I expected.”
Benny shrugs, pursing his lips. “I hate to say it, but I warned
you to not take the job, boss.”
A heavy sigh tumbles from Dean’s lips. “I know, I know,” he
brushes his fingers through his soft blonde locks, tugging lightly at the
strands in frustration. “But I couldn’t exactly say no, Benny. You know that.”
“You were reluctant to take the job, boss.” Benny replies,
bracing his elbows against the hood of the car. “That was the case until Y/N
came in and asked if you’d be willing to take a look at her new boyfriend’s
“She’s my best friend, Benny,” Dean argues. “Has been since
we were five.”
“I understand, boss,” Benny answers, grabbing his wrench and
leaning under the hood of the car again, as he wraps the tool around a bolt in
the engine and begins flicking his wrist to loosen it. “But whether she is your
best friend or not, you are under no obligation to work on her boyfriend’s
truck, especially one that has been looked at by half the mechanics in town and
is better off being thrown in a salvage yard.”
“I know you’re in love with her, boss,” Benny continues,
removing the wrench from the loosened bolt and stepping back from the hood,
wrench in hand. “Anyone with a pair of eyes can see it.” He walks to the table
where wide arrangements of tools are spread out, placing the wrench on it and
grabbing a set of small pliers. “But that doesn’t mean you have to slow your
business down and turn down potential clients you can’t take on because you’re too
busy working on her boyfriend’s truck.”
“Well, it’s too late to back out now, isn’t it?”
“It’s not too late, boss,” Benny shrugs a shoulder, eying
the pair of pliers in his hands, in an attempt to avoid meeting Dean’s gaze.
“You could always tell her the truth, that the truck can’t be fixed and it
would do her boyfriend some good if he got rid of it and started looking for a
“But what if I can find a way to fix it?”
“I don’t think that’s possible, boss,” Benny replies.
“You’ve been at this truck for two weeks now and haven’t made any progress. It
would do you and the business some good if you told her the truth and began
accepting new clients again.”
Dean nods his head, lips pursing into a thin line. “I know.
I just hate disappointing her.”
“Sometimes you have to do what’s best for you,” Benny
murmurs, a sympathetic smile grazing his lips. “Even if it means disappointing
the people you love once in a while.”
“You’re right,” Dean concedes with a sigh, resting one hand
on his hip, as he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and
forefinger with his other hand. “I’ll give her a call tonight after my shift
ends. Can’t afford to lose any more clients than I already have.”
“You do that,” Benny mutters, absentmindedly fiddling with
the pair of pliers in his hands. “By the way, Y/N came by a while ago. Said she
was looking for you. I told her she could wait for you in your office until it
was time for your lunch break.”
Dean nods his head, spinning around on his heel and heading
towards his office. He twists the doorknob, opening the door and steps into his
office before shutting the door after himself. Just as Benny had told him, Dean
finds you in his office, patiently waiting for him.
You are sitting behind his desk, reclining back in his chair;
legs clad in faded skin-tight denim are crossed at the ankles and propped on
his desk. His vivid green eyes, which are often speckled with small flecks of
gold within the iris due to the light reflecting in them, slide up the length
of your body, drinking in every inch of it. From the curve of your denim clad
butt, to the swell of your ample breasts straining against your low-neck shirt,
until his gaze settles on your face.
“Y/N/N, to what do I owe you the pleasure?” Dean asks, as he
begins to unbutton the buttons of his blue jumpsuit.
“What, I have to have a valid reason to visit my best friend
at work?” you retort, a playful smile curling at your lips. You uncross your
ankles, sliding your feet from Dean’s desk, and straighten your posture,
leaning forward in his chair, and brace your elbows on his desk, clasping your
hands together. “I just wanted to check in with you,” you answer. “To see how you
were doing with Jake’s truck, and whether or not you managed to do what the
other incompetent, and inexperienced mechanics in Lawrence failed to do.”
A grim smile tugs at Dean’s lips. “Y/N/N, look, you know me
better than anyone else. And you know that I hate lying to you, so I’m gonna be
honest with you. Jake’s truck can’t be fixed. The parts needed to fix it will
cost him at least a couple thousand dollars.” Dean explains. “If you take my
advice, your boyfriend would be better off throwing this truck at a salvage
yard where its decent, usable parts can either be recycled or used to fix other
cars. You should tell him to start looking for a new truck.”
“But you said you could fix the truck, Dee,” you respond.
“Well, it turns out that I can’t,” Dean answers with the
shrug of his shoulders.
The smile on your lips falters, the light in your eyes
dimming. “But I thought –”
“I’m sorry, Y/N/N, but there’s nothing I can do,” Dean
replies, an apologetic smile tugging at his lips. His heart constricts within
his ribcage, a twinge of pain gnawing at the delicate organ, at the mere sight
of you. Ever since you had both been five, you unknowingly had Dean wrapped
around your little finger, to the extent that he would do everything within his
power to ensure a smile adorned your face at the end of the day.
“For the past two weeks, I’ve made Jake’s truck my main
priority. I’ve declined many potential clients because I was trying to find a
way to fix his truck, because you
asked me if I could. But now, I have to look after my business. I can’t risk
losing any more clients that I already have because I’m busy working on a truck
that’s better being thrown in a salvage yard.”
A demoralizing sigh tumbles past your lips; as you stand
from Dean’s chair, leaning down to retrieve a small white box and your purse
from the floor. “Well, I appreciate the help, Dean,” you murmur, a ghost of a
smile grazing your lips, although it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You settle
the white box on his desk. “Here, I brought you one of my pies. Cherry.” You shoulder
your purse, rounding Dean’s desk and heading for the door. “It’s fresh right
out of the oven. Baked it myself this morning.”
You shake your head, the hint of a smile on your lips
widening slightly. “I should be the one thanking you, Dee,” you spare a glance
at Dean over your shoulder, your fingertips brushing against the brass doorknob.
“You spent twice as long on Jake’s car than most of the other mechanics we went
to. If anything, I should be grateful you didn’t turn down the job like all of
them did. Hope you like the pie,”
Dean chuckles, winking at you. “You know I will,”
“Make sure to tell me what you think,” you murmur, a soft
giggle tumbling from your lips at his blatant attempt to flirting with you.
“It’s a new recipe.” You twist the doorknob, opening the door to reveal Dean’s
One of her hands is raised, hand curled into a loose fist
and knuckles facing towards the door, a few seconds away from knocking on the
door. Braced in the crook of her elbow and on her forearm are a few containers
piled one atop the other, the insides steamed from condensation, as you caught
a faint whiff fresh off-the-pan bacon, and eggs. Clasped in between her fingers
are the long necks of two, ice-cold bottles of beer. Their labels are damp and
wrinkled from the droplets of condensation sliding down the exterior of the
brown glass bottles.
“Y/N,” Mary greets you, eyes crinkling at the sides as a
smile curls at her lips. “I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“Well, I just stopped by to give Dean a sample of my new
cherry pie,” you explain. “It’s a new recipe that I’m trying out and I wanted
to have the expert’s opinion on it.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Mary answers. “No
one in Lawrence knows their pie as well as Dean does.”
“How else do you think she’s been running a five-star
bakery?” Dean pipes up lightheartedly.
“Well, I better head on back to the bakery,” you respond.
“Can’t trust Charlie long enough to not burn the entire place down when she’s
distracted with her phone.” You spare a glance at the mother and son, as you
step out of Dean’s office. “It was nice to see you, Mrs. Winchester,” you
address the woman, before directing your gaze to her son. “I’ll see you later,
Dean nods his head in acknowledgement, as he watches your
figure disappear from his eyesight as you round a corner. “See you,”
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Mary?” Mary
reprimands, feigning an expression of irritation. She steps into Dean’s office,
heading towards his desk, settling the containers and brown bottles of beer on
its surface. “I brought you some food.” She peels open the lids of the
containers to reveal his favourite meal – bacon cheeseburgers with a side of salted
A grin spreads across Dean’s lips, green eyes brightening,
and mouth watering at the sight of the food. “Food looks good,” he rounds his
desk, settling himself in his chair; just his mother sits on a chair across
from him. “Thanks Mom,” he reaches for a container of food, and a tall, brown
bottle of cold beer.
“It was my pleasure, darling,” Mary replies, reaching for
her own container of food, and bottle of beer. “Now would you like to tell me
what just happened between you and Y/N?”
Dean’s smile wavers, as he glances at his mother. “What
makes you think something happened between Y/N/N and I?” He asks, reaching into
his container for his bacon cheeseburger.
Mary arched an eyebrow at her eldest son. “I overheard a
part of your conversation, Dean,” she states, reaching into her container and
retrieving a small, plastic cup containing ketchup. She places it on the desk,
next to her container of food as she removes the lid. “And I could see it in
both your eyes. The conversation the two of you had didn’t head in the right
direction, did it?”
“No, it didn’t,” Dean sighs heavily, his shoulders heaving
with the effort.
“Well, what happened?” Mary inquires, snatching a lone fry
from her container, before dipping the tip of it in ketchup, and taking a bite.
“I finally told her the truth that I couldn’t fix her boyfriend Jake’s truck,” Dean grumbles
under his breath, while bitterly emphasizing the word ‘boyfriend’.
Mary nods in understanding, a sympathetic expression on her
face. “You did the right thing, Dean. You couldn’t keep working on a dead
project. You would be wasting your time, and losing profit for your business
because you’re turning down potential clients to work on a truck of the
boyfriend of the girl you’ve been in love with for years.”
“She’s my best friend, Mom,” Dean argues feebly.
“I know she is,” Mary answers. “And you know that I love her
and treat her like the daughter I never had, but you have to face the facts,
Dean. You can’t keep pining after a girl who only sees you as her best friend
and a shoulder to lean on when her life crumbles around her.”
Dean sighs, his appetite suddenly lost, as he sets his
untouched bacon cheeseburger back into his container. “She’s been in my life
ever since I was five, Mom. Feelings like that don’t just go away,”
“The way I see it is that you have two options here, Dean,”
Mary responds. “Either you swallow the bitter pill of truth, that Y/N is your
best friend and that’s all she’s ever going to be, and start trying to move on
from her. Or you can choose to follow through with the second option, which is
to put your heart on the line and confess your feelings to her.”
“And how would I do that exactly, Mom?” Dean asks, his tone
laced with an undertone of irritation. “Would I take her aside during one of
our get-togethers – many of which her boyfriend
attends as well – and tell her ‘Y/N/N, I’m in love with you. Have been since we
were five when you scraped your hands and knees at the park the day we met and
I carried you home.’ Is that what you want me to do?”
“Yes!” Mary exclaims. “For all you know she might have
feelings for you too.”
Dean groans loudly, bracing his elbows on his desk as he runs
his fingers through his hair, threading his fingers through the locks and
tugging at them harshly, until a sharp pain begins to gnaw at his scalp. “Mom –
” he mutters, only to be interrupted by an audible beep.
“If you are satisfied
with the message you’ve recorded, please press one.” The familiar feminine
voice of Dean’s answering machine spoke monotonously.
Dean’s heart leapt in his ribcage, thumping wildly as he
stands from his chair, searching his blue jumpsuit for his phone, before he retrieves
it from the rear pocket of the jumpsuit.
With trembling fingers, Dean swipes his thumb across the
screen to find he’s pocket-dialed Y/N, only to have the call forwarded to her
answering machine – which meant his entire confession had been recorded as
Mary stands from her chair, outstretching her arm towards
Dean, her palm open. “Don’t panic, darling. Calm down. The voicemail hasn’t
been sent yet.” She whispers calmly, as she attempts to soothe her eldest son’s
nerves and impending panic attack. “Here, give me the phone, I’ll delete it
A shuddering breath escapes his lips as Dean hands his
mother his mobile phone. Mary offers her son a sympathetic smile, as she
presses the red, ‘end call’ button on his phone. “There, all gone,”
Dean’s heart plummets to the pit of his stomach at the
daunting words of his answering machine. His eyes widen in terror, lips parting
in shock, stomach twisting into knots, and beads of cold sweat beading on his
eyebrow, as he meets his mother’s gaze, whose expression mirrors his own.
The pounding in your head was unbearable, but it was nothing in comparison to the burning sensation embedded inside your nostrils. Your aching body was heavy, almost too heavy to move; it took all your strength to eventually sit up on the bed, your eyes immediately scanning your surroundings in confusion, what had happened? By the looks of things you were in a cheap motel, the garish yellow patterned walls adding more fuel to the fire beneath your temples.
Glancing down you recognised Taehyung’s still body, his face weighed down heavy with sleep as his light snores echoed throughout the sparsely furnished room. Everything was a blur, one moment you were talking to Taehyung in your bedroom and the next, everything was black. Rubbing your eyes to try and adapt to the sunshine beaming through the windows your gaze eventually settled upon a brown glass bottle next to a white rag on the bedside table. Chloroform. The smell became overpowering as memories of a large palm pressing a damp rag over your open mouth played in your mind, that bastard.
“Good morning sunshine.” Sung chuckled before tossing you a box of painkillers, her face emotionless and unreadable, “Sleep well?”
“What’s going on?” You croaked, too proud to swallow one of the painkillers she had offered, instead choosing to hurl them towards her physique with force, “Where’s Jimin?” You barked, just where had Taehyung taken you? Where Sung went, your brother followed; he had to be close by.
JAM FIC: chamomile, rose water, and other unlikely intoxicants
“Your hands are empty,” you note in a level tone, palms flat against the arms of your throne.
“My hands are the offering, Your Highness,” he says with a grin, holding both hands out, palms up, fingers lightly curled.
an off-the-cuff jam for the Strilondes discord server. in which Dirk is the somewhat reluctant god-prince of Skaia, and his subjects bring him offerings to show thanks. this time, he gets a very bold, strange offering from the alchemy master’s grandson, Jake.
the conceit is dominance through subservience. this miiiight be part one of more, i have a lot of weird ideas for this AU.
I’m not sure why, but Gladio’s part to this request was
harder for me to come up with. I really hope you like the last part of your
request and I apologize for stretching it into two parts – blame Iggy and his
“Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!!”
“Dean? Dean, you in here?” You walked through the door and looked around the big open space of the bunker. “Good.” Sighing, you smiled and pulled the brown bag from behind your back.
“Hey sweetheart!” Dean called and bounded into the room, scaring you and making you drop the bag.
Under the brown paper, the glass bottle shattered and liquor pooled at your feet.
“Damn it, Dean!” You stomped your foot and backed away from the spreading liquid and glass shards.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Dean scrambled to you and ripped his flannel off, using the fabric to mop up the spill.
You let your eyes graze over the movement of his broad shoulders, muscles twitching and rolling as he cleaned the mess. Dean glanced up at you over his shoulder and caught you before you could turn away.
“Good view?” He chuckled.
“I - no.” You shook your head. “I’m pissed. I was planning on drowning myself in that stuff tonight.”
“Well, I am sorry. You shouldn’t scare so easily.” He stood and tossed his shirt onto the table, a wet slap coming from it when it connected.
“Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!!” You lunged for him, clearing the glass and jumping onto his back.
“What the hell!?” He started spinning and reached back, his hands coming behind your legs and cupping at your butt.
Turning back over his shoulder, he was met with your face, only about an inch from his. Your cheeks heated up as he smirked at you, but you made up your mind. Hiking yourself up more on his back, propelling yourself forward, you planted your lips on his cheek and whispered as you pulled away.
“Maybe I’ll let you get away with it this time… if you find another way to make it up to me.” You bit your lip and giggled as he took off for his bedroom.
Pairing: Daveed x Reader.
Shameless, shameless fluff.
Summary: Daveed is feeling down when everyone forgets his birthday, but a surprise from Reader lifts his spirits. (I suck at summaries. Sorry.) Requests are open!
A sigh left Daveed’s lips as he tipped back his head, sipping at his beer. Sitting alone at the bar on his birthday was definitely up on his top ten worst moments. It seemed as though everyone had forgotten; Rafa, Lin, Oak, even his parents hadn’t sent on a message or called to say hello. It shouldn’t have been a big a deal as it felt, or so he thought. In all honestly, Daveed thought it was slightly pathetic to be so morose about one day of the year. It wasn’t like it was a special birthday, like his 21st. Just another year.
Vibration against his leg alerted him to a text. When he checked his phone, disappointment rose again - not his parents or his best friend. The text was from you, and it wasn’t that he was annoyed to hear from you, but he was upset when your text didn’t mention his birthday, either.
From; (Y/N)Hey. Need to talk to you. Come over?
Finishing off the bottle, he resigned himself to being forgotten. Tapped out a quick reply as he flagged a taxi down and climbed into the back seat, listing off your address. Streets passed in a blur of lights and roving crowds as he gazed out the window, a heavy weight in his chest. Was he really so unimportant? That even his own mother and father couldn’t be bothered to call and say happy birthday? The more he thought about it, the more his frustration grew. Grow up, Diggs,, he scolded himself silently, it’s not a big deal.
Dragging himself up the steps to your flat, he struggled to haul a half-convincing smile onto his face. If your message was anything to go by, it sounded like you needed someone to talk to. He didn’t want to elicit feelings of guilt in you for not remembering - so he elected to pretend as it all was fine. You opened the door and smiled brightly at him - okay, maybe you weren’t upset then.
‘Hey! Thanks for coming. I hope I didn’t pull you away from anything important?’ You asked over your shoulder, opening the fridge and retrieving two brown, glass bottles. Daveed shook his head. ‘Nah, it’s cool.’
You smiled again, cracking the tops off the beer and handing one to him. He took it gratefully, and found that he could return your smile with ease. Seeing you always lifted his spirits, your smile the one thing that could light up even the darkest of nights.
'No!’ You yelled out suddenly as he made to sit down on the small, worn sofa in front of the tv. He froze, 'what?’
Moving to the fire escape you lifted the shutter and beckoned for him to follow. 'Where are you going?’
You beckoned again, opting out of answering. Daveed followed and climbed out after you, taking a seat two steps down from where you were. Silence hung between you both for a few moments, well, silence in the form of no speaking. Below, horns honked and people yelled and laughed and engines roared to life, a cacophony of sound, the mix of people crossing on the street, rising slowly and becoming fainter on the ninth floor. When you didn’t speak, he decided to bite the bullet.
'Any particular reason you called me here? Besides sitting on your fire escape?’
You tilted your head down to look at him, eyes alight with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Excitement? Nervousness? A mix of both, and something else?
'There is a reason.’ You confirmed, keeping your tone deliberately vague. Daveed raised his eyebrows questioningly, but again you fell silent. 'Do I have to guess?’
Your laugh warmed his heart; 'You can, if you like,’ you teased, and he shook his head. 'I’d rather you just tell me,’ he admitted. You looked out over the city, the high rise buildings casting shadows all the way out to the horizon, gaze roving from one spot to another. 'It’s been a long day. I was up at six to get work, and then I was kept on late because of an influx of new evidence in a case.’ You winced, voice explanatory, but what were you trying to explain?
'Okay?’ Daveed’s voice was laden with confusion, head swimming. Why had you called him over? Why were you acting so weird? As he opened his mouth to ask these questions, you shifted above him. Crouching down to level your heights you nudged him gently, nodding to the sky. 'See the stars?’ His gaze followed hers; yes, he saw the stars. The sky was unusually clear, almost transparent - there was a feeling that if you looked hard enough, you’d see a spaceship whizzing past the moon. 'See that constellation?’ You pointed to a cluster of glowing stars and then indicated to a lone one, shining brilliantly down on the pair staring at the sky from a New York fire escape.
'Pretty,’ Daveed commented, knocked off by the impromptu astrology session. After a moment, he felt your gaze burning into the side of his face, and turned. A gentle, almost shy, smile was on your lips, cheeks dusted with red. 'It’s yours,’ you told him, and for a while all he could do was stare. As the words sunk in, his eyes widened in disbelief. 'Wait - what?’
You shrugged, bashfully. 'The star is yours. I named it after you.’ You met his deep, brown eyes briefly, 'Happy birthday, Daveed.’
Rendered completely speechless, the master of words found himself at a loss for what to say. He switched glances between you and the star, dumbfounded by the sweet gesture. Eventually, he remembered how to work his mouth.
'You remembered,’ he said, in a low tone. 'Of course I did,’ you replied, as if it were obvious.
'You - you gave me a star,’ he said, testing the words in his mouth.
'I gave you a star,’ you repeated.
’(Y/N)… I don’t know what to say,’ he reached out to take your hand in his, almost knocking you off your balance. Immediately you grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt to steady yourself - bringing you closer to Daveed. He dragged you fully in to embrace you tightly, overwhelmed with gratitude. 'Thank you,’ he whispered sincerely in your ear, 'thank you.’ Flushing, you found yourself surprised at the response to your gift - you hadn’t expected him to react this way.
He pulled back from the hug to look you in the eyes. 'Really, (Y/N). That is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ Embarrassed, you looked down, playing it down. 'It’s nothing, really -’
He cut you off by pressing his thumb to your lips, both of you equally surprised by the action. He watched your eyes widen, felt your breath trembling as it left your lips, noticed how you tensed in his hold. 'It’s everything, (Y/N).’
You smiled, then. Without fully thinking, his thumb lifted from your mouth, the gentle pressure replaced by his own mouth. Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned in, savouring every second of the moment you had been dreaming of for so long. Breaking away for air, Daveed rested his forehead against yours. Slightly breathless, he brushed his thumb over your cheek softly.
'Happy birthday to me,’ he whispered, and you giggled in response, flustered and unsure. He pressed his lips to yours once more - then you dropped your head to his shoulder, and his arms hooked around your body tight.
Maybe tonight had started out as one of the worst of his life, but it had ended by being the best.
I had this idea where Tracer's S/O is basically Red Hood from DC. And was killed during the Omnic War and somehow gets brought back to life. Then when they find out Overwatch made peace with the robots, they come back to take revenge on Overwatch and Tracer after the recall. Could you do like a short story based on that? (I like the idea of mixing comic book stuff with Overwatch.) (p.s. Tracer is my favorite character and I really like your blog.)
A/N: I may have gone a little bit overboard with this ‘short story’ but it was damn fun to write! Nothing like a little bit of angst to brighten up your week! Hopefully this is up to par with my usual stuff, maybe even better if I’m doing my job right, but all that matters is that you guys enjoy it! Cheers!
Lieutenant, any sight of the target?
Negative sir, it appears we were too late.
Copy… Pull out of there, Null Sector reinforcements are on the way.
We can’t just leave em’!
She’s right, Jack. What if it was me in there, or Ana?
Pull back now!
That’s an order, Oxton!
We’ve had a breakthrough, as they would call it. The bonding rate has improved dramatically, much to our surprise. This series of modifications has been accepted with little resistance from the remaining biological tissue, the rejection common with previous implementations seems to be in the past. Testing will continue, but it appears that our work is nearly complete. Hmm… It seems that we have some uninvited guests in the facility. Don’t they know what’s at stake here? They cannot interrupt our work…
“I finally found you…” A guttural voice growled, little more than a splotch of black on your blurred vision. Trying to speak did little but cause pain to shoot through your body, and your limbs seemed to have little interest in obeying your commands. The blackness disappeared, replaced by a blinding purple light, fading as quickly as it appeared. Were you hallucinating? It wouldn’t be the first time, your ‘benefactors’ weren’t a particularly considerate group. They seemed to find deep pleasure in pushing your body to its limits, only to rip it back to reality. You felt yourself drop to the floor, the cold sensation of steel a welcome reprieve from the blinding pain that consumed your nerves.
You were hoisted off of the ground, being laid across the shoulders of the unseen individual. Their flesh seemed impossibly light, almost ethereal, perhaps you had finally died. No, that would be too much of a blessing. They always called you hopeful, blaming it as the reason they had captured you, blaming you for believing in them. This didn’t seem like the usual transfer process, there was too much movement, the precise movements that characterized your torturers was nowhere to be found. Your would-be savior seemed to have as little knowledge of the facility as you did, not that you had ever seen more than an operating table or a cell.
“This is ridiculous, we don’t even know them!” You could hear a voice faintly, as if it were being transmitted into an earpiece. A thick Hispanic accent trailed their every word, it had been a long time since you heard another person speak, save for the impossibly deep voice of the person carrying you. This was happening, wasn’t it? Someone finally came to save you from this hellhole. You had given up hope long ago, at least you thought you did, time became convoluted when you were held prisoner. “Hey team, let’s charge into a secret Null Sector facility to save someone you’ve never met! There’s going to be traps, reinforcements, even some giant robots, it’ll be a great time!”
“No one left behind…”
You struggled to open your eyes, the lids heavier than they’d ever felt before. You were alive, that much was certain, otherwise you wouldn’t feel the gentle cold of the dark room you found yourself in, or the softness of the mattress you laid on. Your body rejected your attempts to sit up, your nerves screaming in agony if you tried to do anything more than turn your head. To your right sat an IV, a tube injecting it into your veins. On your left, an empty chair with a table beside it, a brown glass bottle half full proudly standing on it. Someone had saved you, small flashes of your rescue from Null Sector, the fresh air when they brought you outside, the dropship they put you in, the freedom you finally regained.
“Don’t move.” Perhaps you had simply traded one prison for another. A figure sat in the chair beside you, a black cloak covering his body, you recognized the voice. The man that had saved you, carried you out of the facility, you owed him your life, provided he wasn’t hostile. He wore a white mask styled as an owl’s skull, scars and bolts covering the worn surface. When had he entered the room? You didn’t hear a door open, and the chair was empty just moments ago. “It’s alright, you’re safe.”
“Who are you?”
He reached for his mask, large talons attached to the end of his gloves, gently trailing the contours of the skull. He seemed to pause for a moment, before pulling to remove the mask, setting it on the table beside him.
“Reyes…” The visage of your former commander had been teared apart by some unknown force. It seemed to disappear and reappear at will, black clouds of fog forming parts of him before dispersing quickly. You hadn’t expected your savior to be someone you knew, let alone to find them in a state like this. “What happened to you?” He plucked his mask from the table, fastening it over his face once again.
“They left me to die, just like they left you…” His words were laced with venom, the black fog seeping from the openings in his mask. “The mission came first to Jack. Our casualties were never even a factor, all that mattered was public perception, agents be damned.” Had they really left you to die? All that time you spent with Overwatch, all the missions you completed, all the targets you extracted, was it all for naught? No, Lena wouldn’t be a part of that, would she? You loved each other, you spent countless nights venting about the stress that came with your duties, with the danger you willingly threw yourselves into.
“No, no, no… Lena wouldn’t be a part of that!”
“She was, and still is. Overwatch is out there, and they’ve made peace with your captors, treating them as equals. They go out of their way to protect those tin cans, putting them above humanity itself, all in the name of ‘morality’.”
“No! She wouldn’t… She couldn’t…”
“She did. They all did. Null Sector was written off as an extremist group, but you and I know better. You were there in King’s Row during their little uprising, how many Omnics did you see in the streets fighting with us?” You sat in silence, the majority of Omnics had been brought over to Null Sector’s cause, allegedly through some sort of virus that infected their systems. The few that weren’t affected either fled or barricaded themselves for safety. “You and I both know the threat they represent, all it takes it one little glitch in their system, one line of faulty coding, and they become a threat.”
“I… I don’t know…”
“Look down at yourself, see what they did to you for all those years. Tell me if they deserve sympathy after treating one of ours like that.” You obeyed, craning your neck to look at your body. Reyes removed the blanket that covered you, revealing what laid beneath it. The flesh you were born with did not await you, rather, an amalgamation of flesh and metal. Both of your legs had been replaced by mechanical prosthetics, the same purple patterns of Null Sector lining their metallic forms. Your stomach and chest had been lined with the same patterns, the metal bulkier and armored. Not even your arms went without their ‘enhancements’, tubing ran up and down your new limbs, an unknown fluid flowing through them. “This is their ‘peace’.”
You stared down at the narrow streets of King’s Row, the cobbled roads winding haphazardly through the district. Rain fell from the sky, pattering against your metal form, the subtle noise doing little to distract you from your memories. This is where it had happened, this is where your life with Overwatch had ended, forced away from those that you loved for the sick pleasure of Null Sector. You glanced at the helmet you held in your left hand, the red metal glinting slightly in the rain. Talon had supplied you with combat upgrades, doing what they could to make your body appear more human while giving you decisive advantages in the field. Angular body plates covered your chest and arms, a Kevlar weave sewn between your ‘body’ and armor. Two holsters had been attached to your wrists, giving you quick access to the pistols Talon had so generously developed for you. Collapsible, yet with a surprising amount of punch to them, they even went the extra mile and built suppressors into the barrels. They had also given you a grappling hook, apparently standard-issue for their agents, though only Widowmaker utilized it. Talon’s logo was proudly displayed on each of your shoulders, a larger one emblazoned across your chest plate.
Similarly angular armor covered your legs, ammo pouches attached to the upper thigh, a large knife positioned on your left calf. Metal combat boots wouldn’t be maneuverable, so instead you had been given a custom set of Talon’s own boots, molded to your unique feet. A black and red color scheme completed the ensemble, with Talon’s logo colored in bright white to contrast. You had to admit, their R&D team had talent, Reyes never did settle for anything less than perfection. You slipped on your helmet, the blue visor shining to life as you locked it in place. Airtight to prevent any interference from airborne substances, better safe than sorry. The visor displayed the information for your current mission and, more importantly, details of your target. Reyes had finally set his revenge in motion, and it seemed only fitting that you were sent after her. Lena Oxton, better known as Tracer, your former flame. Her file had been filled with an unnecessary amount of detail, everything from her personal life to her efforts with the reformed Overwatch. She had a new girlfriend these days, Emily, seemed like a lovely young woman. It was a shame that she had to be dragged into this. Reyes suggested that you use her as bait to draw out Lena, to force her to come to you.
You sighed, staring into an apartment across the street. Emily sat watching television, occasionally glancing down at her phone, a smile painted across her lips. You grabbed the grappling hook from your hip, firing it at the small balcony jutting from the apartment. The effectiveness of your limbs was impressive, landing with relative ease on the railing. You holstered the device, ejecting the handgun from your right wrist, clutching it tightly. Smiling to yourself, you kicked the door in, nearly detaching it from its hinges.
“You don’t have to do this.” Emily spoke, remarkably composed considering her current situation.
“I disagree.” You glanced over to her, ropes binding her to a chair in the center of the living room. “This is something I’ve waited a long time to do.” You’d stood in the center of the apartment, leaning against the counter as you waited for Lena to return. You’d called her with Emily’s phone, forcing her to call her savior home. It was a trap, obviously, but that was part of the fun. You knew she couldn’t resist saving Emily, and forcing her into close quarters was the ideal scenario, the less room for her to maneuver, the better. The door clicked open, she was right on time, as usual.
“Lovely place you have here, I’ll try to keep the damage to a minimum.” You gloated, withdrawing your pistols, aiming one at the door and placing the other against Emily’s head. The door slowly opened, Lena stood in the entrance, both of her pistols aimed at your. Her outfit had changed since you last saw her, the black and blue Overwatch uniform replaced by a weathered bomber jacket and orange tights. Her chronal accelerator was still present, jutting from her chest proudly as ever. Her eyes sat behind a pair of orange goggles, the usual look of determination present even now.
“Luv’, it’s gonna be alright, I promise.” She glanced at Emily for an instant, before returning her focus to you. “What do you want?”
“If we had time, I’d love to talk, but I’m afraid that Overwatch’s time is up.” You pressed your pistol further against Emily’s head, motioning towards the ground with the other. “Drop em’, or I give you a piece of modern art.”
“We can talk about this, no one needs to die.” There was a lot to talk about, and it was impossible to hold it in any longer. Before you killed her, you needed answers for what happened, you needed her to know what happened to you.
“Oh, you want to talk? Let’s talk about how Overwatch is at peace with the Omnics, the very same Omnics that killed thousands in this very city! Let’s talk about how you left me for dead, even after all the time we spent together! There sure is a lot we can talk about, Lena!” You tapped the side of your helmet, causing it to open, revealing your face. “If you had been taken, I would have never stopped searching for you!” Lena stared wide-eyed at you, her hands beginning to tremble slightly.
“Luv’… We all thought you were dead…”
“You gave up on me!” You roared, feeling your eyes begin to water as you confronted her.
“We mourned for you! We buried you! We did everything we could to save you, I promise!”
“You moved on!” You pushed the gun harder against Emily, nearly tipping her seat over. “The only thing that kept me going, the only thing that I could ever hold on to was the hope that one day you’d save me. The things that they did…”
“I know, and I’m sorry that we couldn’t save you, not a day goes by where I don’t blame myself for what happened. But this isn’t you, you’re sweet and caring, not some murderer for Talon! We can help you, just put the guns down.” You felt your grip on the pistols weaken, tears flowing freely, Lena lowered her own weapons. Was she right? Was there still hope for you? Could they really help you? No, the damage had been done, the wounds were too deep, even the physical injuries alone… No. Reyes was right, there was no going back, the chance for forgiveness dissipated long ago. Your heart ached as you raised your pistol, aiming it at your old love.
“Maybe because you’re the biggest business boss
in the world, not only that, but you’re also the youngest so people believe you’re vanilla. You know, sometimes you got to do things that will change the worlds perspective
of yourself, make people believe you’re different then what they think.”
Word Count: 2.5k
Summary: Or, the one where in an alternate universe it’s not out of the norm to be buying humans-especially sex slaves-for auction. Luke Hemmings, a very high profiled boss in one of the best selling businesses in the world, just so happens to buy the most cheapest sex slave there is, that makes the media go wild and follow his every move.
Aurora Palvin is the sex slave who has been in the auction since she turned sixteen, thankfully she has been bought by the Luke Hemmings and to say she is scared is an understatement. She has to learn to deal with the pressure of society and Luke’s strict rules.
Now what happens when two different worlds collide? Find out in Enamored
The lights were
blinding him as they continued to flash in his face, constant shouts of words
and the sound of feet shifting after the other had thundered in his ears. With
every hard smack of someone’s foot against the pavement and fluttering flash of
the camera, it had Luke quickening his pace to get to his destination.
He scurried up the
short flight of stairs in front of the building and into the clear double doors
that his security guards open up for him. He let a quick ‘thank you’ brush out
of his lips and into the chilly February air.
The crowd outside never
seemed to fade away but continue to grow and become louder as Luke stepped
deeper into the auction house. The chandelier
hang over his head as the room was lit brightly as the burgundy, white, and
gold accents plastered the whole entire area, paintings and expensive vases
where sit up among the first floor as Luke rushed himself up the staircase.
With each wooden step
he stepped on a creek admitted and so did a groan from Luke’s throat. If he was
being honest, he didn’t want to be here but he had no choice. All of his
friends decided to plan this only after discovering the fact that they haven’t
hang out with each other in a long time due to everyone traveling.
Luke hated places like
this and quickly objected them but his friends demanding texts and aggressive vibrating
tone made him roll his eyes and join the group to this auction.
He didn’t like the fact
that actual human beings where being put up for sale for sexual intimacy, like
they were a piece of live stock and you only need them for a moment before
giving them away. He hated the idea since he has heard about it, which is why
he distanced himself away from it until today, now he has to face his hatred
and try to relax as naked men and women walk up the stage and get looked at by
various eyes and get called numerous names as someone yells out a price range.
As part of her residency at The Studio, Anna Riley took melted brown bottle glass, decolored it, and created large tubes of glass. We enjoyed having both Anna and Marina as artists-in-residence. Stay tuned for information on our next artists-in-residence in September!
Brushing off dust from a mauve colored leather bound book, Mark swallowed thickly and opened it up to do some much needed reasearch. It was almost time for him to graduate from college and he still hadn’t gotten laid; he hadn’t partied; and he hadn’t gotten so wasted he couldn’t show up to his morning classes. He had heard from all of his friends that these things were all nessasary to have a successful college experience- at least that’s what Eduardo had told him. Being in the library was his element and currently searching through the auto biographies of those who also were majoring in what he was. Mark was double majoring in liberal arts and psychology.
As he found no details of any partying in any of the autobiographies he read he became frustrated and decided to consult a friend of his, a friend getting his degrees in both medical chemistry and engineering. Tord. As he walked down the hall though, he felt his pride become damaged, Tord was usually so reserved in his study he probably had as much experience as himself why would he ask him instead of Eduardo or mabye even Jon who was persuing a degree in the performing arts?
The truth is he had no answers to any of his questions and while Eduardo and Jon were close of friends from highschool, he had grown to be quite chummy with Tord over his years in college and often used time with him to study and compare different reasearch projects and as he found himself rapping at his dorm room door, he couldn’t help but smile fondly at the memories that the two had shared together. “Tord? Are you home?” Mark started, hands behind his back as he waited. Not too much later and the door swung open to reveal Tord still in his pajamas… at noon? This was very unlike him, and was that alcohol he smelled on his breath? Very unlike him indeed.
Mark raised no questions to him though merely coming inside and plopping down on his bed like a casual neighbor. “What would you say is the highschool experience?” He asked, Tord swaggering over to sit and answer back to which he did promptly. “Well, I’d say it is lot of stress the ocassional fuck and some irrisposiblity poured top of that. I never did that last part, but it isn’t required.” His accent was thick but it got the point across well.
Mark nodded and counted the days left till graduation on one hand and then sighed. “I don’t have near enough time to have all of these missed experiences before I graduate!” He exclaimed but stopped once Tord got up and walked over to a cabinent full of liqour. “You know, there are advantages to dorming with an alcoholic, Mark. If you want, lets get wasted and just have a good time and then you may say you had the college experience.” Mark believed this to be an amazing idea, taking one of the bottles to cheers with him as they went back to the bed to hang out and play cards
What Mark didn’t know is that Tord meant he would offer him the entire experience, all of it with no exceptions. Tord poured them both clear glasses of burning liqour and down the hatch easily it went for him, but Mark hacked at the flames he felt in his throat making his friend laugh and laugh until he fell off of the bed.
The two drank for hours, eventually turning on some music and dancing in the small dorm room, Tord was dancing right next to Mark which caused him some drunken confusion. “Nng, T-tord?” He questioned but was cut off by a liplock collision. He tried pulling away in suprise and it resulted in them both toppling over into the bed, alcohol in hand.
Tord tried to form coheret words, he didn’t think that he was gay- or even bi! Or pan! But staring up at the man who had just kissed him and feeling the warmth of whiskey in his gut he found himself pulling Tord down into another one of those lip locks and his eyes were soon fluttering shut.
Having planned this, Tord just drunkenly kissed back, their lips sometimes overpassing eachother and rubbing saliva on the other’s face. The kiss was sloppy and alot of the time never really met its mark but as they began sliding their clothes off the kiss somehow got more precise.
Mark was spooked, anxious, and unsure as he sat up to watch Tord leave small kisses down his firm and structured body. With a shakey hand he laced fingers into Tord’s hair while Tord’s mouth surrounded his length. Tord turned his eyes into slits instead of having then closed so that he could gaze up at the man he was pleasuring. All uneasinesshad left his features and he was now happily leaned back on his hands as he moaned and begged for more contact.
Tord soon got tired of this game though and lulled back very suddenly off of his dick, licking his lips and stepping over to the bedside table to pull out a condom and a bottle of strawberrt flavoured lubricant. Mark watched after his complaining died down and he moved further onto the bed to positiom himself. “I uh- nnn -Tord I’ve never done this.” He slurred as the smaller male took his position above him.
Tord seemed to change his mind though and nudged Mark into getting up so that he could lay down instead. Once he was on the sheets he turned over onto his stomach and began instructing Mark on how to dominate him. “O-okay I’m gonna- hic” He paused a moment before continuing. “I’m gonna need you to get that condom out and just slide it on like a sock.” Tord instructed.
Mark seemed to fumble eith this but after a good five minutes he had it slid on and without instruction began to attempt to use the lube, rubbing it on himself and then pausing. He didn’t much want to slide his fingers into Tord, he thought it was gross and told Tord to do it himself to which he did. But Tord made sure that Mark payed for not doing it by slowly rubbing the fingers inside himself with wide legs to tease his newfound lover.
Mark swallowed and then moved into position, moving Tord’s hand and trying quickly to replace it with his cock. This couldn’t be that hard right? He did however have much difficulty staying in during his thrusts despite his abnormal length and thickness. He couldn’t even contain his breathing or noises as he tried to start slow. Mark’s hands gripping Tord’s thighs so tight his nails dug in and drew blood.
Soon enough mark was spilling over the edge of his limits, screaming out Tord’s name and then plopping down beside him, Tord’s chest covered in climax. They both breathed rather heavily and Mark glanced over to Tord. “D-does this make me gay?” He seemed worriedx as if somthing bad would happen if this one happenstance did in fact mean that he was gay.
Tord laughed a bit and shook his head, leaning over to take a swing from a brown glass bottle. “Nah, we were just having a good time.” He slurred.
“What the actual fuck.” A third voice. It seemed that Tom had come home from work, the two men in bed not really having paid attention to the time. Mark squealed and pulled the blanket up to cover himself and Tord, embarrasment full on his features. “I-I-I.” He couldn’t help but stutter. “Stay out of my liquor.” Tom grumbled, walking over to lock up his cabinet before laying in his own bed to nap.
Dumbfounded Mark started to pick up his clothing and dress. “I… I should go.” He slurred, but squeaked again when Tord tugged him back into bed. “You’ll get in trouble if you are seen drunk on campus… stay here.” He persuaded with a voice like silk.
Mark begrudgingly layed back down with him to rest, heas clouded and stomach hot. “Night…” Mark murmured and was met with a “night.” In answer from Tord.
Request: Hi I was wondering if you could do something with heavily tattooed Dean, like he’s all rough and tough but with the reader he’s all sweet and caring. And really generous in bed and Sam finds out he’s all sweet with her and says something like I knew you were soft.
Triggers: None, maybe some swearing?
Word Count: 1633
Y/N = Your name Y/H/C = Your hair colour
Hi anon! I hope this was what you were looking for! Dean’s appearance is slightly altered in this one since he has more tattoos ^^
When you first met Dean Winchester you were kind of shaken by the experience. Not because of the ink the guy sported. Hell no. You loved the tattoos that snaked their way over his arms and peeked out from the neckline of his t-shirt. The stories they told as dark ink met with warm flesh solidified their beauty. Like pieces of art, yet so much more fragile than any painting or poem you knew of. Those could be preserved, retold. But his tattoos, they were short-lived in their beauty. Here one lifetime, gone the next. No, his tattoos didn’t scare you like you soon realised they did many of the other people he was forced to associate with through his work. They fascinated you with their beautiful pain filled and wordless verses.
A/N: I’m not doing so well with keeping active. My bad.
Word Count: 1,077
“You boys got any laundry that needs doing?” You walked past the library carrying a full basket of your dirty clothing. Sam was about to speak but Dean beat him to it.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty sure you don’t want to touch it.” He chuckled and raised his brown glass bottle to his lips, he tipped it up and drank even though it was only noon.
“Gross.” You crinkled your nose and kept walking down the hall, shifting the basket in your arms onto your hip. The staircase was ahead of you.
The washing machines were in the basement in the room near the archives. They were all in
good condition. It was one of your favourite places just because it always smelled like your detergent and dryer sheets, and frankly, the boys almost never came down there. And let’s be honest you enjoyed some time to yourself every once in a while.
You flipped on the light switch with your foot, something you’d gotten used to doing when your hands were full, and you set your full basket on top of one of the machines.
OKAY THIS IS PROBABLY MORE WHAT YOU WERE THINKING onemuseleft although i’m kind of not sure about it it i feel like it could be better
(yet more wingfic, this time fluffy!)
– It feels like they’ve crossed a boundary.
Steve hasn’t shared anything so intimate with anyone in a long time and he doesn’t think he can go back to how it was before. Not with the memory of the way Tony’s hands had felt going through his feathers so clear in his mind. He doesn’t know how he got along without it so long now he’s had it again.
And now he thinks about it, he wonders if anyone’s done something like that for Tony.
His wings may be gone, but Steve doesn’t think that changes how much a person needs to feel that, to share it with somebody else.
He imagines Tony feeling the way he had and he can’t stand the thought of it.
So he resolves to do something about it. He gets his chance the next night when Tony stops by, face smeared with grease and a blackened rag in his hands. “Hey, Cap. How’re you feeling today?”
Steve smiles, setting aside his book. He stretches out his wings, showing off how good they look, glossy and pristine white. “Great, Tony. This is the best they’ve looked in ages.”
Tony’s eyes crinkle, his mouth curving in a small genuine smile. “Glad to hear it.”
He starts to turn away and Steve hurries to get to his feet. “Wait, hang on a second, Tony. I’d like to repay the favor.”