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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 9 months

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"(You got me) in the palm of your hand" sounds intriguing for the title ask game. If you have anything to share for that one, I'd love to read about it. Thanks in advance!

Ooh, thank you, I really like the title. 😊

It's my @steddiebang fic, in which Steve goes to the ren faire and falls in love with fortune teller Eddie.

I'm really satisfied with how it's all coming together and can't wait to share the final result in October.

I'm putting a snippet from their meeting in chapter one under the cut. ❤️

Ask me about my WIPs!

🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮✨️🔮

The tasseled curtain that forms the entrance of the tent falls closed behind him, muffling the din of the crowd outside and blocking out the glare of the sun. The air inside is warm and stuffy and smells faintly of incense.

For a moment, all he can see is darkness and so he halts and squints while his eyes get adjusted to the low light. Finally, an entire sea of little golden lights swims into focus. They seem to be floating in front of his eyes, almost as if by … magic.

That would be silly, though, because there's no such thing as magic. Steve snaps himself out of it with a forceful shake of his head.

Another round of squinting reveals that the floating lights are, in fact, not floating. No, they’re a myriad of small metallic lanterns, hanging from the ceiling by thin bits of string. Cheap glass crystals in a variety of shapes and all colors of the rainbow are glistening between them, reflecting the light like prisms and painting patterns all over the walls and shelves littered with jars and crystal balls and all sorts of other weird clutter and knick knacks. Something that looks suspiciously like a bird’s skull is staring back at him. Steve is so busy wrinkling his nose at it and wondering if it is real that he almost jumps out of his Nikes at the sound of a low voice somewhere to his side.

“Fear not, m'lord, it doth not bite … anymore, that is.”

Steve whips around, suddenly glad for the poor light because he can already feel an embarrassed flush coming on at the mocking undertone.

A low table has been placed against the far side of the tent, half obscured by another curtain. The owner of the voice is sitting on the floor, legs crossed comfortably under the table, elbows propped on top, chin cushioned lazily on stacked hands. Steve faintly registers the glint of jewelry, dark curls spilling out from under a patterned headscarf. The picture wouldn’t be all that surprising considering the fact that he’s in a fortune teller’s tent, if it weren’t for the fact that …

“Neither do I for that matter. Step closer, pray thee.”

That this is most definitely a guy’s voice. Weird!

Weird, but interesting. Steve shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and shuffles over to the table with feigned indifference, ducking his head to avoid taking a dangling lantern to the face.

The fortune teller’s eyes glance up at him from underneath long, thick lashes. Lean, graceful hands clad in gleaming rings open in a dramatic gesture.

“Welcome to my humble tent, good sir. Do not be shy, have a seat.”

Steve huffs in mock-annoyance, even as he allows the corner of his mouth to tug up into an indulgent little smile. Sinking down onto the cushioned floor across from the guy, he wonders idly if he is always so dramatic or if it is all part of the act.

Another, smaller part of his brain is asking itself whether it is just the costume or if he is always this pretty.

Because, see, here’s the thing about Steve: he likes pretty people. Back when he first started thinking about others as attractive or desirable, he thought that this was something everybody experienced. It wasn’t until one day after basketball practise, when he made some offhand remark about how handsome Danny O’Quin from senior year was, and Tommy gave him shit for it for days after, that it began to dawn on him that boys are, in fact, not supposed to think about other boys that way. Girls are supposed to be pretty and lovely and sweet - and they are, don’t get him wrong. It’s just that, sometimes, boys are, too. He’s tried to ignore it for the longest time, because surely, something had to be wrong with him. It took a whole lot of headaches and even more encouragement from Robin - but lately, he's allowed himself to ease into it, to acknowledge it to himself at least when he … just finds a person pretty.

And damn, fortune teller dude sure is pretty. The careless ease with which he pulls off the costume that most guys would be mortified to wear probably has a lot to do with it - but it's not only that, Steve thinks. He also has those really gorgeous eyes, large and so dark brown they look almost black in the dim light of the tent, crinkling around the corners with a barely concealed grin - and shit, is that eyeliner? They're soft, those eyes, where his hair is all wild, a mop of unruly curls interspersed with random little braids here and there. He looks intriguing.

He also looks awfully familiar, upon closer inspection.

"Wait a sec," Steve blurts. "Don't I know you?"

#steddie #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #fanfiction #fanfiction writer #fanfic #my writing #steddie big bang #wip weekend #wip ask game

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nyctoraffles · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday — Oil-lamp Mermaid

The pale sunlight seeping into the classroom before first period is almost blinding. His classmates' voices reverberate in Jamil’s skull as if to herald an impending migraine. It's a lightheadedness akin to that of mind control magic; much like a puppet tugged along by external strings, the body currently sitting in place feels nothing like his own.

There is no magic or sickness at play here, but fatigue alone, for better or worse.

Around him, the room spins in a blur of flashes and colours, and just as Jamil feels like his head might burst at the seams the world comes into focus at last.

“Good morning, Jamil.” Azul’s arrival, unwelcome as it may be, anchors Jamil to the present. “Is this spot taken?”

It’s a rhetorical question not even worth asking; Azul would sit next to him regardless, even if it was. Vision cleared and heart rate settled, Jamil just shrugs. “Do whatever you want.”

Trademark smile plastered across his face, Azul sets his books down and claims the seat to Jamil’s right.

Their history lesson begins shortly thereafter, and the lecture has just about started when Jamil spaces out again, mind drifting uncharacteristically across the room. Concentrate, he tells himself, but his head is aching, his eyelids heavy and his shoulders tense. In the background, Trein’s explanation melds with Lucius’s mewls into an unintelligible drone. Concentrate, he thinks again, and succeeds— at the cost of zeroing in on the entirely wrong thing.

Beside him, gloved hands do what they know best: ink flows over the page along the strokes of Azul’s pen, looping and arching in an impeccable script. Jamil’s gaze falls over the long, slender fingers; well-suited for playing the piano, he muses absently, recalling an offhand comment by Floyd.

What was Azul like before arriving on land? Jamil tries to envision it, but his mind turns up empty. Club activities have gotten him well-acquainted with Floyd’s merform, and by extension, Jamil reckons he could hazard a guess on Jade’s. However, while he can perfectly picture a younger version of the twins, Jamil can’t even begin to fathom what Azul looks like underwater. He supposes it makes sense. In the end, there is nothing he shares with Azul other than a homeroom, but Jamil cannot shake the feeling that he’s at an overwhelming disadvantage.

Azul ploughed through every barrier and shed light on the self Jamil had spent a lifetime trying to repress. Truth pried open and plans undone, Azul had witnessed his ego in full display. It’s humiliating, really. By contrast, Jamil knows nothing about Azul that one wouldn’t about the average classmate. A new pang of annoyance strikes him, sensing the disparity; so, Jamil does the only logical thing and peers at Azul’s profile in search of answers.

He examines each inch with care, as if the key to some intangible mystery were to be found in any of it: the frames of his glasses, the shape of his eyes, the curve of his nose, the way his lips part or how his neck bobs. Jamil isn’t one for romanticism or poetry, but had he not known Azul’s incompetence on a broom to rival even that of a boulder’s, he would have been tempted to say that the loose ringlet at the side of Azul’s face has an almost airy quality to it, like a weightless puff of smoke, the ever-changing ridges of desert sand, or something similarly nonsensical.

As he reflects on it, he becomes aware of the rosy tinge spreading rapidly over Azul’s cheeks, even as he continues to write his notes. Spring had brought alongside it the steady rise of temperatures and Jamil considers, not for the first time, that merfolk are adverse to warmth.

It stirs memories of that ill-advised celebration during their disastrous winter break. While Jamil indulged Kalim and danced all common sense away, Azul watched from the sidelines, face flushed even when standing under the desert shade.

Well, at least there's that.

Having arrived at the conclusion that octopi have a low tolerance for even the most temperate of climates, Jamil finally tunes into Trein’s lecture and applies himself to his own work.

#azujami #jamiazu #I started writing this fic all the way back in April and still have no signs of it ever being completed #this is just an old segment I wrote a while back #I just wanted to share #twisted wonderland #twst #jamil viper #azul ashengrotto #in which raffles writes

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laylacooke · 4 years

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Don’t Be Suspicious || Luce & Layla

timing: Late July, Midnight parties: @divineluce & @laylacooke summary: Luce & Layla have an unexpected meeting in the woods in the middle of the night.

The one benefit that had come out of the fidget spinner ordeal had been the ability to throw out claws and teeth when a fight came. Partially transforming hurt, but it had become easier when it came to needing protection. However, it was the fine art of fully transforming at will, that Layla was focused on. It had been something that had scared her greatly for multiple reasons. The immense pain of shifting, being one, but the fear of killing somebody again, being the biggest. It’s why her need to find a good place in her head and her heart where she could have full control over the shifting was important, and it’s why she had ventured out to White Crest National Park to try and work on her werewolf skills on her own. However, having been in the same spot trying to focus had led to nothing but frustration, which eventually led to Layla letting out a frustrated growl that echoed through the trees.

“Get back here, you piece of shit--” Luce growled as she ran through the woods, her lungs burning as she chased the creature down, her sword haphazardly rattling in its sheath as she pursued the monster. It wasn’t anything particularly hard to handle, just your run of the mill ghoul-- but still. She’d been running in the forest a few nights ago when she’d realized that she was being watched, being followed. Which is why she was back here now, turning the tables. She’d been through so much bullshit; she didn’t need to add a ghoul stalking her back to her cabin to the list. As she ran through the trees, a growl rang out through the woods, startling her. “What the fuck?” She said, as she slid to a stop, staring through the darkness around her. “Someone out there?” Luce asked. Or was it something?

Falling to her knees in pain, the young werewolf still couldn’t figure out the way to fully shift voluntarily. What was she doing wrong? Every full moon it came naturally leaving her broken and sick, until the animal took over giving her new life, but right now, all she could feel was newly formed fangs and claws which left her mouth aching and her hands sore, “Why won’t you change?!” The frustration running through her blood left her clawing and gripping handfuls of dirt before flinging it into the distance. But a voice stopped her from doing anything else. Animal instinct forcing her to sniff the air, Layla’s yellow eyes darted around looking for the culprit. The scent of a human and the sound of their heartbeat gave the young werewolf what she needed to go hunting, but she still had control and knew she had come out here for a reason, “I don’t want any trouble, okay?” Her eyes scanned the forest as she climbed back to her feet, “I just came out here to hike.” Yes, it was partly a lie, but maybe it would be enough to get the person to leave.

As Luce made her way through the trees, she saw a fallen form in the middle of the woods, clawing at the dirt. Stopping in her tracks, her hand instinctively went to the hilt of her sword. Not that she thought she’d have to use it, but… after that shit with the demon voice changing Santa in the woods and her run in Shocky Mc-Fuck-You, she was wary of things that lurked around the woods. Even though the national park was one of the safer places in White Crest, it never hurt to be careful. But, when a voice came from the crouched figure, she relaxed, hand resting on her hip instead. “You hurt or something?” She asked, wondering why this girl was out here in the middle of the night. Luce was looking for trouble, but not this kind. She was in the business of fucking up some of the ghouls and monstrous creatures that roamed the woods, not rescuing injured hikers. But, if she had to, she would. “You fall and twist your ankle?” She asked, clicking the small flashlight secured around her arm, the beam cutting through the darkness.

Layla kept her head turned and her fists clenched. The last thing she had wanted was to scare this woman, or worse, get into a fight with her. If anything, the redhead just wanted to be left alone. Find her peace and go back home. Ari and Ulf had probably been wondering where she was at, and Indy needed to be fed, “No, I was just out. Wanted to see the stars. I hear it’s pretty in this area at night.” Her face was aching from the fangs and blood seemed to drip down where they had forced their way out of her skull and gums. It was her heartbeat that was keeping them out, along with her claws. The fear of what this random person might do to her. However, before she could turn her head quickly enough out of the path of the light, she felt it hit her eyes and reflect off of her yellowed hues revealing that she wasn’t exactly human.

“Uh huh.” Luce said, nonplussed by the words. Out. To see the stars. It sounded a lot like the excuses she had made when Roland had caught her out in the woods. Well, she wasn’t a cop and she wasn’t going to go bothering some random girl in the woods if she wanted to be out here alone. With a shrug, she was about to move on with her night, make some comment about staying out of her hair when she saw the flash of yellow in the girl's eyes, a familiar shade she’d once seen glint in Ulfric’s. A werewolf. Huh. Well, how about that. “Just wanted to see the stars huh?” She said before tilting her gaze up. “The moon’s really bright tonight. Pretty.” She said with an offhand comment as she leaned back to look skywards, the sword on her hip glinting in the moonlight.

It was too late, and there was no use in turning her head. The woman had clearly seen what Layla was. It was apparent in her voice and the comments that were coming out of her mouth. The glint from the sword caught Layla’s eye, and she slowly started to back away, “Please. I’m not out here to hurt anybody. I didn’t think anyone would be out here this late, and I knew it would be a good time to...try and figure some things out.” She didn’t want to outright say what she was. It was clear this woman already knew. Her heart was beating a little harder in her chest at the fear of what might happen, and she had started to pant.

As the girl began to back away slowly, it didn’t take a genius to realize what had her spooked. Ah, shit. Luce let out a sigh and held her hands up. “I’m not a hunter, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I was just out here,” She paused, not sure how to answer. She’d literally just said she wasn’t a hunter. And she wasn’t. She was just out here… trying to make the woods a little safer, deal with some pesky ghouls that had a knack for making a mess of things. “On a hike. And in a place like this? It never hurts to have protection.” She said with a shrug. “Are you sure you don’t need any help? You don’t exactly look like you’re in good shape there.” She said, glancing at the way the girl’s hands were inhuman and gnarled.

The woman had a point. The woods of White Crest weren’t exactly the safest and knowing that reasoning made her feel a little less stressed. However, Layla still wasn’t fond of being around someone with a huge sword, “I guess that’s a good point. No pun intended...” She looked down at her hands, “Um, they should heal up on their own when my stupid claws go back in.” She hated not being able to have full control over herself. It made her unsure and leery when she was forced into certain situations. Layla’s intent was never to hurt anyone. As a werewolf, she couldn’t control that hunger. She had tried, but as a human, she was determined to keep those around her as safe as possible, even if that spelled bad news or pain for herself, “So hiking in the middle of the night huh?” She was starting to become a little more comfortable knowing that the woman’s vibe wasn’t really as hostile as she once presumed it to be.

Watching as the girl looked down at her hands, Luce cracked a crooked grin at the joke. “Like I said, I’m not going to hurt you. Just gonna have to trust me on that one.” She said. There was a certain irony in the fact that she was meeting another red-headed werewolf-- seemed like Ulfric wasn’t the only ginger wolf running around in these hills. But she wasn’t about to out him to some random werewolf in the woods. “Well, as long as they heal up fine, sounds good to me.” She said with a shrug. At the further question, Luce raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I said, right? Insomnia’s a bitch.” She said. She wasn’t even going to attempt to explain what she was doing out here. Besides, she had a feeling getting rid of the local ghoul problem wouldn’t do much to reassure the girl that she wasn’t a hunter. “Besides, you’re out here too, kid.”

“Yeah, I got that. Look, these things...I can’t make them go back in.” She held up her hands flashing her claws. “That’s why I’m out here. Trying to learn how to control what I was forced to become...” Her words kind of trailed off. Layla hated being a werewolf. She had learned to forget what she most of the time, but when it would come creeping back in, the regret held heavy in her heart. Shaking off that same feeling that seemed to be coming in stronger than before, she looked Luce in the eyes, “Yeah, insomnia is an absolute bitch.” Letting out a soft sigh, she decided a truce was in order in case they were to run into each other again in the future, “Name’s Layla. Consider this my way of trying to draw some kind of truce that if we see each other out here again, we either go our separate ways or are friendly to one another. Thoughts?”

At the girl’s words, Luce’s eyebrows raised even higher. What she was forced to become? What, was she some kind of bite victim? Luce didn’t know much about werewolves outside of what Ulfric had told her over drinks from time to time, but she’d only ever known born wolves. Then again, she had no idea what Ariana was, but she wasn’t exactly going to ask the girl. She had a feeling that talking about the girl’s background might… bring up some bad memories. The thought of Celeste, of their brief date in the woods not all that far from here, came back to the forefront and Luce shifted uncomfortably. “A truce? You make it sound like I’m out here trying to start shit. I already said I wasn’t gonna hurt you. Twice, in fact. So, chill.” She said before shaking her head. “If you try and go off on me, you won’t like it. But whatever, kid. Next time I see a red wolf running around, I’ll look the other way.” Luce snorted.

Geeze, she reminds me of somebody, but I just can’t… “Uh, excuse you, I didn’t come out here sportin’ a huge ass sword. Who carries a sword anyways? This isn't King’s Landing.” Fucking bounty hunter. That’s who she reminds me of. “And I guess we’re not doing the name thing, huh?” Layla’s claws and teeth were beginning to go back in. Feeling threatened went out the window. “And if I see someone carrying a big ridiculous sword on their hip like Jaime Lannister, I’ll look the other way. So, I guess we’re on some sort of mutual ground. And don’t worry, I wouldn’t expect you to shake on it.”

At the girl’s comment, Luce let out a short sigh before shaking her head. She honestly didn’t want to start shit with a wolf, she really didn’t. Ulf had warned her that wolves could be dangerous, and here was a young girl who’d been turned and was sitting there with her claws and teeth out. Not exactly someone she wanted to fuck with. “Luce. And yeah, I’m not about to shake on it.” She made a scratching gesture with her hands before pointing at the girl’s hands. “Sure. Mutual ground works for me.” With a sigh she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Well, if you’ve got this whole… tooth and claw situation on lock, I’m gonna go.” She said before backing away from the girl, returning into the darkness of the forest. The ghoul problem would have to wait for another night-- when there weren’t teen wolves in the woods.

#para: don't be suspicious #divineluce #wickedswriting

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caffeinechesters · 4 years

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Happy Day 7 of Wincestmas! Have some completely safe for work Weechesters, a few years pre-slash (IMO) featuring a pining Sam and a highly, highly possessive!Dean. This got a bit long so you may want to put it under a cut, but YMMV. Cheers!

Sam started junior year in one those Deep South high schools that didn’t even have a soccer team. The PE coach organized them daily into a loose soccer scrimmage, complete with makeshift nets on the baseball fields. Sam was picked middle-of-the-pack his first day. He got it. He was new, which made him chancy. But he was also tall, with that soccer player build that could make him the dark horse for one of the two football players chosen as team captains.

Chad Fairlane, the type of jock with cut muscles but also poetically floppy blonde curls, looked Sam up and down in a way that made Sam squirm even more than he already had as the new kid. But Chad ended up losing him to linebacker Brock’s team and regretting it later when Sam scored two points off the opposing team’s goalie.

He never mentioned the two division championship soccer trophies he’d lugged over three state lines, of course. By this point, Sam was accustomed to starting a new school as the blank slate where other people drew their expectations.

The next day, Chad looked him and down again in a new, appraising, light, but again didn’t pick him. Not that he’d wanted some jock to pick him for his team. Not that it mattered when they’d be gone in a month, or two weeks, or tomorrow and Sam would fulfill his new kid obligations at another high school.

In their second game, Chad swept his legs out from under him in a foul so blatant that an attentive coach would have blown the whistle. But Sam lived a life where nobody ever blew a whistle to make it stop, even when they probably should have. So, he found Chad’s shin with his instep in a piston kick that sent Chad yelping back. Sam rolled himself up, ready for fists, and blinked, confused, when Chad just grinned at him while hopping on one foot rubbing his shin.

“Good game, Winchester,” Chad had said when they walked back to the field house. He deliberately bumped Sam’s shoulder as they crossed an abandoned home plate where no chalk lines would be redrawn until spring, and Sam found himself smiling a little.

That afternoon, Chad found him again in the bus line. Elbowed him in the ribs. Sam knew the type. Guys who could only communicate in the language of elbows and shoulders. He lived with two of them.

“Hang out?”

Sam was surprised by the bitter tang of disappointment on the tip of his tongue when he had to say, “I gotta go straight home.”

They weren’t looking at each other, standing still like two buoys in the ocean while the rest of the school flowed around them. Sam knew people. Knew Chad was working up to something.

“I could come with,” Chad said.

Sam did look at him then. Dad was on a hunt. Dean would be at the auto shop where he picked up shifts for at least another couple of hours.

“Not a lot to do at my house,” he tested.

“We’ll find something,” Chad said, and that was when Sam knew for sure. The sat in the same seat on the bus, but not speaking, and leaving miles of green pleather seat between their bodies. Sam thought of the lack of air conditioning in the house, the messy tangle he’d left his bedsheets. He thought about how one of Chad’s curls would look wrapped around his finger.

They rode with the same grandfatherly bus driver who Sam had already seen demand parental notes from every student who tried to finagle a different stop. But apparently Chad Fairlane was one of those boys, like Sam’s brother, immune to all rules that didn’t suit their mood that day. The bus driver didn’t say a word when Chad followed Sam off in the cookie-cutter subdivision where they were staying because Dad “knew a gal.”

The house itself was one of those weird 70’s numbers with a diagonal wood slat exterior that gave away its age. Standing at the end of the driveway, it suddenly felt weird to Sam to invite this strange boy, who still smelled like fresh cut grass after their soccer game, into the house he shared with Dad and Dean. So, he suggested, “We could lift weights in the garage.”

The separate garage was around back, full of interesting hand tools, their shapes outlined in pencil on a pegboard.

“That’d be good,” Chad said. He looked at Sam and his tongue did something complicated behind his teeth and that was when Sam was sure–really sure this time–that once they entered the cool of the garage, the last thing they would do is mess around with weights. His hands shook a little.

“Race you,” Sam challenged, to dispel the awkwardness he felt more than anything. Chad played dirty, shoving Sam to the side, but Sam’s legs were longer, and they were neck and neck as they clamored pell-mell around the house only to come face to face with Dean, standing next to the Impala’s open hood, wiping his hands on a once-red shop rag.

Sam’s eyes met his brother’s and held for a second longer than they should. The sparrow of expectation that had been fluttering in Sam’s chest cavity began flapping overtime, and it was like a physical loss when his brother dragged his eyes away to focus on Chad.

“Who’s this?” Dean’s voice was modulated carefully neutral.

“Uh… Chad.” Sam was still breathing heavily from the race.

“Of course, it is,” Dean said, smiling minutely at some private joke.

“Chad, this is my brother Dean.” It was embarrassing, somehow, even saying their names in the same sentence. Like Dean could look through his skull and see the thoughts that had been swirling around his brain; x-ray vision through his clothes like in those old cartoons and know exactly what Sam, and certain parts of his anatomy, had expected to happen when the two of them closed the garage door behind them.

But instead he just said to Dean, “I thought you were at work.”

“But I’m not.”

Their eyes met again and tearing his gaze away this time felt like slowly ripping Velcro off the top of one of his little kid shoes. But he managed it and noticed for the first time that Chad was glancing between them, a question in his eyes. They stood there for a long second, three points in an acute triangle, before Golden Boy Chad with his middle-class manners broke the ice.

He jerked his thumb toward the weight set and asked Dean, “How much do you bench?”

“No idea,” Sam listened to Dean lie. “You?”

“One sixty-five,” Chad said, but offhand, not crowing about a number that was higher than Sam’s but lower than Dean’s.

Dean’s hands were as clean as they could be now, barring the grease under his fingernails. He tossed the rag on the workbench and turned the weight of his full attention on Chad. Sam squirmed.

“How many pushups?” Chad asked.

“Don’t know that either,” Dean said, considering. Nobody was looking at Sam now, who stood alone and awkward as his brother and his… friend… circled around each other like lions on the Serengeti. “Want to find out?” his brother said suddenly.

“If Sam is the ref,” Chad said.

“By all means.” Sam’s brother had the same look in his eye that appeared when he “suddenly” acquired the knack for pool after the stack of bills on the rail piled sufficiently high.

Sam was happy now that neither of them were looking at him because his dick was rock hard in his basketball shorts and that was confusing. It was like whoever wins this – his brother and Chad now dropping to the ground next to each other – would get Sam as a prize. And he found that he was extremely okay with that. Whatever it entailed.

“No cheating now,” Chad said, and Sam wondered how he got Dean’s number so fast.

“I just thought we’d make it interesting,” his brother replied. “How about diamond pushups?” The bane of the Winchester existence.

“My favorite kind,” Chad grinned. They both formed their thumbs and forefingers into diamond shapes, then waited expectantly.

“Oh… Go!” Sam said.

Dean and Chad both began pushing, elbows flexing and long, lean bodies moving in rhythm.

“Count,” Dean grunted, so Sam did.

Both slowed a little by the time he called out twenty, but when Chad ground out, “Want to give up?” Sam’s brother seemed to get a second wind, with Chad right there with him.

“Thirty… Thirty-one…” Sam continued to count. Both of their faces were red now, and the sweated with the effort. The veins in Dean’s forearms bulged. Not that Sam was looking.

“Thirty-three.” This was getting ridiculous really. The most Sam had ever accomplished was twenty.

“Fuck,” Chad’s groan was muffled by the fact that he’d unceremoniously dropped with his face in the grass.

Sam realized it had never been a question who would win. Chad saw this as a fun contest. A manly testing of muscle and lung capacity between two dudes. He had no idea who Sam’s brother was, what he could endure. Dean could take damage like a brick wall that never flinched, never fell. Sam couldn’t love his brother more as Dean managed three more diamond pushups before joining Chad on the ground. Sam watched Dean roll over with one hand over his eyes, shielding them from the overhead sun, grass stains streaking his white undershirt.

When Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead and opened his green, green eyes he smiled that slow smile at Sam. “What do I win?”

Sam swallowed.

Chad was sitting up, then getting to his feet. He offered a hand to Dean who, a magnanimous winner now, took it and let himself be pulled up.

“That was rad, man,” Chad said. “What sport did you play?”

Dean’s eyes were still on Sam’s when he said, “Nothing really. Just keep in shape.” Chad was looking between them then, but Sam found that he didn’t care as much about answering his unspoken questions now.

“Hey, I gotta go out. Need a ride home, Chad?”

Chad opened his mouth to protest, but Dean continued, “Our dad is pretty strict. You don’t want to be here when he gets home.”

Chad looked to Sam for confirmation.

“I thought Dad was out of town on business,” Sam said, an edge in his voice.

“He’s back tonight.” Dean’s eyebrows raised sky high as he said this.

The bird of anticipation in Sam’s chest cavity expired a slow, sad death. Something had happened just now. And Dean had won. And Sam hadn’t even been playing. Whatever he thought might happen, at this latest house, alone with this cute boy in the garage, clearly wasn’t happening now. Dean, with those last three pushups, had seen to that.

“He’s right,” Sam said, even though everything in him wanted to fight Dean, to bring Chad into “his” room and find out what happens next.

“Okay… See you at school then.“

That night, Sam fell asleep alone in the house. He’d half expected Dad to arrive, but maybe he would be late. Or maybe, a suspicious niggled at Sam, Dean had been lying because….

Because what? He hadn’t wanted Sam and Chad to stay at home alone. Because why? Because he knew what they were going to do. And why did Dean care? Because he didn’t like the thought of his little brother with a guy. Or because Dean didn’t like the thought of his little brother with another guy? It couldn’t be that.

Except… Except for the look on Dean’s face when he looked up and asked lazily “What do I win?”

Thoughts, and sinful hopes, chased each other around in Sam’s head until he fell into a fitful sleep.

It was well past midnight when he woke up again, but this time he wasn’t alone. He squirmed at first. Something had the back of his neck in a vice grip. He only minimally relaxed when something told him that the familiar shape over him in the dark, and the familiar hand on the back of his neck, was Dean’s.

His brother smelled of alcohol and woman, but Sam would still be able to pick him out of the lineup from the feel of his callused fingers, an iron grip on his pressure points.

He felt Dean’s whiskey-breath on his ear, lips only millimeters away from the tender skin there. His brother’s voice was a rasp.

“Chad can’t have you.”

#wincestmas #spn fic #wincest #this is amazing santa!anon #just hit me with all of this #submission

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theimaginesyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

Not Him (4)

So this is another chapter from Loki’s perspective but I don’t know if there will be many more beyond the reader’s POV. But I am really enjoying this series and hope this holds you over until the next :) Comment, like, reblog to give it a boost and let me now what I’m doing right, wrong, or weird, lol. Again thanks to everyone, <3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Loki’s POV

The next few weeks dragged on. Loki forced himself to stay away from the Midgardian, both out of shame and guilt. He couldn’t believe he had lost control of himself. He had let his foolish emotions takeover and that never led to anything good. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could see was the look of hurt on Y/N’s face. The pain he had caused her. That fact hurt him more than anything.

And yet, he still found himself outside her lab on occasion. When his mind would not let him focus on his current book and he walked the corridors out of tedium. His feet always took him there and he he would stand at the window and watch her until she sensed his presence. He was never there when she looked; his timing was impeccable. She could play it off as her imagination or even paranoia, all the while he could lose himself in her tresses, admiring her from afar.

That was as close as he’d ever get, he mourned on another of his wanderings. He had ruined any sliver of a chance he had hoped for with the Midgardian. That this hurt him so angered and confounded him. Why had he grown so attached to a woman he barely knew? What he knew of her he had only observed. Her kindness had never been for him, her smile never from his words, and her intelligence never offered to him.

Why, he didn’t exist in her world, yet she had become all of his.

He rounded the same corner he did everyday, the one which he knew he should avoid. It was only then that he noticed the voices. He ground to a halt, dodging back before he could disturb the trio before him. He pressed himself against the wall and listened, their voices pausing and he wondered if he had been sighted. The lab door opened and closed and their voices were muffled by the pane of glass. He sighed in relief.

A few moments later, two sets of footsteps re-emerged and he could guess at the third who had remained. He poked his nose around the corner and watched the short blond and taller super soldier as they disappeared into the next watch hallway. Slowly, Loki tiptoed nearer to the window, peering through into the lab. The second super soldier sat at the table, his metallic arm visibly damaged and leaking oily black. He smiled as Y/N examined him, wiping clean the gritty vibranium.

She smiled back at him as they spoke and Loki felt an icy tingle in his veins. He stepped away from the glass and headed back to the corner. His heart was beating so furiously and his head was spinning. His nails were digging into his palms and he could barely breathe. He stormed down the hallway, his jacket whipping through the air as a low growl came from within him.

He had to stop himself outside his chamber, quelling his anger as he steadied his breathing only to be drowned in a sudden melancholy. He had always known he was alone in this tower, but it had never been more apparent that in that moment. His cheek twitched and he pushed back his shoulders, turning the handle with a sullen sigh.

“Brother,” Thor’s booming greeting caught him offhand. He was quick to hide his sorrow, shooting his usual disinterested sneer. “Where have you been? I knocked for ages before I figured out you weren’t in.”

“And so you trespass?” Loki challenged, sitting on the edge of his bed as he reached for the book he had left open on his pillow.

“Where have you been?”

“Walking,” Loki said evasively, positioning himself against the headboard as he found his place in the text. “Shouldn’t you be bothering one of your friends?”

“I am,” Thor grinned.

“I’m your brother,” Loki scowled.

“As much a friend as brother,” Thor assured him. Loki could feel his stare, the thought stirring behind his thick skull. “What has gotten into you lately, brother? You seem so...dark.”

Loki looked up from the book, the shift of his irises slow and sardonic. “I am trapped on a foreign planet with you as my only companion.”

“Well, if you did more than brood into your books, perhaps I wouldn’t be. The others, they do not fault you your past.” Thor chimed, “Stop acting like the villain you fear they think you are.”

“I believe you’re mistaken,” Loki kept his voice even, despite the tightness in his throat, “They hate me. Every one of them.”

“Banner doesn’t, he told me so. And Wanda, she was asking about your magick,” Thor said, “That’s a great starting point--”

“There is a certain part of Banner I don’t trust, and as for the witch, she’s much too dull for me,” Loki retorted.

“Y/N is always friendly,” Thor continued, Loki blanched and held his book higher to hide it, “The little lab assistant. And she didn’t know you when you were...confused.”

“I’ll stick to my books,” Loki insisted, “Now, if you would be on your way, I was just getting started on this one.

Thor sighed heavily and pushed himself to his feet with the arms of the chair. Loki glanced over at him as he shook his head a neared the door. “You really should think about getting out more, Loki,” Thor chided, “Else you’ll drive me as mad as you’re driving yourself.”

Loki hadn’t gotten much further in his book than earlier. After endless attempts to read the same page, he had tossed the book against the wall and grunted in frustration. He stared at the blank wall and crossed his arms, biting his lip as he reprimanded himself. Stop thinking of her. Thor’s words only seem to have made his issues worse.

Tea. That was what always helped. His mother had made him tea on Asgard, much better than that enjoyed on this planet, but nonetheless, it was calming. The warm liquid, the steeped herbs, the synthetic sensation of comfort. He rose, stretching his shoulders out as he neared the door. He stopped and listened for movement on the other side. It was clear.

He walked the hallways undisturbed and alone. He used to value his solace but these days it was growing tortuous. The lounge was open and he entered swiftly, relieved to find no one within; only the remnants of its former occupants. Candy wrappers and an aluminum can littered the table beside the sofa; he suspected he knew who was the culprit but he was done with cleaning up his brother’s messes.

Loki filled the kettle and flicked it on. These Midgardian gadgets were rather handy. He tapped his fingers on the counter as he waited for the water to boil, stilling his nerves to pull a mug from the cupboard and drop a mesh bag inside. It was all set; everything ready for his nightly brew. The kettle shook and came close to whistling just before he flipped the switch back. He poured the water over the tea, steam rising from the cup in swirls.

When he was content that it was strong enough, he fished out the bag with a spoon and dumped it in the rubbish bin. He turned, reaching for his cup without looking as he tried to make his escape entirely unbothered. But he hadn’t heard her enter and he hadn’t expected to see her at all. Especially not in the same room.

He failed to grab the handle of his mug and instead slid it over the edge of the counter. It fell in slow motion and yet too fast. The glass shattered over the tile, the tea splashing up his leg and along his boot. His eyes were wide, caught in the sight of the Midgardian as she turned to him. She looked so beautiful; her eyes seemed even brighter and her lips even softer. He recalled the kiss they had shared, the way it had swept away every thought and worry.

“Gods,” He swore, bringing himself back to the world. He waved his hand and his mess attended to itself; the cup taking on its former shape and the tea dissolving into the void. He knelt to fetch the cup and rinsed it quickly, afraid he would only drop it again in his frazzled state. He placed it in the dish rack and sighed.

“S-sorry, I’m so careless,” He muttered as he tried to hide his face, almost racing to the door. His cheeks were on fire. He stopped himself as he reached the doorway and turned back, a bit too sharply. He should stop running. It would only make things worse to avoid the problem. He at least owed her an effort. “Y/N,” He raised his finger as he thought, “I really am--”

“Woah,” He was interrupted as he suddenly felt a force catch him from behind. He struggled not to tumble over and felt a firm grip upon his arm. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you to be standing there,” The super soldier’s voice identified his assailant. “You okay?”

Loki wriggled free of his grip and turned on Bucky. He glared down his nose, the stabbing in his chest returning. Of course she was waiting for him. “Not at all,” He forced out, a bitter taste upon his tongue. No tea and no Y/N. Great. “I was just leaving.”

“Right, well, have a good one,” Bucky stepped aside and let Loki through, his gaze following the Asgardian all the way down the hallway. Loki could feel the super soldier’s eyes as he stomped away, cursing himself and his stupidity. He would never be anything but a trickster.

Loki couldn’t bare to retreat to his room and wallow in his misery, so he walked. His feet guided him as his nerves flurried and his mind raced. He berated himself, his lips moving subtly along with his thoughts. So stupid. Why was he here? Sure, he worked with these Avengers but was he truly helping. It seemed that he was only ever invited along when Thor was their to supervise him. He may as well be floating around in space.

Soon, he was stood before Y/N’s door, staring at it as he relived that dreaded night. When he had signed his own fate. He smiled though when he thought of holding Y/N, of kissing her, of her embracing him in return. He thought of that often; dreamt of it these days. Longed for it more. Like all things one could never have, it was entirely infatuating. He touched her door as if blessing it and turned away; he could only bring her misery.

On his way back to his room, he came up on the lounge. He could not convince himself that it was unintentional. He wanted to see her again; any chance to do so was all he had. All he would ever had. But he regretted it this time. Peeking inside, just beyond the threshold, he saw her against Bucky, kissing him. The sight drained Loki of all his strength; he was carried away in a tide of loathing and self-pity.

He swallowed and passed by, holding his breath until he turned the next corner. He was biting the inside of his cheeks and when he reached his room, he felt ready to burst. He stormed inside, slamming the door and swore. His voice was loud and unrestrained, filling the small space. He took the lamp upon his night table and flung it against the same wall which had felt the impact of his book.

He was such a fucking idiot!

#loki #fic #mcu #marvel #series #bucky barnes #part 4

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