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@cameroni1
Intro Post!
Hi! You can call me Cam! Currently 22, she/her, and my interests jump around a lot! I love Marvel, DMC, and have watched a bunch of anime! I can yap forever about muppets. Inbox is currently open!
I normally just throw out whatever thoughts I have atm and have no set posting schedule!
Currently planning…
MUTANTS, VIGILANTES, FBI, OH MY!
Minors/Proshippers/Bigots DNI!
how is my fav mootie? i hope everything's good <3 missed u Cam
Hi diva!! Honestly, going through a pretty tough slump atm and I feel prettyyyyyy low. But, I’m working through it! :p
Popstar Reader and MVFOM Reader will return!
Late night talking ───Dean Winchester
summary: Sam left for Stanford and Dean calls you.
pairing: pre series!dean x worm!reader (f, civilian, no physical descriptions)
tags: non-canon. ex lovers. idiots in love. angst. slight smut at the end so mdni. no y/n, only pet names. Ham and Bean. John mentioned. we love Sammy here, no bashing my boy. scars. nightmare. praise kink. unprotected sex. slight aftercare. new format-ish. lemme know if i missed anything!
wc: 6.8k
“It’s over. Damn it!”
Dean’s voice carries through the speaker, pulling you out of your slump. You glance at the clock on your nightstand, one hand rubbing your eyes, the other pressing the phone against your ear.
“Dean?” you ask, sleepy and confused. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”
“Sam,” he chokes out, his voice shaking. “It’s… Everything’s screwed. Damn it. I have to– I can’t–”
Your brain scrambles to catch up with his slurring words, but the fog of sleep is too thick. Besides, Dean’s always dramatic when he’s had too many, probably letting out all the things he keeps bottled up when he’s sober. You’ve done this dance way too many times before.
“Oh god,” you groan, rolling onto your side. “Slow down, Skippy. Are you drunk?”
“I’m not drunk,” he scoffs, the sound of glass clinking softly over the line. “I’ve had like… two, three beers. Basically nothing. I’m fine.”
“Uh huh. Are you in jail?”
“Excuse me?”
“What?” you grumble, flipping back onto your stomach and burying your face into the pillow while keeping the phone against your ear. “It’s almost one, you’re wasted–”
“I said I’m fine,” he mumbles.
“You’re wasted, and you called me,” you continue, words muffled by the cotton. “That means either you’re bleeding somewhere or you’ve finally gotten arrested.”
“Jesus. Straight to the punch, aren’t we?” He huffs a dry laugh. “Can’t a man call and check up on his ex?”
“Not in the middle of the night panicking like that,” you retort. “So which one is it? Are you in jail, bleeding, or both?”
Dean exhales. “No, Sherlock. My guts are in tact. I’m not calling from the county jail. And I’m definitely not panicking. It’s… it’s been a long day. That’s all.”
“So you called me? Out of all people?”
“Hey, you’re the one who picked up.”
“My thumb slipped. I was trying to turn my phone off.”
“Riiight. Because you’re totally the kind of person who answers unknown numbers in her sleep,” he drawls. “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep tonight.”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m gonna go back to sleep, alright.”
Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and you don’t try to fill the silence, either. Warm and comfortable, you almost drift back to dreamland.
There’s something weirdly comforting about this. Baby’s distant rumble in the background, Dean’s breathing in your ear, the soft sheets against your skin.
For a moment, you’re in the back of the Impala again, wrapped up in your boyfriend’s arms, talking about your days, his life on the road, and the possibility of him staying. You used to think you were the luckiest girl in the whole world.
“Did I wake you?” His voice cuts through your sleepy, wandering thoughts.
“Pfft. No,” you snort, rolling onto your back again. “Been up for hours. Was waiting for you to call me, actually.”
There’s that silence again before he speaks up. “Sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”
The incoming joke dies on your tongue immediately. Dean’s never one to talk about feelings or all the “chick flick crap” he always tries to file them into. Come to think of it, he’d never called you after you two broke up. Not even once.
“Dean,” you slowly sit up, fingers tightening around the phone. “Are you hurt? Don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you do.”
“‘course not,” he scoffs again. “You think a couple of fangs and claws got my ass, Wormie?”
You roll your eyes at the old nickname, though quickly shaking off the tingling in your stomach before you can put a name to it. “Then what happened?”
Dean doesn’t answer for so long that you have to check if he has passed out. “Dean?”
You can hear him take a long swig of his drink before he starts.
“Sam’s… gone. He left. Said he’s going to Stanford.” A bitter laugh slips out over the line. “Gonna be a college boy. Get a degree in… law or something them nerds do. Can you believe that?”
“Dad didn’t help either,” he continues. “Said if he walks out, then he’s dead to us, and Sammy just packed his little backpack, took the first bus, and… and just poof. Like that.”
“Oh.”
“Oh? That’s what you have to say? Oh?”
“I don’t know, Dean.” You run your fingers through your hair.
You’ve only met Sam a couple of times when Dean brought him along on your dates, and you don’t know John personally. But from the way he used to talk about them, you know this is not the usual rebel-teen-left-home-to-prove-something issue. This is bigger.
“Um... Are you driving?” you ask. Baby purrs in the background. “Where are you?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m outside, okay? Communicating with nature.”
“Do you see a gas station?”
“Stop asking, or I’ll hang up.”
“A sign?”
“Wormie.”
“Bean.”
A small pause, static buzzing through the speaker.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
“And I told you to tell me where you are.”
“Why do you care?”
That makes you stop short. The engine growls louder on his end. You stare at your bedroom wall, looking for an answer that is not there as your brain works overtime. It’s too late, or too early, for… whatever this is.
With a small sigh, you answer. “Because you called.”
On the other end, his breathing seems to stop.
“C’mon, Dean,” you try again. “Tell me where you are.”
Another sip of his drink, and the silence snares at you.
“Your town,” he says quietly. “I just hit the county line.”
“You’re here?”
You stumble out of bed to peek through the curtains, hoping to see the familiar headlights cutting through the darkness of your street. But nothing. Not yet, at least.
Dean, again, zips his mouth shut.
“See, my town doesn’t have any tunnels, Bean.”
You turn around, kicking the half-blanket pooling on the floor and making your way toward the kitchen.
He barks a small, surprised laugh, and you hate that you still miss that sound. “Can you not? I’m having a crisis here.”
“I know. That’s why I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” His tone turns serious and defensive. “Mind your business.”
“Uh huh. Sure you don’t.”
You reach for the fridge, opening it aimlessly to have something to do with your hands. Then, an idea pops into your head.
“Why don’t you come over, Bean? I have… some cold egg rolls and half a bag of marshmallows. I need someone to finish them before they expire.”
A small snort comes from his end. “Really, Wormie? You need me over to finish your food?”
“Yep,” you gather the leftovers onto the counter, sounding way too casual. “Why else would I ask you to come over? Okay. Cool. Drive safe!”
Then you hang up, not giving him a chance to refuse. Or accept. You don’t wanna know.
The sleepy fog finally clears, reality takes its place, and you move around your apartment like a storm. Your living room is a mess of clutter while the kitchen sink is filled with unwashed dishes you keep putting off.
As you clean up the place, your mind spins around Dean’s words from earlier. Your jaw clenches when you rub the stubborn stain on the plate. It’s happening again. The familiar gravelly voice echoes in your ear.
“It was Flagstaff,” Dean murmurs against your skin. “Dad was on a hunting trip, and Sam… kid ran away on my watch.”
He tightens his arms around you, burying his face into your hair. “Two weeks. For two weeks, baby, I thought…” His voice cracks, just above a whisper. “I thought I failed him. I thought I failed Dad.”
You clear your throat, shaking that memory away as you scrub the dish harder to swallow the muffled, breaking sound of him.
When everything seems less chaotic, you settle onto the couch and stare at the black phone screen. What’s taking him so long? Is he coming or not? Oh, no. Did he get into an accident? Why does he keep drinking and driving all the time?
Then you look down at your sleep shirt, wondering if you should change, like putting on a clean shirt is somehow gonna make this any better.
Three sharp knocks cut through the quiet night when you’re in the middle of the wardrobe debate with yourself. You jump a little, looking at the wood like your worst nightmare is waiting on the other side instead of the man you’ve been missing for two years.
You cross the hall to the door, and your throat suddenly goes dry when you yank the door open. Your fingers curl around the doorknob like a lifeline when your eyes finally meet. He’s not the one in the photos you keep under the bed. Not the one you see in your dreams.
He’s here. Really here.
Dean’s standing at your door, broad shoulders wrapped in a leather jacket and worn jeans, looking exactly the same but entirely different. His face is more refined. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking under his stubble. He looks completely hollowed out, like a ghost from your past. In a way, he is.
“Hey,” Dean’s the first to break the silence. The same old half grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey,” you return with a small smile, hyperaware of the proximity. You can just reach out and–
“Come in,” you step aside, gesturing to the couch. “Uh… have a seat. I’ll get the food.”
Dean walks in, his eyes scanning the apartment, a habit honed over years of always having to watch his shoulder.
The windows are locked. Shoes are kicked by the door. Magazines are stacked neatly on the coffee table, right next to the monkey lamp he used to hide away whenever he came over. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“You still have that thing?” he notes, shrugging off his jacket as the couch groans under his weight. He leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs as his gaze follows you into the kitchen.
“What thing?” you call out, your back turned to the living room.
“Alvin… and the gang.”
Your hands freeze, hovering over the bowl as a memory flashes through your mind.
“Why are there three monkeys under your lamp, Weirdo?”
“Because they’re adorable.”
“They’re fugly.”
“Don’t be rude. Alvin and the gang can hear you.”
“As in Alvin and the Chipmunks?”
“Uh huh. Come say hi. This is Alvin, Simon, and Theodore!”
The memory arrives uninvited, and you have to bite back a smile when you pad into the living room, where Dean is slouched against the couch cushion, staring at nothing.
“Of course I still have it. They still sing me to sleep, if you’re wondering.”
The ceramic clicks against the wooden table, louder than it should be.
“Wow,” Dean whistles, unimpressed with the lukewarm egg rolls and a sad pile of stale marshmallows. “You really know how to woo a guy, don’t you?”
“Oh, please. This is basically a five-star meal.” You finally look at him, but quickly look over your shoulder to the kitchen again. “You want anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? I don’t have any beer... Okay. Water it is.”
Before Dean can answer, you return with two glasses of water.
“Wait, napkins! We need napkins.”
And you’re gone again.
Dean narrows his eyes, pushing himself up from the couch. His footsteps are so light that you don’t even notice him stepping up behind you.
“What are you doing in here?” You almost slam into him when you turn. “Get back out there.”
“The napkins are out there. In the living room.”
You glance at the napkin-free counter you’ve been staring at. “Oh.” A breathless, defensive laugh escapes you. “That explains it. I was about to call a search party. C’mon.”
You sidestep around Dean, heading straight back to the couch, twisting the hem of your shirt into a tight knot. Then the cushion dips next to you, his shoulder brushing your sleeve. The bitter scent of beer and something distinctively Dean settles around you.
“Breathe, Jumpy,” Dean mumbles, his voice rough and low. A tired smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Or you’re gonna pass out before we even get to the cold egg rolls.”
You scrunch your nose and snatch a marshmallow from the bowl. “I’m not jumpy. Just… shut up and eat.”
A dry laugh rumbles in Dean’s throat, but it dies quickly. He shakes his head and reaches for an egg roll. His movement is mechanical, eyes fixed on the blank spot of your dark TV screen as he chews.
Dean finishes the last roll, wiping his hands on a napkin as his head drops back against the cushion, his eyes closed.
In the dim light of your living room, he doesn’t look like Dean the hunter. Right now, he’s Bean. One who used to sneak into your room, just like tonight, to steal a few kisses before a long hunt.
Your gaze roams over his face, desperately trying to remind yourself of the two years of distance between you. Despite your best attempt, all those endless nights when you cried yourself to sleep, praying for the phone to ring, suddenly don’t hurt as much.
Watching the soft rise and fall of his shoulders, you wonder if he’d spent the last two years missing you, too.
Then his lips move.
“He packed everything,” Dean whispers before a bitter laugh slips out. “Didn’t even hesitate. Nope. Just packed his crap and left.”
You stay still, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep yourself from reaching out to him.
“And you know what the worst thing is?” Dean finally opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “Dad gave him a damn ultimatum. Stay or never come back. Like you can force someone to stay like that.”
Your breath hitches. The word ‘ultimatum’ hangs in the air, ugly and poisonous.
“Why does everyone do that?” He snaps, moving his gaze to you, and your stomach churns. “Why does everyone just fucking leave, huh? Am I not enough?”
The question echoes in the small room, stinging just like the first time you heard it.
In a split second, it’s like nineteen-year-old Dean is sitting right next to you. The boy who choked back tears into your pillow after a hunt went terribly wrong and let you rub his back until he could breathe again. He’s asking the same thing now, but you doubt that you can fix it this time.
“Dean, that’s not–”
“Every fucking time,” he sits right up, his green eyes flashing with anger, and his voice cracks. “First you. Now Sammy. Seriously, what is it?”
You blink.
“Is there a… a… support group for people who ditch me?” He raises his voice. “Do you guys get matching t-shirts, too? Is staying with me really that miserable? What did I ever do to deserve all this shit?”
You just stare at him like he just grew a second head. Oh, he did not.
“Oh, absolutely. We meet on Tuesdays, and I’m the fucking president!” You finally snap back, irritation bleeding into sarcasm. “Look around, Dean. You’re sitting on my couch. At one in the morning. I literally fed you, and you want to blame me for what I didn’t do? A thank you would be nice.”
“What you didn’t do?” He scoffs, anger flaring up as he jabs a finger at you in the air. “You left me. I don’t see why I should thank you for that.”
“I didn’t leave you!”
“Yes, you did!”
“No. I didn’t! Let’s get the facts straight, Dean. I gave you a choice. And we both know you didn’t choose me.”
“What was I supposed to do?” He stands up and starts pacing around. “I got a job to do. Dad needed me. Sam needed me. People were dying out there. I couldn’t just leave them like that.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms like a shield. “You sure didn’t have any problem leaving me.”
“Hey. Don’t.” Dean snaps his head right back at you. “Don’t you fucking say that. It’s unfair, and you know it.”
“I know!” You rise after him. “It’s unfair that you chose a death wish over me!”
“Oh, here we go again. Forgive me for doing my job, your majesty.” He bites back, walking up to you. “I didn’t choose a death wish over you. I didn’t choose anything. That wasn’t even a choice, sweetheart.”
You huff a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “Right. You didn’t have a choice. Family business. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?”
“Damn right I said it because it was true.” He tilts his head, his eyes searching yours. “And it still is.”
“Well, guess what, Dean? I didn’t give a damn about your family business.” You point at yourself. “I just wanted you to be safe. I just wanted you to stay for dinner.”
His jaw ticks.
“Oh, I’m sorry my ‘cross-country monster-hunting schedule’ didn’t fit into your neat little planner,” he air quotes. “Next time a werewolf is eating someone, I’ll tell them I can’t help because my girlfriend wants to go to the movies!”
“Don’t you dare twist my words, Dean! I didn’t say that your job isn’t important.” You glare at him, fingernails digging into your palms. “Fine! Enough about what I want. You obviously don’t care anyway.”
“Hey, I never said I–”
“Let’s talk about what you want.” You talk over him, and his breath catches visibly. “Two years ago, right on this couch, you said you wanted out. You did. So why are you always coming back when your dad calls? Why?”
Time seems to freeze after the words leave your lips, and Dean looks like he’d been slapped.
“Oh, silly me.” You wave him off, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s always what your dad wants, isn’t it?”
“That’s enough,” he grunts, his voice dropping lower, like the calm before the storm. “You don’t get to talk about my dad.”
“Why not? Because it’s the truth?”
He scoffs, rubbing his jaw, his other hand on his hip.
“You’re twenty-two years old, Dean. But the second your dad snaps his fingers, you’ll turn right back into a scared little kid. He did it to us once, and he just did it again to Sam.”
“I said enough,” he grumbles.
“No.” You gesture at the door as if John Winchester is right outside.
“You see what your dad did? He dragged you across the country since you two were kids. Then he kicked Sam out when your brother wanted to do something for himself. You’re just too scared to admit your dad is a tyrant!”
“He’s not a tyrant!” Dean barks, closing the distance between you. “He keeps us alive. He keeps people alive. You wouldn’t get that, would you? Because you’re too busy sitting in your cozy little apartment, talking to your stupid lamp, and judging a life you couldn’t handle for five minutes!”
“Oh, I couldn’t handle it?” You scoff, jabbing a finger at his chest. The touch is barely there, but it makes him flinch. “I handled you, Dean. The blood, the nightmares, the days I didn’t know if you were still alive. I was always there. I handled it all until you decided I wasn’t enough to stay for.”
“Don’t you put words into my mouth,” he narrows his eyes. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. You showed me!”
You’re both breathing heavily now, jaws tight enough to crack teeth. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The apartment feels too small for your staring contest. Suddenly, Dean brushes your hand away and turns to the couch.
“You ruined it,” he mutters, almost sounding like he’s pouting if you listen close enough. “We were happy. Everything was fine before you ruined it all with that stupid ultimatum.”
“I didn’t–”
“Stop.” He holds a hand up, cutting you off, shoulders slumping. “Just stop. I don’t even know why I came here tonight.”
“To eat my egg rolls and be a jerk, apparently.” You double down, rolling your eyes.
He barks out a humorless laugh and grabs his jacket, clumsily sliding into it as if he’s shaking. “Wow. Truly. The hospitality is breathtaking, sweetheart.”
“You know what?” he says, fetching his keys out of his pocket, heavy footsteps trailing towards the entryway. “I’m gonna go.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Anywhere but here.” He keeps his back to you, reaching for the doorknob. “Seriously, I’m tired of getting kicked when I’m already down.”
You tug at his jacket sleeve, stopping him from opening the door. “Hey, don’t be like that. It’s two in the morning, and you’re exhausted. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Dean looks down at your hand on his jacket, then looks back at you, his face hardens. “Watch me.”
“No.” You pull on his jacket until he’s facing you. “I’ve watched you step out of this door too many times. And the last time I did, you never came back. So no. I’m not watching you leave again. Not tonight.”
Dean stares at you. The anger is still simmering behind his eyes, but it’s buried beneath something heavier now.
“Let go,” he grumbles, though making no move to remove your hand.
“No.”
“I’m serious.”
“Good. That makes it two of us.”
With a long, weary sigh, he drops his hand from the doorknob. “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”
“Right back at you.” You pull him back to the couch. “Now, sit.”
“You can’t order me around.”
“Sit.”
He glares at you for a few seconds before flopping onto the couch, though not before shrugging off the jacket and mumbling something you can’t quite make out.
“Be right back.” You walk down the hallway and disappear into your bedroom.
“What are you doing?”
“Just a sec.” Your voice carries through the night before you return with a blanket and two pillows.
Dean arches a brow, judging. “What are those?”
“What do you think, genius?” You drop them into his lap. “You’re not in any state to drive or to win any argument tonight. Take the couch.”
“Your couch sucks,” he huffs, rough hands feeling the cotton.
“You’re lucky I’m offering.”
“I don’t need your pity,” though he’s setting up his little cocoon right against the cushions. One pillow draped over the armrest, the other one tucked neatly against the back of the couch.
“Never said it was.”
He kicks off his boots and smooths the blanket over his knees, avoiding your eyes. “Five minutes.”
“What?”
“I’m staying for five minutes.”
You bite back a smile, eyeing the dirty boots on your carpet. “Of course you are.”
“I mean it,” he continues, fluffing his pillow. “I’m just resting my eyes. And then, I’m going.”
“Uh huh.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought really loud.”
You scoff, though it’s more amused than annoyed. The frustration is still there, but looking at him tucked in on your couch like that, you can’t help but recall the simpler times.
After gathering the plates into the sink, you pad back into the living room and find Dean “I’m just resting my eyes” Winchester snoring under the blanket, his mouth slightly open and his arm hanging off the couch.
You stand there for a long time, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Even though your body is exhausted, you can’t bring yourself to go to bed. The harsh, cruel words you threw at each other earlier, the screaming match, the old wounds, everything seems to be amplified in the late night.
You decide to settle in the armchair next to the couch instead. Curling up, you wrap your arms around your legs as you slowly drift off. Dean’s soft snore blends with the hum of the fridge, a lullaby you never thought you’d miss. But here you are.
The sky outside is starting to lighten. In the slumber, you hear sharp hitches replace Dean’s steady breathing. The couch creaks softly as his body jerks.
“Sam…” he chokes out, muffled by the pillow. “Sammy… Don’t…”
You jolt awake, and your eyes snap right in his direction. His head lolls back, shoulders shaking under the cover. “Wait… Don’t go! No!”
You slip out of the armchair, kneeling next to the couch. “Bean, hey, wake up.”
He’s drowning in it. Short breaths crawl out of his throat, raw and aching. You reach out, carefully pressing your hand against his shoulder.
“Wake up, Dean.” Your voice stays soft and low. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
Dean snaps his eyes open, wide and unfocused. His hand instinctively slides under the pillow, where his Colt should be. But it’s not there.
“Dean, look at me.” You try again. “You’re at my place. You’re safe.”
He gasps, grabbing your collar as his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, his chest heaving. “Sammy?”
“Easy,” you whisper, your eyes searching his. Your hand stays warm against his shoulder instead of yanking his wrist away. “It’s me. You’re safe, Dean. Just breathe.”
Dean blinks, his gaze darting across your features when reality finally catches up. The shift is instant, and you can feel it immediately.
His face hardens, fingers loosening on your shirt as he gathers himself to sit up. “Sorry.”
You sit back on your heels, watching Dean drag a hand across his face, his jaw working tightly under the stubble. “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
“You’re not fine.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You’re shaking.”
He clutches at the blanket pooling around his waist, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. “I’m just cold.”
You pause before your voice turns firmer. “Dean. Look at me.”
“I said I’m fine. Goddamn it!”
“Then why don’t you look at me?”
The sunlight peeks through the curtains, warm and bright. So different from the raging storm inside your living room.
“Because…” he starts, picking at the invisible threads on the blanket. “If I do, I’m gonna say something stupid.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
That earns you a look. Sharp and annoyed.
“Well?” you prompt.
Dean swallows hard, his green eyes hollow as he looks down again.
“I saw him. Sam. I was standing there, screaming at him. But he… he didn’t hear me.” A harsh laugh escapes him. “Or he just ignored me. I don’t know.”
“So… I watched him pack his bags,” he continues. “I kept waiting for him to stop, to turn around and tell me it was a joke. But nah. I blinked and he just… just disappeared.”
You chew on your lower lip. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you place your hand on his over the blanket. He freezes, his eyes fixed on your hand over his, but he doesn’t pull back.
“I’m sorry, Dean.” You tilt your head, trying to catch his gaze. “I get it. I really do.”
A low scoff curls up in his throat.
“No, you don’t. You’re a civilian. You have a life. You have your friends. Your job. You don’t know what it’s like to stand there and realize you weren’t enough to make people stay.”
“Dean, I...” Your fingers curl around his, hard enough to make his jaw tick. “I watched you leave two years ago.”
Dean just stops breathing altogether when he finally looks at you. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does it again.
“I was standing right there, by that window.” Your voice shakes slightly. “I watched your taillights disappear down the street. I kept waiting for you to turn around, too. For days. Weeks, even. I know exactly what it feels like.”
“That’s not the same,” he protests, though he sounds unsure.
“Isn’t it?” you press. “Tell me how it’s different.”
For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. Dean looks at your joined hands again, thinking. Then, to your surprise, he turns his hand and tangles his fingers with yours.
“I never turned around because I knew if I did…” A small pause, his eyes softening. “There’s no chance of me getting into that car.”
Your heart skips a beat.
“You’re lying.” You shake your head, but your fingers are curling into his anyway. “You can’t… you can’t say that to me and act like everything’s fine.”
“I’m not lying, Wormie. You know I don’t.”
You shake your head again, eyes burning. “You don’t get to do that.”
Dean looks at your hands, then at the tears gathering in your eyes. “Hey…”
You let out a shaky laugh. “I hated you so much, you know that? I tried so hard to hate you.”
“I know.” His hand tightens around yours, his free hand cupping your face to brush the tears away. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”
You sniffle, looking up at him.
“I don’t wanna fight anymore, Wormie.”
Something in you finally gives out. It’s been two years. Two years of anger and pretending you didn’t look for his car every time one ran down your street. Two years of you longing for these exact words, though you’d convinced yourself those would never come.
For a second, everything blurs, and you're her again. The girl who laughs too hard at his unfunny jokes and steals fires off his plates. She doesn’t know distance or heartbreak. She’s just happy.
You lean into his hand, your face crumbling as you sob.
“Hey...” His voice softens, giving your hand a gentle tug. “C’mere.”
You let him pull you closer until you’re sitting sideways across his lap, and only then you realize how badly you’d been craving this feeling. Dean buries his face in your shoulder and exhales like he’s been holding his breath since he left.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Your brain short-circuits. Did Dean Winchester just apologize? Him?
“Yeah,” he huffs an awkward, self-deprecating laugh against your skin. “Guess I made a mess of things. Wasn’t trying to hurt you, Spiky. I just… I really thought it was for the best.”
“Best for who?” You pull back slightly, a frown forming between your brows.
“You,” he admits, his hand settling at your waist out of habit. “You deserve the normal life, sweetheart. And me, hey, I’m just a guy who chases monsters for a living with a blind faith in his dad.”
“Dean.” You sigh, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch. “I didn’t mean to say what I said last night. I was just angry.”
“But you weren’t wrong, sweetheart.”
Silence settles between you again, but it feels more like a truce. You take a deep breath, wiping your tears away with one hand before settling it back around his neck.
“No, Dean. I shouldn’t have said that. I was out of line, and I’m sorry.”
He studies you for a few seconds, then a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re both idiots, huh?”
A small, shaky laugh from you. “Speak for yourself.”
The smile lingers, but he doesn’t throw a joke back at you this time.
Outside, the sun rises higher, and a bird chirps somewhere.
“It’s morning,” you murmur, nuzzling closer to him until there’s no space between you.
Dean shifts on the couch, keeping you tucked into him as he pulls the thin cover over both of you. “That so? I didn’t notice, Sherlock.”
You scrunch your nose and give him a light swat. A laugh rumbles against your ear where your head rests. “Ow. That hurts.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It totally does.”
“Why do you always need to have the last word, Bean?”
“Why do you always need to have the last word, Bean?” he mimics you.
“Stop it.”
“Stop it.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, more relaxed than you’ve seen since he stepped into your apartment last night. You let your gaze caress his features. The crinkles around his eyes when he laughs. The stubble he hasn’t had time to manage. The faint scar near his chin.
“I missed you,” you blurt out, more honest than you intend to.
Dean goes completely still, and the laughter dies down. You see the corner of his mouth twitch again. It’s not amusement. It’s another sarcastic remark waiting to present to the world, and you almost want to take it back.
“I missed you, too,” he says quietly. “Every day, sweetheart. You have no idea.”
Then, before tears can sting your eyes again, he pivots. “Hell, it’s like I got your stupid grin burned into the inside of my eyelids.”
“What did you just say?”
“Shut up. I’m having a moment here,” he shushes you. “Listen. Every time I close my eyes, you’re there. Giving me that look. Yelling at me. It’s scary as hell.”
You groan, hiding your face in his chest. “What are you even talking about?”
“It’s true, baby.” He feigns annoyance even when his arms tighten around you. “Hey, look at me.”
He waits until you do to pull the most ridiculous, all-teeth smile across his face. “See? Exactly like this. You see how much I had to suffer for two years, Wormie?”
You give him a look, unamused and no less affectionate.
“You’re paying my therapy bills,” he adds, his eyes gleaming. “Just so you know.”
“God! You need to shut the hell up, Bean.”
He pulls you closer when you try to squirm in his lap. “Make me.”
His grin slowly fades, the playful spark in his eyes shifting into something darker when his gaze drops to your mouth.
“Don’t tempt me. I swear I’m gonna…” You blink. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just looking.”
“At what?”
He shrugs. “You.”
The annoying little thing in your chest does a violent flip as he leans closer, his forehead pressed against yours. “You’re really pretty.”
His lips brush yours hesitantly, testing the water. When you don’t pull back, he kisses you for real, large hands pressing your hips against his. Two years doesn’t seem too long anymore.
Your head spins, all of your senses are filled with him and him only. You only break the kiss for a second, both of you gasping for air.
“Tell me to stop,” Dean rasps even though he looks terrified that you actually will.
“No,” is all you give him. Your hands slide down to grip the hem of his t-shirt, then you pull it up over his head, tossing it blindly onto the floor.
The sudden sight of his bare torso makes your breath quicken. Your eyes map out the muscles before fingertips trace along the faint line along his chest, then the small, rounded puckered skin near his ribs. A few smaller scars scattered along his skin.
Every single one of them is a night he almost didn’t make it back. Back here. Back to you.
Dean flinches slightly at the contact, his grip tightening on you. Before he can try to joke again, you lean down and place a soft kiss on the scariest-looking one.
“Sweetheart…” He murmurs, his voice tight.
Then another kiss. Then another. And another. You don’t miss any spot, even kissing the small mark along his jaw.
“Let me take care of you,” you breathe, leaning down to plant another kiss at the junction of his neck and shoulder.
He blinks up at you, surprised, but a heavy heat flashes in his eyes the second you push him down and straddle his lap. His hands, still on your waist, start tracing the skin beneath your sleep shirt as you hike it up. Dean helps you to get rid of the rest of your clothes. Yours and his.
When you settle back on his hips, the hard length of him is brushing against your aching center. He’s vibrating now, jaw clenched tight, knuckles turning white on the cushion.
Dean chews on his lower lip as you slowly guide him toward your core, gathering slick before sinking down until he fills you up completely. You let out a small moan, your head dropping onto his shoulder, trying to adjust to the fullness of him.
“God…” Dean chokes out, his hands sliding up your back, pressing you flush against him. “Taking me so good… You okay?”
You hum, nodding lightly as you lift your head to kiss him again. When you tilt your hips to start moving, Dean gasps into your mouth, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
“Oh, fuuuck. Like that. Take what you need, pretty girl. Yeah… That’s it.”
You take the lead, rocking against him slowly at first. The wet, messy sound of skin against skin fills the small room. He tilts his head back against the pillow, his eyes closed as the couch groans under you two.
“I miss this.” He slides one hand into your hair, pulling you down to nip at your earlobe, making your skin tingle. “I miss you.”
Suddenly, he sits straight up, lifting you off him. Confused, your eyes wide, your chest heaving as you cling to him.
“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” Your mind is a whirlwind of emotions as Dean lays you on your back. “You… you didn’t like it? Are you–”
“No, no, baby. You’re doing so good for me.” He pats your thigh gently, though his expression says he would lose it right there if you keep asking questions. “I just… Let me, okay?”
Dean presses a kiss at the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, and the top of your nose as if to say “I’m sorry,” “I’m here,” “Don’t worry.”
A small, awkward huff escapes you as you sink back onto the couch, pillow folded under your hips. One arm of his braces on the cushion next to your head, the other one pushing your thigh wider to give him more access.
“Just relax. I got you.” Dean slides into you again, his eyes closing tight as he buries his face in your hair. “There we are…”
The new angle allows him to reach your deepest, most sensitive part. His pace turns brutal and rhythmic in a heartbeat, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Before long, you cry out his name, thighs shaking around his waist as the first wave of pleasure crashes over you.
“Atta girl,” he coos, his hips never slowing as you writhe under him. “That’s my girl. Ride it out, baby. I got you.”
His hand leaves your waist, reaching down between your bodies while the other one guides you into a faster rhythm. His fingers find your swollen core, circling right where you need the most. You arch your back against the cushion, fingers clawing into his back.
“Dean, wait, I just– I can’t–”
“Shh… shh…” he whispers into your ear, his hips thrusting forward again, chasing the high as he presses his thumb harder against you. “Almost there, baby. Just a little more. One more. I promise. Can you do that for me?”
You whine as your thighs tense up, the familiar heat curling up in your lower stomach. Then, your vision goes entirely white as the second orgasm rolls through you, your internal muscles clamping tightly around him.
Dean lets out a loud grunt before his entire body goes rigid. He shakes violently, spilling himself into you as his mouth crashes against yours, hungrily swallowing your delicious cries.
You’re basically limp beneath him as the kiss slowly fades. Carefully, Dean rolls onto his back, letting you drape over him like a heavy blanket, his arms locking around your waist.
“You good?” he murmurs into your hair, breathing you in.
“No.”
He pulls back so fast you almost laugh, his eyes wide as they search your face. “What? Did I hurt you? Why didn’t you say something?”
A breathless laugh escapes you as you nuzzle against his jaw, the stubble scratching at your skin.
“I’m just messing with you, baby.” You press a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I’m okay.”
Dean rolls his eyes, half annoyed, half defeated, before nipping the tip of your nose. “What is wrong with you?”
“Gotta keep you on your toes, Winchester.” A tiny smile tugs at your lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. “Consider it payback for ditching me.”
He lets out the most dramatic sigh you’ve ever heard, and another soft kiss is planted on the top of your head. The room falls quiet again, filled with your uneven breathing, the shared warmth of your bodies, and the morning light.
“You should probably go back to sleep,” he says after a while.
You hum as his fingers wander lazily across your back, tracing slow, absent circles against your skin.
“Are you gonna be here when I wake up?”
His hand stills for a second. Then he rolls onto his side, shifting until you’re tucked nicely between his chest and the back of your couch. Calloused fingertips glide over your back while he pulls you impossibly closer.
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I’ll be here.”
YOUR BRAIN Dean and Wormie are literally everything <333
I have so many WIPS of Dex and non-related Dex stuff (I’ve been dabbling into horror cuz I love the genre :p)
Everyone check on your local Mexican oh my god 💔💔💔💔
thank god he's hot or i would've had his impala67 ass blocked after the "that's what it says, yeah."
Would’ve left him on delivered for five hours minimum it’s what he deserves
Hero
Synopsis: Worried, you accompany Karen as she chases after leads on Union Allied. Your determination for your own case leads to an abrupt shift in your relationship with Dex. w.c. 5.2k.
cw: combines s1x03 and s1x04, platonic relationships, Reader exists outside of the DD plot (is this a warning?), she investigates a murder-mystery, a bit of Reader's lore, typical Dex behavior, teensy bit of violence
A/N: it's back! I'm trying to do a little bit of different formatting and I definitely took my time to polish it up. A lot of time. Enjoy!
<- previous chapter/next chapter ->
It was another evening of staring at your corkboard wall. After receiving updates from Duncan, it looked even more like an organized disaster. The girls that disappeared were marked absent for multiple weeks before reported as missing after a staff member visited their respective dorms. As it turns out, they weren't the first to disappear. Founded in 1928, a girl vanished under mysterious circumstances in 1979.
Her parents filed multiple reports to NYPD, even staging a protest outside of the school. Law-abiding citizens who occasionally helped out their local church. They went missing a year later. As if they disappeared into thin air after her. You felt nauseated once your active imagination speculated their fates.
Three girls disappeared in 1987. Another in 1995. Two more in 2003. All families filed initial reports before falling silent. Duncan dug and they were living quietly, seemingly moved on. Were they bribed? Threatened?
Current staff records were squeaky clean and even the headmistress had a highly educated, respectable background. Duncan admitted that there was ongoing research on the families of the girls currently attending, but that could take days to yield results.
You dragged your hands through your hair. There's something you're not getting, but what?
The following morning, you stood outside of Karen's apartment after a concerning phone call. You shifted from foot to foot before hearing a door open. Your smile faltered at her uneasy one, "Hey. What's going on?" She immediately started to walk and you fell into step next to her. She turned her head to you, "How…would you deal with…" she gestured a nothing, trying to articulate her thoughts, "…knowing in your gut that something's wrong, and knowing you could do something about it?"
"A bit too on the nose for my current situation," you laughed under your breath. You looked up at the bright sky as you answered, "I'd follow my gut. Ask questions. Look into things that I have no business looking into. I assume this has to do with Union Allied?"
She stared at you, a bit startled, before chuckling, "I guess I was that obvious, huh?"
"Oh, super."
She chuckled again before there was a weary look in her blue eyes, "I was approached by a lawyer from Kirschner & Braun. He, uh, was representing Union Allied. He presented me with an NDA and a lot of money to stay quiet. A lot."
"So, what did you do?"
"I walked out."
"Great minds think alike."
You bumped your shoulder with hers and your heart swelled at seeing her smile. With how life has been treating the poor woman, how could you not want to see her happy? She looked ahead and her next statement died in her throat. A dark-haired woman packing boxes into a U-Haul. Did they know each other?
Karen's steps quickened to catch her before she disappeared into the apartment she seemed to be moving out of.
"Mrs. Fisher?"
The woman turned and her expression was carefully neutral as she stared down the blonde. She glanced at you where you lagged behind and you offered a tight smile, raising your hand in a greeting. Karen continued, undeterred, "Hi. Um, uh…my name's Karen Pa—" She was interrupted by Mrs. Fisher's cold indifference, "I know who you are."
It was silent as they stared at each other before Karen shifted in place, "I'm sorry. I know how…hard this must be for you." A scoff left her lips, curling them into a sardonic smile, "My husband was found dead in your apartment. You have no idea how any of this is for me."
Karen tightened her grip on her purse, "Nothing ever happened between me and Daniel."
"You think I don't know that? I know how much Danny loved me," her voice wobbled at the end. "Whatever it is you're after, Miss Page, I can't help you." She quickly turned to escape into the apartment.
Karen approached again, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. Frustrated, she continued to push, "Union Allied?" At that, Mrs. Fisher stopped and turned.
"They offered me money…a lot of money if I sign an agreement to never talk about what happened. They offer you something like that?"
Mrs. Fisher breathed in deeply as she only stared at Karen, who continued, "They killed Danny. They tried to kill me. And now, they just shuffle some papers and change their name and they get away with it?"
"Let it go."
"I've tried. It just doesn't feel right."
Mrs. Fisher came down the stairs then, "He said the same thing. A few days before he…"
Her face twisted in grief, lips pressing together. She exhaled, "He said something didn't feel right…at work with the numbers…and I told him that whatever it was, he had a responsibility to do something about it." Her voice cracked, "I figure I have a couple of years before I explain that part to my kids."
"They have to pay for what they've done."
"They won't listen."
"We'll make them listen."
"I already signed." Mrs. Fisher stepped back, done with the conversation, "I have kids, Miss Page, and they're all that matter to me now. If you have anyone that you care about…let it go."
You saw Karen's fire get doused, faced with an ugly reality—Mrs. Fisher wasn't a coward. She was a mother.
She disappeared into the apartment building, leaving a crestfallen Karen to stare at her retreating form. You approached her cautiously, eyebrow furrowed, "Karen?" She snapped out of whatever daze she was in, shaking her head.
"I'm fine. I'm…disappointed. But it's not like I fault her, either," she ran a hand through her hair and you could see the wheels turning. You waited patiently as she collected herself. She breathed in, straightening up. The fire returned to her eyes, "I want to stop by somewhere else."
"Lead the way."
You followed her in silence up until you reached a building that made your heart race. The New York Bulletin. Before realizing it, you were now outside an office with the nameplate Urich. Karen knocked a few times and a man's voice answered, "Yeah."
She opened the door, "Excuse me, Mr. Urich?"
He looked at both of you in surprise. You couldn't keep your own shock from your face. He stood from his seat, "So they tell me." Karen sighed quietly before stepping in, adjusting her purse, "I read your article."
He placed his hands on his hips, smiling half-heartedly, "About the subway line?"
"Uh…about Union Allied Construction. I think there's more to the story…if you're interested."
Urich's face turned serious, lips pressing together as he assessed her. As they talked, you glanced around his office. Clearly, there was a theme to his columns. Your eyes lingered on the newspaper frames titled 'Battle of New York' and 'Harlem Terror' before turning to another wall. You fought back a smile at another frame: 'Manhattan Saved' and a picture of Juggernaut subdued. Your amusement promptly ceased when you saw another article: 'Back to the Ice Age' and an overhead shot of half of New York covered in ice.
Your ears rung as you stared at the picture, before your concentration was broken by a hand on your arm. You flinched, wide eyes meeting Karen's worried ones, "Hey. I was calling you. We can go." You blinked rapidly, before you looked past her to look at Urich.
"I've got my own questions."
Karen opened her mouth to protest before she recognized the resolve in your gaze. She squeezed your arm in silent comfort before stepping out, shutting the door quietly.
The silence was suffocating as you sized up one another. Urich broke the tension first, "Miss Howlett, I presume?" You tilted your head, eyes narrowing, "Yeah. That's me." He lifted his hands in a placating gesture, "No need for the hostility. I'm a journalist. It's my job to do my homework." The corner of your lip twitched into a frown. You sat down in the seat in front of his desk and he followed suit.
"I do have questions for you, Mr. Urich."
"Of course."
Your jaw tensed before reeling in the aggravation caused by the newspaper, "First question—did you send that letter to the mansion?" He laced his hands in front of him, unfazed, "I did."
"Why."
"I can only do so much at once."
That only made you sit up straight in wary caution, "That's not an answer." Urich gave you an incredulous look, "You're not dense, Miss Howlett. Despite no formal education, you have an aptitude and a resilience to get to the bottom of things."
"What?"
"A bit of asking around can get you far. Like how I asked around in Azure Heights Asylum. And at Little Rockers Daycare Center. And the now dissolved Rays of Life Orphanage."
Your mouth parted as he listed off every institution you've exposed for its atrocious handling of mutants. He nonchalantly pointed to the newspaper with the Juggernaut, "You were there, too." Then, at the one that made your anxiety spike, "And there." You held a hand up.
"We're getting off topic here, Mr. Urich. My next question—"
He interrupted you, "I think it's my turn, now. You've done exemplary work for the overall community. That's not up for debate. However, you agree that the X-Men are above your local Crime Stoppers group, yes? And you also realize that sheer destruction that follows. Not only physical damage. There's always a spike of activity from anti-mutant groups. So help me understand. Despite everything, why do you continue to cosplay as a savior?"
You stared at him, momentarily baffled by the sudden interrogation. The worst part is that you didn't even feel threatened. He's a journalist, first and foremost. Why would he pass up the opportunity to question an X-Men?
"I'm a mutant. I didn't choose to be one. None of us did. We live in this world just like the rest of you. Feel like the rest of you. I ache over pain that's not my own. I know what it's like to suffer at the hands of man. That doesn't make me special. Countless others have gone though the same. Some…worse. But I keep going, anyway—that's the X-Men way. Is that not enough?"
You spoke quietly, eager to shift the subject, "My next question is how much do you know about Aveline's Academy for Girls."
If Urich approved of your response, his face didn't show it. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, "Truthfully, likely just as much as you do. My source for that article came from my contact on the force."
"This isn't just some admin screw up. A teenage girl was found dead. Why is that the only thing you wrote? There's so much more! You're seriously going to look at me in the eye and tell me that you of all people didn't find anything else?"
Urich's jaw tensed. He sighed, and you've heard that exhaustion before. The sound of a once valiant spirit leaking out from a now flagging body. Like a deflating tire left unattended for years. Your tone turned acerbic as you stood, barking out a disbelieving sound, "You're scared and you don't want to look in further. Fine. I came in here expecting nothing, and I'm walking out with nothing. Have a good day."
Your stormy expression cleared a path as you left the Bulletin dissatisfied. Everyone's attention was on Union Allied and you couldn't fault them. You knew you were being unfair, but it didn't stop you from lashing out. You walked aimlessly to clear your head before an idea struck. You swiftly pivoted and headed towards the FBI office.
After going through the same song and dance, you tentatively walked into the Mutant Affairs Division. You tightened your grip on your purse strap.
"Excuse me. Hi, sorry, uh, is Director Duncan in?"
The man barely glanced up at you as he typed, "Do you have an appointment?"
"No, but—"
"You need an appointment."
Your eye twitched, patience quickly thinning, "We're working on a case together and I need to see him. Now." You practically smacked down your X-Men badge in his line of sight, lips curled up in a tight smile. The man finally met your irked expression and quickly stood, "R-Right this way."
Soon, you were in Duncan's office with a wide smirk, "I have a plan. How fast can we get fake IDs?"
The next day, you were sat in a mini van. When you detailed the plan to Duncan, you were quite specific in mentioning that yourself and Ray had this covered. So why was Dex in the driver's seat? Turns out, Ray was occupied with other matters in the Crime Division again. You absentmindedly picked at the ends of your wig, shooting him a sideways glance. He was already looking at you.
"What?"
"We've been here for five minutes. Is this also part of the plan?"
"No. Let's just go…."
You weren't petty enough (yet) to bring up the fact that he readjusted the decor that made it look like a used family car. The previously tossed in dolls and small cars were swiftly stuffed in the organizer hanging on the back of the driver's seat. The change that rattled in the center console was scooted into the coin holder at every red light. The random paint stains made his eye twitch. The hanging tree air fresheners were adjusted so they hung the same length.
His jaw tensed whenever the random sports gear in the trunk rattled from side to side.
You understood that people liked being neat, but his organization was wholly unnecessary.
Dex was already pissed at having to go through such a ridiculous op, especially after a carefree man like Duncan high-handed him of all people. What were you, in a spy movie? What's with the wig? He bit his tongue as he got out after you. Standing stood side by side, you faced a pair of extravagant doors with delicate letters 'Aveline's Academy for Girls' arching over.
You were stopped by Dex gripping your arm. Before you could question him, he looped his arm around yours. His expression was flat as he deadpanned, "I thought we were married, Mrs. Evans." You cringed to yourself, still feeling the lingering annoyance from the encounter with Urich. You took a deep breath, "Yes, we are, Mr. Evans."
He tugged one door open and you entered the school shrouded in conspiracy. As expected, the lobby was capacious and elegantly decorated. One wall was lined with portraits of headmasters and groups of students through the years. Another wall was up to the ceiling in accolades. Your eyes landed on the meek woman standing in front of the wooden bifurcated stairs.
Her hands wrung together, "M-Mr. and Mrs. Evans?"
Dex responded smoothly, "Yes, that'd be us."
"Oh! T-That's wonderful. You're here for the tour, yes?"
You were quick to respond, yanking Dex closer from where you arms were still hooked, "Yes! We saw the applications were open and we'd love for our daughter to attend such a prestigious school! Right, honey?"
"Yes," was Dex's stiff response. The woman, who introduced herself as Diane, was none the wiser as she led and prattled off the benefits of the academy. You shot him an incredulous look and he met it in kind with his deadpan one.
So much for looking natural.
You exited the administrative building and followed a stone pathway that connected all of the buildings in a semicircle. Your eyes catalogued more than just the architecture and lawn care. Tall iron gates circled the perimeter of the campus, stakes imbedded deep into the ground. Even before actually entering the property required three layers of security.
Security cameras were on a constant swivel. Guards patrolled the perimeter and at least two stationed in every building. To actually enter a building, staff and students swiped their unique IDs on a card reader and the door clicked open.
Was this a boarding school or a prison?
You quietly commented on your findings to Dex as Diane continued with her nervous ramblings. He rolled his eyes, responding, "I know all of that already." He even brought up how the clock tower in the center doubled as a guard tower. Yeah, obviously. You seriously were ready to punch him.
The longer you walked arm in arm, a sobering realization overtook you.
Dex, who you perceived as a polite, effective agent, was devolving into an arrogant man with strange quirks. Did he have to adjust every piece of furniture and painting? You were 89% sure they were older than your ages combined. If he froze again when Diane asked an innocent question about your marriage, you were walking back to the car.
Suffice to say, the tour didn't lead to anything fruitful. While the tight surveillance provided a better idea of the current state of the academy, all you got out of Diane was that the headmistress was out on some business trip. Even inquiring about the recent murder resulted in her frantically reassuring you both that safety is everything at the academy. You were worried the woman was going to pass out from talking alone.
The drive back to the FBI office was silent as you gnawed on your bottom lip. As you pondered your next step, Dex's voice cut through your thoughts.
"You should leave the investigation to the FBI."
You looked at him with a scrunched expression, "I'm sorry?"
"I said, you should—"
You pulled off your wig with an eye roll, "I heard that. I'm asking for you to clarify."
He pulled into the FBI parking garage, lips twisting, "You're seriously going to tell me that you haven't been gallivanting around and playing pretend? This operation led nowhere and you wasted both of our times. I shouldn't be surprised Director Duncan let you undertake such a useless endeavor."
You stared at him, mouth agape, before your own lips curled into a snarl, "I get you're frustrated, but that doesn't mean you need to be a dick. How many ops have you gone on that immediately yielded actual results? Huh? Mr. Hotshot here thinks this is beneath him?"
His grip on the steering wheel tightened a fraction, lips pressing into a thin line. Your hand slapped over the dash as you leaned forward, frost spreading and framing your hand in jagged spikes, "Answer me, Agent Poindexter."
Dex's frayed patience wore thinner. The more he discovered about you, the higher his suspicion grew that you were the exact type of person he despised. A bleeding heart moron he would never understand. His previous feelings of validation fizzled away as he now stared at you in disbelief, "You're out of your league, Miss Howlett. Leave this to the actual professionals. Why don't you go play pretend hero instead? Make yourself believe you're doing any good in this city. Maybe even run back to help that alcoholic father of yours."
You struck him before you realized it, matching red marks blooming on the back of your hand and his cheekbone.
You pressed yourself against the seat, hands clasping over your mouth at your own impulsivity. Wide eyes stared at his profile before your hands slowly lowered to your lap. Swallowing thickly, you broke the silence, "You can say whatever you want about me. I don't care. But don't you ever bring up my family."
He didn't look the slightest bit fazed as he met your glare head on. He even leaned in as his mouth twitched, eyes shining in elation, "You got your aggression from him, too."
Your jaw clenched. After angrily slamming the door, you stomped out of the parking garage. Every vehicle you passed had a thin sheet of frost on the bumper and hood. You felt his eyes follow you on the way out. After you were long gone, Dex languidly left the car.
You were too easy to rile up. All the better for him to justify kicking you off the case. He worked his jaw, idly rubbing a hand over his cheek. He needed to get rid of you before you became even more of a liability. And a bigger pain in his ass.
Another evening found you on a call with Matt. A tradition previously forgotten due to your busy schedules. His voice echoed through the bedroom as you busied yourself with a manicure. His most recent escapade was beating up the Russians and holing up in his new nurse friend's apartment. Based on his occasional breath hitch, you gathered that he's still beat up.
"So this new friend of yours…she just…lets you stop by? Hasn't called the cops yet?" You glanced to your phone where it rested on your bed. His defensive tone came through, "She can be trusted. She has experience with vigilantes." You hummed noncommittally, "Is she pretty?"
"How would I know, hm?"
"I think you do know. You just won't say how."
"Her looks are irrelevant."
"So she is pretty. And you just let her feel you up? Matthew, you dog!" Your amusement was infectious as his chuckle echoed. He shifted on his bed, "You know it's not like that. Let's change the topic."
"Boring!"
You smirked as you picked a nail color. His voice sounded hesitant, now, as he asked, "Hey, would you know anything about a man named Wilson Fisk?" The nail polish tubes clacked together as you sifted through a box, "Wilson Fisk? Doesn't ring a bell. Want me to ask around?" Matt's lips pressed together as he considered it.
Your network was far more extensive than his. However, you were also his friend. How can he put you in potential danger for him? Clearly, this Fisk guy striked unimaginable fear considering John Healy drove a spike through his own skull after revealing his name. What if Fisk or someone in his circle caught wind of you sniffing around? Just as you were about to ask again, Matt's sigh cut you off, "No need. Just curious."
"Matt?"
"Don't worry about it. Tell me what's going on with you, Miss Investigator?" A playful scoff escaped your lips, looking between two different colors, "Red or blue?" Matt hummed as he pretended to consider, "Red, of course." You placed the blue nail polish back, "I am not at the liberty to discuss such details."
"You really want to go there? You know I love to argue."
"Yeah, yeah. Uh…I've probably botched my involvement." You uncapped the nail polish and started on the first coat. Matt's head tilted, "What?" You paused mid application and sucked in a breath through your teeth, "I kind of technically basically slapped my colleague in a moment of weakness."
Matt sat up straighter in his bed, his voice switching to concern. While you did have violent tendencies, you weren't the type to just beat people around for the fun of it.
"Are you ok?"
"Yes, Matty, I'm ok. Just..." You blew on the nails before switching to your other hand. How do you explain a man like Dex to Matt? After chewing on your bottom lip, you spoke, "He…I really thought he was a decent guy. Don't get me wrong, he's good at his job. And generally harmless. But oh my god, he's an asshole when he wants to be. It's like he's never learned the whole 'if you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all'. It drives me up a wall!"
Matt hummed, "What did he say?" A probing for details disguised as a casual inquiry. He mentally catalogued this development. You weighted divulging more as you finished painting your other nails, "He lashed out on me after an uneventful op." It's true, anyhow. You cleaned up the sides with a q-tip dipped in acetone, "I can hear your concern from here. I'm fine."
"I know you can take care of yourself, but I still worry," he replied in an exasperated voice. Matt had no siblings and grew up in Saint Agnes Orphanage. Sometimes, you felt how he unconsciously positioned himself as a brother figure. You never corrected him. He only had you and Foggy.
"Look, if he's a big jerk again, you'll be the first I tell. And then you can go beat him up or whatever it is you do."
"That's a rather simplistic view of how I fight against injustice."
"Is that not what you do?"
"That's besides the point. Could you at least give me his name?"
He cut in before you protested, "I won't dig into him or seek him out. Scout's honor." You snorted as you grabbed your phone, "You were a choir boy, not a scout. Fine. His name is Benjamin Poindexter."
Two days later, you had to wonder how you let Karen drag you here. Or, perhaps, it was to satiate your own curiosity as she chased her instincts about Union Allied. The room in the auction house was dim and a large projecter beamed images of office equipment. The auctioneer spoke fast and people in the audience matched his speed as their number cards shot up. Your laidback position differed from Karen's fidgeting, her eyes darting around.
The longer you sat there, the worse the feeling of being watched felt.
"Next up, lot 87. Liquidation of Union Allied Construction LLC. 42 desktops with Thunderbolt Display, 14 copy machines, 62 IP phones as well as supporting equipment listed in your catalog."
Karen perked up, restless as she gripped the thick spiral book everyone was handed before entering the room. The bidding began at 70,000. You glanced down and she was drawing every person that raised their number as the bid increased. While creative, it was apparent that neither of you belonged here. You leaned in to whisper, but a voice from behind caused both of you to freeze.
"Stop what you're doing. Don't turn around."
Ben Urich.
Karen's face was startled and you weren't any better. Urich chided as he casually skimmed his own spiral book, "This is how you get caught."
"The hell do you care?" Her response was a shaky exhale. Based on what she told you, her own meeting with him went just as smoothly as yours did. You sat up as he continued, "To your right, a woman in a white blouse." Karen, stupidly, turned to look at her. You firmly kicked her foot and she gasped softly. Her head snapped forward again. Urich reacted the same as he quietly snapped, "Eyes front, Jesus!"
He continued, "To your left, a man in a navy blue pinstripe suit." The auctioneers voice droned on as you subtly glanced at the two. The same ones that had been observing you. Karen whispered, "Who are they?"
"Don't know. But they aren't bidding either." The realization made your hands twitch around your spiral and Karen swallowed thickly. She whispered again, "What do I do?" Urich, calm as ever, "Spend the next hour raising your paddle. Win something. One of the smaller lots." You can hear the undercurrent of panic in her otherwise steady voice, "I don't have any money."
"Figure it out. Meet me at the diner when you're done."
"How'd you know I was here? Ben?"
Urich left as quietly as he came. The bidding for the Union Allied office equipment concluded. As the next round began, she gripped her paddle to stop her trembling. One hand closed over hers and raised your paddle with the other. You weren't even sure what you just bid for, only halfway paying attention. You ignored her wide blue eyes staring at your profile.
It was definitely an effort taking a whole fax machine up a flight of stairs. By the time you got it into Nelson & Murdock, an apologetic Karen met up with you again after her talk with Urich. Foggy, who was working late per usual, came out of his office at the ruckus and stood flabbergasted.
"W-What—What is this?"
You answered breathlessly, hands on your hips, "You've never seen a fax machine?"
"I know what a fax machine is, genius. I meant, what is this relic from the nineties doing here?"
Karen wrung her hands together as the three of you stood over it, "Oh, it's not that old…I think. Um, but the rest of the stuff's coming tomorrow." Foggy's expression grew concerned, "The rest?" Karen spoke quickly as the nerves started getting to her, "Yeah, like, a printer and conference phones and a copier and…yeah, there was an auction and, you know, we needed stuff, so I—we, um…"
You leaned against the fax machine, "Think of it as a charitable donation." Foggy looked at you incredulously, "Woah, woah. Wait. Hold on, you're saying you donated this and more?" Your response was to shrug, "Yeah." Foggy put his hands on his head, "You're not serious. How much was this. How much was everything?!"
"It was Karen's idea. Realistically, I only took a small part in it."
Her voice was small as she regarded Foggy tracing the top of the fax machine, "You mad…?" His face was the opposite as a small smile graced his features. He turned to look at her, "I ever tell you my mom wanted me to be a butcher?"
Puzzled at the question, she asked, "A butcher?" Your hand dragged down your face at having to hear this story for the nth time.
"Yeah. You know what I told her? I said 'No, Mom, I wanted to be a lawyer.' And I don't remember what I said next."
You groaned into your hands, "No, Foggy, you never do."
"Are you sure you and Matt aren't related? He said the exact same thing." His nonsensical tale got a laugh out of Karen. You and Foggy shared a glance, grinning. His eyes softened as he continued to stare at you and you raised an eyebrow in response.
"What?"
You let out a grunt as he pulled you into a hug. You awkwardly patted his back before feeling a dampness on your shoulder. Oh.
"Foggy…?"
He let go and stiffly patted your shoulder, clearing his throat, "Just a bro hugging their bro. Can't a guy be grateful?" You pulled him into a side hug, smiling, "The tough guy act doesn't work on me. All I ask is a huge portrait of me in your future library. And a gold plaque with the words 'First Ever Donor and Greatest Friend to Nelson & Murdock'."
Foggy tipped his head back and laughed, "You know what? Just for you, I can work something out."
Karen watched on fondly before she gasped, turning to where she put down her stuff. She plucked a folder she placed under her purse and handed it to you. She practically pushed it into your hands, "For you."
You stared down at the unlabeled Manila folder curiously, "What is this?"
"A…gift from Ben. And most importantly, an apology."
Your eyebrows furrowed as you opened the folder. You caught a paper that slipped out and your breath hitched. A missing person's poster of 16-year-old Meredith Ward. Last seen March 5th, 1979.
TAGLIST: @gojoswaterbottle @m4ngo15
Have we thought about Venom! Reader x Dex???? Anyone???
It’s a super possessive vs. ultra possessive near death match
Reader is just as wet cat pathetic as Eddie and works at the New York Bulletin
It BURNS at Dex that he’ll never be as close as Venom is to you ever (physically and emotionally like the symbiote is bonded to you so deeply) and Venom reminds him constantly
Playing darts
pairing: ddba!dex x worm!reader (no physical descriptions, expect a lot more of her in the future ;P) tags: mdni. smut with a dash of plot. teasing. biting. begging (guess who? ding, ding, ding. it's Dex). intercourse. headlock. choking if you squint. wc: 1k7
Thwack. Thwack… Thwack.
Three tiny metallic darts shoot through the air and hit the center of the red bullseye, stacking perfectly on top of each other.
“My turn, my turn!” You beam, rising from the couch. But Dex quickly steps back in position, and the darts, again, land perfectly on the panel before you can take them.
“Hey! It was my turn!” You frown at him, hands on your hips.
He answers with a crooked grin as he yanks the sharp metal off the board. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. You should’ve been faster. Besides, I’m gonna win either way. Accept it.”
You roll your eyes at him, but your smile is the biggest traitor.
Lately, Dex’d been pacing around the apartment like a caged animal since Mr. Charles advised him to stay put for the next mission. He needs enrichment, you thought when you bought the dart set. But you didn’t think he would turn this silly game into an olympic sport.
“Tsk. Don’t be cocky. Now let’s see if you can do it without looking,” you challenge.
Dex’s eyes light up instantly. He loves a challenge. Especially from you. He turns his entire body around, his back fully to the target.
With another flick of his wrist, the dart flies across the room, bounces off the edge of the TV, and strikes right in the middle of that red circle. That little shit turns around with a ridiculous smug grin that you just want to swipe right off his face. Show off.
“That’s cheating!” You fold your arms, shaking your head. “Nuh uh. I don’t know how you did it, but you cheated! It doesn’t count.”
Dex, who very much enjoys your feigned annoyance, clasps a hand over his chest and gasps dramatically.
“I did no such thing!” he walks towards you, warm hands closing around your waist, swaying you a little. “I’m hurt, baby. Deeply. I literally practiced it for twenty minutes when you were in the shower earlier. No tricks.”
“You practiced while I was in the shower?” You arch a brow. “That’s cheating, genius. I can’t believe it. Betrayed by my own man.”
You make a whole show of wriggling out of his embrace. “You know what? I’m not playing with you anymore. And… and, no cuddles tonight.” But Dex already pulls you back into his chest before you can escape.
Of course you have to be a pain about it. Stomping your feet, huffing and puffing, the whole shebang, until Dex stops you by crashing his lips onto yours. One hand of his grabs your chin to keep you where you are, the other one digs into your side while he sucks on your tongue.
Your eyes widen a little before you tilt your head to let him in as your arms find their home around his neck, pressing yourself to him until there’s no air left between you.
Dex groans at the unexpected prickle that runs down his spine when your nails rake through his hair, his fingers on your chin tightening in response. His other hand reaches back to grip your backside, his thigh slips between yours. You almost giggle, thinking how easily he would fold for you after just a small tantrum.
He then only breaks the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses from your cheek down to your jaw, then along the side of your throat, pulling a small moan out of you instead of the triumphant chuckle.
“Dex…” You whisper, instinctively grinding your hips against his, feeling the hard line he doesn’t even pretend to hide anymore.
“Hm?” his teeth sink into your skin where your collarbone and neck meet. His warm hand slips beneath your sleep dress, spreading across your stomach before cupping one of your breasts, thumb ghosting over your hard peak. “You want something, baby?”
“You know what I want.” You roll your hips harder against his thigh, desperate for more friction. The slick heat of you sweeps through the fabric of your panties to his trousers. Your breathing grows heavier after every second.
“I don’t think I do, sweet girl,” he coos, pressing his knee against the junction between your legs, making you cling to him tighter. “You said you didn’t wanna play with me anymore.”
“Dex, come on!” You grumble as you yank on his hair, demanding because you can and because you know he’ll do whatever you ask, even when he’s being an ass about it.
“Bossy,” he chuckles lowly and spins you around. Suddenly, you’re lying face first on the couch with your knees digging into the cushion, your dress hiked up over your rear.
Dex leans his full weight on you while his hands grope and touch and caress everywhere he can, nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like it’s the only thing that can keep him from devouring you right now.
His calloused fingers glaze over your soft skin until he finally finds your core over the damp silk, circling and rubbing and toying with you until you’re a begging, whimpering mess as he ruts into the leather between your legs.
“You like it, angel?” He whispers into your ear, and a chill runs down your spine, your hips turning up in anticipation. “You want more?” to which you answer with a nod and a soft whimper.
“Shh… Stay still. Lemme take care of you.” His fingers, now slick with your arousal, finally slip beneath the hem of your panties and start pumping in and out of you, the wet sound echoing in the quiet living room that makes your ears turn to another shade of red.
Your hips buck up for more, but the jackass always pulls back just a tad further from where you need the most. Every time you push yourself back, a soft sigh slips out of his lips, sending it straight to the center of you. His hips roll harder against the couch shamelessly.
Dex wants to tease you a little bit more. He loves listening to your voice when you call his name. When you call him names. Between the breathless, filthy words, he feels like he’s the center of your world as much as you’re his. He wouldn’t want it any other way.
But the sharp sting from where your teeth dig into his forearm snaps something in him. “Do you want to do this or not?” you glare at him over your shoulder, aiming to be threatening, but you only sound needier to him. You can see the way his pupils blow wide when you “handle” him, even when he’s the one on top.
He returns the bite on your shoulder, making you hiss and turn on even more. Dex pulls his fingers out, glistening with your juice, and he puts them into his mouth, tongue swirling around them. Your breath hitches, chewing on your lower lip as you imagine what it would feel like if he had let you do that instead.
He pulls his fingers out with a loud pop, and his hands are suddenly everywhere. Gathering up the silk hem of your sleep dress, bunching it up past your waist.
You can hear the sharp snap of elastic as he hooks his fingers into your panties and yanks them down your thighs, discarding them to the floor. Then comes the sound of his zipper, loud in the quiet room, and off they go, his trousers land on the floor without a second thought.
He positions himself, the broad, leaking tip rubbing against your opening, teasing you until you whine again, his other arm holding you in a headlock. “Oh, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice dropping into something thick and dangerous that sends another trail of goosebumps along your skin. “The things I’mma do to you…”
“Like what? Talking til– God!” You yelp, fingernails scratching the leather of the couch, panting when he drives forward, sinking into you in one long thrust that stretches you out so deliciously. Your vision goes white, your toes curl as your body molds around his thickness.
“Fuuuuck,” Dex groans. The man is heavy as hell on top of you, pinning you into the couch so hard you can barely move, but his body is actually shaking against your back.
He tries to stay still for you adjust, he really does. But he can’t help it. You feel too good. He needs more of this.
He needs more of you.
Dex buries his face in your hair, his breath hot and trembling. “You okay? Can I move? I need– Can I move? I can’t– I need you, please.”
Geez. Hearing him like that makes your stomach flip, knowing you’re the one who did that to him. You completely broke the most dangerous man in NY with just a bite and a pout.
The moment your hips tilt up, pushing back into him as an okay, he loses his mind. A broken and grateful little sound escapes him as he reciprocates, the arm around your neck tightening just a fraction over your windpipe.
“Yesss. Push back into me. Good girl. My good girl. Just like that.”
He flicks his tongue over the curve of your ear as his hips meet yours halfway, hitting the exact spot every time with that terrifying accuracy he usually uses in battle. Except you’re the willing participant.
You’re making all the embarrassing noises into the couch cushions as his free arm reaches down between your legs. He rubs his fingers in small circles where you’re connected, knowing it will drive you crazy. You feel like you’re gonna explode right then and there.
“You’re so good to me,” he nips your skin again, his pace getting faster and harder, the slap of skin on skin loud and dirty. “You want more? Please, just a little more? Okay, baby?”
You can’t even form words anymore. You just nod, blindly reaching back to pull him deeper. The room is completely gone. The dart game, the petty argument, and the half-assed threats? Gone, too.
There’s nothing but the loud, messy rhythm of you both losing yourselves in each other, and honestly, who cares?
Foaming at the mouf oh em gee
worm!reader ───worm on a string “a pocket full of nonsense”
accidental detours endless questions digging her heels in jingling keychains doodles on receipts random little treasures sitting too close stirring the pot questionable animal encounters
“Hypothetically asking...” “What if we need it later?” “I don’t see the problem.” “Lemme help.” “Can we keep them?” “Scoot over.”
───paired with Benjamin Poindexter, Dean Winchester, Shane Walsh.
Come say hi!
! the lore
Oh I’m sat
A teensy bit of a self indulgent ask!
I’ve grown up in a pretty patriarchal family (courtesy of being Hispanic) so my brothers have always been allowed to get away with a LOT by my parents. Like actions and the way they talk
My older brother in particular has always been very demeaning with his comments about my behavior and physical appearance and I’m the bad guy for defending myself!
How would Frank react to such a dynamic? 🫣
quick question -- who is your brother and where does he live, i just wanna talk to him.
Ok but Frank has zero tolerance for this.
Maybe he witnessed it first hand at a family barbecue. He was meeting your extended family and while most of the interactions seemed innocuous enough, Frank picked up on the general sense that there was an unspoken hierarchy that he... wasn't a fan of.
In favor of keeping the peace for you, he bit his tongue when maybe he typically wouldn't. It was the little jabs here and there that compelled him to turn on the charm and redirect the conversation or place a firm hand on your low back and say "Wanna show me around the garden doll?" just to get you out of an annoying conversation.
But it's when your older brother made a comment about your body that Frank managed to make the summer barbecue feeling downright icy.
"Brave of you to wear that dress," your brother scoffs, using a finger to flick at the hem, "got a lot of skin on display don't you think? You think you're fit enough to be showing your arms like that?" he adds, his tone suggesting exactly what he thought.
This was enough to make Frank stiffen in rage, opening his mouth say something but your brothers speaks up again, saying "You always were the fatty in the family," with a hearty chuckle.
Just as the color is flushing your face, Frank plants a kiss firmly on your temple and stoops to murmur in your ear, "Go wait in the truck while I have a word with your brother, alright sweetheart?" He gives your hip a soft squeeze and gives you a nod to head to the car and you oblige, thankful for Frank's ability to read your mind.
Frank paints on his most charming smile and takes a step toward your brother, offering his hand and saying, "Don't think we've had a chance to formally meet. Frank," he says with an outstretched hand that your brother takes under the false pretense that Frank was someone in agreement with him, an ally. That belittling women was something all men did.
Frank grips his hand like a vice, yanking your brother toward him and pulling him off balance. Your brother tries to protest but it turns into a pained grunt as Frank smashes his fingers so thoroughly that the bones crack in his hand. Your brother hisses through his teeth at the pain and Frank keeps the smile on his face, his posture broad and comfortable, as he speaks quietly into your brother's ear, saying "I catch you speaking like that to your sister ever again, this is only an appetizer compared to the shit I'll do to you, understand?"
Your brother tries to protest, grasping for his remaining dignity but when Frank senses his resistance, he smashes further, bending the hand back at an unnatural angle at the wrist. Your brother lets out a string of explicatives as Frank adds, "I don't like waiting asshole. Am I understood?"
Your brother huffs out a desperate, "Y-yes, yes I understand." Frank releases his hand and claps a broad hand to your brother's back, barking "Smart man," in a friendly gesture completely at odds with the pain he just inflicted.
Your brother is panting out breaths, looking at Frank in terror and confusion. "Now go apologize to your beautiful sister jackass," Frank adds before stalking off toward the truck where you're waiting.
When the ordeal is over, Frank doesn't offer flowery reassurances or poetry to you. He places a firm hand on your thigh, starts the car and asks, "Lemme get you home sweetheart." You nod, knowing full well that your brother's scared apology was Frank's work and your heart swells. Frank spends the rest of the night showing you exactly what he loves about every damn inch of your body.
I MAY or may not have been the anon haha, love it!!
MÉXICO WINS 2-0 so now I’m thinking of a soccer AU with Dex
Ik we saw what happened when he got benched as a kid but as an adult we also see he’s MOSTLY been able to reel himself in (until DDBA)
The coach uses him as a last resort in games and he’s such an aggressive player there’s at least one yellow card per game
You’re the cute assistant coach that he dedicates his goals to and revolves his entire life around
Fans make fancams of you intensely talking to him and the rest of the team and he’s just staring at you with heart eyes like that man is NOT listening he always makes his goals anyway
I’M MISS AMERICAN DREAM SINCE I WAS SEVENTEEN
A little piece while I try to get out of my writing slump! MVFOM will return, just a bit stuck atm. Have this piece of ex-popstar! Reader, who is very important to me. Might consider a part 2!
w.c. 1.3k
cw: no use of (Y/N), Fem! Reader, toxic industry standards, allusions to grooming, mentions of anxiety, Reader is a mutant but isn’t a main focal point, slight mention of Nelson & Murdock, doesn’t exactly follow canon DD timeline so slight divergence, a lot of backstory, typical Dex behavior, not completely proofread
ex-popstar! Reader who, at 12, was uploading videos of your singing.
ex-popstar! Reader who was snatched up by one of the top labels in the industry after a talent agent discovered the videos. Training to be a solo act began swiftly and ruthlessly; your days started as early as six in the morning and ended as late as three in the morning. Everything was monitored, from your meals down to your breathing.
ex-popstar! Reader who, at 14, debuted after singing the opening song for a teen show on a popular television network. Your label released a music video with you singing and dancing the song, which quickly got unimaginable hits.
ex-popstar! Reader who was completely unrecognizable with your bright outfits and hair (all wigs). After your first year of fame, you officially released your first album. A smashing success to young audiences. Everyone wanted to know who was this girl that was taking the industry by storm.
ex-popstar! Reader who, by the time you were 17, released 3 albums, 5 EPs, multiple music videos, and your label was rolling out merchandise. Your face was plastered on youth magazines and people clamored for interviews. Your label coordinated your collabs and PR 'hangouts' with actors and children of celebrities that were your age.
ex-popstar! Reader who had a script drilled into your brain for every interview to not embarrass your label. Some white lies here and there had the masses eating up your alleged tragic past.
ex-popstar! Reader who started to dislike it after the first couple of times. Your mother was always lovely to you, you got along with your peers before leaving for stardom, you weren't rich but your mother worked hard to provide. Why did you have to play the role of some kind of Cinderella?
ex-popstar! Reader who, when you turned 18, toured for the first time. Your outfits were as bright as ever but they had less…cloth to them. You learned breathing exercises before every show so your hands stopped shaking and you stopped fidgeting with your skirts.
ex-popstar! Reader who continued to tour, both domestically and internationally, and earned titles of 'Pop Princess' and the 'Sweetheart of Pop'. As you got older, an uneasiness started to overtake your passion for art. Your label manufactured dating rumors, scandals, and paid off paparazzi. Any friendship you thought you had with other popstars were quickly slashed by said rumors. Any exposure is good exposure.
ex-popstar! Reader who, when you turned 21, realized something was wrong after a particularly bad anxiety attack in your dressing room. Your eyes clenched shut and your hands gripped your head to stop the thoughts. BOOM! Sparks flew from your body and short circuited the lights in your dressing room. Your hands clasped over your mouth as your body shook. Cries from outside made you stumble out to see that the entire building's lights were out. No one knew it was you.
ex-popstar! Reader who started to get tired of the same preppy, cutesy songs your label made you perform. It strained your throat pitching your voice every time. Secretly, you recorded songs that you wrote with your real voice, pouring your heart out on how trapped you felt. Your first act of rebellion was burning the songs into CDs and going out in disguise to donate them to thrift stores. You couldn't bring yourself to depart from one, though.
ex-popstar! Reader who started a lengthy legal battle to cut ties with your label. Through the smallest legal loophole, you were finally your own person at 28. You quietly disappeared and your label scrubbed away any affiliation with you. Fans speculated what happened to you and many genuinely thought you had died.
ex-popstar! Reader who lived an extremely private life since then with the support of your mother. You went more than a decade caked in makeup and wearing every single color of the rainbow. When you went out, no one looked at you twice with your real hair and natural features.
ex-popstar! Reader who, in your mid thirties, got the shock of a lifetime when your ex label came back with a vengeance. They demanded you pay back every cent they invested in you. An anxious wreck, you searched high and low for legal representation and landed on Nelson & Murdock.
ex-popstar! Reader who tearfully begged the two men that you'll pay them anything, just please help. While one looked wary because of the potential sensationalization of the case, the blind of the pair agreed to represent you. You didn't know he could hear your rapidly beating but truthful heart. You also smelled strange, a bit like ozone. He was curious.
ex-popstar! Reader who was advised to lay low. After grappling for years with autonomy, you were stubborn and still went out with a cap and hoodie. You'd started a habit of going to vintage stores and thrifting. You cringed every time you searched clothing racks and found a donated piece of your merch.
ex-popstar! Reader who is looking at DVDs, cassettes, and other physical media. When you shuffle around DVDs of children's movies, you freeze at seeing a CD. It had the title of a song and a small elegant signature in the bottom of your initials. Not your stage name or those stupid titles. Your real name.
ex-popstar! Reader who was so awestruck that you flinched when the CD was swiped. You turn your head and meet the hazel eyes of a man with dirty blond hair. You tried to bargain for it and he would not budge. You even followed him out, trying to convince him that you were the artist's biggest fan, and he still wouldn't budge. You even brought up that you had the same initials so obviously it was fate, and he simply stated it was coincidence.
And he said to stop following him. You eventually sighed and caved, seeing how bad of an impression you've made for this stranger. You switched gears and apologized, asking for the name of the guy you've bothered for multiple blocks now. He raised an eyebrow, but humored you.
He introduced himself as Dex.
You parted ways with one last playful taunt that you were still the artist's biggest fan and you bet he didn't have all 12 CDs. You kept one, after all.
When Dex arrived to his apartment and obsessively checked his collection, he almost seethed at the fact that you were right. He only had 11, including the one he just got. Who even were you? An illegal use of FBI resources led him down a rabbit hole of your true identity.
It was you that soothed him when Dr. Mercer's recorded sessions couldn't?
It was your voice that spoke to him at such a deeply personal level that pierced his soul?
His anger at your audacity melted into mortification at the fact that he of all people didn't immediately recognize your voice.
He had to find you again.
ex-popstar! Reader who is going about your day again until you feel that prickly sensation at the back of your neck every time you felt paparazzi following you. Your heart raced as you rapidly glanced around. You didn't see anything particularly unusual, but now you're anxious. Did your ex label send people after you? An attempt at a smear campaign? You quickly headed home, not once noticing Dex perched on top of a building.
ex-popstar! Reader who doesn't even notice your CD is gone until you find a knife embedded in your wall with the engraving 'I'm your biggest fan'. You immediately turn it over to Nelson & Murdock as potential evidence against your ex label, fearing they're now threatening your life. You miss Murdock's clenched jaw as the secret vigilante recognized the knife's design. What was Bullseye up to?
Dex was actively stalking you now. Most nights when he watched you sleep, he'd have his headset over his ears and connected to a CD player that played one of your songs.
Turns out, your ex label is insidious enough to send people after you. It's just that no one ever got past Dex.
☆ Put this star into the inbox of your favorite blogs - it's time to spread positivity!
ehehehehe i hope your day's greattt
OMG I just saw this thank you cutie! 🥹🫰🏻
i have an idea!
Dex plays pew pew video games with reader and they kick his ass the whole time.
"this is rigged!" he yells, pushing the keyboard away, his face turning to another shade of red. yes, you taught him to say that, too.
the dilemma: i'm not a gamer so my knowledge on this topic is limited. i'm afraid you might know who i am when i write about that ONE game from my childhood. it was only published in my country, plus, the Bullseye fandom is small and close-knit here. i've seen my friends interact with my posts before and i'm embarrassedddd. that said, i'm working on it as we speak huehuehuehue
He would somehow have the same energy when playing Minecraft and Stardew Valley with you
I’m getting second hand embarrassment writing about fbi! Dex in my story WHY IS HE SUCH A LOSER (affectionately)
Dex is a lingo thief.
He mimics everything you say.
You just learned a new catchphrase? Now you both have a new catchphrase. Even when you're not around, he still uses those stolen words every chance he gets.
"Okie dokie," you said on your first date. Since then, he hasn't stopped saying "okie dokie" after briefing Nadeem on cases, earning the same weird look from the fellow agent every single time.
You're annoyed at first. "Dude. Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"
Dex doesn't answer, but a week later, you catch him calling another agent "dude" over the phone after they screw something up.
And just like that. Your words? Being stolen again.
After a while, the annoyance turns into fondness, and you start teaching him what to say and when to say it.
Honestly, it's kinda cute.
Dex has social media, but he hasn't been keeping up with trends. He's there only because you're there. So when he comes home one day and casually drops a slang you've never taught him, it makes you pause.
"Where did you learn that?"
"What?"
"What you just said. Who taught you that?"
You swear his head grows bigger when he straightens up next to you on the couch. "I can be hip, you know."
You burst out laughing, head falling back against the couch, hair brushing his arm. Dex narrows his eyes at you, heat creeping up his neck, but he doesn't move away. He likes being in your space. "What's so funny?"
"Hip," you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. "Nobody says that anymore."
Turns out he's been secretly looking up "Slang terms and how to use them like a pro" because he thought you'd like it. You always say things he's never heard before.
The tips of his ears turn pink, and it only makes you laugh harder. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer. He automatically shifts so you can sit in his lap, your hands looped behind his neck.
"Hip," you repeat and peck a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, where a smile is threatening to appear despite his fluster. "You're hip. The hippest person in the world."
A crooked smile finally tugs at his mouth as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck to avoid your gaze. The embarrassment lingers, but your laugh and sweet kiss quickly melt it away.
"No," he murmurs, his voice muffled by your skin. "You're the hippest person in the world."
