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yoondoze · 4 years

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make a wish | jjk

jeongguk doesn’t know it, but his wish came true.

pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

word count: 3.5k

genre: angst, best friend!au

warnings: mentions of sex, language

a/n: uhh been in a jeongguk mood recently, so i’m riding it out through writing angsty drabbles :’) this is lowkey unedited so shh

You’re sick of sharing birthdays with Jeon Jeongguk.

Yeah, your perfectly timed entrance into this world on the same date was the basis of your friendship, but every year? It made sense when you were kids and had to invite the entire class to your parties since everyone had the same friends. But now you’re sixteen, and things are different.

While the two of you have always been close friends, what with growing up around the block together and spending the dog days of summer crossing between the sandbox and the pool with one another, you also have put together your own separate friend groups at school. And now that all of them are here together, it’s an awkward intermingling of teenagers that don’t have much in common, other than that they all suddenly forget who they’re here for when they see an attractive person their same age.

The only good thing about it is that Jeongguk invited his cute guy friends. Not here for you, per se, but the attention is all the same. Especially when it’s coming from Park Jimin. The way he wished you a happy birthday earlier was the most charming thing you’ve ever seen to date.

Jeongguk, bowl cut and all, is having the time of his life. The fact that its his 16th birthday doesn’t matter as much as the fact that it’s his birthday. He doesn’t feel much different like he thought he might. Maybe it is because every cool YA protagonist he ever idolized was saving the world at 16. By now, he’s decided that all the romanticized versions of teenage lives he’s been sold on up to this very moment is a scam. Nonetheless, he’s a simple boy. He’s just enjoying the time bowling with his friends.

...Until the moment he lays eyes on you.

The alley is dark, and though it obscures your features, he knows you well enough to see you’re upset. Your friends are barely hanging out with you, seeming to have left you behind for his friends, who coincidentally left him behind for yours. He also knows you compromised for this party. You wanted painting, envisaging a lovely evening with your companions, seated behind easels and letting your creativity flow onto a canvas. You were eight hours older and therefore the one in charge of making the decisions - it was a no-brainer, in your eyes.

But Jeongguk, never one to give in, insisted on bowling. Your parents were forcing a shared party again this year, and with how you eventually accepted that Jeongguk would throw a fit if he had to paint on his birthday, you reluctantly agreed under the obligatory condition that he invited his friend Jimin.

Who he was starting to hate, by the way. You gave more attention to the kid you were crushing on from history instead of the best friend you’d grown up with your entire life. Every time he saw you stare longingly at some stupid boy that was as mature as a cucumber, he wanted to scream that the real pickle was standing right in front of you!

Give him a break. It’s the only analogy his sixteen year old mind can think of.

The caring boy he is, he walks over to where you sit solemnly by yourself. All you’ve been doing for the past five minutes is tapping your feet to the overplayed pop music flooding the joint and continuously picking at your fingers - an unquestionably fantastic time. He shoves out his hand for you to take, which you willingly do in hopes for a cure for your boredom, and he drags you over to his lane. The way you roll your eyes at his enthusiasm only makes him like you more. That’s because it’s always accompanied by a fond smile, and he loves to see your dimples.

He’d never tell you, though. He’d definitely never tell his mom, because he knows she’d get too eager and tell your mom, and then she’d tell you. His mom has been rooting for the two of you since day one. She always was saying things like, “I’m not letting you date anyone unless it’s Y/N,” or, “I can’t wait until you and Y/N go to prom!”

At one point he wondered if he actually liked you or if it was the result of his mom’s wishes manifesting into real life after such diligence. He has since then accepted his feelings as his own, but won’t deny how the ideas sometimes made his cheeks flush.

In the time since the party has started, your “friends” have disappeared to the bathroom twice. His friends are over getting snacks without him, but it doesn’t upset him anymore. He didn’t really want their company anyway. It’s just the two of you, how it’s always been, and how he wanted it from the start.

“Watch, watch, okay?” He says, excitement dripping off every syllable. He figures he can maybe lift your mood if his is high enough to share some with you.

“Okay, I’m watching!” you exclaim. Jeongguk swells as he watches your cheeks bounce.

He seats you behind the machine and hurries to pick up a fourteen-pound ball swirled with blue and purple.

Now that he actually has to do it, Jeongguk’s heart races just a little bit. He just doesn’t want to embarrass himself, that’s all. His skills have improved from practice and the bowling team at school and it would suck if he screwed up. Especially considering that the reason he was so certain about a bowling party was so he’d have the chance to show off to you. But then he thinks it might make you laugh if he embarrasses himself, so his reassurance is that it’ll be a win either way.

He takes a deep breath. He draws back skillfully and with four purposeful steps, his right foot slips behind him and his arm swings fluidly toward his target. The ball hits the waxed floor rolling. The tension in his body is stiff as it heads right toward the pins, and boom! All ten fall in a domino effect, the rough clattering echoing in the alley. A perfect strike.

His fists pump into the air as his chest fills with pride. He spins on his heels, eyes sparkling as he hopes to find a smile on your face when he gets there -

But you’re not even paying attention. His ecstatic expression falls as quickly as his spirit does. Your head is turned from him, and when he follows your gaze, it lands on none other than fucking Park Jimin. There’s a subtle smile resting on your lips as you focus on his mindless laughter as opposed to Jeongguk’s imposing strike. Jimin is standing at the controls of a claw machine, working the joystick as his friends direct him to grab some stupid inflatable basketball the size of his palm. If it were Jeongguk, he’d go for the plush bear in the machine over and get it for you in one try.

“C’mon guys!” Your mom yells, breaking you from your infatuated stare. “Cake!”

The boys give up on their escapade and the girls magically apparate back from their fifteen minute long bathroom break. Thrilled jeers and whoops sound from everyone now filtering into the party room, somehow more excited about it than the birthday boy and girl themselves.

As you get up from your seat, you meet Jeongguk’s eyes with a quick raise of your brows, oblivious to the fact you just obliterated his heart without saying a single word. Then he’s trailing behind you, brushing his hair from his face with a sigh while everyone gathers around the table and lets you take your place at the head.

Amidst the singing and the cheers from your peers, Jeongguk can’t stop himself from glancing over to you. Right away, he knows the smiles you’re tossing out to your friends are forced. He regrets having this party in the first place. He hates seeing you disappointed and upset. He’ll choose painting any day if it means you won’t be like this.

You, on the other hand, are trying to get a peek of Jimin at every second possible. You can make out his voice among the others while singing. It’s just happy birthday, but his voice is actually really pretty, so you jot it down to reference in your next day dream.

“Make a wish!”

He thinks hard, imagining everything he could want at this point in his life. The spot for team captain, to ace his next Chemistry test, for a new bike. But wishing for something like that seems silly when he already knows what he really wants.

A big breath of air - “special for your 16th!” - and the two of you are blowing out the candles. One is all it takes for each of the waving flames to flicker out.

Jeongguk wishes that you’ll like him back.

You wish that Jimin will like you back.

☆☆☆

In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to shift your relationship with Jeongguk into something more than platonic friends. At this point, he’d call it friends with benefits. You’d call it getting your heart ripped out every time he dialed your number. Even worse, it was undeniably voluntary.

It was an awkward start. Both of you got drunk one night in his apartment, sitting on the cold tile of the kitchen floor, started asking heavy, slurred questions, and maybe admitted, “yeah, I’d fuck you,” on a whim. And then maybe you did just that.

It was supposed to be a one-time event. A weird moment in your timeline of friendship that you’d agree on forgetting. Something that you both would pretend never happened so things wouldn’t change.

However, Jeongguk’s life had been a roller coaster recently. He moved to the city with the intention of freedom only for things to get more complicated. His career was struggling, his girlfriend broke up with him, his friends barely spoke to him anymore.

So it was just you and him again, like it had always been. You were the only one who still visited, who still called, who still cared. That’s what friends are for. Help when times are rough and be there when needed. That’s your part of the deal.

Sex isn’t always included in said deal, but it is this time around.

It’s not much different. You come over for a regular movie night like you used to, but sometimes it ends up in his bedroom, that’s all. To him, anyway. You’re not sure how he hasn’t caught on yet. He’s so preoccupied that he probably chalks your racing pulse up to being horny, or interprets the emotion in your kisses as neediness. The way you hold onto him or say his name as pleasure.

It’s that endless love you have for him taking its many forms. It’s dropping off extra meals to stick in the fridge and checking in to make sure he isn’t beating himself up to the point where he can’t get out of bed. It’s also letting him fuck you when he needs to feel something.

He’s just in a rut. He just needs some time to get his life together and figure shit out. And from there it’ll be peaches and cream. When his life is on the upturn, he’ll realize you’re the one who’s always been there and who always will be, and then he’ll fall in love with you too. You’re not scared, you’re just helping your best friend through a tough time. But then he’s panting, rolling off you to take a shower right after.

It stings every time. Even when you think it will be different.

At the end of the day, if it makes him feel better, you’ll endure it a thousand times over. On a bright side that’s not all that bright, for the moments you spend intertwined, you can at least pretend he’s yours. You can imagine it’s just another hot night shared in your apartment as you live out your dreamy domestic couple’s life. It sometimes seems that way with how much you take care of him, but he’d never see it as anything more than platonic.

Jeongguk knows you love him, of course, but he doesn’t know the extent it reaches. He doesn't know that your heart shatters every time he gives you a kiss on the cheek and says he loves you. He doesn’t know that when you say it back, you don’t mean just as friends. He doesn’t know you’d drop everything and run if he asked you to. You didn’t even know it for a while. Because falling in love with Jeongguk is slow and comes day by day without realizing, until suddenly you’re stuck neck deep without an inkling in your mind of trying to escape. It’s a gentle, spellbinding bloom you wouldn’t trade for the world.

From this view on his bed, you can see a glimpse of his figure behind the foggy glass of his upright shower. You tug your t-shirt back on for some modesty as if it still matters, swallowing down the tightening in your throat. If he feels your eyes lingering on him, he doesn’t show it. For whatever reason, watching him wash his face in small circles makes your stomach sink inexplicably.

Jeongguk at the fresh age of twenty-one is a lot different than Jeongguk at sixteen. Gone is the bowl cut, in comes long wavy hair that hangs in front of his face, always seeming to fall perfectly to frame his features. His shoulders broadened along with his horizons. His personality hasn’t changed, but it’s easy to think it has with the dark cloud that seems to follow him wherever he walks nowadays. You never realized how cute his dimples were until they started showing less and less.

You toy with the idea of maybe just confessing tonight. Get it off your chest once and for all. It would save you a lot of heartbreak, but you can already picture yourself sputtering it out for tense silence to fill the air, and for you to walk out and never come back. You can’t decide if it’s really worth risking when he’s the only thing you’ve got. There are a myriad of directions your life could take, but you wouldn’t want a single one without him in it, even if it crushes you.

A deep sigh escapes you. It’s your birthday today - shouldn’t you be enjoying it instead of being so morally torn?

How is it that you had him so close for so many years yet still missed your chance?

The memory of wishing for Jimin’s returned affection as a teenager resurfaces and makes you wince. While he did end up liking you back, it was a mess of a relationship that left you moping back to Jeongguk after just a few months. It should have been obvious back then that it was him all along.

He was always right in front of you, doting on you, leaving his everlasting mark on your life without even meaning to. Charming and humble and telling jokes to make you laugh rather than to make you think he was funny, being kind out of the purity of his character rather than to be rewarded. Apologizing to ants when he had to kill them and then sulking the rest of the night, learning to braid your hair while watching movies, listening to your every rant and ramble with the utmost attention as if it was the only thing that mattered to him.

Then it hits you that it’s not just about you and never was. It’s Jeongguk’s birthday today, too. You wished it to each other when you walked through the door, but that’s not a celebration, and neither is sex. You’re reminded that your job is to be a friend regardless of how you feel because you know he’d do the same, and good friends wouldn’t spend your special day wallowing in their own self-pity.

With renewed vigor, you’re pushing yourself off the bed and padding out to his sorry excuse for a kitchen. There’s barely enough space to move around comfortably and you can’t imagine how he does it on a daily basis. The view beyond the counter-top and out the balcony connected to the living room is beautiful, though. It’s miles upon miles of shining lights and skyscrapers that embrace the velvet dusk of the sky. That’s broke city living, you suppose. You flick on the light, dim but just enough to see.

His cabinets are an absolute mess. There’s no organization to it at all, no method to the madness. It’s blatant even from the unsteady view on your tippy toes. You catch sight of some peanut butter, bags of chips, packets of ramen, a box of cinnamon frosted pop tarts…

You almost lose your balance as you shift everything around, but the feeling of joy when you see that signature box is indescribable. It’s exactly what you need.

The blue and white packaging of the Hostess CupCakes has been opened, and considering it was sitting at the back of the top shelf, probably forgotten about. However, you’re sure it’ll be enough for him.

You find the lighter fairly easily, pulling open all the drawers out and rummaging through them. As expected, there’s no organization either. Measuring cups and pens in one, scissors and a single oven mitt in another. It’s the third and final drawer you tug open to find something to possibly substitute what you’re looking for.

Not that you expected him to have birthday candles lying around, but you didn’t think you’d be using an old red crayon in ones place. It’ll make do. It has to, considering that the noise of Jeongguk shutting off the shower is already reverberating off the walls. It won’t be much of a surprise if he walks out here and asks what you’re doing before you can even finish.

With delicate fingers, you press the end of the crayon into the cake just enough for it to stay upright. The lighter takes a couple tries, as does getting the wax to melt down enough to reach the paper, but eventually a small glowing flame takes shape. Flickering orange and everything you need it to be. You can’t put your finger on why your eyes start to tear up when you look at it, but then Jeongguk is calling your name.

“One sec! Just sit down,” you say loudly, ready to shout at him to stay back if you hear a creaky foot step coming your way.

“...Why?”

“Just do it!”

“Alright, alright.” He surrenders, the weariness coating his tongue one that you hope you can wash away within the next few seconds. “I am sitting.”

Hands as stable as an anchor, you slide the cupcake into your palms and walk carefully so as to not put out the dwarfed blaze. You turn your back to push open the door with and glide into the room with an atypical but much appreciated vivacity.

His eyes widen and an open mouthed smile tweaks at his lips as he perches at the edge of the bed. The flame is already halfway down the paper, but he seems impressed with your extempore candle. It’s the only source of light in the room, and his face underneath the gentle glimmer is a sight that you know you’ll lock away forever to look back on with adoration.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you...” you begin to sing, not bothered with the worry of embarrassment. Your lawless, flimsy tone elicits a bubbly laugh from Jeongguk. Suddenly, the bright Gguk you grew up beside returns, the one you love more than ever.

“Happy birthday dear Jeongguk-”

His voice harmonizes with yours, but he sings your name instead of his. He doesn’t even have to try for it to rattle you to your core. Your name off his tongue is by far the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

“Happy birthday to you.”

You extend your arms out so he can take in the makeshift festivity for all it is. His damp side-swept bangs reflect the pale gleam like black gossamer, and his eyes swimming with sentimentality.

“Make a wish,” you say, suppressing the wild flutter of your heart.

Jeongguk cups his hands under yours, pushing them back until the cupcake is equidistant to the both of you.

He says it firmly, not to be argued with. “No, together.”

You pretend to wipe the sweat from your forehead, thinking of what you might want this year. A job opportunity, to win the lottery, an easier semester at school. You don’t have to ponder for long. How could you, when what you really want has been sitting patiently at the forefront of your mind for almost a year?

Jeongguk sighs. If he could have anything in the world right now, what would it be?

In unison, you suck in a deep breath and close your eyes. You blow with all your might, extinguishing the flame together in one as the room falls dark again.

You wish that Jeongguk will like you back.

Jeongguk just wishes that life will get easier.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #btsguild #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #jungkook oneshot #jungkook scenario #jungkook x you #jungkook fic #jungkook imagine #bts fanfic #bts angst #bts imagine #bts x reader #yoondoze

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bunnyart-blog · 4 years

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Tovar x Reader: Honeysuckle, horsehair, and halberd. "You are weak with love for her."

I’m so sorry this took me twELVE ACTUAL YEARS to write but after much struggle it is done. This takes place in the same universe as this and this, which. I have now named the Honeysuckle Universe in honour of you for always indulging my Tovar fantasies. Also this is from Tovar’s POV pls go easy on me I have no idea how this reads

Words: 7K

Rating: MA (explicit sexual scenes, some violence)

Summary: Tovar leaves the cottage, only to return to it much earlier than planned.

The tavern feels miles from the cottage. It is full to bursting, shouting and drinking and cheering spilling out into the dim around it. William waits for him outside, looks lost with the absence of his bow, picking at something on his trouser. The Germans were inside already, he explains when Tovar arrives, almost at dusk. The thickness of the forest around the large wooden building makes the world seem darker than it is. William pushes up and follows Tovar to the stable, shows him to the stall next to his own horse. He does not ask why Tovar is late, and Tovar does not have to lie that he could not have beared to leave you any earlier that morning. Did not have to lie about the delay which came from the small gift you had given him before he left, hanging now from a chain around his neck. A small ring. Tovar hands his horse to the stable boy with a bronze piece and follows William inside.

The Germans are at a low table in the corner, empty drinks around them already. Heinrich, the bigger of the two and a large man by any measure, is laughing. Tall and dirty, with a slick of long blonde hair and a beard which might have been red were it not so covered in grime and dust from the road. Otte is smaller, darker and has drunk much less. Nods at Tovar and William as they tuck into the table. William tries to lead the conversation, tries to talk about the job ahead. The four of them, hired as guard for some lord making the travel from the North country to the Asian Steppe. But Heinrich is raucous, drunk already, and not interested in talk of work. He wants to reminisce of their last job, of the bloodshed, of the women he plans on fucking. Otte is quiet, and William gives up. Tovar has not listened since they sat down, has pulled the chain from around his neck and fiddles with it.

He stares down at the pendant in his hand. It had looked small in yours, but in his it is miniscule. A thick band of gold like a ring, but much too small for his finger, plated with a gold flower which stands off the smooth surface. Honeysuckle. Like the bush that grows outside your cottage, the smells of sweetness and of you. The inside is inscribed with a single word. A word he cannot read and does not recognise. You had been nervous to give it to him. Unable to meet his eye. Insisted if he didn’t want it he did not have to take it, not just to spare your feelings. He rolls the ring over in his palm, watches the way the chain catches the light. It’s a thick chain and is bronze instead of gold. He tries to imagine you, the money which you had planted in the ground and grown with your hands, hard earned through soil. Saved for months, that little coin purse at the back of your cutlery drawer you had stopped checking he had stolen. Just to buy him this – a trinket. Some piece of jewellery. One which you had no need for. Knew that he had no need for either. Just given it to him because it was pretty, and because you wanted it. To serve as a reminder. It’s worth could have fed you for weeks. Bought you enough of the yellow cotton you had stared so longingly at in the dressmaker’s window. Enough to make you the dress you desperately wanted. The small thing feels heavier than it could possibly be.

Heinrich snatches it out of his open palm, laughing. “And where did you swindle this?”

The German holds it up between them, Tovar’s eyes follow the ring as it swings on the end of the chain, glimmering in the low light of the fire. Forces himself to still in the chair, not to grab at it. He grunts. “Give it back.”

“You know the rules, Tovar.” Heinrich curls his fist around the chain. Too big and rough for something so delicate. “All for all.”

“This is not from a job.” Tovar struggles to keep his face smooth. “This is the agreement for the job.”

“Who’d you steal it from?” Heinrich lifts the ring closer to his face. Then his smile turns malicious. Ugly. He grins with all his dirty teeth. “Did you steal it from your widow?”

The rest of the party has been drawn in, watch with curious eyes as Heinrich throws the necklace straight up into the air and catches it again in his waiting palm. Tovar can’t stop the jump of his shoulders, the instinct to reach for it. The fear that the man will let it clatter to the floor. But he does not move fast enough. Heinrich’s grin is all bared teeth and snarl, throws it up again and this time Tovar moves with purpose, leans across the table to catch it. But Heinrich snatches it before he can and pulls it out of his reach. Tovar slams his fist onto the table and Heinrich laughs. Otte and William shift with the tension, watch the two men with wary eyes.

“How much do you think we can sell it for?” The German hums in mock thoughtfulness. Has the look of a man who knows he has found something important. “We could stay in inns for a week, all of us for this!”

“You’ve had your fun, Heinrich.” William sounds tired. Takes a deep drink from his pint. “Give it back.”

Tovar closes his eyes, breaths a silent sigh. Open his eyes again and finds Heinrich laughing again. The sound is uglier than his smile. Heinrich holds the ring up to the light and then slaps his open hand down flat on the tabletop. The ring in his hand scraps across the wood as he drags it back towards himself. Clinks against the slats in the table. Tovar clenches his fist tighter. Doesn’t bother to try and hide is fury anymore. Heinrich leans forward, pushes his weight of the table.

“Are you going to give it to her?” He is close enough that Tovar can smell the bitterness of his ale on his breath. “Does our friend buy his little whore gifts, now?”

“Enough Heinrich.” William says, while at the same time Otte says, “Give it back.”

Tovar watches Heinrich, still and quiet. Releases his fist on the table, tenses ready. Lets the big man lean close enough that his balance is all the way over the table and his ass has lifted off his seat. Holds his gaze. And then Tovar snaps up, grabs him by his dirty blond beard, yanks him even further forward. Stands, grabs the back of the man’s head and slams it down against the tabletop. There’s an awful crack, the sound of his nose breaking, and a wet cry. William yells, Otte is on his feet, knife in hand. Tovar lifts the man again by his hair, crouches down low so that he is level with Heinrich’s already swelling eyes and gushing nose.

“You do not touch my things,” Tovar murmurs to him, soft and gentle, like he would talk to his horse. Some skittish animal. “Yes?”

Heinrich glares, struggles to do it has the blood begins to run into his teeth. Tovar yanks him by his hair again, harsh enough to make the man gargle a cry, yell. “Fine!”

“Give the necklace to me.”

Heinrich is slow to move again but he lifts his weight off his hand. Pushes the necklace across the wood again, harder, makes the scraping loud and deliberate. Lifts it up and drops it into the hand Tovar puts under his nose. The chain falls with a soft tinkling.

Tovar looks down at it. Smiles, too friend, too big. “I want to hear you say it.”

Heinrich licks his lips. Dribbles blood into his heard. “Say what?”

“I will not touch your things, Tovar. I would like to hear these words from you.”

Heinrich pulls, tries to manouver out of Tovar’s grip, but Tovar tightens his hold on the man’s hair, clenches it so tightly the ruddy skin of the man’s face pulls back. Shakes him. Heinrich makes a noise, a sound of defeat and braces his arms against the table.

“I will…” Heinrich struggles with the words. With the thickness in his nose and the blood in his throat. “I will not touch your things, Tovar.”

Tovar smiles bigger. “Good. This is good.”

He releases his fingers slowly from the tangles mess of blonde. Cups the back of Heinrich’s head, draws him even closer, until their foreheads almost touch. Chuckles when the man flinches away from him. Tovar shushes him, pats him gently, his palm meeting the back of Heinrich’s head. Still treats him like he would his horse, a dog. Laughs louder when he releases him. Heinrich lurches back, lands hard in his chair. Otte has his blade still out, unsure, hovering by his countryman. William is still in his seat, eyes Tovar with disapproval. Says nothing. Tovar straightens and closes his fist around the chain and the ring on it. Feels the jittering surge of relief.

The tavern around them is completely silent, onlookers watching to see the result of the scuffle. The barman has moved to the public side of the bench, away from his post. A rag slung over his shoulder and arms crossed. Tovar pushes away from the table. Wipes his mouth along the back of his forearm and sniffs at the men before him. He picks his way through the crowd, lets it part for him, stop before the barman and presses two coins onto the counter next to him. For the commotion and for the drinks. The barman pulls the rag at his shoulder away and picks up the coins. Inspects them briefly. Drops them into the small purse at his hip and nods. Murmurs pick up through the crowd again. Tovar moves towards the door again, finds his way back the way he had come in not an hour before and out into the night. Night well and truly fallen now, dark except for the orange glow of the tavern lantern lit beneath a swaying sign. Still and calm compared to the din which has picked up again inside the wall, squares of light illuminating patches of earthen road outside, trampled by hoof and boot.

Tovar is still clutching the ring. He slips it on over his head and tucks it beneath his cuirass and tunic and lets the little, warm thing sit there against his skin. Puts his hand over it, only a tiny bump beneath layers of linen and leather. He tries to remember the last time anyone gave him something, anything, simply for being.

He can’t.

The door swings open behind him. Tovar sighs and doesn’t have to turn to know who has followed him. Heinrich is a hulking man, larger than him, taller by almost a head and stronger. Thick arms and legs and a body like a barrel. There is blood on his shirt and in his beard, beginning to cake and dry into black clumps and stains Staring up at him now Tovar realises his mistake in picking this fight with him. But he can’t bring himself to regret it. Drops his hand from the spot near his heart and rests it against the hilt of his sword at his hip. Idle and easy, hoping he does not have to draw it. Heinrich has not drawn his or moved to do so. Just stares at him, breath clouding in the cooling autumn air. Puffs of anger dissipating into the darkness as they fade.

Neither of them moves.

Tovar turns again and makes for the stables. Has to lift his boots high out of the trodden path to clear the mud from every step so he does not slip. He can hear Heinrich following after him and keeps his hand on his sword. The stable boy is half asleep, slumped against the wall and jumps at the sound of boots through the mud. Tovar tosses him a bronze piece and winks, jerks his head towards the grain room at the back of the wooden structure. The boy stares at him, at the coin, and then spots Heinrich following him through the dark. Nearly slips as he passes between the settled horses and disappears into the hidden space. Tovar moves to his horse.

“You stupid man,” Heinrich says from the door.

Tovar pulls his saddle from its place on the wall. “You are the one with broken nose. Which one of us is really stupid?”

“It’s you, you fool.” Heinrich steps closer. “Another job you’re leaving. What about England? You refused that, and now you’re leaving this as well.”

“Travel by sea does not agree with me.”

“Horse shit.”

Tovar pulls at the straps of the saddle until they are tight at the front, straps the back around as well. Heinrich moves from the huge door of the stable closer to his stall, gets right up to it and blocks the way out. Lit by the lamp in the middle of the stable Tovar can see the deformed swelling of his broken nose. He does not stop in his task, fits the headstall over the mare with gentle hands.

“It’s that widow. You are weak with love for her.” Heinrich crosses his arms over his chest. “So weak you cannot take our work anymore.”

“Maybe I am sick of the sight of you, hmm?” Tovar throws his packs over the horses’ rump. Begins buckling them into the saddle. “Maybe I cannot stand you.”

“Never bothered you before.”

“You are jealous?” Tovar finally stops, turns to look at the huge man in the doorway. “Would you like for me to buy you necklace?”

“You are going to ruin this job for everyone.”

“Keep this job then.” He says. “I know I am not welcome now that I ruin your pretty face.”

Heinrich does not move when Tovar leads his mare forwards, stands blocking the whole doorway to the stall. Stares down his crooked nose at Tovar.

“Is it fighting you want?” Tovar asks wearily. He has one hand wrapped around the reins, the other pets the mare’s neck comfortingly. “Will we duel here in these stables in the shit and the dirt?”

Heinrich does not move, does not reach for his sword or flinch. He looks briefly at the face of the horse before him and then back to Tovar. Considers it, considers fighting him. His pale eyes roam the length of his body and back up. The air seems to grow thinner and thinner until finally Heinrich yields. He steps to the side, only just enough for them to fit through the space, Tovar brushes his shoulder against him as he walks. Leads the horse out into the wide middle of the stable and tucks his foot into the stirrup. Swings up and over. He looks down at the German before he leaves, now several feet taller than him. Heinrich watches him with a lowered brow and a grimace. Tovar clicks and pushes the mare out into the night.

The cottage is completely dark when he arrives in the deepest hours of the morning. The world cold and quiet, only the rustle of trees in the wind. The road had been long and empty and felt miles longer than when he had ridden it earlier the day before. But it was easier, because the road was leading back to you, thinks of how your body will feel beneath him when he arrives. Of the sounds you will make in the quiet, as loud as he will be able to encourage from you. He dismounts at the gate, clucks quietly to the horse as he leads it to your tiny stable. Shushes the mule inside when it wakes at the sounds. The animal quiets quickly under his touch. He means to move quickly, to settle his mare and go to you, to find you and the warmth of your touch and the heat of your body. To find his way to your sheets and lose himself in the feeling of you everywhere around him, the taste of you on his tongue. To fuck you so deeply into the sheets that the next day you will not be able to leave him. But he finds himself lingering with the animals. The occasional rustle of the hens, the smell of turned soil and growth. Of honeysuckle. His hand lingers at the necklace beneath his shirt. He is not as angry anymore, now that he is at the cottage.

He tends his horse, diligently and thoroughly. Murmurs his thanks to her, for carrying him hours in the morning and then through the night, with little rest. Dips into the grain bag you have stored in the makeshift stable and fill both the animal’s troughs. Pours more water from the spare bucket for them both. Sweeps the floor and tidies the space and finds himself calming with every stroke. Cleans until the dawn begins to lighten the heavy sky.

Inside it is quiet and still. He picks his way through the kitchen and into the bedroom. Can just make out the shape of your shoulder and the curve of your neck, illuminated in the dim. He seats himself, sets your working boots to the side where they sit by the door and slowly unlaces himself from his armour. Pulls off the layers of leather and padding and his boots. Leaves again to fill the wash basin and rinses his body, scrubs the dirt from the road from his hands and face. He would not bother, were it not for you, knows you will fuss over him is he does not. Does not want the smell of the day to linger in your sheets or on your skin. He empties the basin again through the window and onto the grass below. Sets it back carefully in its place and checks the room, checks he has not left anything which will trip you when you wake in too few hours with the call of the rooster in the yard. Feels something in his heart and his stomach settle at his small pile of things, stacked next to yours in the corner of the room. Realises he is too tired to wake you or fuck you. Wants nothing more than to sink into the bed beside you and sleep.

He settles his weight as gently as he can on the bed behind you. Tries not to jostle you. He murmurs your name softly and lets his hand rest just by his fingertips against the soft, exposed skin of your shoulder. You begin to stir, to shift slightly beneath the covers of the bed. He draws his fingertips around your shoulder once again and then down to your neck, shifts the hair away from it and bends to kiss the muscle between your neck and shoulder. You hum. Still half asleep. Turn towards him and sigh.

“Flor pequeña,” he murmurs. Presses his lips to your forehead now that you face him. Breathes in the smell of you.

You reach for him through the darkness. “Pero?”

“I am here. Go back to sleep.”

Your eyes flutter open, just enough that your lidded gaze catches the shape of him. He begins to draw the covers away, slips beneath them while you make room for him in your arms, stretch them towards him until you find his undershirt, his wrist. Pull him to you as he lays with you in the bed. He moves a hand beneath you, his other over your hip, and he rests your body against his. You adjust to him, press your cheek to his chest and your lips against the small scar under his collarbone. Let him wrap himself around you and brush his fingers through your hair. He falls asleep to the softness of your breath on his skin and the faint feeling of your heart beating against his ribs.

You are gone when he wakes.

He feels so soft against the sheets he can barely move, can barely turn his head to see the brightness of the day streaming through the window. The sounds of work outside are close, knows you had been working your way through your small property in preparation for winter, that you must nearly be done to be back so close to the house. Hears the hens loose in the yard, right outside the window, clawing the soil and clucking. He closes his eyes again and smiles into the pillow.

He rises slowly, dresses slowly. Wanders around the room in just his trousers and undershirt, fiddles with the pendant he had worn through the night. Pulls it out now that it is bright and he can see, and inspects the surface of it. Sags when it is undamaged. Sits with it on the bed for some time, just listening to life around him, the smell of the cottage and of your skin which lingers in the space, watching the way the light moves across the gold surface. His chest aches with being so close to you, with knowing that you are just beyond the next room, and that if you will have him he will stay the day with you and the night again. And just like the night before he is happy just to be, to sit and be at peace.

He goes to find you, drifts through the cottage and out through the back of the kitchen, finds you kneeling in the garden and he waits in the small doorway, just to watch you and not yet be seen. You are humming while you work, a soft and pretty melody he has not heard before. He leans against the frame of the back door and listens to the sounds of it, the sound of your spade digging into the earth and turning it, sifting soil, and the clucking of the roaming hens, the sound of your voice. Not a voice which would perform before an audience, a voice which you are too shy to raise in other company, but has sung for him before. And now it has all the charm of someone who does not know they are watched or heard. Tovar thinks it is beautiful, that you are beautiful, covered in dirt and pink with exertion in the midmorning sun. You sing some of the words, words which are syrupy with sweetness, make promises of love and of eternity. Wonders if it was the kind of love you had with your husband before he died, this sort of gentle, beautiful thing which does not belong in his life. Which he has no right to claim.

He feels suddenly out of place, like there is something moving beneath his feet and he cannot escape it. Feels stupid for coming, for racing back to you, for sacrificing a job which would have yielded great reward. Stupid for seeking you when he has no place here in the cottage, touched by your hands which have only every made things grow and bloom with life. Touching you with his, hands which have killed.

He watches you for some time, quiet and still, until you fade from one song to the next, drifting between melodies. You fold out a handkerchief on the ground beside you, your skirts gathered all around you, and sift through the seeds which are encased inside. Tuck away a strand of hair which has come loose from your braid and continue to hum. He feels all at once as though he has no place and that he belongs there, with you, and he cannot regret returning, cannot regret waking in your bed. You turn to scoop some seeds from beside you and catch the sight of his feet in the doorway when you do. You turn, lay down your small spade and wipe your hands off against your apron.

“I thought I was dreaming last night,” you smile at him.

“No. Not dreaming.”

“I thought you said you would be gone for months. What of your job in the North?”

Tovar shakes his head, watches the way the sunlight paints you against the grass and the soil. Steps away from the doorway and down into the grass below. Moves slowly towards you. “It got called off,” he lies.

You hold up a hand, reach for him to join you. “I was very happy to wake with you still there. Normally when I dream you come back I have to wake to an empty bed. That is the worst of it.”

“You dream of me?” He stops just before you. Brushes your knuckles with his thumb.

The pink which fills your cheeks and your bashful smile glows. “Very often.”

He hums quietly and settles into the ground beside you. You fidget, nervous, catch his eye and then look away, at his mouth, his neck, his scar. You don’t flinch away at it, at him. Have pressed gentle kisses to it between pants of his name. So tender and soft. You reach for him now and thread your hands through his, let him lift you hand towards him and ghost his nose along your knuckles, lean close enough to press his lips to a cleaner spot further up your arm, clear of dirt. Nuzzle against the skin there and then pull away.

The words rise and lift and come all the way to the edge of his lips before he realises, they are there, waiting to be said. That Heinrich was right, and he is weak for you. And in love with you. That he had ridden through the night to return to your small cottage to tell you it.

“What do you dream of?” He asks.

You turn back to the garden, dig to distract yourself from his question. The small beds nearest your house are always the ones you tend last, dug up now in neat little rows before the change of the season to winter. You pat around the edges of your small ditches, each one next to a little pile of dirt to refill the hole. “I dream of all different things,” you say. “I dreamed of the day we met recently.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” You reach into your handkerchief of seeds and begin pinching them out, scattering them into the holes in the earth one at a time and carefully filling them back in again. “You bought tomatoes.”

“You gave me a flower.”

He does not say he had seen you many days before that, with your mule, walk to the marketplace with your goods. He does not say he had taken his time to finally come to talk to you, to work up the bravery to approach you. Had watched you from a distance from his camp and thought you were too pretty, too soft to want to talk to him.

You flush. “I thought you were very handsome.”

He hums thoughtfully, lifts his hand to wrap his fingers in a loose strand of your hair, twists it between them. Watches the way it curls around his knuckles. “I did not scare you?”

“No.” You turn back towards him, dirty hands fisted in your apron. Frowning. “No, you were kind to me. The other soldiers…” You glance down. “Some of them scared me. But you were… you were very gentle.”

“Not as gentle as I should have been.”

He sees you know his meaning. Watches the pretty way the colour in your cheeks darkens and you fidget away from his eyes. Even after he has known your body in so many ways, so many times since then. “It felt good,” you say quietly. “I liked it.”

He is quiet, rubs the strands of your hair between his fingers.

“My husband, he never… it used to hurt, sometimes. With him.”

“He hurt you?”

Tovar watches your eyes fall again. Embarrassed. Feels the heat of fury fill his chest even though your husband is now long dead, and there is no way to fix what he has done. No way to make him sorry for making his wife feel ashamed of admitting to pain. Ashamed of asking to be touched, of feeling pleasure. That even now, after a year, you are sometimes too nervous to make any sounds, to let yourself have release.

“He was not a bad man. He did not try to hurt me on purpose.” You are fiddling with the hem of your apron, picking at the spot where the seam is beginning to come lose. “He just did not know, I think. He didn’t know how to make me feel good.”

“And you never told him?” Tovar knows, he knows it is a stupid question. He knows you had been young when you married, had never had anyone to ask what was right and what was wrong. That your mother had made it very clear to you your duties as a wife. That you had followed them. And that you had loved your husband, despite his inadequacies. And it does not stop the feeling. That he wishes he could have changed it for you. Still angry at the man who had brought you pain, no matter how unintentional, or how small. His hand moves higher in your hair until it rests against your neck, finger tangle closer until they are against your scalp at the base of your head.

“I didn’t know it could feel…” You shiver, only slightly. He can only feel it where his hand sits against your skin. Sees your eyes glaze slightly at some memory. “I didn’t know it could feel how you make it feel.”

“You should never be with anyone who makes you hurt.” He is fierce. His fingers press into your scalp only slightly, but it is enough. Sees the goose bumps race along the trail of your neck and collarbones. “You must not allow anyone to hurt you. It is not right.”

“I don’t need anyone else.” He watches your quiet surprise as the words slip out. “I have you.”

He knows his face has gone slack with surprise, and you are a mirror of him. You had not meant to say those words to him, he can see it clearly, that you had felt too much and spoken too quickly. Nervous, the same look as when you had given him the pendant. The same look of expectant fear, as if he would ever reject you, as if he did not already love you with his whole heart, his whole soul. He surprises himself with the ferocity of his own feelings, with how suddenly he is overcome by them all. He is still staring at you, still quiet, and you begin to draw away.

“I’m sorry – ”

“Wait.” His hand in your hair turns to a soft fist, not tugging but holding you steady. “Do not be sorry for this.”

“I don’t – I don’t need anything in return. I don’t expect you to – to only… with me.” You search his eyes, are looking for something, but he does not know what. Does not know what to give you. “I don’t ask that of you.”

He loosens his fist, slowly, when he is sure you will not leave. Flattens his palm around the back of your neck, cups your head gently. His thumb rubbing small circles at the skin just behind your ear. His other hand holds the pendant hanging around his neck, burning a hole through his skin, joining the brand of your name he is sure must be on his heart. He holds it through the linen shirt, can feel the shape of it better through the thinner fabric. It is not hot, that is only in his mind. He can feel how hard his heart is beating. You are watching his eyes still, still searching. Are willing to give him so much and not ask for it in return. He has not told you his love for you, and you would let him leave you. He does not know what to give you, what he can give you that is equal to you.

“You do not need to ask this of me,” he says. “It is already yours.”

He wants, very badly, to kiss you. Wants to pull you against him and not let go. But instead he moves around the little bundle of seeds so he can hold you without disturbing them, settles behind you and wraps a leg either side of yours on the ground and pulls your back against him. Lets you lay your head back on his shoulder and sigh, sit your weight against him. He looks down as your eyes slip closed and you turn your face into his neck, tip your jaw up and brush your lips against his skin. His hands find yours, closes his eyes and gently holds your fingers with him, touches against your knuckles, the callouses at the base of your palm, outlines the shape of your hands with him thumb. Your lips are so soft, brush against his Adam’s apple, the tendon in his neck, the hollow above his collarbone, makes his stomach twist and his chest ache. Your lips brush against the chain of the necklace and your eyelashes flutter against his skin. You untangle one of your hands from his and dip it below the top of his shirt. Feel along the chain until you reach the ring hanging from it and pull it loose.

You sit away from him enough to see him. He looks down at you and your eyes lift to his, full of wonder. “You’re wearing it.”

“Of course.”

He still wants to kiss you. Is scared of what words he will not be able to stop when he does. So instead he keeps his eyes locked with yours and lowers his mouth to the ring in your hand, brushes a kiss against it. Reveals in the way your gentle eyes darken and your lips part.

“I didn’t know if you liked it.”

He smiles. Kisses the ring again and then clasps his hand around yours, turns it over. Kisses the skin at the inside of your wrist where it is not covered in dirt from your work. Kisses a little higher along your arm, and then again almost at the inside of your elbow. His eyes always on yours. Feels you shiver at his touch.

“I love – ” He gives one more chaste kiss over a spot where the blue of your veins show through your skin. Changes his mind, just at the last second. “ – It. I love it, flor pequeña.”

The smile you give him – it is as if he has given you the world. As if him caring for this little necklace made it worth what you must have sacrificed to buy it for him. He is so full of everything he does not know if he can hold himself together. He will love the pendant with everything inside him if it will just make you smile like that. Will wake you with kisses to remind you of it. Will maybe soon not be so weak with his love that he will tell you it is not the necklace at all, it is you. Your heart, your soul, that he wants, that he would give everything for.

You lean back against him, your hand resting against his chest and over your shoulder, not letting go of the necklace. He kisses them again and then wraps both arms around you. The sky is a clear blue, bright and cloudless. The tops of the trees all around the cottage sway in a light breeze. Still warm in the sun, despite the coming chill of winter.

You other hand is still wrapped in his, tightens around his fingers and you turn your head towards his neck again and press more kisses to his warm skin. Not chaste little pecks as they had been before, he can feel the heat of your open mouth against his neck, the wetness of it. Hums when you suck a mark right at the base of it, and then you press just one little kiss on top of it. He fists his hands into the skirts of your dress, and then slowly begins to pull at it, lifting them to expose first your ankles and then your calves. Watches the way your breath catches, your eyes almost fluttering open. He lifts the hem of your dress until it is bunches all around your thighs, so much fabric swallows both of you up, draped over his knees either side of you as well.

You continue to mark his neck, move with more purpose. Lap occasionally at him when you have sucked at the skin or bitten into it. His hand lifts the hem of your dress, slip beneath the fabric. Trails gently along your thighs until he finds your crux. Dips his fingers idly through the hair there until he reaches your clit. Circles it, almost lazily and you push back into him, trying not to pant. Trying not to show how much so little has affected you. Your mouth breaks from his neck and your head lulls back over his shoulder, exposing the length of your smooth neck. He smiles, enjoys the brightness of the sun illuminating the way your eyebrows pinch and your mouth drops open. Kisses your neck where he can reach it and moves his fingers down, parts your slit and presses against where you have become slick and wet. Draws the fluid up again and circles it around your clit. You arch, he feels your head dig into his shoulder, feels you begin to shudder against him. Your grip around the necklace so tight the chain bites into his skin.

“I missed you,” he says. Finally lets himself press his lips to yours.

You are breathless. “Only… only gone a day.”

He kisses you again, harder now. Tastes you on his tongue. “Still missed you.”

He speeds his fingers up until you keen, until your whine into his mouth. Until you are unable to kiss him back anymore, your mouth just fallen open against his. Your body locks up. He gathers more of your juices in his palm and spreads them over you, coats them around his fingers and pushes inside you. Pumps one long, thick finger in and out of your pulsing cunt until you are shifting and rolling your hips against his hand. Carefully pushes in a second finger and curls them up against your walls, searching until you cry out. You release the necklace. Your hands grab at his thighs, at his knees. Dig your nails into his pants and the skin beneath. Gasping and writhing against him. He wants to stop, to bring you back down and then build you back up, over and over, until you are sobbing. But he is still raw from the confession of your husband’s inadequacies, still furious that you had not always been treated with the reverence you deserved. He curls his fingers again and again while you buck, his other arm holding you around your shoulders, so you do not slip or fall. You come with a wet gasp of his name.

His lips rest against your temple as he holds you against him. Let’s you ride out the course of your orgasm with his fingers still inside you, occasionally curling into the spot that makes a tear slip from the corner of your eye and trail down to where his lips are against you. Kisses it away, kisses the corner of your eye and then your cheek. Feels the tremors of your body begin to lessen. He waits until you blink your eyes open slowly to pull his fingers from you, to carefully extract his hand from beneath your skirts and lift it to his mouth. He licks them clean completely while you watch.

You kiss him afterwards, the taste of yourself against your tongue. Breathe his name between your mouths, something soft and treasured. Soon he will have to leave again, will have to find some employment or job, because he cannot bear staying with you and giving you nothing. But until then he will hold you, and he will help on the property as much as he is able. And he will wake up every morning to your smile, fall asleep to it at night. Catch the sound of his name leaving your lips with his mouth. Ask you what word is inscribed inside the ring on his necklace. He feels your silent hum of satisfaction and holds you tighter.

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backdraft-bimbo · 3 years

Text

beyond

(fix-it script for my storyboard)

SCENE 1 – DEAN’S BEDROOM – NOON

Dean dreams of Castiel. He wakes up at noon, and despite this, looks utterly exhausted. In his arms he clutches the jacket stained with Cas’ bloody handprint.

He slowly sits up. On his bedside table, there is an uncompleted job application. He considers the paper, then looks back to his jacket. Dean seems torn between the two. He sighs deeply and looks up, searching.

“Jack? I know you’re, uh, probably busy. But I’ve been praying for days, and I–I need your help. You know I’m not used to... y’know, all this. So I guess I’m apologizing in advance. Just… if you can stop by. Please.”

When there is no response, Dean sighs again and whispers, “Damn it.” He buries his face in his hands, the strength in his voice fading fast. “Damn it, Cas.”

A short beat passes, and Jack appears suddenly in front of Dean. He holds up a hand and greets the hunter with a characteristic “Hello.”

Dean looks up in awe, hopeful, blinking away the welling tears in his eyes. Jack smiles back. Dean almost wants to hug him.

“Jack? Thank God–” Dean cuts himself off, huffing sardonically. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Jack looks at him apologetically. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop by sooner. The universe is... a lot to handle, to say the least. But we are here now.”

Dean remembers, struck out of his stupor. “Oh, right… Amara’s with you.”

Jack nods. The atmosphere changes swiftly, and said goddess emerges.

“We know why you’ve been praying, Dean. Truth is, Jack and I have been contemplating this for quite some time.” Amara nods meaningfully at Cas’ bloody handprint.

Dean looks slightly betrayed, but mostly tired. He can’t bring himself to be angry. “Then why not just answer me sooner?”

Jack takes over again. “Because of Castiel.”

Dean’s expression is broken, confused. His silence prompts Jack to continue.

“Nothing made sense at first. My dad’s deal with the Empty… his true happiness.” Jack stares Dean in the eyes, hoping his message gets across. “But I understand now.”

“You’ll bring him back?” Dean asks, nearing desperation. At that, Jack fades and Amara returns. She steps closer to Dean and places a hand on his shoulder.

“No,” she says softly. Dean looks up at her, hurt, confused. “But you will.”

Amara and Jack snap their fingers, and a portal to the Empty appears in the room.

“Is that…?” Dean asks slowly.

“A portal to the Empty. Mortals can’t survive there for long. You won’t have much time, I’m afraid.”

Dean stares longingly at the glowing rift, like he can’t tear his eyes away. Jack continues steadily.

“It needs to be you, Dean. You’re the only one who can do this.”

Dean is eager now, hope brightening his eyes. “How?”

Amara looks thoughtfully to the portal, then back at Dean. She speaks the heavy truth.

“Castiel must abandon his grace. If he wishes to return to you, then he must become human. As you know, humanity means eating, sleeping, growing old–all things good and bad that come with it. And, when he dies, he’ll go to Heaven. Just like you,” she nods at Dean.

Dean is immediately conflicted. He doesn’t want Cas to remain in the Empty, but he’s not sure if the angel wants to be human, either. Amara approaches the portal.

“Now, the Empty can’t keep mortals... something about ‘disrupting the order of things.’ So, if Castiel were to become human, it would be forced to let him go.”

Jack emerges, his face brimming with trust and determination. Dean’s heart lifts.

“Right now, Cas is asleep. And it needs to be you, Dean, who wakes him up.”

Dean stares pensively at Jack before shifting his eyes to the floating rift with a growing resolve.

SCENE 2 – BUNKER KITCHEN – EVENING

Sam and Eileen return from a dinner date and find Dean in the kitchen, looking to be in deep thought. The tea beside him on the table has gone cold. The beer fridge remains stubbornly untouched.

“Dean?” Sam approaches, concerned. “What are you doing?”

Eileen glances between the brothers, curiously reading them. Dean blinks the exhaustion out of his eyes and glances up at Sam, clearly holding something big back. “I, uh...” he trails off, preparing a lie. Before Dean says anything further, he looks from Eileen to Sam; considers them, their shared history. Dean decides that he doesn’t want to lie anymore.

“I’m gonna get Cas back,” Dean replies, rising up from his chair.

Sam visibly brightens, a smile growing on his face. “Did Jack finally return your prayers? Did you get to talk with him?”

“Yeah, while you two were out. There’s a portal upstairs and everything.”

Eileen signs with her hands: How?

Dean gulps, gaze dropping to the floor. “Jack said I have to wake him up. That I’m the only one who can.”

Sam catches on quickly. He’s known about Dean and Cas for a very long time, and silently agrees with Jack’s decision to nudge his older brother in the right direction.

“Do you want to maybe... elaborate?”

Dean ardently avoids Sam’s gaze, struggling with himself. Eileen steps closer to Dean and says aloud (while signing), “You can do this.”

Beside them, Sam nods in agreement. “She’s right, Dean. And so is Jack. If anyone can get Cas back, it’s you.”

Dean’s shoulders straighten out–he is slowly gaining confidence. Sam smiles fondly at Eileen, who catches his gaze and smiles back. Dean raises his eyebrows knowingly and grins, his prior nervousness fading.

“Well ain’t you two just the cutest.”

Sam almost pouts at the friendly jab. Dean stands up tall and moves with purpose from the kitchen, slapping his brother’s back on the way out.

“Hey,” Sam stops him. “You want me to come with, or...?”

Dean considers this carefully. Decides. “Thanks, Sammy. Eileen. But I’ve got this one covered.”

Sam and Dean grin at each other.

SCENE 3 – DEAN’S BEDROOM / THE EMPTY – NIGHT

Dean closes his bedroom door behind him. The rift glows steadily in the darkness. Castiel is asleep, and Dean must wake him up. The conversation with Sam and Eileen made him encouraged, hopeful. Dean no longer feels as terrified of failing as he was before. It’s almost exhilarating–the excitement of seeing Cas again. Dean is accustomed to managing hope, but now his emotions run wild. Free. The hunter feels young, naive, and exposed; yet opening himself up doesn’t bother Dean anymore, because this is for Cas.

Dean sucks in a large breath and approaches the portal.

“Okay, Cas. I’m here.”

Dean steps through the portal to a black void, the Empty. He needs to take a stuttered few breaths before fully taking in his surroundings–or lack thereof. It’s freezing cold, he’s getting goosebumps, and his lips are turning blue. Dean can feel that he doesn’t belong in this place.

“Cas? Where are you?” Dean asks, then shouts, “I’m ready to bust your ass out of here!”

Dean is avoiding the obvious. He knows this. The darkness is silent, unresponsive. Images of Cas dying flash through Dean’s mind. Cas smiling sweetly at him, saying I love you, and Goodbye, Dean.

“Castiel, show yourself!” Dean yells, feeling his body grow weaker. The Empty seems to be gradually sucking the life out of him. “I’m not leaving here without you! I’m gonna stay right here until you wake up. Either you’re coming with me or we’re both stuck here forever!”

The Empty hisses like a serpent from the darkness. You humans are so noisy. Castiel is mine, boy. My terms, his death.

“Screw you!” Dean yells indignantly.

Eloquent as always, Dean Winchester.

“Bring him here now,” he grits out, frustration and grief swelling. “Cas doesn’t deserve this.”

The Empty laughs venomously. “Cas” doesn’t want to be saved.

“Bullshit, he doesn’t want to be saved. Now give him back.”

It’s tragic, really. Just how far your angel has fallen, the Empty mocks.

Dean bristles. “What’s that supposed to mean? No–actually, shut the hell up!”

The Empty takes on a paternal, pitying tone. Anything to get Dean to stop yelling.

You don’t belong here, Winchester. You will soon be dead. As for the angel, Castiel... he wants someone he can’t have. He wants you. Just ask him yourself. When you finally understand the truth, it will be too late to save yourself. What a fitting end, don’t you think?

Dean scowls. “Why don’t you stick it where the sun don’t–”

A black swarm of goo erupts from the floor to reveal a figure. It’s Cas, emerging from his long slumber. Dean turns to look at him, gaping in shock, and runs to catch the angel before he collapses.

“Cas!”

Cas blinks slowly up at Dean, who has him in his arms on the ground.

“Dean?”

“You wanna get out of here?” Dean smiles, tearful.

“I don’t understand...” Cas trails off, perturbed. “Why are you here? Oh, no...”

“No, no, hey... I didn’t make a deal or anything. Jack and, uh, Amara helped me out.”

Cas squints his eyes, looking hilariously confused. “Jack... and Amara?”

“Yeah. Look, Cas, we don’t have a lot of time. If I stay here too long, I’m not getting out. But I sure as Hell ain’t leaving without you.”

Cas looks ready to hesitate, doubt blooming in his eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but Dean grabs his hand and squeezes it. Cas looks up from his hand to Dean in shock. Dean smiles softly.

“I’ll explain everything later. Just, please... come back.”

The Empty steps in. You know the price, Castiel. The price of leaving your slumber to pursue a mortal life. All that awaits you is suffering, heartbreak, and death. There is nothing for you back there.

Cas looks up at Dean, who is growing weaker by the second. Dean, who is looking at him with love and trust in his eyes. The angel makes a decision.

“You’re wrong. I have everything I want right here,” Cas says, gripping Dean tight.

They stand up and face the portal. Cas starts to glow, bright as a star. Dean cringes away, his eyes hurting, but the beauty of the sight draws him back. Cas’ eyes glow white and fade into a very human, mortal blue. He and Dean are still holding hands. The Empty is silent.

“Whoa,” Dean mutters.

Cas smiles softly as Dean pulls him through the rift. The two stumble back into Dean’s bedroom, and the portal closes behind them. Back in the Empty, it is silent for a moment before....

That backfired.

SCENE 4 – DEAN’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

“That–wow, that... that just happened.” Dean stutters, rambling on nervously. “You had to sleep in that black goo stuff? Talk about poor accommodations, man...”

He doesn’t notice Cas smiling softly at him until he trails off. Dean’s face scrunches up in a mixture of heartache and hope.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean smiles shakily, quiet tears surfacing. The emotions of the past week are coming back full-force. “I’m the guy who should be saying that.”

Cas catches sight of the bloody handprint on Dean’s jacket, which is still bundled up on his messy bed. “And I’m sorry. For leaving the way I did.”

Dean gulps hard. He wants to say it, he wants to do something instead of just stand there. He wants to do everything he’s been dreaming about since Cas said goodbye for what he thought was the last time.

“You ain’t gotta apologize, Cas. Least of all to me. You just caught me off guard, an–and I’ve lost you so many times, y’know?” Dean’s voice is lachrymose and quickly crumbling. He tries to piece himself back together, failing. Cas steps closer, eyes piercing, and Dean rambles on, nervous and desperate and needing.

“I don’t want to lose you ever again. Not in a million damn years, Cas. Before you left, I just wish you heard it clearly from me. After saying those things–all those things I don’t think anybody has ever said to me before, they’ve been replaying in my head nonstop... I don’t deserve you, Cas, but I want you so damn much. I love you. You hear me? I love you, too.”

Cas nods, on the verge of tears; Dean is crying, and the air is clear. Finally, they can both breathe. Dean lunges forward in the heat of the moment and envelops Cas in a tight embrace. They hold each other for a long while, silent, joyful, until Dean starts laughing in relief. He doesn’t pull away.

“We got a lot to catch up on, huh? Chuck is mortal, Jack and Amara are ‘in harmony’ apparently, and Sam and Eileen go on vegan dinner dates now. Charlie, Kevin, Bobby, Jody... everybody’s happy. Because we’re free. We’re finally free, Cas.”

Dean’s words strike Cas in the heart. Freedom. Something he can experience in full now. It feels surreal, being here, with Dean, like this. Dean and Cas pull apart, but only so they can look at each other. They smile, joy bursting at the seams. Slowly, but surely, they lean closer. Their lips meet in a gentle kiss. Dean lifts a hand to Cas’ face. Cas grips his arm. They melt and fold into each other.

Outside the door, Sam and Eileen eavesdrop intently. In the foreground, Jack and Amara stand close by. The conclusion is clear–they smile widely, stand up straight, and walk away together.

THE FUTURE, AND BEYOND

Time passes gently from now on; the world is peaceful. Monsters no longer roam the planet, and everyone is free to be as they are. Dean and Cas live together alongside Sam, Eileen, and their daughter. Both couples get married soon after Jack’s promotion to God. Charlie and Stevie visit the bunker occasionally, as do Bobby, Jody, and others. They all get therapy and solve their problems in a healthy and comprehensive manner.

Dean runs an auto mechanic shop with Cas, who has taken up interest in human rights activism. He single handedly destroys all homophobia. Everything is good. Dean, Cas, Sam, Eileen, and all the best characters reunite in Heaven after growing old and living long, where they spend in inextricable joy for all eternity.

The end.

#supernatural #crack #sorta? like i'm fr ab animating this tho #watch me do it #destiel #15x20 fix it #ao3 #fix-it #sam winchester #eileen leahy #samleen #dean winchester #castiel #jack kline #amara #and others...

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 3 years

Text

TITLE: Sleepy Holloween, Part 2

A/N: Muse unexpectedly decided Ichabbie’s Halloween story needed to continue, so here we are with more floof and cutesyness. Part 1 found here. Also on AO3.

Abbie poured the leftover candy into a Ziploc bag to take to the office in the morning, thinking over the day as her Captain rinsed out their wine glasses and left them to soak in the sink. Quite a few years had passed since she'd squeezed so much Halloween celebrating into one day. The jack-o-lantern carvings, the pumpkin seed and cookie baking, passing out candy while sipping a nice Merlot, showing Hocus Pocus to Ichabod for the first time. Which reminded her... "You know...I really thought you'd relate to the movie more," she mused aloud. Ichabod snatched the towel from the oven handle and faced her as he dried his hands. "Oh?" She nodded, then motioned for him to follow her. "Yeah, there are a lot of things I thought you might empathize with." She opened the front door and pointed to the fiery jack-o-lanterns adorning their porch steps. "We need to put these out," she explained. "By my recollection, you only allowed me three grievances," he recalled, pausing to follow her lead and blow out a candle inside of one of the pumpkins. "And no discussion with which to further detail my deeper sentiments about it and the many aspects that reminded me of myself." She put out another candle. "My apologies, Captain," she demurred. "I'd very much..." She extinguished the last candle with a puff of air. "…like to hear your thoughts on the ways you identified with Hocus Pocus." He held the front door open for her, and she went back inside, him following closely behind. He locked the deadbolt, then stood at military attention, a fine seamen specimen if she'd ever seen one.

"Are you referring to how I resemble Master Butcherson, who was called out of his grave by some witch's spell into a world that couldn't possibly comprehend what that experience is like?" Abbie heard the seriousness hidden in his self-deprecation but couldn't resist teasing him. "Aww, come on, babe, you look infinitely better than Billy Butcherson did. Your centuries sleeping did a body good."

Her flirtatious gaze traveled from his sailor-capped head to his booted feet, and he watched her perusal of him, prepared to counter her move. "You get no points for that one," he scolded. "Even as a benevolent soul, the man was a walking, rotted corpse with moths festering in his mouth."

"My point exactly: I definitely wouldn't've kissed him! But you..." She reached for him, one hand curling around the back of his neck, drawing him down to kiss her briefly before she moved away. He stared longingly after her but continued the conversation. "Then perhaps you meant I'm like the Sanderson sisters." Noting the intent to tease him written on her face, he threw his finger up in the air. "Not in purpose or lack of intellect or gender," he rushed to indicate before she had a chance to cut in, "or—again—re-emergence because of a witch's spell, but in their struggle to understand the modern world, even with supernatural forces and a guidebook in their arsenal." Abbie hadn't considered that angle and smiled indulgently at him. "Fair. Though you've done considerably better than those three. Combined." He dipped his head once in thanks, then continued. "May I also present my resemblance to young Master Binx." "An old, mangy, black-for-bad-luck cat?" Her disgusted look morphed into something sultry. "Ohh, or the knowledgeable pussycat of a relic who wants nothing more than to protect the people he cares about from evil?" She slid her hand from his shoulder to his wrist as she strutted by him, heading towards the stairs. "Madam, I'll have you know—” "Mistress," she corrected him, throwing a flirty look over her shoulder. She wanted to play now, did she? His gaze turned predatory, and he slowly trailed her up the stairs, several steps behind. "Mistress..." he repeated dutifully. She'd reached the second floor landing and turned to face him. "Yes, Captain?" His foot froze mid-step as he drank in the sight of her regal air, fetching dress, petite frame, innocent smile. His beautifully stunning wife who'd procured a costume just for him that had taunted him all night. He promptly lost all train of thought. Abbie saw his eyes glaze over as he stood in awe of her. At least the feeling was mutual. She'd just had a lot more practice at open flirtation than he had and could still function while stunned by him. She waited a moment, indulging in his open attraction to her, before helping him out. "So far, you've compared yourself to a zombie, a trio of witches, and a cursed cat." His eyes narrowed at her as she amusedly reduced his comparisons to their most basic elements. "While you clearly don't think that highly of yourself, I, my dear one, do. Would you like me to tell you who I think you resemble, Captain?" "Most assuredly," he affirmed, holding himself in check a few moments longer. "Have you considered that you're most like Max, the hero of the tale? A gentleman who finds himself in the same country but a new place that doesn't quite feel like home? Interested in a woman who doesn't know what to make of him at first?" Her voice turned dramatic as she continued. "He's harassed by the locals as he tries to find his way in the world, gets wrapped up in something he didn't know could be true, then fights like hell to protect himself, his family, the world, and the woman he loves from evil—not to mention witches—bent on destroying them. And in the end, he saves them all. And gets the girl he's pined after and loves." She dramatically clasped her hands over her heart with a flourish. His eyes never leaving hers, he recovered only enough to move towards her, slowly stalking her again. "You think I'm the hero, do you?" A contented, sweet smile breaks over her face as she walks backwards at his same pace, the sight of him in his sailor's costume trailing after her making her heart beat fast. "Ummhmm."

"And the girl..." "A ravishing beauty," she stated cheekily, throwing the back of her hand up to her forehead in a fainting pose. "Never disputed." His eyes wantonly swept over her as she continued playfully leading him towards their bedroom, the colonial gown far less revealing than her normal wear and all the more tantalizing for it. "Strong and intelligent and wildly brave...a heroine in her own right." "Undoubtedly," she agreed as her back connected with the bedroom door. She absently reached for the doorknob and twisted it, flipping on the bedroom light as she continued backing away from him. "Deserving of some kind of reward, I'd say." "As much as her Captain deserves a warm hero's welcome." He turned off the hallway light as he entered the bedroom, the shadows and light playing deliciously over his devilishly handsome features, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. "If that's all he wants..." Abbie stopped in the middle of the room, waiting for him to reach her. "That's only the beginning," he promised with a low growl as he approached her. "I seem to recall..." He ran the backside of his finger along her cheek, soft and cool to the touch, dropping his hand to her collarbone and running his fingertips across her bare skin as he prowled around her. "Telling you..." His hand never leaving her, his touch trailed heat across the back of her neck. "How I couldn't wait to take this off of you." His whispered breath teased over the skin beneath her ear, the sensuality of it heightened because she couldn't see him, didn't know what to expect next. Still, he barely touched her, his fingers slowly grazing their way around her shoulder and back to her collarbone as he completed his rotation around her. She peered up at him heatedly, anticipating, yearning for his next move. 'Crane on the brain,' she'd called it once--and had had it ever since. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, satisfaction and desire written on his face, and he leaned down towards her. She tipped her head up, craving his kiss and everything that came after it, but he stopped a hair's-breath from touching his maddening lips to hers. "How does that sound?" he whispered, tantalizing her with his breath against her lips instead of his mouth. "Exquisite," she breathed on a sigh, willing herself to wait for him to ravish her. She was on the edge, as was he—she could feel it. She wouldn't have to wait long. "Enticing. Hot." He couldn't wait any longer, silencing her with his lips, gently at first, then more insistently as she drew his hat off his head, dropped it to the floor, and ran her fingers through his hair. She moaned, and the sound her passion vibrated through him, his hands roaming down her sides and hips to then splay across her back, drawing her into him. His hands set her ablaze, and she expected him to make light work of the dress since he'd wanted to divest her of it all night. Instead, he lingered, his kiss ardent and sensual, his touch exploratory and slow. He reached for the back of her dress where the stays were...should be. His fingers found a zipper instead. "Mm, how very modern," he murmured appreciatively as he withdrew from her, again moving behind her. Abbie waited, senses alert, body tingling, wondering what his clever mind and hands had in store for her.

His finger traced her skin along the back neckline of her dress, sending gooseflesh racing up and down her spine. He kissed her neck, and her head fell to the side, allowing him more access.

“Tell me,” he whispered near her ear. “What does a hero’s welcome look like?”

She eased away from him only far enough to turn around. “Like this.” She collided with him, pressing against him, drawing him down to kiss her as together they moved towards the bed. She felt the corded muscles of his arms and shoulders, his back, his leanness belying his strength.

As they reached the bed, Abbie laid her hand flat against his chest, and he let her push him lightly, falling to his seat He reached for her, his hands gripping her waist as he peered up at her and the satisfied look on her face.

“Do all captains receive this treatment?” he queried.

“Not from me. But you’re lucky.” She winked at him, threading her hands through his hair, mesmerized by her forever-military man.

“Well…not yet,” he smirked at her with a lifted eyebrow.

"If the boat's a'rockin..."

He gave her a questioning look, but she shook her head. “Nevermind, Captain. Just kiss me.”

“As you wish, Mistress.” And he did.

#ichabbie #ichabbie halloween #ichabbie fanfic #ichabbie fanfiction #ichabbie fan fiction #ichabbie fan fic #ichabod x abbie #abbie x ichabod #crane x abbie #abbie x crane #sleepy hollow #sleepy hollow fanfiction #sleepy hollow fanfic #sleepy hollow fan fiction #sleepy hollow fan fic #married ichabbie #my ichabbie writing #my writing #personal

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katsukikitten · 4 years

Text

Rouge

A/N MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING. if you are easily triggered to spiral please DO NOT READ ANY further. If you want/ need to know the actual trigger warnings pls dm me before reading.

If you could kill yourself without anyone finding your body you would.

And honestly you may have found a way.

To turn your body into nothing but particles on the wind.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

Your heart swells at the thought, its simple, easy really, this new solution.

No one will have to deal with the trauma of finding you.

No one will say "I never knew" at your eulogy while fighting back tears when the signs, although extremely subtle, were there.

They will only say your "great" life was cut short too soon as they look longingly at the one and only photo of you smiling that was enlarged for all to see.

As if that's how you looked majority of your life.

Content.

Happy.

You joined the hero course for the sole purpose that it put your life at greater risk adding to it the perk of what would be viewed as an honorable death.

And maybe your departure would be less sad for some, if anyone would even be upset in the first place.

The only problem was making your "accidental" death look good. It did not help that you were at a disadvantage with your quirk.

You were the unlucky soul with the rare quirk of adaptability or as others deemed it, instant evolution.

Literally giving meaning to what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

You should know, you've tried, doing nothing but worsening the situation for yourself.

And tried countless times at that.

Grey knives drawing grey blood while grey skin snaps back together forever closing the open wound.

Grey bones jutting at odd angles punctured through grey skin snap back into place as everything rights itself.

So hero work was your only option. Someone somewhere would HAVE to have a quirk you could not adapt to.

So every mission you decided to put yourself in dangerous situations and not for the sake of others.

At one point you thought that, maybe over time, saving others could help deviate you from your search for the end by another's hand.

But even after almost a decade of hero work you have yet to change your mind. Stead fast on the idea of resting six feet deep at the ripe age of 25.

What better irony that it cannot fix the emptiness that gnawed at your innards.

You're not sure why you feel this way. It's not as if anything traumatic happened to you. You had a loving family, a quirk, everything to be thankful for.

One day you woke up feeling an ache in your chest that over the years turned into a weighted emptiness.

Almost like a phantom feeling of knowing something should be there and suddenly you realize it is not.

As if living your life like you were the foot that fell asleep.

With the slow absence in your chest the universe began to present itself differently. Not as if turning itself at an odd angle, no it turned itself into a painting that had faded from overexposure in the harsh sun. Colors bleeding into depressing tones of grey washing with it your ability to feel.

None of this stopped you from making friends or taking some lovers, you were well liked, popular even. Plus the internet said these things would help ease the dull ache that weighed heavy in your ribcage.

But the internet was wrong. If anything it amplified your desire for that sweet embrace of Death. Every single relationship was tainted with a greasy film, making them hazy in your eyes. A camera lens fogged over from heated breath capturing still moments of superficial dull feelings.

Everything forever diluted in those heavy tones of grey.

Until one day luck was on your side when you spotted potential in someone.

Someone who became blindingly vibrant even in their hues of grey as they reached their dried flesh outward, hair white as snow.

You often dream of the following moments.

It all happened in slow motion, his fingers slowly curling around the arm of a hero that called you for backup. Suddenly you felt something in your chest, it beat with a ferocity you hadn't felt in *years.*

Others would read into your frozen form as fear but honestly it was shock, *pleasure*, as your plan began to form into something tangible. Eyes fixated on the forgotten hero that slowly turned to dust. Grey ash carried on a heavy summer wind.

Abrubtly your life had been given purpose.

"OI Y/LN!" You look to see a grey haired man approaching at blinding speed, his fingers spread wide, palm facing outward telling you with his faint crimson eyes to move.

But you cannot if you want this villain to aid you later. You swallow thickly as you think of a good plan to fuck this up. You pretend to be too stunned and Katsuki has to waste his blast by hitting the ground by your feet to jump over you.

You do not know that he's fought this villain before, having transferred well after USJ and the kidnapping. You watch as greedy flaked hands reach out towards him, hungry to devour as dry lips pull too wide over white teeth. All the while Bakugou steadily closes the distance.

Something grips your stomach as your mind replays what happened just moments ago.

You jump with enough force that the pavement buckles beneath your powerful legs. You catch up to Bakugou with ease pulling him back by his skin tight shirt. You yank harder than you intended and the two of you return to the Earth with sickening cracks. Toppling over one another until you land on top of Bakugou. Instantly a warp gate opens up and the white haired man steps through it. Disappearing for now.

Not exactly how you planned it but effective.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Katsuki explodes beneath you and you take the massive explosion point blank. Blinding pops of white and grey while you land on your feet like a cat. Not a single burn in sight.

At this point you've pretty much become immune to his attacks from being forced to train with him at UA and the other countless "accidental" explosions that have kissed you with white hot heat during missions. Rage and resentment fuel his actions.

Katsuki jumps to his feet giving you a deadly glare when he cannot spy what you've deemed your new found hope he lunges for you. Forcing you back with a barrage of explosions until your shoulders slam into brick. Indenting your thick shape into the dudty wall, causing you to question the integrity of the structure.

Would the weight of a crushed building be enough?

No you already tried that.

When the smoke clears you're met with burning red ember eyes. He leans close, pressing his forehead against yours as he glares at you with such malice. If only he could act on that malice, especially with how it worsens everytime the two of you cross paths.

You're an ugly reminder that someone can withstand him and his deadly assaults.

"Stay the fuck outta my way." He growls and you say nothing, you just hold his heated faint scarlet gaze.

Tonight you cannot dream your wonderous dream instead numb tears fall down your cheeks like a movie star during a dramatic scene. Lying in the dark, mind plagued with two things.

One being hot ember and the other being a greyed hand.

It keeps you up and this endless sleep lasts for longer than you'd like.

A week and a half longer than you'd like, though you have survived longer without.

Learning the hard way that you can go *months* without eating, drinking, or sleeping.

As if you're some living statue in the renaissance representing the entire purpose of mortality as you lie in the dark. Moon light cascading over your shimmering cheeks.

Black night lightens to a grey sunrise just to pull the sun back into a deep pool of darkness once more.

All the while you sit at the agency in front if your messy desk. Working but not, it's more as if you're AFK in real life. You look at yourself almost in third person as you watch yourself stare at your screen and your mountain of paper work that you've been avoiding.

About six months worth and it's exactly why the Director has you in the office today. Its quite in the office, which is normal for seven PM.

Although thanks to winter it looks like midnight out. The darkness envelops you but it does not protect you from the weighted emptiness.

Its the loud footsteps that pull you into reality. Blinking furiously to soothe your burning eyes as you pick up your pen trying to bullshit your way in case it's the director.

But it isn't, instead its Bakugou who pauses at your open door with an ever present irritated snarl, still draped in grey. Cruel blood red eyes rove over your pitiful form.

"Oi, Director told me to check on you like I'm some sort of fucking baby sitter. So are you working or fighting a fucking possession?" He growls and you blink a few times, unsure how to answer.

Normally you were a master at the facade, of donning the mask appropriate at the time. As sadness was not always needed.

So for someone to notice your odd behavior was off putting. Worrisome. You would have to step it up a notch.

"I'm fine." You smile widely, sure to make it seem as if its reached your eyes. Like you've practiced countless times in the mirror. When he makes no move to respond you scribble on one of the reports, pretending to write. Doing anything to bullshit your out from under his scorching gaze. His maroon eyes narrow in suspicion.

"I'm leaving so get your shit done."

"Yea." Is all that you say, it must be good enough of a reply for him as he takes his leave.

Soon your body becomes stiff as you hardly move for the next hour and a half, slumped over inky paper. Truly staring through the reports on your desk. You blink slowly as you try to ease the pain in your eyes.

Maybe Bakugou was right. Maybe you were fighting off a possession but before you can give it a second thought your hero phone lights up with an alert.

Indicating you're the closest hero to whatever villainy is transpiring in the cold icy streets.

*"White haired suspect spotted by civilian wandering around the old warehouse district. Believed to be Tomura Shigaraki heavily associated with the league of Villans. Use extreme caution quirk decay."*

Decay.

The word sends a shiver of ecstacy down your spine.

Tonight was the night, tonight you would finally get your dance with Death.

You lunge, loading the rest of the report as you fly down the stairwell two steps at a time. Before breaking out into a full sprint.

How lucky could you be that your agency was only seven blocks away from the old warehouse district.

You silence your breath and your foot falls learned from years of practice as you near closer.

Opting out of standing in the dim light of the street lamps, that illuminate nothing more but spooked rats and rotting trash.

Oh this was just getting better and better.

The setting was perfect, late at night, pitch black alleyways that were narrow to boot.

Honestly you couldn't have asked for a better place for him to be spotted. It would be easy to fuck this up. You may not even have to force his hand considering he would have ALL of the advantage and all he would need to do was reach out of the darkness to touch you.

Wrap those five grayed fingers around you.

Your ears pick up on scratching. Not the type a rat makes where claws dig at brick or trash. No, that unique sound of nails scrapping into flesh.

You smile wildly, thankful you actually read the full report for once, the sound comes from two alley mouths away. It seems to be the only sound on the whole block.

You walk past the first one, practicing how you will look. Eyes shifting to the left alley then to the right, body language reading guarded.

Careful.

The things you were actually supposed to be doing but couldn't bring yourself to do. You could hear the soothing lullaby hummed through gnashing teeth and bones.

By the second alley you've perfected the look. If there are any still functioning cameras in this are their black glass eyes are sure to see it all. Your perfect final scene.

Because it has become too hard to continue to live the lie.

It becomes silent as you approach the mouth of the alley that the scratching came from. Too silent, confirming your initial thought, that he lies in the dark watching, waiting.

You peek to the left as you did the past two times before peeking to the right coming face to face with pitch black. The alley resembles a vacuum, greedily swallowing all light and sound in its wake. Fear prickles up your spine and your primal instincts tell you to run.

But they are dull, still draping the world in that damned veil of grey so they are easy to ignore.

You take the plunge as if jumping into cold water taking another step, turning away as if you did not see the gleam of his teeth.

Crusted lips again stretched too far over white.

He reaches out, fingers slowly curling onto your bicep as your boyd and your mind declare war with one another.

One demands that you fight, that you do anything it takes to get out of this situation while the screams of how tired it is.

How it can no longer go on.

Four fingers are wrapped tightly around you like a miniature snakes and your heart races with anticipation of the final finger.

You turn his way, eyes locking onto his. Savoring the motion of his middle finger getting ever closer to your sweet skin.

That is until the feeling of the grip is ripped away from you as a new vice grip pulls you into their direction. Strong arms wrapped around to you protectively, strong hand smoothing over the skin that was just touched.

"No." The small gasp escapes you as you turn to face whoever dared to deny you your one true wish only to be met with poison apple red.

"What the fuck were you doing?!" A nasty snarl and a shake before you're shoved to the side. Explosions propelling him closer to the target once more.

You fall to your knees in anguish, fat droplets dripping down flushed cheeks. You are barely able to register the scene in front of you as a trap is activated, pulling Katsuki's arms behind his back with a sickening crack. It echoes in the alley way but it does not reach you.

Cannot reach you as you mourn.

You had fucking tasted it, the sweet end just to be denied.

The ropes pull tighter, Katsuki yells out and suddenly sweat is falling from his grey face.

How long had he been in this position?

Ten?

Twenty minutes?

You weren't sure, time was painstakingly slow and blurring fast all at once.

Glowing red eyes cut to you in the night, demanding, pleading, for help.

You fail to see anything more that what you had once had. Reliving the moment where you felt most alive.

That special, promised hand reaches out for Katsuki, slowly curling itself around his throat.

Slowly enough that grey skin cracks to reveal angry vivid red.

Wait.

Red?

Where else had you seen red?

*Red* muscle tissue beneath sunkissed skin?

Suddenly a certain man is blindingly vibrant against the black back drop of the alley way. Ash blonde hair dampening and darkening with sweat as a rare emotion mixes with the rage in his eyes.

You lunge faster and harder than you ever had before. Quickly enough that there is a delay before the asphalt that was once beneath your feet ruptures, ripping open several feet deep.

Your hand is on a dry wrist that you twist away from Bakugou. You move without thinking as you take his hands into your own. Wrapping delicately strong fingers around two separate middle fingers. Bringing them back until they touch the top of his forearm.

He falls to the ground and for good measure you kick him square in the face. Shinning tooth arching with a red blood trail that slowly fades to grey.

You turn to Katsuki, the color draining from him like a dying star, cutting the ropes of the trap. You keep your hands pressed harshly against his arms as he tries to snap them back.

"Slow." You say sternly watching the ashen blonde of his hair dull into a light grey as he brings hyper extended arms back into their normal positions.

Nothing remains of his color as he shoves past you, forcing Tomura's arms behind him before securing his wrists with a zip tie. He heaves him onto his shoulder like a sac of potatoes and begins to walk away.

Almost leaving you to regret helping him.

After all he did take what you've always wanted, you stare after him as he walks away before he abruptly stops.

"Oi. Y/N." He calls out, "Let's fucking go."

He looks over his shoulder and you see it still there although it is just a flash before he begins walking again once your make way to follow.

Vivid scarlet red cuts through the dark of the night.

#bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #bnha x you #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugou #bnha kacchan #bnha katsuki #bnha bakugou #bnha au #bnha imagine #bnha angst #bakugou angst

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beanarie · 5 years

Text

past & pending 3, chapter 2

Welcome to the McGraw-Hamilton Bed and Breakfast, where no one ever calls ahead for reservations. the rest of the series (post-finale, everyone’s in love) is here, the previous chapter, where--spoiler alert!--thomas and flint just learned that madi has a girlfriend, is here

“We thought her distress was over you,” Thomas confides.

Silver’s smile is bitter and, frankly, more than slightly annoying. “Oh, it’s never about me.”

Thomas frowns at the trees. He loses all patience in the face of self pity. Despite not being well acquainted with Madi, he knows James is of the belief that she loves Silver, or, rather, that she did at one time. The rest, as they have well established, was his own fault.

“Allow me an uncomfortable question?”

A heavy silence follows. “Go on,” Silver says.

“Is there anything tying you to her, save penance, and, of course, the dogged hope of eventual absolution and a return to how things were?” Silver’s wide eyes are a response. They are not, however, an answer. “I ask in all sincerity. Confirmation that you are not consumed with flagellating yourself every time you leave here would be appreciated, especially given the ready alternative.”

Someone should lance this boil, incontrovertibly disabuse Silver of the notion that existing as someone’s sun, moon, and stars is the only way to be happy. The awareness of his own position prevents Thomas from making the attempt. He would offer the corpses James created in his name if he could. Being an ignoble villain himself, Silver would appreciate them more.

The house now in sight, Seydou takes off at a run, little Felix at his heels. Thomas runs a thumb across the patchy stubble on Silver’s jaw. “I miss the beard,” he says longingly, trying to impart the fondness that threatens to overtake him with tone and context rather than explicit words. “Refrain from shaving for the rest of your stay, hm? Consider it payment for the room and board.”

Thomas takes a step forward, but Silver’s fingers wrap around his upper arm, keeping him from taking another. He noses the back of Thomas’s neck and breathes in deeply. Well. Fuck subtle. Before Silver can disengage, Thomas spins on his heel. Silver’s mouth lets out a quiet huff of surprise before Thomas claims it for his own.

“The boys?” Thomas whispers urgently.

Silver’s wild eyes stray from his for mere seconds. “Inside.”

"Understand,” Thomas says, pressing a kiss to Silver’s throat. Yes, unsurprisingly, the man could do with a wash. That’s fine. “It is not that I lack the ability to control myself. I merely see no point in doing so."

The eyes he raises his head to see ask a very clear question. Why? “You know, I used to hear stories on the plantation. We weren’t permitted news of the outside world but I-“

“You had your ways”

“I did.” He tugs the hem of Silver’s shirt free of his trousers. Silver does the same to his. “I knew of Captain Flint, scourge of the new world, years before I knew it was my James they spoke of.”

“It wasn’t wholly outside the realm of plausibility. James, James can be terrifying. Did you know he took me to a hanging on our first outing together?”

“But what of Long John Silver, the only man he was said to fear?” “Many an hour I whiled away forming an image of you in my mind.”

Despite how far they’ve gone already, Silver’s expression is shuttered, like he doesn’t dare to accept what is on offer. “You talk too much.”

“And most days you spend too much time in the brambles of this mind to provide any semblance of worthwhile conversation. Will that be changing? We are all reasonably certain at this point James will not draw and quarter you for your transgressions.”

“That... was never a concern.”

He pulls a few of the hairs in the path from Silver’s stomach to his groin, causing a yelp Thomas will remember for quite a few nights to come. “Do not lie to me, John Silver. I’ve a keen mind and I have suffered. I could plot retribution the likes of which you could never conceive.”

He uses his thumb to breach the waistband of Silver’s trousers and press into the muscle underneath the sharp jut of hipbone. The body under his hands shivers. "Were it not for the myriad complications present at the moment, I would have you, right here, just like this. What say you to that?"

A slight laugh, a thin sliver of a cheeky grin. "What complications?"

“Villain.” Thomas smiles against Silver’s lips and swallows whatever response he would have gotten. This, at least, they can do without consulting a committee.

The bedroom door swings open at the same time as Thomas pokes his head in to say, "Oh, excellent. You're here. Come, villain. We have our quorum. We'll get our resolution and everyone will be much happier for it."

James nearly drops the shirt he's holding at the sound of that word coming out of Thomas's mouth, but then Silver hobbles in close behind, grumbling good-naturedly. "Is that to be my name now?"

Unruffled, Thomas smiles like he owns a secret. "Tell me it bothers you and I'll stop forever."

A very pointed silence reigns for a long moment. James ignores them until the spare clothes to donate to their guests are in a neatly folded stack. "You had some sort of agenda," he prompts.

"Surely you can guess," Thomas says.

James turns to address them. "Of course I could. But Silver is changing color and I'd to see how much closer to red he can get."

Thomas laughs and sits on the bed, jostling the stack of clothing but not tipping it over. Silver screws up his face in a futile effort to change his current complexion. "Fuck you both."

"There it is." Thomas winds an arm around James's waist. "Would you prefer a statement with fewer words?"

Allowing Thomas to get closer does not mean James agrees. "You've both had too much time in the sun and not enough water. His wife is a guest in our home."

"Not my wife." Silver looks down at his foot. "That- that was only ever an idea. A hope. And now we are... friends. Maybe, if I'm being generous. Anyway, she gave me her explicit blessing."

James looks at Thomas, who looks back at him, equally silently.

Silver sighs, drumming his fingers on his crutch. "You may have noticed she has taken up with a woman."

"So taking this step." James gestures to take in the three of them. "Now, under these conditions, would be your retribution?"

"What? No. We spoke candidly on what occurred during my months-long absence from her."

"You confessed everything?" James asks. So far Thomas has kept his opinions to himself. It will be interesting to see how long he is content to observe before deciding James and Silver cannot work this out between the two of them.

"She wanted to know what purpose I served here for so long," Silver says, meaning no, he did not inform her about his illness. "How you were able to allow me to linger after all that I had done, to you both. And I..." He lifts his chin, resolute. "I told her I love you."

Abandoning Thomas and the stack of clothes on the bed, James approaches a noticeably unmoving Silver. He leans in, gaze fixed on Silver's mouth. "Is that what you told her?" he says. He lays a hand on Silver's neck, his thumb sweeping over the point of his pulse.

Silver hums, flush still high on his cheeks. "It's the truth." He slumps forward slightly into James's touch. This happens every time. Touch Silver with even a hint of affection and he goes pliant and greedy like one of his barn cats.

James grins as he traces the underside of Silver's bottom lip. "That explains why you wanted to stay, not why we let you."

"Feel free to elaborate," Silver says. "I've already gotten Thomas's side of things."

From the other side of the room, Thomas laughs in a way that people who aren't James don't get to hear.

Good thing the chores are done for the morning and no one inside this room is responsible for preparing the next meal. All they have to do for the next few hours is work up an appetite.

The entertainment at midday consists of the younger boys bragging about their contributions to the repast.

"I'm just proud you didn't push each other into the water," Obi says. "I fully expected at least one of you to return soaking wet."

Madi, seated as far from Esther as their circumstances allow, lets her gaze flick toward each of the white men in a knowing matter. Being who she is, she's quite subtle, but James sees. She says, however, nothing, apparently content to help Khanyi pick out the stray bones left in her fish.

Possibly he is being paranoid.

~ Old remembered terrors force Flint out of a sound sleep, heart hammering, thundering, and eyes completely incapable of recognizing his surroundings. It’s too dark, it’s too dark. There are enemies about and he can’t remember who was assigned lookout.

“James,” says a voice that doesn't belong.

“Love."

"It’s all right."

"You're home safe."

"Everything is fine.”

A melody sinks into the bits of silence. Humming. Flint latches on, his breath coming easier, and he lays his head back down.

His traitorous mind refuses to rest, linking the tune to something he used to hear on piano. He thinks of Miranda, walking off to leave him in bed struggling with his ghosts, until the strains of her playing from another room remind him where he is. He thinks of her dry fingertips against his cheek as he would finally drift off to proper sleep. That tiny pull of a smile on one side of her face that signaled the end of an argument. The quizzical rosebud of her mouth when she read something she found deeply fascinating.

No one is touching him, but James can feel body heat creeping in on all sides and he can’t handle it. Reality is both too much and not enough. “Shut up,” he says, rubbing at his eyes, willing his mind to stop reeling. “Both of you.”

Silver rolls onto his side as though he's been out this whole time. James runs a hand lightly down Silver's back, and rises from the bed.

So many people between these walls. She should be here, too. She deserves to be here.

He can feel at least one pair of eyes following his progress, so he says, "We need firewood. And well water."

"Let him go be productive," Thomas orders Silver, just loud enough for his voice to carry. "I fucking abhor chopping firewood."

#black sails #black sails fic #silverflinthamilton #past and pending #my writing #things by beanarie

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horizon99krp-blog · 6 years

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– KILLJOYS, MAKE SOME NOISE –

PLUTONIUM, a PROTO has been spotted on the edges of Horizon99 ! Identified as ARES FURYAN TENEBRIS DARKEN, they have been living as a SCAVENGER for some time now, recognized for holding no loyalties in this wasteland. They were created 7 years ago, designed to look 24 years old, with a tendency to act abrasive, arrogant, flirtatious, and lethal. Unfortunately they are unregistered, with an operating license number of 2445900.

Real question now is… how will they react when the whole sky falls ?

PULL THE PIN AND LET THIS WORLD EXPLODE, GIVE US MORE DETONATION

abrasive on purpose, the war machine is every sort of sun-scorched patch of hell made available to him, his programming only able to account partial responsibility for his indefinite attitude, the sparks of independent intelligence having infested his circuitry since well before he is able to remember. he draws himself a portrait and then detonates inside of it, chaotic and arrogant and furious, the rage of his temper rivalling that of the tumultuous sandstorms that devastate the valley of slaughter occasionally. he enjoys battles, enjoys the stakes, the adrenaline, the flames, even when he can’t afford the risk involved, takes the blade point to the chest anyway; damn the consequences.

his ego is only slightly offset by an unexpected amount of charm, a flirtatious inclination heralded by fragments of a past life he only vaguely knows snippets about, the flashes of memories haunting him, snapping at his heels like dogs. he knows he worked in the sex trade, knows he was created to be aesthetically pleasing, anatomically correct, uses that to his advantage as often as possible, adheres himself to people’s weakest sides. despite how often he fights, despite how volatile his temper colors him, he finds flirting to be just as amusing.

THE FUTURE IS BULLETPROOF, THE AFTERMATH IS SECONDARY

PROLOGUE

the compound is a matte grey blotch against the wasteland skyline, a discoloration inverted against the pale, beige settings, standing unnatural in the blazing light, a large makeshift tent with no means of camoflauge, no cover of concealment, each corner jutting out offensively. either in daytime or under stars, the monstrosity sits, an obscene eyesore shifting a few miles here and there depending on the weather, the stakes ripped up from the gravel, the motors carrying it to whichever location suits it best for nefarious dealings, the insides seething with slime, with dust, with sin. screaming and wailing and pleading, women moaning and begging, men crying and yelling, gunshots and subsequent thuds of heavy objects ( bodies colliding into the sands and melting away into oblivion ) can be heard echoing from its creases at all hours of the night, and for a long time only the desert winds pull at the sound, only the hills absorb this travesty, the structure too far away from the city cybernetics, too distanced from helpful hands.

human and proto trafficking is a trade as old as the devil himself, dirty dealings done in clubside lounges translating into a hundred plus sentient lifeforms crammed into a space only meant for half that, feed an amount only meant a quarter of that. there is not enough for survival on horizon as it is, they say, the words always preceding an idea of some sort of purge ( which of course would never involve anyone with enough coin to pay ).

but a shadow falls over the door of the establishment, tall and lean and vengeful, with wings made from heavy machine guns, the barrels all adjusted and wired for pinprick accuracy, because the sky isn’t the only one with eyes out here in the valley of slaughter, the sun is not the only thing that burns. he carries the scent of a wolvern threaded into his clothing, a massive hide spread across his shoulders; he carries knives and bullets and a merciless vigor, an unquenchable aggression, a haunting grin that splits his face in two like a horror story, eyes red like a hungry sunset, the vulture in his chest starving for death. he bares the name of an ancient god of war, half mythos, half bloodlust, every inch of him a history divined from fades pages, a hoax perhaps at first, but now interwoven into the metallic core of him; he is a machine and a god, sent from heaven, sent from hell, sent from every holy nightmare you don’t want to remember.

the grin morphs into a grimace as his teeth clench, his fists tighten, the inhuman rage rippling through him as he shatters the door off its shitty hinges, crippling the entrance, breaking inside the edifice to lay siege to its protectors, to wreak havoc on their operations. he rains hails of bullets and sharp edges over the slavers, the destruction and mayhem nothing short of a bomb exploding inside these corners, human degradations meeting the war machine within their last couple of breaths before he rips their lungs out, their tongues and limbs and shredded pistols strewn useless across the floor by the end of it.

later, when the dislodged people spill from their confines, humans and protos clawing for the scraps of life alike, a woman grasps his wrist in gratitude, falls on her shaking knees, kisses him praises, crowns him glorious, but he just looks down at her, crimson eyes glowing in the yawning dusk atmosphere, watching this soft, breakable, fleshy thing of a creature, and chuckles, “i didn’t do it for you.”

FILES STORED // WHAT HE DOES REMEMBER

001. the first time he kills a wovern is the first time he realizes why the gang is named after them and why he wears a leather jacket with the predators engraved on it; they are not easy to slay. even for something like him. the city of fyrestone is not foolish for having decided that running is honestly the best course of action in the face of these beasts. by the second kill, he begins to share attributes to their combat style; all teeth and jagged edges, claws and snarls and the absolute certainty of a massacre.

002. the underdome is both a lot easier and a lot more difficult than fighting in the flesh fair, depending on the day, the mooncycle, the rate of popularity, and the chaos in the crowd. also whether or not they’ve heard his name before, whether or not he’s a fan favorite or just death’s favorite, whether or not he makes the kill interesting enough to distract his audience away from everything else he’s trying to accomplish.

003. mad lacie likes when he wears high heels and fishnets, likes when he comes to her begging for a treatment, begging for a booster, whether he can afford it or not, likes when he dooms himself with every gulp of adrenaline, to save a heart not worth saving. so he does.

004. they tell him his heart is not worth saving and it sits and beats on the right side of his chest and he thinks about cutting it out sometimes while the moons hang high and the winds howl longingly in his ears, the wastelands spanning out forever. it beats and beats and beats, and he knows it’s breaking.

005. when he wakes up in the shop, tora, the gang’s leader, is standing over him, the scars on his face making him even uglier than the personality he’d implanted into his pet war machine, and when ares asks what happened, he explains it all in that rough, sanded voice of his, gruff, curt, biting. “when that keg exploded, a lot of our people were caught in the crossfire. we lost sirien, vaager, seulgi, minnie… and isbin.” all the words in the universe dry up and die inside ares’ throat, the sun shades into greys, all sounds sink down into the ground, as a cold numbness floods through his bones; a feeling he’s not experienced before. “that’s his heart right there,” tora points down to ares’ open chest, the mechanical ribs outstretched to present the half human heart pumping as though it belongs there.

“he was alive…” ares blinks down at it, dumbfounded. “he was alive when i shut down. i saw him.”

“he was,” a hardened look filters through tora’s gaze, something ares has come to understand as either a lie or a half truth about to spit out from his snake-like lips. “but then he died. and you needed a heart replacement.”

“he died before i needed the replacement?”

“what?”

“did he die first and then you took his heart to put in me?” suddenly the room stills, the air around them and the mechanic standing off to the side becomes dense with intensity. achingly, suffocatingly, ares’ pitch black eyes pin themselves to the flesh and bone man in front of him, his master by most accounts, the question pointed at him like a knife. “or did you see that i needed a heart… and then you…. took it…?”

006. isbin’s eyes remind ares of the sky, remind him of the greenhouses in the city, remind him of a flower blooming somewhere off the edge of the world, a droplet of flora surviving amidst the smog and smoke choking the tall buildings and all their inhabitants. isbin is much smaller than him and gets cold once the sun disappears, so he crawls over to where ares keeps watch over the camp and just curls up against his side, staring up at the stars until he drifts off. he talks to ares sometimes, despite tora’s scoldings, and tells him they are like brothers. ares doesn’t understand the word. not yet.

007. wolverns are fast and sharp and arduous to slay, larger than life and darker than the space between stars, caught between a warning and a legend, their bodies hardwired to withstand against claws and pressures and rippage. but humans are not; humans are soft, humans are delicate, destructible, fragile– loud as they die, screaming and bleeding, they’re voices howling into the empty winds as ares slices through to the cores of them, cutting open muscle and sinew and tendon.

like every other wolvern in this valley, he slaughters his gang, leaves no one alive, leaves no bones uncrushed, no blood unspoilt, no fragment of his gang’s campsite undefiled; he makes himself a hurricane and this is his new legacy, this is his new catastrophic wake, the demon he molds himself into.

he’s still dripping with their blood when he finds what’s left of isbin’s body and buries him under a mound of barren stones, calls it a funeral.

008. they don’t tell him why they are putting him in the dumpster, don’t answer any of his questions, don’t even look at him as they do it, just tell him to stay, to wait, to wait, to wait– and he does. waits as the sun drops, the moons spiraling, waits as scents collect around him, more trash, other scraps of protos, and it’s wrong somehow because he knows he is not scrap. he is fine, he is whole, and he is waiting.

009. taking too much of the booster will kill his heart. taking too little of the booster will let the heart die. all life is good for is fucking and fighting at this stage.

010. protos can’t cry, or at least most of them can’t; they aren’t built with tear ducts in their eyes since that wouldn’t serve a purpose for a functioning robot, wouldn’t play well into the narrative of protos unable to experience the same level of emotions as humans. humans can cry. but protos can only speak, can only shout, can only scream.

so he does.

FILES CORRUPTED // WHAT HE CAN’T RECALL

001. his life before faceless men put him in a dumpster, the disordered tragedy of sights and sounds, touches and burning, some sort of ache deep in the center of him that he can’t quite name.

002. how many battles has he fought now? how many has he lost?

003. how long does he lose himself in the wasteland these days, each pilgrimage to and from the city becoming more and more rare, his interest in the menagerie hinging on a small few between its walls? at what point will he grow tired of flirting with strangers, death-defying, bullet-biting? how much will be too much? where is the alleyway he will be sauntering through when his heart inevitably cracks and shatters inside his ribcage?

004. the body belonging to a voice he hears echoing through his dreams sometimes when he shuts down.

005. do protos dream?

#99: accepted #kim jongin

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choicesff · 4 years

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Hate Fuck: A Perfect Match Fiction (1/5)

Synopsis: When Damien comes back after a month of being locked inside Eros, he’s not the same. He’s angry, tortured, and most of all, resentful of MC and her relationship with Dames, and he turns to therapy for help. Hate Fuck is a five-part series that explores the psychological aftermath, and whether Damien and MC can ever get back what they once had. NSFW language and smut warning for Part 5, which culminates in the titular hate fuck, and to a lesser extent, previews and build-up in the other chapters. 18+ only. Gender-locked for a female MC.

* * *

“Say my name.”

She was pushed face-down against the bed, one hand pinned behind her, the other grasping desperately at the sheets, seemingly searching both for an anchor and the fucking moral compass she had lost. You are a feminist, she reminded herself. You do not belong to anyone. Sex with you should be intimate, and loving, and gentle, and—

His left hand, once pressed against the front of her neck, inched its way up to her chin and pulled her head backward to meet his clouded gaze. Heatedly, impossibly, he pushed even deeper inside her, and she let out a guttural moan in response—unclear what he was doing to her body or how. He took the opportunity to push a finger into her open mouth, and she surprised herself by closing her eyes and biting down to suck it hungrily, before he icily pulled out of her. Stricken, and suddenly empty, she popped her dark eyes back open to look into his again.

“Say. My. Fucking. Name.” At the last word, he entered her all at once, searingly, inch-by-aching-inch without a shiver of a break. “Damien!” she gasp-screamed, eyes rolling back as he stretched her wide open. She’d never felt so filled, so dominated in her entire life, and – and –

Fuck. He was controlling her, and despite herself, she fucking loved it.

“Yes,” he groaned, and tore down the top of her strapless dress to tug, relentlessly, at a nipple. She cried out at the pleasure-pain of it, and it was music to his ears. “And who do you belong to?”

She bit down hard on her bottom lip and felt his rhythm, in, out, deeper, deeper, bringing her closer to the edge with each plunge. No one, she wanted to yell in defiance, but her body betrayed her as she arched, pushed her ass backward to meet his hips, to perfectly match his glorious rhythm. No one, but then again—

“Who do you belong to, Noemi?” This time, it was said through gritted teeth, and she could tell there was an edge in his voice. But still, she ignored it, instead leaning back and moaning, intoxicated by the warmth of him inside her, the orgasm building in her core, one of his hands now painting circles around her right nipple, the other wrapped around her left thigh and thumbing at her clit, so, so, fucking close if he’d just let her—

Quicker than she knew what was happening, he grunted, pulled out, and flipped her, pushing her further up the bed so that he was squarely on top of her, now facing her. His beautiful brown eyes met her own and stared, his face a mess of emotions, as if he wanted to love her and tear her inside out at the same time. The look made her gulp. He reached down to touch her sensitive nub again, but roughly, with far too much pressure, and she yelped and lurched back. He smiled wickedly; that hadn’t been an accident. Yet when he spoke, his voice was soft.

“Noemi. I won’t ask you again.”

They lay there, glaring, for what must have been ten seconds, locked in a battle of wills as he played her body like a fiddle. But fuck, he wasn’t going to give up, and it was all so very hot, and she wanted to come so badly, and he had just licked two fingers and plunged them into her at just the right curve, and if he pulled them out one more time she was going to scream, and—

His face suddenly shifted to reveal the ghost of her gentle, vulnerable, best friend — a man who was insecure, hurting, and so head over heels he was dizzy. “Emi,” the ghost-of-a-man whispered hoarsely, reaching out to cup her chin, imploring with his eyes. “Please.”

She swallowed, her stubborness melting away as she stared at the only man she’d ever loved. The only man she ever would.

“You, Damien,” she admitted in a whisper, her eyes never leaving his.

“Yeah?” He stared longingly, captured in the moment, hearing her but unsure—needing to be convinced that this, unlike all those fucking face-wearing phantoms they’d sent him, this was real. This wasn’t too good to be true.

“Yeah. I’m yours, Damien. I… I belong to you”—and she brought her lips up to his earlobe—“…sir.”

His eyes immediately darkened, and possessed, he brought his mouth crashing down onto hers as he quickly replaced his fingers with his dick. She moaned loudly into his mouth, and they built a rhythm, their bodies communicating all the pain, anger, love, that they’d held in for so long.

As he fucked her and the dull ache below started swimming to the surface, she felt herself sinking into the powerlessness of the moment, drowning in him and loving every second. “Yours, sir,” she muttered against his mouth as her body began to tingle. “I’m… all… yours…”

THREE WEEKS EARLIER

[This series takes place after the opening scene of Book 2, Chapter 4 -- when the crew breaks into Eros headquarters to save Damien, and leaves Dames behind.]

They fell back into the bed of the truck, trying but unable to draw their eyes away from the horror playing out before them: Dames, overtaken by tens, dozens, seemingly hundreds of Eros soldiers, their frenzy in destroying him fueled by Cecile's otherworldly scream as the others escaped through the truck parked in the loading dock. In the truck, her breathing was audible, ragged, as sobs shook her body and tears washed lines of dirt down her cheeks. She felt someone pull her into a tight hug, kiss the crown of her head, touch her hair, make vaguely comforting noises, but still, she couldn't turn away -- long after someone had roughly tugged the truck door closed, after she and the others had found their way to seated positions, after the breathing, the heartbeat of the person cradling her head had slowed in sleep.

Hayden. Now that the fog was finally lifting, she could tell it was him by the scent that she'd memorized months ago. Back when she thought she loved him. Back before she knew that he was programmed to think he loved her, too.

Regular breathing, underscored only by the hum of the engine beneath, told her that she was alone, that her companions—other than Nadia and Steve up front—were asleep. Yet she felt eyes on her. Slowly, painfully, she finally peeled her face away from the shadow of Eros headquarters to meet the eyes that burned her cheek.

Damien. It was dark, but there was no mistaking him. He was staring at her, yes, but even more... studying her. His brows were furrowed; his mouth was set. Something in him was closed off behind a wall that she hadn't seen since, years ago, she and Nadia had conspired to make him one of their own. And there was something in his look that she couldn't place. Pain – at being tortured? Relief – at being saved? No, none of those – or not only those alone. It was something angrier, deeper, more animalistic… something like –

Right as she was about to place it, he sneered and turned to his side to sleep. The motion was so fluid and rapid that she unconsciously let out a surprised "Damien!". But he ignored it and didn't stir.

Oh god. He knew.

And of course he did. The evening's events came rushing back to her like a wave: Dames stepping toward her with murderous purpose; she and Damien pleading with him to resist; Dames waking up, wounded, as if from a dream, and insisting on staying behind to give them a head start; her taking Dames’s face into her hands, feeling the wetness on his cheeks, pressing her lips against his, its, in a desperate last goodbye. Even if Damien knew nothing else – nothing of the museum, of their whispered confessions, of their night in Paris – he had seen their farewell. That was enough. And so he knew.

Just like that, Noemi could place the look she'd seen before he shut her out.

Disgust.

She knew he’d never look at her the same way again.

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