#WHAT THE FUCK BLOOD HANDPRINT ON HIS SHOULDER JESUS FUCKING CHRIST
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Sometimes I like to think Peter confessed to trouble one night after randomly barging into her dorm room thru the window, bleeding in like 20 dif places, and while she’s frantic asking what the fuck happened looking for a med kit he’s high off adrenaline and is like “SPIDER-MAN. ME SPIDER-MAN.” and she’s just like “what the FUCK did you just say?!”
it makes me giggle
-🪼
😭😭😭 i could imagine this fr. like, he was on the brink of blacking out, bleeding out and dying and all he had was you because may is at minimum, thirty minutes away.
peter leaves a bloody handprint on your window when he pushes it open, then collapses to your floor while heaving for air. you nearly jump out of bed at the sound, terrified and ready to call peter because who the fuck entered your room through your window in the middle of the night?
except it’s spider-man, and you jump into action, getting to him in two steps and hitting the carpet with your knees.
grabbing his shoulder, ‘oh my god, oh my god, spider-man, are you okay?’ he’s not okay, he’s dying on your floor.
peter doesn’t have it in him to play pretend, he rips the mask off. you gasp and throw him back into the wall, peter groans.
‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the-‘
‘trouble, please.’
you run around, your mom packed you a first aid kit when you moved to college, you’ve never used it. now you need it, where the fuck is it?
‘what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, peter?’
he’s clutching his side, there’s so much blood.
‘this is why you’re not allowed to do this, you promise me right now you’ll stop.’
‘you know i can’t,’ he gasps for air, ‘do that.’
‘oh what the fuck, this isn’t happening. what the fuck, this is how you told me? i mean, what the fuck?!’
‘you’re doing a great job at handling it, super stellar.’
you throw a towel at him, he holds it to his worst laceration.
‘don’t you dare get upset with me, you’re the one leading a double life showing up to my fucking window at deaths door. jesus christ, peter. what the fuck!’
‘can i please get a bandaid?’
you find the kit, you tear the plastic and open it.
‘you need a fucking trauma unit.’
peter pulls out a roll of gauze, then motions towards his suit, ‘do me a favor and get me out of this.’
‘oh my god, am i dreaming? this isn’t real life, you’re not real.’
peter’s struggling to free himself, you help while dazed. your brain is melting. ‘is this a bad time to ask for an autograph?’
he stares at you. you blink back.
peter can’t believe he has to say it. ‘yes. it’s a terrible time.’
you pull the suit down to his hips, he’s cut a million different ways. ‘so, is that a no?’
peter wraps the gauze around his arm and tears it with his teeth, the sight makes your heart thump, he looks up at you. ‘don’t you dare get turned on right now, that’s sadistic.’
‘you’re hot when you’re bloody.’
‘oh, jesus christ. fucking cauterize me and you can live out your fantasies.’
you grab a handful of bandaids and a tube of neosporin. ‘on it.’
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Promptober: Day Nineteen
Steve Harrington x fem!reader
900 words.
“Christ, you’re-”
A gasp, a curse, a groan.
“Baby,” Steve breathed out, eyes closed, head thrown back as you planted kisses along his throat with an urgency he’d never seen from you before. “Baby.”
The bathroom door had barely closed before you’d locked it and backed your boyfriend up against it, hands pulling at the zip of his costume, a Top Gun-esque flight suit covered in patches. You’d long stolen his sunglasses, forgotten somewhere on the kitchen counter, hidden by empty beer bottles and sticky solo cups.
“What?” You panted, pulling away long enough from the boy to stare up at him, lips pink and glossy, eyes blown wide.
Your ‘dead’ cheerleader outfit was leaning more sexy than scary, the fake blood you’d smeared on the pleats doing nothing to deter from how short the skirt was. And when you’d turned and flashed him the ruby red spankies underneath before you’d left for Heather West’s party, Steve had bit down on his cheek and prayed.
He felt the same way as you stood before him then, hands clutching at his shoulders, tits ready to burst out of the crop top you’d cut slashes into, the stain of his own smeared handprint on your midriff, painted in the same red as the blood on your skirt.
You’d told him it was for the outfit, but Steve just saw it as another way to mark you up as his.
You were still staring up at him, waiting, the sounds of the party a dull thump from behind the bathroom door and suddenly, Steve couldn’t remember what he was going to say.
So instead, he managed, “c’mere.”
You moved back into him with a renewed need, curling your fingers into his hair as his hands cupped your jaw, titling you the way he liked as he licked into you, kisses greedy and fast, both of you well aware that it would only be a matter of time before someone would be hammering at the door.
Steve turned you, pushed you back against the wood and you could feel the thumpthumpthump of the bass against your bones, the vibrations of the music that played downstairs on your skin.
The boy made quick work of kissing you breathless, swallowing your sighs and gasps, teeth tugging at your bottom lip before sucking a bruise to the slope of your neck. His fingers tucked themselves into your spandex shorts, took them down with him as he dropped to his knees.
You were certain you’d never fucking forget the sight of Steve Harrington on his knees before you, tucking your underwear into his pocket as he raised a finger to his lips, telling you to keep quiet. His hair was wild, eyes blown, lips pinkier from your gloss and Jesus Christ, he was a pretty picture.
His fingers curled themselves behind the crook of your knee, lifting your leg to hook over his shoulder as he moved into the space between your thighs.
Steve pressed his nose to the space under your belly button, kissed the soft skin before moving lower, mouthing at the crease of your thighs. He groaned when you whined, threading your fingers into his messy curls, pulling his lips to where you wanted them most.
He wasted no more time licking into you, hitching your leg higher to spread you wider, brown eyes looking up at you as you gasped and twitched your hips with every pass of his tongue.
Outside, there was a smash of broken glass, the glittering sounds of the shards scattering across the floor and then cheers. You were breathing heavily, pulling almost meanly at your boyfriend's hair, whimpering at the moans he pressed to your clit, his palm squeezing roughly at the thigh he held over his shoulder.
“Steve,” you stuttered out, “baby, fuck, I—”
“Close?” He hummed, barely pulling his mouth from you, the word ghosting over the wet between your legs and it made you shiver. “C’mon sweet thing, give it to me, lemme see you come.”
His free hand that had been pulling at your hip, urging you to rut down onto his mouth moved to circle a digit around your entrance, one finger, two fingers, a white hot stretch that made you bow over Steve’s head, pushing his face into you and it only made him suck harder.
“That’s it, there you go, huh?”
He ran his mouth between licks and kisses, soft sweet touches of his lips despite the filthy things that came out of them and he didn’t stop until you were crying, pushing at his forehead as he overwhelmed you, fucking his fingers into you as you came.
You tasted yourself and the bourbon he’d been drinking when he stood back up and kissed you, sloven and urgent, thumb pushing at your cheek as he tried to touch you everywhere at once.
And then, like clockwork, as you tugged at the zipper on his suit, someone outside started thumping on the door.
It was barely eleven o’clock but neither of you tried to hide your neediness as Steve squeezed his eyes shut and blinked at you, pupils blown.
“Wanna go home?” He asked, pushing his hips into your palm.
You were still nodding as he led you out the bathroom, your free hand holding your too short skirt against your ass, your underwear peeking out of Steve’s pocket like a scarlet letter.
#steve harrington#steve harrington x you#steve harrington x y/n#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington fic#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington one shot#steve harrington fluff#steve harrington smut#steve harrington imagine#steve harrington blurb#steve harrington x reader smut#stranger things fic#upsidedownwithsteve's promptober
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thinking about dean not even realizing cas left a handprint on his jacket until later. maybe he went into the bathroom of that abandoned bar to compose himself for a second, saw it in the mirror and he broke down all over again, curled up against the tile wall, not even caring about how gross the floor was. And he eventually pulled it together and stood to splash some water on his face, eyes not leaving the handprint in his reflection. And maybe before he left, he hestiantly ghosted his hand own hand over the one on his shoulder. But he soon found himself tightly squeezing the stained fabric, unable to resist before forcing himself to face Sam and Jack again, with bloody, busted knuckles, leaving a broken mirror behind.
Or maybe he didn't even realize until they all went back to the bunker, and he caught his reflection out of the corner of his eye when he walked into his room. And he ripped the jacket off and tossed it to the floor as far away from him as possible, but the handprint was still visible. And slowly his feet dragged him over to it and he sunk down to his knees, picked it up with shaking hands and shoved his face into the fabric. And he stayed there until he had no more tears to cry, so he went to find a drink, but not before he carefully folded his jacket and placed it on his desk, handprint visible.
#ive definitely made this post before but i cant find it ashdkahd#s13 and s6 cas death parallels haha i hate it here#dean breakdown<3#hi i made myself very sad im literally. oh gOd#LITERALLY WAS IT MISH OR JENSEN OR RICHARD I DONT CARE THEY WERE SO FUCKING SICK FOR THIS#WHAT THE FUCK BLOOD HANDPRINT ON HIS SHOULDER JESUS FUCKING CHRIST#bec speaks#dean winchester#9 months#castiel#15x18#despair#destiel
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Fic: The Nightmare That I Call Myself
His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.
He just wants to feel something.
But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing.
Because he was dead.
+
Or, five times TK wakes up disoriented and confused, and one time he wakes up knowing he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Mature | 5.1K | Also on AO3
A/N: Haven’t written a word in two months, got this idea when I woke up this morning and now here we are, 10 hours later. The muse does what the muse wants. Hope you like it!
------
Someone’s screaming.
TK’s eyes fly open, the red and blue lights from his lamp in the corner adding to the confusion that he’s currently feeling. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on his chest, and when he closes his eyes again to try to make it all disappear, all he sees is smoke and dust and collapsing buildings on fire.
It’s the same thing he’s been seeing on TV for the past few days, even though his mom changes the channel as quickly as possible whenever he’s in the room.
“TK!”
His eyes open again, finally focusing on his mom as rushes into his bedroom, the sudden lights causing him to blink against their harsh brightness. Before he knows it, there are arms wrapped around him, firm hands on his back, and a soft voice in his ear.
“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. You’re okay, it’s gonna be okay.”
That’s when he finally realizes that the screams are coming from his own mouth.
He stops instantly, his throat raw, but he can’t quiet the sob rising in his chest. He buries his face in his mom’s shirt, pressing against her, kind of hoping that he can disappear into her, where he knows he’ll be safe.
He closes his eyes again, and a new image appears behind his eyelids:
His dad. Covered in dirt and dust and blood, his firefighter’s helmet falling from his head, his eyes dark and empty and so different from their normal blue.
“Dad,” he croaks, his voice weak and full of pain. His heart hammers in his chest, thud thud thud. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”
“Oh, honey, he’s okay,” his mom says, her fingers running through his hair and scratching his scalp gently, a shiver running through him. It helps to pull him out of his head, the fear disappearing at her touch. “He’s just in the other room, he’s okay.”
“Can I go see him?” he cries, the words getting lost in another sob. She understands him, though, like she always does. She’s his mom, so she always understands him.
“Of course, sweetie,” she says, holding him closer. “Let’s calm down a little bit though, before we go see him. We don’t want to scare him, do we?”
TK shakes his head, following along as she shows him how to breathe deeper. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, but it doesn’t feel as heavy now. The elephant has been replaced by something smaller. A gorilla, maybe, or something like that. He gets so distracted thinking about all the different animals that he’s seen at the zoo, that he almost doesn’t notice when a different pair of arms find their way around him.
He does recognize the smell, though. His dad’s soap has a really special smell.
“Daddy,” he cries, more tears finding their way to his eyes as he pulls his head back to see those familiar blue ones. They aren’t as bright as they were before, but they’re more alive than they were in his nightmare. His dad gives him a small smile, pulling him into his arms and against his chest.
“I got you, buddy. I got you. I’m right here.”
He focuses on the sound of his dad’s heartbeat, hears the way the soft words rumble through his chest. His mom is still there, too, her own fingers crawling up and down his back.
Eventually, they all lay back down, his body tucked between the two of them. He reaches out, grabbing on to each of them, pulling them even closer.
He hears them whispering above him, but their voices sound like they’re at the far end of the big, long tunnel, so he doesn’t really know what they’re saying. He watches the lights from his lamp slowly dance across his ceiling, watches as they catch on the corner of the twin-sized firetruck bed that surrounds them on all sides.
The next morning when he wakes up, he tells his dad that he wants to change his room. There’s a sad look in his eyes, but he just gives him a hug and helps him pack some things away.
-----
Someone’s knocking on the door.
TK lets out a groan, his stomach rolling. Even through his eyelids, he can see that the sun is up and pouring in through his bedroom windows, his mother’s sheer curtains doing little to keep the daylight at bay. The air around him is stale, sweaty, and smells like sex and weed. He scrunches his face, trying to stave off the nausea.
The knocking gets louder, and that’s when he realizes that it’s not at his bedroom door, but further away. Probably on his mom’s front door. Fuck. He’s going to have to get up and answer it before the neighbors complain. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with his mother when she gets home.
He throws the thin sheet off of himself, the blast of cool air making him aware of his nakedness. The back of his hand comes in contact with something solid to his left and he opens one eye to see tanned skin covered in various back tattoos under a head of shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. His gaze moves lower to take in the bare ass resting on top of his mother’s 800-thread count sheets, the outline of a handprint barely visible on one cheek. With a disgusted scoff, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of his bed, the stranger now behind him and out of sight.
He instantly realizes his mistake as his stomach somersaults and he barely has time to notice the empty vodka bottle on his nightstand next to a little bag of white pills before he empties it onto his rug-covered floor.
He’s stumbling naked down the hallway towards the bathroom to stand under the water for the next hour or so when his brain refocuses on the knocking on the door. Now that he’s out of his room, he can hear his phone vibrating incessantly from the pocket of his jeans where they lay on the floor by the couch. He can now also hear a familiar voice yelling through the door to accompany the knocking.
“TK! I know you’re in there, I tracked your phone,” his dad yells, his knocking turning into an intense pounding. “Open the damn door!”
With a “Calm the fuck down, Dad,” TK stomps towards the door, throwing it open. He can’t help the satisfaction that crawls through him at his dad’s shocked face as he takes him in. TK doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; it’s not like this beats the time his dad accidentally walked in on him having sex with his high school boyfriend a few years ago.
“Jesus Christ, TK,” his dad huffs, pushing him back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him, obviously trying to maintain some sense of privacy. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
TK doesn’t reply, just stands before him with his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Well? You gonna say something?”
“What are you doing here, Dad?” TK scoffs, rolling his eyes. He immediately regrets it, as the action causes a sharp pain to flare up behind his eyes. Remembering his previous goal of drowning himself in the shower, he turns to walk back down the hallway. “Mom’s out of town, you don’t have to pretend like you give a fuck about me. There’s no one around to impress.”
“Yeah, I know your mom’s out of town, that’s why I’m here,” his dad says, and TK can tell from the consistent volume of his voice that he’s following him towards the bathroom. “You obviously can’t be trusted by yourself for more than a day.”
“Oh, fuck off,” TK yells, rounding on him. “I’m right here, aren’t I? It’s not like I’ve gone missing and you’ve found me dead in an alley or something.”
His dad glares at him for a moment. Then, with a raise of his eyebrow, he points a finger at TK’s face. “You’ve got some vomit on your chin.”
TK feels a blush crawl up his neck, but before he can say anything, his dad turns towards his room, pushing open the door and walking in like he’s been invited to do so.
“Dad, wait!”
It’s too late. His dad has already stepped inside, taking in the scene. TK cringes as the smell of vomit hits his nostrils.
“This a new boyfriend of yours?” his dad asks, gesturing to the naked guy still passed out in his bed. TK says nothing, having no desire to share that he has no idea who the guy is, or that he can’t even remember his name.
His dad circles around the bed, his hand coming up to cover his nose as he spies the puddle of puke on the floor.
“You’re paying to have that rug cleaned,” he says, turning towards the large bay window and throwing it open.
“Where do you get off telling me what to do? This isn’t your house anymore, Dad,” TK spits out, but it comes out with less fire than he had hoped. The smell is really strong here, and the room has started to spin again. He starts backing away towards the bathroom, knowing he’s going to need the toilet in just a minute.
“Not a boyfriend then,” his dad says, ignoring his question. He’s made it over to the TK’s side table, where the evidence of his drug-induced evening sits. He watches as his dad grabs the bag of Oxy, waving it around before pocketing it. “Your mother is going to kill you when she finds out you brought your drug dealer into her house.”
“That’s mine, I paid for that,” TK says weakly, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to be here right now, he doesn’t want to be anywhere right now. He wants the room to stop spinning, he wants the stranger in his bed - the one he let touch him in ways that make him suddenly feel incredibly unclean - to disappear, and he wants his dad to stop looking at him like he’s regretting the day he was born.
(But hey, TK thinks, the familiar nasty voice in his head taking center stage, at least you finally got his attention.)
His dad is across the room and standing in front of him by the time he mentally checks back into the present moment. Before TK can say another word, he’s shoving a pair of clean boxers into his hands, a look of intense disappointment on his face.
“Take a shower, son. You stink.”
And with that, he steps out of the room, leaving TK to stare at his vomit-soaked carpet, his unwanted hookup, and every other regret he doesn’t have it in him to name.
------
Someone’s pounding on the wall behind his bed.
He comes to with a gasp, lurching forward in his bed. His breathing is out of control and he claws at his chest, trying to get a grip on his lungs, to squeeze them until they burst. It’s not like they’re working correctly anyway, he thinks as he struggles to breathe through an airway that he swears can’t be any wider than a coffee stirrer, so what’s the point of having them at all.
His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.
He just wants to feel something.
But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing.
Because he was dead.
The image of his prone body on the floor, unmoving, just a mass of useless limbs and wasted potential, flashes through his mind, unbidden. He chokes out another sob, reaching up to fist his hands in his short hair, his nails scratching at his scalp. He recalls a time in his life when his mother would run her fingers through his hair, grounding him with love-laced scratches. How it would settle him, how it would focus him, how it would remind him that he wasn’t alone.
He’s alone now. She’s not here. It’s just him, and the addict screaming and pounding on the wall in the room next door.
Her face comes to him, the one she wore the last time she saw him, the lines of graceful aging marred by fear and hurt and hopelessness. All for him. All because of him. All because he couldn’t get his shit together. All because he couldn’t handle his cushy, privileged existence, with his middle-to-upper class accepting parents.
All because he didn’t want to do it anymore.
Except, he does. He really fucking does. He’s felt that high of life, the one that he can get without the help of pills. He’s loved before, he’s given his all to love, and sure, it didn’t last, but it was good. It was freeing. It was worth it.
He wants to find that again. Find the people that make it worth it again. Find his purpose. He knows it’s out there, he knows it’s waiting for him to get his shit together.
He’s twenty years old and he’s nearly killed himself, but he’s not dead yet. He’s not done yet.
He’s not fucking done yet.
So, yes, he’s here and he’s alone, with only thin walls and an uncomfortable mattress to call his own. But, if this is what he needs, if this is what is going to help him find out where he goes next, then it’s worth it. It’s all going to be worth it.
He cries himself back to sleep, back into the darkness, back into the moments that will haunt him for the rest of his life.
This time, though, as he gives himself over to rest, his lungs expand to fill his entire chest, his airways now clear and fulfilling their purpose, reminding him just how alive he is.
------
Someone’s shouting.
There are a lot of voices, but they all sound muddled and confused. There are hands on him, pressing down hard against his chest, and now that he’s noticed them, he also notices the most intense fucking pain that he’s ever felt in his life, right below his collarbone. It hurts so bad that he wants to scream, he even goes as far as opening his mouth to do so, but he’s not sure if anyone hears him; he’s not even sure he hears himself.
His eyes flutter open when he’s suddenly lifted into the air, the pain spiking to new heights. He sees shadows crawling across his vision, shapes that amount to nothing more than blobs of mass. There are so many of them, and they’re all moving so fast. Too fast for him to really pinpoint.
“TK!”
Those two letters - the two letters he knows better than any others - swim through the molasses to punch him in the eardrum, and he instinctively looks towards the sound. He finds his father there, his face pinched and sweaty and terrified. It’s a familiar face, one he saw just a few months ago actually, one that he never, ever wanted to see again.
Fuck. Another overdose.
But even that doesn’t explain the sharp pain in his shoulder. He looks around, trying to figure out his surroundings, trying to make sense of all of this. He’s clean, he knows he is. It’s been hard, but he’s in a better place now. He’s with better people now. He’s truly felt like he’s finding himself, finally, after all of these years.
There’s no way he threw that away. There’s no way.
He forces himself to focus, to figure out what the fuck is going on. He turns to see Captain Blake on his left - well, his left, her right, maybe, he doesn’t know. She’s barking orders, and he follows her arms down to find her hands pressed to his chest. He wants to shout at her, tell her that she doesn’t need to push so hard, that she’s really fucking hurting him, but he can’t speak. Just like his scream before, his voice is trapped inside of him.
He looks up to see Marjan above him, lines of tears running down her face. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away, just lets them fall as her bottom lip trembles. He focuses on it, wants to tell her that it’s going to be okay, wants to reach out and rub her shoulder gently. But, as hard as he tries, he can’t seem to do that either.
He’s stuck in a world where he can’t do a single damn thing.
Suddenly, the blurry ceiling above him gives way to what looks like a wood-covered porch, which quickly gives way to the night sky. It’s all fuzzy, but he swears he can see stars up there; he never really got to see stars before moving to Austin, save for the inconsistent trips he would take outside of the city.
He likes seeing the stars. He likes the open vastness of it all. It makes him feel equally too large and too small, which is honestly a really freeing, confusing feeling.
There are blue and red lights painting the trees overhead, and he’s reminded of his childhood room, with his firetruck bed and his color-changing lamp that would soothingly move from red to blue, just the way he liked. It feels so long ago, but he remembers it so clearly. It’s the only clear thing he can see right now.
He can tell he’s fading away again, his short reprieve to the land of the living coming to an end. The voices are still both loud and muted, but he no longer cares what they’re saying. The pain is reaching his maximum capacity, the edges of his vision turning white.
It’s okay, he thinks. It’s all going to be okay.
He feels his head drift to the right, and he swears he sees a familiar face, proud nose and perfect lips under a head of soft brown curls and soulful eyes that have seen deep into the very heart of him.
He smiles, perfectly content with Carlos being his final thought before he goes.
------
Someone’s coughing.
It takes him no time at all to realize that it’s him, that he’s the one hacking up a lung. He feels like his chest is on fire and he can’t take a full breath. There’s heat all around him, flames painting his surroundings an unrecognizable, hazy orange. The bed is gone, the dresser is gone. It’s all vanishing, lost to the fire.
But that’s not what causes him to panic, that’s not what stops his breath. That’s not what threatens to shatter him completely.
Carlos is among the flames.
They’re crawling up his body, latching on to his blue shirt, the one that TK thinks makes him look completely unreal. Well, truly that’s anything he wears, but blue always makes Carlos look soft.
It makes him look like home. The greatest one that TK has ever known.
And now, TK watches as his home catches on fire, unable to move, to step forward, to pull Carlos to safety. His boyfriend watches him as the flames rise up between them, his eyes wide and full of fear, his chest heaving from the breaths that he just can’t seem to catch. TK wants to yell out, tell Carlos to come to him, that they can get out of this together if they just hurry, but every time he goes to speak, a cough climbs up his throat, burying the words inside of him.
He knows he’d be crying if he could, but the flames have stolen his tears from him, too. The flames are going to take everything from him. Everything that matters, packaged inside one wonderful, miraculous, unexpected person.
And before he can even blink, Carlos is gone, swallowed whole, no trace of the man that TK chose to give his entire heart to. He’s gone, and TK desperately wants to follow him.
There’s a creak above him and he has just enough time to look up before the entire ceiling comes down on top of him, granting him his final wish.
He jerks awake, the coughs relentless as he folds himself in half, trying to remove the smoke and ash from his body. It’s dark in the room now, the fire finally extinguished. Except, no, that’s not right, because as he looks around, he sees that everything is intact. Nothing burnt, nothing broken.
He reaches out blindly, trying to find Carlos in the dark, but he’s met with only air. He turns, taking in the empty space on the mattress beside him, the untouched pillow.
“No,” he gasps, shaking his head, and finally the tears come, no longer frightened of the untamable heat. “No, Carlos, no,” he sobs, pulling at the sheets, hoping that he can find him hiding somewhere in their depths. He claws at them, desperate, unhinged.
“TK!”
The voice is salvation, the timbre unmatched in its miraculousness. TK whips around, searching and scanning for the source. He lets out a cry when he finds him, standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but athletic shorts, a bright white towel pressed to his curls, water still trailing down his bare chest.
Whole, untouched, safe. His home.
And TK just loses it.
In seconds, he’s in Carlos’s arms, his firm hands pressed against his back as his shoulders close around him, encasing him. His lips press to the shell of TK’s ear, his voice pouring into him like lava, filling all of his cavities and crevices left behind by the nightmare that took Carlos away from him.
“I’m right here, baby, I’m right here, it’s okay.”
TK sobs, clinging to him, his voice piercing in the quiet of his dad’s guest room. “You were there and you were surrounded by the fire and I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t move, and I had to watch you, I just had to watch you go and then you weren’t there anymore, and it was like you were never there at all, but I couldn’t do anything, I just--”
“Hey, hey, Ty, breathe,” Carlos says, drowning out his voice with his own, pressing closer. “It was just a nightmare, we both made it out, we’re both here and we’re both okay. We’re both okay.”
“I… I can’t… I just…”
“Baby, you’re shaking, you’ve gotta calm down, okay.”
“I don’t… I can’t…”
“Here, lay back down,” Carlos says, loosening his grip a bit. TK shrieks, holding tighter. “It’s okay, trust me. TK, I need you to trust me.”
It takes him a moment, but finally TK lets him go. He closes his eyes, feeling the way Carlos lowers him back down onto the mattress. TK can still feel himself shaking, but before he can really start to panic again, he feels a weight on him, one that presses him firmly down, grounding him, holding him steady, from head-to-toe.
His eyes flutter open to take in Carlos above him where his face is pressed into his neck. He breathes, taking stock of their bodies, the way their hips rest against each other, the way Carlos firm thighs bracket his own. He brings his arms up around him, wrapping them around Carlos’s wide back before dragging one hand to the back of his neck and burying them in the soft curls there.
It’s a position he’s intimately familiar with, though unlike other times there is nothing remotely sexual about this situation. Carlos turns his head just enough to press his lips under TK’s jaw, dragging his nose along the light stubble there.
All he feels, all he sees, all he hears, is Carlos.
“Just breathe, baby. I’m right here. I’m all around you. I’ll keep you safe. Just like you kept me safe in the fire, just like you kept me grounded, just like you brought me back down when I felt scared and hurt and lost. I’m here for you now. It’s you and me, keeping each other safe, just you and me.”
He nods, letting Carlos drown him in his own form of a sermon, allowing the words to wash over him like a verse. He lets each syllable piece him back together again, remade in the image of the man he’s deemed worthy of loving him. The only man he will ever trust to do so.
He doesn’t need anything else, doesn’t want anything else. This is all he needs. This is all he will ever need.
Just him and Carlos, like this, forever.
-----
Someone’s snoring.
He comes to slowly, letting the world reintroduce itself to him. He hears music first, though it sounds tinny and, if he’s being honest, kind of grating. He shifts his hips a bit, feeling how the movement pulls against some tension in his lower back. He realizes he’s on a very hard surface and not at all on the very expensive mattress that he and Carlos splurged for a few years ago, when his husband started having his own fair share of lower back problems.
He opens his eyes, watching blue and red lights dance across the ceiling from the TV in the corner. A smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head slightly, amused for no specific reason. Blue and red, he thinks. He’ll never escape them.
He lifts his head just enough to see the children’s TV show currently playing to an audience of none. He remembers when Carlos, fully offended at Netflix asking if he was still watching the same show after a few hours, finally figured out a way to turn that setting off. TK will have to tease him about not turning off the autoplay function tomorrow morning.
He finally focuses on the snoring off to his right, a sound so familiar that he hadn’t really registered it before, his brain just accepting that it was there. He turns his head, his smile growing as he finds his husband asleep next to him, his head resting on TK’s outstretched (and now very painfully numb) arm.
Carlos’s face is so soft, so serene, his brows slightly furrowed, his crease between his eyes just a little more pronounced. His lips are parted just barely, allowing his shallow breaths to escape and fill the living room around them. TK stares at him, overwhelmed by his beauty, overwhelmed by the feelings that are spreading throughout his chest at the sight of the man before him.
Even in sleep, Carlos is mesmerizing.
TK glances down, his heart leaping at the sight of their little boy asleep between them, his face buried in Carlos’s shirt, his light brown curls resting against the pillow beneath him. Carlos has an arm draped over him, his fingers grazing TK’s arm.
A memory flashes in his mind, one from when he was much younger, of his parents surrounding him in much the same way as they all lay together on his firetruck bed. He remembers how safe he felt between them; how between their bodies, he knew he could never be hurt.
He’s surprised to find that he feels that way even now, even as a father himself. He knows it’s because of the man before him; Carlos’s presence has always meant safety to him. He doesn’t see that ever stopping. He wouldn’t ever want it to.
He scoots just a little bit closer, groaning slightly at the numbness in his arm. He holds his breath as his husband shifts, his eyelids fluttering open. Brown eyes meet green, and TK feels the entire world shift into focus in that single moment.
“Hey,” Carlos whispers, dragging his fingers gently along TK’s side.
“We fell asleep on the living room floor,” TK whispers, scrunching his face as he shifts again, feeling the strain on his hips.
“Actually, you fell asleep on the floor, in the middle of Paw Patrol,” Carlos corrects, his hand leaving TK’s side to boop his nose. “We just decided that we would rather stay with you than sleep in our incredibly comfy beds.”
“Your back is going to kill you in the morning, you know that, right?”
“I could say the same thing about your hips,” Carlos replies, raising an eyebrow. TK says nothing, just nods his head and rolls his eyes.
“Grace is taking him tomorrow night, so we can run a bath, work out each other's kinks.”
“The fact that you are saying that and it’s not about sex makes me feel so incredibly old.”
“I never said it couldn’t be about sex.”
TK feels his jaw drop, watching as Carlos’s eyes twinkle in the blue light from the TV. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his husband’s lips.
“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”
“I’d be offended if you weren’t, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”
TK drags the tip of his nose along the ridge of Carlos’s before letting out a sigh. “Now that we’re awake, should we move to our beds, save ourselves from total regret and bodily mutilation?”
Carlos hums, looking down at the bundle of limbs between them. “It’s up to you. I just want to sleep next to you, wherever you are.”
TK takes him in for a moment, the way his long lashes brush against his cheeks, the peaceful smile that pulls at his lips as he looks down at their son. It’s a stunning image, powerful in its perfection.
“No, I think we can handle one night,” he says, scooting closer. He does remove his arm from under Carlos’s head, replacing it with the throw pillow laying on the ground next to them. “Besides, I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
Carlos hums in agreement, wiggling a little closer and smacking his lips softly as he drifts off to sleep.
TK stays awake until Carlos’s soft snores drown out all possible distractions, the feeling of absolute love and certainty filling him with a heaviness that drags him back into the darkness of sleep, all nightmares kept at bay for now.
#tarlos#tarlos fic#911 lone star#tk strand#carlos reyes#I wrote a thing#5+1 fic#please let me know what you think - it's been a minute and I tried some new things
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Hurt
Here's a smol Hisoka piece I wrote while I was in the hospital waiting room. Not edited.
Pairing: Hisoka x Fem!Reader
Angst, Implied NSFW, Fluff if you squint
Word Count: 734
Warnings: Blood mention, Hisoka being a horny bastard
Part 2, Part 3
---
It was bad this time.
Blood dripped down his arms as he picked the lock to your house and pushed his way in, leaving a bloody smeared handprint on the pristine white of your front door.
Your relationship was... an odd one. He had taken refuge in your house after a fight that left him a little worse for wear, but the smile that split across his face indicated he wasn't anywhere close to feeling the pain just yet.
He didn't realize someone was home.
You had jumped out of your skin when you saw the beaten and bloodied man lounging on your couch with the eerie smile on his face, the bloodlust oozing from him making you want to turn and run out of your home as fast as possible.
But you didn’t.
Instead you looked over his injuries and treated them as best as you could, despite shaking from the pure presence that this man emitted. He was intrigued that you didn't scream that a stranger was in your house. That you didn't call the authorities and try to have him removed. Instead you patched him up as best as you could, and offered him a place to stay while he recovered.
Which led to your relationship now.
He would come in bloodied. You'd patch him up. He would leave.
You'd never get any notice as to when he would arrive, but you never complained.
Something he was thankful for, now that Machi refused to treat him anymore.
"Hello, darling" He rasped, stumbling into your living room. You glanced up from the book in your lap and gasped loudly.
He was covered in blood. Scratches and bruises littered his arms, and a long diagonal gash from his right shoulder to the lower ribs on his left side were the first injuries that caught your attention.
"Hisoka, are you fucking insane???" You all but screeched, jumping up from your seat and moving towards him. A deep chuckle left him as he watched your frantic movements, "So happy to see you too, doll."
You sat him down and knelt in front of him to assess the damage, but with the amount of blood soaking through his clothes, it was difficult to tell.
"You need to take off your shirt, I can't help you with it still on."
A smirk spread across his face as he stared at you through half-lidded eyes, "Only if you buy me dinner first, my dear". You rolled your eyes and stood, and making your way towards your bathroom for your first aid kit.
"Now, Hisoka."
He gave a wry smile to himself before he began to peal off the clothing, the partially dried blood making the fabric stick to his skin.
What a shame, he liked this outfit.
You returned swiftly with the kit in one hand, and a bowl with warm water and a cloth in the other, eyes widening when you finally got a good look at the gash on his chest.
“Jesus christ...” you whispered, placing the bowel on the floor as you knelt in front of him once again, “What the hell did you get yourself into this time?”
“Hmmm~ nothing too out of the ordinary” he held back the groan that wanted to make its way out of his throat as you dragged the cloth down his torso, “I was hired to dispose of someone, they put up the most wonderful fight.”
You shook your head, rinsing the cloth before going back to clean the gash, “I still don’t understand why you won’t just go to a hospital for these wounds.” Each drag of the cloth revealed more of the laceration to you. He would need stitches for sure, no doubt in your mind, and you weren’t equipped to handle that level of care. The chortle that left him gave way to a breathy moan when you slid the cloth down the length of the cut, his hand grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards him; making you fall awkwardly on his lap with a startled gasp.
“Plenty of reasons, my dear, but the main one being you.”
You craned your neck up to look at him with a glare, annoyed at his teasing disposition at a time like this. You all but cursed the mischievous look in his eyes.
“Hisoka-”
“Yes, darling?”
Damn him.
“That better be your cards digging into my ribs”
---------------
Part 2, Part 3
Tag List: @prettycutebunny, @luesi @my-child-gaara @mynameseri @trash-writings @shorkbrian
#riri writes#here y'all go#just a snack#hisoka#hisoka morow#hisoka x reader#hisoka morow x reader#hxh#hunter x hunter#tw: blood
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Dick Grayson Week: Day 4 - Bruce Hits Dick & Doesn't Get Away With It
The slap resounds throughout the whole cave. The bats fly off, disturbed, chittering. Tim drops his mug.
The crash of the mug does little to disturb Bruce, whose eyes flicker to where Tim is, on the opposite side of the cave, analysing a blood splatter pattern for a recent case, before surveying Dick, who is panting, head turned away from the slap. Tim can just make out the red outline of a handprint on his face.
"Right." Dick speaks, voice raw, even though he had barely raised his voice before being slapped. "That's how it is."
Bruce crosses his arms, cape sealing around him, shadows wrapping around him like shock is wrapping around Tim, clouding his mind, clogging his veins. Because, what? Did Bruce just hit Dick? Tim may not be Jason, but even he could tell that Bruce seemed to favour Dick above them all. Well, okay, this may have changed his mind a little.
Tim dared not move closer, but he strained his ears to listen in.
"You were irresponsible tonight Dick." Bruce growled.
Dick let out a tired laugh, and scrubbed at his face, the remnants of the glue from his mask peeling off like dead skin cells, "You say that every night Bruce."
"You disobeyed my direct orders and nearly jeopardised the entire mission. The mission we have been working on for months now!"
Frustration bled out into Dick's voice, "The mission? That's all you care about? Not Jason nearly taking a bullet to the shoulder?"
Bruce just gritted his teeth. Tim bit his lip. Sure, it was no secret that Bruce and Jason weren't exactly on the best of terms, but generally Bruce cared about all of his children's wellbeing. Right? Right?
Tim's anxious spiral nearly caused him to miss Dick's next words, low and quiet. "God Bruce. You could at least try to pretend to care."
Bruce's fists began to clench, a sure sign that he was getting ready to throw a punch. Tim's stomach clenched, knotting, anxious as Dick continued, "You know, I try, try so damn hard to tell the kids you care about them, that you love them, that you would go to the ends of the earth for any of them, even Jay and Dami. But God, would it kill you once in a while to prove that?"
Tim started to make his way over to them, watching as Bruce's anger climb, his jaw work, wondering where the hell everyone else was in this godforsaken family was, readying himself to intervene should it come to it.
"The mission-" Bruce started, a vein pulsing at his temple-
"Forget the fucking mission Bruce! Can you just try to be a good father to them!" Dick threw his hands up in anger.
Tim saw the punch before it came, saw every move telegraphed in horrifying slow motion. Bruce, pulling back his right arm, leaning on his back leg, following through with a right hook, and punching Dick squarely in the jaw with zero hesitation, nearly full strength, messy, uncoordinated, not at all like the cold, clean and efficient methods of Batman; no this was all Bruce, Bruce's rage, Bruce's anger.
Dick was knocked to the ground immediately, and before he knew it, Tim had run forward, disarming Bruce, sending him crashing to the floor, the element of surprise on his side as evidenced by the bare shock in Bruce's eyes.
"Tim-" Dick started, behind him on the floor, voice thick with an emotion Tim couldn't quite identify.
"What the hell was that Bruce?" Tim hissed out, bo staff extended, pressing down on his chest.
"Tim please-" Bruce raised his hands in a placating manner, expression softening as he looked up at Tim, "Let me up, this is just a simple argument-" But no, no it wasn't, Tim thought, feeling the adrenaline course through his veins, his brain replaying the hit over, and over and over again, in bright, 4k technicolour.
"No Bruce," Tim hissed, "That looked like a father hitting his son."
Bruce's face shuttered, "Tim, let me up. This is an argument between two adults-" He said in his Batman's voice, the tone allowing for no argument.
"How long?" Tim turned around, craning his neck at Dick, who had gotten up, looking guilty as he nursed the swiftly developing bruise on his jaw, "How long has this has been going on Dick?"
Dick glanced away, and murmured, "It's fine Tim, leave it alone, I can handle it."
"The hell you can!" Tim exploded, surprising himself.
"Tim," Dick said softly, placing a hand on Tim's shoulder. He hadn't realised he was shaking. "Let him up."
Reluctantly, Tim straightened up, allowing Bruce to gingerly get up. He scowled at the man, crossing his arms.
"Come on Tim." Dick was leading him away, movements non-threatening, in the voice that he usually used with victims. Tim hated it. He should be the one comforting his big brother after this, not the other way round.
"How long Dick?" He said immediately, when they were out of reach of Bruce, safe in the showers. Dick clenched his jaw and looked away. "Dick," Tim pleaded, his voice cracking, "Please."
Dick's face was turned away but his shoulders were tense as he said, "Since before Jason."
Jesus Christ. That was years. Dick would have been Tim's age or younger.
Tim sucked in a breath, "Do the others know?"
"No." Dick's reply was immediate, "And they're not going to."
Tim's mouth fell open in shock. "Dick, what? You have to tell them!"
Dick's fist clenched, "I said no Tim! They can't know. They need..." Dick paused, taking in a shaky breath, Tim's chest ached for Dick. "They need to think he's a good father, okay?"
Tim tilted his head to look at the tiled ceiling, helplessly. Dick had been dealing with this for years and none of them had ever known. The rush of pain and empathy for Dick nearly made Tim buckle to his knees. Instead he sat on the bench and quietly murmured, "And what if it was one of us?" Tim looked up at Dick, whose face held a micro expression of horror.
"He wouldn't." Dick answered, automatically, still determinedly defending Bruce somehow with such conviction that Tim didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry.
"You can't know that for sure."
Dick shook his head with a sad smile on his face, "I made sure I took all the hits for you all Babybird."
And God that just made Tim feel a hundred and ten times worse. How many hits had Dick taken for him? Tim could feel himself spiralling, guilt crawling up his throat, but he shook his head, attempting to refocus himself. Now was not the time, he needed to help Dick first, and then take a massive guilt trip later.
"I'm telling the others." Tim said decisively, and Dick's head shot up.
"Tim, no-"
"No Dick," Tim said firmly. "The others need to know. This has gone on for way too long. And I could never forgive myself if you-" Tim broke off his sentence as Bruce's punch replayed once more in his mind, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and the crash of Dick falling to the floor.
He wasn't sure what they'd with (or to) Bruce once the others knew, but he did know this: the batfamily sticks together, and robins don't leave robins left behind.
@dickgraysonweek
A rather late entry on account of the week coinciding with the exam period, however I decided to take a night off and write this! I've seen a couple fics with Jason reacting to Bruce hitting Dick, but I can't recall many with Tim, so I thought I'd write this.
My AO3 :)
#dickgraysonweek2021#dickgraysonweek#dick grayson#nightwing#tim drake#red robin#batfam#batfamily#she writes#dick grayson fic#dick grayson headcanon
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For @the-ever-present-julie, based off this tumblr post.
Five times Dean and Cas kissed and never talked about it, and the one time they did and still won’t talk about it.
Five.
It's not like Dean hasn't thought about it before.
That first month after he crawled his way out of his grave? He'd never told Sam or Bobby, but that entire month, hell, more like three, he'd been convinced that it was all just one of Alastair's tricks. That Alastair had moved on from the crude, visceral pleasure of blood and guts and shredded flesh to this—letting him dream, and then, right when he'd let himself believe it, that the impossible had happened, Alastair would take it away.
The sick fuck.
But two could play that game, alright?
Dean- Dean was good at this. Dean knew Alastair, like calling to like in the putrid depths of hell. Dean would find a way to trip him up, it was like that time with the djinn. Find the thing that didn't fit, the thing that was impossible to explain, and then tug at that thread until it all unraveled.
Well, he didn't have to look too far.
Castiel, angel of the Lord, who made his ears bleed, and his stomach swoop—well— come the fuck on, there was no possible way his mind could have generated this. This was Alastair, through and through, Alastair who had put him on the rack and taken more pieces out of him than he'd known existed, who'd worked him over and over and over, and somewhere along the way learnt enough about Dean that he'd—
The handprint buzzed and ached and tingled and Castiel's blue, blue eyes had looked right through him, and said things like you don't think you deserve to be saved, and if I tell you something, will you keep it a secret, I'm not a hammer, and no, this would not be the thing he let himself believe, this would not be one more way that Alastair broke him. In the backseat of his car, Anna had fitted her palm onto the scar, her delicate, smooth palm too small for it, the whorls of her fingers caressing the edges, and it had been electric, and all wrong, because it wasn't her mark that Dean carried on his friggin' re-hymenated body (it wasn't her who had gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, and Dean's body knew it in a way that Dean wasn't going to think about, let alone—)
That sonuvabitch Alastair would not break him with a fairy tale that innocent people told their children, angels watch over you, but his mother had not been innocent in all of this, had she, she had sold Sammy to the Devil, and Castiel had laid a hand on his shoulder (but had not touched his mark, why hadn't—) and had looked at Dean with something like sorrow, and didn't seem to mind when Dean called him Cas, brought him down to his level, and fuck, here he was again, out of options, out of luck, out of fuel, and his brother was someone he didn't recognize.
The sickest thing was how that was the part that had felt real, felt painful in a way that Alastair could have never devised. Dean's soul was putting himself in the hands of a demon bitch, and there was fuck all that Dean could do about it. This was how he broke then, in the words of a prayer, the first he'd ever said, and he hadn't known whom he was praying to, but it had been Cas who showed up, eyes bluer than any summer sky Dean had ever seen, face striated by the colours of a vending machine, and said, faith is a good sign, Dean. What was it a sign of, Dean would have liked to know, and it wasn't faith, not by a long shot, but what could a creature like Castiel have known of desperation? Castiel who stood close, too close, but had touched him only twice, who'd said, it's not blame that rests on you, it's fate, and yeah, that was fucking Winchester Gospel for you, cursed from the start, the two of them, before they were in the womb, born under a bad sign.
But Cas had helped, and Dean had begun to think—but of course, Cas left, and there was only poor, stupid Jimmy Novak, and then Cas was back, but not really, Cas was a stranger, and Dean didn't know when he'd stopped thinking of Cas as a stranger, and just, strange—
Dean had laid one across Castiel's marble-face that didn't shatter, tried, because what else could he have done? This is real, this is the only thing that's worth it and even before the disappointment of having Cas leave could sink in, the handprint had buzzed and ached and tingled as Cas pressed him against a wall and pressed a palm against his lips and then bled on the floor, for Dean, (whom he didn't serve) and Cas had said, I'll hold them all off, go save him, but of course it had been too late, because that was the story of Dean's life, too late, too late.
Cas comes back, and oh look, Cas has learnt what desperation means, after all. There's something wild in his eyes, that he tries to hide but doesn't succeed when he says, we need God, it's not theological, it's strategic, and if Dean had a moment to take a breath, he would have wanted to sit Cas down, and say, listen man, I understand it, but this is a road to nowhere, you're only going to waste your time, you gotta stop loving what can't love you back, and yeah, that'd have been hypocritical of him, but so what, that was pretty low down on Dean's laundry list of sins.
But it's the Apocalypse, and as it happens Dean's got his own shit to deal with, and Cas isn't his responsibility, so what if he just died for Dean or whatever, alright, Dean owes him, but not like that.
And now it's the end of the world, their last night on earth, and Dean's not too late to make Cas smile at him, confused but fond, and Castiel's smile is nothing like Jimmy Novak's. Cas is nothing like Jimmy Novak who'd just been a naive man in an ugly suit, and well. He'd promised Cas a good time, and Dean's not got a lot to give Cas, by way of thanks or comfort or anything, and what had Cas said that time? Everything on earth is pain, but that's only cause he doesn't know, the good parts, the best parts, and before Dean can chicken out of it, he's pressing Cas up against the Impala, and Cas is letting him, goes willing, pliant, staring at him, eyes wide, and Dean sees the moment it happens, the small hitch of breath he takes, that Cas, who doesn't need to breathe makes, and his eyes dart to Dean's lips and flash up again, and Dean's kissing him, and it's—riding a comet—
Cas doesn't know how to kiss.
But that's fine, that's a-ok, because Dean does, and Dean can show him, and Cas is a quick learner, zero to six hundred in twenty seconds or less, and now it's Dean who can't breathe except in loud, panting gasps, Cas's warm, strong hand wrapped with his around their dicks, not enough slick, a little too rough, too painful, perfect, perfect, and Cas is eating his face, teeth sharp and painful on Dean's lips, eyes still wide open and unblinking, the freak, but his gaze is hot and ferocious, and Dean's eyes flutter shut again on a moan, because Dean's burning, has been burning all this time, he realizes, for this, for—
Cas rips his sleeve off, jacket and shirt, both gone, and then his hand is there, and Dean's coming, wet, thick and nasty all over an angel's hand, he should be going to hell for this, except Cas hadn't let him stay there, and hadn't thrown him back, and this was real, Dean shuddering, face hidden in the crook of Cas' neck, trembling, his knees giving way, but Cas' got him, the hand on his shoulder slipping lower, around his back to hold him up, holding him in place, and Dean should— he should—
Four.
He wakes up alone in a motel room, and there is a tomorrow, and then the day after, but no Cas, and then there is two thousand fucking fourteen, and Cas is still there in the ruins that Sam and Dean made of the world , jesus fucking christ on a candy stick, Cas is still there.
Cas is broken, because Dean did that to him, and Cas kisses him, once, open mouthed and filthy, and then draws back and says, the day I decide to stay, make sure I don't, please, if you ever cared even a little, promise me, and then Cas goes off to die with even-more-of-an-asshole-future-him, because that's just how he rolls.
Three.
He shouldn't.
If that mook Zach's little thought experiment had taught him anything, it should have been this- that Cas was off limits.
That he shouldn't keeping finding ways to keep him close.
He shouldn't keep finding ways to kiss Cas, but that's exactly what he does.
The world's ending around them in slow motion and they are fucking.
They're fucking in dank, stinking alleys, blood running down Dean's chin, and Cas licking it up, and feeding it back to him, tongue practically molesting Dean's tonsils, fingers squeezing his neck, rubbing against each other fully clothed, until Dean's coming in his pants. They're fucking on stained bedsheets of grimy hotel rooms, lights flickering, crackling, every electronic instrument in a five mile radius gone haywire, the smell of ozone and jizz making Dean dizzier, as Cas pounds him through four successive orgasms, each more spectacular and painful than the last, Dean's body a limp rag after. They're fucking squeezed together in the backseat of the Impala, Dean hunched over Cas, occasionally knocking his head on the roof, but he can't stop, won't stop, nothing has felt this good, a thick fat dick inside him, filling up his empty places, and Cas slack-mouthed, and eyes closed under him, hands wrapped around Dean's biceps so tight that Dean's gotta wear long sleeves through the hottest summer in three centuries, so that Sammy won't ask.
Sam knows, of course he does.
Cas isn't subtle when he turns up, dishevelled, hair sticking out in five different directions, looking pissed off and tired; shrinking, somehow, but still with that crackling power about him, and not looking at anyone or anything except at Dean, like all the roads he's taken looking for God have only led him straight back to Dean. Sam's taken to clearing his throat awkwardly, and hot-footing it out of hearing range the moment Cas appears, and just as well, Dean doesn't have it in him anymore to be quiet, sprawled wide open on the bed, hands twisting in the sheets as Cas fucks him fuck, fuck, fuck, jesus fuck, if he hadn't already gone to hell, surely this would send him there, profaning this holy thing of god, whose tongue was made for songs of praise and worship, and is instead all the way up Dean's ass, dragging an orgasm out of him.
It's alright, he reasons, on the days Cas is gone, and Sam is there, but gone.
Cas and him, they're not so different after all. They're both the disappointing sons of deadbeat dads, and Cas is losing his wings and his faith at approximately the same speed that Dean's losing everything and everyone, and the world is going to hell in a handbasket, and there's no way to fix it, no way to undo it, and he's going to have to kill the love of his life, and if this is his consolation prize, he's going to take it.
(Dean loves taking it.)
Dean will take it and he doesn't want to talk about it, and hey, apparently, neither does Cas, so that's peachy, that's perfect, and Dean shouldn't, but he does, and Cas lets him, and he does, right until Sam gets thrown into the pit, and Dean doesn't.
Cas' grace knits him together, once more, and then he's gone, and so is Dean.
Two.
Cas comes back.
But he's more of a stranger than he'd ever been, even in that barn, what feels like a lifetime ago, and he won't talk, and sure as fuck won't listen, and his blue gaze when it meets Dean's is cool as lake water, as if Dean doesn't know what Cas sounds like, strung out of his mind with pleasure, from having Dean hold him down with a binding sigil and fuck him raw.
As if they'd never been friends, and perhaps they hadn't, that was just what it was like in the war, and the war was over, and so were they.
Cas is all impatience, and anger, and sullen resentment, brittle in a way that scares Dean if he really thinks about it, because it's Cas, and something's wrong, Dean can feel it deep in his bones, just like he knew with Sammy, but he—
Look, if Cas wants to reach him, he knows how to call.
But then it's too late (again) and there's a war (again, or it was never over, why is it never over), only this time it's Cas that Dean needs to kill, really kill, and fuck if he knows how, but in the end, all he can do is watch as Cas walks into the water, and all that's left of him is a stained, torn trenchcoat.
Dean keeps it.
He can't look at it, can't stand to, that entire year, but he keeps it.
And then Cas comes back (again), but then he's gone (again) and what had Dean expected, really?
And Dean's tired, ok, so tired, so tired and sick and done, and the war is still on—maybe he shouldn't have left Cas, maybe he should have tried harder, maybe he should have called, maybe it wouldn't have all gone to shit, if Dean hadn't screwed it up once again, hadn't failed—
"Cas" he says, squinting against the sun on his face, up at where Cas is perched on the roof of the Impala. "Why are you covered in bees?"
The air is filled with a humming that Dean's only 90% certain are the bees.
"They like me, Dean," says Cas, as though that were a reasonable explanation, and fuck knows, maybe it was, in that fucked up noodle of his. "They wanted me to stay with them."
Shit, fuck.
Dean rubs his hands over his eyes.
"You maybe want to come inside and talk?"
Crazy or not, they needed all the help they could—
Cas hops down from the car, and the bees rise up in an angry, buzzing cloud before settling back.
"Lose the bees first", says Dean, and then regrets it, when Cas stands before him naked as a new-born.
"Dude!" yelps Dean, "Come on! Where the fuck are your clothes?"
"I—", says Cas, sounding lost and forlorn as he stares down at himself. "I'm not sure. The bees didn't like them."
And fuck, like this, Dean can see that Cas is just skin and bone, pale skin stretched over prominent ribs, hip bones jutting out—
"Well, mojo them back from wherever you left them", Dean growls, "There's a sandwich in it for you."
Cas looks up, hopeful.
"Peanut butter?"
"Sure", says Dean and hopes to god the vending machine has something that resembles a sandwich. "But get some.." he waves his hands, not looking at Cas, because it hurts to see him like this.
There's nothing like a sandwich in the machine, so he ends up instructing Cas to wait for him in the room while he makes a quick run to the nearest store. He picks up some orange juice and bananas while he's at it, along with the bread, peanut butter and jam.
"This is very kind of you, Dean" says Cas, as he sits (fully clothed, in his hospital scrubs and trenchcoat), his hands in his lap.
"So, what, you need to eat these days?" Dean queries. "You look like you've just spent six months on a fad diet".
Cas looks away, up at the ceiling.
"The grace is more useful for other things" he says, "There's so much to do. So many creatures in pain. I forget to."
"Listen", starts Dean, because he can guess where this is coming from, hell, it isn't like—
"Is my sandwich ready?"
Dean slides it across the table, and watches as Cas wolfs it down.
There's a bit of jam that gets stuck to the corner of his mouth, and Dean gestures at it, and then, when Cas looks confused, reaches out to—
Cas flinches.
Dean freezes, hand stuck awkwardly in mid-air, throat closing up.
He leans back, withdrawing his hand.
"You've got some jam smeared at the corner of your mouth, like a goddamned three year old, Cas".
"Oh", says Cas, and it vanishes.
Dean swallows the guess you don’t mind wasting your mojo on that then, that sits on his tongue, and Cas finishes his sandwich, suddenly quiet, staring down at his sandwich, though it wasn't like he'd been saying anything before, but it's a different sort of quiet between them now, filled with all the things that Dean wants to scream at him, and can't.
Cas doesn't touch the bananas, but slurps the orange juice, loudly.
Dean watches as Cas licks his lips, tongue darting out to taste the last of it.
When he looks up, Cas is looking at him.
He feels his cheeks heat, caught out.
"You’re sweet", says Cas, suddenly. "Sweeter than all the honey in the world".
And before Dean can process it, he leans forward, brushing his lips against Dean's; a butterfly of a kiss, and then he's gone, in a quiet whoosh, and Dean's left alone, and when he wets his suddenly parched lips, he can taste the faint bitter-sour flavour of canned orange on them.
One
Well, Dean's not making the same mistake twice.
There's no way he's gonna leave Cas behind.
Where's the angel, he asks, as he hacks his way through Purgatory, where's the angel?
Cas, he prays, c'mon man. Don't do this to me.
Cas, please.
Once he gets slashed by something, some kind of hellbreed that seemed half werewolf, half vampire, and it's pretty bad, but somehow he manages to lose them, holed up high up in cave he'd discovered in some time ago. The view's spectacular from the ridge or would be, if the hills and valleys and forests weren't teeming with things that were out for his blood, and Cas'.
He manages the staunch the bleeding. The gash isn't too deep after all, but he's gonna have to stay put for a couple of days. But then the chills start, and he thinks, shit, shit. Starting a fire is a sure way to get killed, no way he's gonna be able to take on anything more dangerous than a field mouse right now, and fuck, he's exhausted, suddenly, and ok, this wasn't good, the ground seemed to be rushing up to meet his face—
He's warm.
Cocooned in the softest of embraces, safe, untouchable.
"Mom?" he whispers, "Is that you?"
A hand brushes over his forehead, light and gentle.
He struggles to open his eyes, which seem to be refusing to cooperate.
It's not mom.
"Cas" he rasps, bleary eyed, throat drier than a desert. "Cas?"
"Shh" says Cas, "You're safe now. Rest, Dean."
And it's true, Dean can feel it, cradled here in—Cas' wings, he thinks, sleepily, unable to hold on to the thought. Those are Cas' wings he can feel, sheltering, soft, warm.
"You found me", he mumbles, "I've been looking for you."
"Shhh", Cas rumbles, "Don't talk. It's alright."
"Cas."
A feather light press against his mouth, and then another, and then a third.
"I'm here", Cas whispers, "Dean. Rest now."
But when he wakes up, he's alone.
If it weren't for the healed gash, skin smooth and untouched, every aching muscle restored like he'd been checked into a fancy spa for a month, he'd have been certain he dreamt it.
Then they get topside, and he wishes it had only been a dream, and not one more thing he'd have to forget.
(Plus One)
Sam's here, finally.
Bobby had been right, time sure passed different around here.
Sam's here now, and it's perfect.
Almost.
Cas isn't around.
Or he's everywhere, but nowhere where Dean can see him, reach out and touch him.
When he asks around, he gets vague answers.
Ellen says, oh, I think Jack and Cas are in some other planetary system this week.
Two weeks later, by Dean's counting, Rufus says, you just missed him, boy, he was here helping fix my roof not half-hour ago.
Jack says, looking embarrassed, uh, I sent him on a mission, to, um, uh, Andromeda, and then, uh, I have to go, nice seeing you again, Dean, and vanishes before Dean can whup his ass for lying to his family.
Dean gets into the Impala; tells Sam he's got a supply run to make.
"You've got like a 100 cartons of beer, Dean", says Sam.
"Not beer, Sammy."
Sam gives him a long look.
Dean shrugs, look, it wasn't like Sam didn't know.
Sam nods, once, lips quirking a little.
"Good luck, then" he says.
Dean flips a finger at him.
"C'mon, Baby" he says, as he pulls onto the road, "Take me to him."
Baby's never let him down.
Of course, Cas has gone and set his feathery ass down somewhere on the highest mountain that Dean has ever seen, the top of it half hidden in a swirl of clouds. There's only a narrow trail, no way to take Baby up, so he parks her under the shade of a leafy tree of some species he's pretty sure isn't found on earth, and shrugs off his jacket, wrapping it around his waist.
Jesus, but Cas could be a real dick, and it wasn't like Dean didn't already know that, but, wow.
The trail is narrow, though not very steep, and the foliage dense for most parts, as he begins to climb. There's a river or a small waterfall somewhere, he can hear the sound of it, a muted roar. Up and up it goes, through plants and shrubs- or things that look like plants or shrubs, he can't be sure of anything here, he's realized. Occasionally, a small woodland creature of indeterminate origin will cross his path. Some of them stop and stare. One or two get experimentally close, while he stands as still as possible, and lets them acclimatize themselves to his scent. The foliage isn't dense enough to block out all sunlight, and every now and again the path will emerge onto an outcrop of rock and grass, probably intended as a rest-stop for the weary. Dean's only slightly out of breath, though the air gets cooler as he goes higher. But the sun is warm enough for a sheen of sweat to form, making his t shirt stick to his spine.
He sinks down onto a convenient grassy knoll and takes a few breaths. Clouds float lazily over the valley below, that stretches out farther than his eye can see. The river he's hearing winds through it, clear and blue, through acres and acres of green and violet, and brown and red. He turns his face up toward the sky.
Was it possible to get sunburn in Heaven?
Well, he was going to find out.
He turns his head a little.
He's about half way up the mountain, he estimates.
Given the position of the sun, he's been climbing about three hours.
Making me work for it, huh, buddy? Dick move, Cas, gotta tell you that.
Something rustles in the grass near him: a tiny grass snake, slim and green.
Snakes in paradise, wow, wasn't that theologically wrong or something?
But it gives him a beady eyed look and slithers over his outstretched palm and then away, unbothered, leaving behind a fleeting sense of dry leather.
Dean sighs.
"Cas?" he says, softly. "You're waiting for me, right?"
He doesn't know what he'll do if Cas isn't.
The thought makes his heart triphammer in his chest, fear gripping it.
What if he was too late, again?
But he's got to believe that he's right about this.
That he's here because Cas is ready, finally, to let Dean find him.
In those years after Purgatory, they'd never managed, somehow to make it work.
Every time Cas left—every time Cas came back—it got harder, somehow, to say, don't go, please, I need you, forgive me, stay.
Dean- he'd just become angrier and meaner, falling deeper and deeper and this was a grave that even Cas couldn't pull him out of. And then, when he'd been ready-almost—that second time in Purgatory, it had seemed like Cas wasn't ready, though surely, he knew, why else had he stopped Dean—
But the joke was on Dean, because Cas hadn't known, and then it had been too late. Cas was slipping through his fingers one more time, beatific in his joy, as he threw himself into the pit for Dean, and Dean had known, had known, that it was the last time.
When it was all over, he had waited.
Hope was a thing with feathers.
He had waited for Jack to bring Cas back to them, to Dean.
But Jack hadn't.
No way that Jack hadn't sprung Cas from the Empty, there was just no fucking way that would have happened, so that meant that Cas didn't want to see Dean.
And alright, maybe Dean deserved that, maybe that was his penance, and he would do it, gladly.
He wouldn't complain, and he'd go through the rest of his life with a piece of him missing, and it was what it was, there were things you couldn't undo, there were sorrows that had to be borne.
On the bad days, after a hunt that went wrong- there were, after all, still some of those—he'd lie in bed, every tendon and muscle and bone aching, and when he closed his eyes, he'd try to will himself back there, to that cave in Purgatory, the safety and comfort of Cas' shelter, and the sweet press of his lips against Dean's.
Sweeter than all the honey in the world.
He blinks awake.
Apparently he'd taken a nap, though given that the sun was still steadily beating down on his face—and yes, you could get sunburn in heaven, thanks for nothing Jack—it hadn't been too long.
It takes another two hours, and he's almost giving up hope, wondering whether he's going to end up just spending the night alone on this mountain after all, when he breaks through a particularly dense grove and finds himself in a middle of a garden.
The garden- in flagrant, dizzying bloom around a cobbled stone path that leads to a small wooden cabin nestled against the wall of the mountain- has an occupant.
Dean feels like his breath was punched out of him.
My true form is as tall as the Chrysler building, Cas had once said, the lying liar that he was, because he's probably twice as tall. He's all iridescent wings that span twenty feet either side, and a dozen wheels spinning in different directions and something that looks like blue flames trailing the edges of his wings, and Dean is—
Jesus.
Cas turns toward him at that, and Dean senses his-shock?- before the almost unbearable brightness dims slowly, coalescing into a familiar shape.
"Not quite", says Cas. "Hello, Dean."
Dean's feet seem locked to the ground, and Cas doesn't make a move toward him either.
"Hi", Dean breathes out, the air rushing out of his lungs with the word. "Cas."
Cas has switched out the trenchcoat and suit for comfortable looking pair of white linen pants and a loose short tunic of sky blue, that match his eyes, and there's what looks like a week's worth of stubble along his jaw.
"Heaven can't afford a razor?" is what Dean says next, like the idiot he is.
Cas' eyes crinkle. "I've been told it makes me more attractive".
What, who- no- fuck.
Dean's already up in Cas' space before he realizes it.
"Who told you that?" he rasps, and up close he can see the flecks of grey in the stubble, and at Cas' temples, and yes, it made him breathtakingly hot, but damned if Dean was going to— "They were lying, just so you know."
Cas is smiling at him.
"Dean," he says, softly.
Dean reaches out to run a finger against his jaw, going against the grain, ends up with his fingers resting lightly against Cas' cheek, just under his ear.
"You’re a dick" he says, softly, "you know that?"
Cas nods.
"I've been" starts Dean, and then finds he's out of words, takes a shuddery breath instead, furiously trying to blink away the wetness in his eyes.
Cas's hands cup his face, warm and sure, and he draws Dean's forehead down to his.
"I know", Cas says, softly. "But I would do it again if it meant I saved you. I would do it all again."
"I should have told you," whispers Dean, "I'm sorry I wasn't brave enough."
"Dean", says Cas, softly, "You've always been enough."
Above them the sky starts turning a fiery orange as the first of the suns starts to set.
Cas' wings- which he hasn't tucked away- take on a metallic shine, but they feel warm, and safe, just like Dean remembers.
Dean kisses him, softly, once, then again, then again.
"Sweeter than all the honey in the world", he whispers, glad that there's nobody to hear this but Cas.
"You don't even like honey", says Cas, after a moment. "You never let Sam put any in your tea."
Dean draws back.
"You don’t remember", he accuses, genuinely horrified.
Cas' brows draw together in a frown.
"What?"
"You kissed me! And said—well you said what you said! Back in the day when you were all crazy!"
"Which time?"
Dean groans, thumping his head onto Cas' shoulder.
Cas buries his nose in Dean's hair and tucks him closer in his embrace.
"I remember" he confesses, quietly, after a moment. "But I thought you'd want to forget it."
"Cas", Dean, sighing, as he turns to nuzzle the soft, tender skin beneath Cas' ear, placing a small kiss there, as he presses closer. "Let's never talk about this again, ok?"
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Big Plans
“You know shit’s never gonna fucking change, right?” Jason makes to grab for his Zippo. Remembering Dick will happily remove his nuts from his waxed sack for even contemplating smoking inside Dick’s apartment, he stops. His fingers twitch with irritation, nothing like a little nicotine deprivation to start the day. “Gotham’s a gothic nightmare where corruption runs thicker than blood and Blüdhaven’s worse, somehow. Like looking in a funhouse mirror. Uglier. More warped.”
“I really do enjoy our little morning pep talks,” Dick replies, closing the last two buttons on his dress shirt before tucking the fabric into the waistline of his pants. In general, Jason would say he prefers the Kevlar-enhanced, ass-hugging suit Dick prowls the night in—but there’s something to be said for a crisp, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, forearm veins on display. He doesn’t know how the Blüdhaven criminals are faring but, personally, he wouldn’t mind letting Detective Richard Grayson slap some cuffs on him. Let Dick work him over hard in a surveilled box until Jason cracks, raw and bloody under the harsh fluorescent lights.
“These fucking places,” Jason grumbles, tired and cranky from watching Dick getting ready to leave, all that warm, gold skin about to slip right out the door. “It’s not something anyone can fix. Nothing short of dropping a bomb on the damn place and razing it to the ground.”
Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s getting longer, strands brushing the bone of his jaw. He’s no stranger to this; Jason and the trash he talks. Words pouring out of him sharp as knives, the blades full of blood. Just endlessly spewing shit.
“No point to it all, huh?” Dick leans a hip against the dresser, arms folded, eyebrow raised. There’s an ease to him that’s inherent; the way he owns his body, his space, every room he’s in. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to lure me back to bed.”
Jason thinks it over. Admits, “not originally,” and lets his legs fall apart slowly. Nude body lounging against cheap, synthetic pillows, he’s got Dick’s low-rent sheets strategically draped across his crotch, all tasteful and shit. Just like the Renaissance paintings cluttering the hallways of the Wayne Manor. None of the shameless, naked peacocking Dick gets up to after sex. No, Jason’s classy. Artful. The signature Jason Todd brand. “But are you feelin’ down to fuck?” he asks.
Dick throws his head back and laughs. Really fucking laughs. Eyes scrunched up and shoulders shaking, all charisma and beauty and warmth. Laughing like that, it’s suddenly easy to see how a group of metahumans chose Dick as their leader despite his lack of superpowers or how the Blüdhaven Police Corps would accept him as their own despite him being the ward of Gotham’s favourite billionaire asshole. There’s something about Dick like there’s something about Bruce. Something captivating and inescapable that would make you launch a thousand ships for them. Burn down entire worlds for them. Jason’s not sure Dick’s aware of that. And in a way, Jason thinks he understands the Joker better than Bruce ever could.
Dick’s laughter fades too slowly, and Jason would be annoyed but there’s a tightness to Dick’s pants that wasn’t there two minutes ago, and Dick’s always laughing. Joyful and happy. Like those are easy feelings to conjure and easy feelings to have. As if getting out of bed isn’t like crawling out of a dark pit every morning and as if life isn't like taking a suckerpunch to the gut, over and over.
“Wish I could,” Dicks says, and Jason swears he sounds like he means it. “But I got big plans today. Gotta save a city.”
“‘Save a city.’ Jesus Christ. More like go get shanked in the gut.”
Dick shrugs and slips on a watch. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
The other bats all have their day jobs. The Police Detective, the Socialite, the rising Tech Wunderkind, and Jason’s personal favourite: the Student. Jason derives no small amount of pleasure from knowing that Bruce and the Demon Spawn get to suffer through the worst of it. Like an ill-fitted suit, Jason hopes it pulls and itches every time they’ve got to slip their disguises on. It shows how removed they are from the rot and the grit and the filth of what is Gotham. The gore at the core of it all.
That’s where Jason lives, at its epicentre.
He’d fallen into it naturally, being a crime lord. It had been a logical first step when he’d come home, head full of green fumes and rage. He’s proud to say, he puts the organized in organized crime. Outshines even the worst of them in calculated vicious violence. The crime part of the job, Jason can admit he’s gotten more discerning about. There’s no peddling drugs to kids or bleeding junkies dry, no people traded like cattle, and he doesn’t like selling guns to the lowlifes clogging Gotham’s streets. So, he’s become a parasite instead. Infiltrates a crime organisation and eats it from the inside out till it finally collapses. Scraps the dead beast for parts and money.
It’s not something Jason talks about with this version of Dick. His shady deals, his underground moonlighting. Never with a cop like the one making his way to the bed right now, uniform tight over thick thighs and a sway in his hips that’s nothing less than sexual warfare.
“Try smoking in my bed again, Todd,” Dick warns, looming over him. He stops whatever threat he was going to utter, disrupted by Jason grousing at him to fucking let that go already. Perfectly pleasant, Dick does exactly that. Just stares at Jason with a face far too naked and utterly too fond. Something’s creeping under Jason’s skin at the sight of it—an itch he doesn’t know how to scratch, unable to decide whether he wants to kiss the prick or break his perfect face instead.
A little lower, there’s a bruise peeking out of Dick’s collar that looks like a handprint. Jason had put that there last night. Violently. Not even the fun kind of violent but the messy kind. The kind where something hunts Jason through nightmares and his body acts before his sleeping brain has had the chance to catch up—that kind of violence. Maybe a better person would wallow in the guilt and remove themselves from the situation. Not Dick and Jason. They just get better at hiding the batarangs and guns. The 200 pounds of well-trained muscle and murderous reflexes are a little harder to counteract but Dick’s no babe in the woods. Besides, Jason’s not exactly the first lethal bitch between Dick’s bedsheets.
Dick smiles. A teasing thing full of soft edges. “Mornings are hard. Aren’t they, Sugarplum?”
“Fuck you to hell.” Jason groans with feeling, hating the hard lumps of Dick’s mattress when he sinks back into them. “Just get lost already, Birdbrain. There’s no fucking point to you with your clothes on.”
“Nice to know I’m not completely useless.”
Jason wants to fight that far too favourable self-assessment. Would fight it, were he not half a pack of Lucky Strikes and three cups of coffee short of mustering the energy. Which is also the only reason he’s letting Dick press an off-centre kiss to his forehead. A shitty place for a shitty kiss from a shitty person, if you ask Jason. Very much Dick Grayson’s style.
“Try and behave, Little Wing.” Dick’s already moving away from the bed and shrugging on a jacket. “I really like this place. Got three South facing windows and none of the neighbours run a meth lab.”
“Prime Blüdhaven real estate,” Jason mutters darkly.
“Glad we’re on the same page.” Dick takes one last look at himself at the mirror, shoots Jason a tacky wink because his existence is a curse, and promises under his breath something that sounds suspiciously like I’ll be back or I’ll miss you. Another twenty seconds later and Jason hears the front door lock click back into place.
His day is wide open now.
There are things to do but there are always things to do. At any time, Jason’s got about forty things in various stages of motion. Always working on something. Someone. Bigger games than the one he’s running on Dick right now, lighting one up in his bed.
Blowing smoke up into the air, Jason decides that today he’s going to crack the safe Dick keeps behind the panel in his closet. Perfectly harmless, really. Just him fishing through some of Dick’s case files—maybe even solving a few, if he’s feeling charitable. And for tonight, there’s that Malaysian place three blocks over that does a better Rendang than anything he’s found in Gotham. Dick never shuts up about it. Like he’s never going to shut up about the cigarette smell seeping into the wallpaper.
Jason smirks. Solid options. He still has last night’s terrors painted on the back of his eyelids and the feeling of Dick’s neck under his hand but they’re slowly fading. And Dick’s got him covered, said he’d take care of the big plans, so Jason doesn’t have to. And next time, when Jason’s Dick and Dick’s Jason, he’ll have Dick covered too. Jason will tackle the big plans while Dick raids Jason’s fridge and leaves wet towels all over his apartment. Jason knows it’ll happen. It has happened. Just not today.
Maybe tomorrow.
----------------------
@wethatake thanks for being the beta and basically a co-writer. You suck but I love you. <3 Here’s to hoping that your sad little sack of a co-worker doesn’t kill you. XD
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Deal with the Devil: Ch. 7
Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Fighting, Blood, Descriptions of Death, Fluff, and Explicit/18+ Content at the end (Indicated by **).
Characters: Thomas Shelby x Isla Maxwell (OC)
Word Count: 3,953
Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | *7* | 8 | 9 | 10
When it came to matters of the head and the heart, his aunt Polly always told him his heart was weakest. Knowing that one pretty face could render him useless in an instant. He’d also been plagued with having his fathers temper and his mother’s wit, often causing an internal war as he fought against the two.
Heeding Polly’s comments, he ultimately chose his weakness. Therefore, deciding to write the letter as soon as he and the children got home the next morning, telling her where to meet him and when. Keeping her name all to himself no matter how many times his family pestered him about it.
As the date neared, Thomas decided on dark suit, along with wearing his peaky cap and dusty black coat as usual. The one thing that was different though was the finger that once held his gold wedding band. It felt lighter as the rings imprint caused a red band to form around his finger, the last remaining mark of what he once had.
Meanwhile, Isla decided on a black dress and tweed coat, nothing to garner too much attention, or so she’d hoped.
After stepping out of her quaint apartment, she drove to the address in the letter. It was a few miles out, in Small Heath. The dark area giving off a haunting feeling that seemed almost calming to her cold heart. Once parked, the Garrison’s doors beckoned her as she neared the place, her stomach doing flips as she entered.
It was a bit packed for the evening as she adjusted to the rowdiness of the crowd. The yelling and the sharp sound of glasses breaking reminding her of why she didn’t go out much in the first place. But she figured it was better this way despite her uneasiness, considering she did her best work at night.
“Hello miss! Can I get you a drink? The bartender asked loudly as she stood at the end of the bar surrounded by drunken men.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic please.” She said, feeling slightly over dressed for the local pub.
“Here you are. On the house.” He said, disappearing further down the bar before she could ask him why.
“I.” A deep voice called from near her.
Her stomach dropped as she downed her drink and nervously turned around, her eyes scanning the crowd to see a man she didn’t recognize, only confirming her fears.
“Who are you?” She asked, her eyes glaring at him as she felt for her gun.
“Easy now. You didn’t think I’d just let you go to town without me...especially after what happened with those men.” The man said, walking towards her with a menacing smile.
Instead of screaming and causing a scene, she decided to play a little game, knowing this wasn’t the first time someone tried to take her down at her leisure.
“Right. How about we go outside, love. It’ll make this a little more fun.” She said, taking his hand roughly and leading him out the door. Not many people were outside but too many were near for her liking.
“Let’s go over here it’s more quiet.” She said, leading him to an alley.
The man kissed her suddenly, shoving her against the cold brick walls as she struggled to grab his wrists.
“Now...I’m just taking what my friends didn’t get to have. You see “I”......we know who you are. Soon enough Mosley will too, so it’s either you face me or him.” He said. She giggled in his ear as he said that, earning a hard slap to her face. After a moment, she spit out blood, speaking softly as her busted lip stung furiously.
“You’re all the same, one more stupid than the other no matter how many of you I kill. Tell me sweetheart...When I kill him, will the rest of you die too? You seem to all share the same brain.” She said as the blood dripped down her mouth.
As she smirked at his offended expression, she decided to distract him with a frantic kiss. Causing him to loosen his grip enough to where she could break free. In a swift motion she came up behind him to twist his arm almost enough to fracture it. His yells filling the air as people around them turned their heads. He begged for her to let go, but she continued as she worked her way to gradually putting him in a chokehold.
“He’ll have to do better. Because this was a sorry excuse, love.” She said, hearing him gasp in pain as she loosened her grip slightly, placing her arm around his head and cradling his chin with her other hand.
In the distance, Thomas saw the scuffle but got there only in time to see her swiftly breaking the mans neck, the few patrons nearby scattering away.
“Isla...” He said quietly, watching as her face turned blank. Barely registering the blood on her face as she dragged the man up to where he was leaning against the wall.
“Don’t talk to me Thomas.” She said, a cold look in her eyes as she spat the words at him. Reaching to retrieve the guys wallet and anything else he had on him, including a valuable looking pocket watch.
“Who was that?” He asked, noticing the bleeding cut on her lip and the red handprint on her cheek. His jaw clenching as he stared at the man who hit her.
“Just another one of Mosley’s men. But you knew that didn’t you?” She asked, angrily.
“No...” He said shortly, grabbing her arm lightly.
She shoved his hand off her arm and forcefully twisted it, shoving her gun to his head in the process. Her fiery gaze boring into him.
“Tell me how one of his fucking followers knew I was here you god damn bastard or I’ll shoot you without batting an eye.” She said, her eyes blazing as she clicked the gun.
“I haven’t told anyone the plan except my family because they deserve to know. I know Mosley’s been here in the past but we’ve never taken out all his men. He must’ve followed you.” He said calmly, not even flinching at the sound of the gun, nor his hand being twisted.
“Do you swear?” She asked.
“On my mum’s grave I do. This is too big of a deal for me to fuck this up. You of all people should know that.” He said quietly. Grabbing the gun quickly before she could think to fire it.
“Can’t have you shooting everyone.” He said, ushering her towards the pub.
“Oh fuck off!” She said going towards the washroom as Thomas stood near the bar.
Arthur came up, confusion evident on his face.
“S’that the writer Tommy boy?” He asked, already tipsy.
“Yes Arthur. Yes it is.” He said, staring at the door waiting for her to come out. Arthur laughed and patted him on the back, leaving the second oldest Shelby to his “date.”
As minutes passed, he decided to go in to check on her but the lock on the door stopped him in his tracks. With a loud knock, he spoke. The drunken patrons making it harder to hear.
“Can I come in?”
“I said fuck off.” She yelled, the faucet running as she cleaned off her mouth, the water turning a familiar shade of red as she did so.
But not a moment later she heard the lock being messed with.
“Being your partner sucks Tommy.” She said as he managed to unlock it, waltzing right in.
“How the hell did you get a key?” She asked, not looking in his direction and wincing slightly as she stitched the small wound on her lip closed, a bottle of whiskey near her that she snagged from one of the tables.
He leant against the counter as she finished up, taking a sip of the whiskey before speaking.
“The Shelby’s own this bar love, I have keys to almost every place in Birmingham it seems.” He said fiddling with it in his hand.
“Have you come to kill me or to apologize?” She asked, wincing again as she took the bottle from him, taking a swig of the brown liquid.
“If I was going to kill you I would’ve shot you as you walked away from me.” He said, sweeping a stray hair from her forehead as she finished up her stitches. The sudden contact leaving goosebumps on her skin that she tried to hide by adjusting her coat.
“In all honesty, I truly don’t know who that man was or why Mosley would be putting people after you, but if you need help next time please don’t handle it yourself.” He said.
“I’ve pretty much handled all this myself, so I think I’m doing just fine.” She said, looking at him as he smirked.
“And I don’t know how you don’t know this yet, but I’ve had people after me for quite a while now so it doesn’t surprise me that he’s finally catching on. Maybe Mosley and his sheep want to play our little game after all.” She said, taking the bottle from him and putting her gun back in her holster.
“So this is it then?” He asked.
“Yes. I’ll see you at the next meeting, Tommy.” She said, patting him on the shoulder before walking out the door.
As she stormed through the Garrison, she didn’t bother to notice his brother Arthur, who practically had to pick his jaw up off the floor.
“My god Tom. If you haven’t found your person yet I think you just did.” He said taking a shot.
“Christ Arthur.... I need you to stop fucking drinking and get Johnny and them out here. She killed a man in the alley and we need him taken care of. Now.” He said quickly, trying to keep up with her as she walked out to her car.
“Wait...” He yelled as he got closer.
She stopped in her tracks and sighed, the cigarette smoke escaping her lips as she turned around.
“What? Come to see me off?” She asked as he walked closer.
“Just making sure you’re alright.” He said.
“You worry too much Thomas Shelby. I’m going home, either leave me be or get in.” She said, getting into the drivers side and starting the car.
“You’re not safe. If we’re going to be working together I’m going to need you safe.”
“You don’t understand....You’re just as safe as I am.” She said, adjusting her mirror.
“What do you mean by that?” He asked, putting his hand lazily on the roof of the car.
“Jesus Christ Tommy... Get in before I run you over.” She said, rolling her eyes and patting the seat next to her.
Thomas sighed and stomped out his cigarette, mumbling to himself as he got in.
“You talking to yourself?” She asked.
“I was just saying a prayer in case you planned to kill me, love.” He answered sarcastically, shutting the door as she drove off. The streets growing empty as the night drug on.
“If I wanted to kill you I would’ve done it already Tommy....What I was saying though, was that this is all very simple.” She said, her eyes straining to see in the dark.
“Mhmm.” He mumbled, lighting another cigarette.
“You kill bad people, and I kill bad people. We both have the same motive...and we both have something others want. The people after me want revenge. What do the people after you want, Tommy?” She asked.
He thought for a moment, rubbing a hand over his tired face. Knowing he was a wanted man for many reasons.
“To kill me I suppose...to finally take my crown.” He said quietly. Isla smirked as she glanced at him before returning her eyes to the road.
“Exactly. Both of those are a deadly combination. If I’m not safe even getting a drink at my leisure then how are you guaranteed to be safe? You’re working with me, so you took this risk. Therefore, you’re in just as much danger...tell me Tommy...” She said, mentally counting down the street signs until they got near her apartment.
“What?” He asked.
“Do you and your blinders have enough security?” She asked.
“Yes.”
“What about your children? Are they protected?” She asked.
She could feel the tension in the air as she waited for an answer. A sigh escaping his lips before speaking.
“How’d you fucking know about them aye?” He asked, his eyes darting to hers.
“I do my research Thomas. When I’m not killing, that’s what I do.” She said.
“Also, I just had a sneaky suspicion because your ring finger still has an impression of a wedding band on it. Trouble in paradise?” She asked with a coy smile as she parked the car.
Thomas scoffed and got out, walking quickly over to her.
“Not so fast. Can’t have you seen out here.” She said, placing a firm hand against his chest and ushering him back towards her apartment. He followed her up the stairs as the anger rose in his chest. As soon as she opened the door, he closed it behind them, locking it.
“How’d you find out about that? Was it your little mail man? He’s been a regular at the shop recently. Bet you didn’t think he’d let things slip about you now aye?” He said, inching closer to her.
She grabbed her knife from her coat, stalking towards him as she spun it between her fingers.
“Oh so you’re just going to throw theories around? I knew about your children because my men are good at what they do. They’ve watched in shifts just to make sure you weren’t some scheming bastard because this town is full of them! You probably didn’t see them watching when you said goodbye to your little Ruby and Charlie at your aunts huh Tommy?” She asked, her eyes piercing his again.
“Leave them out of this. I’ll call this off and expose you.” He said, clenching his fists.
“Did you think you could just send your mail man and not expect my men to check him? What’s the fuckers name? Jay? He’s a rat and you know it.” He said harshly.
“No he’s not. I made him promise. I made him swear himself to secrecy and anyone who crosses me knows they’ll be dead for breaking that promise.” She said, her breathing speeding up as she dropped the knife, turning away from him. Her eyes brimming with tears and widening at the sudden realization.
“What?” He asked, seeing her emotions leaving her features as she became lost in thought. She paced away from him, wiping the tears from her eyes before she spoke. Avoiding his angry gaze in the process.
“He told them where I was...He told that bastard where my fathers friend lived...He told that man at the pub where I’d be...” She said, thinking about how he gladly accepted his paycheck and then hadn’t returned. She knew they didn’t check in often, but he was always so keen on being more friendly than the others. But she couldn’t believe how careless she’d been, how she couldn’t see the rat when he was right in front of her.
“He may be the dumbest man on this planet.” She said, still averting her eyes from his and wiping a stray tear from her cheek. With a sigh, she quickly grabbed her gun from her holster and unlocked the door.
Thomas followed her down the hall and to an unsuspecting apartment, listening to her pound on it in a weird sequence and jiggling the lock.
“Open up!” She yelled. The hall was silent as the tension grew between the two complexes.
“Move.” Thomas said quickly, taking a few steps back and heading towards the door. With a loud slam it flew open, nearly sending him falling to the floor.
“Thanks.” She said, walking past him as he watched.
“What the fu-“ Jay started to say from his living room as Isla shot him, her bullet going straight through his skull. She stood there for a moment after lowering it, the apartment eerily silent as she looked at the mess. Thomas following quickly behind as she inspected the other rooms.
“Alright...well the other two aren’t here. Did your men manage to get any dirt on them?” She asked, wiping the blood off her face and smearing it on her dress as she walked back to her room.
“I haven’t, no. He was the only one who seemed off.” He said, closing the door over before following her.
“I guess it’s the people who know you the best who end up betraying you.” She said looking down at the blood on her hands, not caring about the body next door or the man before her.
“I don’t care where you sit, just don’t get blood on anything alright?” She asked, walking into her restroom to rid herself of the blood. After washing up, she quickly pulled on a nightgown and satin robe that covered her arms, still self conscious of the scar.
Thomas had taken his coat off and undid his tie and arm cuffs, sitting them next to him on the sofa.
“So, Isla...Why did you want me here in the first place? To argue and watch you kill people?” He asked, taking a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.
She smirked as she sat next to him, leaning towards him so he could light hers as well.
“I just wanted to see if you would, and considering you weren’t going to leave me alone until I explained things to you. I figured I’d invite you over. Didn’t think you’d accept though.” She said, staring at the ceiling as she blew out the clouds of smoke.
“Mhmm.” He mumbled.
“So...are we good? No more secrets?” She asked, after a moment of awkward silence.
“No more secrets.” He said.
“You don’t have to worry about your family either. The other two men are very reliable. I am down a man though...” She said, a nervous tension hitting her as she realized this was the closest she’d been with a man in some time without killing him.
“If you want, we could assign some of the blinders to look out here while your two look out over in Small Heath.” He said.
“Deal.” She said, turning towards him. He had relaxed into the sofa, his eyes on her as she looked down at her cigarette. He couldn’t help but notice his eyes wandering over her body, shrouded in black silk that must’ve cost a small fortune.
“It would be nice to have at least one person I can trust here ya know...Just one night of sleeping peacefully.” She said.
“I could stay...” He said softly, his voice more gentle than it had been a while ago during their argument.
“Well fuck I guess you have to, considering I drove you here.” She said chuckling.
“That is true.” He said with a small grin. It had been a while since he’d smiled. Which felt foreign to him ever since meeting Grace.
“So is this like a second date then?” She asked, getting up to pour them both a glass of whiskey.
“I’d say so. No business now. Just drinking.” He said.
“Right, and no fucking.” She said smirking, handing him his glass.
“No fucking? I don’t remember that being one of your conditions.” He said as they clinked glasses.
“I was just joking on that part, love.” She said, looking at him with honest eyes.
He sat his glass down and met her gaze, glancing at all the intricate details of her thin robe and silk nightgown.
“And you called me bold aye?” He asked, moving towards her as she sat down.
Isla’s heart was beating out of her chest at what she’d said, feeling Tommy pulling her closer to him as she kissed him carefully to avoid hurting her lip.
A/N: **Explicit Content Warning: If you are under 18, please skip the italicized portion and continue to Ch. 8. Thank you.**
With a swift movement Thomas had pulled her on top to where she straddled him. The heat growing between them as she ground into him, only mere pieces of fabric keeping them apart.
A soft moan escaped her lips as she continued, as Tommy’s hands gripped her hips and then ran a hand over her breasts.
“Let’s take this somewhere else...Maybe to a place where I haven’t killed people, love.” She said, breaking apart from his lips for a moment, earning a chuckle from him.
“Alright.” He said, picking her up to where she clung to him. Sucking soft purple spots onto his neck as he laid her on the bed.
With eager fingers they grasped at each other’s clothes, Tommy’s rough hands gently caressing her as he sucked on her neck, soft moans escaping her lips as she felt him move down towards her chest.
Her nipples hardened as he caressed her breasts, leaving soft kisses to them as he moved further to her core, her back arching off the mattress at the sensation. His tongue lapping over the bundle of nerves in circular motions as he trailed down to her opening. Her hips thrusting upwards to meet him as his tongue devoured her. Her moans became louder as she bucked against him, his fingers replacing his tongue as he moved it over her clit. The motion of his fingers increasing as she clenched around him, clutching his tousled hair in the process.
“D-dont stop, Tommy. Please.” She said, her breathing ragged as she came closer. His movements consistent as he watched her come undone before him, her legs trembling at the sudden release.
As she came down, she smiled at him as he kissed her once more, tasting herself on his lips as she pulled him closer. His cerulean eyes gazed into hers as she nodded, giving him permission to continue what she so desperately wanted.
She winced slightly as she took a moment to adjust, soon feeling the pain being replaced with pleasure as she felt him inside her. His thrusts were gentle as he studied her body. Her eyes closed and hands wandering over his chest as he moved in and out, him only growing more aroused as she grew wet around him. He grabbed her hips firmly as he picked up the pace, causing her to claw her way down his chest only to grasp his back as he leaned in closer to her. He peppered her neck with kisses as he sucked eventual bruises onto the skin, her moans growing louder in his ear like a sweet symphony.
As she came closer, he felt her walls clench around him as his thrusts became slower and his breathing became heavier. And with a quick maneuver, he moved her, making her gasp at the sudden loss of contact as he urged her to ride him. He sat up as she straddled him, her hand guiding him into her as she moaned at the familiar feeling. His hands gripping her hips as he guided her down, resting his head against her headboard as he watched her riding his cock. Her breasts bouncing and moans growing louder as she came undone around him, leaning onto his chest as he pulled her close, nearing his own release. With a quick motion, he thrust a couple times before pulling out, just in time for her to pump him until a low moan escaped his lips as he came. Making his breathing ragged until he gained composure. The two of them lying in her bed in a tangled embrace.
#peaky blinders fanfic#peaky blinders#thomas shelby#thomas shelby x reader#thomas shelby x oc#thomas shelby x female!reader
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Ep 5 of BoB tiiiime <3
Episode 5: Crossroads, but I’m renaming it “Holy crap is this a whooper of an ep, guys. So much haaaappeeeeens. Also, I freaked out cos I thought it was Bastogne but now I’m like oh phew. That’s for Future!Laura to freak out about”.
Ready? Let’s go!
01:15 Johnny ‘unimpressed’ Martin pulling one of his patented bitch-faces in the credits, we stan.
02:31 OHHHHH IT’S IRL DICK! We love you!!!
03:45 God I love the technique they use with the shaking, ground-level camera whenever Dick is running. It’s so realistic. And how he’s gasping for breath. Not like in movies when people just seem to run forever so easily. This whole scene, the pacing and the setting, you don’t know what’s happened or what’s happening currently, all you know is he’s running and alone and breathless and it’s all so frantic and my heart just cannot take it with this fucking show you guys!
04:04 Oh God. The kid. He sorta smiles? He doesn’t get it at first. I can’t.
04:10 SCHOONDERLOGT??!! THIS PLACE IS CALLED SCHOONDERLOGT? I LOVE IT!!!
04:34 Wake up from your post-coital nap, Nix!
04:42 Genuinely thought Dick was slapping his butt LMAO
04:46 HOE DON’T DO IT
04:55 I love how Dick is horrified for exactly a split second and then he’s just like LOL. Real talk, when does he laugh around anyone but Nix? He smiles around others but not the same as when he’s with Nix, and he sure as heck doesn’t laugh. Except for maybe with Harry. But Harry’s Harry, it’s a given.
05:15 Nix has forgiven him quickly, it seems. Probably because Dick let him sit in the front seat.
05:22 They’re so married.
06:13 Don’t flirt with Dick’s husband, Hot Brit.
06:23 He just did it again, after I specifically told him not to! You’re on thin ice now, Hot Brit.
06:47 Dick hasn’t been doing his homework.
06:54 No Dick, Nix is busy with his new hot friend, go do your homework.
07:07 What happens if you make a mistake on a typewriter? Can’t backspace lol. Imagine all that typing, getting to like the last character and fucking it up.
07:26 DOGGIE!
08:00 OK I’m sorry which guy was it that just burst in screaming “PENETRATION!” I need to marry them even though I’m already married, and I don’t think it was Rich. Whoever it was, I want to shake their hand, at least.
08:17 No. Do not blame Lieb for anything, ever.
08:29 Roe in action <3
08:39 “Hey Alley.” “Heyyy.” I love them. My babies <3
08:53 The boys want revenge.
09:33 Lol @ Tab, “They’re not as smart as me and you?”
10:23 ISTG I need a translation or subtitles for the hand-signals. I would hard out be chillin at the back yelling “WTF MAN. DICK! HEY DICK! I. DO. NOT. UNDERSTAND. YOU.” And then we’d all die cos they’d hear.
10:26 RICH! IT’S RICH YOU GUYS!!!
11:22 RICH <3
12:14 LMAO Lieb is so excited.
12:33 Dick is so fucking smart, making sure everyone has a target to eliminate so they’re not outnumbered for long and the most immediate threats are taken care of <3
12:38 RICH <3 It’s so cool to see him doing his mortar thing, not just comic relief or providing me with dopamine by simply existing.
14:29 The gunshots and then crossing to the typewriter keys ugh this shooooooow
15:40 Enter?? LMFAO Who says that!! Oh look, Nix has come to apologize for encouraging the flirtatious Hot Brit. He missed you <3
15:52 Dick is in love with Nix. And Nix is in love with Dick. Husbands <3
16:15 This entire exchange is the most A+ flirting. I love how Dick just plants the thought and leaves it to Nix. He doesn’t push. He accepts Nix as he is and <3’s him
16:59 LOL @ Nix “That’s not literature… say ‘we’ a lot,” so supportive and helpful.
17:35 Nervous boys
17:41 Johnny ‘unimpressed’ Martin is starting to bitch-face, watch out…
17:52 Oh no.
18:12 Lol @ Lieb, you can see he’s yelling
18:35 Dick looks so BAMF
19:11 Hoob, it’s not a competition!
20:00 Web <3
20:08 Johnny, chill!
20:48 Oh Web. “Jesus Christ, they got me!” Rivalling Buck for being dramatic af, baby
21:24 Aw Dick
21:36 Lieb find some chill for once in your life. Are you upset Web got hurt?
21:42 Do not speak to your father that way!
21:59 You’re in time-out, young man!
22:17 Ross McCall is freaking hot omg. LMAO @ Lieb though, his Dad is not happy and now he’s grounded.
22:30 No, Web, no one believes much of what you say tbh, sweetie. Still <3 you though.
24:01 You can tell it’s Nix by the way he walks and his shoulders <3333
24:16 Nix doesn’t know who that is aw
24:34 Aw Nix trying to be comforting and supportive the way Dick was to him earlier. But his husband is too moody.
25:53 I love that Sink asks it that way, “How would you feel?” Rather than surprise bitch you’re doing it. I mean you don’t say no to that kinda thing but still. Sink = <3 He’s such a babe
26:16 RICH! EVERYONE STOP, NOTHING ELSE WILL EVER MATTER IT’S RICH. I was starting to miss him in case you couldn’t tell. Lol wtf is he doing to Penk’s ear, and why with a spoon??!!
26:26 Aw Dick. He wants to know his sons will be well looked after by their new stepdad.
26:35 ROE <3
26:47 Nix couldn’t stay away long
27:05 NIX! No!
27:14 LMAO bacon sandwich. Loves how Dick gives the report to Nix, not his orderly.
27:26 He missed you obvs
28:13 Moose, you look after his sons!
28:29 Aw Dick can’t let go <3
28:38 Nix’s resigned little sigh and shoulder slump aha
28:54 Bull! Missed you! As identifiable as ever by the cigar… but is now the best time to be smoking it??
29:31 Their code is Leicester Square! So cute!
29:46 Lieb is so eager for blood-shed
30:40 Aw they gave Moose a beret!
30:39 Dick is jealous he doesn’t get a beret! But he’s so happy his sons are safe.
31:17 I always scream.
31:50 Roe <3 “Mo’phine.”
32:11 “You oughtta. You are officers, you are grown-ups! You oughtta know!” ICONIC. My heart. His faaaaace. Shane Taylor <3333
32:19 The bloody handprint omg
32:46 The boss jacket returns <3
33:11 Nix is so proud.
33:41 We missed you Bill <3
33:48 Dad’s a busy man now Bill.
34:25 “I don’t wanna see another piece of paper!” Dick is always such a mood. Never change, Dick <3
34:20 Whatcha doing, Nix? About to propose? God I wish. You know Dick would say yes.
34:35 Don’t interrupt the proposal, Harry!
34:42 Dick and I are just both going to pretend we didn’t hear that, Nix. Canon not accepted.
34:59 Dick would rather be with you tbh
35:30 So they all just sit around in parade dress? Wait is that parade dress? It is, isn’t it? Someone @ me?
35:34 Rude
36:05 Dick. Don’t stare at the child, Dick.
36:52 Dick. Stop. Seriously.
38:05 Can’t tell if that’s cute or weird tbh
38:31 He’s moping cos he misses Nix
39:03 Unf
39:30 Joe/Charlie <3 Missed you
39:38 I don’t know what I love more, Luz being such a troll or Rich. Hang on, what am I saying. Rich.
39:44 RICCCHHHH
39:48 Iconic. ILY Rich
40:00 Easy Mum and Joe/Charlie are so mad lmao. The just wanna watch the movie, shut up kids.
40:17 Dad’s back, Buck, it’s OK now.
40:42 Oh Buck </3
40:57 Joe/Charlie is about to shank you, Luz, stop.
41:02 Iconic.
41:19 Who dis bitch?
41:23 All I see is Rich.
41:34 Rich! Dramatic af
42:02 Oh Buck </3
42:42 Dad’s not happy
43:09 Dad’s. Not. Happy.
43:54 Babe looking cute <3
44:09 Rich <33333333
44:40 Stop hazing the new kid, guys!
45:14 Rich LMAO “We can’t be in Hell, it’s too damn cold!” We <3 you
46:11 Strayer’s a bit useless, let’s be honest
46:31 Babe <3
47:50 LMAO JIMMY FALLON
48:00 Joe/Charlie just wants all the ammo
48:22 RICH
48:38 “We’re paratroopers, lieutenant, we’re supposed to be surrounded.” Dick you are an icon.
49:31 ITS RICH
49:54 Love that, Dick walking in the space between the rows of his men <3
50:19 So ominous 0.o
In conclusion, I love this show.
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Heathers
Summary: Kurtz/Reader Request: If Kurtz was JD in Heathers; set to Heathers (Sorry the songs are out of order i think it fits better)
You’re not sure what to expect; all your friend had said was the Bulldogs knew how to have a wicked good time and you’re not expecting any less when she brings you to a mansion of a house where you can already hear music and laughter streaming from it. You’re laughing, having been given at least four jello shots and some sort of Jangle infused drink; you’re pretty sure it was watered down vodka mixed with Jangle but either way you can tell you’re not sober when the Riverdale kids seem to crowd the front door.
“Jesus fucking christ!” You can see the Serpent’s all in black and you make your way forward watching as Lance, the head Ghoulie grins from the doorway.
“Leave.” You’re not sure how they can hear each other but you know the alcohol and jangle thrumming in your system is responsible.
“I didn’t realize the Serpent’s went soft; and pink too. You should let him in, isn’t your whole thing acceptance?” You looking the girl in the pink sweater up and down laughing before you nudge her out of the way. You don’t mean for her to trip but she does stumbling backwards and you watch the Serpent’s advance. Lance pulls you behind him and you roll your eyes.
“I’m fine Lance.”
“Okay.” He smirks spinning you around where you vomit onto the ground and half of the pink girls jeans.
————————————————————————————-
“Holy shit!”
“One of the Ghoulies is getting the shit beat outta him!!!” You glance nervously around, you know that Lance hadn’t been transferred over to Riverdale and you wonder who they’re talking about.
You make your way to the lunchroom, frozen as the ghoulie is in the middle, hands up, one of the Bulldogs pinning him onto the table by the throat; the grin on his face is worrying, stretching in the way that hints he knows something the Bulldogs don’t.
“Holy fuck.” You watch as he twists to the side, foot hooked behind the Bulldogs leg so when he moves it sends him toppling to the ground. He stands brushing his leather jacket off smirking.
You watch the rest of the students milling around before you turn your attention to where the Ghoulie is leaning over the stairwell where he winks at you.
“You wanna see a snake fly?” You frown looking up confused before he hauls up Fangs Fogarty and dangles him half off the second story landing.
“Fuck this is gonna-“ You’re shoved out of the way as Fangs is dropped, Jughead and Sweet Pea coming to his rescue. You watch the look on the Ghoulies face; he seems angry; you’re not sure if its cause he didn’t kill Fangs or if its cause you were shoved.
He finds you moments later pulling you with surprising softness towards the chemistry room; where upon inspection in the hazard shower’s mirror you find you have a scrape on the side of your face and he has bruised knuckles and a split lip.
“I can help?” He nods grinning as he lets you clean the blood from his knuckles.
“Thank you.”He grins and you shrug.
“It’s nothing I took a summer CPR and first aid course.”
“Huh really?”
“Did you take it too?”
“No that’s just really useful; considering I spent the summer getting the shit beat outta me.”
——————————————————————————
“Kurtz?” You question and he smiles at you from where you’ve walked into Pop’s
“You okay?”
“Course.”
“You’ve been here before?” You nudge his foot off the side of the booth and slide into it.
“No; they’re all the same.”
“Milkshakes?” You gesture to the three empty glasses.
“No; small towns.”
“Oh?”
“Been through too many to pay attention them anymore; you’re the only thing that’s caught my attention.” Kurtz stand grabbing what you assume is a to go shake and waltzing outside, you follow.
“Kurtz?”
“I’m fine.”
“How many of those have you had?”You watch as he empties three jangle tubes into his shake.
“Two besides these three. Assuming you mean the Jangle not the shakes.” He grins and you nod.
“Jesus, how do you hide that from your parents?”
“My what?” He laughs. Pulling you against him offering the shake out. You shake your head.
“What happened?”
“To me? Or them?”
“Both?”you question and he shrugs.
“They got too into drugs; couldn’t pay back there dealer; he’s my uncle now; we move around a lot. Hence the diner’s.”
“What about them.”
“They’re always the same; it’s a comfort.”
“So what you’ll just wait till you move and drain the next one of all of it’s shakes?” He grins shaking his head.
“Don’t wanna leave now; not with you here.”
———————————————————————-
“Hey Jones, you fall off your bike or something?. Didn’t take you for a klutz.” You call out laughing when you point to the scar on his shoulder. Betty narrows her eyes at you.
“You’re a ghoul right? You should know all about how that happened.” She snarls and you tilt your head.
“I wasn’t aware the Ghouls were still in business, let alone threatening a teenager like myself.”
“You better watch it.”
“Or what you’ll get the snakes to beat me up? What is that ten against one, yikes not good odds, betcha you’d make bank on bets though.” You watch the way Betty smirks and you remember she practically owns the Blue and Gold as well as the River Vixens.
“I’ve told you to stay in your lane before.”
“Seems like my lane is getting small and smaller these days.” You bite back and she nods.
“Watch it.” Cheryl grins like a shark and you slink out of school after practice wandering around until you spot Kurtz in Pop’s window.
“Hey.” He looks up smirking.
“Hey. You need something?” Your grin matches his as you pull his burger over.
“Food I’m starved and Cooper’s gonna kill me tomorrow.”
“Last meal then.” You grin at him. He laughs nodding. You leave after eating half of his food and wander around town until you decide you shouldn’t just wait to die.
When you make it front of a relatively normal looking house you watch for a moment seeing the downstairs light go off and a new light appear on the window to the left, you reason the right is Kurtz room and you climb up the ladder that’s been left on the side of the house.
“Kurtz?” You mumble into the darkness watching as he sits up, light turning on.
“Y/N the fuck you doing in my room.”
“I decided to change my last meal.”
“Oh? To what?”
“You.” He pulls you against him kissing you until you can’t breathe.
“Please Kurtz?” You mumble dragging his hands against your skin and under your clothes.
“Come on; I’m yours.” He swallows anything else you were going to say in a kiss.
—————————————————————————
“Y/N. You okay?”
“Yeah fine.” You try to shrug off how Kurtz leans over to look at you.
“What happened?” You turn from him shrugging.
“Nothing.”
“Y/N.” You try your best not too look him in his eyes but you can’t help watching as his hand brushes your shoulder and up to your face.
“Come on Y/N, was it the Bulldogs? The Serpents? Who hurt you?” You chew your lip.
“They didn’t mean it Kurtz I swear; it was just at that party before you came in Lance was trying to be funny got me tangled up in the Serpent’s radar for puking on Betty. It’s not a big deal.”
“You have a handprint on your cheek from where someone slapped you. That’s more than enough.”
“Kurtz, please don’t hurt anyone like you tried to hurt Fangs.”
“I won’t. I promise; no hurting anyone like Fangs.”
“How do I know you’ll keep it?” You feel his hand drifting up to your uninjured cheek brushing it softly.
“I love you. I won’t let anything I or anyone else does take you away from me.” You flush when he kisses you. He pulls back calling a boy over.
“Hey Ricky; you know your friend JellyBean? I have a quest for both of you; sound fun?” Kurtz grins and you roll your eyes fondly as he pulls out his G&G book.
“Yeah, can we start now Game Master?”
“Of course. Go wild.” He grins and you laugh Ricky turns.
“Oh is this your princess?” Kurtz nods and you laugh more; turning as Ricky leaves.
“Princess? Have I been missing out on getting spoiled then?” You laugh as he pulls you against him kissing you.
————————————————————————————
“Kurtz? Jughead said that you were trying to kill his little sister? That she’s missing?” Kurtz turns shaking his head smiling at you.
“No she’s staying at Ricky’s I gave them one of those like two day off board quests. They’re pretty involved.” He smiles pulling you into his arms kissing you.
“Nothing to worry about, now would you be willing to come with me to Pop’s?”
“On a date?” You grin and he nods pulling you closer resting his head on yours.
“Jone’s is gonna say all sorts of nasty shit about me. He and Cooper, and her friends have it out for me. Think it’s cause I used to run with the Ghouls.”
“I’m guessing that’s why I’m preferred dead as well.” You laugh and Kurtz shakes his head in disbelief.
“You weren’t a Gargoyle though?”
“Yeah I got out of it after the Ghoul’s went up north. Didn’t want to be without ‘em. Figured I could go back to being a normal high schooler ya know.”
“And look how easily that went out the window.” he nods and you shrug.
“I’ve had worse than some wannabe gang leader calling my boyfriend a kidnapper just cause he doesn’t like his little sister’s new friend.” Kurtz nods kissing you once more.
“Stay with me?”
“Always.” You hum as he gestures to his bike, you swing on it before curling against his back.
————————————————————————————-
You know you weren’t meant to find out what was actually going on with the Jones’; everything that they were going to suffer through; you hate how fitting it was for them and you can’t help but feel less sorry than you should as you read through the instructions and plans Kurtz had been given and laid out. You read through confused at the addition of a gun; none of the parts of the quest had bothered saying to threaten them; the idea that Jellybean was going to be hurt was more than enough motivation. You get to the last pages something about ascension and you remember Kurtz mentioning it as a sort of prize at the end of the game. You know you shouldn’t be poking around in it; everyone had been saying it was how those kids ended up dead but when you overhear Betty and Jughead talking about it; talking about the suicide does the gun being added click into place.
“Y/N can I ask you something?”You turn where he pauses tracing patterns on your bare shoulder as you sit up from his chest.
“Of course.”
“If I was going to; would you ascend with me?”
“Don’t I have to play the game? When are you planning it?” You laugh a little and he shrugs.
“Just, would you?” He watches and you nod slowly.
“Of course. I want to be with you.” He smiles nodding back and kissing you.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.” You untangle yourself from him in the middle of the night. You hate the idea of going to the Serpent’s but you tap on one of the trailer doors.
“Hey Fang’s right?” You watch the Serpent nod, half asleep.
“Yeah you’re Kurtz-“
“He’s going to try to kill me.”
—————————————————————————————–
You don’t care that the Serpent’s are staying out of it. You’d thrown together a convincing ‘sleeping body’ in your bed and then returned to following Jones out towards where you knew Jellybean wasn’t. You watch as he pulls the gun nodding towards Jughead. You don’t say anything staying in the shadows and waiting. You watch, they’re talking, it’s taking too long you wonder why Jughead is trying to keep him talking. You watch as he shoves Jughead into the box and locks it. You stumble forward when he raises the gun.
“Kurtz?” He turns frowning.
“Y/N, no you’re not supposed to be here! You should be in bed!”
“So one of the Gargoyles can kill me?”
“No so you don’t have any part in this, so you’re safe!” He shouts and you cringe back.
“Kurtz, just-“ You step closer as he steps back and you pause.
“Please Kurtz; please.” You reach forward and can see him lower the gun slightly, it shakes and you nod.
“Just please put-“ He shoves you down firing into the dark.
“Stay down, don’t move. Please Y/N don’t move.” He mumbles as he shakes you slightly, you assume someone is waiting in the shadows to see the job through, hence why he shot at them. He leans over you pressing his forehead to yours.
“I’m sorry. Just give me a minute okay baby? Just a second I swear; I’ll be back when its safe.” You’re confused when he presses a line of tape over your mouth and steps back. You hear the gun go off once more.
You wonder if he hit anyone.
——————————————————————————-
“It’ll be okay.” You know he’s talking to you but you don’t bother looking back up to him.
“You’ll be fine; now that this whole Gargoyle king business is over you can go back to actually being a normal high schooler.” He laughs and you turn your head away.
“Y/N? You okay?” You look over to see Jughead and the rest of the Serpents.
“Yeah. Fine.” They don’t say anything just nod and you turn back to watch Kurtz face crinkle in annoyance.
“You shouldn’t hang out with them. Serpent’s are as dumb as a sack of rocks.” He laughs and you shake your head.
“Had more sense than you.”
“Low blow Y/N; Low blow.”
“Should’ve taken your own advice.”
“And what? Shot my heart? I wasn’t about to shoot you.”
“Could grazed your arm; something to shed blood but not;”
“Not what?” Kurtz twists scowling as you start to cry.
“Hey Y/N; you okay? We’re going to get Pop later; you want to come?” You nod turning away from the carved stone and the gargoyle statue that sits in front of it.
“Yeah sounds good.”
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Walking towards the kitchen, Waylon hesitates when he thinks he hears something, and walks towards the living room, his eyes widening as he surges forwards.
“What the fuck did you do?” He hisses, as Jeremy slowly lowers his charge to the floor, slick red coating his palms. Waylon realises, in dismay, that it’s all over the poor figure, and grimaces when Jeremy plants a large handprint on the pristine white wall, a sigh of exasperation escaping his lips.
“I didn’t mean to! I thought he was that...the serial killer, his scent is all over this one and-”
Waylon pulls at the other’s clothes, trying to find the wound, before looking up at him. “...you turned him? Are you kidding me? Jeremy Blaire-”
Jeremy has the decency to look embarrassed, before looking away. “He fought back and broke my nose. I think...he got a few drops.”
Waylon can’t help but giggle at that. “He broke your nose? Jesus Christ, Jeremy. Okay, you go and...clean up. I’ll...shit. I’ll get him something to eat, try and...smooth things out, I guess.” He sighs. “Drop him off in the guest room, I’ll be up in a minute.”
As Jeremy bends down to lift the poor victim, Waylon goes to the fridge and pulls out a blood bag, along with some fluffy towels, which he takes up to the guest room. Jeremy sighs, and gives him a kiss on the forehead, before standing up and patting Waylon’s shoulder.
“Okay, you get out of here.” Waylon pushes him away with a grin. “I’ll get him cleaned up, you need to go catch that killer.”
Jeremy huffs out a laugh and vanishes, and Waylon turns his attention to the poor figure in the bed. Taking a towel, he starts to slowly clean away the sticky red mess from his skin, sighing. “Well, at least you’re adorable under all that mess.”
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Here’s the third, and final, of the unfinished fics. It’s just over 3k words and was last edited February 25th. It was meant to be a fic going through the movie plot, but with Richie originally being part of Bowers’ Gang (and with more reddie and stenbrough). Over time he ends up being friends with the Losers and leaving the Bowers’ Gang behind. But I only ever wrote the beginning.
-
“Ya know, Rich, I was thinking. I think it’s time for initiation.”
Richie glances up curiously. Henry’s a bit blurry through the recent exhale of smoke, but his smirk is still clear as day. It makes Richie’s stomach twist and curl in on itself.
He takes his time removing the blunt from his lips.
“Initiation?” he says.
“If you want to be part of the group…” Henry trails off, leaving Richie more anxious than before.
“I thought I was already part of the group,” Richie says. He shoves all the words out at once, as if he can’t stand the taste of them in his mouth.
Henry laughs, loud and boisterous. It makes Richie flinch. He does his best not to show it, but judging by the way Patrick grins at him, lips pulled back and teeth bared, he’s not sure he does a great job.
“Not officially,” Henry says. He takes a drag of his own. “But don’t you want to be?”
Richie shoves his blunt back between his lips, if only so he doesn’t have to answer.
“C’mon, Tozier,” Patrick drawls. He speaks around a blunt of his own, muffling the words slightly, and twirls his favorite lighter between his fingers.
Richie suddenly feels incredibly small. Henry’s gang towers over Richie, who’s sitting with his back pressed harshly against the grill of Henry’s car. His knees are pulled up to his chest, and he hopes it looks casual, but he’s hugging them closer and closer like he’s a spring ready to shoot forward. Henry’s gang are all standing, lazily leaning against any hard surface they can find.
Their stance is casual, but they’re watching Richie like a hawk watches its prey. Like they’re waiting to pounce. Like they’re waiting for him to break.
But if there’s one thing Richie will never let them do, it’s break him.
“Yeah,” he says. “Of course I do.”
Henry grins wider. “Good.”
“So what is initiation?” Richie asks, forcing himself to hold eye contact.
“You’ll see,” Henry says.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick says. “It’ll be fun.”
And that is truly terrifying.
Because anything Patrick Hockstetter deems “fun” has to be some psychopathic level shit.
“Alright,” Richie murmurs, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say? “Are we gonna do it...right now?”
“You ask a lot of fucking questions,” Henry huffs. “No, we’re not gonna do it now. Clearly. I don’t have any of the stuff. Jesus Christ, use your head.”
“How am I supposed to fucking know that?” Richie snaps, because he doesn’t know when to shut up apparently. “You brought it up!”
“Shut it, Tozier!” snarls Henry.
So Richie shuts it.
“We can do initiation tomorrow,” Patrick says casually. “Should be easy enough.”
Easy for them, maybe. But Richie’s sure it’ll be hell for him.
He forces a grin anyway. “Great.”
-
Richie had been half hoping that something would postpone initiation. But, sure enough, Victor Criss intercepts him on his way to the arcade the very next day.
“Already?” Richie squeaks out.
Victor almost looks sorry for him. “Already.”
Richie’s legs feel like jell-o as he follows him through town and deep into the forest.
He hears Henry’s gang long before he sees them. He can hear their jeering insults and pointed laughter, and he can hear someone else. Someone whose voice he doesn’t recognize. Someone who’s screaming insults like his life depends on it.
But then Richie rounds the corner and his heart drops. Because he does recognize the person. Not enough to know his favorite color or why he wears a fanny pack or any of that dumb stuff. But he knows he’s one of Stan’s friends - Eddie something - and he’s pretty sure that wasn’t an accident.
He feels out of it, like he’s watching the debacle from somewhere outside his own body. But then Henry says, “Tozier!” and suddenly he’s standing at the foot of the crime.
“Hi,” he says, because he’s lame like that.
Eddie doesn’t look too roughed up. He’s got a scrape going down the whole left side of his face, and there’s a noticeable handprint on his arm. But that’s practically nothing compared to Henry’s usual work.
Richie swallows thickly. “Initiation?”
Henry looks pleased that he’s figured it out. “Yup.”
He shoves Eddie with perhaps more force than necessary, sending him flying to his knees at Richie’s feet. He can hear Eddie hiss in pain as various rocks and gravel dig into his knees. It makes Richie wince. Which can’t be good, because he’s sure he’s supposed to be doing more than just staring at him.
“For fuck’s sake, Tozier!” Patrick snaps, making Richie jump nearly a foot in the air. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Just - give me a minute,” Richie says.
He glances back down at Eddie, which is a mistake because he looks like he wants to murder Richie right about now and it makes Richie’s entire throat close up. His unease must show on his face because Eddie’s on his feet in a flash, squaring his shoulders and trying his best to look tough despite being a good four inches shorter than Richie.
“Who the fuck are you?” he spits.
Richie glances helplessly towards Henry. Richie isn’t supposed to be at the front of the lines. He’s supposed to be at the back, cheering Henry on and pushing back any lingering feelings of guilt. But Henry isn’t any help now. He just shrugs, his face emotionless, which is basically code for: figure it out, bitch.
“What’s wrong, Tozier?” Patrick drawls. “Scared of some little fag?” He cocks his head curiously. “Or maybe you’re one of them. Maybe he’s caught your attention.”
And Richie’s not sure what it is. If it’s the fact that Eddie’s stare is starting to make him feel a little frozen, or if it’s the fact that Patrick’s words hit a little too close to home. Either way, Patrick’s barely finished the words before Richie’s grabbing fistfulls of Eddie’s hair and chucking him back to the ground.
Eddie hits the ground with an ‘umph,’ landing face first in the dirt.
Richie can hear Henry and his gang spring to life. They’re cheering and screaming and it’s all making Richie’s head hurt. But the silence is worse.
“Is that true, Eds?” he taunts. “Are you a fag?”
Eddie grits his teeth. “That’s not my name.”
“Oh, but the rest of it is true?”
“Fuck off!” Eddie’s stumbling to his feet faster than Richie can comprehend “Why don’t you just go and fuck off! What the fuck do you know?”
Richie can feel his stomach churning. And yet he pushes forward anyway.
“Aww, c’mon, don’t be like that.” Henry and his goons are howling around them, only spurred on by Eddie’s reddening cheeks. “Tell me, is it exciting being surrounded by this many men?”
“Fuck off,” Eddie repeats, weaker now.
Richie forces himself to grin, doing his best to copy Henry’s shark impression. “Don’t you want my - Oh, fuck!”
“Oh my God!”
“What the fuck?”
“Dude?”
“Tozier, what the hell?”
Richie coughs wetly, still doubled over at the waist. He does his best not to wince as spit dribbles past his lips, landing in disgustingly large drops on Eddie’s shoes. Not that it matters much. He’s already covered in Richie’s vomit anyway.
“Sorry,” Richie whispers, because he’s an idiot. Eddie, who's taken to gagging loudly, doesn’t seem to hear him. Which Richie supposes is the best case scenario based on their situation. But he still can’t help but wish Eddie had heard him.
“I’m - I need - I can’t-”
“Calm down,” Belch huffs. “It’s just some vomit.” He shoves Eddie harshly, hardly blinking as he lands on his hands and knees in the vomit pile. Eddie gags loudly, loud enough that Richie fears he might vomit himself, but doesn’t dare get up again, not with Henry looming over him like he is.
“C’mon, Tozier,” Henry hisses. His eyes are lit up, making him look even more crazed than before. This is fun for Henry, Richie realizes. Not only hurting Eddie, but torturing Richie into doing it as well. “Hit him. Just once. Just once, and you’re in.”
Eddie’s eyes are wide and pleading. They remind him of the look the mama birds would give him and Stan if they crawled too close to their nest. Quiet and wary and silently begging them not to come any closer. That feels like an eternity ago. He always used to complain when Stan would drag him out to go birdwatching, but currently he would give anything to be there instead.
Unfortunately, he has nothing to give.
“C’mon,” Henry repeats. He sounds more frustrated now, and it makes Richie flinch. “It’s not that hard.”
“I - I can’t-”
“Sure you can!” Henry chirps, as if they’re talking about a math problem he can’t solve. “It’s easy.” He swings his fist out, pulling it back mere centimeters from Eddie’s face. Though it doesn’t make contact, Eddie still lets out a yelp and flinches backwards. “See?”
“I don’t - I dunno-”
Henry sighs heavily. “Do you want to do this another day?”
Richie perks up a bit at that. That’s an option? “Can I?”
“Of course,” Henry says flippantly. “Probably better anyway, we can find someone more suited for the position.”
He doesn’t name a name, but the threat hangs in the air anyway.
Stan.
Before Richie can second guess himself, he pulls his fist back and swings it against Eddie’s nose. The smaller boy flies backwards, landing with a thud backwards on the ground. His hands are pressed up against his nose, fresh blood spilling between the fingers, and his eyes are squeezed shut. Richie thinks he can see a few stray tears escape.
For a single, ridiculous, moment he wants to rush over and wipe them away. But then Henry’s clapping him on the back and Patrick’s congratulating him, and Richie is harshly reminded of his place in the world.
-
Richie does not go home after that.
Instead he walks the all too familiar pathway to an old friend’s house. The roads haven’t changed, he doesn’t think anything’s been renovated his whole life. It’s almost painfully nostalgic. A reminder of an easier time.
Stan is the one to answer the door, thank God, and while he doesn’t necessarily look disappointed to see Richie, he definitely looks less than happy.
“Rich?” he murmurs, glancing around like he expects someone to jump out at him. Richie supposes he can’t blame him. “What are you doing here?”
“Stan,” he whimpers. He finds he missed the feeling of his friend’s name on his tongue. “I did something bad.”
This, to his horror, starts the waterworks. Tears come pouring down his face at an alarming speed, dripping down his cheeks and fogging up his glasses.
Luckily, Stan doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. It’s been months since they’ve had a proper conversation, but he doesn’t waste any time wrapping Richie in his arms and tugging him close.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, though Richie’s sure he knows it’s a lie. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
“I-I didn’t wuh-want to,” Richie moans brokenly, trying to ignore how his voice breaks. “I swuh-swear I didn’t, Stanny.”
“I know,” Stan mumbles. “It’s alright.”
Except it’s not alright, because Stan doesn’t know. The thought just makes Richie cry harder.
“Hey, hey,” Stan coos. “Do you wanna come in? I can make hot chocolate.”
Richie finds himself nodding before he can fully process what he’s doing. Not that he minds, he’s missed Stan a fuckton in the last few months. And, besides, Stan makes the best hot chocolate in the world, even if he doesn’t put in nearly enough chocolate.
Richie’s dragged inside the Uris household, where luckily Stan seems to be the only one home.
Stan grabs a chair from the dining table and drags it into the kitchen, setting it gently next to the stove so Richie can sit with him as he warms the milk.
It’s silent, for the most part. Richie sits, tear tracks drying on his cheeks, and Stan stirs the milk gently. He doesn’t press for information, which Richie is grateful for. He doesn’t know how he would explain. But a part of him thinks Stan only refrains from asking in fear of what the answer might be.
Richie hardly notices Stan’s finished the hot chocolate until he’s pressing the mug into Richie’s hands. Richie takes it gratefully, clutching it between both hands as he raises it slowly to his lips. Stan even put extra chocolate powder in for him. That thought alone is nearly enough to make Richie start crying again.
Stan kneels next to him, one hand gently resting on Richie’s knee, the other reaching out to intertwine their fingers together.
“You don’t have to hang out with them, you know,” Stan murmurs.
The sentence makes Richie’s throat close up again. He desperately wishes that it were true.
“Who do you suggest I hang out with instead? Your mother?” Richie jokes lamely.
Stan rolls his eyes. “My mother is the one who bought that hot chocolate mix, show some respect.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Uris.”
Stan chuckles quietly. “I’m serious, though. They’re awful people.”
“So am I,” Richie huffs. “Who else is gonna handle my annoying ass?”
“Well, I’ve been doing it for eleven years.”
“Yeah, need to give you a break,” Richie grins, though it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Anyone stuck with me for that long is bound to go crazy.”
“Believe me, I’ve gone crazy. And I’m sure my friends would all love you, Rich.”
Richie bites back a wince. “I dunno about that,” he mumbles, barely audible.
Stan cocks his head, as if he’s about to ask why, when the phone rings.
“Hold that thought,” he sighs. Stan walks away and Richie immediately feels a wave of cold wash over him. He wants to call out to him, to ask him to come back. He can’t stand the feeling of being in his own head. But he’s asking so much of Stan already. “Hello? Oh. I’ll - Yeah. Jesus Christ. Okay. I’ll be right there.”
Richie knows what’s just happened before Stan even turns around. All he can do is sit and wait, heart nearly beating out of his chest, as Stan stands, steaming, next to the telephone.
“Richie,” he finally says. “Did you punch Eddie in the face?”
Richie tenses, his grip tightening around the mug. “I threw up on him too.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“I know.”
Stan pinches the bridge of his nose, and for one ridiculous moment, Richie can’t help but notice how much he looks like his father. It makes Richie feel like a little kid again, about to be scolded for spilling his mac and cheese on the freshly cleaned couch.
“Why?” Stan says. “Why’d you do it?”
Richie just shrugs. Because what answer could he give that would satisfy him, anyway?
Stan stares at him for a moment longer, as if he still expects an answer. When one doesn’t come, he lets out a heavy sigh. “I have to go. You’re welcome to stay over if you want. I just - I’ll be back later.”
And then he’s gone and Richie is, once again, alone.
-
Eddie does not look good.
His nose is swollen, there’s blood caking his upper lip, and he still smells vaguely of vomit. It makes Stan just a little sick himself to think that Richie caused this. He’s sure that it would be worse if one of Henry’s other goons decided to pick on him instead, rather than forcing Richie to do their dirty work, but it’s still strange. The Richie he knows wouldn’t hurt a fly.
“Holy shit,” Stan croaks out.
“I know,” Eddie groans. His words are slightly muffled by the pack of frozen peas Bill is holding to his face. “They said it was for initiation. Bowers’ gang officially has a new member.” He fakes a weak cheer.
“I don’t understand why anyone would want to join that group,” Mike says, shuddering.
“He’s probably a psychopath,” Bev grunts. “You would have to be. No sane person would willingly associate with Henry Bowers.”
A part of Stan wants to jump to Richie’s aid, to insist that he’s just a confused kid. He’s no different from the rest of them. But another part of him agrees. Richie has to be crazy to continue putting himself in situations like that.
“But why Eddie?” Ben frowns.
“He www-wuh-was just at the wrong place at the wrong tt-tuh-time,” Bill says, eyes never leaving Eddie’s bruised face. “It could’ve b-been any of us.”
Except it couldn’t have. Because the Bowers’ gang has been going surprisingly easy on Stan ever since Richie started hanging out with them. It’s not much, he’s still getting shoved into lockers and tripped in the hallway, but he’s never cornered when they spot him alone anymore.
A part of him is glad, it’s nice not to watch his back anymore. But another, bigger, part of him is overrun with guilt. He hates seeing the fear in his friends’ eyes when he knows he has nothing to worry about.
And yet he still fears the day it all comes to a halting stop.
“I’m sorry, Eddie,” Stan murmurs. “That’s fucked up.”
“So who is it?” Bev asks. “Who’s our latest torturer?”
“Richie Tozier,” Eddie says. “That asshole from english who talks way too loud.”
“Oh,” Bev murmurs. “That’s - That’s not who I was expecting.”
Bill finally tears his eyes away from Eddie, insteading blinking curiously at Bev. “Yuh-You know him?”
“I didn’t know he had any friends,” Eddie grumbles.
“We’re not - We just smoked together a couple times freshman year,” Bev shrugs. “He seemed alright. But, whatever, fuck him. He’s an asshole.”
“Yeah, fuck him,” Eddie mumbles.
“Maybe,” Stan starts, then immediately tries to fall back. But the whole Losers Club is staring at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. So he does, “Maybe he’ll have a change of heart. You said it was only - only his initiation, right?”
Eddie scoffs. “Please. As soon as you willingly choose to hang out with Bowers, you’re unredeemable.”
“I dunno about that,” Mike says, because he’s the kindest soul Stan’s ever met. “I think everyone’s redeemable on some level.”
Bill glances at his curiously, a fond smile on his lips. “E-E-Even Patrick Hockstetter?”
Mike chuckles. “If he worked really hard, yes.”
-
If you liked the story, feel free to reach out and maybe I’ll continue! I don’t write for Richie much anymore, but I do still really like this idea, and I have a few scenes for this fic that I never got to write.
#richie tozier#stanley uris#eddie kaspbrak#bill denbrough#mike hanlon#beverly marsh#ben hanscom#reddie#stenbrough#the losers club
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“Hey, watch this...”
That’s how it started. No back story. No confrontation. No bumped shoulders, or spilled drinks. I’d had exactly zero interaction with this guy, when he turned to the blonde stripper next to him at the bar, and said...
“Hey, watch this...”
I never saw it coming, so I made no moves to protect myself; I didn’t duck. I didn’t flinch. I took the full force of a beer bottle, being swung by a guy standing well over 6’ tall and weighing at least 250 lbs, right upside my fuckin’ head...
I didn’t even feel it, amazingly enough...I stumbled forward and put my hand on a table to catch myself. There were dark clouds forming around the edge of my eyes. I couldn’t hear anything, except for an odd, warm, buzzing noise; which was weird; I was in the middle of a very full, very loud, nightclub...surrounded by people who appeared to be screaming...
Why are people screaming? What’s that on my face? Fuck...that’s blood. Is it my blood? Why am I bleeding...?
What is that girl pointing at?
I turn to look, and see a large, young black dude, with the stem of a broken beer bottle in his right hand...He’s smiling...
...What the fuck...?
I start to piece it together; as the darkness begins to fade, blood is pouring into my eyes; I’m quickly becoming very angry...I do what any rational human being would do in the same situation; throw what might be the hardest punch I have ever thrown in my life, right square into his smiling mouth.
He doesn’t go down...no; he charges right at me. I hit him again. And again. He shoves me backwards, and tackles me to the ground...I’m starting to think he must be on some kind of drugs; any one of the three punches I’d landed should have knocked him out...instead, they just made him mad.
By now, all my senses have returned; it’s loud, it’s chaotic, and I’m in pain. There is blood; a lot of blood. I’m fighting an angry giant, for no reason, in the middle of a bar...business as usual, I guess.
I manage to get my feet back under me; as we’re trading blows, l grab him by the waist and throw us both at the front door. We crash through, out into the parking lot in front of the bar. A crowd has followed us out. I manage to get behind him and grab him in a full nelson; we swing around, facing the crowd...
“Somebody hit this motherfucker!”, I yell to a couple of guys I know. They both step up and get a couple of good licks in as I hold him...I spin him around; duck down; and spring up with all my weight; fist flush up underneath his jaw. His eyes roll back in his head as he collapses and falls to the ground; then, I start kicking. And kicking. And kicking...
Someone has called the cops. They pull up; exiting the car, guns drawn, they yell at me to stop...
“LOOK AT MY FUCKIN’ EAR!!!”, I say, as I continue kicking...
One of the cops looks, and says, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ...just don’t kill him. Let us known when you’re done.”, and walks back to the car.
I put another couple of kicks to his head for good measure. I wave the cops over, try to catch my breath, and walk back into the bar, as they are calling an ambulance for the now-very-unconscious, very fucked up, stranger lying in the middle of the parking lot in front of the bar...
There is a mirror on the wall in the hallway, in front of the cash register at the front door...Of course, I have to look...
My ear is hanging off the side of my head; connected only by a string of flesh between my jaw line and where there used to be a small hoop earring...my face is sliced open across my cheek, and straight up the side of my head...and, somehow, even more disturbing than all of that; as the bottle shattered, and cut my ear almost completely off my fuckin’ head, it somehow hooked the temporal artery; pulling it out of my skull, leaving it fully exposed - yet still intact - in a little loop; starting just above where the ear was ripped off, at the base of my jaw, and extending a good inch or two up the side of my head...I decided I should probably go to the hospital. I grabbed the cash register, picked it up, and smashed it into pieces on the ground.
“Well, that was stupid,” I thought, “I’m gonna have to pay for that...”
I told my boss I was leaving, got in my car, and drove to the hospital, about 15 minutes away.
When I arrived at the emergency room, I saw that it was already full; it was flu season...even at 2:00 am, the waiting room was packed with sick kids and tired parents. I walked up to the admissions desk, hand holding my ear to the side of my head, and asked if I could please see someone, right away. The tired, frustrated nurse didn’t even look up from her paperwork; she just slid a clipboard in front of me, told me to fill out both sides of the paper, and wait for someone to call on me...
I let go of my ear and slammed my hand down on the clipboard, leaving a perfect handprint in thick, red blood; splashing it all over the desk, and the nurse...”I need to see a fuckin’ doctor...please...”, I said.
She looked up at me, and, seeing the bloody mess standing in front of her, began yelling for a doctor. A collective gasp escaped the moms in the room, as they covered their sick children’s eyes. The nurse ran around the counter, grabbed me by the arm, and led me to a room in the back. A doctor quickly joined her. They sat me on a table and turned on a light, shining it on the side of my head. “What in the hell happened to you?”, the doctor asked. “Beer bottle.”, I explained...
She seemed fascinated with my temporal artery; the steady beat of my heart clearly visible, as it pulsed in the fluorescent glow of the hospital lamp. She was poking at it with some strange, small tool...”You know”, she said, with a bemused chuckle, “if that bottle had cut this, instead of pulling it out like it did, you’d have been dead before you hit the floor. Guess we should put it back, huh? I’ll go get the anesthesiologist...”
I tell her not to bother, that my ear has been hanging there for at least a half an hour, now; the adrenaline dump is still going strong, and I’m in shock, already, anyway... just sew that sucker up. Oh, and bring me a mirror; I want to watch this...
15 minutes, and 56 stitches later; the artery had been tucked neatly back inside my head, and my ear sewn back on; I had a new scar, and a fun story to tell...
When I got back to the bar, everyone was surprised to see me; they didn’t think I’d be back so soon. My boss informed me that the cash register was going to cost me $125. Someone offered me a fat line of good cocaine, and someone else handed me a joint, saying, “Man...that was so fucked up...”
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the presence of a past that can't be healed
BNHA Angst Week 2019 @bnha-angst-week
Day 3: Empty // Scar
Pairing: BakuDeku
Link to Ao3
WC: 1,327 | Chapters: 1/1 [Complete]
He clenched his jaw tightly, resisting to urge to drop his mouth open at the sight of the literal handprint smack dab in the middle of his back.
The same handprint he remembered seeing on Deku...
((Has a very minor moment of self-harm for a brief moment))
Katsuki had a theory.
In a world where quirks had been around for many years, there was an even greater phenomenon that has been around for centuries.
Soulmates.
Parents would often tell their children about the tale of these people - how each person was supposedly only born with half of their soul and that the other half was placed into another person to be found at some point in their life. It was something that left children starry eyed as they dreamed of the day they would be able to meet the person that was their exact match
But it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
It was also common knowledge that any injury gained would also be transferred over to the one who they shared a soul with. There never was any pain. No blood, nothing crazy. There would just be marks, scarring, in the same location as their soulmate.
And because of this, Katsuki had a very solid theory that his soulmate might be the green-eyed idiot known as Deku.
The first time he suspected such was during their first year at Yuuei. The boys were changing in the locker room, slipping into their costumes and getting ready for another round of ‘Heroes vs Villains’ training. Some of the guys decided to change in the stalls - Deku included, being the fucking nerd that he was. Katsuki thought nothing of it, mechanically pulling off his uniform without shame. He had nothing to hide.
He had just pulled off his undershirt and was in the process of folding it to shove into his assigned locker when Kirishima popped up from behind him, poking him in between his shoulder blades and sending a chill down his spine. “Dude, what happened here?”
Turning towards his friend , Katsuki raised an eyebrow as he growled, swatting at the other with a smoking hand. “Stop fucking touch me, Shitty Hair. What are you talking about?”
“This giant… burn scar on your back.” Kirishima mumbled, prodding at the scar tissue again and dodging just as Katsuki went to whack him upside the head. “Did you get this when you first got your quirk or something?
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about, you asshat.”
“Do you seriously not know about it? Hold on, I’ll get a picture with my phone.”
Waiting as patiently as one could with an aggressive nature and an explosive quirk, Katsuki reached behind to really get a feel for the supposed scaring that was there. Raised, rough skin met his fingertips and his eyebrows rose sharply in surprise. How had he not noticed this before…?
Kirishima walked back over, fiddling with his phone for a moment before aiming the camera at his back. “Alright, hold on… I wanna make sure this focuses properly.”
“Just hurry the fuck up, we don’t have all day, asshole!”
“Calm down, bro, I got it,” Kirishima responded as the flash went off before handing the phone to Katsuki. “You seriously didn’t notice this before? I mean, it’s just under your costume so I get why I’ve never seen it, but like... I feel like this is something you would know about. Man, your soulmate musta taken a beating.”
He clenched his jaw tightly, resisting to urge to drop his mouth open at the sight of the literal handprint smack dab in the middle of his back.
The same handprint he remembered seeing on Deku’s once before when the entire backside of his costume had been ripped up due to a ‘badly aimed’ explosion. The phrase badly aimed more or less meaning him trying to see if Deku could dodge fast enough.
He didn’t.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He had tried to ignore it; that nagging feeling that spread through him whenever he remembered the mark on his back. Tried to pretend it didn’t exist. That there was no possibility in hell that Deku was his soulmate.
It wasn’t until they were nearly at the end of their second year that he decided to test out his theory for himself.
Watching from around the corner of a classroom, Katsuki waiting for Deku to eventually head in that direction so that he could see if what he hypothesized to be was actually correct or not. If he was wrong, oh well. This just meant that a bit more of his sanity was dumped down the toilet; whoever thought willingly that Deku was their fucking soulmate was clearly a little bit nuts.
He waited in the doorway of the empty room until he heard the familiar tenor of Deku heading in the direction of the cafeteria, sounding as cheerful as ever as he spoke with Round Face. He bided his time, keeping himself hidden just until he heard them pass by. Peeking his head back out, he knew it was time to commence with the plan.
Placing his hand directly against the skin of his arm, he didn’t even wince as he let his quirk build up. The feeling of the burn didn’t faze him anymore, something he got used to when he was younger and trying to master the power of his explosions. He let it get hot enough to cause the skin to tingle from the unexpected heat, but not enough to cause permanent damage. He didn’t need anyone asking questions later.
“Whoa, Deku!” Uraraka exclaimed, worry coating her tone. Her hand seemed to move of its own accord, hovering over Deku’s arm in disbelief. Katsuki felt a growl build up in his chest as she got close to the green-eyed boy. “Your… your arm is burning ! Are you okay?”
Deku blinked in surprise, glancing down at his forearm as the outline of a hand started forming on his freckled skin. “Wow, it’s been a long time since this has happened.”
“You mean this has happened before?”
“Yeah, more so when I was younger. Little things here or there - I think that they were trying to get a better grasp of their quirk,” Deku chuckled, thumb almost lovingly stroking the mark as it got darker. “They were pretty untrained back then, but… I haven’t seen anything like this since elementary school. I hope they're okay…”
Uraraka blinked in surprise, large eyes glazing over in understanding. “They? So it’s your…”
“Soulmate, yeah.”
“Wow… Do you know who it could be?”
“Hm, no, not really. I mean, I had a completely crazy theory on who it was when I was younger but… There is no way it’s him.” His voice trailed off as the duo wandered away, fingers entwined together as they disappeared down the hall.
Turning away from the room where he had just been spying on his soulmate and his soulmate’s girlfriend , he leaned back against the wall that had hidden him from view. Sliding down, he sat on the cold floor with a hollow feeling in his chest.
So it was true.
And he was too late.
And it was his fault.
Katsuki wasn’t even aware that he had started crying until he felt the liquid spill off his chin and hit his bare collarbone. Reaching a hand up, he touched the wetness of his cheeks and stared in shock as it coated his fingertips. Why was he crying? It wasn’t like… It wasn’t like he cared about Deku. Growling in frustration, he clenched his fist tighter before slamming it into the wall behind him. He didn’t even realize that the cement cracked under the force.
He was the one to cause the scarring on Deku’s back. It was his fault.
“Damnit!” He cursed, regret moving through his system like a tidal wave as he hunched over into himself. Arms wrapping around his head in agony as the feeling of loss filled him.
It shouldn’t matter now. He didn’t care that he was hurting him when he was actually doing it, so why now? Why did it matter? It shouldn’t fucking matter!
Of all people in the world…
Why did it have to be him?
#bakudeku#katsudeku#bnha angst week#bnha angst week 2019#day 3 - empty // scar#angst#hurt no comfort#self-harm#my writing
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